Charles de Gaulle Airport

 

Rain and headwinds on my final three hundred miles in France from the Vosges to Paris derailed my hopes of getting to the velodrome to the west of Paris that was the Départ for the final stage of The Tour.  My slackened pace allowed me to dwell instead on the many features of France that make it a touring cyclist’s paradise.

The pastoral scenery could not have been better designed to offer an ever pleasing backdrop.  The roads are ever twisting and undulating constantly offering a new vantage of forests and pastures and fields of grains.  The towns are as picturesque as the countryside, all maintained in a pristine state with meticulous care.  There is no litter to speak of and rare is it to come upon a decrepit, deteriorating building.  

The outdoors is ever inviting.  Picnic tables at rest areas are a regular feature.  Camping is a fact of life.  Nowhere else is it so easy to come by, whether at designated sites or those one can improvise.  One has no concern of being run-off, as traveling by bike is a respectable enterprise.  Camping is almost as popular as picnicking.  

In addition to municipal and private campgrounds, farms offer camping as well.  Needing a shower before my flight I took advantage of a “Camping á la farme” outside of Chenoise.  The shower didn’t provide hot water and there was only one electrical outlet to be had, but it met my meager needs.  A rooster awoke me at dawn, but fortunately didn’t persist in his crowing, allowing me to return to sleep.  I had a patch of trees all to myself other than the nearby ducks and chickens and cows and horses of a legitimate working farm. 

My route took me past Colombey-les-Deux-Eglises, the home of Charles de Gaulle.  A museum and large cross were erected on a hill outside of the town.  I had previously visited it so didn’t need to stop.  A legendary stage of the Tour de France in 1960 passed through the town after de Gaulle had retired and was living there.  The peloton paused to greet him, but one rider took advantage of the lull to speed ahead taking the stage to the chagrin of all. 

My route also took me through the medieval city of Provins.  It was teeming with tourists walking around the fortified old city, many taking advantage of a train chugging around town to its many sites.

My final campsite was five miles from the airport in a patch of woods.  Ordinarily I camp right by the airport along one of the runways.  This was distant enough that I wasn’t subjected to the roar of jets landing and taking off.   My flight wasn’t until one but I wanted to get to the airport as early as possible to get my bike box and avoid the traffic.  I was on the bike at 6:15 right at dawn.  There was more traffic than I anticipated, but I was still able to make a quick dash on a mile segment prohibited to bikes, arriving at the terminals just as another drizzle resumed. 

The terminal was already packed with people at 6:45, but I only had a short wait to speak to an agent for the bike box.  I’m always a little nervous that I might be told they had run out, so was relieved that she didn’t flinch at my request nor feel bad about having to pay twenty-three euros for it, twice as much as two years ago.  It was a fifteen minute wait though for someone to bring me the box, which had me a tad nervous again that I’d be told there were none to be had.  

In the past the box is accompanied by a roll of tape.  I was told this time I’d be provided tape at the check-in counter.  I had some for an emergency, but probably not enough.  The agent couldn’t find any in her cabinet, but calmly went to get some, another slightly nervous, but shorter interlude than that of waiting for the box to appear.  

The Air France box is big enough that I don’t need to remove my front wheel or front rack, just the pedals along with lowering the seat and turning the handlebars and letting air out of the tires.  The box was also large enough to leave the front panniers on compressed with nothing in them. And the final bonus was only being charged sixty euros for the bike. 

All was well and I was ready to board with four hours to spare, time for a final dispatch with a few madeleines and couscous to munch on before my Air France fare.  And as can be found everywhere in France there were small amenities making it most bearable.  There were electrical outlets flanking every seat in the waiting area and a room for a smoke, which was packed.  There was actually air conditioning in the distant terminal requiring my sweater that I’d only had need of the past few days.  I was cold enough one day, thanks to the rain,  I almost needed the puff jacket I’ve been lugging all this time.

And thus another grand time in France comes to an end, nearly 2,500 miles from Paris to Spain and back past the Pyrenees and into the Alps, riding all or bits of fifteen of the stages of The Tour.  I’ll have a blast of humidity awaiting me in Chicago for my ride home from O’Hare, but it will be a glorious ride as well looking forward to reuniting with Janina and seeing the state of the yard after the tornado of two weeks ago.

Stage Twenty-One

 I was pushing it one final time trying to reach Darby and its municipal campground hopefully with a television and Wi-Fi for the peloton’s finale on the Champs Elysees at 7:30.  I made it by seven in time to see the last few laps.  I had to pass through the town to the campground and was prepared to dart into a bar, but there wasn’t one to be seen.  

I was concerned as I passed through the town not to see the usual signs to either the cemetery, at the turn shortly before the campground, or for the campground.  The cemetery was there but still no sign for the campground, which are as ubiquitous as signs for libraries in the US.  

