Stage Eight

The Tour isn't such a national obsession that in the month of July every television in every bar is tuned to The Race and has a cluster of locals glued to the sets cheering all the action as I hoped would be the case when I first came to France to bike The Tour ten years ago.  I'm told that would only happen if a French rider was contending for the title, an event that last occurred nearly thirty years ago during the days of Hinault.

The second bar I attempted today in Montpon after the first one had no television was showing women's tennis from Wimbldon.  A group of guys playing pool didn't seem to be paying any attention, but when I asked if the set could be tuned to The Tour, they said not until the match was over. What kind of men are these, I wondered.  I was glad to get out of that bar.  Luckily Montpon was a three-bar town and the third bar was empty save for the bartender and he happily put on The Tour. It was the place to be, as he only charged me one euro for my menthe à l'eau, which is usually 1.60 or higher.  The bar tender on the day I lost Glenn frowned at me for wanting to use his electricity to charge my iPad, charged me 2.50.  Never before have I been charged more than two. 

There were only thirty-five kilometers left in the stage, but most of those were climbing miles.  The peloton was half-way up the Col de Pailheres, a beyond category climb, and then had a descent and then a climb to the finish at the ski resort of Ax 3 Domaines.  Riders were strewn all along the course, so it took a little while to figure out who stood where, other than that a pack of Sky riders with team leader Froome safely tucked in was speeding after a string of break away riders.  On the final climb they were all caught and Sky could get down to business with Froome's climbing specialist teammate, Richie Porte, one of the eleven Australian riders in the field making his presence felt, leading the way.  Riders were now dropping left and right.  Evans and Schleck were gone and so was the Garmin contingent.  The announcers kept waiting for Contador to be next, repeating time after time that he looked like he was in trouble.  

Three miles from the summit, Froome finally launched his attack, coming off Porte's wheel.  No one could respond.  As he flew up the slope the announcers were hyperventilating at his efforts.  "He's a machine," one gushed.  Porte kept going strong, finishing second 51 seconds behind Froome and ending the day second overall with Froome taking over the Yellow Jersey that he will no doubt hold for the next two weeks until Paris.  And Porte was impressive enough that it may be another Sky one-two Tour domination as last year with Wiggins and Froome.

Evans is no longer relevant finishing over four minutes down, now in 23rd.  It had to be a glum dinner table at the BMC hotel last night, as Van Gardener, the American who finished fifth last year, had a disastrous day losing over twelve minutes.  The great American hope was at the Garmin dinner table last night, the rookie Talanksy who sits in 12th place just ahead of his Irish teammate Martin, both within three minutes of Froome, and good threats to crack the top ten.  

It will be another exciting stage tomorrow through a series of category one climbs.  It will further sort out the standings.  The racing will be full-tilt and hell-bent, as the next day is a rest day.  No one will have to save himself, as they might have been today.

I was among those who didn't have as good a day as I would have liked.  I need to average 110 miles the next three days to meet up with the peloton after its rest day.  I only managed 102 miles, thwarted by fifty miles of unrelenting hills.  I got off to an encouraging start, able to glide along with minimal effort on relatively flat terrain.  I had visions of a 120-mile day, but after fifty miles the terrain turned harshly hilly.  The town names, a series of Monts (Montpon, Montguyon, Montrendre) gave a clue as to what I was up against. My average speed plummeted and my energy expenditure soared. 

I only managed to put in eight-and-a-half hours on the bike when I had hoped for at least nine, hitting the road  at 7:30 and riding until nine. I could have ridden until dark and met my goals, but the ninety degree heat and riding directly into the setting sun the last couple of hours made me decide to save myself for the next two days. I also lost time  in a jammed supermarket.  When I walked in and saw the typical Saturday shopping mob lined up at the cash registers, I wanted to walk out.  But it was nearly noon and it was the first supermarket I had come to.  I was late in getting my 850-ml yogurt drink into me, also effecting my riding efficiency.  

