Stage Seven

No Giant Screen viewing for me on this stage as it was situated on a narrow road between vineyards alongside the finishing stretch with not a sliver of shade.  I arrived at noon, more than five hours before the peloton, and though there were a few fans already lined up along the barriers, most were cowering in the minimal shade the barriers provided.  The sun was searing and not even the cold water the Vittel reps were passing out was enough to entice me to stay.

The heat was melting my brain.  I committed a semi-catastrophic faux pas heading to Dijon for the next stage start rather than Dole.  I didn't realize my mistake until I reached the tourist office in Dijon and asked where the departure point for The Tour was the next day and the woman at the desk didn't have a map or brochure at the ready and had to go to the computer to find out.  It was only a twenty-mile mistake, but since every mile is crucial, this was a huge setback.  There were some consolations though.  

Dijon is a much bigger city than Dole, and I was able to find a bike shop with just the tire I needed.  My rear tire had worn through the tread.  Usually I put on a new tire at the Grand Départ, but since I was some 500 miles short on my training this year due to my limited mileage riding with Jamina for two weeks, I wasn't in need of a new tire just yet, nor to put on a new chain, which I did at the same time.  The forty-minute mechanical was my lunch/rest stop and also allowed me to recharge my iPad, as my generator hub has slowed down on the job.  I'm only getting about half the charge I was earlier.  I don't know if it's due to the generator wearing out or the adapter or the batteries I'm charging.  

It had been twenty miles from Nuits-Saint-Georges, the stage finish, to Dijon, then thirty miles to Dole.  Nuits-Saint-Georges is a wine town.  It was lined with small wineries offering tastings.  

Many of its Tour decorations were wine oriented.

The fans along the route also joined in the spirit.  One of the top French riders is a Pinot.

It was doubly embarrassing to have confused Dijon with Dole because I passed through Dole on my way to Düsseldorf to scout out The Tour route.  It still paid off as I know where the starting point was below the city center along a river and sporting fields.  My way into the city hadn't taken me pat any course markers, so I would have been groping.  I was three miles into the neutralized zone that went on for five miles when Skippy came towards me.  It was nearly eight p.m. and he was just competing the transfer from Nuits-Saint-Georges.  My first question for him was, "Who won the stage," as I had been so undone by my diversion I hadn't bothered to stop to follow it on my iPad.  It was no surprise that Kittel had won his third spring, though this was in a photo finish, in contrast to his convincing two-bike length win the day before.  He also accumulated enough points to take the Green Jersey from Démare.  But without Sagan, it is a hollow conquest.

Skippy was heading into the city looking for a place to stay, hopefully a hostel, while I was heading out of the city knowing I had an idyllic campsite awaiting me.  He seemed to have no more worries than me, knowing he always finds a place and that it will have an interesting story.  Last night he ended up in a convent, locked into an attic room with a chamber pot as his toilet until the sisters let him out in the morning.

I had an hour of cycling ahead of me, but it only got me ten miles down the course.  Without my Dijon fiasco, I would have been at least twenty miles further.  I camped in a field just beyond Belmont, which had lined all its hedges and walls on the route with Yellow.

It had even Yellowfied it's crucifix.

When I stopped for one photo someone asked if I needed water and filled my bottle with cold fluid.  The evening  before when I had stopped outside a tourist office to take advantage of its wifi and also to prepare my dinner of ravioli and couscous a woman asked if I'd like her to heat up my meal for me.  My most exemplary act of kindness though came in Luxembourg when I had stopped in a bus shelter with seats for a snack.  As I was eating a guy who had been washing his car across the street came over and put a cup of coffee and a slice of apple bread on the seat beside me without saying a word.  At first I thought he was reserving the seat for himself, but then realized this was an offering.  It came with two packs of sugar and a stir stick.

Stage Six

I had a day fully free of deadlines, not having to reach a certain point before a road closure or under any pressure to be in a town large enough to have a bar with a television for this inconsequential sprinters' stage, rendered even more inconsequential without Cavendish and Sagan.  I still needed to rack up the miles, though, and get an early start.  

My mission was to ride ten miles of today's stage, then ride sixty miles through no-man's-land to the next day's stage and then ride at least fifteen more miles putting me within fifty miles of the stage finish so I could finally watch the final two or three hours of the stage on the Giant Screen at the stage finish.  This is the deepest I've gone into a Tour without that pleasure.  

