Some Cycling Sites Around Paris

 

Ordinarily I fly home on Monday after the conclusion of The Tour, eager to return after being in France for three months and in a hurry to drive right up to Traverse City with Janina for Michael Moore’s film festival.  This year I scheduled my flight home for Wednesday in case I needed to get a Covid test to get back in the US.  

Turns out I did, which I had confirmed at the US Embassy just off The Tour de France route by the Place de la Concorde. I didn’t have to enter the embassy as just as I arrived a young American was leaving.  She told me she was flying back the next day and confirmed that one needed the Covid test, which wasn’t necessary a month ago when I arrived if one had been vaccinated.    She said I could get take the test at any pharmacy and they’d give me my results in ten minutes and the papers I needed.  

The pharmacy I went to just down the street from Ralph’s apartment knew the procedure well and gave me all the documentation required, including the name of the person who administered the test.  Ralph thought it might be free, but it was only twenty-five euros.

My extra two days in Paris gave me the opportunity to search out some sites relevant to The Tour de France that I have long been curious to visit but haven’t had the opportunity.   One was the Vélodrome in Vincennes just east of Paris where The Tour used to finish before it gained the privilege of taking over the Champs Élysées.  The change was made in 1975 and has continued every year since.  

It was hard to imagine that the grand finale took place on this rather paltry Vélodrome built in 1894, but it had been the standard in its day hosting the Olympics in 1900 and 1924.  It was the main venue for multiple events in 1900, but was restricted to just cycling in 1924.  

It is now known as the Centre Sportif Jaques Anquetil.  I had read that there were plaques there honoring Anquetil and the Pellisier brothers.  Ralph and I failed to spot them, so we asked a couple of officials that were hanging out, but neither were aware of any plaques.

It was possible the plaque relating to Anquetil was simply the sign with his name on it.  It was a mystery though why there’d be a plaque honoring the three Pelissier brothers, one of whom won The Tour in 1923.  The Pelissiers, particularly Henri who won The Tour, were contentious figures who didn’t get along with Tour founder and director  Henri Desgrange.  They quit The Tour on more than one occasion upset with his draconian measures and once gave a famous interview to the leading investigative journalist of the day, Alfred Londres, confessing to all the drugs they took and that were required to ride The Race.  The article he wrote was titled “Les Forçats de la Route”  (“The Convicts of the Road”), alluding to a high-profile series he wrote on the penal colony in Guyana.

Ralph and I were in no hurry, so we kept up our search going out beyond the wall surrounding the Vélodrome past the shaded entry to look back on the Vélodrome and the wall around it.  Still nothing, but as we returned to our bikes on the other side of the half-opened gate, Ralph looked up and noticed the word Pellisier on a dark slab of wood just above the gate.  That was it—an old, weathered bas-relief with their faces and first names—Henri, Francis and Charles.  It was very nice, but quite obscured, so much so that people who worked there had never noticed it.  And we wouldn’t have either if it hadn’t been for a chance glance by Ralph.  

Earlier in the day I sought out another historic Vélodrome that had been torn down, the Velodrome d’Hiver near the Eiffel Tower.  It was an indoor velodrome that hosted six-day races until 1959 when it was torn down.  It is most famous though as being the site where over 8,000 Jews were held in 1942 in very squalid conditions for a few days after a massive round-up that led to them all being sent to Auschwitz.  There is a small park remembering the 4,115 children held there with their names enshrined on a wall.  It wasn’t until 2012 that French President Hollande made an official apology, coincidentally on the day The Tour arrived on the Champs.

Around the corner is another memorial.

The next day I sought out the grave of Eugene Christophe, the first rider to wear the Yellow Jersey, who is buried in Malakoff, three miles south of Montparnesse. He wasn’t happy when Desgrange forced him to wear a bright yellow jersey halfway through the 1919 Tour so fans could more easily spot the leader.  His fellow riders mocked him as looking like a canary and chirped at him for the rest of the race. 

Christophe is also renowned for twice breaking the fork of his bike causing him to lose The Tour.  The most celebrated was during the 1913 Tour on a descent of the Tourmalet.  Riders were obligated to perform all repairs on their bikes.  He ran down the mountain to a blacksmith shop to weld his fork back into operating order.  He was penalized ten minutes, later reduced to two, for enlisting the help of a young boy to operate a bellows.  The penalty was incidental, as he lost over two hours to the repair.  The incident is so famous that there is a plaque on the building where it took place and the repair was recreated fifty years later by Christophe and the boy, well advanced in years at the time.

