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.)

JéRéMIE COMES TO REST in the shade of a small bar, several hundred yards past the finish line. There is a stampede, a sea of people surging toward him, small excited children and lumbering TV journalists, clearing a path with their heavy cameras. Everyone piles into the small outdoor bar, pressing him farther into the darkness, where he is wedged between a foosball table and a TV camera. A cold Fanta is placed in his hands; microphones are pushed in his face. "C'est une grande victoire pour notre pays," he begins.

Bike racers are superstitious in every culture. In Burkina Faso, if something bad happens, or even something good, riders suspect that "the wak"-black magic-is involved.

He is a champion, a hero. In his distinctive French, he thanks his teammates and describes how he was inspired by the crowds lining the final kilometers. A local journalist collars him, and he switches to his native Mossi tongue, the words tumbling out freely. Victor finds him, and they embrace. "Are you content?" Jérémie asks. Yes, Victor is content.

Soon, a representative from the Ministry of Sports and Youth drags Jérémie toward the podium, where he receives his white stage-winner's jersey and his winner's kisses. And the race officials breathe a collective sigh of relief. It would have been a terrible thing if the host country didn't even win a stage.

Later, the Dutch will talk about what an easy day it was—almost like a rest day. And others will whisper: Was it fixed to let them save face? Last year, Jérémie's friend Mahamadi Sawadogo won the same stage—but only, the cynics say, because the Italian team let him. Perhaps this was the same. At any rate, the following day, stage ten, is very fast—suddenly lots of people are going for it. "Every African guy's got it in his head that he can win now," complains a Dutch rider.

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