Nick Bryant, the British-Australian author and journalist, observed how individuals can be embodied and distilled through music. Bryant himself used the metaphor to compare the non-stop thrash metal of a Trump presidency with that of Joe Biden’s smooth, if occasionally scatting, jazz. It’s not in and of itself a unique insight, given how it is increasingly Millennials and Gen Z that use music to define and refine their own personality. This all through a prism of ‘liked’ songs and playlists on streaming services, with annual summaries of emotional appreciation shared across social media in lieu of meaningful royalties to the artists on whom our identities may increasingly depend.
In watching cycling, and indeed all sport, there is a similar risk in reducing our understanding of athletes to emotional attachments beyond their own control. The longing for these attachments, our future memories, is why we are compelled each day to pace nervously, to cry in despair or release, or to occasionally exclaim certain words that otherwise would be dropped casually in a Flandrian zone technique. Today was primarily the latter.
The Tour de France stands as the most grandiose of operas, steamrollering its way through every history of cycling, showcasing its revolving cast of lead sopranos, deafening all else that exists in its orbit – at times to the detriment of far more deserving races. The crescendo of the Grand Depart at the weekend gave way to a brief movement of silence, a galling reminder to those lulled into false dawns via bizarre Netflix doom-scrolls, or just a brief lapse in memory over the many Basque undulations. Finally swerving yesterday around a motor racing circuit, the race broke loose into a crashing of carbon and aluminium, riders flung to the ground and denied a further casting audition for the saga’s oncoming acts. Others remain standing but are cursed, damned by the pain and suffering that today’s parcours will only exacerbate. Initially dropped in the first twenty kilometres of today’s stage, a wounded Fabio Jakobsen was last across the finish line today into Laurens, two minutes within the time limit, bruised and cut raw. Sadly, he knows of far worse injuries, pains that make the dangers of our sport reflexively uncomfortable, stiff against recent tragedy that cost the peloton its own friend.
Ahead, the riders who had beaten Jakobsen to the finish could not allow such thoughts to encroach or disturb on the first high mountain stage of the race. Instead, they perched precariously on their machines, tied to the unique suffering that such stages bring, at one with the relative peace of a peloton’s silence when breathing heavy.
The immediate questions posited by the media and fans in the aftermath of today’s stage provided such obvious answers that they reflected poorly on the sport itself. Questions as to how Jai Hindley went in the breakaway, or why UAE Team Emirates ‘let’ him up the road were almost futile. He went in the breakaway because he wanted to, seemingly off the cuff. He was ‘allowed’ there due to the size of the breakaway making rider identification difficult before the finite resources of UAE opted to manage and pace their efforts rather than risking a more dangerous attack later in the race. The more interesting question surrounds the logic behind why last year’s Giro d’Italia winner was so underrated, be it due to a narrow-minded focus on last year’s battles, or an introverted media lens that ignored the burgeoning form and strength of Hindley’s Bora-Hansgrohe team leading into the race. Or something else entirely, something possibly worthy of examination in a future SBS or GCN documentary to be made in a generation’s time.
Hindley’s obscurity proved effective, enabling him to shadow and bridge most of the moves made to splinter the behemoth of his breakaway. Allowing Wout van Aert and Krists Neilands in the valley of Lourdios to attack almost out of masochistic whimsy, Hindley then benefited from the work of AG2R and Lidl-Trek to partly bridge himself across. On the final climb of Marie Blanque, he attacked decisively with Felix Gall, the most combative of the breakaway remnants, distancing those who had held out a sliver of hope for stage victory. Hindley’s aspirations appeared higher however, necessitating a relentless tempo that soon dropped Gall and left him trialling himself against his own ambition, conducting the race’s score on his own terms.
