Demigod of Pain, Tyler Hamilton Descends from Clouds

	by Paul Rogen Aug 30, 2003

Just as we were tweaking our bikes for a climb up the Col d’Haltza in the French Basque country I paused in my tire pumping and gazed at a stunning church across the road from where we parked in the small village of St Etienne de Baigorry. I could see that the massive wooden door was open so I motioned to my fellow rider, Peter Pastore, whom I knew would be interested in exploring with me. Peter often missed early Sunday morning rides back in Connecticut, with the now notorious Dunk Rock Roadies, to attend Mass in East Guilford, CT. Here, we had a chance to get a quick spiritual hit before a 14-kilometer climb to see the 2003 edition of the Tour de France come over the Western Pyrenees and descend down to the Atlantic at Bayonne. We clattered over the cobbles in our cleats and popped through the church door by stepping down into a dark grotto. It was another world of hushed tones and colors, a world of red and brown shadows cut by streaks of yellow and orange light. When we moved forward gingerly into the narthex we heard clearly the low murmur of a pipe organ. The church organist was pushing keys and pulling levers to come out with a perfect Bach fugue that filled the holy air. We stood a minute and both took a charge of the sublime energy that we could tap into later. Our team doctor joined us briefly; he understood where real strength comes from and he disdains energy bars. We all knew we would need all the energy we could possibly muster as the first four kilometers of the upcoming col averaged over 11% gradient.

The Thomson Bike Tours peloton mounted bikes and proceeded up the valley through two small towns toward the initial phase of the Col d’Haltza. We all grabbed baguette filled sandwiches in yet another classic small French village, St. Jean Pied de Port, and noted the presence of increased gendarmes. We had stayed in a glorious 11th C restored castle in Hondarribia the previous night but knew that Basque separatist activists had set off two bombs a short distance down the coast yesterday. But our minds were not on the coast now, but on the mountains. This was the last mountain stage and the last time our group of intrepid riders would see the Tour live and we all wanted to get high up the mountain and see the best. Generally, the higher up you climb the better chance you have of seeing more critical efforts and leaving some of the hoopla and crowd behind. The elements seemed promising as the crowds seemed sparse and the weather was perfect, bright and mountain valley crisp with high clouds. The valley we rode through was primarily filled with small farms raising cows, goats and sheep. We wound through a warren of stonewalls which even made jaded Connecticut riders slow and turn their heads and Dunk Rock Road is defined by 300 year old stonewalls. These stonewalls were higher and more elegant than our New England versions. Many think that the Basques may be the oldest established people of Europe, the aboriginal ancestors to all that followed. This is also Hemingway country where he hung out and wrote his first failed novels, but this area also inspired the cadmium yellow mountains of the Sun Also Rises. I was really hoping that the very special surroundings could inspire us to physical, not literary feats today.

The picnickers along the road were beginning to thicken as we approached the base of the mountain. There are signs at most major climbs in France, which indicate the length of the climb and the gradient of each kilometer. We stopped and peed and gazed dumfounded at the sign. Since we looked last night and since we went to the church and prayed, the gradient on the first four kilometers was still, 10.5%, 10.5%, 11.5% and 12%. So much for magical thinking and the power of prayer.

Just as we mounted up and started to pedal, three gendarmes pleasantly held out their arms and indicated that we must walk our bikes. While we were looking for respite, this was not the answer. Flick control issues are similar the world over. We pushed up around a gradual bend and past another gendarme. When I thought we were out of sight, I mounted and, before I could turn a stroke, there came a shrill whistle. I didn’t even look back and dismounted again. Eighty meters around another bend and I mounted without flick interference and began my assault. Wham, and I was into it, straight uphill and into the first switchback. I sat and spun slowly and didn’t rise out of the saddle until the second switchback. I fell into a rhythm and began to slowly pass riders and walkers. It was uncrowded and pleasant with a view back down the valley that called for a camera stop, but I passed it up in favor of momentum. I kept at it for the next four kilometers, afraid to stop until I had it under my belt. I rode much of it in tandem with my TBT partner from Texas, Mike Marquardt. He sucked on his Camelback and I squirted a water bottle periodically as I clicked off each torturous km. It gave me a hint as to how the Tour gods suffered. I had broken a collarbone two years earlier and could not imagine how Tyler Hamilton could still be rolling in this 16th stage of the Tour de France.

