Tour de France 2005
If you are like me, and I don’t suggest that is a necessarily good thing, then you won’t fail to be captivated by the panache of the Tour de France cycling race. I stayed up late one night to watch Lance Armstrong win his seventh tour. As I watched the events of the penultimate day unfold I watched the greatest living athlete win an individual stage in the mountains. The voice of the British commentator spat out the details of breakaways, the peleton, team tactics, flat tires, previous champions, Colombian climbers and German sprinters, and I was again enthralled.
Somewhere in the midst of all this excitement I penned this poem, having been reminded that I was estranged from my own son Callum:
‘Je parle le Francais bien’
The Texan drawled - again:
‘I know these mean streets
The scenes of defeats
Of many of you ‘Mes amis’;
I came to your roads
And mountains
To drink the water
From your sacred fountains.’
‘You American
You hold the yellow jersey, every day
But a stage winner you aren’t
Not at the Col de le Gachet, no way
Not on any day
Lance grimaced
And wished his birth father
Had cradled him
With the love he deserved
He gritted his teeth
And resolved his belief
In himself
And the struggle to the top
Of his Everest
And the descent to Saint Etienne’s groves of grace
He would not stare defeat in the face
Not in this bike race…
Ullrich stopped the clock
Basso went aerodynamic and ballistic
Armstrong was a rock
And sprinted his guts out
The spectators stood in shock
Teams blazed past in rage
And asked themselves unconsciously
If Lance on this day
Could win this stage?
Lance rode faster,
And ever faster
In the face
Of life’s former disasters
[‘My father I have
Missed you most
I wished you hugged me
At the finish post’]
I am the master
On this day
In this year
I will be the winner
Of an individual stage
The best of my career
[‘I will ride
To the Champs Elysees
Thinking of you father
Please shed me a tear
I will ride
For you father
I have won you
This stage
I will love you father
When I meet you
At whatever age
I thought of you
At two
I thought of you
At ten
I thought of you
Beloved father
When I won this stage
And seven Tours de France
At St Etienne.]
The Texan drawled - again:
‘I know these mean streets
The scenes of defeats
Of many of you ‘Mes amis’;
I came to your roads
And mountains
To drink the water
From your sacred fountains.’
‘You American
You hold the yellow jersey, every day
But a stage winner you aren’t
Not at the Col de le Gachet, no way
Not on any day
Lance grimaced
And wished his birth father
Had cradled him
With the love he deserved
He gritted his teeth
And resolved his belief
In himself
And the struggle to the top
Of his Everest
And the descent to Saint Etienne’s groves of grace
He would not stare defeat in the face
Not in this bike race…
Ullrich stopped the clock
Basso went aerodynamic and ballistic
Armstrong was a rock
And sprinted his guts out
The spectators stood in shock
Teams blazed past in rage
And asked themselves unconsciously
If Lance on this day
Could win this stage?
Lance rode faster,
And ever faster
In the face
Of life’s former disasters
[‘My father I have
Missed you most
I wished you hugged me
At the finish post’]
I am the master
On this day
In this year
I will be the winner
Of an individual stage
The best of my career
[‘I will ride
To the Champs Elysees
Thinking of you father
Please shed me a tear
I will ride
For you father
I have won you
This stage
I will love you father
When I meet you
At whatever age
I thought of you
At two
I thought of you
At ten
I thought of you
Beloved father
When I won this stage
And seven Tours de France
At St Etienne.]
I cried when I first read the poem out loud - sentimental ol’ me…
I had to paint the tour (Tour de France 2005), so an arched bridge becomes the target of the distant peleton, emerging from the French countryside. The clouds are collaged on to the canvas, as are the building, trees and the peleton itself. The air is electric and in the moment soon to happen the peleton will zoom past the spectators as a whirl of silver spokes, multilingual riders, and a rainbow of lycra garments. Sorry about the green pic above - I don't know why I did that - it looks great in colour. I might change this Plog later.
I had a few years doing triathlons in Victoria, Australia, and I fell in love with my bike and all associated with it. Lance Armstrong was one of my heroes and I was pleased to see that he recently came out of retirement. My mate Pat (Kahu) and I sneak in to the picture – we are the backpackers to the right of the building – ants in a moment – but you will need a magnifying glass to see us.
I have contacted Lance Armstrong's minders in Texas and I am sending the painting to him. I hope he forgives me for the personal nature of the poem. Poems are like the paintings, and a little like the Plogs - they just happen at the moment. The artist, the poet and the Plogger merely record the happening.
Oil, gesso, acrylic and collage (photograph and painted paper) on canvas, July 2007
inanga
Stop Press
Today Michael Jackson died. So did Farah Fawcett Majors, one of the original Charlies' Angels. The first sold the most ever record albums (for Thriller I believe) and the latter sold the most swimsuit pin-ups (12 million) and seduced millions of women to try her hairdo.
The best interview that I saw, conducted at the time of Michael's death, was with Uri Geller. He admitted to professional misconduct when he told the story of the time that he put the Prince of Pop under deep hypnosis: he asked if MJ had ever molested children in his care. In that deep, hopefully truthful state, MJ answered quickly in the negative. He loved them too much to hurt them in that way. I believe Geller's account and I am sure that the Peter Pan of Pop soared heavenward to Neverland.
inanga
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