I've probably ridden more miles of the course at this point than any other year, but I've been under too much pressure to be able to take the time to be at a stage finish, though I came within minutes at Vittel.  That's not to say it's been a bad Tour for me at all.  The point is to experience as much of the course as possible.  

It is truly a joy to ride for miles and miles past decorated bikes and banners celebrating The Tour and its participants.  My sixty mile lull today through luscious scenery was a joy too, but returning to the corridor of bike honor is like being in a cyclist's paradise, other than having to share it with motorists.  The French are enlightened in many ways, but they still get around in automobiles.

The gestures of appreciation take an untold variety of forms from mannequins dressed as fans to pyramids of bikes and elaborate constructions in roundabouts and...

...the simple draping of cloths in the colors of the Tour jerseys.

The variety is boggling from adorning a tree with water bottles...

...to going for a laugh.

I found myself at four o'clock in a town large enough to have a bar, but I didn't want to sacrifice ninety minutes or more watching the peloton wind itself up for a sprint when the road beckoned.  A series of villages awaited me five to eight miles apart.  None had a bar so I missed seeing Kittel win for a second time.  It will be a similar stage tomorrow.  I won't mind in the least sitting with several hundred others in front of the Giant Screen soaking in every pedal stroke.  I ought to be there early enough to find a spot in the shade.  If there isn't any, I may have to resort to a bar.  I'll have enough time to bike to Dijon, just fourteen miles away, where the next day's stage will start.  That might me a wise thing to do anyway as the road between the two Ville Ètapes will be bumper-to-bumper with Tour traffic crawling along after the stage.  There are 2,000 accredited vehicles, not to mention the hundreds of fans following The Tour.  With luck I might have Skippy leading the way.

It was well that I didn't stop early to watch the stage finish as a long climb awaited me.  It was almost as if I was back up on the Massif Centrale.  And there was more climbing when I connected with the Stage Seven route.  I still met my goals for the day, but with a greater expenditure of energy than I anticipated.  

There was one steep perilous descent about fifty miles from the stage finish that I will be most curious to watch the peloton negotiation.  It goes under an old stone bridge and makes a sharp left.  As I approached the bridge braking hard even with the arrows marking the way I wasn't sure how to make the turn. The motorcyclists leading the way will have a tricky time of it as well if they haven't been briefed.  It reminded me of the dangerous descent in the 2012 Tour before Metz where there was a horrible crash known as The Massacre at Metz that devastated the Garmin team and took down much of the peloton.  The crash occurred before the descent as everyone in the peloton was riding like mad to be in the lead for the descent.  The racers will be in a like mind before this one.

Stage Five

I anticipated an easy day on the legs, as my plan was to bike thirty miles of the stage route, wait for the caravan to pass and then duck down twenty miles to Vesoul to watch the end of the stage in a bar and then commence riding the next day's stage.  It would be a welcome break from the day before when I had to ride hard for sixty miles to reach a point to watch the caravan and then twenty-five miles of pushing it to try to get to Vittel before the peloton.  

My morning would be so relaxed, only having to ride those thirty miles by noon, that I could sleep in until seven.  I could stop for some of those photos that epitomize The Tour, such as elderly couples who park their cars at a choice spot along the route not long after sunrise and have breakfast and then lunch while awaiting the peloton.

It was a little after eight when this couple happily greeted me with a "Bonjour," and then added as I made my departure a "Respecte."  Of all the appellations accorded me as I ride by all the thousands lining the route--allez, bravo, bon courage, chapeau--it is the rarest, like a diamond in the rough, but the most heartfelt and appreciated.  

I didn't receive any respect though from the carload of thugs who look as if they are from Marseilles who lay seize to The Tour every year forcing mini-cellophane French flags on people along The Tour route and then demand a Euro. They are a true menace jumping out of their car and rushing up to people sitting in their chairs, handing them a flag and then soliciting money.  Sometimes they commandeer an intersection and stop every passing vehicle.

I snuck in a couple of photos before their leader saw what I was doing and pounced on me trying to get me to delete what I had shot.  

