Friends: After three months and over 5,000 miles of pushing the pedals, often with more than casual determination and resolution, trying to keep up with The Tour or surmounting the steep passes of the Alps and Pyrenees or reaching some destination by a specified time, I may have acquired the aura of the most seasoned and toughest cyclists of them all, the Belgians, whose cold and rain and wind-swept land has produced many a champion, including the king of cyclists, Eddie Merckx. For the second time in the past month someone asked me if I was Belgian. I consider that a compliment of the highest order.
The first time it happened was during Stage One of The Tour as I sat in front of my loaded bike watching the time trial. The man asking was a producer for a Belgian TV station. He asked if I were Belgian. He said he was looking for Belgian fanatics following The Tour by bicycle. He said he hadn't been able to find any. When I told him I was American he asked if I had seen any Belgian touring cyclists. Not only had I not seen any Belgian touring cyclists, I had seen not a single touring cyclist at that point. There were plenty of Belgians in campers flying their national flag, but the producer had no interest in talking to someone following The Tour in such a common place manner. Even though I wasn't Belgian, if I had at least spoken French or Flemish, the producer said he would have loved to have put me on camera.
The second person who asked if I were Belgian was an older gentleman who noticed me wandering through a cemetery in the tiny village of Sompuis, about 100 miles east of Paris and four miles south of the national highway. I was in search of the tombstone of Geo Lefevre, the man who proposed the idea of the Tour de France to Henri Desgrange. They worked together for the newspaper that launched the Tour de France back in 1903. The gentleman knew exactly where it was. I hadn't noticed it, as I was looking for a bicycle or the words "Tour de France" on the tombstone. His epithet was a simple "President de Association des Journalistes sportifs." He was a notable enough person to have had a street named after him in Sompuis, his home town.
After showing me the grave, the man mentioned that The Tour had last passed near here three years ago. Then he asked if I were Belgian, since they were the most liable nationality to be seeking out such an obscure Tour artifact, and that my French was bad enough that my native tongue must be Flemish. He was quite taken aback that it was an American who had gone out of his way to come to this grave.
It was one of the more challenging of the bicycling memorials to find that I have sought out. My information was that the grave was in the city of Vitry-le-Francois, about 15 miles away. The woman in the tourist office there knew nothing about it, nor even knew who Geo Lefevre was. There were three cemeteries in Vitry plus a large military cemetery I could have gone perusing, but first I went to a bike store to see if someone there might know. The older proprietor instantly knew what I was looking for and where it was. He drew me a detailed map of rural roads to reach Sompuis, which made the getting there all the more enjoyable.
I had no such trouble the day before in Bar-le-Duc finding the memorial to Pierre and Ernest Michaux, the father and son who in 1861 conceived of putting pedals on the two-wheeled forebearer of the bicycle, thus making the earlier invention a vehicle of genuine utility and popularity. The local tourist office had replica of the bike in its window. The monument to the Michaux's was a highlighted item on the city map of sites to see. There was also a plaque on the house where Pierre was born in 1813. The local museum had a room devoted to the Michaux's. And to top it off, I learned of a bicycle museum in the small village of Trois Fontaines de l'Abbaye about 20 miles away, though it was only open on Sunday afternoons. I had hit an unexpected mother lode of bicycle memorials.
The Michaux monument is the oldest I have come across and could well be the first of its kind. It was erected in 1894, eleven years after Pierre died, who outlived his son Ernest by a year. The Michaux's were repairers of horse carriages in Paris when someone brought in a bicycle to be repaired. When Ernest gave it a ride he realized it would be much easier to ride if one had a place to rest his feet. After putting pegs on the front axle, one of them was struck by the inspiration to make them revolve so the bike could be propelled rather than pushed along with one's feet as one does with a skateboard or scooter and had been the case for 45 years since the two-wheeled vehicle had originally been conceived. As so often happens, they were unable to capitalize on their invention and suffered financial ruin attempting to do so.
Their monument resides at a downtown intersection a block from the oldest bridge in the city. It rises some 25 feet high. It is a contoured concrete structure with a life-sized figure behind a model of their invention resting on a platform half way up. The bike and figure are not the original, as they were melted down by the Germans during WWII.
Perusing the brochures in the tourist office of Meaux, I discovered another bicycle museum 25 miles to the south. It will have to wait until my next visit, as in less than 24 hours I will be airborne for Chicago. Charles de Gaulle airport is 25 miles away in the opposite direction. I was also unable to make it to the plaque commemorating the starting point of the first Tour just south of Paris. It will be among a handful of bicycling sites on my next itinerary, that were either closed or I was unable to reach this time. And the list will no doubt grow as I learn of more. I have cycled over 9,000 miles of French roads the past two summers, but when I gaze upon a map it seems as if I have barely gotten started. I, along with all of France, eagerly await the October unveiling of The Tour route for 2006 to learn where it will take me.
So what, you may wonder, have I discovered to be the burning issues in French society in these times? If one cares to go by the official daily newspaper of The Tour that is freely distributed along the route, it is whether or not to eat popcorn at the movies and the cost of a baguette. Those were two of the dozen or so questions asked in the daily interview of one of The Tour riders, invariably a French rider though they only comprise a quarter of the peloton. The more personal questions included what does he think about before he goes to sleep, what does he eat when home alone, does he have any good luck charms on his bike. Based on the interviews, popcorn is very unpopular and not too many riders buy their own baguettes.
Even more than last year, I have been impressed by the excessive politeness of the French. I see it everywhere. In the supermarkets when one places a divider on the conveyor belt in the checkout line the person behind never fails to say "Merci." The French are always quick and on the ready to express thanks. Along The Tour route signs of thanks were quite common--"Merci French TV," "Merci Caravan" and "Merci" to assorted and sundry officials and announcers, affiliated with The Tour. People went out of their way to tell me where to find water. Once when I paused to ask a couple of spectators high on a hillside if I could take their photo, one leaped up and started running down to me thinking I was asking him to come take my photo. And, most importantly, I can accord the motorists throughout France as being more polite than any I've encountered.
I will close, as I began, with thoughts of Crissy, whose sparkling spirit was never far from my mind. It still greatly saddens me that someone with such a light heart and such goodness and purity, who brought cheer to so many, had to struggle so hard to cope with life as it is. She didn't have it easy, so at least she is free of her battles here.
Until next time, George
Monday, August 1, 2005
Friday, July 29, 2005
Bar-le-Duc, France
Friends: Thanks to a bicycle enthusiast who didn't know when to stop when it came to collecting anything and everything related to the bicycle, the small town of Cormatin, about 75 miles north of Lyon, is home to the Musée de Vélo. It contains an overwhelming array of over 2,000 bike relics neatly arranged in a two-story stone barn of a building, whose rafters on both floors offer extra hanging space for all the relics, many of which no other museum would dream of displaying.
There were cigar bands featuring famous racers, wine bottles, LPs and 45s of bike music and racer narrations of races, bicycle racing board games claiming they could be played by anyone from 7 to 70, coke cans with racers on them, bicycle-inscribed lighters and ash trays and pens and key chains and cookie jars and cups and stamps. You name it. There were even a couple of small revolvers dating to 1900, manufactured in the bike and arms town St. Etienne, that were specifically designed for the weight-conscious cyclist. There were piles of scrapbooks of newspaper articles and photos and post cards and team cards that will be a goldmine to future historians.
And, of course, there were dozens of bikes from every epoch since its birth in 1817. There were no video presentations in this private museum, but better yet, the man responsible for this conglomeration was gladly circulating among the rooms demonstrating the use of some of the older and odder bikes and enthusiastically describing what made each unique. He was delighted to be able to share his treasures.
There were more people at this museum than the previous four I've been to in the past two months. Cormatin isn't much more than a village and isn't on the way to anywhere, but it has a chateau that attracts tourists. The bike museum, however, seemed to be a genuine attraction of its own for the French with children, some of whom must have been holidaying in the area, as they came by bike.
Maybe Tour afterglow was responsible for some seeking it out. As I think back on my Tour experience, what stands out more than anything is the devotion of the French to this bicycling event, what an ingrained part of their culture it is and a ritual for them to go witness and pay their respect to. The French may not ride their bikes a whole lot, but, as a socially conscious people. they recognize the value of the bike and applaud those who do bike. I've encountered no other French touring cyclists and just a few Germans and Aussies, but the French acknowledge it is a noble and worthy activity that they ought to be doing, but since they don't have the motivation, they are happy to see someone else adhering to the faith.
I didn't fully realize how committed the French are to seeking out The Tour when it comes near them last year, but this year with the start in France rather than in Belgium, and being part of a gathering of thousands the evening before the race started in front of the city hall of Challans watching the introduction of each of the 189 riders on the big screen that would be erected at all 21 finish lines, I could feel all around me the honor and respect given the riders and The Tour. And that same honor and glee was reflected on nearly every rider's face as he was introduced with great hyperbole by the official revered voice of The Tour, Daniel Mangeas, a fixture of The Tour since 1976. He was at every start and finish line, spouting names and stats like an auctioneer for a couple hours straight, barely pausing to draw a breath. At the Grand Depart after each team of nine riders biked onto the stage before a packed auditorium and was introduced, they rode out through an arcade of flashing lights to make a loop around the town, including past us, cheered all the way. Whose grins were broader, theirs or ours, was hard to say. It started the whirlwind to come with a giant exclamation point.