There was no mention of the Yellow Jersey or even The Tour on his grave, just a photo of Christophe in his later years beside his bike.  Nor was there any fork motif in the design of his grave.  I was lucky to find a carekeeper in the corner of the vast cemetery to direct me to where his grave was, as it could have been a long search, though it was near the entry about half down the first path to the left on the left side of the row of graves.  

Earlier in the day Ralph and I had an easier time of it finding the grave of the Russian film director Andrei Tarkovsky in a Russian Cemetery twenty miles south of Paris in Sainte-Genevieve-des-Bois.  Tarkovsky had nothing to do with The Tour de France, but he is a favorite director of both Ralph and I.  

Ralph had been wanting to visit his grave for awhile, but had never gotten around to it.  I was happy to make it an excursion, though the route for cyclists that Ralph’s GPS  device offered seeking out bike paths turned out to be an ordeal battling the dozens and dozens of commuting cyclists all hell-bent on getting to work on time.  We would have been much better off sticking to the main thoroughfares, most of which have space for bikes, often with barriers.  

Paris has developed a very impressive cycling infrastructure, but the cyclists are all too often very reckless, making the cycling quite hazardous.  Ralph is reluctant to cycle at all.  He is so infuriated by all the cyclists running red lights that it is his fantasy to hang out at a busy cycling intersection with a baseball bat and have at their noggins when they fly past.  

Halfway to the cemetery we left the cycling paths along the Seine and had relatively peaceful riding on real roads, the final. Couple of miles through forest to the cemetery. A map at itw entry showed the location of the higher profile people buried there.  Oir search was also assisted by a photo of Tarkovsky’s grave Ralph had lifted from the internet.  The photo helped a lot, as the name on the grave was the Russian version of Tarkovsky, which we never would have recognized.  Without the photo our only hope would have been knowing the dates of his birth and death 1932 and 1986.  His grave was the only one in the huge cemetery with a bench beside it.  Two other gentlemen came to the grave while we were there.  They were too wrapped up in their own conversation to include us.

We’re both hoping the British writer Geoff Dyer will be at Telluride.  He’s been a regular attendee since serving as the Guest Director nearly ten years ago.  He has written a book on Tarkovsky’s masterpiece “Stalker,” which was one of his selections as Guest Director.  He may well have visited Tarkovsky’s grave.  If not, he will be delighted to hear about it.  He presently lives in LA, so he ought to make it.  As of now Ralph can’t, as Brits have yet to be granted entry to the US.

Stage Twenty-One

 



Thanks to getting into Paris late last night and not this afternoon after my missed train fiasco, I was able to bike out to  Chatou, today’s Ville Départ, ten miles from Ralph’s apartment in Montparnesse, upping my total of Ville Étapes for this year to twenty-one of the thirty-nine, with three of them both a Ville Arrivée and a Ville Départ.  I managed to ride some of all but four stages—the first, two in the Alps and one in the Pyrenees. 

It was an excellent  tour and Tour.  As Lachlan Morton said upon completing his private Tour de France, only a select few are capable of riding THE Tour de France, but anyone “could buy a bike and put some bags on it and go tour France and there’s no one who can stop you.”  That is if you’re not trying to follow The Tour, as one never knows when the gendarmes might intercede.

Ralph and I were denied riding today’s course shortly after we had completed the seven kilometer neutralized zone and set out from the Kilometer Zero marker, where a line of cyclists waited to have their picture taken, including Ralph, just as there was in Chatou at the electronic countdown sign to Tour Day.

Granted, we had gotten a late start having searched out two Air France offices in the city first hoping to learn if I would need an additional Covid test to go along with my vaccination to fly home on Wednesday.  But, as we feared, neither were open on Sunday, so I will remain in suspense until tomorrow.  It was more than an hour before the caravan was set to take over the course, but that was early enough to declare it off-limits.  We continued on taking parallel roads, as there was an abundance of in the urban sprawl. 

We returned to the course after several miles, hoping that it might be open after that earlier closed sector, but that was not to be.  It was near the lone category climb on the route, so we decided to walk our bikes along the course to that point.  When we reached the three-kilometer climb there was a stretch without gendarmes so we followed others who had resumed riding until shortly before the summit where there were gendarmes and where we intended to await the caravan.  