 At least I can be happy that I don't have to average 130 miles a day, a near impossibility, as I would have had I not gotten a lift from Yvon out of Albi.  As we sped along I marveled that even entombed in a car, the countryside was enchantingly beautiful.  We were driving the same roads Andrew and I had biked a month ago.  All the familiar sites gave me a jolt of joy--the spot across some railroad tracks just off the main road alongside a creek where we took a half hour break and only two cars drove past,  the cemetery with a water faucet in a far corner that took some exploring to find, the turn we missed just after a tunnel,  looking down on our campsite in a striking gorge and on and on.  And the familiar memories keep coming as I retrace our route trying to do in three days what took us four-and-a-half.

Stage Seven

When I saw a bright yellow course marker at an intersection up ahead and turned onto The Tour route at noon yesterday for the final fifteen miles of Stage Seven into Albi five hours ahead of the peloton, I was instantly welcomed back to that never-never land of Tour bliss with the road lined by fans already well-settled into their little nirvana for the day.  I was back in the midst of people fulfilling their dream and their duty, doing their part to make The Tour the grand event that it is.  I was immediately uplifted by the swelling of  joy and contentment radiated by all.

Even though they might be encamped along a road, it is a day in the country for them and a day that ranks with their happiest days of the year.

Not only were they honoring their great national institution, they were also partaking of their great national  pastime--the "pique-nique."

There are frequent picnic tables along the road, and a variety of signs announcing them.  There is the standard picture of the picnic table.  And also a more creative one of a picnic basket with a bottle of wine poking out.

Among the many allures of The Tour de France, the opportunity for a picnic is high among them.  Not everyone comes equipped with their own portable picnic table.  Some just spread a blanket out along the road and others just find a spot to plop down.

All are in a festive mood. It is so palpable and contagious, it hangs thick in the air. I never have tired legs biking past all the celebrants.  I hardly even feel the bike as my spirit is lofted even higher than the bike usually lofts it by this corridor of joyful camaraderie.  This is the true essence of The Tour, what I have been missing the past few days while I rode a day ahead of the peloton.

I have also missed the many manifestations of Tour Love.  The bright and colorfully decorated round-about just before Albi could be seen from half a mile away.

Just past the round-about, a large franchise store had mounted an eye-catching array of decorations as if it were Christmas, which is how many regard the day The Tour comes to town.

Meeting up with Yvon further heightened the euphoria that swept over me reconnecting with The Tour.  He had driven down from Degagnac, almost 100 miles north, the day before and had thoroughly scouted Albi's Tour layout.  He found a place to park his van so we could make a quick getaway and knew which side of the barriers was the best place to view the giant screen.  We met up as planned at the tourist office at 1:30 and then biked the final three kilometers of the course.  It was already thick with fans.

We found a place of shade for our bikes and a slice of shade to park ourselves for the next three-and-a-half hours of watching all the action on the course just short of the finish line.

Yvon immediately began chatting with a couple of fellow Tour fanatics of our vintage.  They were locals who could have been at home in the comfort of their living rooms waiting a couple hours more until the caravan arrived, but they wished to partake of all the festivities.  I struck up a conversation with a retired South African geologist who was witnessing The Tour for the first time and celebrating the first time a South African was wearing the Yellow Jersey.

The peloton had been at it for nearly two hours and was approaching the toughest climb of the day, a category two.  The green Cannondale team was leading the charge up the climb, trying to shed Sagan's sprinting rivals.  They were succeeding.  Cavendish was soon a minute behind and losing even more time, even though today he was flanked by several teammates unlike yesterday.  The motorcycle cameras only searched out Cavendish among those falling off, but Sagan's other sprint rivals, Greipel and Kittel were among them.  

Sagan's Cannondale teammates maintained the hard pace on the descent and for the final 90 minutes of the stage, putting in a most formidable performance.  The peloton had split in two.  The sprinters' group eventually finished fifteen minutes after Sagan, who finally won a stage, greatly increasing his lead in the Green Jersey Competion.  Cavendish led the also rans across the finish line, riding at such a relaxed pace it was possible to capture a picture of him as he sped by us at course side.