When I came to where the campground was supposed to be there was a barrier across the entrance and I could see it was closed down.  Oh well.  I could still slip in and pitch my tent but would have to be content with the results transmitted to my iPad.  I waited until I had set up my tent to see what had happened, a little disappointed in missing out on those magnificent images of the Champs and the Arc de Triomphe.  The racers all speak of the tingles they feel upon arriving on that renowned boulevard and I vicariously share it hundreds of miles away.

The expected sprint came down to another photo finish and Philipson, the overwhelming favorite, was denied with Jordi Meeus of Bora the surprise winner one  Belgian beating another.  If I’d gotten to a television I would have seen the ever-frisky Pogaçar flexing his muscles once again taking the spotlight when the peloton reached the Champs for the first of its eight laps trying to break away and then later being the first to charge to the front to lead out the sprint.  

The guy just can’t help himself, he loves to ride all-out even when it doesn’t matter and is a hopeless cause.  And the fans love it.  He will have the support of the majority next year when he and Vingegaard will have another go at it to see who will be the first to three as they both now have two Tour victories.  

Vingegaard is not adverse to racing either, as he just made the surprise announcement that he will race the Vuelta next month alongside his teammate Primo Roglic, who won the Giro earlier this year, as Jumbo Visma makes a bid to win all three Grand Tours.  It will be an exciting race with Geraint Thomas, who finished second in the Giro, leading Ineos and Remco Evenpoel, last year’s winner, contesting it as well.

As I was cycling out of the Vosges and into less demanding terrain I heard Stuart O’Grady, an Aussie with seventeen Tour appearances, tell Bobbie and Jens on their podcast that each time he arrived on the Champs he felt a great sense of accomplishment, just as much the last time as the first.  He arrived tired but also in a state of superior fitness that he wished he could maintain, but couldn’t as he needed to recover.  I too felt extra strength in my legs, putting in longer stretches than usual between pauses to rest, as I rode hard to Darby.  

As I push on to Paris I’d like to arrive a day ahead of my flight home on Friday to venture to the start of today’s stage to the west of Paris on the opposite side of the city from the Charles de Gaulle airport.  It was at the velodrome that will be used at the Olympics next summer.  

With so many story lines at this year’s Tour little attention was paid to the Lantern Rouge, always a go-to topic when not much is going on.  It was another Dane of the eleven in the race, allowing Denmark to claim the top and the bottom of the standings.  And a Dane who used to get lots of attention as Cavendish’s lead out man—Michael Morkov, still riding for Quick Step, the team that let Cavendish go after last year.  He finished 150th with twenty-six of the starters not making it.  

One of the last to bow out was Vingegaard‘s stalwart teammate Van Aert after Pogaçar fell seven minutes behind, his services no longer needed, leaving to be with his wife for the birth of their second child, arriving home the day before.  Gaudu won the battle for the best French rider, finishing ninth, just ahead of Gaudu and Pinot at tenth and eleventh.  Three countries landed two riders in the top ten—Great Britain, Spain and France.

Stage Twenty

 

The road was packed on both sides at the site Yvon had selected for us to watch Stage Twenty just past Munster, a twenty minute drive, then a twenty minute bike ride from his home outside of Issenheim north of Mulhouse.  The caravan was due to arrive in fifteen minutes.  We had to walk down the road a bit to find a gap to slip into.  

Several minutes after we sat down a husky guy came from across the road and plopped down beside us on a blanket where his wife had been perched under an umbrella to shield herself from the sun.  The guy gruffly accused us of encroaching upon his space and wasn’t very diplomatic about it.   Yvon pointed out there was plenty of room to accommodate us and besides this was all public space.  The guy said they’d claimed this spot three hours ago and it wasn’t fair for us to just slip in.  

This was all in English as he’d overheard Yvon and I speaking.  Yvon asked him to speak in French.  He said he didn’t speak it.  He was neither English nor American nor a nationality we could determine.  The guy had no idea he was trying to run off the friendliest guy around and how fortunate he was to be joined by Yvon.  

Before matters could escalate the preliminary gendarmes on motorcycles and other vehicles preceding the caravan absorbed all of our attention.  Fortunately the guy wasn’t such a beast as to hurl himself into us fighting for the offerings from the caravan.  He soon realized that Yvon and I weren’t a threat to aggressively battle for what was being dispensed, no doubt his greatest concern.  Our pacifity and his success rate in grabbing stuff mollified his distemper and put him in a good enough mood to almost be friendly sharing in this Christmas in July experience.

After the twenty minutes of caravan hoopla it was an hour wait for the racers to come by, almost Yvon’s favorite time, as he could circulate about and have a friendly word with everyone around us glorying in his life-long tradition of coming out for The Tour.

When the riders arrived at four they came in several bunches—a lead group of about twenty with the polka jersey, then the Yellow Jersey group a minute later, followed by four or five more groups over the next ten minutes with a few solo riders caught in  between.  We knew they’d all past when the broom wagon came along right after the last bunch and was followed by twenty-two team cars all stacked with bikes. Before we were on our way Yvon had one final chat with the gendarme at the side road we had biked in on. 

