The Tour de France

by Paul Hansford

  Just as the riders were ruled by omerta and journalists looked the other way against the growing evidence, the cycling authorities — namely the Union Cycliste Internationale, or UCI — were also guilty of not doing enough to stop doping. Their history of turning a blind eye is as old as the Tour itself, born predominantly out of a desire to look after their own interests. If modern-day riders needed a little help to put in performances like Marco Pantani’s record-breaking ascent of L’Alpe d’Huez or Floyd Landis’s ‘superhuman’ solo ride in 2006, who were the UCI to complain too loudly? (Well, they are professional cycling’s governing body, but you get my point.) There was too much to lose, both in money and power. The far easier path was to be seen to be fighting against the dopers by catching a few insignificant pups so the big dogs could continue with impunity, and keep the myth of clean cycling intact.

  Nowhere was the contradiction of the UCI battling against the drug cheats while at the same time enabling their behaviour more apparent than in the establishment of blood health checks in 1997. On the face of it, the tests, which allowed for a 50 per cent haematocrit level (the ratio of the volume of red blood cells to the total volume of blood) in a rider’s system, would appear to be a deterrent to doping; in reality, it served to allow riders to dope to the very edge of illegality. For example, if a rider’s natural haematocrit level was 46, he could take EPO to gain an extra 3.9 per cent and still be within the rules. (Tyler Hamilton’s description in his book, The Secret Race, of how cyclists would openly ask each other, ‘What’s your number?’ and dope to such precise levels is revealing of how seriously they took — or didn’t take — the blood health checks.)

  Today the UCI uses what is known as the biological passport, where an individual’s biological profile is recorded, and any variances within those levels during testing is seen as a sign of doping. The passports look at the athlete’s levels rather than for the presence of illegal drugs, as many are still undetectable in tests. The biological passport is not infallible — there isn’t a drug-testing procedure that is — but it’s the best way of testing for drug cheats in the current climate.

  With the millions of dollars pumped into doping research and testing, it’s ironic that a simple confessional email sent to the US cycling authorities set the wheels in motion to uncover cycling’s biggest doping scandal. In May 2010, Floyd Landis sent a series of emails to US cycling officials admitting to doping between 2002 and his Tour de France win in 2006, and accusing US Postal Service teammates, including Lance Armstrong, of taking EPO and other blood-boosting products. After years of steadfastly denying he doped, Landis had a less-than-spotless record of truth-telling, but his revelations proved a catalyst for US federal authorities to open an investigation into Armstrong’s involvement in doping and possible crimes including defrauding the government, drug trafficking, money laundering and conspiracy. A grand jury was empanelled to hear evidence on Armstrong, and ‘dope busting’ federal agent Jeff Novitzky, who’d previously investigated baseball player Barry Bonds and athlete Marion Jones for performance-enhancing drugs, led the investigation. Former teammates of Armstrong were subpoenaed to give testimony, and at one point Interpol was consulted to help gather evidence from various European countries. However, despite having what looked like a strong body of evidence, the case was dropped by federal authorities in February 2012, with no reason given for the decision. Armstrong said, ‘I am gratified to learn that the US Attorney’s Office is closing the investigation. It’s the right decision and I commend them for reaching it.’

  Any relief on the Texan’s part was short-lived though, as Travis Tygart, chief executive of US Anti-Doping Agency (USADA), announced his organisation would continue to investigate Armstrong’s alleged misdeeds. Although the USADA could not bring criminal charges, it had the power to strip him of his Tour titles and issue a lifetime ban from competition. In June 2012, the USADA announced it was formally charging Armstrong with doping and participating in a doping conspiracy, stating it had ten ex-teammates willing to testify, and firsthand witnesses for every charge.

  Armstrong shocked the world on 23 August when he announced he would not contest USADA charges against him.

  ‘There comes a time in every man’s life when he has to say, “Enough is enough.” For me that time is now,’ he said in a statement. He still denied doping but said he was ‘finished with this nonsense’ due to the toll it was taking on him and his family. Many observers felt there was more than just fatigue to the raising of the white flag, noting that by giving up — not something Armstrong was ever known for doing — he avoided a possibly damaging arbitration hearing where he and former teammates would be compelled to testify under oath.