Not among them was the luckless Christian, who suffered his second crash of The Race, this was early in the stage.  He'd been struggling to survive the last two stages from his injuries.  This crash did him in.  With luck he will recover in time to defend his title in the Colorado Pro Challenge in the middle of August and help Garmin win. the Team Time Trial World Championships later in Florence.  When I emailed him my best wishes after learning of his misfortune, he was in good enough spirits to reply almost immediately, which hasn't always been the case over the years when he has been injured out of a race.  He is the second American to abandon. The other was Ben King of Cannondale.  That leaves just four Americans--Talansky and Danielson of Garmin and Bookwalter and Van Gardener of BMC.

Stage Six

It was no challenge finding a bar in la Cavalerie.  As the name implies, it is a military town by a huge  base up on a relatively barren high plateau.  I have fond memories of the base despite the long, hard climb to reach it, as Craig and I camped in one of its forested areas a few years ago on our ride to Mont-Saint-Michel despite signs warning that it was a target range.  There was no ordnance laying about so we had no qualms of making it a campsite.

And I can now associate more fond memories with it having watched an hour of The Tour de France at one of its many bars.  It wasn't a particularly dramatic stage, as the winds were too fierce, as I can attest, for a breakaway to form, the peloton riding in one huge cluster spread across the road, rather than strung out as it usually is.

The sprint finish though was a classic, with the four heavy-weights going toe to toe.  Cavendish, the reigning champ took it to the chin, staggering in fourth, heightening the suspense of all the sprints to come, proving he's vulnerable despite yesterday's easy win making all the others look like chumps.  Today it was Greipel's turn to look invincible, earning his first win this year, after three at last year's Tour.  Greipel is a literal heavyweight compared to the diminutive Cavendish.  Sagan despite being in the green jersey was thwarted again from a win coming in second.  Kittel, who won the first stage sprint was third.  Cavendish had  some justifiable excuses.  He crashed towards the end of the stage and his team radios weren't working so none of his teammates could drop back and help him regain the peloton.  Evidently he hasn't fully bonded with his new Belgium team, as he ought to have a couple teammates shepherding him and tending to his needs at all times.  He is the team's bread ticket. Also, he received no lead-out as he did the day before from his team, as they had all expended themselves.  They will all be seeking redemption in today's rematch to Albi, the last sprinter's stage if the rolling terrain hasn't done them in before the peloton hits the Pyrenees the next day.

And I will regain the peloton in Albi myself, and equally exciting is I will meet up with Tour fanatic, the ever-exuberant Yvon.  He's driving down from Degagnac, sixty miles away,  for his annual Tour homage. He'll be able to give me a ride back to Degagnac making a most important and crucial dent in the 400 miles I have to cover in three days up to Brittany, a hop the peloton will be making by air after its two days in the Pyrenees. Thanks to Yvon I will be able to partake of all the festivities in Albi and watch the finish live.  If not for his transport I'd have to leave as soon as I arrived around noon to keep piling up the miles. 

My legs ought to be able to manage it as long as the winds aren't as pesky as they were today, holding my average speed to ten miles per hour and just 85 miles for the day.  I was still able to get within 35 miles of Albi, so that was okay.  I was just hoping to get a little further down the road so I could swing down and camp along the stage seven route into Albi last night.  Yesterday was the first day I did not ride any portion of The Tour route, though I had the flavor of being on the route the last couple hours of the day when a steady procession of Tour vehicles (press and sponsors and officials) drove by making their transfer from the stage finish in Montpelier to the stage finish in Albi, many greatly exceeding the speed limit.

I know my legs are welll-conditioned, as they hardly noticed some of the milder hills the last couple of days that gave them a strain five weeks ago when I previewed the route with Andrew after two weeks at Cannes.  I can easily ride a couple of hours at a stretch without wanting a break.  More frustrating than the wind yesterday was not finding a strong enough Internet connection to upload my report for the day.  I fiddled in so many different ways I ended up deleting it and having to rewrite it at the end of the day when I should have been sleeping.  At least I had one of my favorite places to camp, in a field of rolled bales of hay.

