Laurent Fignon, the two-time Tour winner who was the overall leader
going into the final stage, was arrogant, too contemptuously Gallic to
be whipped on his home turf by an American in the bicentennial year of
the French Revolution. ''Greg believes he can win,'' Fignon had said
on the eve of the final stage. ''But it is impossible. I am too strong
in the mind and the legs. Fifty seconds is too much to make up in such
a short distance.''
Fifty seconds should have been too much of a margin for LeMond to
overcome. On a normal day the best LeMond could hope for, it was said,
was to gain one second a kilometer on Fignon -- 24.5 seconds in all --
less than half the time he needed to make up to win. Not even LeMond's
most optimistic supporters -- not even his wife, Kathy, who thinks he
hung the moon -- believed he could erase Fignon's lead.
Fignon took off two minutes behind LeMond. After five kilometers
Guimard shouted to Fignon that he had already lost 10 seconds. No way!
Fignon cranked his pace up a notch. It did no good. After 10
kilometers he had lost 19 seconds to LeMond. What? After 14
kilometers, 24 seconds. After 18 kilometers, 35 seconds. Harder and
harder Fignon rode, panic creeping into his legs.
LeMond, meanwhile, had no notion of the stir he was creating until he
reached the Champs-Elysees, about three miles from the finish. Heading
up toward the Arc de Triomphe on the big cobblestone avenue, LeMond
thought he heard the public-address announcer say he had gained 35 to
40 seconds on Fignon. Some spectators, sensing an upset, were waving
American flags as he approached. But LeMond kept his head down,
holding his tuck position, allowing his helmet to slice through the
wind, only lifting it every few seconds to get a sight reading and a
breath of air, like a swimmer pushing a kickboard.
LeMond nearly caught Delgado, who had started two minutes ahead of
him, crossing the finish line in 26 minutes, 57 seconds. His time was
33 seconds faster than the previous best, which had been posted by
Fignon's teammate Thierry Marie. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
LeMond, alternately glancing at the ticking digital clock and the
flashing lights of the caravan of vehicles trailing Fignon, knew that
the outcome would be close. That, in itself, was exhilarating. LeMond
was tired but not spent. It had been too short a ride to exhaust him.
He could make out Fignon now, wearing the yellow jersey, barreling
toward the finish. Watching the clock, then Fignon, hearing the roar
of the fans, LeMond kept thinking how terrible it would be to lose by
one second after more than 2,000 miles. Then that second quietly
passed . . . 27:47 . . . 27:48. . . . He had won. Fignon crossed the
line with the third-best time of the day, 27:55
-- 58 seconds slower than LeMond. Had the two of them started in Versailles that day side by side, LeMond would have won the race by
some 900 yards. It was a margin that, even now, seems incredible.
LeMond had averaged 34 mph -- the fastest time trial ever in the Tour
de France. Fignon, thinking he had won even as he crossed the finish
line, slid from his bike and collapsed in exhaustion. It wasn't until
his masseur, holding him in his arms, said, ''Laurent, you lost the
race,'' that he knew the truth. His mind went blank. Holding his head
in his hands, Fignon burst into tears -- the first time he had cried
since he was a child.
