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The athlete and the artist

The streak ended at 41, but Roger Federer did not allow his run of consecutive wins at Wimbledon to end without a titanic struggle.

Pursuing his sixth consecutive Wimbledon title, Federer found himself face-to-face with Rafael Nadal for the third year running. Not since Borg/McEnroe in the early 80s has there been such a sustained and starkly contrasting rivalry between two players at the very pinnacle of the sport.

Nadal is the great athlete, all bulging muscles and ferocious competitive intensity, with an effective monopoly on clay courts. Federer is the consummate artist, perhaps the last true one in the modern men’s game: his competitive fire burns no less brightly but his muscles are all on the inside, an unprepossessing physique masking a devastating array of tennis shots, in particular a forehand which frequently seems radar-guided, a total package which has rendered him effectively invincible on grass.

Anyone who watched the final – and there were 12.7 million UK viewers at its peak – will know that Nadal took the first two sets despite Federer having more breakpoint opportunities and that, after a rain delay, Federer exhibited a true champion’s heart by repeatedly facing down a series of crises – 0-40 down on his serve midway through the third set, 2-5 and then two championship points down in the fourth set tie-break, 15-40 and 0-30 down in consecutive service games early in the fifth – with a series of blistering aces and winning shots.

A lesser mortal than Nadal – that’s pretty much everyone – would have crumbled in the face of such repeated disappointments. He had put Federer right up against the wall, only to see the Swiss retaliate with possibly his best tennis of the tournament. And yet it is an indomitable spirit as much as his physical and technical skills that makes Nadal such a unique player. In the fifteenth game of the final set, Nadal repeatedly pushed Federer to the brink – three times he engineered a break point only to be firmly repelled, one a passing shot under extreme duress which may well have been the best single stroke of the entire tournament – before finally, almost incomprehensibly, he secured the precious break which allowed him to serve out a 6-4 6-4 6-7 6-7 9-7 victory.

At 62 games and 4 hours 48 minutes, this was the longest men’s singles final ever at Wimbledon. However, the story of the match extends far beyond a single day and mere statistics. Trace a line backwards which begins with the recent French Open final, where Nadal crushed Federer for the loss of only four games (the worst defeat ever for a reigning world number one in a grand slam final). Follow it through the 2007 Wimbledon final, where Nadal stretched Federer to the limit, squandering four break points in the fifth set before succumbing to a defeat which left him in tears in the locker room afterwards. And stop at the 2006 final, where Federer gave the Spaniard, still a novice on the surface, a masterclass in grass-court play in a four-set win.

With each passing year, Nadal has gradually added artistry to his athleticism: a greater variety of serve, solid volleying technique, the blocked service return. With each passing year, he has been better equipped to challenge Federer. And now he has finally defeated the master – and deservedly so.

Ultimately, Nadal won Wimbledon because he was able to learn from Federer’s artistry and ally it with his unparalleled athleticism.

It was an honour to watch Sunday’s match, even from a distance. But it has been an even greater privilege to see Nadal’s development over the past three years into a player who is truly capable of winning all four Grand Slam events, a feat which has been beyond Federer and, indeed, all male players with the exception of Andre Agassi over the past 40 years.

If that isn’t a scary enough proposition, bear in mind that Nadal only turned 22 last month. He is only going to get better.

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Mud sticks, but Le Tour shines as brightly as ever

Last Friday, the day before the 2008 Tour de France started, I have to admit I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt about this year’s event.

Within 24 hours, however, my love affair with the sporting calendar’s biggest annual event had been completely reaffirmed.

Even if you don’t follow cycling at all, you will probably have a view on the sport. It’s difficult not to, with the high-profile doping scandals which have plagued the Tour in particular in recent years. From the ‘Festina affair’ of 1998; to the black cloud of suspicion which hung, unsubstantiated, over the Lance Armstrong era; to 2006 winner Floyd Landis’s positive test, subsequent disqualification and never-ending court battle; to last year, which saw us lose Ivan Basso, Jan Ullrich and Patrik Sinkewitz before the race, and Michael Rasumssen (the race leader), Alexandre Vinokourov (winner of two stages) and Cristian Moreni during it.

Cycling has arguably never been at a lower ebb.

Even though there is now an admirable spirit and determination from a new generation of professional cyclists to prove beyond all doubt that they are racing ‘clean’, the scars remain. Here are some of the marquee names missing from this year’s Tour as a direct or indirect result of drug-related offences: Alberto Contador (the defending champion), Levi Leipheimer (third last year), Rasmussen (race leader before his removal), Tom Boonen (the green jersey winner) Vinokourov, Basso, Ullrich, Andreas Kloden. Imagine the English Premier League kicking off in August without, say, Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Spurs and Aston Villa. That’s the scale to which this year’s Tour field has been decimated.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t matter.

My first sight of the peloton sweeping its way through the French countryside like a high-speed rainbow was enough to set my pulse racing. And a thrilling finish nearly 200 kilometres later in Plumelec at the end of an otherwise routine stage was merely the icing on the cake.

The Tour is back, and that’s enough.

Yet again I have that familiar feeling of near-obsession which returns for three weeks every July. I’m busy memorising every detail I can about the teams and riders – the Agritubel team is named after its sponsor, a specialist in the manufacture of cattle stalls, didn’t you know? – and mentally absorbing every mountain, hill and bump of each and every stage. I note with interest that Britain’s Mark Cavendish, twice a winner on the recent Giro d’Italia, has targeted stages two, three and five as his best chances of grabbing a stage win; that David Millar, EPO-user turned poster boy for the new anti-doping movement, is a co-owner of the new Garmin-Chipotle team; and that Chris Froome technically counts as a third British third entrant, despite having previously raced under the auspices of the Kenyan federation.

And I try to ignore the fact that the winner of stage 1, and one of the overall favourites for the yellow jersey, Alejandro Valverde, is himself suspected of being tied up in the same Operation Puerto investigation that brought down Basso and Ullrich.

Last year I praised Vinokourov and I praised Rasmussen for exceptional performances which were subsequently disgraced by, respectively, evidence of blood doping and lying about his whereabouts during pre-race training (an offence considered only one step short of actual, proven guilt). This year I hope the same fate will not befall Valverde or any of the other riders.

The Tour de France should be regarded for what it is: the ultimate challenge of man’s physical and mental endurance. 3,500 kilometres over three weeks, ranging from sea level to nearly 3,000 metres, in blazing sunshine and driving rain – 180 riders battling against each other and themselves at an average speed of over 40kph.

If you watch sport for the physical challenge it presents and the sheer spectacle, it’s impossible not to at least admire what these men do. If, like me, you are willing to put your optimist’s hat on and allow yourself to be carried along by the sheer joy and drama of the event, you cannot fail to love it. Even if it does break your heart from time to time.

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