Stage Five

Riding The Tour route on a loaded touring bike may be a slightly absurd undertaking, but it is perfectly sane compared to what six possible alien beings are attempting to do on a warped version of a bicycle.  They are riding the route on something that is a cross between a skate board and a draissine, a scooter-like vehicle dreamed up by Baron Draissine of Germany in 1816, that eventually evolved into the bicycle.  Their version is a skateboard with mini-bicycle wheels and handlebars with brakes.  It looks like it was designed by someone on a different planet who didn't have a full understanding of what he was trying to replicate.  And their goofy garb completed their other-worldly appearance.

When this sextet of riders passed Glenn and I while we were taking a break early on the stage route out of Aix-en-Provence, we weren't sure what we had just seen.  I thought maybe it was a stunt dreamed up by David Letterman or Saturday Night Live, but they had no accompanying camera crew. They were so strangely perplexing, I next listened for sirens of men coming with nets to capture these strange creatures.

Glenn and I quickly wrapped up our break and sped after them.  They were maintaining a decent speed and it took us a couple miles to catch them.  We lingered behind trying to hear how they might be communicating, but the only sound they were emitting was their shoes pushing off on the pavement, three times with one leg and then three times with the other.  They weren't quite synchronized, but nearly so. 

A while after we passed them we came upon two support vehicles awaiting them along the road, one a car with German license plates and the other a van with Czech plates and a map of France with the route of The Tour on its backside and above it the words "Kick France."

I realized that Skippi and I had spoken with one of these guys on the ferry.  He told us they were riding something they called "kick bikes."  Skippi asked if they had any sponsor or if they were doing it to promote something or for a cause.  He didn't seem to understand the question.  He just said they were filing regular reports for Czech public radio.  Skippi  asked him if he would mention that the Czech para-Olympians need support, as they receive very little funding.

This wasn't the only group riding The Tour route one day ahead of the peloton.  There is also an entourage of twenty guys riding under the sponsorship of FDJ, one of the French Tour de France teams.  They were preceded by two motorcycles and followed by several support vehicles.  The cyclists were riding double file at twenty miles per hour.  They were taking up a long stretch of road and had quite a back-up of vehicles behind them trying to get around.

I felt sorry for both of these groups, as they were hardly experiencing The Tour de France,  even though they may be riding its route.  There may be a few banners and decorations up and barriers and bales of hay waiting to be put in place the next day and course markers in place, but without the roadside filled with picnicking fans this wasn't what The Tour is.  The excitement and enthusiam of the thousands of fans all along the route  truly electrifies the event.  It is a day they greatly look forward to and that they will always remember.

I tried not to dwell too much on what I was missing having to ride a day ahead of the peloton for several days.  Instead I could share many of my memories with Glenn and also visualize the peloton as they were speeding along well behind us and look forward to watching the end of the day's stage on television.

We thought we might seek out a bar when we reached Nimes, but we arrived at three, a little too early to stop riding, pressed as we were to maximize our time on the bikes needing to ride one hundred miles or more a day.  But after Nimes there was just a series of villages for over twenty miles that were somewhat iffy whether they'd have a bar.  The first we tried at 4:30 was a maze of medieval streets.  Glenn and I managed to get separated.  I found a bar that was also a tobacco and newspaper store.  It had one lone table out front and no television.  But they had the good news that there was a bar in a town five kilometers up the road in the direction we were headed.  I told the proprietor I had a companion that could turn up and to tell him where I had gone.  First I made a quick swing back to the small town center, but still no Glenn.

There was no time to lose, with the stage most likely ending in less than twenty minutes.  I easily found the modern, glassy bar in the next village, but it wasn't open that afternoon.  This looked like it would be just the fourth time in my ten years of following The Tour that I had missed watching its finish.  At least I had an iPad.  I went to the cyclingnews website for its minute-by-minutes updates.  It had the startling news that the peloton was still 25  kilometers from the finish.  Evidently they'd had headwinds or just weren't riding as hard as usual.  I hopped back on my bike and made a dash for the next village.  Like the other two it was a half mile off the highway.  At the intersection was a bar/restaurant.  There were no cars out front, but inside the bar tender was sitting on a bar stool watching The Race, a veritable miracle.  The peloton was ten kilometers, less than fifteen minutes, from the finish.  I left my bike on prominent display out front for Glenn to spot and settled in for the inevitable sprint.  And as anticipated Mark Cavendish notched his first win of this year 's Tour, blasting by his lead-out man and making it look easy.