Disadvantaged by their seemingly machine-translated web and media output, English-language affection towards Jumbo-Visma appears in short supply, not helped by the intensely guarded privacy of their star man, the modest Dane whose fish factory story lives on only as a pastiche of the boy who maybe once appeared happy on the bike. Jumbo-Visma’s wider marketing displays a talent for robotics that even Primoz Roglič managed to slowly claw himself from, aided by a much improved grasp of English and the media’s growing sympathy towards his oft-repeated ‘redemption arcs’. Jonas Vingegaard still lacks such warmth between the lens and himself. Not helping him is his style of racing, or rather the perception of his team’s style of racing.
In their space-themed oddity of a kit, Jumbo-Visma appear at times unwilling or unable to deviate from the pre-prepared processes that define their mode of operations. To compare with Tadej Pogačar – who today drifted back from and to the peloton unguarded whilst his team rode on the front, a white swan oblivious to his competitors’ spluttering – Vingegaard appears at times dependent on his team, a moonboy stalking his rivals until a day of ‘Total Cycling’ finally arrives, as outlined in the off-season to The Cycling Podcast by General Manager Richard Plugge. Inspired by the Dutch football strategy, a maximisation of the course’s terrain sees the team pour all its rider capabilities and wider resources into a devastating end goal of maximum efficacy – a single stinging attack. Unfortunately for Pogačar, as it was last year on Stage 11, today was such a day.
Placing riders in the breakaway to spurn UAE’s resources, the remaining Jumbo-Visma riders later usurped Pogačar at the front of the peloton and accelerated, distancing all but a handful of their nearest rivals. Such had been the intensity of the pace up until that point, that when Vingegaard finally launched, there was no need to reattack, for he had struck with maximal impact, his team’s role fulfilled exactingly. Tadej Pogačar now sat burdened, again mortal, unable to respond, unable to also close the gap on the tiring breakaway until joined by those he had earlier distanced.
From today’s performances, perhaps it is becoming clear that we don’t live in Jonas Vingegaard’s world as much as we think we do, though we likely relate much more closely with Tadej Pogačar’s than our dreams would like to suggest. The Slovenian’s popularity from here will surely only increase, his relatability – however relative and fallible – benefiting from every substandard ride. That a ride such as today’s could be considered substandard, again reflects the unreasonable pedestals we place our stars upon. Maybe this logic explains why ‘shooting for the moon’ is quite so in vogue. Maybe it explains why Jumbo-Visma – in their Dutch tower of image and marketing awareness – bet on their jersey surviving comments as dismissive as mine, and likely worse.
As our opera’s great storyline approached something vaguely euphoric at the end of today’s act, Jai Hindley briefly paused before the finish line to absorb the success of his endeavours, his place in the cycling world suddenly elevated beside cycling greats. Punching the air in joy at both his maiden Tour victory, and temporary stewardship of this great sporting circus, he is not yet dialled in to a robotic pursuit of every last second. His strongest rival Vingegaard appeared to neither accelerate nor slow in the final kilometre, enabling the breakaway remnants to sprint ahead of his precise plan execution, depriving him of yet more bonus seconds. Whether the former Jutland factory worker or his bosses have arranged similarly combative efforts for the following day’s summit finish is enough of a question to keep the internet simmering overnight, an ultimately moot point that won’t matter until, of course, it suddenly will tomorrow afternoon.
In the heat of summer, the Tour is the intense spotlight on which our minds may temporarily settle, it is the discourse that releases us from our own lived experience and makes us dream in the mind of our oversimplified, unreliable heroes. Unimaginable is the pressure and expectation that sits with the riders, who pursue such challenges out of a supposed enjoyment or sense of duty. Soothing however, is the continuity of the race, the comforting jazz of its presence that seeps its way into everyday life each year. Scatting away in the background, it slowly refines our perspectives on the sport, and on ourselves. For Jai Hindley and Jonas Vingegaard, they will hope that tomorrow shows the Tour as a beacon of chaotic calm, a controlled anarchy that is remembered only for its habitual happening. For Tadej Pogačar, and indeed everyone else, may tomorrow possibly bring a day of agitation, of dear events unfolding. The arc of redemption isn’t even halfway across.
I really enjoyed this. Brilliant writing and insights, Callum!
I enjoy your questioning the dominant Tour narrative. Making me think!