The endless, ever escalating nature of sport – perhaps best embodied by a Mitchell and Webb sketch from 2008 – also illustrates its partial futility, a never-ending pursuit of action. It is drama that maybe only pacifies the interests of people who cannot find passion beyond the realms of this hobby. It is a release from the painful mundanity of everyday life, the burden of other people’s judgements lifted by one’s own judgements of those we hold to a far higher standard.
Over the past two weeks, we have narrowed our focus to the fates of Jonas Vingegaard and Tadej Pogačar, not in objective perception, but only in relation to one another. It is exhaustingly unmissable. Their battles have existed entirely detached from the remaining racing spectacle, diminishing the worthy attention usually granted to deserving stage-winners and secondary classifications. TV directors dare not distract from this saga with the ‘minor’ accomplishments or battles of other riders. Intertwined, inseparable, our leaders’ duelling are the reason critics, heavily infected by recency bias, have dared to label this Tour among the ‘Greatest Ever’. Yet tonight, they are silent, for the racers themselves now sit meaningfully apart. In many ways, the sporting spectacle suddenly appears diminished, the end is now in sight.
We, as spectators, are generally passive to these developments. Our own role in the sporting drama is only realised when we get in the way. We foolishly dare to wave flags or worse in the riders’ faces, we oblige motorbikes to impact the race for our remote viewing needs. Though Primož Roglič would likely disagree, spectators are beyond the realm of a rider’s comprehension in the lonely meditation of an Individual Time Trial. Hearing warped by helmets; posture tilted downwards to absorb only the markings of the road. Painted words become blurred by the speed and sweat that dares to interfere with a rider’s thoughts.
Today, only when Victor Lafay crashed comically in the final 200 metres did he acknowledge the crowd. Instantly, he was the jester of the day, inviting humour and pity towards his sub-optimal bike handling. Of the other non-favourites, only his namesake Victor Campenaerts attracted similar attention, riding the stage in a single gear that deblurred the crowds when ascending before spinning out on descents into a gracefully slow aerotuck.
Supposed favourites of the discipline came and went. There was Stefan Küng, drooling pendulums over the climbs that encouraged many specialists to skip the Tour entirely, time irretrievably escaping away from him. Rémi Cavagna appeared immune to visible suffering, saved similar ignominy by a mirrored visor and a new fastest time. Yet, within moments, he was in front of a sprawled mass of microphones, fully expecting to be later overtaken, his expectations limited only to the top 15. An eventual sixth place should surely leave him content.
From the moment the Northern Jute set off in pursuit of the Southern Slav, attention paid towards all other riders was diminished, relegated to token directorial cuts to time check updates, or a final heave over the finish line. In flashes, Gall bested Martin, Yates defeated Yates as neither reached Bilbao. Meanwhile, Hindley and Rodriguez appeared in bubbles, each slipping away from their nearest rivals in efforts cruelly made to appear unremarkable in relation to the competition. Only when Pogačar closed in on Rodriguez, his closest rival for second place, did the ‘great battle for yellow’ appear connected to a wider sporting event. Such framing of second place is silly though, this year at least. The competition for the greatest glory exists between only two men, beyond the realm of athletes ‘othered’ by this dynamic.
Within minutes of the transponders flickering erratically into life, speculation was immediately rife as to whether Jonas Vingegaard would again mismanage his effort after the Criterium du Dauphiné last month. The opposite was true. Without split-screen coverage, analysis became hypercritical, narrowed in on the minutest sign of Pogačar’s shoulders rocking half an inch out of frame, neck strained excessively between them. Any comparison was soon futile, with Pogačar’s bike change on the lower slopes of the Côte de Domancy. Now quicker on the steepest gradients, his time deficit briefly stemmed. His face remained vacant however, tortured by the unfortunate reality of victory, today at least, appearing to ebb away. His performance was extraordinary, far ahead of Wout van Aert – a typically machine-like figure who audaciously declared himself ‘first of the normal ones’.
Yet everyone was somehow inferior to the impassive Dane behind, his flowed motion not indicating any degree of suffering that reflects the remarkability of his achievement. Only the subsequent interviews revealed a degree of surprise – over his margin of victory (1 minute 38 seconds), and of his conviction that his power meter must have been wrong.
Having covered every recent attack, and not conceded more than 24 seconds to Tadej Pogačar in one sitting, spectators are left hanging in hope. Hanging on in quiet desperation that Jonas Vingegaard’s 108-second margin can be even meaningfully diminished, let alone overturned. Today’s stunning victory brought a sudden realisation to the wider cycling world – that the race will finish on Sunday. And that the ever-tightening elastic of tension, that has held the race’s narrative together, may have today snapped. Folks will remain hopeful of an ambush; they have to be. They can dream that an isolated Vingegaard will be exhausted by his rival’s combativity, and not vice versa. It is delightful whimsy, blissfully ignorant to the irrelevance of the proxy battle between UAE and Jumbo-Visma, ineffective each day in shaking one rival from another. Still, their domestiques – highly paid to sacrifice any individual ambition – continue to propel themselves past smaller team leaders, threatening the podium by accident, mocking the financial might of former rivals.
There is, sadly, no-one else but them – Jonas and Tadej. Their battle appears increasingly personal to us, the intimacy we receive with them remains greater than any other riders. But we are not living in their world, only hoping from a distance that the escalating tension doesn’t now hesitate, but still meets our imaginary storylines for tomorrow’s Queen’s Stage, for our mythologised climax of the weekend. The difference now is that scripted denouements, however hasty, can now be prepared. The onus now sits squarely on Tadej Pogačar, to satisfy our never-ending pursuit of action and drama, and provide a plot twist. Mass entertainment depends on it, our mundanities are relieved by it.