Two Category One climbs awaited the racers after they passed us.  With the Yellow Jersey group so near the lead group it was clear it would be contesting the stage win.  I continued my thorough classic French immersion into The Tour by learning the results of the stage on the radio as we drove to my drop-off point.  There was no radio coverage of the race so we had to wait for the news at the top of the hour to hear the results. The Tour was the lead story and we learned Pogaçar had refound himself and won the stage with Vingegaard finishing third with the same time.  The Yates brothers finished strong with Adam preserving his podium spot and brother Simon moving up to fourth.

I had initially planned to start riding back to Paris from the spot we had just watched the racers pass.  Yvon said that would thrust me into the heart of the Vosges mountains and some very demanding climbs.   He offered to drive me thirty miles north to the fringe of the mountains for a much easier passage.  He’s always looking out for my best interests and I know enough to accept whatever advice he has to offer.  Our drive north took us past Colmer and the roundabout with a huge replica of the Statue of Liberty, as the designer of it was from there.  I’d seen it before as it was just past the finishing line of a stage of The Tour one year.

It was wondering catching up with Yvon’s exploits in his three favorite pursuits—cycling, pétanque and table tennis.  He goes to Spain every few months to coach and give table tennis lessons in the region where his grandmother lived.  Table tennis has a strong following in France and Europe.  Yvon was excited to report France has produced a nineteen year old phenom who is a threat to break the Chinese stranglehold on the sport at the Olympics.  It will be one of the great stories of next year’s games in Paris if he wins the gold medal for the host country. 

After a quick farewell to Yvon and The Tour it was good to be back biking and in a sense heading home with Paris my next destination three hundred miles away.  I did have a minor pass to get over through the Vosges and by a ski town, but it was a very gentle gradient.  The extent of ski chalets forced me to ride until dark before I came upon a clearing to pitch my tent in a pasture near some very curious cattle,  but fortunately not so curious as to push through their electrified fence.

Stage NIneteen

 

I was half way up the seven-and-a-half mile climb of the Category Two Ballon d’Alsace early in Stage Twenty when one of the steady stream of cyclists making the climb offered me a banana saying, “This could give you a little extra energy.”  I was maintaining a steady pace and didn’t think I was laboring too badly, but I was definitely slower than everyone else on their unencumbered bikes.  

I had loads of food, but didn’t wish to decline his generosity, perhaps also helping him out too by lightening his load. That was a first thought, someone passing by me on a bike offering food.  I planned to have a peanut butter sandwich at the summit and adding a banana to it would be some welcome extra calories.  I had to make a quick grab of the banana, as leaving just one hand on my handlebars made me a bit unsteady on the steep grade.

Ralph happened to see the exchange, as he was just catching up to me.  He had decided the afternoon before when he was at a train station heading home and noticed there was a train leaving in ten minutes to Belfort, the start of this stage, decided on the spot to take the train to Belfort for one last dose of The Tour.  He arrived late in the afternoon and grabbed a room at a hotel by the train station for ninety euros.  He wanted to book it for two nights so he could ride the stage without carrying his gear, leaving it there and returning for it by train after completing the stage.  But the price of the room the next night for The Tour was more than double, one hundred and eighty-five euros. So he was climbing with the five pounds of gear he’s able to get by on, rather than the nothing of just about everyone else.  I had camped ten miles past Belfort and knew Ralph would easily catch up to me even with that extra weight.

The Ballon is another of the storied climbs of The Tour, but not for its difficulty but rather for having been the first noteworthy climb included in The Tour in its third edition in 1905.  The Tour founder and director, Henri Desgrange, ballyhooed the climb as a great test for the riders, not even sure if they could manage it.  That was the promoter in him, trying to sell newspapers, as the first two Tours included a climb over the Col de Republique out of St. Etienne on the Lyon stage that was comparable to it, but more obscure than this renowned bald peak in the Vosges.   But the myth persists that this was the first true climb the racers were subjected to.  A sign at the base of the climb perpetuates the myth.

There are signs every kilometer after the first giving the gradient for the next kilometer and the present elevation and the number of kilometers remaining to the summit.

A plaque at the summit celebrates René Pottier, the first racer over the summit in both 1905 and 1906, and who went on to win the 1906 Tour.  He hung himself in 1907 when he learned his wife had taken a lover while he was off riding The Tour, the first of several Tour winners to commit suicide. Nearby by was a metal sculpture of an over-sized bike that had a long line of people getting photographed in front of, while this simple monument was overlooked by all. 

After a chilly six-mile descent I turned off The Tour route to head in the direction of Mulhouse and my long-time friend Yvon, who I would be meeting up with the next day to watch The Tour, an annual event with a life-long devotee of The Tour.  He’s as enthusiastic a fan as is to be found in France having grown up with it and never losing his ardor.  It is always a privilege to share his company.  If one wishes to know what The Tour means to France, one need only meet Yvon.

