Three Weeks, Eight Seconds

by Tassell, Nige;

  Fignon allowed himself a long, lingering look back down the mountain. It was a satisfying sight. The rest were floundering and he was riding like a true Tour statesman. This was a classic show of strength from Fignon, a measure that he could justifiably be mentioned in the same breath as the greats. It was the way that someone like Eddy Merckx would have ridden if he were leading the race. The Cannibal wouldn’t have been content to sit on wheels and defend his position. He would have added a sheen of flair to any victory by riding to extend his lead. Not showboating; simply stressing his own dominance.

  Three men reacted to Fignon’s attack – Delgado, LeMond and Theunisse. The first four on the road were the first four in the GC. The Spaniard was doing the majority of the chasing, the other two happy to be given an escorted ride back towards Fignon. After an extended period of high-tempo riding, though, Delgado swung out to the left-hand side, having had enough of unilaterally pulling LeMond and Theunisse along. At that moment, LeMond reached down to his shoes as if attending to an errant pedal clip, presumably hopeful that Theunisse would then take up the running in the pursuit of a podium place on the Champs-Élysées. But Theunisse refused to take the bait. He knew the other two riders needed to make contact with Fignon more than he did. The three of them then all sat up and exchanged glances. A game of bluff where no game of bluff should be. These were riders who all needed to improve their current standings, who needed to retrieve time either on each other or on Fignon’s yellow jersey.

  Instead, while each showed their reluctance to take the mission on, Fignon was actually increasing his advantage. Delgado blinked first, aware that he was the one with the biggest deficit to overhaul should he believe that the ultimate glory was still possible. Off he flew again, an acceleration fuelled by anger and frustration. Suddenly, having just protested about how fatigued they were, LeMond and Theunisse found their legs and were right on Delgado’s tail as ever.

  For all intents and purposes, that could have been the moment that the overall victor was decided. It wouldn’t have been a concession as such, but a display of brinksmanship that could have handed Fignon an unassailable lead. It still might have done. All the workload was placed at Delgado’s door, rather than the effort being shared three ways. Phil Liggett was certainly a believer in the moral responsibility the other two should have shouldered. ‘It was the moment that LeMond should have paid up and taken his share of the pace-making,’ argued the veteran broadcaster.

  Fignon wasn’t about to complain. He was too busy tackling the steep slopes of the Côte de Saint-Nizier, climbing at an extraordinary 19mph. His performance bore all the hallmarks of a deserving champion, one who had taken the race on at various junctures. He rolled over the summit 15 seconds up on the three behind; Theunisse mysteriously found his legs 200 yards from the banner and led Delgado and LeMond over, in the process bagging, of course, all available King of the Mountains points.

  Down in the valley on the other side, Raúl Alcalá led Sean Kelly and other riders up to the LeMond group. If Fignon was at all nervous about the gathering storm that was this enlarged bunch, his riposte was his superb descending. So imperious were his top-speed skills that the gap between him and the others soon lengthened to 45 seconds. He was flying along for everything he could get, for every second he could plunder and add to LeMond’s deficit.

  As he embarked on the three-mile climb to Villard-de-Lans, Fignon’s lead had flared out to 52 seconds which, added to his overnight lead of 26 seconds, meant he had accumulated a virtual lead over LeMond of well in excess of a minute. Yes, there were still two stages before the Paris time trial, but if he reached the capital with this kind of advantage ahead of a measly 15-mile run-out against the clock, the title was certain to be his.

  As it was, that lead of 52 seconds would be halved by the finish line, a combination of three things: Fignon tackling a headwind without the protection of others; his body beginning to tire after superhuman efforts on successive days; and the belated momentum of the chase group.

  As he approached the finish, Fignon didn’t care. He was half a mile ahead and was still going to add a significant chunk of time to his lead. For a man not unconditionally loved by the French public, the reception as he negotiated the final left-hand bend was markedly uninhibited. He seemed to have finally won their hearts – or, at least, the hearts of those assembled here at Villard-de-Lans. A French Tour victory, on the 200th anniversary of the Revolution, appeared to be the necessary currency for new-found popularity.

