CQ26_FINAL_Spreads_Digital

The image of Zaaf we remember
will never be the guy crossing the
finish line with his arms in the air.
No, his image is quite a different
one. Sitting on the ground, his
back resting against the trunk of
a tree. Unconscious. Thick rivers
of sweat running down his face.
Smelling of wine.
determination, a white jersey
with a blue band on the chest.
The jersey of the North Africa
team. It’s going to be the first
stage win for a rider from that
continent. An historic moment.
Indeed, it will be. But who is this
approaching arrow, devouring
kilometre after kilometre at full
speed, an impossible feat in the
forty-degree-plus heat of southern
France?
First and foremost, a veteran.
Born in 1917, in Chetouane, a
small Algerian town close to the
Moroccan border. So Algerian,
African, yes – but French.
Another paradox. Abdel-Kader
doesn’t start taking the bike
seriously until he is in his thirties.
In 1948 he wears the colours of
the Volta team. French, but with
a rider from the southern colonies.
It is making its debut appearance
in the Tour de France.
What am I doing here, with my
back, with my hands that look
like giant claws? He abandoned
on the first day.
But despite all of that he was
popular. Because of his combativity,
yes, but also because of
his image. He made grandiose
declarations, spoke of himself in
the third person, threatened the
stars of the peloton with devastating
attacks. A man who only
finished one of the four Tours he
started – in 1951, when he was
the lanterne rouge.
It matters not. Legends are
whimsical. And on this day in
1950, on the road to Nîmes, it
looked like Abdel-Kader was going
to achieve the ultimate glory.
A solo effort, an escape with
fifty kilometres to the finish line.
It was within touching distance.
But what a heat, what a tremendous
heat. Zaaf sweats, thick
rivers drip from his arms to the
asphalt, where they evaporate
instantly. So, our protagonist
drinks. He drinks a lot. The spectators
offer bottles and basins.
In one of them, legend has it,
there is a strange liquid, with a
strong flavour. Zaaf, a devout
Muslim, does not recognise it,
but he proceeds to drink, for
the first time in his life, an enormous
draught of red wine.
And its effects are immediate.
He begins to slow down,
zigzags across the road, falls,
remounts and continues . . . in
the wrong direction, back where
he has come from. After a few
metres he falls again. Spectators
move him under a tree, which
offers some shade. He smells of
wine, says one, and the cliché is
born (the other possible expla-
Abdel-Kader Zaaf. Source: thebikecomesfirst.com
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