The crowd was much sparser than out in rural France, but there were still a good many lining the road, including a Swedish guy who was drawn to us by our English.  He greeted us with, “You guys must have come a long ways to be here.”  We couldn’t guess his accent, as it is rare to meet a Swede at The Tour.  He was married to a French woman and had lived in Paris for twenty-six years. He didn’t often seek out The Tour.  He was here this year to treat his young son and his friends to the spectacle.  

Ralph and I didn’t care to be stranded at this point for the next two hours until the peloton came by, wanting to get back to Paris in time to see Cavendish break Merckx’s record on the Champs Élysées.  The Swede told us we could take a nearby dirt road for a mile or so and it would put us on roads that could get us back to Paris.

We opted to stop just before Versailles and watch the peloton pass there.  They toodled past at what cyclingnews called a “club-run pace,” just twenty-miles per hour somewhat spread out with just limited drafting.  When I’m riding at twenty miles per hour with the Downer’s  Grove Cycling Club, I’m close to my limit.  Pogacar was in casual conversation with a rival as he went by.  The pace was so relaxed the course marker crew was able to keep up and grab all the course markers before the fans could.  We were disappointed, as we were set to pounce on two just up the road. 

We joined quite a few cyclists on the road just after the peloton and all the support vehicles went by and followed the route into the city to within a couple blocks of Ralph’s apartment.  We were surprised to see a marker the crew had missed.  When we swooped in on it we had to pass on it too, as it was nailed in, rather than tied with wire.  The nails are hard to remove and generally damage the marker.  It was indication that the crew wasn’t intent on removing all evidence of The Tour, but rather that it wanted to recycle the markers.

Several miles later we came upon another that was tied to a metal pole.  It was on the far side of a roundabout that was out of the way of the pickup crew, so we were able to nab it.  Ralph was monitoring the peloton’s eight transits of the Champs to see whether we had time to make it to his apartment to see the conclusion or if we’d need to stop in a bar to watch it.  At 7:07 the peloton had seventeen kilometers and two laps to go. We were within two miles of Ralph’s apartment so it was going to be close.  It was close enough that we had to bypass another course marker left behind.

After we scampered up the flight of stairs to Ralph’s apartment and turned on the television, the left-hand corner of the TV flashed 2.7 kilometers to go.  Cavendish’s lead-out train wasn’t in command, as it had been in his previous wins, but after the peloton rounded the final bend and headed into the  straightaway with less than a kilometer to the finish he was seven riders back on the wheel of Van Aert, a good one to be on. 

A side view betrayed a pained and uncertain look. It told all, as Cavendish didn’t have enough in his legs to fly past everyone as he had four previous times this Tour.  Not only was he beaten by Van Aert,  but Phillipsen too, who he had tamed four times in the Tour of Turkey earlier in the season announcing to the world he had regained his form after three years of struggle.

Van Aert could be pleased he preserved his fellow Belgian Merckx’s joint record with Cavendish for most Tour wins, but even more so that he almost become the second focal point of The Tour behind Pogacar with his three dramatic stage wins—over Ventoux, in a time trial and in the final, glamour sprint stage. Cavendish couldn’t have looked more disconsolate.  The world of cycling had expected today to be his coronation as King of Tour wins. 

He was clearly worn out and simply didn’t have the legs.  His team too did not dominate the sprint and pull him to the line.  This could be his last chance.  He’s not likely to have such a weak sprint field next year, nor is it likely that he’ll have as good form as he did early in The Tour.  Still four wins this Tour and thirty-four for his career should be greatly celebrated.  It’s a shame he had to end The Tour on a sour note, even as winner of the Green Jersey.  

After all the post-Race replays and podium presentations Ralph and I went bsck out to see if anyone had nabbed that last marker, just a mile away.  They had not, so now Ralph has one for each of his windows.

Cavendish has long been Ralph’s hero, so the additional course marker did a little to salve his hurt. 

Stage Twenty

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stage Nineteen

 There were dozens of cyclists on this Friday morning previewing tomorrow’s nineteen mile time trial course through the vineyards between Libourne and St. Emilion.  Just about all flew past me with nary a word other than an occasional bon jour.  In this era of Strava no one cares to let up to have a conversation or ask if I’ve been doing a Lachlan Morton, not wishing to diminish their time that all their friends are going to see.