  Crossing the line, Fignon – almost always the little black cloud to LeMond’s ray of sunshine – was joy unconfined. He excitedly raised his arms and flashed wide-palm waves to the crowd. It seemed that this was judgement day, the stage on which the destiny of this zigging, zagging, topsy-turvy race was finally decreed. ‘He knows that today he’s won the Tour de France,’ declared Phil Liggett in his commentary box. ‘I’m sure of that.’ No one in Villard-de-Lans, or watching on television, was inclined to disagree. It did seem like the most rational conclusion to make, the last time-check putting his overall advantage at comfortably more than a minute.

  Certainly, according to Bjarne Riis’s autobiography, that was the unequivocal feeling within the Super U camp. ‘The Frenchman was all smiles at the dinner table that evening,’ the Dane wrote. ‘He’d got through the mountains well, despite the competition from LeMond, and was now in a very good position to win the Tour de France. “I should win if I can keep riding like I am now,” he announced confidently.’

  His team-mates, perhaps misguidedly, started to let their minds wander towards matters financial. ‘At the hotel, the others on the team had started to work out what Fignon winning the Tour would mean for us in terms of prize money. The win would net him 1.5 million kroner (£123,500), which would be shared out between the riders and team staff.’ They dared to dream, when perhaps they would have been better advised to keep their counsel.

  There was no such euphoria in the ADR camp. As he received his post-stage massage from his soigneur Otto Jacome, LeMond spoke to ABC. It was the most sombre, most sober interview he would give in the entire three weeks of the race. Where his eyes normally flashed with excitement, that evening they were flecked with sorrow as he contemplated the Tour’s final day denouement. ‘If it was a 50km time trial,’ he reasoned, ‘there would be some good hope. It’s still not over, but it’s less likely today. I’ve done my best but Fignon yesterday and today has been extremely strong.’

  There would have been even less hope without the collective effort of the chase group on that final climb. And it was an effort that would have reduced, if not burst, Fignon’s bubble that night. A margin of 50 seconds should still have been sufficient going into the 15-mile final-day time trial, but it would be unnatural if some nagging doubts, however small, didn’t remain. One thing in particular was tormenting the race leader, as Sean Kelly explains.

  ‘I remember Fignon saying to me many times, during the Tour and after, “You guys at PDM were riding for Greg LeMond.” When Fignon went on the attack, it was Rooks and Theunisse who did the chasing. I said, “No, there was no agreement.” Years later, when we had both retired and were working for Eurosport, he said, “Now you can tell me the truth. Were you really working with Greg in that Tour?” “I can tell you the truth. And, as I told you before, there was never any agreement between us.”

  ‘It was just that Rooks and Theunisse were strong in the mountains and that Greg worked his tactics very well. He just followed them and they did a lot of the chasing work. Look at the footage of some of the mountain stages. You can see that it was Theunisse and Rooks, and maybe some of the other guys in the team like Alcalá, who were doing the pace-setting on the climbs. I remember on a number of occasions Fignon did attack because he was the better one in the mountains, but he never got any great advantage from all of the attacks. PDM were the ones securing the pace and doing the chasing, and Greg worked it very well. But you can see why Fignon was asking the question.’


  Kathy LeMond’s perspective of that stage is in stark contrast to that of Fignon. The complete opposite, in fact. ‘That was a weird day. There was collusion on that day with PDM against Greg. And, oh my God, was Greg furious. Nobody would work with him.’ She’s referring to the reluctance of Theunisse to do his share on the front of the three-man group as they made their way along the floor of the valley with around 15 miles left. As Cycling Weekly’s Keith Bingham opined, ‘If only Theunisse had worked with them they may have got Fignon back.’ But by this point, the Dutchman knew a podium place was almost certainly beyond him and so chose to move to the front of the trio only when they approached a summit, allowing him to gather as many King of the Mountains points as were available and at least cement his possession of that jersey.

