Farewell to Raymond Poulidor and his down-to-earth, determined cycling

Love, at least in cycling, follows its own unique paths, sometimes independent of logic and honours. The paths of love are hormonal, often twisted, even bizarre, yet always sincere. Sometimes victories are a stepping stone to the fans’ passion, even if they are not always enough. For whilst winners will certainly have their followers and supporters, ‘but popular passion, true love, is reserved only for those who manage to make the hearts of fans beat to the rhythm of their name’, wrote Pierre Chany.

For a long time, the hearts of the French beat to the desperate rhythm of ‘PouPou’.

Because there has always been something desperate about Raymond Poulidor, something intense yet strangely consoling in his being a champion amongst other, stronger champions – not just stronger than him, but stronger than anyone –, in his being a refined protagonist without ever taking centre stage, in his more than sixty victories without any great glory. Something desperate and romantic. Poulidor was a Don Quixote of the Creuse – now Nouvelle-Aquitaine, once Limousin –, a cyclist who came of age on the right bike at the wrong time, the one that had first belonged to Jacques Anquetil and then to Eddy Merckx and Felice Gimondi.

In that face of his, reminiscent of the French countryside; in that nose straight out of a French comic; in that smile, more Italian than French, cycling fans from across the Alps saw a piece of cycling’s past returning – and refusing to leave. It was Poulidor-esque tenacity, the ultimate expression of stubbornness and the acceptance of suffering. He was not like the other one, like Anquetil – handsome, supremely elegant, almost divine in his dynamic perfection and pedalling style. Whilst it was said that Jacques could ride with a glass full of champagne resting on his back without a single drop spilling during the race, PouPou would have knocked it over at the very first pedal stroke. He was lurching, lolling, at times clumsy, “a country lad, that is, with a low back, gathering up whatever the bike allows”, he said of himself five years ago to this writer. He was furious and explosive, a winner but never triumphant. It was almost as if something were missing, perhaps that inherent ruthlessness found in every cycling phenomenon, that lack of empathy towards teammates and opponents which found its ultimate expression in Eddy Merckx.

Raymond Poulidor (on the right) with Jacques Anquetil during the 20th stage of the 1964 Tour de France (photo: LaPresse)

Poulidor smiled even after his defeats – or rather, after the ‘half-defeats’ he suffered during his career. Because for most cyclists, a podium finish at the Tour de France would be a half-victory, and he secured eight such finishes: three times second, five times third. He finished behind Anquetil, Gimondi and Merckx. He also finished behind Lucien Aimar, a powerful climber and a good time-trialist, who, by his own admission, was “no champion at all”, yet wore the yellow jersey in Paris – that colour which PouPou never managed to wear, not even for a single day – because “every now and then, even the workhorses get their chance” and “I created my own opportunity, thanks in part to Jacques’s help”.

It was the 1966 Tour de France when Aimar pulled off a remarkable feat, in stark contrast to Anquetil. The Norman had won Liège–Bastogne–Liège that year, but it took him just the first three stages of the French race to realise that his legs weren’t up to it. He had already lost several minutes to his rival and had decided to withdraw when the French press gave him an excuse to carry on. L’Equipe wrote in an article that “Poulidor had already got Anquetil on the ropes and would finally beat him”. And he told his teammates that “Poulidor wouldn’t win”, because “to win the Tour, Poulidor has to beat me, not someone else”. And so he began to race against him. On the Aubisque, when the breakaway group – including his team-mate Aimar – had a three-minute lead, Poulidor attacked; Anquetil settled onto his wheel and refused to take a turn at the front; indeed, he positioned himself alongside him to rattle his nerves: he succeeded, and that day they extended their lead to over nine minutes. The scene was repeated. First on the Galibier towards Briançon, when Anquetil followed Pou Pou’s dominant pace like a shadow, always riding alongside him with the contemptuous smile of someone whose gaze says, “You’ll never make it”. Finally, on the way to Chamonix, the final mountain stage, when Jacques, struggling on the Forclaz, learnt that Raymond had dropped the whole field, he went berserk, rode a mad descent, caught up with the group, told Aimar to follow him and started pulling like a man possessed. Poulidor gained just fifty seconds that day; Aimar thanked Anquetil for his help; Anquetil dropped back because the job was done; Poulidor remarked that it was a “shame, but what can I do? Anquetil did what anyone in his position would have done: help his team-mate in the yellow jersey”.

He knew how to lose, PouPou; he never hid behind excuses or recriminations – that wasn’t his style. He knew how to lose because a runner-up is never a loser, at most a place-getter, and it takes class even to be the greatest runner-up in the history of cycling. He knew how to lose without being defeated. His was always an indomitable resilience in the face of everything and everyone, a determination to overcome any obstacle. “That’s what I taught my grandson.” And his grandson, Mathieu Van der Poel, understood this perfectly.

“I’ve won a lot in my career.” Among those victories are a Milan–Sanremo, a Flèche Wallonne and a Vuelta a España. “Could I have won more? Certainly, but those were difficult years and there weren’t too many champions about. I have no regrets, though; I turned my passion into a profession and that is a great victory,” said Poulidor, also five years ago.

And yet, when Poulidor set off, “the road would be filled with a strange feeling, a mixture of madness and exaggerated passion,” wrote Pierre Chany, “as if a sense of revenge against life’s injustices were exploding”, a roar of pride that seemed to come from another world. The same feeling that Raymond Poulidor has achieved today. Au revoir, PouPou.