That day, in fact, ended up being a good one. After other doctors advised him to abandon the race, Hamilton found one who said that as long as he didn't fall again, he might be able to make it through the three weeks of racing to the end. This news, Hamilton said, "was like a ray of sunshine."
It was all he needed to hear.
Tyler Hamilton rode most of last year's race with a collarbone snapped in two places.
(Laurent Rebours -- AP)
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There is pain throughout the sprints, through the races on flatter land. Now, with the mountains coming up, the suffering is heightened.
"You're in pain all the time in the mountains," said Frankie Andreu, a former member of Armstrong's U.S. Postal Service team. This is when the strongest riders will gauge the suffering of their opponents and make their moves. Armstrong is the ace of the mountain attack. Possessed of an extraordinary lung capacity and the blessed ability to produce less lactic acid than most, he simply hurts less. And even at his fullest capacity he can be poker-faced when the other riders are open-mouthed and grimacing, noses on their handlebars.
"He loves winning," says Andreu. "Also, he loves making other guys hurt."
Shaved Legs
The realities of the Tour are a world away from the carnival atmosphere that prevails at the start of the ninth stage in this small medieval town. In the hours before the teams arrive, corporate sponsors hawk their products in what's called "le village," a loud assembly of tents and banners and dainties to nibble on.
Among the oddities on display are a brioche as big as a wagon wheel and, drawing an admiring circle of onlookers, French champion mountain bike rider Marc Vinco. He's doing acrobatics on his bike, hopping from one platform to another, balancing neatly on one wheel. Afterward, drenched in sweat, he is asked about the pain of cycling.
What hurts the most are his shoulders, knees and hands, he says. So what does he take for it?
"Water," he says with a smile, holding up his cup. "Only water. And," he leans close, splattering sweat on a reporter's notebook, "lots of sex. After that, you forget everything."
Just then, the team buses start to arrive, and the crowds lining the streets start to cheer. A few riders take warm-up spins on their bikes, signing autographs to the delight of little children and their squealing mothers.
Stand outside a team bus as the riders emerge into the sunlight, and all you see for a few moments are headless legs. Wearing their cleats -- shoes with metal plates that clip into the pedals -- the men pick their way awkwardly and ever so carefully down the steps like high-heeled showgirls descending a staircase.
What legs! Tanned, sculpted, smooth-shaven. (The leg shaving, by the way, is not for aerodynamics. It is a small effort at pain reduction. Better to dress and heal abraded flesh, known as "road rash," without leg hair getting in the way.) These are legs to stop traffic. Legs, for the most part, that are also scabby, scraped pink, dotted with bandages. You see more skinned knees than on a playground, and there's one guy with an impressive case of road-scraped skin stretching from mid-thigh to shin.
Two of the longest, slimmest legs in the bunch belong to American cyclist Bobby Julich. Any Rockette would kill for his gams, though their tapered form has been gained by way of unenviable physical stress. Julich is an underappreciated star of American cycling. In 1998, the year before Armstrong began his domination, Julich finished third in the Tour, the highest-ranking American since Greg LeMond in the '80s.
Since then, Julich has struggled. He crashed out of the 1999 Tour, breaking his elbow and four ribs. In the yearly races of the European circuit, he has toiled for one team after another. Now a member of Denmark's Team CSC, he is in 18th place after Wednesday's 10th stage, pulling just ahead of his team leader.