  On Wednesday 10 October 2012, USADA released its ‘Reasoned Decision’ that outlined the case against Armstrong, including testimony from twenty-six witnesses, including George Hincapie and Levi Leipheimer, and analysis of the Texan’s blood profiles from 2009 and 2010. Twelve days later, the UCI accepted USADA’s decision, confirming the biggest fall from grace in sporting history:

  The UCI will not appeal to the Court of Arbitration for Sport and it will recognise the sanctions that USADA have proposed. The UCI will ban Lance Armstrong from cycling and the UCI will strip him of his seven titles. Lance Armstrong has no place in cycling.

  Again, Lance was defiant:

  I know who won those seven Tours, my teammates know who won those seven Tours, and everyone I competed against knows who won those seven Tours. The toughest event in the world, where the strongest man wins. Nobody can ever change that.

  At some point over the next three months, Armstrong had a change of heart (or, more likely, he was advised to have a change of heart as it would be the best course of action for him to get what he wanted). The announcement that he would sit down with chat-show host Oprah Winfrey was met with much excitement, as it was widely anticipated that Armstrong would finally tell the truth about his doping past. In fact there was so much hype for the event (a one-hour interview was quickly transformed into two one-hour specials) that it proved impossible to live up to expectations. After Armstrong started the show by admitting to doping during his seven Tour wins, he reverted to damage-control mode for the rest of interview, avoiding direct questions and being let off the hook by Winfrey on several occasions. He hardly seemed contrite for his sins, more annoyed that he had finally been boxed in and forced to confess. But for a man who has built his career on a lie, and then lied to cover up that lie, it’s unrealistic to expect full disclosure and repentance at the first time of asking.

  One thing is for sure: this is not the end of the story. Armstrong is looking at several lawsuits from those looking to reclaim legal damages, prize and sponsorship money, and there are reports of a new federal investigation that could lead to criminal charges; the UCI faces continual calls for the leaders who presided over the doping years — president Pat McQuaid and honorary president Hein Verbruggen — to step down in order for the sport to move on; men such as Travis Tygart and Jeff Novitzky will persist in investigating the darker side of cycling; and the riders will continue to compete in the world’s toughest race with questions hanging over them as to whether they’re doing so with illegal substances.

  And the fans? We need to remember that, despite evidence to the contrary, bicycle racing is the purest form of sporting achievement in the world. If we hold on to that belief, maybe one day cycling can move on from its biggest controversy once and for all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tour de France’s best rivalries

  The Tour de France was born out of conflict (L’Auto versus Le Vélo in a battle for newspaper sales) so it’s only natural that rivalry has been the dominant theme throughout its history.

  The narrative of the Tour features rivalry in many guises: enmity based on nationality, jealousy, mistrust, hatred and talent. But what makes the stories of adversarial conflict so c
ompelling in cycling is the proximity in which they are played out. Rivals don’t stand on either side of a net or defend a patch of grass; they battle shoulder-to-shoulder, up close and personal, over thousands of kilometres. Being that intimate with someone who is trying to steal your dream, rip apart all you have worked for, inevitably leads to sporting drama at its finest.

  Every great Tour de France champion has had to overcome a rival of some sort, be it a foreign adversary, compatriot, or simply someone they didn’t like the look of. But where cycling comes into its own is in the battle of teammates. Like a car crash that you know you should look away from but can’t help staring at, watching two men who should be helping each other be torn apart by ego, ambition or dislike is a compelling component to professional cycling and one that is magnified at the Tour.

  Coppi and Bartali, Anquetil and Poulidor, Hinault and LeMond, Armstrong and the French press — these rivalries have defined the Tour. And while some battles last only as long as a single stage or race, others are much more enduring, defining careers and entering the legend of the great race.

