Ned Boulting: Tour de France rivals are ordinary humans doing extraordinary things

The Tour de France rivalry between the effervescent Tadej Pogacar and themore sanguine defending champion Jonas Vingegaard has already established itself as one of the greatest in the long history of this crazy, beautiful sport. 

When you are inside the moment, it is often hard to see how history will look back on events which you are witnessing in real time. 

Often, the present can look banal in comparison with the sepia-tinted past. The heroes of the post-war years, Gino Bartali and Fausto Coppi, or the great characters of the 1980s, Greg LeMond, Bernard Hinault and Laurent Fignon, shine so brightly in cycling’s collective memory that they cast their shadows over the peloton of the here and now, making the current crop of riders look two-dimensional by comparison. 

However, that is not the case when it comes to Pogacar and Vingegaard. The last three editions of the race have raised them both onto a pedestal of their own, lifting them clear of the ordinary constraints of the here and now. They have scored their names into the history of the sport.

Cycling needs stories. All sports do, of course. But with road racing the need is more acute than elsewhere. There is a reductive simplicity to the event, which ultimately boils down to the simple, brutal capitulation of a rival in the face of pain. 

Despite their physiques, cyclists are more akin to boxers than to many other sportspeople. They need to land a KO to get the race won.

And so, for all the tactical nuance of the Tour de France (and there is much of that), it is ultimately a one-dimensional project which asks the same question over and over again: “If I ride this hard, can you follow?” That’s it. That’s the game. No frills. 

No delicate lobs at the net, no graceful cover drives or mazy runs into the box. There is little beauty to admire in the practice. 

All the more reason then to have an understanding of the characters of the protagonists, to be invested in their narratives, their personalities, to know what drives and obsesses them, which fears haunt them and to guess what might be going on behind those mirrored sunglasses as their public moments of agony are revealed in high definition, live before our eyes, on the side of a mountain. 

Without all this, why should we care? Without a deep sense of the human in the midst of the drama, why would it matter that they are suffering to the point of asphyxiation simply for our entertainment and their sense of achievement. 

Fortunately, in Pogacar and Vingegaard, we have two riders who are unable (and in Pog’s case frankly unwilling) to keep their true natures hidden. 

Clinically optimistic, pathologically positive and determinedly aggressive, Pogacar is an open book. My colleague Gary Imlach summed him up brilliantly on Saturday when he closed our live broadcast by saying: “It’s often said that attack is the best form of defence. Well, in Tadej Pogacar’s case, it’s the best form of everything.” 

But it has taken longer for us to get to know his naturally taciturn rival Vingegaard. Uncomfortable in the limelight, yet politely accepting of his obligations, the Dane has hitherto managed to navigate a course through the mayhem which has kept his public at arm’s length. 

That all changed at the end of his victory on stage 11 last week, when he outsprinted the man in the yellow jersey to take a stage win and grasp the momentum (albeit temporarily) in the race. 

The tears came, as he contextualised the effort he had had to make to come back from serious, potentially life-threatening injury in early April. He could have died, he told us. Suddenly, we were staring at a man rather than simply a calculated if uninspiring rider. 

That story, and his sudden willingness to share it, leant the victory a meaning that went above and beyond the Tour de France. The simple truth about this sport, like any other, is that these are ordinary humans who just happen to be doing extraordinary things.