There were even more camping cars than cyclists already parked along the course, a full day ahead of the stage.  Some of the vineyard owners had set up barriers to keep the masses from their sacred grapes, but not all.  Some were in the spirit with decorations of some sort.

The road had been stenciled by municipal authorities with bunches of grapes and proclamations of affection for their locality.  

The road had some hills.  I dropped into my small chain ring for four of them, though never my lowest gear.  Since I was going to be here a second night I kept my eyes peeled for a more secluded place to camp than I had last night.  A church on a hill with some surrounding forest was one possibility.  A cluster of camping cars had already claimed space nearby, but I’d be out of their vision.

The team directors will like this course as it is only five miles from the finish in St. Emilion back to the start in Libourne.  Most of them will have to drive the course multiple times following a rider and will be glad for the minimal return drive for the next.

It made it easy for me too.  St. Emilion wasn’t big enough for a supermarket, so it was a quick ride for my daily chocolate milk and groceries.  It was a rare supermarket with a security guard in the parking lot, perhaps running off the panhandler with a dog that is a fixture at many.  

It was a little early to head to the Giant Screen, so I sought out the library (mediatheque).  Like most it was closed for lunch.  I had hoped with Libourne being fairly large it might stay open.  After eating a lunch of pâté sandwiches on a bench out front I noticed that the summer hours were mornings only, so it was off to the Giant Screen.  

At the 350 meter sign the viewing area was fenced in.  One to had to wear a mask to proceed further and pass by a guard.  When he stopped me I thought he wanted to see my vaccination papers, as Ralph said one had to show them at St. Gaudens for the first time two stages ago.  That was no longer necessary.  He just wanted to look in my panniers to make sure I didn’t have any explosives, even though a very frisky dog with four uzzi-armed soldiers was sniffing for them periodically along the barriers.

The crowd was much thicker here than it had been in Quillan, where everybody got something from those dispensing goodies.  The Yellow hats were the only item given to all, otherwise one had to be lucky or very assertive.  The only items I made an effort for were novelties I hadn’t seen before.  One was a bike bell distributed by the city of Libourne.  Another was a small wooden spoon.  Only the packaging on the spoon carried The Tour logo.

The stage was barely half over with more than sixty miles to the finish.  A twenty rider break was just forming.  It had no threats to anyone in the top ten, so was allowed to build a lead of ten minutes and then more.  Cavendish’s team wasn’t being greedy bringing it back so Cavendish could get another win.  Evidently Cavendish and his cohorts are content to wait for the Champs Élysées on Sunday, as that would be the ultimate spot to break Merckx’s record.  

Not too long after I had taken up a spot in the shade on a small hillside a guy came up from behind me and said, “I’m from Summit County, Breckinridge/Keystone,” having noticed my Telluride hat.  He worked for American Air Lines and had taken advantage of its flights to Paris to attend The Tour nearly twenty times, though usually just the final stage on the Champs Élysées.  

I asked him if he had a favorite viewing spot.  He preferred a spot where the peloton passed twice coming and going on each of its eight transits.  He’d buy a small step ladder so he wouldn’t have to get there super early to be on the railing, but could set it up behind the two or three or four deep fans and have a good view.  On the first few laps he’d rent it out for a euro for a few seconds for people to take a photo.  He always had a line of takers and earned more than the ladder cost.

The best news he had though was that he didn’t think I’d need a PCR test to return to the US, that my vaccination ought to be enough. He wife was absolutely certain, but admitted it could change at any time.  That’s my final hurdle to returning home, other than the TGV tomorrow, hoping there is no issue with my bike.

The action heated up on the screen as riders repeatedly attempted to make a break from the huge break that had separated itself from the peloton, increasing its lead by all its accelerations.  It took a Slovenian to make a break stick, Mahoric, who had already won a stage.  He had extra impetus enraged by the surprise police raid on his Bahrain team two stages ago.  When he crossed the line  a minute ahead of all his chasers he wiped a finger across his lips, as if he was zipping them shut.  Bruyneel on his podcast said the raid had been instigated by a couple of French teams who were very suspicious of the Herculean efforts of three of the Bahrain riders—Poels leading the climber’s competition for awhile, Colbrelli a sprinter hanging with the climbers, and Mohoric.