  France versus Belgium

  In 1937 the Tour was raced in national teams, and no rivalry was bigger than France versus Belgium. A rider from one of the two countries had won every Tour since 1929 — as well as twenty-five of the first thirty races — and when Italian favourite Gino Bartali fell into a river, leaving the rival nations to battle it out again, the enmity between the two countries kicked it up another gear.

  Accusations of cheating were hurled from both sides. The Belgians said Roger Lapébie had taken food from his brother Guy, and that he had taken illegal pushes from the fans and pulls from cars in the mountains; it was a fact not denied by Lapébie, although he did say he had vehemently protested when people had helped him up a ligament-crushing hill. The French pointed the finger back at the lowlanders when Lapébie’s handlebars fell apart in an act of apparent sabotage and also noted that Sylvère Maes had received illegal help from compatriots after puncturing. Things started to get a bit ridiculous when spectators pelted the Belgian riders with pepper in Bordeaux and a railway crossing was lowered in front of the pursuing Belgians even though a train was not passing. When Lapébie was docked a paltry minute and a half for receiving the helping hands, the Belgians pulled out of the race before the start of the next stage, saying they would never ride in the Tour de France again. The self-imposed ban lasted until the next Tour.

  Gino Bartali versus Fausto Coppi

  Like Ali and Foreman, Magic and Bird, Pele and Maradona, the names of Gino Bartali and Fausto Coppi are forever intertwined; their achievements will always be measured against each other.

  Bartali was already an Italian legend by the time Coppi turned pro in 1940 — he’d won two national championships, two Giri and a Tour de France — but from their very first race a rivalry was forged that lasted the best part of a decade. Recruited as a domestique for the Legnano team in the 1940 Giro d’Italia, the young Coppi outshone Bartali and won the race, despite the best efforts of the team to chase him down. Bartali was distinctly unimpressed with the behaviour of the young upstart and, from that moment on, any pretence of a working relationship went out the window. Alfredo Binda, the man tasked with working with the two men as head of the Italian team, put it best:

  It’s like being asked to put a cat and a dog in the same sack. It was no good pretending they were friends. Their rivalry wasn’t an attitude adopted out of vanity. It was real and never-ending.

  The Italians’ conflict was bigger than just in the Tour. They fought in every race they competed, and even when riding for their country they could not overcome their natural suspicion of each other: they famously both dismounted during a world championship race rather than risk helping the other to victory. The depth of their mistrust was highlighted by Bartali’s obsession with the possibility that Coppi was doping. He would trawl through Coppi’s bins and drawers for evidence, and once asked a teammate to sample vials he had stolen from Coppi to see if they had an effect. When the teammate began riding brilliantly, Bartali’s suspicions were confirmed.

  Although the competition between the two was intensely personal, it also divided a nation. Bartali, a hard-working country man with deeply held religious beliefs, represented the old Italy, while Coppi, a modern city slicker with a prodigious talent and a lifestyle to match, epitomised the new Italy. Bartali would have his shirt blessed by a priest before a race and was on speaking terms with the Pope; Coppi had an affair with a doctor’s wife and scandalised the nation for living in sin with her. For Italians, there was no middle ground: you were either Bartali or Coppi.

  Their rivalry only came to a close when their careers ended, but the acrimony between the two softened on some occasions on the road. There’s a famous picture of the two sharing a bottle of wine and smiling on the road (although even then they argued afterwards about who offered the other the bottle) and, in 1949, when it became obvious to all that Coppi was the stronger rider, they worked together on the Col d’Izoard — Bartali waiting for Coppi when he punctured, Coppi slowing the pace for a struggling Bartali. The elder won the stage on his thirty-fifth birthday and Coppi went on to win his first Tour.

  Fausto tragically died from malaria in 1960, while Gino went on to live to the grand old age of eighty-five, dying of a heart attack in 2000. Even in death, and nearly fifty years since they raced against each other, the relationship between the two great rivals lived on: ‘With Bartali’s death, a piece of my father’s memory dies too,’ said Coppi’s son, Faustino.

