Matt Seaton: A test of true grit
In cycling, a time trial is sometimes known as "the race of truth" because it simply pits each rider individually against the clock. No team mates, no tactics, just pure speed. And there are examples in the Tour when such trials have been decisive. Miguel Indurain's five consecutive wins in the 1990s were built on his dominance of the discipline. When, in 2005, Lance Armstrong caught and passed his rival Jan Ullrich on the first day of his final Tour, it felt like such a crushing blow that the race's conclusion - a seventh straight win - was virtually foregone. Most memorably, Greg LeMond made history in 1989, making up a 50-second deficit on the final stage to beat Frenchman Laurent Fignon by just eight seconds, the narrowest-ever winning margin.
Generally, though, the real reckoning does not take place in the "contre la montre" test, but in the high mountains. Here, not seconds, but minutes are won or lost. From the Tour's earliest days, the towering cols of the Alps and Pyrenees have been the anvil on which winners were forged, and rivals crushed. The names of the passes have become legendary, their names acquiring a musicality (for cyclists, at least) like the sea areas of the shipping forecast: Tourmalet, Glandon, Ventoux, Madeleine, Aubisque, Izoard, Télégraphe...
Here you discover who is a real contender, as most riders are reduced to joining the "autobus", a group whose sole aim is to get through the stage inside the time limit. Here, too, you discover the riders' true personality. No one who saw it can forget the moment in 2001 when Armstrong turned to give Ullrich "The Look", eyeballing him for several seconds, before riding away to victory on the Alpe d'Huez. It was arrogant perhaps, cruel certainly. But you saw an essence not only of the man, but what it takes to win the world's most gruelling sports event.
Matt Seaton is The Guardian's cycling columnist.
Tim Moor: Cheered for coming last
To watch Wimbledon or the World Cup is to admire artistry and skill beyond comprehension - beyond my comprehension, anyway. But even I can ride a push bike. I've known what it is to grind up a steep hill and freewheel madly down the other side.
That is what makes the Tour such a compelling spectacle: it requires competitors to do something we've all done, but to an inhuman extreme. It's an everyday physical challenge inflated to one as monstrous as anything in classical mythology.
And that's why, in refreshing contrast to other global sporting events, the Tour really is genuinely more about taking part than winning. Just make it back to Paris and you're declared a "giant of the road". Wobble up the Champs-Elysées as the final finisher - the lanterne rouge - and you'll get a hero's reception, and a year of lucrative race offers and sponsorship. Huge cheers and big cash sums for coming last? Now, that's my kind of race.
French Revolutions: Cycling the Tour de France by Tim Moore (Vintage, £7.99) is out now.