And it was more of the same for the three weeks ahead. Only by riding the stages past all the people can one fully appreciate its widespread appeal. One can be at a start or finish line with a stadium's worth of people or on a steep climb where a whole World Series worth of fans can be gathered, but they only represent a small percentage of the tens and hundreds of thousands who line the road for up to 150 miles each day, and not for just a few minutes but making an all day affair of it. One can't help but be swept up by the devotion of the millions who are part of The Tour.
Later, George
____________________________________________________
Start your day with Yahoo! - make it your home page
http://www.yahoo.com/r/hs
There were cigar bands featuring famous racers, wine bottles, LPs and 45s of bike music and racer narrations of races, bicycle racing board games claiming they could be played by anyone from 7 to 70, coke cans with racers on them, bicycle-inscribed lighters and ash trays and pens and key chains and cookie jars and cups and stamps. You name it. There were even a couple of small revolvers dating to 1900, manufactured in the bike and arms town St. Etienne, that were specifically designed for the weight-conscious cyclist. There were piles of scrapbooks of newspaper articles and photos and post cards and team cards that will be a goldmine to future historians.
And, of course, there were dozens of bikes from every epoch since its birth in 1817. There were no video presentations in this private museum, but better yet, the man responsible for this conglomeration was gladly circulating among the rooms demonstrating the use of some of the older and odder bikes and enthusiastically describing what made each unique. He was delighted to be able to share his treasures.
There were more people at this museum than the previous four I've been to in the past two months. Cormatin isn't much more than a village and isn't on the way to anywhere, but it has a chateau that attracts tourists. The bike museum, however, seemed to be a genuine attraction of its own for the French with children, some of whom must have been holidaying in the area, as they came by bike.
Maybe Tour afterglow was responsible for some seeking it out. As I think back on my Tour experience, what stands out more than anything is the devotion of the French to this bicycling event, what an ingrained part of their culture it is and a ritual for them to go witness and pay their respect to. The French may not ride their bikes a whole lot, but, as a socially conscious people. they recognize the value of the bike and applaud those who do bike. I've encountered no other French touring cyclists and just a few Germans and Aussies, but the French acknowledge it is a noble and worthy activity that they ought to be doing, but since they don't have the motivation, they are happy to see someone else adhering to the faith.
I didn't fully realize how committed the French are to seeking out The Tour when it comes near them last year, but this year with the start in France rather than in Belgium, and being part of a gathering of thousands the evening before the race started in front of the city hall of Challans watching the introduction of each of the 189 riders on the big screen that would be erected at all 21 finish lines, I could feel all around me the honor and respect given the riders and The Tour. And that same honor and glee was reflected on nearly every rider's face as he was introduced with great hyperbole by the official revered voice of The Tour, Daniel Mangeas, a fixture of The Tour since 1976. He was at every start and finish line, spouting names and stats like an auctioneer for a couple hours straight, barely pausing to draw a breath. At the Grand Depart after each team of nine riders biked onto the stage before a packed auditorium and was introduced, they rode out through an arcade of flashing lights to make a loop around the town, including past us, cheered all the way. Whose grins were broader, theirs or ours, was hard to say. It started the whirlwind to come with a giant exclamation point.
And it was more of the same for the three weeks ahead. Only by riding the stages past all the people can one fully appreciate its widespread appeal. One can be at a start or finish line with a stadium's worth of people or on a steep climb where a whole World Series worth of fans can be gathered, but they only represent a small percentage of the tens and hundreds of thousands who line the road for up to 150 miles each day, and not for just a few minutes but making an all day affair of it. One can't help but be swept up by the devotion of the millions who are part of The Tour.
Later, George
____________________________________________________
Start your day with Yahoo! - make it your home page
http://www.yahoo.com/r/hs
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Dijon, France
Friends: After two days of Internet wasteland I detoured slightly out of my way to Dijon, to take advantage of an Internet cafe I used last year. I doubt I'll have enough time to give a full report on my past three days, which included a couple more bicycle museums, as well as my final day of The Tour, but here goes.
I started my final day of The Tour, Sunday, biking the previous day's time trial course. I camped alongside it the night before, joined by a German couple, one of whom was wearing a Lance bracelet. There was a continual string of mostly individual cyclists out riding the course along with me and also a few people walking it, scavenging. Even though it had been lined by thousands the day before, it was remarkably litter-free, thanks to the bulging official Tour de France plastic litter-bags hanging on wooden stakes driven into the ground every hundred feet or so.
St. Etienne was at one time the foremost city of bike manufacturers in France. Mercier and Stronglight, among others, still maintain factories there. The local Art and Industry Museum is primarily devoted to the four industries that at one time defined St. Etienne--bikes, optics, ribbons and arms manufacture. The museum resides in a stately four-story chateau on a hill overlooking the center of the city. In such a setting, the bike had to be taken seriously.
The bulk of the floor devoted to the bike included the usual array of bikes dating from 1817 to the present. They were arranged by a curator who knew how to pay tribute to each. Although the museum claimed to have the largest collection of bikes of any museum in France, there was not the sense of clutter that most bike museums have with bikes tightly crammed and wedged trying to fill every inch of a museum's space. In one of the rooms devoted to the early-day bikes was a video of cyclists in the attire of the period merrily pedaling along on country roads on the very bikes in that room. Even these neanderthals, some weighing as much as 60 pounds, seemed to float effortlessly along with a grace and elegance that was as pleasing to watch as the Tour de France riders. The video included flocks of cyclists on penny-farthings and a stray cyclist or two on the original pedal-less Draisine bikes propelled like a scooter with the rider pushing off the ground with his feet as he sat on the wooden seat between the two wheels.
A video in another room was devoted to bicycle touring. It paid tribute to Paul de, known as Velocio. He was a great apostle of touring and long distance cycling. He lived in St. Etienne until his death in 1930 at the age of 77 when he was electrocuted by a street car while pushing his bike. He was a bike manufacturer and inventor and publisher, founding a bike magazine in the 1880s that survived until the 1970s. He is such a revered figure that St. Etienne celebrates him every June 5 with Velocio Day. There is a ride that day to the Col de Republique, a ten-mile climb from the city that gains 2,500 feet. There is a bust of him at the summit.
I learned most of this over lunch on a bench outside the museum from one of the museum's curators. She interrupted her lunch to go back to the museum for a computer printout of his biography for me. As she headed back to the museum, she paused to admonish, "Don't eat my cookie," recognizing a ravenous cyclist when she saw one. Included in the several sheets she returned with was his Seven Commandments of Cycle Touring. Among them were "eat before you're hungry, drink before you're thirsty," and "avoid meat, wine and tobacco," dictums well ahead of their time.
Although the Col de Republique was south of the city and I was headed north, it was a climb I had to make. The most difficult part of the climb was deciding whether to camp in the luxurious forest surrounding it that night, as I arrived there at 7:30, or make the descent back to the city and escape the metropolis before Monday's traffic. I probably should have camped in the forest in the presence of Velocio and given my legs some rest, but I chose to push on and bike to dark one last time.
Between the climb to Velocio and the museum visit, I had the final miles of The Tour to watch. The sports bar I found in downtown St. Etienne was about half-filled as the peloton reached the Champs Elysees for its eight laps from the Arc de Triomph to the Place de la Concord. And the bar continued filling, paying further tribute to this bicycle-town, as the peloton settled down to business with assorted attacks after the first ceremonial lap with Lance and his Discovery mates shoulder-to-shoulder riding past the multitudes.
The peloton at first looked puny and almost insignificant and out-of-place on that most grand and celebrated of boulevards, wide enough for a space shuttle to land. When the Arc de Triomph towered in all its majesty in the background, it threatened to steal all the glory from the many other magnificent sites and spectacular scenery that the peloton had passed in the previous three weeks. But within a lap or two the peloton regained its prominence and all nobility belonged to it. It brought the joy and cheer of the millions it had passed along the road, whose lives it had touched, people throughout France and those who had come from all over Europe and the world to see it and who would forever remember that moment when they connected with The Tour. The Tour added to their stature and they added to The Tour's stature.
For awhile it looked like another American, Chris Horner riding for a Spanish team, might pull off a surprise victory, but it was Vinokurov who surprised all the salivating sprinters by bolting from the field after it had overtaken Horner, managing to hold off everyone else for his second victory of The Tour. He's a fan favorite. Fans paint his name on the roads as often as any of the riders. With the nickname of "Vino" the French would have to love him. His daring, aggressive style is much lauded, as few riders are capable of it. He suffered mightily in his final, all-out effort, as it took several moments for the agony on his face to be replaced by the ecstasy of his win as he rolled past the finish line.
