Pont du Gard

It was a bit much to expect to find a giant Yellow Jersey dangling from the ancient, towering Roman aqueduct, the Pont du Gard, advertising itself as the start of Stage 17 of this year’s Tour, but there was at least a large, prominently displayed billboard at the entry to this World Heritage Site announcing itself as a Ville Étape.  In all the years of The Tour, it has never been accorded the honor.  It is one of three of the thirty-four Ville Ètapes in this year’s Tour to be first-timers. 

No one could tell me the precise departure point of the peloton, but surely the spectacular three-tiered 160-foot high bridge will be in the background.  The day before the peloton will be riding over the bridge on its way to Nimes.  That will produce iconic images that will endure for as long as The Tour endures.

A map outside the museum half a mile from the Pont du Gard over the Le Gardon River showed France’s 38 World Heritage Sites.  This isn’t the first time one has featured at a stage start.  A few years ago the Grand Départ was at Mont St. Michel.  Quite a few are cathedrals that have been near a stage start or finish—Chartres, Bourges, Reims Amiens.  This stage will also take the peloton past the Roman amphitheater in Orange, another World Heritage Site.  And the stage the day before in Nime will include its Roman coliseum, also a World Heritage Site.

It was a relief to get to the Pont du Gard down on the flats of Provence after three days up on the cold and rugged Massif Central.  I camped one night amidst patches of snow.  I had camped 1,500 feet lower the night before and had to bundle up in my lightweight, summer sleeping bag to stay warm.  When I climbed up into the snow the next day I kept hoping the road would dip down before I camped, but it remained up on a high plateau.  Miraculously, an hour before I planned to camp I came upon a shawl along the road still retaining the perfume of whoever lost it, a most beneficent offering from whatever deities look after touring cyclists.  It provided a much needed extra layer to get me through the night.  As it was, I had to pull out all stops to stay warm, including tucking the lower third of my sleeping bag inside the duffel bag I had brought to stuff all my gear in on my flight over. 

 I had included the Massif Central on this year’s route to Cannes, something I didn’t have to do, to see what preparations Saint-Flour, a picturesque city high up on a volcanic butte, was making for its hosting of the departure of Stage Ten.  All it had were a scattered few posters so far.  The best decorations I had seen weren’t in any of the three Ville Étapes I visited, but were in the tiny village of Chapelle-Laurent on the thirty-two mile transfer between Ville Étapes Brioude and Saint-Flour.  They were left over from the 2008 Tour that had passed through the village.

They were a mural and a pyramid of bikes the town had mounted for the occasion and had retained to celebrate that momentous occasion when The Tour had passed through.  Sometimes out-of-way villages that were once graced by The Tour will put up a plaque to honor the occasion, but rarely anything as grand as these, a strong daily reminder of that momentous occasion when millions of eyes around the world were upon it.

Another draw of the Massif Central was to visit the grave of France’s preeminent cycling journalist, Pierre Chany, in the tiny town of Chanteuges.  Besides writing for L’Équipe he authored many books including biographies of Jacques Anquetil and Fausto Coppi and the definitive history of The Tour.  He covered 49 Tours and died in 1996 a month before what would have been his 50th.  He had been collaborating on a book about his fifty Tours.  It had been all set to go to press when he died and had been much anticipated.  The book was published anyway with the title of “Man of Fifty Tours.” 

He was buried in his family tomb along with his wife and sister and others.  There was nothing cycle-related on the tomb among the array of plaques.  It was a rare French cemetery with grass.  The cemetery was on the outskirts of the town and had been expanded.  It had a much larger population than the town of 400 up on a steep cliff-side.

I encountered a retired French cyclist up on the Massif Central on his way to Spain and the Camino de Santiago.  He had no complaints about all the strenuous climbing, as he had an electrical assist.  For two days until I descended I had been under strain for long stretches in my lowest gear, climbing and climbing, reduced to an average of eight miles per hour for the day, not even covering sixty miles.  He warned me that an all-day rain was predicted for the next day when I would be leaving the Massif.  And that prediction held true. 

It started as a light drizzle as I broke camp.  I put on my booties for the first time and wore my down jacket under my rain jacket with the temperature just 45 degrees.  There were a couple of lulls during the day, but late in the afternoon as I was completing my descent back down to lower elevations it came down in near torrents. I had been reconciled to staying in a campground, knowing it would have facilities for me to hang my wet gear, but I was now getting so soaked without the opportunity to dry I knew I would have to find a hotel, something I have never done in sixteen years of cycling in France other than last year in Lyon when I resorted to a train to get from one side of the country to another during The Tour, arriving after dark.  I was headed to the large city of Alès with hotels aplenty.  I found a small, moderately-priced family-run hotel by the train station.  The owners didn’t speak any English, but they couldn’t have been friendlier, even offering to put my wet gear in their drier. 


My legs were depleted from three days of strenuous riding in mountainous terrain.  They greatly welcomed the minimal strain of the flats. Having reached the south the temperatures were warmer and I was welcomed by arcades of plane trees and vineyards.  And alongside the road, just as they had been all the way down from Paris, were dandelions in full flurry.  They had just been erupting when I left Chicago.  They are one of the lesser known of those New World products that were part of the Columbian Exchange.  Corn, tomatoes, potatoes, tobacco, and chocolate get all the attention, but the dandelion may be the most pervasive. 


With the color yellow synonymous with The Tour de France, the dandelion doesn’t seem to be regarded as an unwanted weed. With this being the centennial of The Yellow Jersey, introduced at the 1919 Tour, thirteen years after the inaugural Tour, Yellow has added significance this year. A museum in Nice has a special exhibit honoring The Yellow Jersey.  That will be my first destination after Cannes.


It is now less than two hundred miles to Cannes on roads I know well.  I know where the best camping is and which towns have spigots dispensing free-flowing spring water.  It is France at its finest.