A Pharmacy on Wheels - The Tour De France Doping Scandal
by John Hoberman, Ph.D.
Author of "Testosterone Dreams: Rejuvenation, Aphrodisia, Doping"
Professor of Germanic Studies
University of Texas at Austin
In 1957 the celebrated Parisian man-of-letters Roland Barthes published a short and clever essay called "The Tour de France as Epic." Barthes saw the Tour as a profoundly symbolic (and therefore enormously appealing) ordeal which, for the duration of the race, creates a caste of heroes and villains that for sheer theatrical effect are second to none. Indeed, the sheer intensity of the riders' suffering imposes on them a martyrdom that brings them into contact with the supernatural forces that make their extraordinary performances possible. "Jump," says Barthes, is the mysterious burst of energy that seems to come from nowhere, "a veritable electric influx which erratically possesses certain racers beloved of the gods and then causes them to accomplish superhuman feats." But "jump" also has "a hideous parody, which is called doping : to dope the racer is as criminal, as sacrilegious as trying to imitate God; it is stealing from God the privilege of the spark." And God, he adds, will have His revenge on the dopers (1).
One can only imagine what this suave connoisseur of popular culture would have had to say about the surreal disaster of the 1998 Tour if he were alive today. He certainly would not have been offended by the hypertrophic commercialism that plasters the riders with logos and squeezes every last franc out of every possible contributor, including the villages that pay up to $100,000 apiece for the privilege of having the show pass through their town squares. After all, the Tour became a rolling advertising caravan back in 1930 when its founder realized that he could cover his costs by combining the sporting event with commercial promotions. (2) The more interesting question is how Barthes would have reacted to the definitive outing of the Tour as a virtual pharmacy on wheels. For Barthes, as for the rest of us, the crucial question is: what (if anything) did he know, and did he really care that men were stealing the high-performance spark from their Creator?
The Tour debacle has finally made it acceptable to say in public and without provocation what many have known for a long time, namely, that long-distance cycling has been the most consistently drug-soaked sport of the twentieth century. Even prior to the establishment of the Tour in 1903, the six-day bicycle races of the 1890s were de facto experiments investigating the physiology of stress as well as the substances that might alleviate exhaustion. The advent of cycling as a mass recreational and competitive sport during the 1890s came at the end of a century that had seen many experiments designed to measure the effects of (sometimes fatal) stress on animals, and in this sense the six-day riders were continuing the work of experimental physiologists who were interested in finding out just how much abuse the animal or human organsm could take. Stress, trauma, and death -- the extreme outcomes of sportive exertion -- had been studied by many physiologists before doctors began to wonder about the medical consequences of extreme athletic effort. Today the emotional distance that separates the sporting public from the physiological ordeals of its heroes confirms that the high-performance athlete is widely understood to be an experimental subject whose sufferings are a natural part of the drama of sport. (3)
The history of modern doping begins with the cycling craze of the 1890s. Here, for example, is a description of what went on during the six-day races that lasted from Monday morning to Saturday night: " The riders' black coffee was "boosted" with extra caffeine and peppermint, and as the race progressed the mixture was spiked with increasing doses of cocaine and strychnine. Brandy was also frequently added to cups of tea. Following the sprint sequences of the race, nitroglycerine capsules were often given to the cyclists to ease breathing difficulties. The individual 6-day races were eventually replaced by two-man races, but the doping continued unabated. Since drugs such as heroin or cocaine were widely taken in these tournaments without supervision, it was perhaps likely that fatalities would occur." (4) It is, therefore, not surprising that when the pioneering French sports physician Philippe Tissié performed the first scientific doping experiments in 1894, his test subject was a racing cyclist whose performances could be timed and who could be primed with measured doses of alcohol or any other potential stimulant. (5)
This is the early phase of the historical background against which this year's Tour scandal must be understood. As one unblinkered observer put it at the height of the furor: "For as long as the Tour has existed, since 1903, its participants have been doping themselves. No dope, no hope. The Tour, in fact, is only possible because -- not despite the fact -- there is doping. For 60 years this was allowed. For the past 30 years it has been officially prohibited. Yet the fact remains: great cyclists have been doping themselves, then as now." (6) This is essential knowledge for understanding why the riders reacted as they did to the unprecedented crackdown presided over by a Communist (female) health minister in the cabinet of the socialist prime minister Lionel Jospin. They were dumbfounded precisely because everyone involved, including the press, had been playing the game for so long in the interest of doing business as usual. And why does it matter that the health minister ("Joan of Arc") is a Communist? Because the only politicians in Europe who want to deploy the long arm of the law against doping, whether in France, Italy or Germany, are leftists or Greens who do not share the sportive nationalism of their conservative countrymen -- the patriots who have always been willing to look the other way in the interest of keeping up with foreigners who just might be using drugs.