We in the bar didn't get to see all of his celebration or Lance's final coronation, as the TV was quickly switched to a soccer game without any protest from the now full bar. My close-up table was immediately grabbed when I vacated it. There may have been a couple of cycling fans present, but now that I looked, the majority of the crowd was wearing green jerseys or green scarfs of the local team. Local sports does reign supreme.
Later, George
I started my final day of The Tour, Sunday, biking the previous day's time trial course. I camped alongside it the night before, joined by a German couple, one of whom was wearing a Lance bracelet. There was a continual string of mostly individual cyclists out riding the course along with me and also a few people walking it, scavenging. Even though it had been lined by thousands the day before, it was remarkably litter-free, thanks to the bulging official Tour de France plastic litter-bags hanging on wooden stakes driven into the ground every hundred feet or so.
St. Etienne was at one time the foremost city of bike manufacturers in France. Mercier and Stronglight, among others, still maintain factories there. The local Art and Industry Museum is primarily devoted to the four industries that at one time defined St. Etienne--bikes, optics, ribbons and arms manufacture. The museum resides in a stately four-story chateau on a hill overlooking the center of the city. In such a setting, the bike had to be taken seriously.
The bulk of the floor devoted to the bike included the usual array of bikes dating from 1817 to the present. They were arranged by a curator who knew how to pay tribute to each. Although the museum claimed to have the largest collection of bikes of any museum in France, there was not the sense of clutter that most bike museums have with bikes tightly crammed and wedged trying to fill every inch of a museum's space. In one of the rooms devoted to the early-day bikes was a video of cyclists in the attire of the period merrily pedaling along on country roads on the very bikes in that room. Even these neanderthals, some weighing as much as 60 pounds, seemed to float effortlessly along with a grace and elegance that was as pleasing to watch as the Tour de France riders. The video included flocks of cyclists on penny-farthings and a stray cyclist or two on the original pedal-less Draisine bikes propelled like a scooter with the rider pushing off the ground with his feet as he sat on the wooden seat between the two wheels.
A video in another room was devoted to bicycle touring. It paid tribute to Paul de, known as Velocio. He was a great apostle of touring and long distance cycling. He lived in St. Etienne until his death in 1930 at the age of 77 when he was electrocuted by a street car while pushing his bike. He was a bike manufacturer and inventor and publisher, founding a bike magazine in the 1880s that survived until the 1970s. He is such a revered figure that St. Etienne celebrates him every June 5 with Velocio Day. There is a ride that day to the Col de Republique, a ten-mile climb from the city that gains 2,500 feet. There is a bust of him at the summit.
I learned most of this over lunch on a bench outside the museum from one of the museum's curators. She interrupted her lunch to go back to the museum for a computer printout of his biography for me. As she headed back to the museum, she paused to admonish, "Don't eat my cookie," recognizing a ravenous cyclist when she saw one. Included in the several sheets she returned with was his Seven Commandments of Cycle Touring. Among them were "eat before you're hungry, drink before you're thirsty," and "avoid meat, wine and tobacco," dictums well ahead of their time.
Although the Col de Republique was south of the city and I was headed north, it was a climb I had to make. The most difficult part of the climb was deciding whether to camp in the luxurious forest surrounding it that night, as I arrived there at 7:30, or make the descent back to the city and escape the metropolis before Monday's traffic. I probably should have camped in the forest in the presence of Velocio and given my legs some rest, but I chose to push on and bike to dark one last time.
Between the climb to Velocio and the museum visit, I had the final miles of The Tour to watch. The sports bar I found in downtown St. Etienne was about half-filled as the peloton reached the Champs Elysees for its eight laps from the Arc de Triomph to the Place de la Concord. And the bar continued filling, paying further tribute to this bicycle-town, as the peloton settled down to business with assorted attacks after the first ceremonial lap with Lance and his Discovery mates shoulder-to-shoulder riding past the multitudes.
The peloton at first looked puny and almost insignificant and out-of-place on that most grand and celebrated of boulevards, wide enough for a space shuttle to land. When the Arc de Triomph towered in all its majesty in the background, it threatened to steal all the glory from the many other magnificent sites and spectacular scenery that the peloton had passed in the previous three weeks. But within a lap or two the peloton regained its prominence and all nobility belonged to it. It brought the joy and cheer of the millions it had passed along the road, whose lives it had touched, people throughout France and those who had come from all over Europe and the world to see it and who would forever remember that moment when they connected with The Tour. The Tour added to their stature and they added to The Tour's stature.
For awhile it looked like another American, Chris Horner riding for a Spanish team, might pull off a surprise victory, but it was Vinokurov who surprised all the salivating sprinters by bolting from the field after it had overtaken Horner, managing to hold off everyone else for his second victory of The Tour. He's a fan favorite. Fans paint his name on the roads as often as any of the riders. With the nickname of "Vino" the French would have to love him. His daring, aggressive style is much lauded, as few riders are capable of it. He suffered mightily in his final, all-out effort, as it took several moments for the agony on his face to be replaced by the ecstasy of his win as he rolled past the finish line.
We in the bar didn't get to see all of his celebration or Lance's final coronation, as the TV was quickly switched to a soccer game without any protest from the now full bar. My close-up table was immediately grabbed when I vacated it. There may have been a couple of cycling fans present, but now that I looked, the majority of the crowd was wearing green jerseys or green scarfs of the local team. Local sports does reign supreme.
Later, George
Sunday, July 24, 2005
St. Etienne, France
Friends: Within a minute or two of leaning my loaded-up bike against a fence near the time trial finish line here in St. an Englishman in his 50s mosied over to give it a look. I immediately mosied over to him, not out of concern for my bike, but figuring he could well be a kindred spirit. Indeed he was.
He was not only a fellow touring cyclist, but also a fellow devotee of The Tour. He was celebrating the 30th anniversary of attending The Tour, though his Tour credentials go back even further, to 1967, having attended the funeral of Tommy Simpson, the first English cyclist to wear the yellow jersey and former world champion, who died near the summit of Mont Ventoux in The Tour that year.
My new friend, Ken, was a veritable fountain of Tour lore, recounting the exploits of the few English riders who've ridden it and many specific dramatic stages from over the years. He'll be talking about today's events in the years to come as well--Lance's victory and Rasmussen's disaster. Ken has never been able to devote a full three weeks to The Tour as I've been lucky enough to have done the past two years, as he's a gardener, and the grass keeps growing while he's away, but he's managed a dose of at least a week or two nearly every year since his first, when Bernard Thevenet, presently a TV commentator covering The Tour, stopped Merckx in his bid for a sixth win in 1975.
It was eleven when I staked out my viewing spot, shortly after the caravan had passed. I had hoped to arrive sooner, in time for one last batch of caravan booty, but it wasn't easy finding the race course. It was on the outskirts of the old industrial city of St. Etienne, 35 miles southwest of Lyons. There were no signs, nor streams of fans, indicating the way to the course. The start and finish of the 44-mile time trial course were just a few blocks apart. The first of the 155 riders remaining in the race was setting out just as I arrived. We had to wait about an hour and 15 minutes for the string of riders to begin passing us at about one minute intervals. Much to our chagrin, we had to wait much longer for the screen to begin showing the riders in action, though the times of the early riders were all inconsequential. They were all hours behind the leaders.
It was only the last dozen or so whose times were of much interest or impact, so it wasn't the end of the world that the screen only flashed The Tour logo at us for three hours. No fan, however, can get enough of seeing riders riding all-out on that monster screen atop a semi-truck, but at least I had Ken's non-stop patter to distract me from our deprivation.
Ken and I were of a like mind on most matters, except for the occasional cloud that passed in front of the sun. I was happy for any break from its intense rays here on the fringe of the Massif Central, but not Ken. He knew when he returned to work on Tuesday in the north of England, it would most likely be to rain, or at least heavy clouds, so he craved as much sun as he could soak up now while he had a chance. He was like the Italians, even some in the peloton, who are inclined to roll up their short sleeves to their shoulder to get as much skin tanned as they can.
Ken gushed with enthusiasm, but unlike all too many of the Americans I've been within earshot of here, who want all to think they are an authority on the race, or whatever topic is at hand, Ken was a genuine, unpretentious sort who only wanted to revel and didn't turn a deaf ear to the comments of others. He was a devoted fan who was happy to have found another, and so was I.
He had no English cyclists to cheer, but he remained loyal to the Commonwealth and the former colony that had three riders in the top ten, rooting for all the Aussies and the Americans and the American team. We were both a bit surprised when the screen flashed Lance frolicking with his son and twin daughters an hour before he was due in the starting gate, as he sat on his bike warming up. This was the final major effort he would ever have to give on his bike. He had a two-and-a-half minute lead on Basso, but Basso had won the final time trial of the Giro and couldn't be taken too lightly. But we underestimated Lance's ability to turn on his focus and push those pedals. He was a demon from the start of his run. It almost looked like the camera was speeded up, he was pedaling with such fury and roaring past the crowds along the route so fast.
