by John Gifford
It was the final day of the 1989 Tour de France, and French rider and race leader, Laurent Fignon, sat in the start house at the head of the course, straddling his Raleigh, preparing himself for the 24-kilometer (15-mile) time trial that would take him from Versailles to Paris: his hometown, and, on this hot July day, the sporting capital of the world. Dropping his gaze, strands of his long, blond hair fell from his head, radiating out like spokes from a hub and shielding his face from the reporters’ cameras. After three weeks and over 2,000 miles, it had come down to this final stage. The race was Fignon’s to win or lose. What was he thinking? Was he contemplating his strategy? The painful saddle sore he’d acquired in the Alps just a few days earlier? The 50-second advantage he held over American Greg LeMond, whom had just departed the start house ahead of him? Perhaps he was imagining the taste of the champagne he’d sip later that evening, after claiming his third Tour de France victory.
As the Tour’s leader, Fignon had the privilege of starting last and he’d elected to have time splits relayed to him during the race to keep him apprised of his performance. And in what would prove to be perhaps the most momentous decision of his career, the Frenchman declined to have his bike outfitted with aerodynamic handlebars, which LeMond was using today, just as he had a couple weeks earlier, when he’d won the Stage 5 individual time trial. Nor, for that matter, did he elect to wear a helmet, as LeMond and many of the other riders had — a choice less about practicality, perhaps, than vanity. Fignon had a blond ponytail which would flap in the breeze as he made his way onto the Champs Elysees in front of, not only tens of thousands of spectators lining the Paris streets, but also three billion television viewers around the world who were watching what had turned out to be the most exciting Tour de France in recent memory, and, one that, in less than 30 short minutes, would deliver the closest finish in its long history.
At last, Fignon sat up in the saddle and clipped his shoes into the pedals. Now clutching the handlebars, he took a deep breath and exhaled, listening as the official counted down the final five seconds. Cinq! Quatre! Trois! Deux! Un! Then the clock beeped and the crowd roared as Fignon — already a two-time Tour de France champion and the country’s greatest hope to win the 1989 event — rolled out of the start house wearing the maillot jaune of the race leader, his brown legs turning a massive gear, his blond ponytail flapping in the wind as he made his way through the frenetic streets of Versailles, toward Paris, and history.
At the 5-kilometer mark Fignon’s longtime coach, Cyrille Guimard, told his star rider that he’d lost 10 seconds to LeMond. Fignon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Mild panic set in. He pedaled faster.
***
I stood among a small crowd that day, watching the race from inside a sporting goods store in a Carlsbad, California shopping mall. I was 19 years old and a passionate cyclist who hoped to one day turn professional and ride in the Tour de France. Six years earlier, I’d watched Fignon win the 1983 Tour and I was thrilled to see him competing for a third title today after winning the Giro d’Italia (Tour of Italy) only the month before. Like my father, I was heavily involved in bicycle racing. But whereas his favorite rider was Bernard Hinault, the famous Frenchman and five-time Tour de France champion, who was nicknamed “The Badger” for his unrelenting tenacity, Fignon was my hero and I cheered for him now, even as the others rooted for LeMond, America’s best rider. It was easy to understand why. LeMond was a nice guy. He was always smiling and willing to talk to the press. The French loved him because he was fluent in their language. Fans around the world admired him because he gave them hope. After surviving a hunting accident only a few years earlier, and now vying for the Tour de France title, with residual shotgun pellets still imbedded in his body, he seemed to suggest that anything was possible. Watching him sail along the streets at 34 miles-per-hour, hunched over the aerodynamic handlebars in an efficient, wind-cheating posture, he reminded me of Superman.
Fignon exuded a different kind of charisma. With his wire-rimmed spectacles and thin, blond hair, he was the most unique and interesting rider in the peloton, as far as I was concerned. The other riders had nicknamed him “The Professor,” not only for the eyeglasses he wore, but also for the fact that Fignon was one of the few riders in the peloton to have completed his baccalaureate exams. After winning the Tour de France in 1983 and 1984, he was one of cycling’s biggest stars, and yet he shunned reporters and cameras. When he did give an interview, he appeared guarded and mysterious. I wanted to know what he was thinking, and he gave the impression he didn’t want you to know. He was aloof. He was distant. His responses to questions were often witty quips. I liked that. He had an appetite for Stephen King novels. I liked that, too.
What many reporters and fans disliked about him was his arrogance. After his 1983 Tour victory, Fignon traded his Renault for a Ferrari. “Everyone drives one of these!” he said with a sniff, much to the dismay of the French who were discovering that, in Fignon, they had a hero they could not afford, nor tolerate. He threw water bottles at reporters, spat at cameras, and generally allowed the world to see him at his absolute worst. Still, I liked him. Fignon seemed to go at his pace and do things his way, something I’ve always tried to do.