  The fear of collusion – highly unlikely after LeMond had left PDM with such a sour taste in his mouth – indicated how brittle Fignon might have been, despite that reassuring lead he had. Andy Hampsten again indicates how the Frenchman was the weaker one psychologically. ‘He was trying to fill five pages in L’Equipe with “I have it in the bag” and “This time I’ve got the American”. When he was trading blows with LeMond and gaining 20 seconds, he gave enormous significance to it. He wanted to be the master of the game and Greg knew that. As we Americans say, if you’re going to swing your stick, you need a really big stick. Don’t take a little penknife out and start swinging that in a gunfight. With Greg knowing him so well psychologically, he loved those back-and-forth battles. It was fun for him.’

  For all Fignon’s comments to the contrary (‘I was sure I had won the Tour’), there were still several variables that could decide the final result. And, behind the mask, he knew this. One hundred and seventy-two miles still remained. One hundred and seventy-two miles where something untoward might well occur. A crash. A puncture. An illness. Perhaps even the emergence of a boil in a delicate place.

  Stage 18

  1. Laurent Fignon (Super U/France) 2:31:28

  2. Steven Rooks (PDM/Netherlands) +24”

  3. Gert-Jan Theunisse (PDM/Netherlands) same time

  4. Marino Lejarreta (Paternina/Spain) same time

  5. Sean Kelly (PDM/Ireland) same time

  General classification

  1. Laurent Fignon (Super U/France) 80:26:39

  2. Greg LeMond (ADR/USA) +50”

  3. Pedro Delgado (Reynolds/Spain) +2’28”

  4. Gert-Jan Theunisse (PDM/Netherlands) +5’36”

  5. Charly Mottet (RMO/France) +7’29”

  FIFTEEN

  NO SURRENDER

  ‘They escaped disaster by the skin of their teeth – and loved the moment tool’ – Graham Watson

  21 July

  Stage 19, Villard-de-Lans – Aix-les-Bains, 78 miles

  GOODBYE TO THE Alps. Goodbye to the mountains.

  This final Alpine stage offered a fierce contest, no doubt. It certainly didn’t have the air of a backslapping parade. But the majority of these three-and-a-half hours became a salute to – and a celebration of – the most tenacious, most consistent climbers who had jockeyed and jousted each other over the previous three weeks.

  With four not-insignificant climbs ahead of them, the stage was dominated from an early point by the top four in the GC – Fignon, LeMond, Delgado and Theunisse – plus seventh-placed Marino Lejarreta, a man directing a covetous stare towards Charly Mottet’s fifth position. This quintet had already made their move by the time the gradients of the second climb, the first-category Col de Porte, began to tighten. They were more than a minute on the chase group that contained all of the usual suspects (including the three other PDM strongmen – Kelly, Rooks and Alcalá) as they crested the summit. Well, all the usual suspects bar Mottet. He was a further minute back and struggling. Possibly a stage too far. The popular thinking – that a three-week Grand Tour was too much for him to sustain at the top of his game – was proving true.

  The same five tore up the Col du Cucheron, each rider with a different motivation. Fignon wasn’t one to defend, to sit at the back of this small bunch to observe and react. He was happy to lead them up the slopes of this second-category climb, perhaps sniffing after a few more seconds to take his advantage over the psychological barrier of a full minute. Delgado was now largely resigned to that third spot, so the priority for him was to shadow fourth-placed Theunisse, and possibly also grab a stage win on the flat roads of Aix-les-Bains. Theunisse, while in no danger of not winning the polka-dot jersey, nonetheless jerked into action whenever anyone launched an attack near any of the day’s summits. He still wanted as many points in the King of the Mountains competition as possible. Not that the easy accumulation of these points ever provoked a smile from him. The grumpiest king since Henry VIII.

  If this lead group did survive the day, Lejarreta would be the rider with most to gain. Starting the day a minute and two seconds off fifth place, the Basque rider’s aim was to leapfrog Mottet and Rooks to take the highest Tour placing in his lengthy career. At the rate these five were riding, this looked like a foregone conclusion. And then there was LeMond, spending a large part of the day sitting on the back of the bunch, the other four constantly in his eyeline. Was he going to settle for second or would he attack in order to pare that 50-second deficit down to a more manageable amount for Paris?

