Stage One



I was right on schedule to reach Bilbao early Friday evening in time to start on the first stage of this year’s Tour with those much-anticipated, hallowed, bright yellow course markers guiding me out of the city and to a place to pitch my tent along the route.  But I was sidetracked as I approached Amoribieta-Etxano, the start of stage three, fifteen miles from Bilbao, when I a forty-year old cyclist offered me lodging for the night.

He spotted me eight miles outside his hometown when he passed me in his car. He  thought I might be following the nearby tentacle of the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route, which he had completed several times, the latest with his 72-year old father.  He stopped and waved me down to recommend a bicycle path rather than the road I was on.  To make sure I understood his minimal English he spoke into his phone and showed me the translation.  

I thanked him and he wished me well.  Four miles later, as if by magic, he appeared on his bike and truly became a guardian angel, saying the trail grew complicated at that point and he wanted to guide me into his town.  With my minimal Spanish and his better English we were somewhat able to make conversation.  The bicycle path led to the starting point of Stage Three and was just a block from his apartment.  

It was then that he invited me to stay with him.  It was nearly six.  Much as I was looking forward to starting on The Tour route, I was happy to spare my legs the ordeal of a second consecutive evening, after San Sebastián the night before, of navigating a large city at day’s end.  Plus It would be nice to have a relaxing evening and tend to some chores such as charging my three batteries and iPad and Garmin.  It turned out to be a choice well-made. 

Miguel Angel had a first floor apartment with a patio where I could leave my bike.  The bed I would be sleeping on was covered with climbing gear.  Among others things Miguel Angel was an ardent climber and would be going to Nepal in November with his climbing club, hiking into the Everest base camp at 18,000 feet and doing some climbing in the vicinity, though not up Everest, as it wouldn’t be the season for that.  

Cooking as also among his talents as he made a scrumptious Spanish omelet with onions and potatoes that was as hearty as a deep dish pizza.  He apologized that his local bakery was out of a traditional Basque dessert, and that I’d have to settle for a chocolate pastry, no hardship whatsoever. He was the ultimate of hosts, even offering to do laundry.  Our conversation was assisted by speaking into his phone, which provided a written translation.  He said he liked to help people and wondered if I found people mostly good or bad in my travels.  I said the bicycle never fails to generate goodwill.  

His plans for stage one was to join a group of friends on the Category Two climb towards the end of the stage, where he intended to wave the Basque and go crazy as Basque fans do.  It would have been nice to join him, but that would throw out of kilter any possibility of me riding much of the next day’s stage and forcing me to immediately fall behind in my quest to keep up with The Tour.  I needed to start riding the thirty-two miles to the next stage right after Stage One ended.  Even doing that I wasn’t insured of making it to the stage finish before the peloton, especially not knowing how soon the Spanish gendarmes would close down the course.

Stage One started and finished in Bilbao.  My route into the city took me first to the finish line up a kilometer climb into a park. It was good to see which side of the route the Giant Screen was mounted on to make it easier to access when I returned.  The starting point two miles away was fully aswarm with fans three hours before the peloton was due to set out at 12:30.  

The E. Leclerc supermarket was back sponsoring the climbing competition and giving away hats and jerseys. As usual, it generated a scrum of fans by the van where a young man and young woman were passing them out in between reprimands to be orderly.  I couldn’t help myself and forced myself in to nab a hat.  I’ll no doubt get a jersey or two later, so did not try this time, sparing me of adding it to my cargo it just yet.  

I was fully infected with the delirium of all those gathered for this mega-event.  It continues to be a monumental draw.  Everywhere I looked were people thrilled to be where they were, and I felt the same.  I was almost shaking in disbelief that it could have such an effect.  It was certainly worth the effort of flying over the Atlantic and bicycling over seven hundred miles from Paris.

With a couple of hours before the peloton set out I took a brief tour of the city up and back along the Bilbao River past the otherworldly Guggenheim Museum, considered one of the architectural marvels of recent times.  I also went in search of a couple of battery packs for charging my iPad, as two of the four I brought finally wore out after many years of service.  It was a great relief to find replacements as I would be lost without a functioning iPad.

I opted to watch the peloton set out a kilometer down the course at an intersection where I could make an easy getaway to the Big Screen.  Basque flags were easily the most popular garb of the day. 

The militant separatist fever of years past that regularly inflicted bombings on the region no longer seemed so fervent.  I saw only one example that it still lives.

But Basque pride may be as strong as ever.  Crossing into Spain from France I wasn’t welcomed to Espagne, but rather to Basque Country.  The license plates though all bear an “E” identifying the vehicle’s nationality. 

As I headed to the Big Screen I happened to intersect with the peloton once again still in the neutralized zone before racing commenced outside the city.  It came at an odd point where there were course markers in both directions, as the peloton would be returning to the city on the road it was exiting.

Fans were already gathered along the finishing stretch nearly five hours before the peloton was due.  Sponsors were handing out goodies.  Credit Lyonnaise is once again passing out yellow hats, though of a cycling, rather than baseball, variety.  

I was having second thoughts of sitting around for over four hours after having spent two hours lingering at the start area, so decided to start riding and hope to find a bar with a television to watch the finish.  It was another good choice, as the roads were virtually empty with everyone congregated along The Tour route.  

At 4:30 after completing a five mile climb to a plateau at 1,800 feet where Stage Two would begin I came upon a gas station with a small cafe.  It had no television but the attendant allowed me to use the Wi-Fi.  When I connected the peloton had just crossed the Category Two climb and Mas and Carapaz, two potential podium finishers had crashed.  Mas had to abandon, the first this year, and Carapaz resumed riding but five minutes in arrears.  X-rays revealed fractures in his knee so he is out too.

On the final climb to the finish the British Yates twins riding for rival teams after years as teammates had broken free and were vying for the win. I was sorry I was missing it.  Adam riding as a support rider for Pogaçar nipped his brother with Pogaçar coming in third, a strong testament of his fitness as he had done little racing after breaking his wrist a couple of months ago.  Pinot in fourth brought joy to the French.  He’s retiring after this year and was just a late addition to his team after a strong Giro.  He obviously has plenty left in his legs.  And the Canadien Woods coming in fifth riding for the Israel team takes a little of the taint away of the team not selecting Froome, to his great disappointment.  Neilson Powless, one of six Americans in the race  and the only Native American, was the first over the Category Two climb and claimed the polka dot Jersey.  It’s the second time The American team Education First took the jersey on the first stage.  Taylor Phinney accomplished the feat a few years ago at the German start.