Stage Twenty

 

With just one stage remaining in this grand spectacle, sponsors giving away merchandise seemed quite eager to get rid of whatever remained of what they’ve been giving away.  It almost seemed that this was the last stage for some, or that they didn’t wish to transport anything to Paris, three hundred miles away.  E. Lecterc was handing out Polka Dot hats and jerseys by the bushel, as many as one wanted. 

The same with the reflective bands Ecosystem was giving out.  They were slapping one on both wrists and ankles of any kid who came by their booth.  A guy was forcing small cups of coffee on anyone who ventured near his stand under the Giant Screen just past the starting ramp.

The TV broadcast yesterday lingered on someone dressed as Santa Claus along the stage route.  The Tour is Christmas wherever it ventures passing out goodies to one and all, and making them very happy.

I spent a good part of the day meandering the several blocks before and after the starting ramp.  Cavendish was the third rider down the ramp, with the order of last to first of the 142 remaining riders.  He was so relaxed he didn’t immediately curl into the tuck that all the serious contenders contort themselves into, but actually sat up to give a wave to the cheering crowd.  The American flag hanging over the barrier, was the first I’d seen all Tour.  Froome, who once thrived on the time trials, came six riders after Czvendish and didn’t garner a peep from the crowd.

There were four tents preceding the start ramp that the riders past by.  At the first their bike was weighed and measured.

The next tent was a waiting area where two or three sat at a time awaiting their turn to proceed to the starting ramp. Then they passed by a tent dispensing extra nutrition by a Tour sponsor and a tent with bottles of Vittel water, another sponsor. I didn’t see a single rider avail himself of any, as they would have been well-stocked back at their team bus.

I found myself by a reporter for NBC, who I didn’t recognize, looking for a story.  He seemed very harried talking to a producer through his microphone.

There was no shade to sit or stand under by the Giant Screen, a necessity on this hot and cloudless day, so I only gave it periodic glimpses, simply to get a dose of the hunched over riders out among the grapes.

On my ride in from my campsite this morning I noticed a configuration of bike wheels painted purple forming a bunch of grapes with a full bike painted green atop.  I had ridden right past it the day before.  It is a strong contender for the most clever decoration of this year’s Tour.

Before the first rider was off a little after one, I verified my route to the train station.  It was good that I did as more streets were blocked than I anticipated, some lined with team buses. 

The dozens of gendarmes, who would be preceding each rider as they went down the course,  were fueling up themselves.  They are another example of the immensity of this production.  

And the more serious gendarmes were on patrol as well, with fingers on the trigger.

With my train leaving almost an hour before Pogacar hit the course, I ventured to the train station plenty early.  It didn’t matter as I managed to miss my train anyway.  I was on the platform, hauling my loaded bike down and then up stairs to reach it, fifteen minutes before the train was due in.

My ticket listed the number of the car I was to board and my seat number.  On previous trains I’ve taken the numbers on the cars were quite bold and large.  I saw no numbers on the cars of this TGV so I went in search of a bike emblem.  I was halfway down the platform and finally came upon a conductor.  He told me my car was up at the front.  Still I saw no numbers, they were so small and faint.  

There were still lots of people on the platform, so I presumed they were taking their time boarding, and I needn’t panic.  But no, they were waiting for another train and before I finally detected my car number the doors had closed and my train to Paris was off without me.  It was almost as awful a feeling as having one’s bike stolen.  I was in big trouble of finding another train to Paris, 300 miles away, that had space for my bike.  Ralph had to leave yesterday because he couldn’t find one, or at least a direct.  

The ticket agent couldn’t find me a train with space for a bike for two days, though she wasn’t adept at all at linking together a series of locals, which Ralph managed to do in no time when I alerted him that he wouldn’t be seeing me tonight.  I had to book the trains on my own, after taking a train to Bordeaux, just twenty minutes away, where I had many more options than from Libourne.  There were no ticket agents on duty there, just machines.  If the agent in Libourne had been competent at all, she would have sent me to Angeloume, as I ended up doing from Bordeaux, and then on to Poiters and Tours, a total of four legs with several hours between each.

When I arrived in Bordeaux I learned that Van Aert took the time trial, for his second stage win along with Ventoux.  Vingegaard showed he too has diamonds in his legs and proved that he is most worthy of the second step on the podium, coming in third, thirty-two seconds back, while Pogacar didn’t dig deeper than necessary finishing eighth, fifty-seconds down, comfortably over five minutes ahead in the overall, the largest margin in years.   Oh, where art though Roglic.  It would have been much tighter if he hadn’t had to abandon. 

On my 90-minute transit from Bordeaux to Angeloume Ralph emailed and said there was a TGV arriving in Angeloume fifteen minutes after my train and continuing on to Paris.  He noticed there were seats available but no space for a bike.  He suggested I ask the station agent on the platform if he might let me on, as he has had luck doing.  And miracle of miracles, this agent said to go ahead and get on the first car where the bikes were.  He could have easily cried “Impossible,” as the French stereotype might be, but this man had a heart and consideration.  He certainly saved my day.  I thought I was going to have to find a hotel in Angeloume before the nine a.m. train to Poiters the next day I’d already booked. 

The two bike spaces were taken so I crammed my bike in the space in front of the rest room.  When the conductor came by to check tickets after we were underway, she didn’t seem alarmed at all by my ticket for an earlier train to Paris, and just said to squeeze my bike in with the other two.  She too defied the French stereotype of being a stickler for rules. The German couple who were with the bikes were most accommodating and just sighed that agents often book an extra bike in case one of those booked didn’t show up.  So I’ll arrive in Paris at eleven instead of eight, but certainly greatly relieved to be arriving at all.