|Chris Froome on Mont Ventoux|
Isn't it always the way; you wait 98 years for a British winner of the Tour de France and two arrive at the same time. It is impossible to write about Chris Froome without also writing about Brad Wiggins; the one defines the other in the public imagination and their twin achievements will always bind them together in a marriage that is truly dysfunctional.
The aftermath of Wiggins's victory in the 2012 Tour was unprecedented; overnight he was promoted to the role of national treasure left vacant by the demise of the Queen Mother. Suddenly everyone was a cycling fan, and while their understanding of racing was patchy (one colleague at the time argued vehemently that cycling so close together was tactically flawed) their passion was beyond dispute. Honour followed honour; he rang the bell that started the London Olympics, was the runaway winner of the Sports Personality of the Year Award and was knighted in the New Year honours list. Froome is one of the nominees for this year's SPOTYA, but I suspect that this is a title that will elude him.
I share this general antipathy; I recognise that Froome was a very worthy winner of the Tour, but could not bring myself to support him. Part of this is undoubtedly because he is so good. I never supported Armstrong in his pomp, not because I thought he was cheating but because he was so dominant. There was never any apparent chink in the Armstrong armour; he was fast in the time trails, strong in the mountains, never had a bad day and almost never crashed. This made the races he won rather predictable. In 2012 Sky were unquestionably the dominant team but there was a fragility to Wiggins that maintained the sense of dramatic tension until the final stage; a physical collapse in the mountains or a mental collapse triggered by (for instance) an insubordinate team mate always seemed possible. Froome on the other hand looked utterly invincible this year; he gained time over his rivals in mountains and time trials alike and the only serious chunk of time lost was due to a tactical error on a flat stage.
Some will argue that this is merely an excuse for jingoism and that Wiggins is more popular than Froome in the UK simply because he seems more British. There may be an element of truth to this, especially for newcomers to the sport of cycling. More long term cycling fans have been starved of any serious British contender (with the exception of Robert Millar) to support in the grand tours for many years. Because of this for more dyed-in-the-wool fans (or post 1960 dyed-in-the-lycra fans), allegiances tend to be forged less by a sense of national pride and more by the character and racing style of individual riders.
Character is not something that Wiggins lacks. There are two things at which he really excels; time trials and press conferences. In an era in which sportsmen are trained to be dull and uncontroversial a Wiggins press conference is a treat. He can be charming towards the assembled journalists, loquacious and witty or open and honest or playful and facetious. Or, as he did on the first rest day of the 2012 tour he can call them a bunch of c-words. Froome on the other hand is more guarded, diplomatic and politic and is all the duller for that. This is not a bad thing - he simply suffers in the comparison.
Of much greater weight is that question of style. Wiggins, with his ramrod-straight back is a stylish bike rider; he has what French cycling aficionados call souplesse. This is an attribute that Froome lacks, in spades. Although the same build as Wiggins he rides his bike with an ungainly churn of thrashing limbs that brings to mind nothing so much as a gangly spider attempting to escape a slippery sink. If you think this is unfair compare one of the defining moments of the 2013 tour, his attack on Ventoux with Armstrong's pursuit of Marco Pantani in 2000 on the same mountain, or this from Cancellara in the Tour of Flanders (2m 43 in if you're impatient). Just winning is not enough; a great champion will ride with panache and elan to mask the effort they are making. To be beaten is irksome. To be beaten by a dilettante, a spinner of the pedals who at all times maintains the casual mien of a Sunday afternoon pootler is utterly crushing. Froome on the other hand rides up mountains wearing the rictus of a man being tortured with something both pointy and hot. There could of course be an element of cunning double-bluff to this but the fact remains that it is not a pretty sight.
There is a more serious charge to lay at Froome than dullness and ungainliness though. For me Froome's defining moment came when he went on the attack against his own team leader on stage 11 of the 2012 Tour. Sean Yates has subsequently confirmed that the excuses given at the time about a faulty race radio were exactly that - excuses. Ruthless ambition is an essential element of the emotional makeup of any successful sportsman. Cycling however is a team sport and the role of the domestique is to sacrifice every available watt of energy in the execution of team orders. Cavendish is a sterling example of ambition done well; vaulting ambition yes, but tempered by a healthy dose of humility and a willingness to throw his all behind his colleagues when the situation and team orders demand. Froome on the other hand was clearly bewitched by the image of a dagger as he rode to La Toussuire and was too weak to resist the urge to show his strength. (If there is a touch of Macbeth to Froome his fiance, Michelle Cound, unfortunately reinforces this by behaving like Lady Macbeth with a Twitter account.) For me this one act colours everything he does and has irreparably sullied my opinion of him.
That said I accept that Froome is a very talented rider and I wish him well. I am sure that this year's win will not be his last Tour de France victory. At the same time I will not be urging him to victory next year, and hope that another talent emerges to challenge him, a dashing mercurial rider of raffish demeanour with a penchant for reckless solo attacks who looks good on a bike and wears the right type of socks.