After, Mike and I paused and restored ourselves we proceeded up a few milder 5-6% gradient kilometers and came out on a small saddle where the cows were swinging their bells on steep grassy hillsides. Looking ahead, I suggested we stay here as we had a long view across a saddle up a twisting curve into the scudding clouds and fog covering the top of the mountains. I saw no reason to go further and sit for three hours freezing in our sweaty biking gear. I pulled out my Herald Tribune and enjoyed the pleasures of good English in such a foreign setting. Soon, two more compatriots, Thomson Bike Tours team doctor, Allen Parsley and his number one patient, Carlos Fernandez pulled up with us and declared they were satisfied to stay right there. Carlos had taken a tumble on a long descent three days earlier. Dr. Parsley had patched him up on the road and nightly thereafter, but the image of him flipping over with his bike cart wheeling along side of him stuck in my head on each mountain descent since.

Over the next few hours we chatted, ate and napped. To really fine tune placement, Allen and I moved up the road and found a clear view on a short swale above the road and watched and made silly comments. Only a few people, none of whom spoke any English, surrounded us. We had to clear ground raisins left by the goats to make comfortable seating. Who can remember the jokes we made about that, but I know we didn’t eat any. When the promotional circus, the commercial caravan came by the lovely girls were bundled in robes and jackets and gave desultory waves. There were no helicopters and no sirens. It made me think that in contrast to where we had been for the previous three stages, we had dropped back in time sixty or seventy years. A half dozen of us had a full kilometer of Tour de France road all to ourselves. Half of the six wore high rubber boots, berets and were smoking. These were the Basque farmers or sheepherders who just walked over to the road for the afternoon to cheer their orange clad Euskaltel favorite riders Mayo and Zubeldia. It made me remember that F. Scott Fitzgerald had watched the Tour de France in 1925 through the eyes of Dick Diver in Tender is the Night.

The increasing commotion made him break off; presently it came to a serpentine head on the promenade and a group, presently a crowd, of people sprung from hidden siestas, lined the curbstone.

Boys sprinted past on bicycles, automobiles jammed with elaborate betasselled sportsman slid up the street, high horns tooted to announce the approach of the race, and unsuspected cooks in undershirts appeared at restaurant doors as around a bend a procession came into sight. First was a lone cyclist in a red jersey, toiling intent and confident out of the westering sun, passing to the melody of a high chattering cheer. Then three together in a harlequinade of faded color, legs caked yellow with dust and sweat, faces expressionless, eyes heavy and endlessly tired.

In 2003 the lone cyclist in red shirt was none other than the mythically heroic Tyler Hamilton sweeping down out of the swirling mists in perfect form, pausing just slightly to zip his CSC jersey to the top for the descent. I checked my watch and found a break of one minute fifty seconds before three riders followed him. The peloton was two more minutes back and Lance passed quickly surrounded by four blue and red guards. Tyler would go on to take the stage win and crown an improbable Tour effort. We would go home mixing Tyler up with the Basque sheepherders, high mountain mists and unknown red-jerseyed Tour leaders from 1925.

Just after the Voiture Balai, the sag wagon zoomed by carrying its small hidden load of abandoned riders, we saw another lone rider sweep down from the mists. He was in a yellow windbreaker and I recognized the classic form, left leg forward, back flat and tuck perfect. As he swept by us he yelled, “Hop on Paul,” and was gone. It was our fearless leader, Peter Thomson, showing his dauntless courage chasing the Tour as the first rider to clear the mountain after the race. He told us we needed to get down fast once the last vehicle passed, but this was insane. And then another rider zipped by right on his tail and this was a Credit Agricole rider in his green and white jersey. Wow, Peter was in the rump Tour de France 2003 and he was flying. He later told us he hit 90 kilometers an hour during this stretch. Needless to say, I didn’t “hop on” but descended at a sedate 50-60 km and wound my way back to our rendezvous shepherding the remainder of our group. We all made it back safely and, besides, we needed time to ponder all we had witnessed this glorious day: the lone red clad CSC leader, Tyler Hamilton, dropping down out of the mists to take the stage win and secure his place in Tour de France history. We climbed to the right place and we saw the right action and could not tell if it was 2003 or 1925.