As boxing once was to the American underclass, so cycling has long been to poor European kids, a magnet for foundlings and farm kids, the hard-eyed lads with the least to lose and the most to prove. Small-town boys who worked like stevedores during the week and spent each Sunday on wooden kneelers, surrounded by images of bodily sacrifice. The roster of Tour de France champions is a chronicle of successful escapes: Charly Gaul, butcher; Frederico Bahamontes, vegetable-stand boy; Lucien Aimar, carpenter; Roger Pingeon, plumber; Bernard Hinault, farm boy; Miguel Indurain, the same. Both (Lance) Armstrong and (Jan) Ullrich were abandoned by their fathers at a young age, a biographical detail that strikes some veteran observers as so predictable as to be unworthy of mention. Of course they are fatherless; of course they are ghosted. How else could they possibly have what it takes? Jacques Anquetil's father was rumored to beat him. Maurice Garin, who won the first Tour de France in 1903, was a chimney sweep whose parents, legend has it, gave him away in exchange for a wheel of cheese.

Just as with boxing, hope is not merely helpful; it is indispensable. Boxers can at least fool themselves into thinking they have a 50-50 shot of winning each match; pro cyclists routinely go winless for seasons, even careers. The money is small compared to other professional sports (minimum salary of $30,000; most in the $50,000-$80,000 range, a handful cross the million-dollar mark), the season is long, careers are cup-of-coffee short, and the injury r