Mostly, I admired Fignon for his ability on the bike, and for his graceful, flowing style, which, unfortunately, wasn’t apparent on the final day of the 1989 Tour de France. I assumed the saddle sores were tormenting him. Still, he was a brilliant tactician and I had confidence he could hold on to the lead, especially given the final stage’s short, 15-mile course. Having begun the day with a 50-second advantage over LeMond, it seemed reasonable that he would win, even if the American turned in a brilliant performance. I think everyone expected this, because when the Frenchman crossed the finish line that day, collapsing and falling to the ground, reeling in the reality of his defeat, the cameramen mobbed him while the television announcers exclaimed — never mind that Greg LeMond had just made what may have been the greatest comeback in sports history — “Laurent Fignon has lost the Tour de France!”
The loss would haunt him the rest of his life.
***
It was a crash that heralded the end of my cycling career. While out on a training ride one day I overlapped another rider’s back wheel. I remember looking down at my front wheel veering into the other wheel and knowing I was going to go down. A moment later I was sliding across the highway, feeling the pavement peeling away the skin on my knees and elbows, and burning a hole into my chin. Fortunately, I’d been wearing a helmet, though the crash had still knocked me out for an instant. I don’t remember falling or hitting the ground; I only remember overlapping the other wheel, and the sight of a distant car approaching as I slid across the highway on the side of my face.
I was out of commission for several days. I couldn’t walk or drive my car. I didn’t ride my bike again for weeks, and when I finally did, I began to realize I was never going to become a professional road racer. Whereas I’d once been fearless on my bike, now, riding at high speeds unnerved me and I was afraid of crashing. I might have overcome this setback — rather quickly, even — but my day job prevented me from spending more time in the saddle. Time I needed to reacquaint myself with high speeds, and to put in many miles on the road. Time I didn’t have. Time I spent, instead, at the office.
It simply wasn’t going to happen for me, and as frustrating as this was, I had to accept it.
Eventually, I sold my bike and took up running. It was a sport I loved, and still do, for its inherent simplicity. Not only this, but running shoes are much less expensive than a racing bicycle. And I can get a great workout in 45 minutes — the same amount of time it used to take me to warm up before a long bike ride.
***
Fignon always considered himself a winner. And he was. In addition to his two Tour de France victories, he won the French National Championship in 1984, the Giro d’Italia in 1989 — after losing this same race on the very last stage only five years before — and was twice winner of the Milan-San Remo classic (1988 and 1989), to name a few of his accomplishments. As his team’s leader — Fignon rode for the Renault, Système U, Super U, and Castorama cycling teams before spending the final two years of his career as co-captain and mentor to the rising Italian star, Gianni Bugno, on the Gatorade-Chateau d’Ax squad — he was often expected to allow his teammates to win smaller, less prestigious races. Instead, especially during his prime years in the mid- to late-1980s, Fignon rode in these races to win, preferring to bask in the glory himself.
When his teammates complained that he was too quiet, that he never discussed his personal life with anyone, Fignon said, “They are paid to ride for me, not be my friends.” He once commented that his combative nature was essential to him being able to compete at such a high level, an attitude reflected, perhaps, in the Federation of International Cycling Professionals (FICP) rankings. In 1989, the year he lost the Tour de France by eight seconds to Greg LeMond, the year the press awarded him the Prix Citron (Lemon Prize) for his rudeness during the Tour, Fignon was the world’s No. 1 rider.
By virtue of his previous Tour de France wins, and all-around talent, he was a star and allowed to do things his way. Things like climbing off his bike, ducking into the team car and abandoning a race if he started poorly or if the weather conditions were not to his liking. Others might criticize him, but Fignon always found a way to come back and contend for another victory. As a professional, he knew the exact conditions necessary for him to have the best chance of winning, and, in the absence of such criteria, he had no problem waiting for the next race, and favorable conditions.
This attitude helped teach me the importance of listening to my own body, that I didn’t have to train if I felt tired, that it was okay if I didn’t want to run in cold weather. While I haven’t always enjoyed the luxury of deciding when and how I’ll train, now that I do, I’m reminded that a champion knows when to compete and when to rest.
In my own athletic endeavors, from racing bikes to running, I have always remembered Fignon, his temperamental personality and the competitiveness he displayed throughout his career. While serving in the Marine Corps, I ran 20 miles or more every week. As enthusiastic as I was about competition, I entered races and sometimes won them. Much of my semiannual performance reviews were based on my Physical Fitness Tests (PFTs), which consisted of a 3-mile run, 20 pull-ups, and 80 sit-ups within a two-minute period. These reviews were actually competitions, with accolades and bragging rights going to the winner. I trained for them like someone obsessed, usually finishing at or near the top of my company. Everyone who knew me regarded me as a model Marine, both for my work ethic and for my physical fitness — qualities I’ve tried to carry into civilian life and middle age.
