I remember watching the Tour de France on television on Sunday mornings as a teenager. I remember wonderful names such as Indurain, Ullrich or Janukovitsch. I remember motorcycles patiently following a courageous and ambitious cyclist as he forged ahead alone on a steep col. The camera sometimes showed the beautiful mountains and the road that was lined with cheering people, before focusing again on the revolving thighs of the athlete. I followed the jersey rankings in the newspaper, and the beautiful graphics that showed a map of France with the étapes indicated. I remember one athlete joking about his name that “not his arms, but his legs are strong.” He was a phenomenal charismatic cyclist that made it a delight to watch long hours of chasing, climbing, and sprinting against the backdrop of la douce France. In the end he threw his hands in the air after crossing the finish line on the Champs Elysées. I liked watching the Tour de France.
Thank you, Lance.