I played dumb and said I was just a tourist and got away as he tried to fish my ipad out of my handlebar bag.

I made it to my caravan-watching spot in the city of Luxeuile-les-Baines in ample time to get groceries and stop in at its Tourist Office to take advantage of its wifi to download Lance Armstrong's daily podcast of The Tour called Stages.  I'd prefer the Warren brothers if they were podcasting during The Tour,  it brother Dean is taking a 25th anniversary cruise with his wife.  It will be a rare occasion when he hasn't attended The Tour, as his job as a flight attendant allows him to at least make it to Paris for the final stage. 

Lance does does offer some insightful commentary, though he doesn't cite as many personal anecdotes as he might.  And he's a little sketchy on Tour history.  He said the early tours were just five stages, when they were six, and that they ventured into the mountains even then, which didn't happen until several years later.  He also said the Yellow Jersey originated because it was the color of the newspaper that sponsored The Tour.  The official story is that it was adopted in the middle of the 1919 Tour to make the leader more identifiable to the public and it was the only bright colored jersey the director Henri Desgrange could find in the city where The Tour found itself at the time.  Eugene Christophe, of toe strap fame, was the first to wear it and his fellow competitors mocked him and called him a canary.

I didn't do much scavenging in this city with the road packed with fans.

Instead I was content with vicariously enjoying getting some thing from those who did.

There were no Colombians to be seen, but there was a contingent of Norwegians.

One little girl was wearing a green jersey she had received from the Skoda publicity crew, sponsor of the Green Jersey.

After this twenty-minute interlude I set out for Vesoul.  I had my choice of a little longer direct route on a major highway way, or a shorter route winding through small villages.  I chose the scenic route, knowing though it could be tricky finding my way.  It had cost me time the time before to Vittel.  And I was victimized today again, first when the route intersected with The Tour route, which was closed down, so I had to detour around it.  I eventually got on the main route, but was besieged by 18-wheelers and then Tour followers in their campers.  What I thought would be a leisurely, scenic two hour ride, turned into a two-and-a-half hour race to get to Vesoul in time to see the dramatic end to the first significant stage of The Tour--one of its three mountain-top finishes, though it was less than a four-mile climb.  It would be just an indicator who was on form, rather than a true test.

I found a bar in the plaza where the next day's stage would start with a cluster of working men glued to the television along with a handful of the crew that would start erecting the Départ structures, a perfect setting.

The Italian Fabian Aru, who missed the Giro, his first ambition, due to injury, surprised the climbers by attacking 2.3 kilometers from the summit.  Froome and company let him go.  He was able to hold on for the win, but when Froome eventually gave chase, only Porte, Martin and Bardet were able to stick with him.  Quintana and Contador failed the test.  Froome let up to see if anyone else cared to help with the chase of Aru, but they didn't have anything left.  Martin eventually took off.  Froome couldn't quite catch him, but held off Porte to get the crucial third-place bonus seconds.  Froome's teammate in Yellow, Thomas, couldn't keep up, so Froome assumed the leader's jersey, with Thomas holding on to second.  As with the opening time trial, Froome once again asserted he is the contender with the best legs.

I then began following the course markers through Vesoul.  The black-checked neutralized version of the markers went on for an intolerably long seven miles, winding through neighbor's and an adjoining village.  It made me suspicious that The Tour accepts an extra 10,000 Euros here and there to include a place on its route.   Fortunately I was overly chagrined by the length of this neutralized zone, as I would be turning off The Tour route after twenty-five miles to cut over to the next day's stage.

Stage Four

The peloton finally caught up to me, but just barely, beating me to Vittel by less than fifteen minutes.  If it had ridden at the same pace as yesterday, I would have maintained my lead, though I temporarily regained it setting out on Stage Five while the riders all retreated to their hotels.  I feel as if I'm the lucky one, still riding.

After being halted by a gendarme at 1:45, I found an alternate route for the final twenty-five miles to the stage finish after I waited an hour to indulge in the caravan for the first time this year.  It was the usual trinkets from the one hundred plus vehicles that speed by at twenty-five miles per hour, about the speed of the peloton.  Those dispensing the booty are trained to fling it at the feet of those along the road.  They could inflict harm if their projectiles hit one's body.  I gathered up some edibles (candy and madeleines) and a box of juice, which I had to grab from the hand of the passing vehicle.  Then there were the souvenir items--refrigerator magnets, hats, key chains, a wrist band and a red polka dot shopping bag.  Janina will be happy I got her another sun deflector for her car that folds up into the size of a Frisbee.  