Still, Basso was seven seconds faster than Lance one-third of the way through the course. It wasn't a matter of much concern, as Basso looked as if he had overextended himself, and he had, faltering considerably, eventually finishing fourth. But Rasmussen was the one who faltered, or plunged, most dramatically, having one of the worst rides in history, crashing twice, needing to change bikes three times with mechanical difficulties and braking almost to a complete stop at one point when he went in to a turn too fast. He was trying to hold off Ullrich over two minutes behind to retain his third-place, podium spot.
The TV screen kept a stop watch on the rapidly descending seconds of Rasmussen's lead. Not only did Basso, who started three minutes after him, catch him, so did Lance, who started six minutes later. When Lance passed Rasmussen, it may have been the most dangerous moment of The Tour for him. Rasmussen appeared to be so cursed, and was having such a disastrous ride, he could have imploded again and taken Lance down with him. Rasmussen did retain the polka-dot jersey for best climber. If he had been told before the race started that he would win it, he would have been thrilled. But his expectations increased, leaving him wanting more. No one could have predicted that he might end up on the podium, but he had it within his grasp. For one of the rare times ever, the pre-race favorites, and the unquestioned top three riders, will finish one-two-three--Lance, Basso, Ullrich. No surprises this year, unlike last when Kloden and Basso finished on the podium with Lance.
For the first time since The Tour commenced three weeks ago, I didn't have to leap on my bike and start riding once the stage was over. I could watch all the post-race ceremonies and could linger amongst the departing fans and mosey over to the team buses. The biggest crowd was around the Discovery bus. Lance's kids were aboard staring out the front window, the only untinted one on the bus. But no Lance, as he was whisked away by via other means, and without his children.
All around us, crews of dozens of workers were dismantling all the structures that comprise The Tour Village for the press and sponsors and guests and riders. There are dozens of huge semi-trucks that carry the equipment from city to city. As I've made my evening transit from a finish city to the next day's start city, they pass me in long convoys mixed in with the hundreds of other vehicles that comprise The Tour entourage. It is enough of a spectacle, especially with all the decorated and odd caravan vehicles, that people sit in lawn chairs along the road as the sun sets watching the parade. Although they are whizzing by me for miles and miles, I don't mind in the least. I must be a familiar site to them, but fortunately they don't have the compulsion to give a friendly toot as they pass. Occasionally, a zealous fan will poke their head and arms out a window and acknowledge me. It happens often enough that it is no longer startling. Being a part of that parade is one of the countless fond memories I will have of this experience.
I will spend today, Sunday, the final day of The Tour, in St. Etienne to visit a museum that has the largest collection of bicycles in all of France and to watch the conclusion of The Tour. Tomorrow I will head towards a bicycling museum that the French postal worker I met at the cycling chapel told me about. Then its on to Paris and environs, where three other bicycling memorial sites, including the starting point of the first Tour in 1903, await me. I have nine days
before I fly home.
Later, George
He was not only a fellow touring cyclist, but also a fellow devotee of The Tour. He was celebrating the 30th anniversary of attending The Tour, though his Tour credentials go back even further, to 1967, having attended the funeral of Tommy Simpson, the first English cyclist to wear the yellow jersey and former world champion, who died near the summit of Mont Ventoux in The Tour that year.
My new friend, Ken, was a veritable fountain of Tour lore, recounting the exploits of the few English riders who've ridden it and many specific dramatic stages from over the years. He'll be talking about today's events in the years to come as well--Lance's victory and Rasmussen's disaster. Ken has never been able to devote a full three weeks to The Tour as I've been lucky enough to have done the past two years, as he's a gardener, and the grass keeps growing while he's away, but he's managed a dose of at least a week or two nearly every year since his first, when Bernard Thevenet, presently a TV commentator covering The Tour, stopped Merckx in his bid for a sixth win in 1975.
It was eleven when I staked out my viewing spot, shortly after the caravan had passed. I had hoped to arrive sooner, in time for one last batch of caravan booty, but it wasn't easy finding the race course. It was on the outskirts of the old industrial city of St. Etienne, 35 miles southwest of Lyons. There were no signs, nor streams of fans, indicating the way to the course. The start and finish of the 44-mile time trial course were just a few blocks apart. The first of the 155 riders remaining in the race was setting out just as I arrived. We had to wait about an hour and 15 minutes for the string of riders to begin passing us at about one minute intervals. Much to our chagrin, we had to wait much longer for the screen to begin showing the riders in action, though the times of the early riders were all inconsequential. They were all hours behind the leaders.
It was only the last dozen or so whose times were of much interest or impact, so it wasn't the end of the world that the screen only flashed The Tour logo at us for three hours. No fan, however, can get enough of seeing riders riding all-out on that monster screen atop a semi-truck, but at least I had Ken's non-stop patter to distract me from our deprivation.
Ken and I were of a like mind on most matters, except for the occasional cloud that passed in front of the sun. I was happy for any break from its intense rays here on the fringe of the Massif Central, but not Ken. He knew when he returned to work on Tuesday in the north of England, it would most likely be to rain, or at least heavy clouds, so he craved as much sun as he could soak up now while he had a chance. He was like the Italians, even some in the peloton, who are inclined to roll up their short sleeves to their shoulder to get as much skin tanned as they can.
Ken gushed with enthusiasm, but unlike all too many of the Americans I've been within earshot of here, who want all to think they are an authority on the race, or whatever topic is at hand, Ken was a genuine, unpretentious sort who only wanted to revel and didn't turn a deaf ear to the comments of others. He was a devoted fan who was happy to have found another, and so was I.
He had no English cyclists to cheer, but he remained loyal to the Commonwealth and the former colony that had three riders in the top ten, rooting for all the Aussies and the Americans and the American team. We were both a bit surprised when the screen flashed Lance frolicking with his son and twin daughters an hour before he was due in the starting gate, as he sat on his bike warming up. This was the final major effort he would ever have to give on his bike. He had a two-and-a-half minute lead on Basso, but Basso had won the final time trial of the Giro and couldn't be taken too lightly. But we underestimated Lance's ability to turn on his focus and push those pedals. He was a demon from the start of his run. It almost looked like the camera was speeded up, he was pedaling with such fury and roaring past the crowds along the route so fast.
Still, Basso was seven seconds faster than Lance one-third of the way through the course. It wasn't a matter of much concern, as Basso looked as if he had overextended himself, and he had, faltering considerably, eventually finishing fourth. But Rasmussen was the one who faltered, or plunged, most dramatically, having one of the worst rides in history, crashing twice, needing to change bikes three times with mechanical difficulties and braking almost to a complete stop at one point when he went in to a turn too fast. He was trying to hold off Ullrich over two minutes behind to retain his third-place, podium spot.
The TV screen kept a stop watch on the rapidly descending seconds of Rasmussen's lead. Not only did Basso, who started three minutes after him, catch him, so did Lance, who started six minutes later. When Lance passed Rasmussen, it may have been the most dangerous moment of The Tour for him. Rasmussen appeared to be so cursed, and was having such a disastrous ride, he could have imploded again and taken Lance down with him. Rasmussen did retain the polka-dot jersey for best climber. If he had been told before the race started that he would win it, he would have been thrilled. But his expectations increased, leaving him wanting more. No one could have predicted that he might end up on the podium, but he had it within his grasp. For one of the rare times ever, the pre-race favorites, and the unquestioned top three riders, will finish one-two-three--Lance, Basso, Ullrich. No surprises this year, unlike last when Kloden and Basso finished on the podium with Lance.
For the first time since The Tour commenced three weeks ago, I didn't have to leap on my bike and start riding once the stage was over. I could watch all the post-race ceremonies and could linger amongst the departing fans and mosey over to the team buses. The biggest crowd was around the Discovery bus. Lance's kids were aboard staring out the front window, the only untinted one on the bus. But no Lance, as he was whisked away by via other means, and without his children.
All around us, crews of dozens of workers were dismantling all the structures that comprise The Tour Village for the press and sponsors and guests and riders. There are dozens of huge semi-trucks that carry the equipment from city to city. As I've made my evening transit from a finish city to the next day's start city, they pass me in long convoys mixed in with the hundreds of other vehicles that comprise The Tour entourage. It is enough of a spectacle, especially with all the decorated and odd caravan vehicles, that people sit in lawn chairs along the road as the sun sets watching the parade. Although they are whizzing by me for miles and miles, I don't mind in the least. I must be a familiar site to them, but fortunately they don't have the compulsion to give a friendly toot as they pass. Occasionally, a zealous fan will poke their head and arms out a window and acknowledge me. It happens often enough that it is no longer startling. Being a part of that parade is one of the countless fond memories I will have of this experience.
I will spend today, Sunday, the final day of The Tour, in St. Etienne to visit a museum that has the largest collection of bicycles in all of France and to watch the conclusion of The Tour. Tomorrow I will head towards a bicycling museum that the French postal worker I met at the cycling chapel told me about. Then its on to Paris and environs, where three other bicycling memorial sites, including the starting point of the first Tour in 1903, await me. I have nine days
before I fly home.
