Today’s post is a bit of a downer, but sometimes I miss Laurent Fignon. I miss the man, sure–with the possible exception of Zabriskie’s occasional flourishes, you really don’t see anybody whose personal character gets priority over even aerodynamics these days–but I miss the idea of Laurent Fignon, too. Maybe it’s just the gray day outside, and I don’t know that I can explain what I mean, other than to tell you there’s a kind of beauty in not winning, too. One that sometimes matters more than winning.
To be sure, Fignon was a winner–not only a two-time Tour de France winner, but one of those guys who tended to win in spectacular, well-earned ways that include gritted-teeth and great story lines, like a kind of scrawny, bespectacled Jens Voigt. At the risk of alienating all the Justin Bieber Brothers Schleck fans out there, I’ll admit I’d rather watch Fignon install cleats than watch those guys race. But the defining moment–or what became the defining moment–of Fignon’s career is of course his eight second loss of the ’89 Tour to Greg LeMond, whose aero bars and spoked/disc wheel configuration made the Frenchman’s trademark Lennon glasses and “cheveux” seem like a boat sail. Even LeMond, himself no stranger to adversity and well-deserving of every win, seems to have felt a little bad about that one.
The thing is, there was always a kind of peculiar grace in Fignon’s demeaner and how he accepted defeat–a kind of deep humility you don’t often see in the age of Kanye West and other high-profile professional pouters. But it was Fignon’s other great loss, his death in 2010, and what he had to say about it as it approached, that has always stayed with me.
Despite treatment of more than seven months, my cancer had barely reduced. No matter how strong my willpower, if we don’t find a good treatment, the cancer will overwhelm me and I will die. I don’t want to die at 50, but if it’s not curable, what can I do? I love life. I love to laugh, travel, to read, eat well, just like a good Frenchman. I am not afraid of dying, it’s just I am not ready to die.”
At the time this was certainly a strong contrast to the yellow bracelet mania and power of positive thinking that was rampant in the world. I have deep respect for Lance Armstrong’s work to fight cancer. Like many superstar athletes receiving checks from the likes of Nike and Oakley, Armstrong could well have had what passes for a very meaningful life without any of the added responsibility and emotional expense associated with launching a full-scale assault on cancer. Anybody should respect Livestrong, and respect as well the dollars it’s raised and people it’s comforted. And yet–though it’s probably just me–the power of positive thinking approach has always seemed a bit like an exclusive club. I wish I didn’t think that, but I do, and I find that profoundly disturbing. While I certainly understand the value of staying positive, to imply that winners win battles with cancer is also to suggest its opposite: to die makes you a loser.
This was driven home recently with a very unfortunate death in our community. At the service I was struck by the burden the living tend to place on the dead, our expectation that they died to show us something or teach us, when of course their death was as deeply personal and incomprehensible as their birth.
It isn’t about us.
Fignon’s statement has always stayed with me because he refused to entertain us with his death. In the same way he never saw his eight second loss to LeMond as the defining highlight of his career, he didn’t seem to consider his death the defining moment of his life. While not a sentiment that translates easily into a yellow bracelet or ad campaign, there is something deeply reassuring and unconquerable about that.
And yes, I do just miss the glasses, too.
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