Stage Thirteen

 

I was able to enjoy the full flavor of The Tour today riding the last fifty miles of the stage, gaining a heady injection of Tour fervor from those encamped along the way, and then further heightening it after joining the throngs at the stage finish watching the peloton on the Giant Screen charging their way to us.  Every person brought the thrill of Tour Day, as if they were attending a much anticipated sporting event or rock concert or family gathering.  

As the kilometers count down on the Giant Screen of the peloton’s arrival the anticipation heightens.  And when that moment finally arrives when the peloton appears down the barricaded route, one can’t but feel an instant swelling of glee, and then, a few instants later, the glee truly erupts as they fly by.  All the while, one darts one’s gaze from the screen to reality, back and forth so quickly there is a danger of dislocating one’s eyeballs. It doesn’t seem fair that the peloton doesn’t pause for a bow to the thousands cheering them, but they are only focused on one thing, getting as much power out of their legs to get to that finish line before anyone else.

Cavendish’s teammates had everything under control over the final kilometers of the stage, leading the peloton at such a fast pace no one was going to shoot around them and prevent a sprint.  It seemed like such a foregone conclusion that Cavendish would win for the fourth time this Tour, that there was fear he might take it for granted himself and not give that all-out effort required to win.  But he prevailed, tieing Eddie Merckx for the most Tour wins with 34.  With two of the remaining seven stages most likely ending in sprints, the question is will he raise the record to 35 or 36.

Ralph and I were surrounded by fans of every type.  There was an older French gent who dug out his Yellow sweater for the occasion despite the near 90 degree heat that had his dog taking advantage of the shade he provided.

Nearby was a clan of four young British fans all decked out in Ineos jerseys with a red stripe down the back.

A cluster of nurses, who had been administering vaccinations in stalls set up nearby, took time out to watch the finish.  

Earlier there had been the usual unbridled joy of getting stuff from the caravan.

It’s a wonder there aren’t injuries from the scramble.

The day was also highlighted by spotting the Devil for the first time, riding past him, or at least his van, along the route.  It was too early for him to take the stage, so he wasn’t out and about yet.  I hadn’t noticed him on any of the telecasts of The Race, so feared he hadn’t made it, perhaps suffering a relapse of the malady that caused him to miss The Race  a few years ago.  Johan Bruyneel had actually taken a question on a podcast of someone wondering if Didi was at The Race this year.  Bruyneel said he didn’t know, as he hadn’t noticed him either, and mentioned too that he knew he’d missed a Tour a few years ago with medical issues and hoped he hadn’t had a recurrence.

He is such a Tour fixture, the tv producers don’t wish him to overshadow the racers and try to avoid him.  They could easily include him if they wished, as he makes his presence known with a series of pitchforks painted on the road culminating with the painting of his signature bicycle across the road where he is stationed.  The aerial cameras could easily spot him and warn the producers of his presence, especially as he is always towards the end of the stage where the action is heating up.

Ralph and I were closing in on Carcassone by one o’clock.  Gendarmes had taken up their posts at intersections at noon.  Signs warned the route would be closed from two o’clock until five-thirty, so the gendarmes didn’t seem to prevent a threat to kick us off the route. They were all in casual mode, not yet taking on an authoritarian, hostile bent.  It was too much to hope we could make it all the way to the finish. At some point, usually around 500 meters to go, there are gendarmes who get to wield their power.  Today that point came two kilometers from the finish with a pair of gendarmes giving that well-choreographed gesture of “turn away.” It almost felt like an honor to have it bestowed on us. 

There was no reason to feel upset or frustrated that we couldn’t ride any further on the course,  as there was loads of time to take an alternate route to the finish.  And time enough to scout out the Giant Screen and to find a supermarket and to fill water bottles and also relax at the train station along the finishing stretch to take advantage  of it’s WiFi and electricity.  All was well with the world and especially since we could repeat our Giant Screen ecstasy the next day, as the Ville Arrivée, Quillan, was just thirty-three miles south taking the direct route rather than the circuitous one of 115 miles over five Pyrenean passes that the peloton would take.  It will make for a welcome semi-rest day after over six thousand feet of climbing the previous two days.