Why

I have been writing this column for almost two years—and I thank each and every one of you 10 or so regulars who have hung in there with me. When I started, Dan and I traded a few e-mails about giving it a name. He figured it needed one. I said OK, then gave it some thought. I couldn't come up with a darn thing. Then, finally, I thought, "Hey, why not Lanterne Rouge?"

Now I feel we've reached a point in our relationship where I have to admit that I have been keeping something from some of you—that is, from the vast majority of you 10 or so folks who do not know me personally. I have not ever finished last in a race. Try not to be shocked! Why, you may rightfully ask, would you then call yourself the Lanterne Rouge? After all, we all know what that means: The Lanterne Rouge is the name given to the last finisher in the Tour de France. (Think red light on the caboose.)

This all started because of my big mouth. This should surprise no one. This week, I let a few friends know how I did at a race. It was a solid MOP performance and I was very happy with the way things had played out. My pals chided me. They said, basically, that I was not engaging in truth in advertising. "How dare you," they said, "call yourself the Lanterne Rouge? Liar!"

But the thing is, even though I think my friends have a point, I also have to say that while I chose this name somewhat whimsically, there was a little method in my madness. (Always just enough method to keep me out of the asylum, that's the way I like to work it.)

See, I look at it this way. The Lanterne Rouge may be the last finisher in the world's best bicycle race, but guess what? He's still IN the world's best bicycle race. He still FINISHED the world's best bicycle race. In other words, he's still one of the world's BEST bicyclists. If you make it to the Tour, and if you finish the Tour—well, do I really need to say it? You've achieved something remarkable.

Already in this year's Tour, for example, we've seen the Lanterne Rouge distinction applied to no less a cyclist than David Millar, the promising young English rider who won last year's prologue time trial. This year, he suffered an untimely puncture in the prologue, crashed hard and spent several days at the back of the race before packing it in.

Commentator Paul Sherwen spent a few minutes during one of the recent—and most excellent—OLN broadcasts of this year's Tour talking about the days he spent as the Lanterne Rouge one year. About how he'd move ahead of someone in the standings only to have that person drop out. He did not sound for a moment embarrassed, or regretful, or ashamed. He said it with a rueful chuckle. And to that I say, hooray. Through bad luck or just bad timing, things may not pan out on the day, or in the race—but the Tour somehow, in a way that is oddly fitting and quite compelling, finds a way to say this: There is still significance and honor in finishing the arduous task set before you. Even if you were the bloody last man to do so.

How many times have you heard riders say, although they are way down in the standings and have watched their dreams of a great ride turn to nightmares of punctured tires and banged-up body parts, "It's the Tour. You just don't give up."

To me, this is very like my experience in triathlon, and perhaps it is that way with you, too. You just don't quit. You have setbacks, you have frustrations, and you learn. You move on, you improve, you dream some more big dreams.

You see this played out frequently on the Ironman stage, but you also see it at almost any small, local short-course race you show up to of a Sunday morning. The nervous first-time competitor, eyes wide at the hard bodies and high-zoot bikes, wheeling a battered mountain bike into the transition area, not sure if he can finish the swim, let alone the whole race. Or the woman with the high-zoot bike stopping to fix a flat, cursing, but in no way giving up or giving in. The competitor who has a few years in the sport suddenly learning what it is like to race hard, feeling speed course through her legs and finally, finally understanding what it might mean. The cagey veteran—casual in his preparation but ruthless in his execution, surprising everyone with his gutsy performances again and again.

On this particular Sunday, none of these competitors will likely walk home with hardware, but they will all have faced down the kind of challenge that separates them from the folks who were opening up a box of doughnuts at about the same time these athletes were frantically tugging on their wetsuit zippers. And the beauty part is that next year, if the doughnut-eater wants to, he can find his way to a transition area, too—and feel welcomed.

I guess what I've always wanted Lanterne Rouge to be about is the honor of the effort. I hope I have conveyed that through the years and months I've been nattering on about some thing or other that has set the bees buzzing in my bonnet. And I hope you don't think I'm a horrible phony now that you know the story of how this column got its name.

So today, as you watch some more great coverage of the Tour de France, think of the guys at the back of the race. Honor their effort. Then honor your own, wherever your place in the standings. You know I do.

TO LANTERNE ROUGE HOME