Floyd!

I wasn't going to linger. I wanted to give the guy his space, and not just be one of the thousand other journalists trying to get a piece of him. Once Floyd Landis officially won the yellow jersey today, effectively claiming his first Tour de France victory, my plan was to beat the crowds and head for Paris. I figured I could do an interview after tomorrow's stage as a final wrap-up. But I stuck around the finish line, among the throng of journalists sweating on this humid afternoon, standing on my tiptoes to see a glimpse of Landis celebrating with his wife, Amber, in the off-limits backstage area.

My reasons were many. I wrote a long magazine piece about Floyd back in May, driving 12 hours across Southern France to meet him in a Barcelone cafe, even though he lives just an hour away from my home (go to: www.latimes.com/sports/cycling/la-tm-landis26jun25,1,6671069.story). When he first became a professional mountain biker, Landis frequented my little brother Marc's bike shop, and also rode the trails I often run and ride near my home. More than likely, we bumped into one another out there in Whiting Ranch ten years ago.

So there was all that. But more, Floyd Landis suffered to get to the top of that podium. He suffered in breaking away from his family to become a cyclist against their wishes, he suffered minor bouts of character assassination while riding with the U.S. Postal Service team, and that degenerative hip condition of his would put most people out of action, yet he rarely takes any pain reliever to get through the day.

And that was just the prelude. That stunning breakdown on La Toussiere just three days ago (emotional and physical suffering) was followed by the very next day by his incredible breakaway ride over the Joux-Plane, a bout of pain embrace that the French say we'll still be talking about fifty years from now.

So he suffered. And his wife suffered, as all of you know from watching OLN, but to hear Amber Landis sit in her kitchen back in May and speak of how much she loved her husband, she defined him by how much he was willing to suffer. “He’s in every aspect the toughest man, ever," Amber says seriously. "Physically tough, mentally tough, he's just one tough bitch."

So that's why I stayed. To honor a man who embraced a hard work ethic and succeeded, on his own terms. As Landis stepped out onto the podium I was pressed against the railing just down front. It's the only time I attended a podium ceremony this year, and it's also the only podium ceremony I've ever attended that felt more like a victory party than a staid zipping-on of the maillot jaune. Landis waved, pumped his fist, danced a little jig, threw his bouquet of yellow flowers down to Amber, and was in absolutely no hurry to step down. Five-time champion Eddy Merckx, who called to offer encouragement the night before Landis's breakaway, stepped out front to shake his hand. Landis is a very guarded person, always warm but also cautious, a phone screener and man of hidden agendas. But today he looked unabashedly happy, and I was glad I lingered to see it.

As I walked away after the ceremony, the finish area was still bedlam. No one wanted to leave, and so I lingered again, taking it all in: that great giant clamshell of a an amphitheater where the jerseys are awarded daily, the fans flying their flags along the barricades, the hordes of people straining to get a piece of Landis, and just the overall sensation that This Is The Tour de France. I'm off to his press conference right now. I can hear it starting in the other room, and hear Landis accepting congratulations in that modest nasal voice of his.

“He could go to the grocery store and not be recognized,” I remember Amber telling me, “that is, if he was the kind of guy who went to the grocery store.”

That's all about to change. See you in Paris.