Tour de France King (Armstrong's Expedition)

Author: [USA] Coyle
Publisher:
Publish Date: Not available
Features: The main peloton charges rapidly down Main Street, all eyes fixed on the widening blue arch one kilometer ahead. The arch has always been adorned with a red banner, marking the end of the dangerous stretches along the Tour de France route. Here, the sprinters would battle for the high honor of a crash-prone high-risk zone. Everyone knew that victory here would determine their season's performance and next year's salary, not to mention their entire career. It was a performance of pure cycling: a group of small-town boys, superstitious and down-on-their-luck, fighting for money and immortal glory. Due to the high risk, the Tour de France implemented a special rule: riders who crashed within one kilometer of the finish line would face no penalties, 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 race's needs, the organizers had shifted the steel barriers one foot inward on each side of the asphalt road, leaving the normally 20-foot-wide road with only 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 position. Armstrong followed his new conservative strategy, steadily riding behind about 40 riders, close behind teammate Sean Kelly. Ulrich, as usual, gave chase behind him. Hamilton, meanwhile, was in a more advanced position, with four teammates flanking him. He glanced back to monitor Armstrong and Ulrich's situation and, upon seeing the arch, began to sprint with a frenzy. People were banging on the markers on the barriers. Helicopters filming overhead buzzed. The sprinters surged to the front of the peloton, fighting hard 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 Hesse from the J?rg Jansen team. He was flashy and had a history of crashes. In last year's Tour, he had done just that—a somersault over the barrier, landing on the ground with 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. Hesse walked past Hamilton—not quite passing, more like strutting past—and Hamilton, like everyone else, greeted him with a smile. Hesse's lustrous hair was piled high, his pirate earring swaying, his musketeer mustache freshly trimmed, and he wore a shiny amulet—a provocative, death-defying idol of a goddess. Hesse was certainly a character (but don't forget, he came from an unknown town, a poor kid with big ambitions). One second before they reached the arch, Hesse surged to the front and accelerated, followed closely by his teammate Danilo Andrade. The right side of the road was packed, but the left side looked almost empty, at least much sparser than the right. Hesse's chance had come. He aimed for a gap and shot into the sunlit opening, just a few inches wide. The police raised their hands. First came a sound: Hesse's body hit the barrier with a dull thud, followed by the screeching of wheels. Carbon fiber split, aluminum bent, and the tire burst with a firecracker-like bang, the body hitting the ground with a heavy thud. From the front, it looked like a bomb had torn through the peloton, kicking up a cloud of shattered fibers, metal, and muscle foam. Hamilton watched in horror, slamming on the brakes, but it was too late. His front wheel hit something hard. He felt himself fly completely into 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 skidded several feet before collapsing, 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, who was on the ground, 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. On the right side, unharmed, Ulrich rode straight past. Will and intelligence are similar things.