Michael Ventre

Ordinarily, I refrain from skewering the French. When the whole “freedom fries” uproar took place, I thought it was beyond absurd, and I protested by abandoning my diet and eating as many French fries and guzzling as much French wine as I could withstand. I felt it was the least I could do in order to pay back our trusted allies for the many years we stood shoulder to shoulder through history’s travails.

But occasionally an event takes place that inspires me to toast Frenchy for playing le fool. Thanks to Floyd Landis, this is one of those times.

For seven consecutive years, while Lance Armstrong reigned at the Tour de France, frustration spread across the countryside, from chateau to chateau, over how the French’s most treasured event could be dominated by a skinny American cancer survivor.

It was almost too much to bear. And you could tell it had an impact on their national image. Their baguettes got smaller.

But this? Floyd Landis? Sacre bleu! Please, a moment of silence at the United Nations for a once-proud nation with oeufs on its face.

Remember, the French went after Armstrong like Zinedine Zidane’s head went after Marco Materazzi’s chest. They snooped. They dug around. The newspaper L’Equipe produced old documents about old urine samples and called it shocking new evidence using typical journalistic restraint and balance in the headline: “The Armstrong Lie.”

Although EPO was presumably rampant, the French went after the one contestant who either didn’t use it or was way too shrewd to get caught. The aptly named Dick Pound, the Canadian  international sports czar and honorary member of the French anti-Armstrong underground, played the role of Inspector Clouseau, rousting an organ grinder and his monkey for operating without a license while a bank robbery took place under his nose.

What did these Gallic gumshoes get for their obsession? The opportunity to watch Armstrong host the ESPYs.

But when Armstrong retired, France heaved a sigh of relief. Women did the can-can, men smoked, and there was great joy throughout the land. Finally, a Frenchman had a shot at his country’s own event. But if not a Frenchman, then a Belgian, or a German, or a Norwegian, maybe even a Spaniard. Anything but an American.

Sorry, Robespierre. Some nightmares recur. It appears that nothing short of an angry mob and a guillotine will keep your blessed bicycle rally from being sacked by Uncle Sam.

And Landis’ winning the Tour de France must be particularly Gauling, because he is a nobody, at least before this. Among Americans, he is a distant fourth on the list of famous Floyds, behind boxers Patterson and Mayweather and Floyd the barber on “The Andy Griffith Show.”

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His previous claim to fame had been as one of Armstrong’s caddies on the U.S. Postal Service team. Guys like that never get kissed on both cheeks by two beautiful women. They’re rarely interviewed. And the closest they get to the yellow jersey is at the team’s laundry facilities.

Yet Landis today is the king of cycling.

But wait. It gets better — or worse for France.

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