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THE RISING SUN: IT`S ALL BECAUSE OF LA PLAGNE
Lee Rodgers
April 5, 2009
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Roche with his Carrera team in 1993
(Photo: Yuzuru Sunada)
Yesterday`s ride was pretty brutal, coming at the end of a heavy 3 week schedule. 1756 meters, average climb at 6%, 127.52kms in 4.10.55. The numbers never look too impressive, do they? No matter how hard you hit the climbs, nail the descents or fly over those flats like you were an atomic-powered Belgian (I wish!), you always believe that you could have gone harder. And, truth be told, you just about always could have. It`s the nature of sport, and, in particular, of this sport. You could always be faster, fitter, stronger. Satisfaction is for the delusional. Contentment for the confused. Serenity means senility. Put me back on the bike, and let me suffer some more…
Cycling for me is not a pastime. It`s not a pleasant way to spend a few weekend hours in the billowy, willowy countryside, enjoying the view (the what?) at a sedate pace to a lilting soundtrack of bad French 60s pop music. That said, there is of course absolutely nothing wrong with all that, if that`s your cup of tea. A slow, relaxing ride taking in the bounty of nature is probably a wonderful thing – it`s just something that is incompatible with my nature. I knew that from the very start...
There are two things that I`ve learnt from cycling –
1. I like to go fast.
2. I like to hurt.
(This does not mean of course that I am fast. Nor that I hurt well. That should be made clear, and indeed, it often is. It should also be noted that cycling has taught me how to complain, loudly and often profanely, about the hurt.)
I know that there is probably something slightly unhinged in the space behind my often rheumy eyeballs. After all – and I`m sure we`ve all had this thought - would a sane man do this? Really? 500 or 600 plus kilometers a week? Up mountains? Repeat intervals? Shaved legs? The simple, unavoidable answer is – NO. I think it`s safe to say that if you race, and especially if you enjoy it, there`s probably a few beers missing from your 6-pack. Is there a remedy? Yes. It`s called Denial. Do not question why you do it. Push all such dirty, rational little thoughts to the furthest, darkest corners of your devious mind. Revel in the madness. Embrace the freak in you. And thank your parents for the DNA that rendered you abnormal…
In my own case, I am in the fortunate position, when questioned as to why I do it, of being able to apportion some of the blame to one particular man – to one specific day – to one very big mountain. The man is Stephen Roche. The day, July 22nd, 1987. The mountain – La Plagne.
Roche was uneasily positioned second overall to Delgado. Delgado, the more natural climber, looked to be securing the yellow as he attacked Roche on the steep slopes of La Plagne and quickly got a lead of over 1.25 over the elf-like Irishman. It looked like it was all over. Roche had hit the wall.
But then, suddenly, impossibly…
I sat and I watched, and I cheered and I shouted. I went through a gamut of emotions - hope, dejection, anguish, joy. I hurt my throat. I punched the sofa. Repeatedly. I cried. Tears the size of a small child`s head. My mother came in at the end and asked me what I was doing. Then she called me an idiot. What could I say? How could I possibly put into words what I had just witnessed? It was the single most incredible moment I had ever seen in all my young years of watching sport. I didn’t even bother trying. I hugged her, looked her in the eyes, and told her that I was going to buy a road bike. The next day I took my meager savings out of the bank and bought a Barry Hoban Special.
There seems little point trying to put into words what Roche did that day. Suffice to say that he suffered, and he did it so beautifully. The sheer, incomprehensible beauty of it all. When he got off the bike he had not a single ounce of anything left. He`d given it all to La Plagne. Given his soul to the mountain. And that to me will always be cycling. The sacrifice. The search for immortality. That day put Roche up there, however fleetingly, with the greats. And that`s why, every time I get off the bike and I can still walk without the aid of a grown man, I know I could have gone just that little bit harder…
and just who is that rider coming up
behind…`
and if you can manage to ignore the music…
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