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Outside Magazine, July 2005
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1 2 3 4 5 6 7 

Tour de France
Street Fighting Man (cont.)

ON THE FINAL CLIMB of Plateau de Beille, Postal displayed a clinical application of brute force. First, Hincapie and Landis drove the peloton a half-mile or so, then pulled off. Then the ever gentlemanly Rubiera, jersey unzipped to reveal a pale chest, applied more impolite pressure, reducing the group to 11 riders.

With seven miles left, Rubiera finished his turn at the front and Azevedo took over. After a hard acceleration, 11 riders had been reduced to four. Then Ullrich, the 1997 Tour winner, the rider whose talent Armstrong feared most, slid slowly off the back. Azevedo kept going, his face delirious, until the race had been distilled to Basso and Armstrong, tunneling through the orange throng of Basque spectators. It soon became evident that the previous day's crowd antics had been merely a warm-up for Mayo's Basque fans, who still blamed Armstrong for leaving their hero behind after a crash on the cobbles 11 days before. The Basques had already been busy keying the Postal bus and emblazoning a truck belonging to the Outdoor Life Network (OLN), the American cable company broadcasting the Tour live, with the name of the Basque separatist organization, ETA. Now was their chance for more personal revenge, and they took it eagerly, screaming, gesturing, splashing beer and water on the American. Armstrong rode, grim-faced, his tires rolling over the words LANCE PIG, LANCE-EPO. Armstrong let Basso lead through the chaos, Bruyneel's voice sounding in his ear, keeping him posted on Ullrich's slide—one minute, two minutes—and keeping up a stream of talk.

"Lance, drink water....Lance, let Basso pull....Lance, talk to him....Lance, push it....Lance, regulate."

The two rose into the last mile, the previous day's faces having switched. Armstrong looked comfortable, even serene. Basso, however, looked strained.

"Lance, you must win this stage," Bruyneel said.

With a third of a mile left, Armstrong zipped up his jersey and moved his hands lower on the handlebars. He sprinted for the line, crossing just feet in front of Basso, teeth gritted, into a wave of cheers and more than a few boos. He punched the air.

An hour later, after the solemnity and gloire of the podium, Armstrong and Crow walked across an open pasture toward a waiting helicopter, encircled by 20 or so arm-linked Clouseaus. A crowd followed, teenagers mostly, shouting what sounded like taunts. Among them was a Basque boy, a skinny, shirtless kid, maybe 16 years old. The boy hopped alongside the gendarmes, waiting for the right moment. When the gendarmes turned, he leaped over their linked arms and made a grab for Armstrong's black baseball cap. The boy started to lift it off, but it was tight, and as he lifted, Armstrong made a grab for the boy's arm, but the boy was too fast. He pulled again and the cap came off. The boy ducked, then danced off in triumph, waving his trophy, and the crowd shouted.


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