While I waited for the caravan I was able to do some wash at the town's troughs of spring water under a covering route on the route that goes back centuries and is now just a charming vestige of the past.  Luxembourg and Germany and Belgium were fully modernized, while French villages retain their features that go back centuries.  Their stone homes dating to the 1800s haven't been replaced by glass and brick homogeneity.  One French journalist upon returning to France said it was a relief to return to civilization, referring mostly to the time he had to spend in Belgium.  I too was glad to leave Belgium.  Despite its fervent racing culture there is a backlash from some against cyclists as I well know from ventures past including being pelted by a tennis ball from a passing car. I had horns blasted at me by passing motorists, and unlike France there is the occasional car exceeding the speed limit by thirty or forty miles per hour as if the driver were a test pilot. 

Earlier in the day's stage my biggest "Wow" of the day came from a Yellow Jersey unlike any I've seen.  Such discoveries are among the chief joys of riding The Tour route.  It was a patchwork of every winner of The Tour other than Armstrong.

The route also included the common site of a gathering of Deux Chevaux.

I have yet to see any Australian fans along the route, just the usual French and Belgian flying their flags and team preferences.

When I realized I wasn't going to make it to Vittel in time to see the finish on the Giant Screen at the finish I began looking for a bar.  It was unlikely in the small villages I was passing through.  I only saw one bar and it didn't have afternoon hours.  I tried a campgrounds, but it wasn't big enough to have a television room.  So I had to rely on my iPad for the second time this year to follow the closing kilometers.  I never saw the footage of the crashes leading to the sprint so I can't offer first-hand testimony on the travesty of Sagan being ejected other than I doubt it would have happened had he not knocked Cavendish out of The Race with an injury.  

The stature of a rider such as Sagan should have given him the benefit of the doubt on his intentions and recklessness.  The Race is much poorer with out him.  The penalty will certainly not curb seemingly uninhibited riding in the sprint.  If there were a French influence on the decision, the fact that there is a French sprinter for the first time in a decade who can be a factor could have had some bearing too on the decision.  And that French sprinter, Demere, won the stage and assumed the Green Jersey that had been conceded to Sagan even before The Race started.  Whoever wins it in the end can't be too proud.

I didn't learn about Sagan's expulsion until the day after, as my camp site was too isolated to connect to the Internet.  It was quite a shock to hear the news the next morning.  

I met up with Skippy for the first time since the presentation of the team's.  He was at the tourist office trying to find accommodation for the night.  Skippy travels light with just a pack on his back and another strapped to his handlebars, so he doesn't camp.  It enables him big mileage though.  He'd ridden 150 miles today, partially because he has been avoiding The Tour route not wanting to contend with the gendarmes

Skippy often stays at hostels, but there were none in the vicinity.  The tourist office in Vittel had a list of locals who had offered rooms for visitors for The Tour visit, knowing the hotels would all be booked.  And there was one still available for Skippy and without charge.  The person offering the room sent a cyclist to the tourist office to lead Skippy there.  The woman in the tourist office who helped him had grown up in Quebec.

I didn't get out of the tourist office until seven.  The next day's stage began right out front and proceeded through a pedestrian way of the old city that was still thronged with partying fans.  It took me half an hour to reach the Départ Réel well outside of the town.  Once again I had a wonderful evening riding in the cool past pastures of grains and stretches of forests before disappearing into a forest for the night.  

Stage Three

One of my favorite sights on The Tour route is a pair of course markers one on top of the other.  They indicate the Départ Réel of the stage, as opposed to the Départ Fictive miles back in a town center where the crowds gather and the peloton rolls out at a ceremonial pace often looping around an urban environment before getting out into the countryside.   

The highly detailed route sheet does not reveal the length of the neutralized zone.  I want it to be as short as possible, as it is extra miles for me to ride.  In Yorkshire the neutralized zone went on for ten miles or so to a royal palace where the peloton paused for a greeting from Prince William and Kate and then went a bit further before the stacked course markers let them get down to business. 

