Stage Six

 

After biking twelve miles to Luçay-Le-Mâle I spent the rest of the day, from nine until five, in this quintessential French town with Yvon and Colette partaking of a town barbecue and all the bonhomie, as we awaited the Stage Six intermediate sprint across from the city hall.  Yvon, my French Tour de France big brother, my elder by four years, drove from Mulhouse for our annual Tour de France rendezvous. 

Not only did my all day sojourn allow me to dry out all my gear, I met the most genial mayor, who helped me connect to the city hall WIFI, gathered a nice sampling from the caravan, appropriated course markers for Yvon and myself and had a most restful day playing audience to Yvon’s great-friendly, ever-frisky nature engaging all, from the gendarmes to any local who ventured within our sphere.  

The Tour coming to any town is a major event and a great excuse for a community gathering.  Town officials, including the mayor, were garbed in t-shirts marking the
day and taking group photos here and there.

The striking city hall had originally been a hospital and still bore the engraving.  It overlooked the arch erected over the road for the stage’s intermediate sprint, a key point in any day’s stage. 

The sponsor of the sprint competition, Skoda, had representatives passing out t-shirts, delighting anyone who got one.

Many instantly put them on over whatever they were wearing.

The barbecue in a park along The Tour route began a little after noon.  That gave me time to dry out all my gear and catch up with Yvon and connect to the internet and to scout out the route for course markers.  I also dropped in on the town pharmacy to buy Janina some French mosquito repellant that works better than any she has found.

There was a large crowd around the tent where sausages and French fries were being cooked.  Our ten euro meal also included a choice of  beer or coke and an ice cream cone. Another tent harbored Iong communal tables packed with conviviality. A woman sitting besides us wanted her picture taken with Yvon and me, she was so enraptured by our sixteen-year friendship.

The caravan wasn’t due until 2:30,  but all were eager to take up a position along the road.  Some only had to open their window, as the peloton would zip within inches past their home.

The Tour draws the old and the young.

I succeeded in pouncing on the first few offerings of the caravan, knowing to stand back, as the items jettisoned from it are rarely caught and end up on the ground behind everyone hugging the road.  

People soon caught on, but I still gathered a fair sampling—mini-packages of candy, cookies, detergent and sausages, a key chain and a reflective wrist band and a hat.  At least two sponsors were tossing pencils, something new, as in the past Bic had been among the sponsors giving out a nice pack of pens.  The only items I missed that would have made for a nice souvenir were shopping bags with The Tour logo.  Since the French all bring their own bags to the supermarket, that may have been the most useful item being dispensed.

It took half an hour for the well-spaced caravan to pass with the Vittel water sponsor bringing up the rear, cooling everyone off after all the frenzy.

It was more than an hour before a squadron of five helicopters with the television cameras appeared in the distance.   A guy with a radio beside us reported the Belgian Olympic gold medal winner Greg Van Avermaet and Roger Kluge were part of a two man breakaway less than a minute ahead of the peloton.  They flew past us engulfed by gendarmes on motorcycles so fast one couldn’t even make out their facial features.  

Just seconds later the sprinters bore down on us just fifty meters from the sprint line.  Cavendish in green was by far the most hunched over and aerodynamic, one of the keys to his success.  He didn’t give it all here, finishing fifth among this bunch, just ahead of Sagan, earning nine more points in the Sprint competition that he is leading.  

When the rest of the peloton came gliding past, not exerting themselves for the sprint, Van der Poel in Yellow was near the rear staying out of trouble.

An hour later in Chateauroux, where Cavendish had won the previous two times The Tour had finished there, he prevailed, continuing his storybook Tour.  The only thing that could top it is if Froome somehow managed to find his legs to win a stage in the mountains, a veritable miracle.  This four-time winner of The Tour, and perhaps the highest paid rider in the peloton, is presently in 167th place, ahead of just ten riders.  He’s showing great courage to be riding in such ignominy, far from recovered from his horrific accident two years ago.

We heard the news of Cavendish’s triumph on the radio as we drove to Chateauroux, where Yvon had a hotel and I’d stay at the campgrounds.  I had considered biking to Vierzon, the next stage start and connect with Yvon again along the route, but that was too complicated, especially since it was The Tour’s longest stage, over 150 miles, meaning it would start early making it difficult for Yvon to get anywhere near the route in his car.   

It was an ordeal driving to Chateauroux as we had interminable waits in the long line of camping cars.  Streets were still blocked all over Chateauroux making it well nigh impossible for Yvon to reach the campgrounds.  He finally dropped me off two miles away and I easily biked the rest of the way around barriers blocking motorized traffic.  On the drive in we passed dozens of Tour personnel disassembling the twenty and fifteen and ten kilometer to the finish arches and various barriers and strands of advertising.  It truly takes an army to put on this highly organized mega-event.  

My legs will have another day of rest tomorrow as we drive to Autun, thirty miles from the stage finish, where we’ll catch another glimpse of the peloton and engage in that fairly large city’s festivities.