  French fans versus everyone not French

  The French fans have a reputation for being a bit feisty at the Tour de France, particularly where their own riders are concerned. Their exuberance can be traced all the way back to the first race in 1903, when winner Maurice Garin asked to enter the Parc des Princes in a car to avoid death by over-enthusiasm. The next year, stick-wielding rabbles had to be dispersed by the race director’s gun, and in 1905 it was estimated that more than 120 kg of nails were spread around the course by overzealous fans.

  In a sport where the spectators get so close to the competitors, ‘interaction’ is commonplace. The 1950 Tour stands out for local fans forcing the withdrawal of the Italians after a rumble on the Pyrenees, but that was just handbags compared to what took place in 1975, when the actions of a spectator affected the outcome of the race. Belgian legend Eddy Merckx was the unfortunate victim, whacked in the kidney by a local fellow called Nello Breton as he ascended the Puy de Dôme. Breton was arrested and although Merckx was awarded a derisory one franc in damages by a French court, the punch cost him a lot more. ‘No damages could replace what I lost,’ said Merckx. ‘That punch cost me my sixth Tour de France. It robbed me of my strength. I don’t think my blood was as good at transporting oxygen for the rest of the Tour.’

  And, like devotees of other sports, the local Tour de France fans love a good double standard. In 2002 Lance Armstrong was greeted on Mont Ventoux with shouts of ‘doper’ from the crowds, who then conveniently forgot that the man they were screaming their heads off in support of, Richard Virenque, was also a drug cheat.

  Luckily not all the French fans are hostile, as the silver-bearded devil named ‘Didi’ can be seen running playfully alongside the riders a few times each Tour … hold on, he’s German isn’t he? OK, scratch that theory.

  Jacques Anquetil versus Raymond Poulidor

  Much like the competition between Fausto Coppi and Gino Bartali in the ’40s and ’50s, the rivalry between Jacques Anquetil and Raymond Poulidor split France in the 1960s. Fans either went for Anquetil, the distant, calculating rider with a taste for fine food, fine wine and fine women, or Poulidor, the down-to-earth farm boy who gallantly tried to overcome a superior opponent. A hot enough topic when the duo were on the road, the debate still raged for years after the two finished racing, the question of ‘
Anquetil or Poulidor?’ asked of French politicians to best gauge their outlook on life.

  While the Coppi–Bartali comparison works in how it divided the French, where it fails is that, unlike Bartali, Poulidor never got the better of his rival. ‘Maitre Jacques’ was the first rider to win five Tours, while ‘Pou Pou’ never won in fourteen outings, coming second place three times. Poulidor earned the nickname of ‘The Eternal Second’ for good reason, always finding a way to pull defeat from the jaws of victory. Granted, he had his fair share of mechanical mishaps that were out of his control, but he also had enough tactical brain freezes to not completely absolve him of blame: in the 1964 Tour he raised his arms in apparent victory a lap too early and lost out on a time bonus that would have won him the race. Summing up his thoughts on his luck, Poulidor said: ‘You’d think I was cursed. The smallest problem becomes a catastrophe when it happens to me.’

  For a Tour rivalry that lasted only four years (but seemed a lot longer), no moment encapsulated it more than their ride up the Puy de Dôme in 1964. Handlebar-to-handlebar as they laboured their way up the mountain, there was nothing to choose between the two of them. Would Anquetil win an unprecedented fifth Tour or would Poulidor finally exorcise his ghosts?

  ‘We were side by side,’ said Poulidor. ‘I slowed down, he slowed down. I attacked, he responded. It was astounding. I never again felt so bad on a bike.’ In the end it was Anquetil’s superior mental strength that saw him through.

  It might be scant consolation but, while Anquetil had the victories, Poulidor had the adulation. Everybody Loves Raymond isn’t just a TV show; for the French he is still the most popular post-war rider, quite possibly because he could never overcome Anquetil, or his own limitations, to win the Tour. It was something the more logical Anquetil could never quite understand. ‘If he loses, he doesn’t have to find excuses. But if I come second or third then I’ve failed.’