When I was struggling to find a bar to watch the stage in Cernay I saw signs to its municipal campground.  Campgrounds often have a communal room with a television, so I gave it a try.  I hadn’t had a campground experience yet this year and for once didn’t need to ride any further.  The campground did have a television, in a manner of speaking, so I paid the nominal fee for a spot to pitch my tent.  The television wasn’t very large and had streaks in its lower half, but it was tuned to The Tour and had an audience of two sitting on a picnic table.  I was happy to join them for the final fifteen miles of he stage.  

Miraculously for the second day in a row the sprinting teams couldn’t summon their forces and  bring back the breakaway which was less than a minute ahead.  It was a testament to the will and cohesion of the three in the break, including Asgreen, yesterday’s winner, once again.  And also a testament to the weary legs of the sprinting team domestiques who couldn’t amass and put in a superior effort to the three ahead.  Philipson had so little support he was even taking pulls, an absolutely unheard of demand made upon the key man who finishes off the sprint.  If Cavendish had ever been in such a position he would have been seething with fury at his teammates not doing their job of getting him to the finish.  

Unlike yesterday there was no suspense of the three ahead being caught.  They were actually extending their lead by a second or two.  It looked as if Asgreen was going to win for the second day in a row, which would have been a major coup, but the Slovenian Matej Mohoric, in another Danish/Slovenian battle, won by inches in a photo finish.  He broke into tears when his win was confirmed.  He rides for the Bahrain Victorious team, its third win of The Tour.  They have been extra motivated having a teammate die just a month ago in the Tour de Suisse.  They all have his name on their jersey.

Vingegaard and Pogaçar came in with a large group including everyone in the top ten nearly fourteen minutes later, seemingly having a day off, but the average speed for the stage was the fastest of this year’s Tour, 49.1 kilometers per hour, reportedly the fifth fastest ever.  The lead group finished in three hours and thirty-one minutes on this one hundred mile stage.  It may have been a short day,  but hardly a day off. Those battling to move up in the standings may have wanted to rest their legs for tomorrow’s demanding stage with three Category Two climbs and two Category Ones, but their wishes weren’t necessarily granted.  There will be carnage aplenty tomorrow on the penultimate stage before Paris.

Stage Eighteen

 

The towns were few and far between and not very large in my sixty mile jaunt from the large city of  Besançon to Belfort, Stage Twenty Ville Départ. None seemed likely to have a bar to watch the end of the day’s stage.  The hilly terrain was going to make it a challenge to reach Belfort in time for the finish.  It was relentless.  If it had been a mountain stage affecting the GC I could have detoured from the route at a couple of spots to a larger town, but since it would likely finish in a sprint, getting the results on my iPad would have to suffice.  When I checked at five there was still forty kilometers left in the stage.  I was relieved when I checked the cyclingnews website that the lead story wasn’t that Pogaçar had abandoned.

When I checked back forty-five minutes later I learned that I’d missed a thrilling finish with three of the breakaway riders holding off Philipson by just ten meters, a mere eyelash.  He won the sprint, but it was only for fourth.  The winner was another Dane, the third of this year’s Tour, Kasper Asgreen of the Belgian Soudal Quick Step team that Cavendish rode for until this year and which declined to include him on last year’s Tour team even though he won four stages for them the year before preferring to go with a younger sprinter.  The team usually racks up more wins than any other, but it was having a lackluster year.  This was a much needed win for them.

With Belfort the Départ for Saturday’s Stage Twenty the course markers wouldn’t go up until the next morning.  There were, however, other markers already posted for the press and caravan and VIPs and fans.  

And the street the peloton would take out of town, named for Jean Jaurés the popular Socialist politician assassinated in the early 1900s, had signs indicating the route.  

There was even a sign for the Giant Screen.  The poster above it on lamp posts here and there was about the extent of the decorations in this large city that has hosted The Tour enough times that it seemed nonplussed by the honor.

The most notable decoration was a few miles out of town in a roundabout by a MacDonald’s with someone going to the effort to make a polka skirt for the statue of a horse.

I always begin my series of Tour podcasts listening to what Armstrong and Hincapie have to say about the previous day’s stage.  Word is quite a few associated with The Tour listen to their analysis and recollections from their racing days.  Other podcasters pay attention to the too and will sometimes mention something they have brought up. 

Former Tour rider David Millar, who has won stages in all three Grand Tours, and commentator Ned Boulting, covering The Tour for British television record their Never Strays Far podcast every day as they drive to their hotel after each stage sometimes with a guest including Cadel Evans and Marcel Kittle.  They aren’t among the  Lance listeners, as they confessed they had no idea what Wout Poels meant when he said he wasn’t a “pannenkoek” in his post-race press conference after winning Stage Fifteen.  Lance and George drop that bit of Dutch racing slang into their podcast all the time.  It is one of their favorite expressions along with “see you in the douches” (the showers) after a racer is dropped and done for.

