The cyclical revolutions of France

The Last Straw: It is now 16 or 17 years since I saw the Tour de France, then led by Greg LeMond, at Versailles. In fact it is exactly 17 years, as I know perfectly well; and it wasn't Versailles, it was St Etienne. But I had Burke's eulogy on the death of Marie Antoinette beaten into me at school, and I couldn't resist the intro. Sorry.

Anyway, it was the 1986 Tour, and Sean Kelly and Stephen Roche were both struggling. Nevertheless, a group of us on an inter-rail trip went to St Etienne for the time trial. Those were innocent days, when the concept of drugs on the Tour was confined to the warm beer that helped us through the pain barrier as we sat on the side of a parched road for hours watching lone cyclists whiz past at three-minute intervals.

Time trials are not a great spectacle. Professional cyclists are so thin, you can have difficulty seeing them when they're stationary. At speed and in single file, they're barely visible. But when Kelly and Roche (and Martin Early) went by, we jumped up and roared encouragement, knowing the sound of Irish voices would help them.

Afterwards, we found Roche's caravan and he posed for photographs. He was tired but friendly. Honest too. When we asked if he'd noticed our cheers, he replied gratefully: "No." And he noticed even less the following year, because we watched the 1987 version at home on television. Amazingly, even without our encouragement, he won, narrowly beating Charlie Haughey onto the podium in Paris.

That was the high point of Irish interest in the Tour, although the heroics of Roche and Kelly continued for a few years afterwards. The event has experienced a lot of ups and downs (and if rumours are true, a lot of uppers and downers too) since then. But between lack of Irish involvement and the suspicion that many leading cyclists are on something other than bikes, the Tour is no longer compulsive viewing.

It's hard to view anyway. Even if cyclists are not on drugs, they're definitely on Eurosport, which is the only station providing proper coverage, but the Tour has disappeared from most television screens. And yet the stories from France this week have been as thrilling as anything since 1987.

We've become blasé about the bravery of Lance Armstrong, the cancer survivor who - depending on today's time trial - looks likely to win the Tour yet again. Armstrong has been linked to his share of drug rumours, but when knocked off his bike by spectators on Monday, he exploited the adrenaline rush (still not on the banned list) to launch the attack that may win him the race.

Even that was as nothing to the courage of Tyler Hamilton who, racing for two weeks with a broken collar-bone, won Wednesday's stage. Hamilton makes a habit of this: he broke his shoulder in the Giro d'Italia last year and continued then too, grinding his teeth so hard he had to have 11 of them capped afterwards.

For most of us, just the risk of incurring dental work would be enough reason to retire. But it's the job of sporting heroes to inspire little people like us (I'm 14 stone 3lb, but you know what I mean). And I was definitely inspired this week.

The day Lance Armstrong fell off his bike, I was jogging in a local park when I was attacked by an Alsatian. "Attacked" is probably an exaggeration. He was being exercised by his owner, and was a bit skittish. And just as I was trundling past he made a run at me as if to nip my ankles (the Alsatian, that is, not the man).

I swerved to avoid him, but unfortunately he swerved too. Whereupon, panicked by the sight of a 14 stone 3lb object heading straight for him, and thinking that I was attacking him, he crumpled under my feet. I had to hurdle him to avoid a crash, and trundled on, muttering expletives over my shoulder.

But here's the amazing thing. Bravely ignoring the idea that the dog "attack" could be nature's way of telling me to retire from athletics, I kept going. And the next couple of laps, I was flying. I'm 41, but I swear, I felt like I was 39 again. And with a furtive thrill, I realised I was experiencing an adrenaline rush, just like Armstrong.

Unlike him, I didn't mount an attack (luckily for the Alsatian). And I didn't make it home before the adrenaline ran out, and my knees started hurting again. Even so, it was great while it lasted. If I had a chemist who'd prescribe it on a regular basis, I'd be tempted.