The French press is quick to be suspicious of anyone who excels, including Pogacar.  The press has stirred the fans to just an extent they are booing Pogacar already.  Both Bruyneel and Armstrong say he needs to gift a win to someone, preferably a French rider, to gain their favor. He had the opportunity yesterday to let a Spanish rider go for the win, but chased him down.  Hincapie was shocked to hear Armstrong make such a suggestion, as Armstrong once swore he’d never do such a thing after he did it to Pantani on Ventoux and it backfired. 

Pogacar won’t have a chance to do it this Tour, unless he decides to let up on tomrrow’s time trial, but that’s not likely, nor fitting.  That could be the only suspense for the day, as the standings are pretty well set.  I’ll be viewing it on a Giant Screen in a Fan Zone near the start, up until about four when I have to head to the train station.

Stage Eighteen

I was woken this morning at 6:45 by the sound of scraping metal.  It came as a surprise as I was down a dirt road in a forest that didn’t appear to have had any traffic in a while. When I left the forest I discovered what caused the noise. A metal barrier had been dropped off to block this negligible side road for the stage the next day.  For the next ten miles through the forest every little road and trail, despite their rarity of use, had such a blockade, safeguarding any errant vehicle from trespassing on the course.

 Such is the efficiency and attentiveness of The Tour.  When voices cry out at the dangerousness of certain sections of the road, they come from the uninformed and those prone to criticism. Dozens of well-trained eyes examine every inch of the road and know what the riders can manage.  Whenever The Race ventures onto cobbles, there are howls of protest.  Froome crashed out one year on them.  Yet the cobbles of Paris-Roubaix and Flanders are among the most popular races of the year.  

Every ninety degree turn on the course poses a potential disaster, but the riders generally navigate them without fail.  The inattentiveness of any rider at any time can cause an accident.  Luke Rowe in his podcast with Geraint Thomas said that even if The Tour rode nothing but six-lane highways, there’d be accidents.  Evidently Roglic’s fall on a narrow road came from Cabrelli giving him a shove, because he didn’t like his proximity.  Riders learn who the sketchy bike-handlers are and avoid them or shame them into riding at the back.  

The peloton will have easy going tomorrow for long stretches of straight and flat roads, largely through pine forests. It was nearly flat for the first fifty miles of my day’s ride of the second half of the Stage Nineteen route, which passes just to the east of Bordeaux before the stage finish in Libourne.  The final three miles of the stage were on a wide autoroute that didn’t allow bicycles.  I had to wind around the twisting Dordogne River to find a bridge that allowed bicycles, adding an extra five miles to my ride.  I had hoped to be in front of a tv by 3:30 to see all the action on the Tourmalet, but those extra miles meant the breakaway riders were just creating the summit when I finally found a bar with a television.

I hadn’t missed anything dramatic other than Uran falling behind, all hopes of a podium place gone as he lost another nine minutes and fell to tenth.  Top ten is still noteworthy, but not when he had clung to second for several stages.

Pogacar delayed his attack until two miles to the summit of the final climb to Luz Ardidan, three miles later than yesterday.  But it ended with the same result, a win of the stage with Vingegaard and Carapaz just behind him.  And there’s your podium, all settled with three stages to go. Vingegaard is a better time trialist than Carapaz so won’t be overtaken.  He is the revelation of The Tour, coming in second in his first Tour when he was only expected to be a domestique to Roglic.  He was under everyone’s radar, unlike Pogacar last year, who all knew was a threat.

Taking the final climb also earned Pogacar the climber’s jersey for the second year in a row.  This was his third stage win this year, giving him six for his career.  He’ll most likely win Saturday’s time trial.  He’s closing in on the record of 34 jointly held by Cavendish and Merckx, though Cavendish will most likely pad it tomorrow and Sunday.

My Tour is effectively over too.  I’ll ride the nineteen mile time trial tomorrow then spend the afternoon by the Giant Screen at the finish line on the outskirts of Libourne.  Saturday I’ll hang around for the time trail, which starts by a park in the city center, until my 4:45 train to Paris.  I’m camped right along the time trial course in a vineyard, which dominate the landscape and the time trial  course.

The view out my tent is unlike any other I’ve had this trip.

Stage Seventeen

 

My timing worked out that I was in the sizeable city of Mont-de-Marsan at 3:30 with several bars open on this national holiday, meaning I could see the day’s dramatic stage, making it a happy Bastille Day for me.  I had the good fortune, too, of earlier in the day coming upon a grocery store that was open, a very iffy proposition, so I didn’t have to resort to my reserves of peanut butter for lunch-time sandwiches and Ramon for dinner.

