Armstrong battles ghost of French fans’ beloved Pouli
As Lance Armstrong pursues an unprecedented sixth win, the man breathing down his neck is 68 and long retired. Although he mounted the victory podium more than anyone, as runner-up, he never won a race.
‘‘For us, there’ll never be a champ like Raymond Poulidor,’’ said Claude Planchot, the barber, who like the rest of St. Leo cheered Armstrong when the pack set out from here last week.
‘‘Armstrong is a grand phenomenon,’’ he said, ‘‘but you have to understand what this race means to us. It is all about heart and the human scale, and we like the weaker guy who almost makes it.’’
That is the overwhelming sentiment in this medieval town of 4,800, a center of fat brown cows and Limoges porcelain. After all, this is where Poulidor grew up, the son of poor migrant workers.
But across France, people are divided between the bionic American who symbolizes high-tech team racing and the memory of a plucky peasant who as a young man shared a girl’s bike because his family had no car.
‘‘We are split down the middle between the France that loves winners and the France that loves losers,’’ said Marc Onetto, a Frenchmen visiting Provence from his adopted home in California’s Silicon Valley.
‘‘I am crazy for Lance,’’ Onetto said. ‘‘For me, a winner is a winner. I don’t care where he is from. But a lot of people see real glory as almost winning and being a good sport about it.’’
That second category includes Andre Poulidor, a retired shoe factory worker, whose mountain of yellowed clippings attests to regional races in which he creamed his younger brother, Raymond.
Andre Poulidor told The Associated Press he admires Armstrong and still watches every minute of the tour. But, for some reason, he can’t get past the idea of modern riders’ streamlined shoes.
‘‘Even the shoes!’’ he said. ‘‘These guys are like extra-terrestials, with all their equipment, their radios, their bikes that weigh nothing. A team’s every move is calculated in advance. Where’s the sport?’’
Back then, Andre recalled, a rider got on his heavy steel bike, with woolen jersey and pants, and simply pumped his heart out.
‘‘We didn’t think about diet, for instance,’’ he said. ‘‘Before a race, Raymond ate whatever our mother served, whether it was chicken and dumplings or salt pork and lentils.’’
Andre and another brother, Henri, decided against professional bike-riding.
‘‘It takes you over,’’ he said. ‘‘Raymond worked the farm nine hours a day, ate dinner, and then trained until midnight in the dark, with no lights on his bike. Even now, most pros barely earn the minimum wage.’’
For the first time ever, St. Leonard was a stage starting point. Taxpayers gave tour organizers $55,000 for the privilege. What with barricades and clean-up, they paid another $15,000.
Arrival points, which draw larger crowds, $83,000.
The town expected 20,000 visitors but barely 5,000 showed up. Most shops shut down because local traffic was banned. Some citizens grumbled that the little town might have used its money more wisely.
‘‘Let me tell you, no one got rich out of it,’’ said Gerard Muriel, whose bar was packed only briefly. ‘‘It was mayhem for a while, and then an hour and a half later everyone was gone.’’
Mayor Christine Riffaud and her deputy, Patrick Descharles, each had the same startled reaction the morning after.
‘‘When you looked around and saw everything put back in place, businesses going on at the same old slow pace, you wondered if you somehow dreamt the whole thing,’’ Descharles said.
Still, both say they’d do it again in a heartbeat. Their little town and its famous son personify the soul of the tour. And when the old no-win champion showed up to be honored, St. Leo went wild.
At Francoise Goumilloux’s dressmaking shop, front windows full of grainy photographs and Tour de France memorabilia make the point.
In one huge picture, Poulidor and his nemesis, Jacques Anquetil, puff wheel-to-wheel up the steep Puy de Dome in a mano-a-mano that diehard French fans recall as if it was last week and not 1964.
But Poulidor was the original hardluck kid. He made his debut with a broken finger. He lost a 2,700-mile race by 55 seconds. From 1962 to 1976, in 14 races, he was second or third eight times.
Once he blew a tire in a crucial time trial, and he smiled ruefully for photogaphers. Another time, a motorcycle knocked him over. ‘‘The guy didn’t even apologize,’’ he told reporters.
Adoring crowds chanted, ‘‘Poupou,’’ although he much preferred the nickname, ‘‘Pouli.’’ His trademark was a sunny grin, a ready handshake, and a determination to - no matter what - always come back for more.
Mostly, people remember his lifelong grudge match with Anquetil, from the same part of central France, who won the race five times.
Anquetil, already on top, wanted Poulidor as a teammate. When the young challenger chose to race head-to-head rather than as a programmed number 2, the champ took it hard.
After 15 years of silence, according to old lore which Andre Poulidor confirms, Anquetil finally approached his rival for a favor.
‘‘My son wants you to sign a cap for him,’’ Anquetil said, explaining that the youngster’s friends were Poulidor fans. ‘‘He learned to say, ’Poupou’ before ’Papa.’’’
Goumilloux and her neighbor, Planchot the barber, are ready to applaud Armstrong if he wins. But both seemed to work up enthusiasm more for politeness than conviction.
‘‘Armstrong is always surrounded by gorillas,’’ Planchot said. ‘‘Maybe it’s wise to have bodyguards these days, but we like a champion you can touch, someone who signs autographs and mixes with people.’’
Goumilloux’s shrine to the tour included only one small picture of a grimacing Armstrong, up in the lefthand corner.
‘‘Look, let’s be honest about this,’’ she said. ‘‘We’d like to see a Frenchman win.’’
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