Glenn and I had set a goal of 110 miles for the day.  I continued riding until I reached our goal, a little ways beyond Ganges, where an abandoned quarry made for a nice quiet camp site.  Glenn wasn't there yet, nor did he arrive later. I learned later that he decided to head towards Montpelier rather than continue on with me to Albi.  We'd only intended on one more day together, as I'll be heading up to Brittany on my bike, while Glenn will take the train a couple days later.

We'll no doubt meet up there or somewhere else along the route.  It looks like he may have it in his legs to do it. He certainly didn't lag at all in our two days together.  If anything,  he may have been over exerting himself, expending energy he may need later.  But he's gained the confidence that he can last for two-and-a-half more weeks of hours and hours on the bike.  "I think I prepared pretty well," he said. "There's a saying, 'If you fail to prepare, be prepared to fail."

Stage Four

Objective number one for the day was to be in front of a TV set by three o'clock, about the time I presumed the Garmin team would be setting out on the fifteen-mile team time trial course  in Nice.  I was hoping to make it as far as the decent-sized town of Brignoles by then, as it would be sure to have a few bars with television sets.  It was about sixty miles from where I started my day.

Three hours and thirty-two miles into my day's riding I paused in the main plaza of Draguignan to search for a water spigot.  Instead of water I found Glenn the Englishman, the cyclist I met at the Nice bike shop the day before with four broken spokes.  He had left Nice immediately after replacing his wheel rather than sticking around to watch Stage Three on television as I had  and had gotten a bit further down the Stage Five route than I had.  He may have been better conditioned than I gave him credit for, even though he was clearly a neophyte at the touring, cycling with a hefty pack on his back.

Not only was a neophyte as a touring cyclist, he was a neophyte cyclist as well, having taken up cycling just a year ago, tired of the tedium of the gym for his workouts and hoping the bike could do more to control his weight.  He is a solid 200 pounder.  The cycling greatly agreed with him.  By November he was enjoying it so much he decided to ride The Tour route, even though he had never been a fan of the event, not even watching any of it last year when Wiggins captured the national attention, becoming the first Englishman to win it, such a big event that it earned him a knighthood.

Glenn is a self-employed thirty-year old accountant.  He put all the skills of an accountant into his preparations for riding The Tour.  He trained diligently riding the 120-mile coast-to-coast route across the UK five times,improving his time each time.  Nutrition was one of his concerns.  He brought along a good supply of electrolyte tablets. He was interested in my diet.  When I mentioned madeleines as one of my energy foods, he took a look at the ingredients and said, "These are perfect for a cyclist."  He tried one of mine, pronounced it most edible, and then bought a pound's worth at the next grocery store we stopped at.  

He knew from his research that French cemeteries were a good source for water, but had yet to stop at one.  Within an hour of our riding together he had a chance to sample his first and was pleased too at what an ideal wash-up opportunity it offered. It was a hot, near 90 degree day, so we were both in need of a good soaking.

He also knew that the course markers are up a day in advance on each stage, making it easy to follow.  We were ahead of the crew putting them up and expected them at any moment.  When we left the cemetery, there they were, the most pleasing of sites for us Tour followers.  Glenn had a Garmin GPS device mounted on his handlebars with The Tour routed programmed into it, so the course markers weren't an absolute necessity, but still they conveyed the thrill of being on the route.

Glenn was strong and eager enough that we reached Brignoles by 2:30, half an hour ahead of schedule and also due to me not taking a rest when I met him in Draguignan as I had planned.  He was all set to start riding, so I decided to join him for at least a spell despite having just ridden two-and-half hours non-stop through hilly terrain.  My legs were still rested from my previous light days, so they did not protest.  It was actually a good test for them and they were doing great.