I had begun the day in Mourenz, Ville Départ for Stage Nineteen.  It offered up the year’s oddest Tour concoction in its welcoming roundabout.  Adding to its oddity was that it was Yellow-free. Mourenz is famous for being the Ville Arrivée for one of Eddie Merckx’s most audacious stage triumphs, a long breakaway in 1969 coming down from the Pyrenees. The city has forever linked itself with Merckx by putting his name on its Velodrome

Posters about town promoting The Tour featured Merckx as well.

The neutralized zone out of Mourenz included a couple of steep climbs on narrow roads.  Once again I was riding in a cold rain that persisted off and on until I had my Tour viewing pleasure.  Despite the chill, most of those at the bar were sitting outside, sparing me of any hassles as I had on Sunday in a very cramped bar with no outdoor tables.

The bar faced the city’s gallant Hotel de Ville (city hall), another beauty.  They are often as stunning as a Carnegie Library.  They rival the chateaux and cathedrals of France, that get all the attention, as marvels of architecture worthy of searching out.

With it Bastille Day the French riders were asserting themselves.  Three were in a five-rider breakaway four minutes ahead of the Yellow Jersey group with twenty-five miles and two huge climbs left in the stage.  Partway up the first climb it was down to three French riders.  Perez of Cofidis went off on his own.  Once the final ten-mile Beyond Category climb began his lead on the fast-charging Yellow Jersey group plummeted and within four miles was gone and he was mercilessly left behind, his only consolation a fair amount of camera time.  Though Cofidis hasn’t won a stage in years, fans flying Cofidis banners along the Tour route outnumber all others.

With all the breakaway riders dispatched Pogacar had a chance for a stage win.  He accelerated five miles from the summit taking the second through fourth-placed riders with him.  They’ve been inseparable for days.  In short order the cozy foursome suffered a rupture, with Uran falling off.  

That moved the young Dane, Vingegaard, into second overall.  He and Pogacar took turns setting the pace as Carapaz clung on.  Vingegaard had just a second advantage on Carapaz, so was hoping to drop him.  Suddenly Carapaz accelerated and Vingegaard fell off and faded away.  Carapaz had moved into the coveted position of first behind Pogacar. 

Vingegaard kept fading, but then found his legs and slowly clawed his way back, regaining the two ahead shortly before the finish.  Even though Pogacar sprinted ahead for the win, Vingegaard’s recovery was the ride of the day.  He accomplished what Uran couldn’t.  Uran frequently catches his breath after being dropped and regains the group that dropped him.  Not today.  He finished ninth in the stage 1:42 back, falling from second to fourth.  He’s a strong time trialist, so he could overtake Carapaz on Saturday’s time trial, if he doesn’t in tomorrow’s final day in the mountains.  

Poels and Quintana both gained some King of the Mountain points today, but Pogacar gathered a bunch to move into second.  With another performance tomorrow like today he’ll take the Polka Jersey just as he did last year on the climactic time trial with a big climb.

Vingegaard proved once again that he’s virtually the equal of Pogacar as a climber.  Armstrong mentioned on his podcast that Vingegaard has the best time on a climb in Spain on the Costa Blanca south of Valencia that many of the pros ride to test their fitness.  It is the Col de Rates.  Rates is Spanish for “rat.”  Armstrong asked, “Why would anyone want to name a climb for Floyd Landis,” his teammate that bared all to the drug authorities, bringing down Armstrong.  Landis actually received a seven-figure award from the government, a percentage of the settlement that Armstrong agreed to.  Landis remains arch enemy number one. 

Jonathan Vaughters is another ex-teammate he feels nothing but spite for, but he has managed to avoid castigating him this year, though he usually does.  It was Vaughters who dreamed up the idea of Lachlan Morton riding The Tour route and transfers as a touring cyclist.  He has garnered more press than his teammate Uran, who has been sitting second for days.  Armstrong has mentioned Morton, as has everyone in the media, but hasn’t given Vaughters credit for this brainstorm that has generated tons of press for the EF team.  

The publicity exploded when Morton arrived on the Champs Élysées beating the peloton by five days.  Some riders have said they wish they’d done the same thing as Morton, as they would be glad to have their Tour and all the suffering over with.  Geraint Thomas on his podcast with Luke Rowe couldn't conceive that a rider who had ridden the Giro would subject himself to such an ordeal, riding  close to two hundred miles and twelve hours a day, and not having a massage afterwards.  “He’s got to be crazy,” he said.  He had a film crew with him to  make a movie of his ride, so the world will learn if he is or isn’t.  