As I'm riding the neutralized zone I'm increasingly impatient for the Départ Réel, knowing I have x number of miles of riding to the finish once the real racing commences.  I am always pressed for time and every extra mile adds extra minutes.  The above markers were just two miles from the Départ Fictive for Stage Four in Mondorf-les-Baines in Luxembourg just across the border from France.  I reached it just about the same time as the peloton was setting out on Stage Three from Verviers in Belgium.  I had ridden the first 103 miles of the stage to Dippach, where I turned off and rode eighteen miles to Mondorf rather than riding away from it for thirty miles to the finish in Longwy, France that I had visited last week.

Mondorf is a casino and spa town.  Like Vesoul in France it had added yellow umbrellas to its Tour decorations.

It had also constructed flower beds in the shape and colors of The Tour jersey, an original gesture to The Tour.

Earlier in the day along the Stage Three course as I closed in on France the decorations along the road became more plentiful, both individual and civic.  One home beclothed a mannequin in cycling garb by its front door.

The town of Grosbous welcomed the peloton with a giant Yellow Jersey.

When I crossed into France seven miles into Stage Four the decorations became much more plentiful with many incorporating hay bales.

I cycled alongside the Moselle River, which separates France from Luxembourg, for just a short spell before becoming wholely in France.  The bridge that the peloton was to cross when the route was originally announced was closed for repairs, so it had to continue along the river up over a rise to the next bridge adding three miles to the stage that I hadn't included into my calculations.  But that wasn't the worst calamity for the day.  I was further setback by the slow pace of the peloton.  They were due to arrive in Longwy at 5:08 if they averaged 45 kph.  But it's speed was just 41 kph pushing their arrival time back to 5:36.  

I had found a nice neighborhood bar at four expecting an hour break.  The extra time cost me six miles.  At least I was assured of seeing the finish, which promised to be the most exciting yet with a mile steep climb.  And it lived up to it with Porte attempting to make a statement going off the front as Cadel Evans did in 2011 when he won The Tour and had a dramatic early stage win of similar profile proving he was someone to be reckoned with.  But Porte failed in his attempt to get away, perhaps indicating he is not the man some think he is this year.  Instead it was World Champion Sagan proving he is the alpha male when it comes to anything but the high mountains.  He won going away even having come unclipped from one of his pedals 200 meters from the finish.

It was no surprise that Phinney relinquished the climber's jersey, but it was a huge surprise that his teammate Nate Brown, also riding his first Tour, took possession of it.  He managed to infiltrate the day's break, even though it hadn't been his assignment for the day,  and was first over on the first Category Four climb, then made an extra effort on the Category Three that I had camped on the night before, to take off ahead of his breakaway companion to claim the two points and the Polka Jersey.

It was nearly six when I resumed riding.  An hour later when I checked email I learned from Ralph that he'd just had his custom-made carbon fiber bike stolen from outside his hotel in Strasbourg, a major catastrophe, and wouldn't be able to meet up with me in Vittel.  That lessened my pressure of trying to get their before the peloton.  I curtailed my riding at nine after 97 miles, leaving me 82 miles from Vittel.  I would have been well over one hundred if the peloton hadn't had a lackadaisical day or if I had Ralph to meet up with.

I went to sleep at a least excited that I would be partaking of the caravan for the first time the next day and seeing the peloton in action rather than just bumbling along in Düsseldorf.  I had seen some of the caravan vehicles in Düsseldorf and actually saw the Credit Lyonnaise lion today being transported to Momdorf.  The first three stages had had a smaller version of the caravan.

Stage Two

Taylor Phinney continues to ride an inspired Tour fully justifying his team's selection of him.  He sprinted into an early four-man break and was one of two survivors for over one hundred miles to just before the one-kilometer to go arch when he was inevitably caught by the fast-charging sprinters' teams.  Kittel may have won the stage with Griepel third and Cavendish fourth and the French dark house Demere sneaking in at second, but Phinney was its hero.  He was out front with the spotlight on him for over four hours.  Such prominence was expected of him early in his career when he finished fourth in both the road race and time trial at the 2012 London Olympics until a horrific accident in the US National Championships derailed him three years ago.  And he'll be in the polka jersey tomorrow, as he was first over the first hill four miles into the stage, nabbing its single point and also grabbed the other point on offer in this stage on the other Category Four bump towards the end of the stage.