Caught wholly offguard and confronted by packs of insatiable reporters, the riders improvised furiously at their impromptu press conferences, groping for verbal formulas that would avoid outright lying while expressing their outraged sense of having been violated and betrayed by people and circumstances that had spun out of control. The Tour director joined his disoriented charges in the desperate attempt to lay down a verbal smokescreen that might fend off the humiliating concessions and confessions that were now only days away. "It is a question of credibility and ethics, the Tour must remain clean," said Jean-Marie Leblanc, general director of the Société du Tour de France and former Tour rider, with Orwellian cynicism. "Ten days from now in the Pyrenees," he said two days later, "there will be as many spectators as ever. The admirable performances and victories will prevail over everything else." (7) Leblanc's riders, however, did not resort to such Olympic-style platitudes about maintaining a nonexistent integrity or the ineluctable triumph of great sport. "The hypocrites have got to shut up and look in the mirror," snarled Richard Virenque, who made more than one threat about litigation. "We were thrown out of the Tour for no reason whatsoever. You will be hearing from us very soon." (8) "I am completely satisfied with what I can achieve with my own physical ability," said the sincere and slippery Udo Bölts. (9) "I do not want to represent a country that treats riders like dirt. To hear people say that bicycle racing is the most corrupt sport is pitiful," said the disillusioned Frenchman Stéphane Barthe. (10) None of the riders confessed to doping -- until some of them fell into the hands of the black-uniformed CRS police who were about to make doping history of their own.
On 30 July Jean-Marie Leblanc commented on the results of these encounters: "The riders have been traumatized by the conditions in which some of them were interrogated." (11) At least a dozen riders, including the four members of the TVM team who were extracted naked and dripping from the showers, found themselves in a kind of extralegal hell that was simply unprecedented in the history of sport. For there is no question but that some riders were subjected to police measures that are sometimes carelessly referred to nowadays as "Gestapo tactics." One account of such an experience was offered by a Swiss member of the Festina team, Alex Zülle: "In the beginning the officials in Lyons were friendly. But on Thursday evening the horror show began. I was put in an isolation cell and had to strip naked. I had to give up my belt, shoes, even my glasses. They inspected every body cavity, including my rear end. The night was bad, the bed was dirty and it stank. The next morning they confronted me with the compromising documents they had found. The said that they were used to seeing hardened criminals in the chair I was sitting on. But is that what we are? I wanted out of this hellhole, so I confessed." (12) "We're being treated like cattle," complained Laurent Jalabert, and for a white Frenchman this was a novel experience. (13) There are other residents of France, however, who are more familiar with this style of police work. So on your next visit to Paris, dear reader, ask the first North African streetsweeper you meet whether he finds the Tour-busting behavior of the black-garbed CRS militia unusual. The chances are pretty good that he has friends or relatives with similar tales to tell.
by John Hoberman, Ph.D.
Author of "Testosterone Dreams: Rejuvenation, Aphrodisia, Doping"
Professor of Germanic Studies
University of Texas at Austin
In 1957 the celebrated Parisian man-of-letters Roland Barthes published a short and clever essay called "The Tour de France as Epic." Barthes saw the Tour as a profoundly symbolic (and therefore enormously appealing) ordeal which, for the duration of the race, creates a caste of heroes and villains that for sheer theatrical effect are second to none. Indeed, the sheer intensity of the riders' suffering imposes on them a martyrdom that brings them into contact with the supernatural forces that make their extraordinary performances possible. "Jump," says Barthes, is the mysterious burst of energy that seems to come from nowhere, "a veritable electric influx which erratically possesses certain racers beloved of the gods and then causes them to accomplish superhuman feats." But "jump" also has "a hideous parody, which is called doping : to dope the racer is as criminal, as sacrilegious as trying to imitate God; it is stealing from God the privilege of the spark." And God, he adds, will have His revenge on the dopers (1).
One can only imagine what this suave connoisseur of popular culture would have had to say about the surreal disaster of the 1998 Tour if he were alive today. He certainly would not have been offended by the hypertrophic commercialism that plasters the riders with logos and squeezes every last franc out of every possible contributor, including the villages that pay up to $100,000 apiece for the privilege of having the show pass through their town squares. After all, the Tour became a rolling advertising caravan back in 1930 when its founder realized that he could cover his costs by combining the sporting event with commercial promotions. (2) The more interesting question is how Barthes would have reacted to the definitive outing of the Tour as a virtual pharmacy on wheels. For Barthes, as for the rest of us, the crucial question is: what (if anything) did he know, and did he really care that men were stealing the high-performance spark from their Creator?