Later, George
Friday, July 22, 2005
Le Puy, France
Friends: I had another classic Tour de France experience yesterday, watching the final 45 minutes of the day's stage with a couple of French families along the race route on their small black-and-white TV resting on the trunk of their car.
I had been on the alert for a TV among the lingering fans for better than half an hour once I resumed riding after the last of the peloton passed me at the summit of the six-mile category two climb 35 miles from the day's finish in Mende. I knew I couldn't make it to a town with a bar and TV before the finish, which was preceded by another category two climb, where Lance was sure to be attacked. I didn't want to miss any of that action.
I passed lots of RV's parked along the race route with people inside watching their TVS. I kept hoping to find one with a TV poking out a window and a gathering outside watching it that I could join. No such luck, but, instead, I had the better luck in coming upon the setting I did--three generations of a dozen French fans sitting on lawn chairs and on the ground peering up at their fuzzy little TV, whose antenna one of the men had to keep adjusting. I had to leap to my feet for a closer look when the graphics came up to see who was in the break and how far ahead they were. When the breakaway group passed me on the road I couldn't identify any of the riders. Only the team cars with spare bikes and food and drink following the group of eleven let me know which teams were represented. No Discovery rider this day.
When I came upon this TV I straddled my bike and watched for a few moments until I was sure I was welcome. Then I parked my bike and dug out a couple of items I'd nabbed from the caravan that day to offer--a bag of coffee beans and a neckerchief. I gave them to the most senior member of the clan and then plopped down on the grass. A couple minutes later, the youngest of them, a ten-year old boy came over clutching the neckerchief to say thank you in French and English. It was the only English I heard while with them.
I sat and drank from my water bottle, which I was lucky enough to have filled a few miles back, as it was a hot and strenuous day, and I had drunk three-and-a-half of my four water bottles by the time the peloton passed me. I also had an energy bar I had found alongside the road discarded by one of the riders. One of the women offered me some peaches and plums, as juicy and tasty as I've ever had. One of the men dug out a thawing two-liter bottle of water with a giant ice cube still a long way from thawing in the middle. I filled my water bottled and gulped and gulped, not knowing cold water could taste so good. I was wary of overdoing it, but I was much more dehydrated than I thought, as my body kept craving more and more.
It was my third straight hard and long day of over 100 miles, through the heat and the rolling countryside with much more climbing than I anticipated, trying to keep up with The Tour. I had come 80 miles by 2:30, when I was forced to stop by a gendarme. I was only as far as I was thanks to a German school teacher who was fluent in French and knew how to charm the gendarmes. We continued on an hour after the first gendarme tried to stop us. Each time we were allowed to continue, saying we wanted to try to reach the summit of an upcoming climb and promising to stop once the caravan came along. Each time the gendarme agreed to let us keep going, it felt as if we'd gain passage through another secret door that would lead to a treasure.
Originally I had hoped I could get at least through the sizable town of Millau before having to stop, as I feared it could be complicated to find my way through the mini-metropolis after the race had passed and the crowds were gone and the course markers all scavenged. But we were making such good time, we well beyond Millau when we had to stop. As we kept pushing on and on, not stopping to eat or rest, by the time we began the long climb in the heat of the day, I wasn't at my strongest. I actually had to stop a couple of times in the shade when I began to feel faint. But every kilometer, every 100 meters, I gained was crucial. A couple of times we had to walk our bikes until we were out of site of the gendarme who pounced on us. Most of them spoke English, unlike last year. Evidently there are so many Americans now at the race, they make an effort to have English-speaking gendarmes out there.
My marathon three days began Tuesday at two p.m, when I started on the race route from Pau to Revel after seeing the start of that day's stage in Mourenx 15 miles away. I biked until after ten p.m., past dark, with the assistance of a full moon, knocking off 80 of the stage's 150 miles. And then next day, I was able to finish off the 70 miles to the finish line by two p.m., faster than I expected thanks to the hoards of American cyclists with tour groups riding the course. Most of them shot past me in pace lines, but I was able to latch on to an occasional group. And then I had the good fortune of being joined by an Australian guy and his girl friend. They were riding the identical Trek 520 green touring bike I was riding, and were similarly bedecked with Ortlieb panniers. They had been following The Tour since the team time trial in Blois, though they had been making use of the trains to keep up. They noticed me Saturday in Aix-les-Thermes, the only other touring cyclist they'd seen.
It was the second day in a row I had met an Australian cyclist who could brief me on the ease of taking one's bike on the French trains, or at least the slow trains. The first was an older guy whose email address is oldcyclist. He wasn't following The Tour, but just happened to be in Mourenx the day The Tour was there. It was his first taste of The Tour. I met him when I saw him taking a picture of my bike, while I was off taking pictures myself. He'd been hopping all over France by train. He said one can just show up at a station with one's bike and they'll take the bike as is, no box or bag required, and even with panniers still on, and for no extra charge. That was great news, and could be the solution to seeing all, or most, of The Tour next time.
Right now, I'm pretty exhausted, having biked nearly 400 miles in the last 72 hours. But that is my final big surge. I will see today's finish here in Le Puy in three hours and then set out for St. Etienne, 70 miles away, for tomorrow's time trial. I'll get at least half-way there tonight before dark. And that will be The Tour for me, other than watching the finish in Paris on TV the next day. Paris is 250 miles away. The riders will take the high-speed train Saturday night to within 100 miles of Paris, and then commence their promenade to the final sprint around the Champs Elysees. Lance can toast the cameras with champagne as he rides along, as is the tradition.
Later, George
I had been on the alert for a TV among the lingering fans for better than half an hour once I resumed riding after the last of the peloton passed me at the summit of the six-mile category two climb 35 miles from the day's finish in Mende. I knew I couldn't make it to a town with a bar and TV before the finish, which was preceded by another category two climb, where Lance was sure to be attacked. I didn't want to miss any of that action.
I passed lots of RV's parked along the race route with people inside watching their TVS. I kept hoping to find one with a TV poking out a window and a gathering outside watching it that I could join. No such luck, but, instead, I had the better luck in coming upon the setting I did--three generations of a dozen French fans sitting on lawn chairs and on the ground peering up at their fuzzy little TV, whose antenna one of the men had to keep adjusting. I had to leap to my feet for a closer look when the graphics came up to see who was in the break and how far ahead they were. When the breakaway group passed me on the road I couldn't identify any of the riders. Only the team cars with spare bikes and food and drink following the group of eleven let me know which teams were represented. No Discovery rider this day.
When I came upon this TV I straddled my bike and watched for a few moments until I was sure I was welcome. Then I parked my bike and dug out a couple of items I'd nabbed from the caravan that day to offer--a bag of coffee beans and a neckerchief. I gave them to the most senior member of the clan and then plopped down on the grass. A couple minutes later, the youngest of them, a ten-year old boy came over clutching the neckerchief to say thank you in French and English. It was the only English I heard while with them.
I sat and drank from my water bottle, which I was lucky enough to have filled a few miles back, as it was a hot and strenuous day, and I had drunk three-and-a-half of my four water bottles by the time the peloton passed me. I also had an energy bar I had found alongside the road discarded by one of the riders. One of the women offered me some peaches and plums, as juicy and tasty as I've ever had. One of the men dug out a thawing two-liter bottle of water with a giant ice cube still a long way from thawing in the middle. I filled my water bottled and gulped and gulped, not knowing cold water could taste so good. I was wary of overdoing it, but I was much more dehydrated than I thought, as my body kept craving more and more.
It was my third straight hard and long day of over 100 miles, through the heat and the rolling countryside with much more climbing than I anticipated, trying to keep up with The Tour. I had come 80 miles by 2:30, when I was forced to stop by a gendarme. I was only as far as I was thanks to a German school teacher who was fluent in French and knew how to charm the gendarmes. We continued on an hour after the first gendarme tried to stop us. Each time we were allowed to continue, saying we wanted to try to reach the summit of an upcoming climb and promising to stop once the caravan came along. Each time the gendarme agreed to let us keep going, it felt as if we'd gain passage through another secret door that would lead to a treasure.
Originally I had hoped I could get at least through the sizable town of Millau before having to stop, as I feared it could be complicated to find my way through the mini-metropolis after the race had passed and the crowds were gone and the course markers all scavenged. But we were making such good time, we well beyond Millau when we had to stop. As we kept pushing on and on, not stopping to eat or rest, by the time we began the long climb in the heat of the day, I wasn't at my strongest. I actually had to stop a couple of times in the shade when I began to feel faint. But every kilometer, every 100 meters, I gained was crucial. A couple of times we had to walk our bikes until we were out of site of the gendarme who pounced on us. Most of them spoke English, unlike last year. Evidently there are so many Americans now at the race, they make an effort to have English-speaking gendarmes out there.