I only saw the last ten minutes of his heroics, as I was focused on getting down the Stage Three route. I began my day riding five more miles of Stage Two before leaving it at Thimister, twenty-one miles from the finish in Liege, as I could duck down from there to Verviers, the Stage Three Départ, less than ten miles away. It was another cool, dank day with the possibility of rain at any moment.  As I headed to the city center I came upon a course marker and, voila, I had my way laid out for me for the rest of the day.  Trees through the city had been wrapped in specially darned strips of cloth in the emblems of the Tour . 

Few towns go to such effort, content to simply wrap them in a sheet or plastic, as evidenced further down the course, which is always tribute enough, but Verviers set a new standard that will be hard to surpass.

The team of seamstresses in Verviers  also sewed a perfectly-fitting yellow jersey for a statue along the route.

An even larger jersey adorned a high tower.

I was greeted by a hard, uncategorized climb out of the sprawling city and the climbs continued for forty-three miles until I crossed into Luxembourg with only one designated as a Category Four. I had to make a detour around a large race track in the town of Spa that the peloton would be riding through, as racing was presently going on.  Cars and motorcycles were parked all around and I could hear the whizzing of what sounded like motorcycles on the track.  The detour added three miles and some extra climbing to my route.  At this point every mile is crucial as I try to get to the Stage Four finish in Vittel some two hundred miles away before the peloton to meet Ralph Tuesday afternoon by two p.m.  It's not going to be easy.

The terrain leveled somewhat when I reached Luxembourg and a cluster of stores that were mobbed by duty-free shoppers from Belgium.  I ducked in to see if televisions might be for sale turned to The Tour, but no such luck.  It was fifteen miles to where the intermediate sprint would be.  I hoped it would be at a big enough town to have a bar showing the racing as the finish was in less than ninety minutes.  It would be tight if I could make it by five and the finish.  A few miles before I came to an Irish Pub attached to a fancy hotel.  I peered in through the window and could see the thrilling sight of The Tour on its large television.  And there was Phinney in his green Cannondale jersey out in front with eight kilometers to go, but with the peloton only thirty seconds behind and going a bit faster than he and his companion.  They were doomed to be caught, but they'd still had a victorious day.  The bar had wifi so I could scan the cyclingnews commentary from the very start and relive the stage.  The peloton had been inflicted by sporadic rain, just as I had.

I was back on my bike at 5:30 hoping to ride for at least another three hours and get ninety miles for the day.  The hills had kept my average speed to ten miles per hour.  Nine hours on the bike would be my most so far, but my legs weren't complaining.  The hills weren't as severe as they had been on the other side of the border in Belgium when I had biked up to Düsseldorf.  At least that ride took me through Bastogne, a legendary Belgian racing town, as it is the turnaround point of Liege-Bastogne-Liege that is one of the five Monuments in cycle racing and the oldest continuing race.  The round-about where the racers make their return has four statues of cyclists.

Alongside is a tribute to the race and a list of all its winners, including the lone American winner Tyler Hamilton in 2003.

Every town I passed through in Luxembourg had a large vinyl poster of The Tour route through the country with a dot showing the town.

This one was below a large dam and marked the beginning of the first Category Three climb of this year's Race.  I was nearing my goals for the day and reached them a mile into the two-and-a-half mile climb.  That was a perfect place to stop, as I could see the road suddenly turned very steep with a twelve per cent grade for nearly a mile, explaining why it was a Three and not a Four.  There were quite a few camping vans parked along the climb but they were blocked from parking in front of a church.  There was a clearing beside it that made a perfect camping spot for me.

I had stopped a couple times during my evening ride to start in on my ravioli and couscous, so didn't need to eat much beyond ten to get enough calories into me.  I am eager to cross back into France tomorrow when my SIM card will be reactivated and I'll be able to read all the post-stage coverage before I hit the hay.

