We Really Like Them Apples

	by Paul Rogen Jul 26, 2003

We were just below the top of the climb at Luz-Ardiden, donning our windbreakers as the fog started to shiver us after the 14 kilometer climb from St. Sauveur. Our compatriot, Roberto, had placed the van with dry clothes snacks, and water just 2 km from the finish of the 15th stage of the Tour de France. Last year, Peter Thomson had led us to the perfect vantage point to watch Lance, with the aid of Roberto Heras, bury Joseba Beloki and take the yellow jersey when he attacked 5 km from the finish of the Tourmalet. The crowd of orange-shirted Euskatel supporters let out a roar just below us, which continued as the thousands of cycling fans, the true believers, the cognoscenti of the sport heard the ironic news - Lance was being dropped on the Tourmalet. Ullrich and Mayo had attacked and left a strangely weakened Armstrong 100 meters back 2 km from the summit. By the time we ran down to a TV located two switchbacks below in a club tent filled with swilling orange shirts with red faces, Lance had closed the gap and the lead group was once again all together, zipping up their jerseys for the cool flight down to the valley floor. What a relief, but what a fright. It was the feeling we all had for days; Lance could not dominate this 100th edition of the Tour de France, he may have the maillot jaune now but he was barely hanging on as conditions and multiple attacks took their toll. The mountain god was about to topple.

We chatted and enjoyed the respite while the race moved on toward the base of the climb below us. We had a clear view that ran down 4-5 km and across six switchbacks before ending in the forest below. Above us the fog was going to block the helicopters and leave us with a much quieter race. I had learned to hate the mechanized clatter of the overhead peloton, which always heralded the coming of the race leaders. Shortly we heard the faint thwack, thwack, thwack of the aural attack when two monsters came around the mountain far below. Then, another roar from the thousands along the zigzagged road jarred us to action. Lance was down. Mayo was down. Ullrich was pulling away. Lance had been pulled down when he caught a bag of a fan on his brake hood and picked up an armful of road rash. Mayo had tumbled over him as Ullrich barely avoided the mini yard sale. By the time I got to a TV, they were back on their bikes and all racing again. Then, Lance pulled out of a pedal, wobbled and narrowly avoided and second fall. Could the mountain god be cursed in 2003? I couldn’t watch and walked back to my perfect live viewing spot to munch some comforting trial mix sent along by my dear wife back in Connecticut. My Thomson Bike Tour’s climbing partner, Mike Marquardt from Texas, a consummate LA fan, ambled down to me and said, “1:57, he’s down, 1:57 and dropping back. He’s cooked.” His face was hanging around his knees as we started mumbling about the mechanical problems and wondering why the Postal team could not get the wobbling titan a new steed.

We were still speculating and quietly preparing ourselves for the inevitable monumental news, the sea change was breaking and Ullrich was about to dethrone Armstrong for the first time in five years. Then another roar and the yellow jersey came into view far below us. Armstrong was flying. He had regrouped after Tyler Hamilton had requested all to wait for his old boss. Ullrich, remembering the reverse three years earlier on the Persuade, had been gracious and held up. Seconds after they were all bunched, Lance seemed to be on fire. He was now pulling away from all the orange, green and red colors and putting some accustomed distance between himself and the mortals. We saw him darting through the crowd at over 30km per hour and could see the gap widening. In a flash he was on us and around our switchback turning at an incredible angle and peering ahead with a ferocity that was otherworldly. I checked the time and watched him motor up around the next bend and into the clouds. I turned from the delirious religious experience and glanced at my watch, 30 seconds, 40 seconds, 50 seconds, and then the archangel from Germany, Jan Ullrich plowed by in front of a small chase band. Incredibly, he seemed to be going faster than Lance. This was all confirmed shortly when the buzz came that Lance had a 40 second, resounding victory.

My friend and super Lance fan, Mike Malone ran down the slope and grabbed me in big bear hug. He could not quit grinning. Peter Thomson kept smiling and said it wasn’t over, Jan had taken back time at the very top and although a great day of bike racing had numbed us, the 2003 Tour de France was not over. After more banter we mounted our bikes for the long twisting descent back to Lourdes. But the day was not over yet. Just as we hit the valley floor the French flicks, had stopped us for the stream of team cars to get by. Dozens of racers had passed us when I heard, “Excuse moi.” It was George Hincapie, the huge Postie teammate asking to squeeze by me. Within moments the gendarmes released us and I urged Mike Malone to catch the Postal team headed down towards Lourdes. A few of our Thomson Bike Tour aggressive riders took off while I headed up our sportif group for a more controlled ride down the river back to Lourdes and our hotel. When we got back an hour later, Mike was aglow. We were all keyed up after the peak experience, but Mike kept repeating, “I can’t believe it. He was right there, just smiling at me.” He then settled in to tell his Lance story. He chased down the Postal Team and suddenly found himself stopped right beside a Postal Team car, and in the open window, Lance sat four feet from him with a huge smile eating an apple. Mike is not sure but he said something like, “Awesome stage, a great race, Lance.” Lance kept smiling and eating the apple and replied, “Do you like apples?” Mike said, “Ya, I do.” And Lance smilingly said, “How do you like them apples?” Then the road opened and the car sped off carrying away the smiling god and true leader of the 2003 Tour de France.

Mike must have told the story ten times that evening but we never got a bit bored. In fact, like true acolytes, we were asking for just a bit more and expected that one more telling of the old, old story could lift us once again. The bike titan had gotten up off the pavement, soared into the clouds and then summed it all up by turning the whole Tour de France into apple filled smiles.