My marathon three days began Tuesday at two p.m, when I started on the race route from Pau to Revel after seeing the start of that day's stage in Mourenx 15 miles away. I biked until after ten p.m., past dark, with the assistance of a full moon, knocking off 80 of the stage's 150 miles. And then next day, I was able to finish off the 70 miles to the finish line by two p.m., faster than I expected thanks to the hoards of American cyclists with tour groups riding the course. Most of them shot past me in pace lines, but I was able to latch on to an occasional group. And then I had the good fortune of being joined by an Australian guy and his girl friend. They were riding the identical Trek 520 green touring bike I was riding, and were similarly bedecked with Ortlieb panniers. They had been following The Tour since the team time trial in Blois, though they had been making use of the trains to keep up. They noticed me Saturday in Aix-les-Thermes, the only other touring cyclist they'd seen.
It was the second day in a row I had met an Australian cyclist who could brief me on the ease of taking one's bike on the French trains, or at least the slow trains. The first was an older guy whose email address is oldcyclist. He wasn't following The Tour, but just happened to be in Mourenx the day The Tour was there. It was his first taste of The Tour. I met him when I saw him taking a picture of my bike, while I was off taking pictures myself. He'd been hopping all over France by train. He said one can just show up at a station with one's bike and they'll take the bike as is, no box or bag required, and even with panniers still on, and for no extra charge. That was great news, and could be the solution to seeing all, or most, of The Tour next time.
Right now, I'm pretty exhausted, having biked nearly 400 miles in the last 72 hours. But that is my final big surge. I will see today's finish here in Le Puy in three hours and then set out for St. Etienne, 70 miles away, for tomorrow's time trial. I'll get at least half-way there tonight before dark. And that will be The Tour for me, other than watching the finish in Paris on TV the next day. Paris is 250 miles away. The riders will take the high-speed train Saturday night to within 100 miles of Paris, and then commence their promenade to the final sprint around the Champs Elysees. Lance can toast the cameras with champagne as he rides along, as is the tradition.
Later, George
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Mourenx, France
Friends: France's daily sports newspaper, L'Equipe, had things in perspective yesterday--eight of its 18 pages were devoted to The Tour and half a page to Woods winning the British Open. Being able to read the extensive coverage L'Equipe gives The Tour is another reason that France is the only place to be in the month of July for anyone who wants to fully appreciate the Tour de France. It is virtually ad free and has full fold-out pages with dazzling photographs, all in color, loads of commentary and stats galore. It costs about a dollar, but is always money well spent.
Each issue this year has some cycling great recollecting their first memories of Lance. His streak of soon to be seven straight wins establishes him as the greatest Tour rider ever. There was considerable doubt before this year's Tour whether Lance would be motivated to win it again, since it would be his last race and his early results during the year weren't the best. The director of The Tour, Jean-Marie LeBlanc, who is only the third person to hold the position and has held it since 1988, was certain he would be. He said, "Armstrong est un veritable American, un competiteur."
I'm presently in Mourenx, today's departure city, about 15 miles from Pau. I will watch the start of the race and then head back to Pau, where the race ends and tomorrow's stage starts. When I get to Pau I will keep riding, trying to get as far into tomorrow's 150 mile stage as I can. I hope to be in front of a TV by the time the peloton reaches today's beyond category climb at about its half-way point, before the relatively flat return to Pau that shouldn't dramatically effect the standings.
Although Sunday was a super day for the Americans Hincapie and Armstrong, it wasn't so great for the Americans Landis and Leipheimer, both still in the top ten, but they faltered in their bid to inch towards one of those top three podium spots. Ullrich barely made a dent in Rasmussen's three minute lead on him for the third spot. If Hincapie hadn't been saving his energy on some previous stages, he could well be in the top ten as well. Despite the difficulty of Sunday's stage, only two riders dropped out, and, thanks to the cool, everyone made the time cut. The last two riders, 46 minutes after Hincapie, came in within one minute of being disqualified, and they celebrated as they crossed the line.
Among my Tour highlights so far is having my picture taken with The Devil, the German uber-fan, the Ronnie Woo-Woo of cycling, who dresses up as The Devil, complete with horns and pitchfork, and is there along the road for every stage of The Tour, and many other races as well, waving his pitchfork and jumping up and down as the peloton passes. He's quite adept at getting on TV and in the newspapers and cycling magazines. I only stopped for the photo op because the Australia I happened to be cycling with at the time recognized him ahead and slammed on his brakes, asking if he could have his picture taken with him. He started a chain-reaction, as suddenly everyone in the vicinity had the courage to have their picture taken with him as well. It is a picture I've wanted and will treasure almost as much as a photo with Lance. He is a celebrity fan I've been aware of for years. His devotion and crazed antics have always given me a jolt of excitement.
I snapped a few photos of him in action at the opening time trial, when I found myself stationed along the course in his vicinity. Unfortunately, he only speaks German, so I couldn't find out how long he's been doing this and why. Maybe his website will have that information. I nearly took his picture last year when I encountered him at the Tour de Suisse hours before the peloton was due, painting a series of his trademark pitchforks on the road to warn the riders and TV cameras that The Devil is nigh. I kept waiting for him to appear in the German documentary on The Tour that I saw in Cannes called "Hell on Wheels." He could have well inspired the title of the movie, but shockingly, he wasn't to be seen, a most grievous omission. He merits a documentary of his own.
Mourenx is in competition for a podium spot among Ville Etapes for the best and most bike art. There are literally hundreds of bikes, each painted a single bright color, scattered all over town. The town hall has about 15 decorated bikes on its roof and a 1973 car from that year's Tour that was one of the official vehicles with three bikes mounted on its back. There are also huge banners hanging on some of the multi-story apartment complexes along The Tour route celebrating great cycling events in Mourenx's past--1999, the last time it was a Ville Etape, one of Eddie Merckx being honored for a stage victory here in 1969, and others of the peloton passing through. There is also a mini-replica of the four cols (passes) today's stage will cross. The tourist office has an exposition of bike related stamps from all over the world including Mongolia and Cuba. There was a special edition of French stamps one year honoring The Heroes of The Tour."
I am very happy to have detoured over here to Mourenx. I could have skipped this stage and started immediately on tomorrow's stage, the longest of The Tour. It was very tempting yesterday, especially since there was a strong tail wind. Instead, I'll have a couple of hard, hard days ahead of me to keep up with the peloton. I will barely have time to stop to eat. I'll have to do as much eating as I can as I pedal along, just as the racers do.
Later, George
Each issue this year has some cycling great recollecting their first memories of Lance. His streak of soon to be seven straight wins establishes him as the greatest Tour rider ever. There was considerable doubt before this year's Tour whether Lance would be motivated to win it again, since it would be his last race and his early results during the year weren't the best. The director of The Tour, Jean-Marie LeBlanc, who is only the third person to hold the position and has held it since 1988, was certain he would be. He said, "Armstrong est un veritable American, un competiteur."
I'm presently in Mourenx, today's departure city, about 15 miles from Pau. I will watch the start of the race and then head back to Pau, where the race ends and tomorrow's stage starts. When I get to Pau I will keep riding, trying to get as far into tomorrow's 150 mile stage as I can. I hope to be in front of a TV by the time the peloton reaches today's beyond category climb at about its half-way point, before the relatively flat return to Pau that shouldn't dramatically effect the standings.
Although Sunday was a super day for the Americans Hincapie and Armstrong, it wasn't so great for the Americans Landis and Leipheimer, both still in the top ten, but they faltered in their bid to inch towards one of those top three podium spots. Ullrich barely made a dent in Rasmussen's three minute lead on him for the third spot. If Hincapie hadn't been saving his energy on some previous stages, he could well be in the top ten as well. Despite the difficulty of Sunday's stage, only two riders dropped out, and, thanks to the cool, everyone made the time cut. The last two riders, 46 minutes after Hincapie, came in within one minute of being disqualified, and they celebrated as they crossed the line.
Among my Tour highlights so far is having my picture taken with The Devil, the German uber-fan, the Ronnie Woo-Woo of cycling, who dresses up as The Devil, complete with horns and pitchfork, and is there along the road for every stage of The Tour, and many other races as well, waving his pitchfork and jumping up and down as the peloton passes. He's quite adept at getting on TV and in the newspapers and cycling magazines. I only stopped for the photo op because the Australia I happened to be cycling with at the time recognized him ahead and slammed on his brakes, asking if he could have his picture taken with him. He started a chain-reaction, as suddenly everyone in the vicinity had the courage to have their picture taken with him as well. It is a picture I've wanted and will treasure almost as much as a photo with Lance. He is a celebrity fan I've been aware of for years. His devotion and crazed antics have always given me a jolt of excitement.
I snapped a few photos of him in action at the opening time trial, when I found myself stationed along the course in his vicinity. Unfortunately, he only speaks German, so I couldn't find out how long he's been doing this and why. Maybe his website will have that information. I nearly took his picture last year when I encountered him at the Tour de Suisse hours before the peloton was due, painting a series of his trademark pitchforks on the road to warn the riders and TV cameras that The Devil is nigh. I kept waiting for him to appear in the German documentary on The Tour that I saw in Cannes called "Hell on Wheels." He could have well inspired the title of the movie, but shockingly, he wasn't to be seen, a most grievous omission. He merits a documentary of his own.