Stage One

Froome let every know he is ready to defend his title.  There have been strong doubts with his less than dominating form all year, but his strong time trial today, gaining over half a minute on his primary rivals Porte, Quintana, Contador and Bardet, was an emphatic affirmation that he is still the man to beat.  And his Sky team also made a strong statement that it's ready too, with his teammate Geraint Thomas winning the time trial, becoming the seventh Brit to wear the Yellow Jersey. 

Some may say his rivals were just a little more cautious than Froome in the rain and may have better legs than they showed.  One who wasn't cautious enough was Quintana's chief lieutenant Valverde who crashed out of the race.  That's a most significant loss as he is always not only a top ten threat, but podium as well, especially if Quintana should falter.

I didn't get to see any of the action as I set out on the next day's route well before the first rider went off at 3:15.  I biked a few miles of the course, as it intersected with Stage Two at the first of the two bridges on  the time trial course over the Rhine.  I was hoping I might see some of the racers previewing the course, but none were out early in the wet conditions.  There were a handful of interlopers besides me, and even a few fans already staking out a choice spot.  A couple had claimed a dry spot under a bridge more than six hours before the first racer was due, sitting in chairs with the faded colors of the stripes of the German flag.

The rain began that night.  I could hear it on the roof over me.  It began as an off-and-on rain and continued so all through the day, never coming down hard.  It slowed me a bit too, but I was in no great rush.  I was just hoping to make it to Belgium, sixty-five miles away. No need to punish my legs, or even strain them much, other than the constant stopping and starting for traffic signals.  The terrain was flat to just before the Belgian border, where the killer hills of the Ardennes awaited me.

The course markers guided me, though I hardly needed them as there were "no parking" signs all along the first forty miles with one town merging into another with no breathing room between.  When I at last came to some farmland it reminded me of how glad I will be to return to France, where one doesn't have to endure such long stretches of dense habitation.  The homes in villages cluster tightly together, allowing long stretches of wide-open green space.

I am also eager for the French homage to The Tour.  The Germans weren't versed in expressing their appreciation for The Tour.  There were just a handful of decorated bikes and signs.

A factory along the route must have had a cycling enthusiast in its management.

But once I crossed into Belgium in the early evening I crossed into a land of Tour appreciation.  I was shortly greeted by a "Vive Le Tour" sign and decorated bikes galore.

I wasn't the lone Tour follower getting a jump on Stage Two.  There were camping vans already parked at open spots on the road, many flying flags and displaying course markers in their rear windows.  I was well-fueled with calorie-rich ham and potato and herring salads and a box of "American Style" chocolate chip cookies I had stocked up on at an Aldi's on the route.  I also had some eggs I'd been able to hard boil at Joachim's, one of the many bonuses of his hospitality.  His wifi had also allowed me to give Janina a call.  She was staying at a hostel in Montpelier enjoying a dance festival and contemplating a visit to Marseilles before returning to Onni and Craig.

Froome would be the last rider unleashed on the time trial course at 6:24.  He'd cross the finish about sixteen minutes later.  I began looking for a bar around six to to watch the climax of the stage.  I was approaching the large city of Aachen.  But there were no bars on the route in my time frame so at 6:30 I had to settle on a McDonald's and its wifi to learn how the racing had gone.  The cyclingnews commentary confirmed rain had been a factor all day, just as it had been for me.  I had to envision Froome and the others on their bikes as I read the minute-by-minute commentary.  

It was nice to learn Taylor Phinney, riding his first Tour de France for the Cannondale team, had posted a most respectable time, just four seconds slower than Froome.  Phinney would have been a favorite had he not suffered a near career-ending injury three years ago that he isn't fully recovered from,  he has hopes of joining his father Davis, who won two stages for the 7/11 team, as a stage winner. The New York Times had a story on him yesterday.  Phinney is just one of three Americans riding The Race, the fewest in a long time.  They are all on the Cannondale team. There are two other American-sponsored teams in The Tour, BMC and Trek, but neither included an American on their roster.  Teejay Vangarderen didn't make the BMC team for the first time in years, despite having been the team leader the past few years. Phinney was also one of thirty-nine racers competing in their first Tour, a little less than one in five, about average of late.

As night closed in I began looking for a forest to camp in to somewhat protect me from the rain as I set up my tent.  But the rain took another break and I set up my tent in a grassy pasture shielded from the road by a high hedge.  I may not have seen any of The Race, but it was still a good day.