Finishing ensconced within the peloton, over four minutes behind his brother Ion, Gorka Izagirre likely felt a sense of pride towards his brother. A sense of pride equal to, if not greater than, the pride of a Basque Grand Depart. Immersed in the vibrancy of the homecoming spectacle twelve days ago, the stages then were intense thrashings of riders compelled into action by undulations, seeking out whatever combative advantage that could be obtained through the valleys. Today, though the terrain invited similar racing instincts, the riders needed little incentive to rampage once again.
Passing through the Rhône département whilst conspicuously avoiding the river itself, this was not a stage of silence, a day to ponderously reflect against the frequent monotony of professional men’s cycling that so often drives itself into ever narrower formulas and outcomes. For nearly two hours, shoes scraped forlornly between previously smooth tarmac, and the acrobatic angles of race motorbikes. They were left desperately tracking a peloton working to shred itself into a maillot jaune group, a race of fragmented pursuit, victory for brawn over brain. Where we perhaps presumed order would dictate the race under Jonas Vingegaard’s leadership, it was Jumbo-Visma themselves pulling at the leash, strangling the dreams of dozens of opportunists. Riders selected by their teams for days such as these, soon found themselves burned by the heat of Wout van Aert’s racing wrath. Opening up a 15 second margin over all other attackers, for a period it seemed as if Van Aert was inclined to repeat last year’s yellow-jersey raid on Longwy a further 450 kilometres south, before eventually seeing sense. Tempering his solo ambition for another day working in support of his leader, he remained waiting for the important call from home. Mind or body, his efforts (or at least results) are not what they appeared last year.
After 80 kilometres, a ragtag of combatants was all that remained, either strong enough to have survived, or shrewd enough to have surfed the wheels in desperate anticipation for a relent. Finally, a ceasefire emerged, the stage left to be fought between barely a dozen exhausted escapees. Behind, domestiques gradually regrouped and organised ‘the chaos’, self-preservation suddenly in vogue after a race opening that better fitted a climax in the Ardennes. Ahead, the stories would be written.
Within the breakaway lay men all united with a clear objective, but blurry repercussions beyond. For Tobias Johannessen, a debut Tour win would have broken ground for Uno-X, embodying the arrival of Norwegian cycling on a sustained, reproduceable level, a new high for a team that partially owes its presence on the race to years of sustained lobbying, and the collapse of French ProTeam B&B-Hotels. After the finish, lambasted by his brothers-in-pursuit, Johannessen could only heave over his handlebars, insisting to the gathered media that he simply ‘didn’t have the legs’ to contribute to the chase ‘after fighting so hard to get in the breakaway’, being distanced in the final kilometres by riders who clearly did. Matteo Jorgenson cut a frustrated figure, bemoaning the second group syndrome that ruined all hope of victory, even revealing that no upcoming stage would represent an opportunity as rich as this. Derek Gee would no doubt argue otherwise after his Giro, the future is not worth predicting in races as multi-faceted as these.
Having sat within the group for most of the final climbs, it was presumed that Guillaume Martin was saving his efforts for an acceleration few could match, a pursuit of further French glory in France that would outweigh annual flirtations with the outskirts of the Top 10. Yet it was his Cofidis teammate that raced away, possibly initially imagined as part of a combined team attack to debilitate his breakaway rivals. But racing from the remnants with such intensity, the race was soon Ion Izagirre’s to lose, buoyed by a tailwind and disharmony behind him. It was Martin who worked to sow such discord, sitting in second and third-wheel, jumping on attacks until the race was won for his teammate, his marginal gains on GC (now sitting 1’38” behind fellow flirt Pinot in tenth place) far less important than the glory and attention that has suddenly engulfed a team otherwise drowning in mediocrity before the Tour. Success is a luxury, buses come at once.
Behind the discordant remnants of the breakaway, Tadej Pogačar attacked for his own sanity, fulfilling his combativity quota on a day when he stuck to Jonas Vingegaard’s wheel throughout much of the opening 80 kilometre spin cycle. Second in the peloton’s sprint, he remains second overall to Vingegaard, the margin unchanged since Sunday’s ringing silence of the Puy de Dôme, momentum supposedly in his favour, but durability uncertain after the lightness of pre-Tour training.
The Tour de France does not swing on a pendulum as much as it oscillates uncontrollably, subject to wild swings in condition and fuelling strategy as much as any number of months spent training at altitude or living like a hermit. One day does not dictate another as much as we attempt to cast narratives out of the individual successes and failures of our athletes. We can only admire the spectacle that it brings and appreciate what we witness in front of us as the story that unfolds, irrespective of how it may subsequently be revised and interpreted.
For our favourites, today won’t be remembered by historians or dreamers for any great reason. For the riders though, it will be ingrained as a brutal day of suffering. A day that could not end soon enough, but mercifully ended sooner than most expected. For that, thanks are due in part to the riders who tore themselves to pieces today, knowing the hellish summit finish that awaits tomorrow. But mostly thanks are due to Ion Izagirre, the Basque brother who today reminded the world that not all brothers need to win together, finishing out of sight of his brothers in chase, in Cofidis, and in blood. The day was his, and his alone.