They too  picked up on Poels’ mention of “pannenkoek” in his press conference and were thrilled by it.  It literally means “pancake” and is slang for “pack-fill,” someone who is just an average racer.   Boulting and Millar happened to have the Dutch cyclist Ellen Van Dijk, five time world champion time trialist, on their podcast after Poels’ “pannenkoek” comment.  She was able to give them a full explanation.

It was surprising the word wasn’t in Millar’s vocabulary after all his years in the peloton.  He was a founding member of the Garmin team with Christian Vande Velde and is attentive to what’s going on around him to know me as Christian’s friend.  He spotted me in a cemetery getting water in Corsica when the team was out on a training ride before the Grand Départ there and pointed me out to Christian riding behind him.  Christian made a quick detour to say hello and credited Millar for noticing me.  

He’s mentioned on his podcast that he gets out on a Brampton folding bike during The Tour whenever he can.  He even rode the transfer after the stage finish at the Nogaro speedway to Pau, some thirty miles.  I regretted I hadn’t chosen to go to Pau.  It would have given Millar a thrill to spot his former Garmin jersey.

Stage Seventeen



Four stages remaining and Vingegaard can enjoy them all after Pogaçar fell to pieces today losing an unimaginable six minutes, putting him a staggering seven-and-a-half minutes behind,  but still relatively comfortable in second place three minutes ahead of his teammate the Adam of the Yates brothers, provided he hasn’t been beset some ailment that might force him to quit the race. 

I witnessed the implosion of Pogaçar on the seventeen-mile climb up the Beyond Category Col de la Loze simply falling off the pace, not even being subjected to a sudden acceleration, with Ralph, who finally tracked me down.  We’d missed each other in Spain and on several other stages.  He took a break from The Tour after stage twelve foregoing the Alps and returned to his apartment near Mont Ventoux where he hangs out now rather than in Paris when he’s not in Telluride.

But he couldn’t so easily shed the urge to be riding The Tour route, so took a train to Chambery at the halfway point of Stage Eighteen this morning.  He rode it to its conclusion in Bourge-en-Bresse then took another train to Arbois north of Poligny, the Ville Arrivée for Stage Nineteen, to watch Stage Seventeen with me.  He has become a master of getting around France by train with his bike.  After the stage ended we rode six miles to Mouchard where he took his third train of the day to Dole to check on a property a friend is developing. He has no interest in the next two stages, as they could both end up in sprints, and he is very weary of Philipson winning them all. 

The Tour used to give out an award to the best decorated city on the route but too many cities were upset they didn’t win that the award was discontinued.  The lack of an award may have put a dent into the grandiosity of the declarations along the route, but not in Poligny.  It would have won the award this year if it was still being offered, as it was unrestrained in the range and variety of its decorations.   It was a never-never land of Tour euphoria.

The town must have had a very large and enthusiastic committee overseeing the operation, as clearly many hours and energy were devoted to it.   It was the first city since Bilbao to have a digital countdown to when The Tour was coming, though just in days, not to the second as the one in Bilbao.  

Its roundabouts were Tour-themed and were the site of oversized wooden bikes that could be found all over.

Just about every post in town had a Tour jersey attached to it.

They were also placed in flowerbeds and anywhere else someone could reach.

There were also Tour flower arrangements.  

And along the finishing straight a business had mounted bikes on its roof leading to the ubiquitous “Vive Le Tour” exclamation.  I was glad I had arrived two days ahead of the peloton and had the time to seek them out.

Not long after Ralph and I parted and I continued another hour before camping further closing the ninety mile gap between Poligny and Belfort, the start of Stage Twenty, I came upon a magnetic red A on a circular white background that had fallen off a car.  It is similar to the A with a slash through it anarchists plaster here and there. This A is for apprentice and is slapped onto to cars being driven by learners.  It will be another nice French souvenir.  I’ve only added one license plate to my collection in the two thousand miles I’ve ridden so far and it had a B on it for Belgium.  It would be nice to have a complete collection of all 95 of the French départements, but they are rarer to find than team water bottles.  In all these years I have only found one and that was in French Guiana.

Road side scavenging is not one of the allures of cycling in France.  I have found one neckerchief, a pink one.  Much more common are packets of tissues.  Every few days I come upon a pack, either in tact or missing just one.  France may be the leading consumer of them.  The tissues are sturdy enough, almost as much as a paper towel, they are useful in cleaning my Tupperware bowl.  I am well enough stocked I don’t often have to stop for them, but when I am running low I know I don’t have to wait long to restock.  I’m not sure if they qualify as one of the charms of France, but they are useful.

Stage Sixteen TT

 

The taciturn Dane put to rest today all the favor accorded the happy-go-lucky Slovenian for being the favorite due to his stronger personality, as he delivered a crushing blow in the fourteen-mile uphill time trial nearly catching Pogaçar who had set out two minutes before him, just as Pogaçar was catching his two-minute man Rodriquez. 

