Vi var unge og ubekymrede - et rullende bibliotek IV

Vi åbner dagen lidt anderledes på denne lørdag, hvor det virker nærmest grotesk at beskæftige sig med cykelløb og Tour de France, når et land har været udsat for så brutal en tragedie som Norge.
Men svaret på grusomhederne er vel ikke at sætte alt i stå. Svaret er vel, i forlængelse af den norske statsminister Stoltenbergs fine budskab, at fortsætte med hverdagen og syslerne og ikke lade sig tryne til tavshed?
Derfor åbner lørdagen med et tilbageblik. Til den gang 'vi var unge og ubekymrede', for det er netop titlen på en selvbiografi, den dobbelte Tour-vinder Laurent Fignon udgav forrige år, få måneder før sin død. Som det vil være nogle smerteligt bekendt, døde Fignon af cancer i august måned 2010.


Bogen er aldrig udkommet på dansk, men blev i 2010 oversat til engelsk af den også i dette forum tidligere nævnte britiske journalist og forfatter William Fotheringham. Og den er absolut værd at læse for sin indsigt og sin ærlighed.
Den ærlighed gælder også Fignons følelser omkring de 8 sekunder, han tabte Tour de France med i 1989. På den afsluttende enkeltstart til Paris var han 58 sekunder langsommere end Greg LeMond, og det betød et samlet deficit på de 8 sekunder.
Og når der er grund til at beskæftige sig med den enkeltstart her til morgen, handler det jo om, at stillingen i dette års Tour er så tæt, at man kan forudse en næsten lignende forskel på løbets vinder og nummer 2 efter enkeltstarten i eftermiddag:
1. Andy Schleck - 82 timer, 48,43 min
2. Fränk Schleck - +0,53 min
3. Cadel Evans - +0,57 min

Jeg har valgt at citere et uddrag fra bogen, hvori Fignon beskriver, hvad nederlaget gjorde ved ham. Hvordan verden gik under for ham.
Det er et fremragende indblik i, at det her handler jo ikke blot om sport og fritidssysler. For de mænd, der er beskæftiget med Tour de France - eller med professionel sport - er det med Liverpool-manager Bill Shanklys ord vigtigere end alt andet:
"Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it's much more serious than that"
Citatet er fra den engelske oversættelse af bogen. Som i sin helhed hermed er anbefalet...
(Note: Alain Gallopin var - og er - sportsdirektør)

The morning after the defeat of the day before was when the hardest bit began. I kept counting in my head: eight seconds, eight seconds. And the more I counted, the more I became aware of what a derisory amount of time it was. You can't do anything in eight seconds!
I went home. Alone. Just sitting. Or wandering about with my eyes going nowhere, vaguely focused on nothing at all. I began to wake yp to the fact that this was an event of national importance and the 'Fignon tragedy' was on the front page of every paper throughout France. But I don't actually remember whether I even looked at a single one.
How could I have lost? How could I have allowed it to happen? For hours and hours I felt sorry for myself. It was the only thing in my head. There was no flavour in anything I ate. Just moving felt like an effort. It was like being in a coma. 'Watch out for sorrow, it's a bad habit', wrote Flaubert.
And then on the third day, one morning like the other two, I was in the bathroo having a shower when I wiped off the layer of steam off the mirror and saw my own face. There was a slightly hazy look in the back of the eyes. A pallid face, with appallingly hagard lines. The eyes looked transparent. It was the stuff of nightmares. It was as if my soul had escaped from the body that contained it. I was looking helplessly at a man who wasn't me any more, who I didn't recognise. It looke as if the trauma was getting on top of me. It was no use saying that I was practising one of the finest professions in the world, that I had already won two Tours de France and that I had no need to prove anything to anyone, let alone that I enjoyed a lifestyle that I couldn't have imagined in my wildest drams. I simply couldn't get rid of the pain that was eating me up.
It took me three days to get back on my feet. But when I write 'get back on my feet', that's just a manner of speaking. Because you never stop grieving over an event like that; the best you can manage is to contain the effect it has on your mind. Even so, I was well aware that there were more serious things going on in life - and I had dreamed so much of coming back to the highest level to play a major role: I'd done that at least.
I looked in the mirror again. I knew that there were two answers. Either I could keep on mourning - and stop cycling. Or I could try to get over the agony and the injustice, and get back on the road. I was in good health. I was a lucky man, with a full life. OK, I hadn't won the Tour again; so what? Was the world going to stop turning? Why inflict more pain on myself?
That very day, I picked up the telephone to call Alain Gallopin. He was worried about how I might be dealing with it. I said to him: 'Com on, Alain, let's get going. I'm going to prepare for the world championship.'
I heard him murmur: 'That's good, Laurent'.
Then I added: 'I'm just asking for one thing. We don't talk about he Tour just yet. We'll talk about it one day, but this isn't the time.'
Because of my crutch injury I'd cancelled a few races where I was contracted to appear. So when I got back on the criterium circuit it was an event in itself. Just imagine: 'there he is'; 'that's him'; 'the loser'. There was a morbid curiosity in the looks. I tried to keep my self-respect. Seeing Greg LeMond with the yellow jersey on his back - as is the custom in post-Tour circuit races - I gritted my teeth. My blood froze. I'd had a distinct dislike for him before, and it just grew now. I know feeling that way was unreasonable, but that is how it was.
On the roadside as I went past the crowds, I sometimes heard shouts of derision: 'eight seconds' or 'you're still eight seconds behind'. The pettiness of the words pierced my heart. It was all people ever asked me about. Sometimes they didn't even realise it hurt. No one noticed that I didn't want to talk about it, that the wound was still raw. As soon as I felt ill at ease I would turn my back and refuse to answer. To many people, I can't have seemed a nice guy. But what was the point?

Når temporytterne i eftermiddag gør klar, vil de sandsynligvis også skulle forholde sig til en nedtur som denne, startende sidst på dagen i dag og fortsættende ind i næste uge.
Også dét er, hvad sport handler om...