As the Tour de France draws to a close for yet another year one of

Sunday Herald, The, Jul 25, 1999 by gordon

We're easy prey for habits. Some of them good. When they started out, the boys from Kraftwerk decided to take up a sport. In keeping with their image - man and machine - they settled on cycling. Can't you just picture them, the four of them, regulation black, Indian file, pedalling through the Schwarzwald, making up rhythms for the tunes in their head.

One time, back in '83, there was a bad accident. After being comatose for a full two days, founder member Ralf Hutter woke to find himself in a strange hospital, surrounded by medical staff. To which Ralf, a total hero, uttered the immortal words: "Verr ist mein bicycle, please?"

I like my cycling stories. A few seasons ago, when his side was doing really well in Serie A, the manager of Vicenza, an equally keen cyclist, was being interviewed. Legend had it that this fellow actually spent more time on his bicycle than he did on the training field. The interviewer, leaning out of a car alongside the pedalling allenatore, was concerned maybe enough time wasn't being devoted to football. The manager, head down, going like the clappers, conceded this was probably true.

And that was that.

Every so often there's an attempt to make cycling trendy, make it seem like a lifestyle accessory. In the 80s, you'd the floppy fringe brigade - the Style Council, Haircut 100, OMD - pedalling their way through pastoral videos. In recent times, the wall-mounted bike has become a TV staple; I'm thinking of Seinfeld, but I'm sure there are others.

Then there's the clothes. And very functional, they are, too, and they do look great in photos. But, only if you look great to start with. In real life, they're far from flattering. Got any bumps you don't want displayed? THEN DON'T WEAR LYCRA!

Don't be fooled. Cycling's hard work.

It's all about habits.

And some of them are bad Take, for example, Marco Pantani. The man they call Il Pirata (The Pirate), but who we, the punters, lovingly call Pants. Winner of last year's event, Pantani has, after being bombed out of the Giro d'Italia, chosen not to defend his title.

Up until recently, pre-publicity for the world's most "demanding" and "gruelling" sporting event tended to concentrate on the physical attributes of the race favourite. Here, we were told, was the fittest specimen alive, and here was why. For a record five consecutive years, 1991 through to 1995, this meant analysis of Miguel Indurain, the man they called Big Mig. Indurain was a time-trial specialist, who, with the benefit of a strong team, managed to hang on in the mountains.

Annoyingly, Indurain never came out the saddle. Annoyingly, Indurain never pushed it. No, creating tension through the tiredness of others, Indurain punished his opponents by clinging on to them, never letting them get out of sight.

We'd watch him, waiting for that moment, that moment when he'd get out the saddle, pump "those big legs of his" (copyright Phil Liggett), strain every sinew, and simply destroy the opposition. But Big Mig never did. Effectively, like Flann O'Brien's policeman, he became indistinguishable from his bicycle. Who'd have thought it? Kraftwerk's Man Machine was Spanish.

Indurain was succeeded as champion by the Dane Bjarne Riis. In his recently published book, Massacre la Chaine (Serial Murder), Willy Voet, the masseur whose detention at French customs triggered last year's "Tour de Farce", claims that, within the peleton, Riis was granted the nickname, Mr 60%. This was a reference to the Dane's alleged haematocrit - red blood cell - level. The norm is 45%. My abiding memory of Riis was watching him on the hills: he would go to the back of the leading group, ease his way forward, eyeball each of the opposition in turn, checking out their relative well-being, then, when the moment was right, almost embarrassed, he'd just leave them. He didn't look to be trying harder than anyone else, he just looked to be so much better than anyone else. It really was strange.

That year, 1996, the runner-up, riding in his first tour, was the German Jan Ullrich. The following year, Ullrich became champion. The cycling world anticipated a new star. Here he was: young, talented, he won time trials, he won stages.

Then came last year, the "Tour de Farce", the year when, for one reason or another, half the peleton failed to reach Paris. Racing- wise, an overweight Ullrich and an out-of-touch Riis saw their challenge crushed in the mountains by the wee baldy bloke with the Scottish Cup ears. He looked like a courier. He rode like a courier. Pantani was great.

This time round, we've seen a return to the norm, with the time trial winner taking a big early lead and using his strong team to maintain it. Just three years ago, Lance Armstrong was diagnosed as having testicular cancer. Today he will become winner of the 1999 Tour de France. You'd think, too, if ever a story was destined for headlines then this was it (I mean, they made a film of Bob Champion, and it was the bloody horse that did all the hard work).

But throughout there's been a distinct lack of acclaim for Armstrong. The rider Christophe Bassons, publishing a daily diary in one of the French newspapers, summed up the mood, claiming that many of his colleagues were suspicious of the American's performances. Bassons never withdrew his comments, but he did withdraw from the race.