Vinegegaard’s ten second lead going into the stage is now a healthy one minute and forty-eight seconds.  It’s not likely Pogaçar can overcome that in the two mountain stages remaining of the five left.  Vingegaard will have to remain vigilant, but he has proven that Pogaçar can’t distance him by much.  And now the bonus seconds become inconsequential.

The battle for third is far from over though, as Adam Yates slipped past Rodriquez to take possession of it by five seconds, with Hindley over a minute back.  And for the French there is a third big battle going on for the top Frenchman.  Going into the stage Gullaume Martin of Cofidis was ninth overall just ahead of David Gaudu of FDJ.  Gaudu had  the better time trial and moved ahead and into ninth overall while Martin fell to eleventh.

I had a television all to myself in a small bar/cafe in Moirans-en-Montagne, the Ville Départ for Stage Nineteen.  It was a grueling forty-mile ride through the quite lumpy Juras from Bourg-en-Besse the Ville Arrivée for Stage Eighteen to get there.  A long steep climb that wouldn’t end had me concerned I wouldn’t make it in time for Pogaçar’s and Vingegaard’s departures at 4:58 and 5:00, the last two of the 156 remaining riders.  Twenty have dropped out, seven on Stage Fourteen after a massive crash.  The latest to abandon was Matteo Jorgenson, the American who came within three hundred meters of winning the Puy de Dome stage.  He didn’t start today due to a strained thigh.  He’s the second of the six Americans in the race to depart, the other Quinn Simmons.

I made it to a television with time to spare, partially thanks to a mile descent after all the climbing, at the third bar I stopped at, getting to see Van Aert complete his ride and take over the hot seat reserved for the rider with the best time.  Pogaçar and Vingegaard were the only ones to beat him.  He tipped his cap to the camera with a smile when he rose from the seat knowing his teammate had won the stage.  Moments later he gave him a hearty hug.  It was the first emotion Vingegaard displayed, as he was so spent he couldn’t even contort his face into a smile or give a fist pump of delight after his Herculean effort, as he merely poured water down his throat for a minute or more after completing his ride.  Van Aert gave a similar display of inert exhaustion after his thirty-four minutes of all-out effort, collapsing on the road, giving no hint that he’d just had the best time.

The large city of Bourg-en-Besse gave no evidence that The Tour was coming to town in two days other than signs on its outskirts warning that “circulation” would be ‘difficile” on July 20.  Not even the finish at a monastery near the center of the city had any markings that the stage would be ending there.

The much smaller city of Moirans-en-Montagne in the Juras had Tour decorations aplenty across streets and on the city hall and in roundabouts and in store windows.  All the stray bikes in town had been rounded up and stacked into pyramids.  One round-about had three stacks and a small park another.  

Since I’m well ahead of the peloton I could stop at the first secluded meadow I came to outside of town after watching the stage and give my legs a couple extra hours of rest before resuming their efforts in this up and down terrain.  The day before on the Stage Eighteen route I passed through four tunnels, including one a mile long that was so frigid I feared what water there was might be glazed.  It was a tight tunnel just for bicyclists and pedestrians, quite an expenditure.  The peloton will be going through the much larger adjoining tunnel for motorized vehicles.

Later in the day a voice from behind me called out “It’s George from Chicago.”  The bikepacker from Boulder was three days ahead of the peloton too.  We were on a flat stretch so he slowed for a short chat.  He too said he too had tired legs, but was still going strong.  For the first time on this trip he ran out of water on a climb yesterday, exhausting his lone water bottle and camelpack on his back.  He’s only seen the caravan and peloton once, at the foot of the Puy de Dome.  

I asked if he’d been inspired by Lachlan Morton’s Tour ride two years ago similar to what he’s doing.  Not really, as he’d been considering it for awhile and thought he better do it now since he’s not getting any younger.  He doesn’t have a method to charge his phone, other than at outlets when he stops, which works just fine as he says he can’t ride all the time, though that might be his impulse.  His most appropriate handle at instagram is “binge cyclist/KarolKristov.”  I’m not on instagram so haven’t had a chance to see what he’s been posting, though I am eager to. 

With the weather hot again, it’s a dilemma when I stop for the day of what constricting garment to shed first when I retreat to my tent.  I’ve already rid myself of my helmet,  but what next—gloves, shoes and socks, watch or shirt. I’ve finally resolved the quandary by detaching my watch right after I’ve taken off my helmet and dangled it on a brake lever, as my watch officially resides in my helmet when in the tent.  With my watch off it’s natural to strip off my gloves and add them to the helmet before I start detaching panniers and setting up the tent.  And if there seem to be no bugs I’ll slip out of my shirt as well to assist my cool down.  That just leaves shoes and socks when I enter the tent and I’m spared any hesitation of what to rid myself of with everything else shed.  Then I can get to eating, most important of all.