Rather than stopping in Brignoles we decided to push on eight miles to Tournes to watch the time trial.  But first Glenn wanted to buy some food and then we took a wrong turn following the signs to Toulon rather than Tournes.  That set us back, delaying our arrival in Tournes until 3:30, half an hour after I wanted to be in front of a TV.  But we immediately found a bar with a television.  It had Wimbledon on. No one was watching it, so there was no problem switching to The Tour.  Moments after we had settled in the Garmin team was in the starting blocks.  What a relief not to have missed their half hour on the course.  With six or so teams on the course at a time, the cameras divided their attention among all of them, and they gave no more attention to Garmin than any other even though they were the defending time trial champs.  They were three seconds behind the best time at the half way mark and didn't make it up by the finish.  That was disappointing and meant we didn't necessarily need to watch the rest of The Race.  But we were in need of rest and food, so we made it a full ninety minute break.

Pushing on to Tournes also made it easier for reach Aix-en-Provence well before dark, my second prime objective for the day.  It is the Ville Départ for the sixth stage.  It was less than thirty miles away.  As we passed through it at eight pm my odometer hit 100 miles for the day.  Glenn's was at 88. He didn't have any necessity of hitting 100 for the day so was content to find a place to camp after we cleared the metropolis and its sprawl.

Thanks to his GPS device we had no problem picking up The Tour route out of town.  It followed a main boulevard for a while lined with majestic towering plane trees, some wrapped in cloth representing The Tour jerseys, a most gladdening site.

The town had also created a billboard celebrating The Tour.

It was another seven miles before we found a nice field with rolled bales of hay to camp in.  It had been another great day on the bike for both us.

Stage Three

The stunningly beautiful coastal scenery of Corsica, showcased around the world on Stage Three such as it has never been seen before with a non-stop array of helicopter aerial shots of the always hard-charging peloton as it snaked its way up and down and around precipitous cliff sides and embankments of forests, managed to upstage another day of all-out racing.

As I watched the early part of the day's action in a bike shop in Nice, the English-speaking owner commented, "Wow, it's more beautiful, than the Grand Canyon."

"I wouldn't go that far," I replied.  "I biked that road last week and I was thinking it was the most spectacular coastal road I've ever ridden.  And I've ridden along the Grand Canyon too and nothing compares to it."

"You might be right about that," he agreed, "But the Grand Canyon doesn't have a road through it."

"True enough," I said.

We were watching the racing on the shop computer as I replaced my rear tire.  I was eager to be done with it so I could find a bar with a large television to truly appreciate the majesty of the scenery and the racing.  Before I could be on my way an English cyclist showed up  who had just ferried over from Corsica as well.  He was trying to follow The Tour  but had broken four spokes on his first day in Corsica and couldn't find a shop open on the weekend in Corsica to repair his wheel.  Broken spokes also derailed the rookie efforts of Vincent the Australian and David the German, who I have shared three Tours with and  whose company I am missing.  This young, stocky English fellow was like many I've met over the years attempting to follow The Tour, very naive in the effort it will take and the training necessary to do it.  He has little touring experience even wearing a backpack along with his rear panniers.  I hope to see him down the road, but he is certain to be an early withdrawal. But he was thrilled by what he had seen of The Tour and was most excited to be doing something he had dreamed of doing. 

The bike shop owner couldn't recommend a bar to watch The Race.  It took me a little longer to find one than I expected as I biked down a main boulevard towards the Mediterranean.  When I saw a sign for the railroad station I turned off towards it though it wasn't the direction I needed to be going.  I was soon surrounded by cheap hotels, Internet cafes and small ethnic restaurants.  The first two small bars I stopped at didn't have televisions.  At the second one I was directed to a bar two blocks up and one block over that had just what I needed, a nice-sized wall-mounted flat screen.  The Tour wasn't on, but no one was paying attention to the music videos being shown.  A group of men were playing cards under the television, but they didn't bother me and The Tour didn't bother them.

