l’Etape Irlande 2024 – En hommage à François Faber
Killarney, Ireland, from our reporter en route.
The circus is in town and the ring master surveys his peloton. They are togging-out in an Irish mist. He answers all their questions – meteorological, technical, philosophical – with the same answer: “que sera sera, it’ll be grand”. Surely, his sleepless nights are painted on a picture hidden in his attic. The peloton tie their shoe laces and double check their tyres – our circus animals are far more nervous than the master.
Francois Faber, Luxembourger, Tour de France winner 1909, was not nervous. Not nervous of the opposition, not nervous of the route, not nervous of the weather. Standing taller and heavier than his opponents, he stood up to win 6 of the 14 stages, many of which were in atrocious conditions, on atrocious roads and over atrocious distances.
The Irish peleton listen to the count down, their clothes damp from dew and expectation. The onlookers make out their own heroes through the morning fog. How would they find their hero, their father, their mother, son or daughter at the end of this long stage? Would the kingdom be kind?
Francois Faber’s Alcyon bike was blue. His teammates wore the same dark outfit. Woolen, long-sleeved, warm, heavy. Pockets were as abundant and stuffed as the cycle bags on the handlebar and saddle. Goggles were a pre-requisite against the elements. Helmets were not yet invented.
On my blue Alcyon I did my best to hide amongst the peloton at the grand depart. Expectation translated into energy as shoes noisily clipped into pedals – like 1800 rifle reports summoning nervous attention. AND THEY’RE OFF. The circus master had ordained that the crowd would gasp early, and so they did, the peloton shooting through the gantry like bullets over the horizon. We could not see what was coming. But we knew.
To his girlfriend, Faber wrote “First place, all alone. Had rain all the way through. And it still falls today. What a storm. Health is good”. Of Francois Faber, Tour de France founder, Henri Desgrange wrote: “He’s the best on the flat. He is the strongest in difficult terrain. He is the fastest. He is the best in the rain. He is the strongest when the sun is on the pack.”
Of Faber’s physicality, your correspondent can claim nothing of what Desgrange wrote, but the emerging sun on a wool covered back was strong and getting stronger, and sweat was going from wet to waterfall. A colourful claim to the multi-coloured and multi-geared flock around me that ‘sure you can only ride on one gear at a time’ was wearing thin by the time we reached Lady’s View. Our lady from heaven would have seen all, but for the remaining mist, but she still would not have heard, for the peleton had gone silent. Riders seemed unsure if they themselves were in limbo or purgatory. I had already travelled back to 1909.
Stories of cheating in the Tour de France pre- and post-date Francois Faber. Let us forget the grubby future and focus on the fabled past. Riders took lifts and trains, drinks and tonics. The Tour organisers introduced secret control points where riders must pencil their name to ensure they rode the route. One rider broke all the nibs to ensure no further riders could sign on.
There was no secret to our checkpoint at Moll’s Gap. There were drummers, water carriers, jelly givers, photographers and Antoine from the Tour de France. Actual ASO Antoine. So there was a secret control after all. Antoine was demanded to check my bike. There was parlee and ripostes, and under the watchful and growing eyes of two Grenadiers and now a Garda, Antoine mounted the bike. “But my pedals are automatic” he appealed. “This bike is purely manual” I replied. He rode off, terrified. The bike would not stop. The secret was out. Is this the end of my Etape?
Francois Faber’s bike weighed about 15kilos. It had 28” wheels, and early pneumatic tyres. It had a front damper brake that pushed down on the white Dunlop tyre, and a rear brake with corks as brake blocks. The heavy chain ran over most likely a 46 tooth chainring attached to a cottered steel chainset and a single freewheel on the rear wheel. Was it easier to change chainrings or freewheels for the mountain stages?
After failing the secret control, and receiving many jovial admonishments, I made to return to Killarney. I knew a short-cut with no secret controls, no traffic and that would surely be no trouble. The drop to the Gap of Dunloe was worse, far worse, that the climb to Moll’s Gap. I pulled on the brakes, the front tyre screeched under useless resistance. I dismounted, I free-wheeled, I click-clacked in a trot, nothing could check this gravity until the relatively flat road toward Lord Brandon’s Cottage and the Black Valley.
Stage 4, Sunday, July 11, 1909: Belfort – Lyon, 309 kilometers: The weather continues to be bad during the Tour de France. Francois Faber sets out on another gruelling stage, only to be brought to the ground twice in violent winds, then knocked from his bike by a wild horse and he breaks his chain shortly before taking his 3rd of 5consecutive stages. He runs over the line.
As Francois knew, there is nothing compared to the nothingness of breaking a chain. When mine broke, I was all alone in the 2nd last place to get electricity in Ireland. My chain tool was somewhere that wasn’t here. I could have called-out for help but there was no one to hear me. I could have telephoned ‘Etape, but Francois stopped me. ‘Fend for yourself’ he said. So I did.
Did I stop a young couple in a van and sit with a dog, bread and my bike in the back? I did.
Did I walk through the Black Valley and look for scrap wire to fix my chain? I did.
Did I get into a horse lorry , with horse, and get a lift to Kate Kearney’s? I did.
Did I fix my chain with the help of two Swedish tourists? I did.
Did I surprise marshals and cry ‘is the coast clear’? I did.
Did I jump off my bike in homage to Francois Faber? I did.
A week after the 1914 Tour de France ended, Germany declared war on France. On May 9, 1915 the 1909 Tour de France champion, Francois Faber, was killed in the Great War. He was 28.