Stage Fifteen

 

Rather than lingering in Faverges after the caravan passed I skipped on watching the peloton zip by an hour later and had a nice bike ride down to Albertville fifteen miles away, a big, former winter Olympic city, where I knew there would be bars aplenty to watch the last hour or so of the stage.  It would also take me through Ugine, where I remembered from years past that the WC attached to the tourist office in an old train station had a shower, an extreme rarity, catering to all the outdoors people that pass through.

The shower was still in operation and even though the tourist office didn’t have Sunday hours, its Wi-Fi was in operation, unlike the tourist office in Faverges, enabling me to download all the daily cycling podcasts devoted to The Tour.  I heard a fair bit of English in Faverges from the tourists joining the locals lining the road awaiting the caravan.  
The town had such an air of affluence that the caravan was very parsimonious in giving out free stuff.  Most of the givers gave nothing, just passing by waving.  

Some of the tossers seemed to be on lunch break, munching on apples and sandwiches.  An older lady standing near me spat out the word “mange” (eat) with disgust.  It’s the first time in all my years I got nothing from the caravan, not even a bag of Hariboo candy, which is usually a certainty.  I had been all primed for the scramble for socks and hats and key chains, so couldn’t help but feel disappointed as all around me felt.

At least I had an exceptional day of cycling, first along Lake Anency on a very popular bicycle path, reason enough to vacation in the area.  It has a few beaches, though people go wading into it anywhere.

And the cycling was superlative too on a bike path to Ugine and then a lightly trafficked secondary road along a highway to Albertville.  Cyclists are very much catered to in this region.

As I ventured to the center of Albertville there wasn’t a soul to be seen it being a Sunday.  I went to the train station knowing there is invariably a bar nearby and there was but it’s television had Wimbledon on and though no one seemed to be watching it, the woman bartender didn’t care to put on The Tour.  I came upon another bar a few blocks down the road.  All its patrons were sitting outside and the television inside was turned off because the bartender said it was out of commission.

I circled back into the city and at last came upon a square with several cafe/bars mostly with outdoor seating.  The first I ducked into had the cycling on its television with an audience of three elderly, the usual demographic. The upper left hand corner of the screen had 57.4, the number of kilometers left in the stage and then across the top of the screen was the time the leaders had on a group of pursuers and then the time to the Yellow Jersey group.  Vingegaard and company were six minutes back, so it wasn’t likely he and Pogaçar would be vying for the stage victory and it’s bonus seconds.

Three strong riders were in the lead—the ever present Wout Van Aert of Vingegaard’s team, Marc Soler of Pogaçar’s team and another Wout, this one Poels, a former Sky rider now on Bahrain Victorious.  Poels managed to shed his companions and took the win.  As usual Vingegaard and Pogaçar whittled their group down to just themselves, with Yates the last to depart, who for awhile went on ahead threatening to move up to third overall, but he faltered.  Rodriguez, presently in third, joined them and was able to extend his lead on Hindley to over a minute, with Yates jumping ahead of him into fourth.  Once again Vingegaard was able to valiantly match Pogaçar’s accelerations and maintain his overall ten second advantage.  When they crossed the line together I thought they might give each other a pat of respect but they both sped directly to their awaiting handlers and a cold drink. 

With Vingegaard still in Yellow, as he was on the previous rest day, he will be obligated to meet the press, which he does with great reluctance.  He so much likes to keep to himself, he broke a long-standing tradition of the year’s previous winner of The Tour attending the much-publicized ceremony in October when the next year’s route is announced.  All the top riders generally attend, but no pressure from his team or The Tour could convince him to participate.

Tuesday’s time trial, the one and only this year, will be riveting and could well decide the race, since they both have been finding it within themselves to stick to the other when the road heads up and one tries to drop the other.  They are two heavyweights pounding each other without either flinching.

If it had been Wednesday, the day before Thursday’s 18th stage, when I left the bar and resumed riding I would have come upon a course marker, as the stage starting in Moutiers would be passing by Albertville on its way to Bourg-en-Bresse. I considered heading down to Moutiers fifteen miles away to ride the stage in its entirety, but I didn’t care to double back.  I was bypassing the time trial and the stage after, as they too would have required doubling back from another direction, plus there are two long transfers of forty and ninety miles after Stages eighteen and nineteen that I wanted to get a jump on so I wouldn’t miss my flight home.

With Stage Eighteen right there in Albertville I started in on it three plus days ahead of the peloton.  Since the next day was a rest day for the peloton I wouldn’t have to worry about adjusting my schedule to be in a town with a bar late in the afternoon and could just ride as whim struck me.  Maybe I’ll even come upon a mediatheque I can take advantage of.  

I will have no concern of team riders flying by me on their Rest Day ride, as happened to me on the first Rest Day.  If that is something I wanted, I needed only go to Passy, the start of the time trial, as all would be out previewing it.  But I’ve been to Passy in years past so didn’t have the curiosity of checking it out.  Instead I’ll have a pleasant day of cycling all to myself and not demanding too much of my legs.  As Geraint Thomas said on his podcast, everyone has tired legs at this point, two weeks into The Tour.  