Then I had two hours of racing bliss.  As on the first two stages the peloton was chasing a small break of riders, each grim-faced with the effort they were giving dreaming of having the greatest day of their life if they could hold off the peloton and shed their breakaway companions.  They were not simply racing, but committed to giving the greatest effort of their life for the greatest glory they could imagine. But the RadioShack teammates of the Yellow Jersey were equally committed to retaining the jersey and kept up a hard, steady pace leading the peloton.  They all came together at the end allowing for a new hero for the day, the veteran Australian Simon Gerrans who managed to just barely hold off the Slovak prodigy Peter Sagan.  The other top sprinters had all been shed much earlier in the day on the demanding climbs of the stage. 

The conditions were so perfect for racing the stage ended nearly half an hour before the usual five o'clock finishing time.  It allowed me to get a slight head start on the rush hour traffic out of Nice.  I rode along the next day's team time trial route to the Mediterranean and then along the beautiful coastal route it would follow already marked with yellow course markers.  Then I continued on to Cagnes-sur-Mer, a large coastal resort town just beyond Nice that would host the start of Stage Five after the team time trial.  No course makers were in place yet, but the start at the Hippodrome not far from the Mediterranean was decorated with poster-sized photos of dramatic Tour moments capturing its essence.

The Tour is equal parts the racers, the beautiful French countryside and the passion of the fans.   The fans often express as much thrill as the effort the racers are putting forth.

Not only to they urge on the racers physically but they also express their passion and commitment with the signs they write, something that has been a part of The Race since its inception.

This year's peloton will have a few more coastal miles to ride at the start of Stage Five and then will head inland and make a climb up a steep, but short Category Three before Grasse, perfume capital of the world, a city that overlooks Cannes. Having been idle all day I rode past Grasse until just before dark.

Before Valbonne on the route I passed a sculptural monstrosity in a round-about that may or may not be related to The Tour.

In the thick of The Tour my legs are generally well-fatigued at day's end as I try to get as much out of them as I can.  With my negligible miles the past few days my legs weren't tired at all and wished to keep going.  I'll be riding a day ahead of the peloton for the next three stages, not meeting up with it again until Albi on Friday as I position myself for my biggest challenge this year of making the 400 mile transfer to Brittany in three days.  I'll have the pleasure the next three days of watching the action in some small French bar, not a bad way at all to experience this icon of French culture.  And for the rest of the day I will have the even greater pleasure of biking through its fabulous countryside.

Stage Two

Just as Marcel Kittel called winning Stage One and earning the Yellow Jersey the greatest day of his life, Stage Two winner Jan Bakelants and new claimant to that most coveted raiment in all of sports, called his victory "the most beautiful day in my life," though amending it with an "as a cyclist," perhaps in deference to a wedding day or birth of a child.  Still, they were both fully unrestrained in gushing over the honor they had gained in this most supreme of bicycle races.

Unlike Kittel, who burst from the pack at the stage finish to take the win, Bakelants held off the fast-charging pack after slipping away with five others on the final short climb to win by a second.  It was another exciting, tension-packed finish, especially with Garmin's David Millar in the mix.  If the peloton had closed down that one-second gap, Millar would have assumed the Yellow Jersey by virtue of his fourth place finish the day before and being  ahead of those three preceding him beginning the day's stage.

I watched the last two-and-a-half hours of the race, including all four of its categorized climbs, in a bar in Ponte Leccia shortly after witnessing the peloton pass on the road .

I found a relatively deserted stretch of road two miles out of town so I'd have no competition in gathering trinkets from the caravan.  That is almost impossible to find in France proper, as the hundred plus miles of every day's route is always packed with fans.  That has not been the case in Corsica with its limited population and lack of Tour heritage.  A four-man breakaway group preceded the peloton by a couple of minutes. It judiciously stuck to the shady side of the road when they passed me.

I was able to gather a near full sampling of everything the caravan of sponsors had to offer--three hats, three key chains, four packs of snacks, two refrigerator magnets, a magnetic picture frame, an inflatable pillow, a mask, two newspapers, and some coupons.  This year's oddity is a hard plastic, foldable, pocket-sized ashtray from Bic, for depositing cigarette butts.  This new product is designed to appeal to the French sense of not littering.  I am always astounded when I ride the race course after the peloton has passed by how there is virtually no evidence that the road had just been lined by thousands of fans who had spent hours awaiting its arrival.  They and all their litter disappear almost instantly after the peloton has passed.