  Whatever their motivation, everyone was watching everyone else. And when Fignon pulled to the side of the road after dragging the others up on another stamina-sapping charge, his open invitation for someone else to make the pace fell on deaf ears. They simply all snaked behind him as he weaved back and forth across the road in a game of Follow My Leader.

  As on the Col de Porte, Delgado was first over the Col du Cucheron, denying Theunisse the maximum points both times. The phlegmatic Dutchman didn’t seem to be too aggrieved about this: the polka-dot jersey wasn’t coming off his back. Delgado led the rest over the summit of the Col du Granier too, but not before a little spicy action on the climb of the race’s last major mountain. With less than a mile of incline remaining, LeMond put in an attack which Fignon was sharp to, quickly neutralising it. LeMond went again. Fignon answered again.

  The descent down the Granier’s northern slopes was steep and dangerous, but that didn’t stop LeMond – a man clearly not content with second place overall – from taking some big gambles as they roared down towards Chambéry, the location of the following month’s world championships. He was in search of anything he could get that would improve his chances of causing a shock in Paris, even if it were only a handful of seconds. Fignon, probably an even better descender, wouldn’t let him get a thing, though.

  But it wasn’t the descent, with vertical drops just a foot or two away, that caused the five grief. It was a good old-fashioned roundabout. Coming into Chambéry too fast to successfully negotiate the roundabout, Lejarreta ploughed straight ahead into a spectator barrier. The others all followed. All except Delgado, that is, who managed to avoid the fence and stay upright, but sportingly elected not to take advantage of his opponents’ misfortunes by disappearing towards the horizon. The episode symbolised the respect and sense of fraternity within the upper echelons. The photographer Graham Watson noticed it too. ‘Once they’d realigned themselves, TV showed all three podium finishers with beaming smiles on their faces. They escaped disaster by the skin of their teeth – and loved the moment too!’

  On the flat roads between Chambéry and Aix-les-Bains, racing along the east bank of the Lac du Bourget, the pace was high, pretty much everyone taking their turn on the front. If it wasn’t for the array of different jerseys, spectators would swear they were watching a well-drilled team time trial.

  As expected, once within sniffing distance of the finish, LeMond proved himself to be the man with the most electrifying sprint and took the stage victory to his clear delight. Fignon extended an arm of congratulation, happy to concede LeMond the stage win. Those 50 seconds remained unharmed.

  ‘I wanted to win today,’ LeMond told Channel 4. ‘That
was a big deal for me. I knew if I took Fignon’s wheel, I would win.’ Delgado agrees that the stage win felt inevitable. ‘He waited to win the stage. He was a specialist at that. Maybe, if I was in his body, I would do the same.’ The hard-working Lejarreta got his just reward too, gaining enough of an advantage over Mottet and Rooks to move up into fifth. ‘

  While the final five fighting out the sprint finish in Aix-les-Bains had arguably been the most consistent performers in the mountains, their success set others’ shortcomings into sharp relief. Aside from the underachievement of Andy Hampsten, the most conspicuous disappointment in both the Alps and the Pyrenees was the comparative no-show of the Colombians. Fabio Parra, a podium finisher 12 months before, stepped off his bike just after the race left the Pyrenees, while – despite launching the odd, spasmodic attack – Luis ‘Lucho’ Herrera never threatened the upper reaches of the GC. The Colombian cycling revolution, this wave of exciting riders who emerged in the early ’80s, now looked to be on the wane, at least where the Tour de France was concerned.

  Delgado, a man with a pair of very capable Colombians in his Reynolds team in ’89, offers his opinion on why the country’s impact wasn’t felt for longer. ‘The Colombian riders rode like they did back in Colombia. I took part in the Tour de Colombia once and everyone flew off from the start. They were competing without tactics. The tactic was attack, breakaway, escape. But to win the Tour, you have to be more controlled. At that time, the Colombians were very, very good climbers, but they didn’t have the discipline to win the race.’ Phil Liggett identified a parallel situation in the commentary box during the ’80s. ‘The Colombian media came in full force,’ he told Bicycling magazine. ‘They would be commentating in a voice fit for a finishing sprint when the race had just left the start town.’