The 2014 Tour de France finally ended yesterday. It is the only sporting event I really try to pay attention to year after year, but this year’s edition somehow seemed almost as difficult for me as it did for the riders. Well, not really, but relative to the amount of effort I usually put in I seemed to have to put in more this time, just as they did.

Somehow, from the very first day which started with a hard road race instead of a ceremonial mini time trial, everyone was tired for the whole thing. On TV, the racers looked extra pale under their helmets, and so so skinny, just looking forward to a hot bath and a place to lay down.

I love listening to Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen call the action, along with the colorful commentary of Bob Roll and the rotating cast of “announcer guy.” But this year, with storyline number one: Chris Froome, and storyline
number two: Alberto Contador, crashing out early, they seem to drift, struggling to latch onto any interesting moment, any human drama at all, no matter how silly. The lovely veneer that they manage to paint over the race seemed to crack: for three weeks it was a lot of guys pedaling as fast as they could… and that was about that. It certainly didn’t help that the seemingly unchallenged winner doesn’t speak English, or apparently even speak much to the media in his native Italian. Vincenzo Nibali, I hardly knew ye.

I don’t know if the course was too hard, or if some reduction in doping led to momentary lapses of attention on the part of the riders and the crews, but whatever it was, the race seemed somehow haphazard and harried this year, even as they tried to introduce cool new television features like handlebar cams. I’m sure it’s never been easy to put on an event of such magnitude, but this year you could see them working behind-the-scenes in a way that I don’t remember from past editions.

Perhaps the biggest disappointment was to see the apparent lack of organization in Team Sky, who seemed on the verge of creating a new dynasty. Their riders crashed far too often, and crashed emotionally as well, making me wonder what happened to the”next big thing.” Now, it looks like we have to lay our hopes on Russian oligarch Tinkoff for the next dominant team in pro cycling, closely rivaled by the bewilderingly funded Astana team.

I’ll be back next year. of course, as will all those skinny, pallid, little engines as they take on whatever crazy roads the organizers throw at them. Here’s hoping that the 102nd edition will bring my memories of power and grace and excitement back to the forefront, while letting the grit and pain and monotony fade into the background.