The 1920 Tour de France was a thrilling spectacle, packed with all the grit and glory of post-World War I Europe. It’s a tale set against the enchanting backdrop of the French countryside that saw hardened men push through grueling conditions from June 27 to July 27, 1920. These men, some of whom were probably more accustomed to trench warfare than competitive cycling, pedaled across 15 unforgiving stages, spanning from Paris, through the majestic sights of Les Sables-d'Olonne, Brest, Metz, Nice, and then back to Paris again—a casual 5,503 kilometers. In an era before GPS, heart monitors, or even common sense, these brave souls tackled the demanding terrain with nothing but rudimentary equipment and sheer willpower.
Let’s kick this off with a powerful punch to casual modern cyclists’ egos: these formidable men competed with bicycles that weighed double what today's feather-light carbon-fiber racers do. The only aid they received? A spare tube around their necks and a tire lever in their pockets. Henri Desgrange, the man who dreamed up this madness, believed in suffering. Maybe it's time we bring some of that mindset back to the modern world – enough coddling already!
Fasten your helmet securely, for this was the era of manly heroism in cycling. Participants fought a chaotic mix of rocky, often unsurfaced roads and harsh elements. Can you handle the dusty, muscle-cramping reality of cycling for hours without a sip of energy drink or fancy gel packets? Not a chance! And in this edition, roads were no better than a liberal news anchor's understanding of conservative ideals—often rough and unpredictable. Riders kicked up so much dust and grit that they practically needed to chisel it off the bikes at stage finishes.
Celebrated cyclist Philippe Thys from Belgium, a two-time champion before the war, was the man to beat. Yet it was France's own Henri Pélissier, a rider synonymous with sheer determination, who catapulted himself to victory. Known for his boldness and ‘never-say-die’ spirit, Pélissier conquered the arduous journey, crystallizing himself as a national hero. Robbed of racing years by the Great War, he wasn't about to let a little suffering get in his way. When liberals worry over microaggressions, let them recall Pélissier: a true beacon of endurance in an era that demanded toughness. Our modern world, preoccupied with safe spaces, could learn a thing or two from the undaunted spirit of the racers of 1920.
The dynamics of that particular race were electrifying. Gustave Garrigou, a survivor and 1911 winner, was another big name. Nevertheless, the industrial labor they called racing stripped the field down to 22 finishers from 113 brave starters. And do you know why? Because back then, the art of winning was entwined with the craft of sheer survival. Every stage was a baptism by fire, demanding competitors strategize through pain and exhaustion.
The possibilities for drama were always sky-high. Imagine cycling up the treacherous Pyrenees and Alps carrying your steed on your shoulders whenever the chain snapped or a tire met its gruesome, inevitable fate. Riders, devoid of technical support crews, had to become their own mechanics and medics along the route. Christophe, the famed fixer of his own bicycle in previous Tours, returned to continue his saga of self-sufficiency. Today's fragile ego could hardly endure the solitude and self-reliance that defined these competitors.
Race fans were left thunderstruck by the ferocity of stage 5, that brutal stretch from Les Sables-d'Olonne to Bayonne—a true test of patience and endurance. With nearly 482 kilometers on the map, it clearly wasn’t a stage for the faint-hearted. Riders were left exhausted, not just by the distance, but by battling adverse weather conditions that added layers of challenge to this grueling sport.
By the time pelotons reached Paris, triumph and tragedy illustrated a striking contrast. When Pélissier crossed the finish line, he was not just fighting for a yellow jersey and prize money, but for national pride in post-war Europe. His victory resonated, igniting hope and providing respite to a population having endured the relentless harrowing echoes of battle.
A noteworthy twist occurred when our man Pélissier himself criticized the demands of the race, calling it inhumane. Yet, did he quit or shrink from grit? Quite the opposite. And this is exactly why we need to revisit that indomitable spirit; a time when men took ownership of challenges instead of getting lost in victim narratives. Like any great sports hero worth remembering, Pélissier overcame physical torment to claim a remarkable victory, symbolizing a defiance that has since been shelved in the world of cycling and beyond.
The 1920 Tour de France wasn't just about a bike race. It marked the resurgence of a sport that, much like the countries involved, needed to rise from the shadows of conflict. It reminded us that perseverance against all odds is the only true path to glory—an ethos we're sorely missing in today's frequently coddled, hamster-wheeled culture. Let’s bring back the vintage grit of the 1920 race, where victory was earned through the undying spirit and relentless determination—not just participation trophies.