Tuesday, July 15, 2008 Pages: Le Tour: The world’s most torturous race By John Pages Match Point
IF YOU’VE ever climbed on top of a bike, pedaled, and traversed the road near JY Square then climbed up to Marco Polo Hotel, then ascended some more to Willy’s, to Bu-ak, then to the very top of Tops, then you know that climbing mountains is agonizing. Pedaling on flat asphalt is leisurely, but steering those two thin wheels upwards to the sky is, very often, tormenting.
Take the Tour de France.
Last Sunday at 10:30 p.m., just minutes before shutting off the bedroom lights, I switched on the TV set and clicked to the Balls Skycable channel 33.
Picturesque mountain ranges of France were on exhibit. Green, lush hills sprinkled the landscape. Gray, paved roads shone. Blue, towering skies glowed.
Red-bricked homes glistened. And, weaving a spiral formation through turns that looked like corkscrews and roadways that appeared like pasta coils, cyclists paraded in pink, white, orange, purple, and.....
Yellow.
The Tour de France.
Isn’t yellow the most sought-after color among the rainbow of colors in Le Tour?
Absolutely. Because the yellow jersey is worn by only one man—the leader of the band; the fastest among the 190 or so cyclists, who pedal in this race that runs from July 5 to 27.
Is “Le Tour,” founded in 1903, the most physically-demanding of all sports? To me, it’s like showing you a photo of David Diaz at the end of that ninth round stoppage, all bloodied and bruised and brain-weary, then asking you, “Is boxing painful?
Of course.
Of course the Tour de France is the most harrowing and grueling of all sports courses. Including boxing.
Think about it. In Le Tour, you scurry and dash through 10 flat stages. You point to the clouds on four medium mountain stages and escalate on five unbearable, extreme mountain tops. There are 82 kilometers of individual time trials when, facing wind, dust, rain or sun, you’re alone. In total, you pedal not 11 or 101 or 1,010 kms.—but 3,559 kilometers. Every single day.
For 23 days. With only two rest days in between.
Manny Pacquiao? Boxing? Grueling?
Don’t tell that to Lance Armstrong.
Without question the greatest man to ever climb a bike, LA has won seven Tours de France. Year after year, from 1999 to 2005, at the end of the world’s biggest cycling party, he finished in Paris and climbed the podium wearing one bright sunflower color.
Back to my 25 minutes of watching the live coverage of the 95th Tour de France the other night, I saw the last part of Stage 9—the first mountain stage of the race—and witnessed a bullet who bolted from the peloton (main pack), scooted forward, whisked past every cyclist to zoom first in the finish line of the 195.5 km. stage (that’s the distance of Cebu to Bogo and back).
Ricardo Ricco is his name and what an engine he possesses inside that body.
Several kilometers from the top of the climb, he surged forward in a surprise attack and never relinquished the lead.
For that’s the other mystique of the TdF: It’s not only painful and far and physically-sapping of all energy, it’s perilous. I should know the dangers of biking. Four years ago on a climb on the hills of Guba at the back of Talamban, I was tossed off my bike head first and slammed my face on the dirt road.
Hospitalized for one night and stitched by the masterful hands of Dr. Susan Verallo, I smiled the next day. And my accident happened while pedaling slowly.
On Le Tour?
I watched Ricco the Italian on the downhill sprint speeding so fast (did I hear the announcers say 80 kph?) that I grimaced in fear clutching the pillow while watching TV.
These 190 or so cyclists face hazards—head on, face to face—everyday. Of every hour. Of every minute. Of every single second.
