Listening

Marco Pantani was bluffing.  No one knew it at the time, but Pantani had set a trap for Lance Armstrong.

It had started a few days before, when Lance had gifted Pantani the stage at the top of Ventoux, and Pantani was furious with the Texan.  Though both of them were most certainly cheating - it is believed that Pantani raced with a hematocrit above 60 at the time - Pantani still understood that Ventoux itself was holy ground.  And he had no doubt that Lance was a complete asshole.  Then Lance called him "little elephant" in the press, referring to Pantani's ears, and Pantani knew what he had to do.

After the rest day, on the way to Morzine, Pantani split the race with 120km to go.  He was well behind Lance in the G.C., but with 120km of road between him and Morzine, anything was possible.  So he put his head down, gave it everything, at a pace so difficult that Lance could barely eat or drink.

Lance was helpless.  To defend his lead from this far out, with no teammates that could match Pantani's pace, Lance was compelled to chase the Italian.  Whatever Pantani was doing, he'd have to follow.

Pantani, though, had no illusions of making it to the finish at Morzine that day, or even finishing the Tour at all.  He had one thing in mind - defiance.  He only wanted to break the Texan.  Well before Morzine, Pantani climbed off, ducked into the team car, and watched the Texan ride on.  Lance was completely blown, on the verge of dehydration, about to have what he would later describe as one of the the worst days of his life.

You wouldn't have guessed it.  Moreso, perhaps, than his aerobic capacity or his tactics, Pantani's greatest gift was his poker face.  He was bluffing that day.  Lance bought it.  We all bought it.




In hindsight, it was that day more than any other that defines Pantani.  With his head down, gasping for air on the way to Morzine, Pantani was putting in the ride of his life - more brilliant than all the days at the top of Les Deux Alps or his attacks on The Galibier, more himself than all the Pink jerseys on his wall.

--

The last time I saw Mark Robbins was at Tuesday Night Worlds in August.  I promised myself that I wouldn't write about Mark here, and I have honestly tried - but I can't help but recognize him now - that easy 3/4 smile, all the miles he rode, the way he fought on a bike - even if it's too late.

We raced that night, then we stood there at the top of the hill above the Mechums river, a pod of blown amateurs, all the hot air finally clearing and heartbeats subsiding, and the sun was starting to set.  Mark asked me so many questions there that night - how my wife was, how our kids were, how my riding was going.  His listening, I realize now, was jubilant.  Mark loved a story.

I told him all about us - Me, my wife, my family, my riding, me, me, me.  But I look back on that evening now, standing there with him right before sunset, and I realize the awful truth, that I didn't ask him a goddamn thing.  Three months later, he was gone.

Before the ride yesterday, we had a little moment of silence for Mark.  Then we shoved off, down Markwood road for the mountains again.  From near the front on a little rise, I looked back, and the line of riders stretched out to the south, all the way back around a curve and out of view.  Were there 200 of us there?  I continue to be shocked - year after year - by just how many otherwise kind-hearted, decent people actually want to come out and do this thing to themselves.  We continue to seek out real, genuine adversity, the same way Pantani did, that Mark did, and we emerge better people, I hope.

After it was over, next to the Downshift van, we reclined in the sunshine and drank that entire keg in less than an hour, the dirty mob of us.  You don't understand the savagery of the Pantani Ride until you see it through the context of how hard that tap worked for those 60 minutes.  I ate some banana bread and tried to soak it all in.  I almost passed out in the sun.

--

In hindsight, if you watch it now, slow it down and look at him there, resplendent in his defiance on the way to Morzine that day, you can see it - that Pantani was not racing to win, not even riding at all: He was trying to tell us something.  This was Pantani finally authoring the story of his own life, his own words that we would only understand about him later, about Armstrong and Ullrich, about this entire generation of fallen idols, failures both dealt to them and self-inflicted.  Pantani was literally dying.

He was bluffing Lance.
But he was trying to tell us the truth.



I hear you now.  I'm finally listening.

Up, up, up.