Stage Nine

Rather than watching the peloton fly past at arm’s length I chose to get a little perspective today. After circumventing The Tour route for a few miles to get a little closer to the finish in Brioude, when I reconnected just minutes before the peloton would pass, rather than going to roadside, I remained in the distance. Even across a field the Yellow Jersey was easy to spot six riders back.

One of the four helicopters high above decided to swoop down at this point for a view even closer than mine.

I took a detour from The Tour route when I was unceremoniously evicted from the course at 12:45, at a point where the caravan wasn’t due for two hours. Road signs actually said the road closed at 13:00, but another young punk gendarme was eager to exert his authority. Another all-too-eager gendarme a couple miles back tried to pull the same thing, but relented when I pointed out it wasn’t 13:00 yet.  

There was a side road where I was stopped that I thought would get me up the course but in this mountainous terrain it turned into a path after reaching a tiny village a mile away, so I had to return to the jurisdiction of the ornery flic. I chose to eat and rest until the caravan came, then start walking down the road to a town two miles away where I could go off on side roads.  

I had a great haul from the caravan with so few competitors in this remote area and I was perfectly positioned on a bend so the tossers could see me well in advance and have an item ready to toss. I was the perfect customer for the drink mix, so two of the mini-floats bequeathed me with their product. It was the same back in the days of “L’Equipe.” They weren’t just randomly given out, but given to likely readers. I also was the beneficiary of half a dozen packets of biscuits and the full array of keychains as well as a scarf and another car sun screen.

I wasn’t sure how advisable it was for me to be expending energy for 45 minutes in the hot sun walking my bike, but it did end up saving me half an hour when I was finally able to begin riding and got me within five miles of the finish.  When I resumed riding I was able to appropriate three course markers before anyone else got to them.  Along the way I came to a small tent with a television set up by someone selling drinks and burgers.  I stood along with a cluster of others behind all those seated and watched Daryl Impey of South Africa outsprint his breakaway companion for the win.  The other 14 members of the huge breakaway group trickled in until the main peloton finished sixteen minutes later with no extra effort required with nothing at stake.  

It turned out to be one of the most lacklustre Bastille Day stages ever. Usually the organizers try to make it something special. Sometimes it’s up to the peloton to animate a stage, but after the spectacular stage of the day before, it was content to go into holding pattern. There was a Category One early in the stage, a genuine leg-breaker. It was just two miles long, but had an average grade of eleven per cent with stretches of fifteen and thirteen. When I rode it the evening before the road had already been blocked to traffic other than locals. It was too narrow anyway for camping cars to park along it. I wasn’t rewarded with a descent as it was just a straight-up climb to the Massif Central.

There was lots of climbing to come and cooler temperatures as well, into the 50s that day. I awoke with a heavy dew on my tent and even the course markers I’d left outside my tent. I didn’t welcome the extra weight of a wet rain fly in this terrain.

Having scouted out Brioude on my way to Cannes I knew of some rare electric outlets in the town center across from the Toilette Publique. I never would have found either of them amongst the mobs partaking of all the entertainment.

I sacrificed another half hour eating and charging and taking advantage of the rare civic WIFI. It was 32 miles over hilly terrain to the next stage start in St. Flour with the equivalent of three Category Three climbs.  It took me nearly two hours to complete the first ten-mile climb which ended in a small town with another of those great French amenities, a free overnight camping spot for camping vans with a rest room.  Tenters aren’t officially welcome, but it was 9:15, so I decided to make it m campsite for the night.  I hunted for an electric outlet, but those are rarely provided, nor mirrors in the bathrooms.  This one did supply toilet paper, something that campgrounds for a fee don’t always offer.

I’d only made it halfway to St. Flour, and I knew more climbing awaited me.  It might take me two hours to ride the remaining sixteen hours.i would make it before the caravan departed at 10:15, but there would be no getting down the road ahead of them.  I could follow an alternate route that would put me back on the course 23 miles into the Stage.  I’d arrive at the finish in Albi the next day, but it was a Rest Day, so I could set out ahead of the peloton on its next stage to Toulouse.  All is well, and as Alaphilippe and Pinot are saying, “The legs are good.”