Mourenx is in competition for a podium spot among Ville Etapes for the best and most bike art. There are literally hundreds of bikes, each painted a single bright color, scattered all over town. The town hall has about 15 decorated bikes on its roof and a 1973 car from that year's Tour that was one of the official vehicles with three bikes mounted on its back. There are also huge banners hanging on some of the multi-story apartment complexes along The Tour route celebrating great cycling events in Mourenx's past--1999, the last time it was a Ville Etape, one of Eddie Merckx being honored for a stage victory here in 1969, and others of the peloton passing through. There is also a mini-replica of the four cols (passes) today's stage will cross. The tourist office has an exposition of bike related stamps from all over the world including Mongolia and Cuba. There was a special edition of French stamps one year honoring The Heroes of The Tour."
I am very happy to have detoured over here to Mourenx. I could have skipped this stage and started immediately on tomorrow's stage, the longest of The Tour. It was very tempting yesterday, especially since there was a strong tail wind. Instead, I'll have a couple of hard, hard days ahead of me to keep up with the peloton. I will barely have time to stop to eat. I'll have to do as much eating as I can as I pedal along, just as the racers do.
Later, George
Monday, July 18, 2005
Tarbes, France
Friends: Like Lance and his Discovery mates, I had a fine weekend in the Pyrenees meeting all my objectives and preserving some energy for the not so easy week ahead. Sunday miraculously cooled off, so the riders were pouring most of the water in their water bottles down their throats rather than over their heads as they were doing on Saturday.
It was hot even in the shade at Saturday's finish line at altitude. I started the five-mile climb at 9:30 that morning before the road sides were too mobbed, but there were still a goodly number of the rowdy, orange-clad Basque fans of the Euskatel team. For a while I trailed a guy on a mountain bike with a Basque flag on a pole lashed to his rack that brought out cheers as he passed.
My loaded bike and I received a few responses I'd never heard before from the Spanish fans--an "oh-la-la" and a "mama-mia"--along with the usual "bravos" and "bon courages" from the still predominantly French crowd. There are more Americans mixed in with the mobs now that the Tour is in the thick of the glamor stages. Americans too are impressed and happy to see someone in the touring mode taking on the race course. Some speak to me in French with their very recognizable American accents, some knowing enough to acknowledge me with "bravo" and "bon courage," but I also am told "Monsieur, c'est bon" and other such variations. Occasionally an American will be so aghast at seeing my overloaded bike he'll spontaneously blurt a remark in English such as "that's a haul," either to me or to whoever he may be with, loud enough for me to heard. I heard my first "Yeah baby" on this climb.
Climbing in the Pyrenees was also different from the Alps as there quite a few children on bikes making the climb. French cycling is in great decline, while the Spaniards are becoming a dominant force and here was the reason staring all the French in the face. And these kids, many of them in the ten-year age category, were strong. At the summit I encountered a three-year old Spanish boy who had been pedaling on a bike attached to his father's bike. He wore a helmet and even had his own mini-water bottle. He was utterly exhausted, with his head drooping on his handlebars, but he was receiving star treatment amongst the crowd where I had settled to watch the finish. A lady next to me asked him how old he was. He was too drained to speak, but held up three of his tiny fingers. That photo could be the star of my next slide show. Upon reaching the summit at 10:30, about six hours before the racers would begin arriving, I located the large screen and found a place in the shade. There was a nearby source of water and a couple sets of port-a-potties. I was all set.
A group of Americans wearing Burlington, Vermont cycling jerseys settled in near me. I struck up a conversation with one who happened to me their lone non-Vermonter, a guy from the suburbs of Chicago who works for one of the largest law firms in the city and is a client of my messenger company. He was a partner who split his time between Chicago and Manhattan, trying to get in a 90-minute bike ride before work in both cities. He'd been coming to France for The Tour nearly every year since his first seven years ago. His week in France was costing him twice what my three months was costing me, but he had no complaints.
He was just one of a dozen or so Americans I spoke with on Saturday and Sunday, some as I was biking along and others as I was sitting around, who were all absolutely thrilled to be here, boggled at the magnitude of The Tour, particularly in contrast to what little attention cycling, as a fringe sport, receives in the U.S. No event, sporting or otherwise, in America, or anywhere, remotely compares to it. It is impossible to appreciate its singularity without experiencing it.
Lance is winning and dominating this Tour in a manner different from his previous six wins--without a single stage victory so far except for the team time trial. He's come within a whisker of victory on two stages, however, and will be a heavy favorite to win the remaining time trial Saturday before the promenade into Paris the next day to conclude the race. But being in yellow on the Champs is all that matters. It was exciting enough to see him fend off all the attacks from his chief challengers when the going got steep on Saturday and Sunday, that it wasn't necessary to see him cross the finish line first to be awed by his strength.
Saturday I watched it all just a couple hundred feet from the finish line on the giant screen amongst a mob of thousands, while Sunday I watched it in the comfort of a hotel's lounge with a German and his wife who spoke no English, or didn't want to admit to and have to answer for Ullrich's inability to match Lance. I reached the hotel about an hour after watching the peloton pass just before they embarked on the third of the day's six climbs. I had biked over the day's first two climbs before reaching the day's feed zone where I paused for a couple of hours awaiting the caravan and the peloton.
I had to bike 50 miles the night before after Saturday's finish, to put myself within ten miles of Sunday's course. It was mostly downhill starting with a great descent down from the ski resort summit finish at Aix-les-Thermes with hundreds of other cyclists, including many of The Tour riders returning to their team bus at the bottom of the mountain. There was only one road up. If the riders had waited to come down in a team vehicle it could be a couple of hours before the road was cleared of all the descending fans, most of whom were on foot.
Although many of the fans wear team jerseys, there is no chance that they could be mistaken as anything but fans. The actual pros would be immediately recognizable even if they weren't still adorned with numbers on their bikes and their jerseys. They are slight and scrawny, without an ounce of body fat, and their smooth and effortless pedaling, riding very very fast through the obstacle course of thousands clearly distinguish themselves as highly skilled professionals. Most of the racers put on a jacket for the descent despite temperatures near 90, so they would cool off too dramatically. There was no way I could keep up with them, though many tried. After the five-mile descent I was part of a bumper-to-bumper migration of fans and Tour personnel headed to the next stage for 45 miles until just before dark.
I was on my bike by 7:30 the next morning. The first summit was 30 miles away and the next one ten miles after that. I was determined to get over both before the road was closed. Even though it was much cooler than the day before, my shirt and shorts were soaked, dripping perspiration by the time I reached the second summit and plunged down to the feed zone. Unfortunately it was in a village, so the road was lined with fans for a couple of miles making my chances of nabbing a discarded water bottle or excess energy bar very limited.
I stationed myself by one of the Discovery team soigneurs handing off the musette bags of food, so I was able to snap a photo of the man in yellow just inches from me as he grabbed his. I could have had a photo too of the ecstatic guy who recovered his water bottle. A better photo would have been of the overweight brute who looked as if he could have played middle-linebacker for the Bears who knocked over a 70-year old woman in pursuit of a trinket from the caravan. He maniacally chased after everything tossed by the caravan as if it were a fumble at the goal line. His pudgy ten-year old son let out a whimper whenever he or his dad failed to get whatever they were after. In the U.S. they would have qualified as white trash. The Americans along the race route might be loud and a tad obnoxious in their own way, but none are as crazed as the French can be in going after the souvenirs. There are many of his type. I am very careful to stay as far away from them as I can, preferably on the opposite side of the road. They are truly dangerous.
After the peloton passed I went in search of a TV in the small town of the feed zone, but the couple of bars were already packed and overflowing. It was 15 miles to the next town, and it being a Sunday I wasn't sure if the town would be big enough to have a bar that would be open. I was disappointed to miss the climb the peloton was embarking upon as it was in Spain. There would be legions of wild and demonstrative fans. But with three climbs following it before the finish, nothing too dramatic would happen. I was very concerned about finding a place to watch the rest of the race. When I came upon a hotel after 45 minutes I could only hope it had a communal television. As I dismounted my bike by the entryway, an employee came out to greet me. He knew exactly what had drawn me to his establishment. Even before I could ask if there was a television, he informed me that there was.
I was happy to see George Hincapie's victory interview. He bravely attempted French, but when he didn't know the word for "help", as he said that was his purpose, "to help Lance", and inserted the English word, the interviewer said,"That's OK, you can speak English if you want," both he and I were happy. I feared Hincapie would be fluent, as he has a French wife, a former podium girl, and has been riding the Tour for ten years. He was bubbling with ecstasy having unexpectedly won the Tour's toughest stage.
He is the first Lance teammate to win a stage since Lance's first Tour victory in 1999, as his teammates all stick with him and don't expend any energy on any venture for their own glory, as all their efforts are reserved for Lance. Hincapie was only covering a breakaway in the service of Lance, a breakaway that was never caught. Hincapie was the only one in the break who didn't have to work, so he had enough energy saved at the end for the win. Hincapie was almost embarrassed as he crossed the finish line, it was so unexpected.
