Stage Nine

  

My day unfolded just as I hoped it would.  The Intermarché in Felletin, twenty miles into  my ride, was open on this Sunday morning, the terrain leveled a bit and I came upon  my dream scenario for watching the Stage—a small town making a festival of The Tour with tents serving food and music and, most importantly,  a large screen for everyone to gather around and watch the action.  I’d actually passed two such towns, but both came too early to stop.  The third came after I’d ridden fifty miles and was within an hour of the road being closed.

The peloton had already set out and a breakaway of a fourteen riders, including two Americans, had established itself.  The peloton was letting them build up a big enough lead that the day’s winner could well be among them.  The peloton was without Cavendish, as he was involved in an innocuous crash near the back of the pack the day before with less than forty miles left on the stage and broke his collarbone.  It was a horrible way to end his Tour and maybe his career and a heartbreaking loss for all, as he had invigorated interest in The Tour going for that record 35th win.  His team boss, the former Kazakhstan rider Vinokourov, said he hoped Cavendish would reconsider his plans to retire.  

And there was more heartbreak today when the American Matteo Jorgensen, who had made a bold attack from the breakaway group twenty-five miles from the finish, ran out of gas in the final kilometer and was overtaken by Woods of Canada and the Israeli team.  It was a crushing moment when he had all the glory of a win on this mythic mountain snatched from him.

For awhile it looked as if Americans might finish one-two on the premier stage of this year’s Tour reintroducing the Puy after a thirty-five year absence.  What a story that would have been.   Powless in the polka-dot jersey was in a group of three trying to catch Jorgensen.   But Powless faltered, as did his fellow countryman.  

The Woods/Jorgenson saga epitomized the ecstasy of victory and the agony of defeat.  Jorgenson had had the camera all to himself for miles and looked as if he’d achieve immortality joining the elite pantheon of winners on this iconic climb, only the thirteenth time it had appeared in The Tour since its first inclusion in 1952.  But he had it pulled out from under him, not only losing out to Woods, but finishing fourth.

The drama of it upstaged the anticipated Battle Royale between Vingegaard and Poçachar tackling the climb ten minutes after the breakaway group.  The two of them did ride away from everyone else.  Poçachar initiated an attack less than two kilometers from the summit.  He didn’t leave Vingegaard in the dust as he had on Stage Six,  but he did open a gap Vingegaard couldn’t close, crossing the finish line seven seconds after Poçachar,  retaining the Yellow Jersey by seventeen seconds.  So the peloton goes into the first of its two rest days with nothing settled other than it’s a two-man race.  The next big showdown comes in four days on Stage Thirteen on Bastille Day which culminates with a long climb up the Grand Colombiere.

This was my first dalliance with the caravan other than at the finish line when they’ve often exhausted their giveaways and only have waves and smiles for the crowd.  If I’d been intent on gathering tat I would have left the crowd by the big screen and ventured a few blocks away where the crowds weren’t so thick, but I knew this caravan didn’t have much of interest, so I lingered where I was and let everyone else scramble for what was being tossed.

I stepped up to the barriers when the two sponsors came giving away canned drinks and was able to snatch one from each—an Orangina and a strawberry/rhubarb drink,  both slightly cool, which I downed on the spot.  I wasn’t desperate for fluid, as The Tour had provided an apparatus with four spigots that was attached to a main valve providing the town with water, another of the many examples of how well organized this mega event is. And that water was coming out cold.  

More than half the crowd left after the caravan passed, as it would be an hour before the peloton arrived.  I could sit and watch the screen with fewer people standing in front of me.  

I managed to get a shot of the Polka Jersey when it sped past and the Yellow Jersey too twelve minutes later.

 

With no French riders in contention there were no cheers or allezs from the crowd, though it stood in rapt attention, probably more focused than if they’d been at home with it maybe on the television and maybe not.  This was a more intimate community gathering than the crowds drawn to the finish line who come from all over. 

I had the option when I came to the town with the screen of taking a shortcut to the Puy de Dome, where I could have been among the mobs at the base of the climb and where the official Giant Screen had been erected, as no fans were allowed up the narrow road to the tiny summit of the dormant volcano.  I was glad I had opted for this more welcoming setting, the screen erected in front of the butcher shop rather than on top of a massive truck along a road.  This was another Vive La France experience.   

With a rest day for the peloton on tap I’ll ride a bit of the next stage and then cut over to the stage after that and once again be two stages ahead and giving my legs some respite not having to ride all day for a couple of days only being able to enjoy the countryside.  I was wondering if the peloton today was able to take pleasure in the narrow backroads it rode for the first two-thirds of the stage since they weren’t really racing, just saving themselves for the climb at the end.  The scenery and the ordinarily quiet roads were certainly sublime.