Stage Fourteen

 

Sleeping under the canopy of a thick forest, the morning light didn’t wake me and I slept until 8:30, a much needed couple hours of extra sleep.  Thankfully I didn’t need to be on the road by seven, as has all too frequently been the case, as I wasn’t getting anywhere near today’s stage, starting in a corner of the Alps some eighty miles away.  

The route wasn’t coming my way, so I didn’t need to be in a rush to try to intersect with it.  It would be a day off The Tour route until later in the day after I watched the end of the stage in a bar in Annecy and would then pick up the next day’s route a few miles out of town and have the company of course markers as evening came on.

It was just thirty-five miles to Annecy and its spectacular lake, but I had a steep five-mile climb over a ridge to get there and then some more climbing after dipping into a valley.  I was caught by a downpour halfway up the climb and pulled over under some trees joined by a couple of cyclists and a motorcyclist.  The cyclists were just out for a morning ride and had no rain gear, as it was one of those surprise mountain storms that come and go.  This one went in less than half an hour.

As I approached Annecy the traffic thickened considerably.  It is a large tourist town that is a very popular getaway, especially in the month of July.  Most of the patrons at the bar I selected were sitting outside and were of many nationalities—German, Chinese, Dutch.  The bartender could have been Parisian.  When I requested a menthe á l’eau he told me to take a seat and give my order to his waiter.  It was no surprise that the cost was double what I’d been accustomed to paying in small towns.  I was relieved it was no more than that.

The stage in the Alps was once again the Pogaçar/Vingegaard show though they were surprised by the Spanish Ineos rider Carlos Rodriguez on the descent of the Beyond Category climb seven miles from the finish who took the win and thanks to the ten second bonus slipped into third place by a mere second over Hindley, who wore the Yellow Jersey a day.  Pogaçar’s teammate, Adam Yates, who wore the Yellow Jersey the first few stages, moved up to fifth, just thirty-six seconds from third.  It’s turning into a barn-burner for third as well as first.  Ineos had the best rider last year too after the two top dogs, when Geraint Thomas took third.  It is a small consolation for a team that won The Tour seven times with Wiggins, Froome, Thomas and Bernal.  

After the Ineos stage win yesterday the retired American pro Ian Boswell, contributing to the  British Cycling Podcast, asked the Ineos director Rod Ellingsworth how many Tour stage wins that was for his team since it was founded as Team Sky thirteen years ago.  He didn’t know, as overall wins is the only thing he really keeps track of.  He thought maybe ten.  It was actually twenty, and today was number twenty-one. The Ineos riders all have a yellow number on their back as the leading team, and they’ll extend their lead after today.

Vingegaard reversed his dwindling lead and added a second to it today thanks to a time bonus on the final climb putting him ten seconds ahead of Pogaçar.  He sprinted past Pogaçar as they neared the summit and earned eight seconds, while Pogaçar earned five.  Pogaçar gained back two seconds of it at the finish line when he nipped Vingegaard earning a six second bonus for finishing second behind Rodriguez, while Vingegaard earned a four second bonus for finishing third.  It couldn’t be more nick and tuck.

Pogaçar tested Vingegaard on the final climb taking off earlier than usual 3.6 kilometers from the summit.  Vingegaard clawed his way back and regained him after two kilometers.  They rode together until just before the summit when Vingegaard was the first to go and had the superior sprint this time.  Tomorrow’s stage ends with another Beyond Category climb.  The next day is a rest day, so they won’t be holding back.

The traffic continued to be relentless leaving Annecy and no less so even when I came upon a course marker after a two-mile climb, the worst traffic since Paris.  And it didnt let up even after dark past my tent off in a clump of trees.  Out in rural France there is virtually no traffic after the dinner hour.

Rummaging through my panniers I discovered I still have some Cheerios I brought from home that I’d put in a zip loc bag and had been snacking on early in the trip.  It’s not the only food I’ve been carrying for over fifteen hundred miles.  I brought two jars of peanut butter and have only finished one, rationing it out.  I also still have some powdered Gatorade that I’d just been using on the really hot days.  It’s nice to know I can lighten my load, or at least compensate for the caravan loot I’ve been gathering, by powering through them.  Tomorrow will be another caravan day and then a break for a few days, as I won’t bother with Tuesday”s short time trial, choosing instead to get out of the Alps and on to flatter terrain.

The mountainous terrain has done in two more of the top sprinters—Ewan and Jakobsen.  Philipson isn’t going to have much competition on the final two sprint stages.   Lance will be sorry to see Ewan go as the number on his back, 181, has special significance to him, giving him a jolt of pleasure whenever he sees it, as he mentioned in a podcast after Ewan finished second on a stage. That is the number he pinned on his jersey before every stage of his first Tour win in 1999.  The next six years it was number 1 as the defending champion.