Tour de France King - Armstrong's Expedition

Author: Daniel Coyle
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: The main peloton charges swiftly down Main Street, all eyes fixed on the widening blue arch a kilometer ahead. The arch has always been adorned with a red banner, marking the end of the most dangerous stretch of the Tour de France. Here, sprinters would vie for the high honor of a crash-prone zone, each knowing that victory here could determine their season's performance and next year's salary, not to mention their entire career. It was a display of pure cycling: a group of small-town boys, superstitious and down-on-their-luck, battling for money and immortal glory. Due to the perilous nature of the area, the Tour de France implemented a special rule: riders who crashed within one kilometer of the finish line would face no penalty, with their finishing time recorded the same as the leader. Ahead, several police officers stood solemnly beneath the arch, as if guarding it. To better suit the needs of the race, the organizers had shifted the steel barriers one foot inward on each side of the asphalt road, narrowing the normally 20-foot-wide path to an 18-foot-wide throat. As the riders approached, a few police officers angled their bodies toward the center of the road, pleased with their prime viewing spot. Armstrong, adhering to his new conservative strategy, rode steadily behind about 40 riders, close behind teammate Cadel Evans. Ulrich, as usual, pursued relentlessly behind him. Hamilton, meanwhile, was positioned further up, with four teammates flanking him. He glanced back to check on Armstrong and Ulrich, then, once past the arch, he began to sprint with a frenzy. People were banging on the markers on the barriers. The helicopter filming overhead buzzed. The sprinters surged to the front of the peloton, battling fiercely while jostling for position and seizing opportunities. A thought flashed through Hamilton's mind: someone was about to crash. To Hamilton's left was an Austrian sprinter, Jean-Philippe Heschelbach of the J?rg Jansen team. He was flashy and had a history of crashes. In the previous year's Tour de France, this guy had done just that—a somersault over the barrier and landed on the ground, his shorts torn to shreds. Two days ago, while passing through the lobby on his way to breakfast at the same hotel as the Team Farm team, Hamilton had seen him. Heschelbach walked past Hamilton—or rather, strutted past him—with a smile and nod. Hamilton noticed Heschelbach's lustrous hair piled high, his pirate earring swaying, his musketeer beard freshly trimmed, and a shiny amulet around his neck—a bold, death-defying idol of a sensual goddess. Heschelbach was certainly a character (but don't forget, he came from an unknown town and was an ambitious poor kid). One second before they reached the arch, Heschelbach surged to the front and accelerated, with his teammate Danilo Andújar right on his tail. The right side of the road was packed, but the left side looked empty, at least sparser than the right. Heschelbach's chance had come. He aimed for a gap and shot into it—a sunlit sliver of space no bigger than a few inches. The police raised their hands. First came a sound: Heschelbach's body hit the barrier with a dull thud, followed by the screeching of wheels, the carbon fiber splitting open, the aluminum bending, and the tire bursting like firecrackers, the body thudding onto the pavement. From the front, it looked like a bomb had torn through the peloton, sending up a cloud of shattered fibers, metal, and muscle foam. Hamilton watched in horror, slamming on the brakes but knowing it was too late. His front wheel hit something hard. He felt himself fly through the air, wheels spinning against the gray sky. At 40 miles per hour, the force was enough to toss his 130-pound body into the air, spinning wildly. Then, his lower back slammed hard onto the ground. He slid several feet before lying there, stunned. As he moved his head, the helmet crunched. His left foot was still stuck in the bike's pedal. A few yards to Hamilton's right, in the edge of the crash zone, Armstrong's bike crushed Sean Kelly, but he managed to stop in time, sparing him injury. Kelly, alert, pointed to the red flag—no penalty. For safety, Armstrong rolled up one leg, making the officials think he had crashed. Unharmed on Armstrong's right, Ulrich rode straight past. Will and intelligence are similar things.