They say TV is desensitizing its audience to violence. Perhaps this is
true; when you see someone die on the screen, you feel nothing. The
episode is clinical, sterile, devoid of emotion. This desensitization
only extends so far, though. Tonight, I saw a man hit pavement at 70 KPH.
In the helicopter shot of the crash itself, true, I felt nothing; this
could have been a scene from the latest Hollywood production. But then
the shot went to the aftermath, and it was deeply disturbing. I, along
with the rest of the world, heard him scream in pain, pain like most
people will never know. There was no studio touch up here, no special
effects whitewash to make it more palatable. This was human agony, flesh
rent from bone, live from the dirt of some nameless roadside in the
French Alps.
................................
In the final kilometers of the 190-k stage 9 of the Tour de France, Kazak
Alexandre Vinokourov launched himself into the front of the stage with an
attack off of the Côte de la Rochette. Afraid of losing their places to
the upstart, race leaders Lance Armstrong and Joseba Beloki flew down the
mountain in an attempt to catch the young rider. This fast descent must
have been a welcome breeze for the racers; the temperature was in excess
of 100 F on this day, the heat adding the finishing touches to an already
hellish stage. No sooner had race commentator Phil Liggett mentioned that
the scorching sun had melted the road's pavement did we see his words
played out before our eyes.
Beloki and Armstrong were coming into a right-hand turn, one of the final
bends in that decent. Armstrong would later say that they had been
probably been traveling too fast for the turn, nearly 40 MPH. Beloki had
realized this, using his brakes to slow himself just enough to make the
turn. He braked too hard, though, locking his back wheel. The wheel slid
in the liquid pitch, though Beloki kept control of the machine as it
fishtailed across the road. Until, that is, the tire blew, the rubber
coming completely off the wheel's rim. This left the Basque star riding
with two thin strips of metal on the road, a situation he could no longer
manage. The bike fishtailed one last time, then threw Beloki to the ground.
He hit the pavement still moving at about 40 MPH, instantly breaking his
right wrist, elbow, and most importantly, his femur, the strongest bone in
the human body. He skidded for a few meters, coming to rest at the roadside.
In that distance, the asphalt stripped his shorts away from his right leg,
shredding as much meat as it could grab, leaving his thigh bright red and
bleeding.
................................
If I close my eyes, I can still hear him scream, still see him cry. This is
hours and hours later. Perhaps I feel this connection because of my own
cycling, my own wrecks. Perhaps, though, it means that some bit of humanity
has survived the media glorification of violence.
They say TV is desensitizing its audience to violence. Perhaps this is true; when you see someone die on the screen, you feel nothing. The
episode is clinical, sterile, devoid of emotion. This desensitization
only extends so far, though. Tonight, on a screen, I saw someone come so close to death. This time, however, there was nothing clean, nothing heroic, about it; bits of rock took the place of muscle, skin was replaced by hot tar, all bound together with new blood. This time, however, I felt. I felt a deep, inhabiting sadness. I felt myself shudder every time the camera panned over his contorted face. As Beloki's leg broke, so did the illusion, that American creation, that violence in all its forms is to be glorified and fawned over. For this, for the return of a bit of myself that I let slip away, I am grateful.
Typo catches: Damodred, sloebertje