Racing for the Hell of It (Cont.)

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Outside Magazine July 2002

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Racing for the Hell of It (Cont.)


	Burkinabe mechanics inside a village bicycle shop in Koudougou (Roger Lemoyne)

OUAHIGOUYA. YAKO. KAYA. Ziniaré. Fada N'Gourma. The caravan rolls across the countryside, one stage blending into the next. In the small towns and tiny farming villages, children are let out of school and flock to the roadside to wave as the race goes by. They wave at the publicity trucks; they wave at the cops on the motorbikes; they wave at the multihued swarm of racers. They wave at the winners, and at the very last riders, the ones struggling just to keep going. "Bon courage!" they shout.

Everyone agrees that the race is better organized than ever; there is good food every night, and the stages leave on time. But the stage finishes are remarkably unfestive—sullen, in fact. Almost nobody claps. "There is something missing," a Burkina Faso TV journalist tells me one night over beers. "Everything in Africa is like a party. But here, there is no fête Africaine." One of the Belgians, who has raced the Tour du Faso for the past five years, agrees. "It has lost its African soul," he mourns.

The reason is simple: The stage winner is almost always European. The Moroccans have a rider in third place overall, but they can't seem to move him up. So the yellow jersey stays on Joost Legtenberg's shoulders, even through the inevitable bout of la chiasse. As for the West Africans, they dropped out of contention for good with the grueling fourth stage, during which Jérémie lost a full 18 minutes after getting stuck behind a crash caused by a rider from Cameroon.

One night in Ouagadougou, after stage six, Jérémie goes to see Victor Duchene. Charged with tending to the riders' physical needs, like food, fluids, medicine, and massage, the trainer is often closer to the riders than the team director. Victor worked with many of the greats, including Eddy Merckx and Greg LeMond; he spends a few weeks a year working with the Burkina Faso team, preparing them for the Tour.

Jérémie is discouraged. He is crying. He'd hoped for a top five finish this year, enough to get him noticed in Europe. But he's so far behind, it's hopeless. And his teammates still lack unity; each one seems to be riding for himself. He tells Victor he has decided to quit.

Victor has seen this before. "They are complexé," he says later. They see the Europeans' shiny bikes, their expensive sunglasses, their new helmets, and they become demoralized. Their legs feel heavy. They hesitate to attack, and instead only follow.

Look at me, Jérémie, he says. I am white, you are black. But you are just as strong as me. Stronger. You mustn't be afraid, and you mustn't quit. Victor knows that Jérémie is a good rider, a tough all-arounder. He is less strong than Pafadnam, but he has the smarts to make up for it, and he wants to win.

The next day there is a meeting, and it is announced that Jérémie has become the leader of the Burkina Faso team, replacing Pafadnam, his closest friend. Now there are tears, there's shouting. But the logic is unassailable. "He showed in the Tour du Faso that he is the best rider in Burkina Faso," Victor says later. And Pafadnam? Perhaps in his mind, he is already in Spain.

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