The Tour debacle has finally made it acceptable to say in public and without provocation what many have known for a long time, namely, that long-distance cycling has been the most consistently drug-soaked sport of the twentieth century. Even prior to the establishment of the Tour in 1903, the six-day bicycle races of the 1890s were de facto experiments investigating the physiology of stress as well as the substances that might alleviate exhaustion. The advent of cycling as a mass recreational and competitive sport during the 1890s came at the end of a century that had seen many experiments designed to measure the effects of (sometimes fatal) stress on animals, and in this sense the six-day riders were continuing the work of experimental physiologists who were interested in finding out just how much abuse the animal or human organsm could take. Stress, trauma, and death -- the extreme outcomes of sportive exertion -- had been studied by many physiologists before doctors began to wonder about the medical consequences of extreme athletic effort. Today the emotional distance that separates the sporting public from the physiological ordeals of its heroes confirms that the high-performance athlete is widely understood to be an experimental subject whose sufferings are a natural part of the drama of sport. (3)
The history of modern doping begins with the cycling craze of the 1890s. Here, for example, is a description of what went on during the six-day races that lasted from Monday morning to Saturday night: " The riders' black coffee was "boosted" with extra caffeine and peppermint, and as the race progressed the mixture was spiked with increasing doses of cocaine and strychnine. Brandy was also frequently added to cups of tea. Following the sprint sequences of the race, nitroglycerine capsules were often given to the cyclists to ease breathing difficulties. The individual 6-day races were eventually replaced by two-man races, but the doping continued unabated. Since drugs such as heroin or cocaine were widely taken in these tournaments without supervision, it was perhaps likely that fatalities would occur." (4) It is, therefore, not surprising that when the pioneering French sports physician Philippe Tissié performed the first scientific doping experiments in 1894, his test subject was a racing cyclist whose performances could be timed and who could be primed with measured doses of alcohol or any other potential stimulant. (5)
This is the early phase of the historical background against which this year's Tour scandal must be understood. As one unblinkered observer put it at the height of the furor: "For as long as the Tour has existed, since 1903, its participants have been doping themselves. No dope, no hope. The Tour, in fact, is only possible because -- not despite the fact -- there is doping. For 60 years this was allowed. For the past 30 years it has been officially prohibited. Yet the fact remains: great cyclists have been doping themselves, then as now." (6) This is essential knowledge for understanding why the riders reacted as they did to the unprecedented crackdown presided over by a Communist (female) health minister in the cabinet of the socialist prime minister Lionel Jospin. They were dumbfounded precisely because everyone involved, including the press, had been playing the game for so long in the interest of doing business as usual. And why does it matter that the health minister ("Joan of Arc") is a Communist? Because the only politicians in Europe who want to deploy the long arm of the law against doping, whether in France, Italy or Germany, are leftists or Greens who do not share the sportive nationalism of their conservative countrymen -- the patriots who have always been willing to look the other way in the interest of keeping up with foreigners who just might be using drugs.
Caught wholly offguard and confronted by packs of insatiable reporters, the riders improvised furiously at their impromptu press conferences, groping for verbal formulas that would avoid outright lying while expressing their outraged sense of having been violated and betrayed by people and circumstances that had spun out of control. The Tour director joined his disoriented charges in the desperate attempt to lay down a verbal smokescreen that might fend off the humiliating concessions and confessions that were now only days away. "It is a question of credibility and ethics, the Tour must remain clean," said Jean-Marie Leblanc, general director of the Société du Tour de France and former Tour rider, with Orwellian cynicism. "Ten days from now in the Pyrenees," he said two days later, "there will be as many spectators as ever. The admirable performances and victories will prevail over everything else." (7) Leblanc's riders, however, did not resort to such Olympic-style platitudes about maintaining a nonexistent integrity or the ineluctable triumph of great sport. "The hypocrites have got to shut up and look in the mirror," snarled Richard Virenque, who made more than one threat about litigation. "We were thrown out of the Tour for no reason whatsoever. You will be hearing from us very soon." (8) "I am completely satisfied with what I can achieve with my own physical ability," said the sincere and slippery Udo Bölts. (9) "I do not want to represent a country that treats riders like dirt. To hear people say that bicycle racing is the most corrupt sport is pitiful," said the disillusioned Frenchman Stéphane Barthe. (10) None of the riders confessed to doping -- until some of them fell into the hands of the black-uniformed CRS police who were about to make doping history of their own.
On 30 July Jean-Marie Leblanc commented on the results of these encounters: "The riders have been traumatized by the conditions in which some of them were interrogated." (11) At least a dozen riders, including the four members of the TVM team who were extracted naked and dripping from the showers, found themselves in a kind of extralegal hell that was simply unprecedented in the history of sport. For there is no question but that some riders were subjected to police measures that are sometimes carelessly referred to nowadays as "Gestapo tactics." One account of such an experience was offered by a Swiss member of the Festina team, Alex Zülle: "In the beginning the officials in Lyons were friendly. But on Thursday evening the horror show began. I was put in an isolation cell and had to strip naked. I had to give up my belt, shoes, even my glasses. They inspected every body cavity, including my rear end. The night was bad, the bed was dirty and it stank. The next morning they confronted me with the compromising documents they had found. The said that they were used to seeing hardened criminals in the chair I was sitting on. But is that what we are? I wanted out of this hellhole, so I confessed." (12) "We're being treated like cattle," complained Laurent Jalabert, and for a white Frenchman this was a novel experience. (13) There are other residents of France, however, who are more familiar with this style of police work. So on your next visit to Paris, dear reader, ask the first North African streetsweeper you meet whether he finds the Tour-busting behavior of the black-garbed CRS militia unusual. The chances are pretty good that he has friends or relatives with similar tales to tell.
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