A teammate of the Italian great Coppi once won a stage in the mountains back in the '50s in a similar fashion. He was in tears of sorrow at having upstaged his team leader. But no one could be happier than Lance at Hincapie having won this stage. Hincapie recounted how he has known Lance since he was 14 years old. He said, "I owe Lance everything." That's not true, as Hincapie is a great rider, having won the American pro championship and finishing second at Paris-Roubaix this year. Hincapie also effused how much he likes France. He said, "I have a French wife and a French child. France is my second home. I love you guys."
When the broadcast ended at six, I was back on my bike for another three hours headed to Pau 80 miles away, but in no great rush, as the next day was a rest day for the peloton.
Later, George
It was hot even in the shade at Saturday's finish line at altitude. I started the five-mile climb at 9:30 that morning before the road sides were too mobbed, but there were still a goodly number of the rowdy, orange-clad Basque fans of the Euskatel team. For a while I trailed a guy on a mountain bike with a Basque flag on a pole lashed to his rack that brought out cheers as he passed.
My loaded bike and I received a few responses I'd never heard before from the Spanish fans--an "oh-la-la" and a "mama-mia"--along with the usual "bravos" and "bon courages" from the still predominantly French crowd. There are more Americans mixed in with the mobs now that the Tour is in the thick of the glamor stages. Americans too are impressed and happy to see someone in the touring mode taking on the race course. Some speak to me in French with their very recognizable American accents, some knowing enough to acknowledge me with "bravo" and "bon courage," but I also am told "Monsieur, c'est bon" and other such variations. Occasionally an American will be so aghast at seeing my overloaded bike he'll spontaneously blurt a remark in English such as "that's a haul," either to me or to whoever he may be with, loud enough for me to heard. I heard my first "Yeah baby" on this climb.
Climbing in the Pyrenees was also different from the Alps as there quite a few children on bikes making the climb. French cycling is in great decline, while the Spaniards are becoming a dominant force and here was the reason staring all the French in the face. And these kids, many of them in the ten-year age category, were strong. At the summit I encountered a three-year old Spanish boy who had been pedaling on a bike attached to his father's bike. He wore a helmet and even had his own mini-water bottle. He was utterly exhausted, with his head drooping on his handlebars, but he was receiving star treatment amongst the crowd where I had settled to watch the finish. A lady next to me asked him how old he was. He was too drained to speak, but held up three of his tiny fingers. That photo could be the star of my next slide show. Upon reaching the summit at 10:30, about six hours before the racers would begin arriving, I located the large screen and found a place in the shade. There was a nearby source of water and a couple sets of port-a-potties. I was all set.
A group of Americans wearing Burlington, Vermont cycling jerseys settled in near me. I struck up a conversation with one who happened to me their lone non-Vermonter, a guy from the suburbs of Chicago who works for one of the largest law firms in the city and is a client of my messenger company. He was a partner who split his time between Chicago and Manhattan, trying to get in a 90-minute bike ride before work in both cities. He'd been coming to France for The Tour nearly every year since his first seven years ago. His week in France was costing him twice what my three months was costing me, but he had no complaints.
He was just one of a dozen or so Americans I spoke with on Saturday and Sunday, some as I was biking along and others as I was sitting around, who were all absolutely thrilled to be here, boggled at the magnitude of The Tour, particularly in contrast to what little attention cycling, as a fringe sport, receives in the U.S. No event, sporting or otherwise, in America, or anywhere, remotely compares to it. It is impossible to appreciate its singularity without experiencing it.
Lance is winning and dominating this Tour in a manner different from his previous six wins--without a single stage victory so far except for the team time trial. He's come within a whisker of victory on two stages, however, and will be a heavy favorite to win the remaining time trial Saturday before the promenade into Paris the next day to conclude the race. But being in yellow on the Champs is all that matters. It was exciting enough to see him fend off all the attacks from his chief challengers when the going got steep on Saturday and Sunday, that it wasn't necessary to see him cross the finish line first to be awed by his strength.
Saturday I watched it all just a couple hundred feet from the finish line on the giant screen amongst a mob of thousands, while Sunday I watched it in the comfort of a hotel's lounge with a German and his wife who spoke no English, or didn't want to admit to and have to answer for Ullrich's inability to match Lance. I reached the hotel about an hour after watching the peloton pass just before they embarked on the third of the day's six climbs. I had biked over the day's first two climbs before reaching the day's feed zone where I paused for a couple of hours awaiting the caravan and the peloton.
I had to bike 50 miles the night before after Saturday's finish, to put myself within ten miles of Sunday's course. It was mostly downhill starting with a great descent down from the ski resort summit finish at Aix-les-Thermes with hundreds of other cyclists, including many of The Tour riders returning to their team bus at the bottom of the mountain. There was only one road up. If the riders had waited to come down in a team vehicle it could be a couple of hours before the road was cleared of all the descending fans, most of whom were on foot.
Although many of the fans wear team jerseys, there is no chance that they could be mistaken as anything but fans. The actual pros would be immediately recognizable even if they weren't still adorned with numbers on their bikes and their jerseys. They are slight and scrawny, without an ounce of body fat, and their smooth and effortless pedaling, riding very very fast through the obstacle course of thousands clearly distinguish themselves as highly skilled professionals. Most of the racers put on a jacket for the descent despite temperatures near 90, so they would cool off too dramatically. There was no way I could keep up with them, though many tried. After the five-mile descent I was part of a bumper-to-bumper migration of fans and Tour personnel headed to the next stage for 45 miles until just before dark.
I was on my bike by 7:30 the next morning. The first summit was 30 miles away and the next one ten miles after that. I was determined to get over both before the road was closed. Even though it was much cooler than the day before, my shirt and shorts were soaked, dripping perspiration by the time I reached the second summit and plunged down to the feed zone. Unfortunately it was in a village, so the road was lined with fans for a couple of miles making my chances of nabbing a discarded water bottle or excess energy bar very limited.
I stationed myself by one of the Discovery team soigneurs handing off the musette bags of food, so I was able to snap a photo of the man in yellow just inches from me as he grabbed his. I could have had a photo too of the ecstatic guy who recovered his water bottle. A better photo would have been of the overweight brute who looked as if he could have played middle-linebacker for the Bears who knocked over a 70-year old woman in pursuit of a trinket from the caravan. He maniacally chased after everything tossed by the caravan as if it were a fumble at the goal line. His pudgy ten-year old son let out a whimper whenever he or his dad failed to get whatever they were after. In the U.S. they would have qualified as white trash. The Americans along the race route might be loud and a tad obnoxious in their own way, but none are as crazed as the French can be in going after the souvenirs. There are many of his type. I am very careful to stay as far away from them as I can, preferably on the opposite side of the road. They are truly dangerous.
After the peloton passed I went in search of a TV in the small town of the feed zone, but the couple of bars were already packed and overflowing. It was 15 miles to the next town, and it being a Sunday I wasn't sure if the town would be big enough to have a bar that would be open. I was disappointed to miss the climb the peloton was embarking upon as it was in Spain. There would be legions of wild and demonstrative fans. But with three climbs following it before the finish, nothing too dramatic would happen. I was very concerned about finding a place to watch the rest of the race. When I came upon a hotel after 45 minutes I could only hope it had a communal television. As I dismounted my bike by the entryway, an employee came out to greet me. He knew exactly what had drawn me to his establishment. Even before I could ask if there was a television, he informed me that there was.
I was happy to see George Hincapie's victory interview. He bravely attempted French, but when he didn't know the word for "help", as he said that was his purpose, "to help Lance", and inserted the English word, the interviewer said,"That's OK, you can speak English if you want," both he and I were happy. I feared Hincapie would be fluent, as he has a French wife, a former podium girl, and has been riding the Tour for ten years. He was bubbling with ecstasy having unexpectedly won the Tour's toughest stage.
He is the first Lance teammate to win a stage since Lance's first Tour victory in 1999, as his teammates all stick with him and don't expend any energy on any venture for their own glory, as all their efforts are reserved for Lance. Hincapie was only covering a breakaway in the service of Lance, a breakaway that was never caught. Hincapie was the only one in the break who didn't have to work, so he had enough energy saved at the end for the win. Hincapie was almost embarrassed as he crossed the finish line, it was so unexpected.
A teammate of the Italian great Coppi once won a stage in the mountains back in the '50s in a similar fashion. He was in tears of sorrow at having upstaged his team leader. But no one could be happier than Lance at Hincapie having won this stage. Hincapie recounted how he has known Lance since he was 14 years old. He said, "I owe Lance everything." That's not true, as Hincapie is a great rider, having won the American pro championship and finishing second at Paris-Roubaix this year. Hincapie also effused how much he likes France. He said, "I have a French wife and a French child. France is my second home. I love you guys."
When the broadcast ended at six, I was back on my bike for another three hours headed to Pau 80 miles away, but in no great rush, as the next day was a rest day for the peloton.
Later, George
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
