CQ27_FINAL_SPREADS (1)

The fame, the legend. The year
was 1960. At Sachsenring. Yes,
in the German Democratic Republic,
two hundred kilometres
south of where Täve was born.
As the double-reigning amateur
world champion, something that
no one had ever done before
and would never do again. The
temptation of the treble. In
the final kilometres Schur has
everything under control. He
escapes with Bernhard Eckstein
and Willy Vanden Berghen. One
teammate, one Belgian. Shortly
before the finish Eckstein
attacks, because that’s what you
do in that situation. The leader,
the powerful one, is protected,
and the lesser rider goes to the
front. And the Belgian starts
trying to convince Täve. He is
Flemish, after all. Don’t let the
opportunity go. If we work together,
we’ll catch him, and then
sprint for the title. But Täve . . .
nothing. The team comes before
the individual. Germany before
the citizen. Socialism before any
bourgeois temptation. What is a
palmarès when I can bring glory
to the people? Täve outsprints
the Flemish rider and finishes
behind Eckstein. Everyone
cheers. He is more popular than
ever. Precisely now, when he
isn’t even trying to win.
An icon for a nation. He is the
GDR’s sportsperson of the year
nine times in a row. He is voted
the most important athlete in
the country’s history. He goes
all the way to the Volkskammer,
the parliament of the GDR. He
was a member of the SED, the
ruling Socialist Unity Party. For
thirty-one years, no less. For
the whole period 1959 to 1990,
when reunification came. Then,
as he was a man of very definite
ideas, he moved to the PDS.
He was elected again, this time
to the Bundestag, between
1998 and 2002. His popularity,
prestige and even his looks
remained intact.
Go and look for photos. Or
postage stamps with his image
on. Or any of the dozens of
books written about him. Look
for interviews, radio programmes,
videos. Look at his
bearing, his gaze, his power.
Täve Schur had something,
friends, something you’re either
born with or you’re not, something
you can’t train. Täve Schur
is charisma.
That leaves the Poles. Ryszard
Jan Szurkowski. The image,
always the image first. The determined
gaze, the penetrating
eyes. The fierce gesture, as if
he wanted to tame his opponents
rather than defeat them.
The black hair in curls, the long
sideburns, because Szurkowski
is a man of the seventies. Look
at photos of Ocaña, or Merckx.
The dark eyebrows, the square
chin. He has the look of a movie
star, a look that will make you
sigh on a Saturday night. A
great mass of muscles brought
into harmony by pedalling. And
his heart wholly at the service of
his country.
Because Ryszard would do anything
for anyone. He was inspiration,
he smiled when no one
was smiling, he was moments of
happiness. He was also a splash
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