Joe had another friend, a closer friend, an athlete friend by the name of John Howard . (Right.)

John Howard wasn’t a tourist like me. John was a legendary Texas rider, rolling over the FMs at speed, swallowing the land in 100-mile gulps.

Still, it was a paltry fame to be a cyclist in 1970s Texas, and no great European team wanted John to lead the great races. He became, like the great street ballers of the city ghettos, both lonely and angry.

He finally found something worthy of him, a new event in Hawaii called a triathlon. He would train to learn to swim 2.5 miles in surf, and run a marathon, but between there was the bike, an easy ride (for him) of 112 miles, in which he could grab hours on rivals. He won the third one, in under 10 hours – you can look it up.

But the great road races, the ones in Europe? No way.

It was left for another rider, a lesser man named Jack Boyer, to break the barrier. He competed in the 1983 Tour d’France as Jacques Boyer. Joe got me an autographed photo of Jack that still hangs in a closet. Then a whole American team, sponsored by 7-11, the convenience store chain, went over and they were a joke they were so bad.

Then there was Greg LeMond (left, image from ToTheNextLevel.).

LeMond’s name was French, but he was 100% American, and for his sport LeMond became French. He rode with a French team, in the French style. He was a domestique for the great champion Bernard Hinault, and worked for him when Hinault won his 5th tour, in 1985, although Greg was far the stronger rider. Next year, Hinault said, I will ride for you, Greg.

But of course he didn’t. He broke his promise, split the team, and fought LeMond all the way to Paris. The crowds all shouted for Hinault, they held contempt for the American who had somehow learned their game, but LeMond won anyway. The Era of Hinault was over.

Then came 1989. LeMond had accidentally shot himself in 1987 (how Americain, they clucked), and it took two years to recover. But here he was chasing Hinault’s great rival, two-time champion Laurent Fignon, up the Alps. By the last stage, to Paris, there was nearly a minute separating them, with Fignon leading, and the organizers did something they had never before done (and would never do again) – they made the race to Paris a time trial.

Fignon (right, from Grahamwatson.com) rode as he always did, hautily, on a regular bike, his blond hair waving behind him in its ponytail. He rode with a radio in his ear, his manager giving him his time and that of his rival. LeMond had no radio, but he grabbed every other piece of technology he could – the solid back wheel, new handlebars in the center of his frame, like those of a track rider, and a helmet that flared-off behind him, like a wing.

The drama was exquisite, Fignon was going as hard as he could, LeMond flying ahead of him, Fignon’s radio detailing how his lead was going down, 40 seconds, 30, 20, 10. In the end Fignon collapsed in exhaustion and disgust on the Champs Elysee, having lost the whole tour by 8 seconds. To this day, people ask Fignon about that race, and he always tries to turn their conversation back to his victories, but they always lock him back into the tragedy, the image of him falling off, onto the ground, crying in the arms of his manager. It is so, so French.

From the comfort of my home, watching my year-old baby take her first steps, I cheered Greg LeMond, but I loved Fignon, too. He was five years my junior, LeMond six years.

I was now just a spectator.