Stage Sixteen

 

It’s been a cold, rainy two days, more biting than Brittany.  It was actually 45 degrees when I began riding this morning and that is Fahrenheit.  If I were cycling in the western US I’d be enduring 45 degrees Celsius (113 degrees).  I’ll take the cold any day, but combined with the intermittent rain, it has been cycling to endure rather than enjoy.  I’ve needed every layer I brought to stay warm—sweater, vest, wind-breaker, goretex jacket.

The rain forced me into a campground last night so I could sit in the common room and somewhat dry my dripping wet rain jacket and soaked shorts, but without heat other than my own.  I had to bundle up to stay warm.  I would have been warmer in my tent wrapped in my sleeping bag and the semi-cocoon warmth generated by my body heat.  But it was nice to be able to do some charging and downloading. After a night in a campground I don’t have to be concerned the next day finding WiFi or electricity.

There was a long enough end-of-the-day break in the rain today I could return to camping as I prefer, of my own devising, this time in a corn field ninety minutes after the completion of Stage Seventeen just before the rain resumed.  Corn fields are a rarity in France, but I’m certainly accustomed to camping in them back in the US.

I watched the final two hours of today’s stage in Pau, the Ville Départ for Stage Eighteen. Pau is such a frequent Ville Étape, it proclaims itself the Capital of The Tour.  It will host Stage Eighteen in two days for a dramatic stage that will take the peloton over the Tourmalet and to the second mountain top finish in two days at Luz Ardiden, both Beyond Category climbs.

Pau is so devoted to The Tour that it  has a permanent installation in a park across from the train station honoring every winner of The Tour, including Armstrong.  

Over one hundred Yellow planks are arranged in several circles, each with the winner of every Tour since the first in 1903.

Today was another holding pattern day for the GC, those vying for the podium, saving themselves for the next two summit-finish stages.  The Yellow Jersey group rode at a steady relaxed tempo while a dozen up the road battled for stage-win honors. Patrick Konrad of Austria took matters in his own hands twenty-two miles from the finish, leaving all behind and holding off a spirited chase by French hope Gurdu and Italian Green Jersey contender Colbrelli.  Unfortunately, none of the four vying for the Polka Dot Jersey were up the road contesting the four climbs, content to take the day off too, disappointing all who were anticipating a battle royale among them.

Van Aert, one of the four, couldn’t restrain himself later on and sprinted from the Yellow
Jersey group as it neared the finish twelve minutes after Konrad with his teammate Vingegaard in tow looking to see if he could help Vinegaard gain a few seconds on his rivals for first place after Pogacar. All the main contenders maintained contact and Carapaz surprisingly finished first among them, just ahead of Pogacar, though it was of no consequence as they all were given the same time.  Only Martin of France failed to maintain contact and lost four inconsequential seconds.  

Tomorrow, Bastille Day, ought to be full of fireworks with those  vying for the podium exploding on the final climb to the finish.  It could be a challenge for me to find an open bar as I will be riding the Stage Nineteen route starting in Mourenz mostly through smaller towns.

I rode the first third of tomorrow’s stage two days ago.  Two of the small towns were arrayed with fun and classic decorations.  Among those in Boussan was a painting hung on a wall.

 

Tour-themed flags were strung across the road and the hill in front of its cathedral was adorned with Tour-themed bikes.  

A more original Yellow bike resided by a shelter that housed the French version of a Little Free Library, not an uncommon site all over France.

Down the road, Latou featured stuffed figures masquerading as fans along the road. 

 

One group even had a baguette on a table a little soggy from the rain.

The stage passed through St. Gaudens, the finish for today’s stage.  I was able to ride down the small hill the peloton had to ride up to finish the stage on a road named for Dreyfus.  I headed west to Pau from St. Gaudens.  It took me through Tarbes, home of the famous Tour accordionist Yvette Horner. On a previous visit I sought out a plaza named for her. My route through the center of this large city took me past its monumental city hall, another of those glorious emblems of France.  It was adorned with flags in honor of its Independence Day tomorrow.

 

I hope the rain is done so there can be fireworks.  Wherever I end up camping I ought to be able to look to more than one corner of the sky to enjoy them in the distance.