I still run, primarily for enjoyment, but also for the health and psychological benefits it brings. Going out on a hot summer day and putting in five miles is one of the most invigorating and cleansing things I know of. Often, I’ll think of Fignon and what others must have thought at seeing him ride by, his blond ponytail streaming out behind him, so cultured and debonair, and yet always willing to attack and compete for the win. When I see another runner up ahead, something in me changes and I find myself turning the situation into a race. Maybe it’s a way of briefly reliving my athletic prime, or perhaps it’s only a test to find out how much gas I’ve left in the tank. Regardless, I give it everything I have to catch and pass the other runner. Even more motivating is spotting another runner behind me. This forces me to push myself, to increase my speed and focus on my form to ensure he doesn’t catch me — because I tell myself that’s exactly what he’s trying to do. This is as much a mental challenge as a physical one, and it’s a game I recall playing during my cycling days, when I would put my head down and push a big gear, trying to establish a steady rhythm to put as much distance as possible between myself and my nearest competitor. As I pedaled, I would try to emulate Fignon, even his facial gestures. I grimaced. I squinted. I even forced myself to smile while ascending steep hills. Though my legs and lungs were burning, I persevered, knowing it would certainly demoralize my opponents to see me smiling while they, too, were suffering.
***
In the years since the 1989 Tour de France, it’s been proposed time and time again that, had Fignon simply used aerodynamic handlebars that day, as LeMond did, he would have won the race. Granted, at the time, these strange triathlon handlebars were still a novelty in the European peloton. And because of the obvious aerodynamic — and time saving — advantages they afforded, they were also controversial. But they worked for LeMond, who demonstrated just how much more efficient they were than Fignon’s handlebars, which forced him to scoop air like a sail, slowing him, costing him the race.
It has also been proposed that, had Fignon worn an aerodynamic helmet, as LeMond did, he would have won the Tour de France.
Some have dared to suggest that Fignon could have won the Tour simply by cutting off his wind-catching ponytail. But of all three scenarios, this was certainly the least likely. After all, if there is anything the French expect of their champions, it is panache, the concept of verve, style, flamboyance. When one wears the maillot jaune, they believe, this person, above all others, must ride with panache. For the French, it’s a matter of style and pride. And dignity. Fignon understood this, perhaps better than any other rider in the 1989 Tour de France. And he upheld this concept to the best of his considerable abilities, which led to his defeat.
The French never forgave him for it.
***
Part of what intrigued me about Fignon was the Tour de France, itself: the world’s largest annual sporting event and, arguably, the greatest, covering over 2,000 miles in three weeks, attracting more than 10 million spectators along its route, fans who come out to see some of the most elite athletes in all of sports — athletes who race 100 miles or more during a single stage, burning up to 10,000 calories a day — push their bodies to limits humans were not designed to reach. The event is so arduous and demanding that teams groom their young riders, limiting their involvement to a select number of stages, sometimes for several years, before allowing them to complete an entire Tour. Which makes Fignon’s 1983 victory even more remarkable. It was his first time competing in the event and, at 22, he became the youngest rider in half a century to win it.
***
In 1987, after Greg LeMond’s near-fatal hunting accident, Fignon was the only European rider, outside LeMond’s own team, to send the American a get-well note.
***
Over the years, I lost track of Fignon. After I took up running, I no longer subscribed to the cycling papers which had once kept me informed about the sport, and I found myself less interested in following the Tour de France, probably because I no longer recognized any of the riders.
To my great surprise, however, some years ago, during graduate school, one of the students I tutored brought his physiology textbook into the writing lab one day. On the book’s cover was Fignon, a photo from his racing days. He sat on a treadmill in what looked like some kind of medical laboratory, his long, blond hair falling onto his bare chest, to which was connected all sorts of electronic devices to monitor his heart and lungs. There was even a tube fitted into his mouth to measure his maximum rate of oxygen consumption. Elite cyclists have always astounded scientists for their seemingly superhuman endurance capacities, and I suppose Fignon was at the top of this list for not only for his athletic abilities, but also his colorful character. He made you want to look at him and listen to what he might say next. And, like him or not, you respected him for what he could do on a bicycle.
By now (2010) we were well into the Internet age and Fignon had long since retired from professional cycling. Occasionally, something would remind me of him and one day it occurred to me that I could search the Web to find out what The Professor had been up to in recent years. I was elated to discover that he’d written an autobiography, We Were Young and Carefree, which had just been published in English and which I wasted no time in ordering. I was also shocked to learn that he had just died of cancer at the young age of 50.
It took several weeks to receive the book, which shipped from England. When it arrived, I read it in a few short days, fascinated by Fignon’s account of his life — before, during, and after his cycling career. But I was saddened by the pain he surely carried around with him in the years since the 1989 Tour de France. For the opening chapter of his book, which is entitled, “Eight Seconds,” begins with an epigraph:
“Ah. I remember you: you’re the guy who lost the Tour de France by eight seconds!”
“No, monsieur. I’m the guy who won the Tour twice.”
John Gifford is the author of the story collections, Wish You Were Here (Big Table, 2016) and Freeze Warning, which was named a finalist for the 2015 Press 53 Short Fiction Award. His work has appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, The Saturday Evening Post, Southwest Review, U.S. News and World Report, and elsewhere. He lives in Oklahoma.