I did come upon two discarded team water bottles as I biked back into Ponte Leccia, though both had been run over and the tops were damaged.  The body of the bottles seemed okay. Since they weren't ones I had in my collection, I picked them up with hope of finding tops for them.  I thought I might also me able to add a course marker or two to my collection, but they had all been snatched.

I was somewhat in need of a water bottle, as one of my bottles has a slight cut in it.  It still holds water, but I can't squeeze it without water coming out of the cut.  Later in the day after the completion of the stage, while I was making the twenty-five mile ride to Ile Rousse,  Skippi came to my rescue.  He drove past me on a long climb and was awaiting me at the summit with the back hatch of his car open revealing a bounty of water bottles.  He had gathered three earlier in the day to go with all the others he had recently accumulated.  He said I could have any I wanted other than a RadioShack  bottle.  Skippi used my iPad to check if he had received a response from the gendarme who promised to pursue the driver who had run him off the road the day before.  He hadn't, this being a Sunday, but he did have an email from our good friend Vincent in Melbourne, who had ridden three Tours with us and who we were greatly missing.

Stage Two was a virtual rest day for me, as I had biked to within a mile of Ponte Leccia the night before, twenty-five miles into the course and at the intersection to Ile Rousse, where I would head to after the day's stage to catch the ferry to Nice the next day. When I finished off that final mile into  Ponte Leccia the next morning, arriving at 8:30, six hours before the peloton was due, the locals were putting the final touches on their round-about, many taking photos of it along with me.

With loads of time on my hands I meandered about town looking for water and electricity, my two essentials.  The cemetery just beyond the town limits provided the water and the train station waiting room on the opposite side of town provided the electricity.  I didn't charge to 100%, as I knew I could do that the next day on the ferry and perhaps also in the bar where I would watch The Race.  I juiced up enough so that I could have a couple of hours of Internet time if I wished before the peloton arrived and also for later that evening.  I then checked to see which of the handful of bars in Ponte Leccia had the best television.  Not all of them had one, and they weren't all of the same size.  Thankfully I wasn't desperate for electricity, so that wasn't among my criteria, though it could be in the future.

I camped much closer to Ponte Leccia than I intended, as shortly after I parted from Skippi on my way out of Bastia I was joined by another cyclist, Pavel from the Czech Republic.  He was such a fascinating character that I lost track of time.  He wasn't following the entire Tour,  just the first two stages in Corsica and then taking a ferry to Sardinia and then another to Tunisia.  He was an adventurer extraordinaire, the youngest Czech to have climbed Mount Everest and an ardent kite-surfer who had been to 120 countries.  He was fluent in seven languages.  His English was impeccable, as he had attended college in Wisconsin.  While in the US he traveled to every state except Hawaii.

When we stopped for a photo in front of a course marker he chattered away in French for fifteen minutes with the young woman who took our photo.  Above us was a rare road sign with the French name of the local town blackened out by Corsican separatists.

Pavel was traveling very light with no panniers, just a small frame pack and what he could stuff in his jersey pockets.  He was staying in hotels, though had been forced to camp a couple of times.  This was his first significant bike tour and he was loving it.  I greatly regretted that there was a town within his range and that we wouldn't be camping together, as there seemed no end to his tales.  He'd been all over West Africa when he worked for the World Bank while based in Senegal.  Before I told him of my bike messengering, he said he had worked as a messenger in London.  He'd also won a recent Alley Cat race in his home town.  His latest project was a business organizing budget ski trips.  

After an hour of being regaled, an English cyclist, also on an unburdened bike, caught up to us.  He had been in Bastia for The Tour and was riding hard to reach the same town that was Pavel's destination for the night fifteen miles away.  Night was approaching, so they decided to combine forces and ride at a faster pace than I could before they were caught by dark. Our parting was as abrupt and ethereal as our meeting.