Tour de France

Another week has ended, and I find myself sitting at my desk reviewing my running log as I normally do on Sunday morning.  I add up my mileage for the week, I enter that number in the back of my little book where I keep a running total for the year (a paltry 261 miles, half of the mileage I have usually run by July), and I look at my interval times and long runs.  I was able to decrease the former to a 2:26 quarter-mile on Wednesday, my fastest since resuming running, and I was able to increase the latter to six miles, my farthest.  And I ran some short hill repeats on Wednesday, too.  Progress!

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about "One Step Forward, Two Steps Back."  Now it seems as if I am entirely in the One Step Forward mode.  I suppose that is one good thing about an injury.  A runner of my age becomes accustomed to plateaus and to ultimately slower times with every race.  These days, I am actually making progress, catching up to where I was in April when I had completed my second of two half marathons this year and when I was, humbly but honestly, in  good condition.  For an old guy.

One of the things I enjoy doing in July is watching the Tour de France.  The Tour has taken a lot of well-deserved criticism over the years for rampant performance enhancing drug use; my one-time hero Lance Armstrong was one of the biggest offenders, stripped of his seven Tour de France titles, all of which I witnessed and for which I cheered at the time.  And I used to enjoy those long, rambling descriptions of the gorgeous French countryside through which the Peloton would ride as viewed from helicopter by those long-time commentators Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen.  

"Now we see below us the lovely Château d'Amboise, constructed in the 9th Century on the banks of the river Loire, Phil."

"Yes indeed, that is a lovely Chateau, and what a beautiful day here in the Loire valley, Paul."

"Yes, it is an absolutely splendid day."

Sadly, Paul Sherwen died earlier this year, but his role is being admirably filled by the long-time commentator Bob Roll, who not only had a brilliant cycling career himself but also has the perfect name for a cyclist.

I think I enjoyed watching the countryside as much as I did the riders.  But performing enhancing drugs or not, riding in the Tour de France is not for the faint of heart, and these athletes are among the toughest in the world.  This year we have seen only one or two small crashes, but it is not unusual for a crash to occur at any time and to witness absolute mayhem on the road.

One year I remember watching in horror as a rider flew over a guardrail and disappeared out of sight, only to painfully climb back up the hillside, bike in hand, bleeding with torn jersey, only to mount his bike and finish the stage "bloody but unbowed" as the poet William Ernest Henlry memorably wrote:

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

That is something to keep in mind these days as I work myself back into good condition and prepare for the next race.  Others have suffered far worse than I ever have, and gotten up to ride again.