Friends: I began these travels three months ago, attending the world's premier film festival, then followed it by witnessing the world's premiere bike race and now, back in Paris, where it all began, I've wandered about the world's most visited cemetery, Cimitiere du Pere Lachaise, on the city's eastern perimeter. It is also one of the largest with over one million graves, including Balzac, Chopin, Modigliani, Proust and Gertrude Stein. Only one, however, has barricades around it and a guard and warnings of a fine for graffiti--that of James Douglas Morrison, 1945-1974. His simple tombstone, nestled in among a jumble of others, much older and decrepit, had two bouquets of fresh flowers on it, and others, not so fresh, strewn in front of it. There was a perpetual cluster of 20 or more paying their respects and taking photos each of the several times I checked in on it.
There was likewise a non-stop stream of people at the unofficial memorial to Princes Diana just above the underpass along the Seine where she suffered her fatal accident. At the site is a replica of the Statue of Liberty's torch erected in 1987, ten years before her death. People have taken to leaving mementos in her honor there. The Eiffel Tower is a few blocks away across the river and the Arc de Triomph an equal distance in almost the opposite direction.
There was also a small congregation at Jean Paul Sartre's and Simone de Beauvoir's shared grave at the Montparnesse Cemetery south of the Seine. Their bare-bones slab was piled with scrawled notes, including a Peanuts cartoon. Jean Seberg's grave, one section away, had a handful of stones arranged in a heart with a shell in the middle of it. It too was a minor attraction. Nor was I alone at Truffaut's gleaming black tombstone in the Montmarte
Cemetery a few miles away.
All three cemeteries were nice quiet places for a stroll and some meditation, even though there were many others doing likewise. None of their attendants knew of any cyclists buried in their confines, nor could I find any. There were no sports figures listed among the noteworthies, unless one counts Nijinksy. He is buried in Montmarte. Atop his grave is a statue of him sitting pensively on a stool, elbow on knee and chin in hand. His had a little more engraving than most, but still not much--"Ne a Kiev 28-XII-1889, Mort a Londres 8-IV-1950."
Today is the first time in my three days in Paris the temperature hasn't reached 90. Its been quite steamy, but otherwise August isn't a bad time to be visiting this city of six million, as so many of its residents are off on vacation, thinning out the traffic considerably. The average high for this time of the year isn't even 80, so few places have air-conditioning, including this Internet cafe. The parks are full, especially on Sunday. One park has an outdoor movie every night except Mondays for two months. Its schedule includes "Divine Intervention," "The Hole" and "Lagaan."
I'm down to my last few hours before returning. When I sign off, I'm headed out to the airport, about 20 miles away, to await tomorrow morning's flight. I'll be camping about six miles from terminal 2B in a nice grove of pine trees. Its one of the few times in these past 98 days that I've known ahead of time where I'd be spending the night. I scouted it out on Sunday on my way into the city, even clearing a patch of ground and knocking off the lower limbs of the surrounding trees. It will be a fine final night. I'll be using my alarm clock for this first time since Cannes.
As I was fixing, what I hope is my final flat of the trip a few blocks from the Louvre, a gentleman in suit and tie stopped to ask if I needed any help. He immediately reverted to English when he heard my pronunciation of "Bonjour." Like many of the French, he said he wasn't a big fan of Lance's, as he had his doubts about his being drug-free. But it didn't diminish his love for The Tour. One of the common scrawlings on the road and banners along the route was "Vive Le Tour." It is truly loved and embraced. It is the Super Bowl, World Series and Final Four, all
wrapped up in one three-week celebration of bicycling, France and giving one's all.
The French truly respond to the racers monumental efforts, digging as deeply within themselves as they can, to do their best. That's what endeared them all to Voeckler, who struggled so desperately to keep that yellow jersey. And that's why they don't champion Lance as heartily as they ought to. He trains so hard and shows up in such great shape, he doesn't have to struggle as painfully as everyone else. Last year he acknowledged not training as diligently as usual and suffering for it. He didn't want to experience that again, so went overboard in conditioning himself this year. He was so devastatingly strong, he made everyone else pay for his suffering of last year, and had a relatively easy time of it. I didn't mind at all being free of last year's drama.
Though it may be a while before there are any monuments erected to Lance in France, I will return with the warmest of regards for the cycling here and how well I've been received. Not once did I have to patronize a McDonald's in reaction to being snubbed or ill-treated. The French may not like some of our government's policies, but they didn't hold me responsible. Still, I was asked on several occasions if I was going to be back in time to vote against Bush. One guy even phrased it as, "Doing your duty." McDonald's doesn't seem to take any discernible abuse for being an American institution. There are more billboards advertising McDonald's than any other and not one had been graffitied or vandalized. It is far and away the most popular and prominent fast food franchise, not only in France, but in all ten countries I biked on this trip.
The French are inordinately patient and accepting. Thus "France" is the answer to question
number one of the contest, which a few of the 53 people who have responded so far guessed correctly. Only one person though has gotten more than two right. As I said, I'll be accepting responses for two more days. Thanks to all who have communicated these past few months, especially to Robert for keeping me abreast of the stateside reaction to the Tour, as well as the baseball scene and all else. Even with the Internet, its hard to keep up. Look forward to getting home, but also to returning next year.
Later, George
Tuesday, August 3, 2004
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Meaux, France
Friends: I could feel my pulse quickening as I neared Montereau yesterday, departure city for the final stage of this year's Tour. It'd been five days since the peloton had graced its streets, but they were still tingling. Everywhere was evidence of how proud Montereau was to be the departure point for the final stage of this year's Tour. The round-about at the town entry had a floral display spelling out "Ville Etape Tour de France 2004." The town abounded with posters proclaiming the same.
Many of the shops still had Tour displays in their windows--cut-outs of the yellow and green and red jerseys, bikes or bike wheels, yellow ribbons, a red polka dot hat on a wig in a beauty salon. A photography store had a dozen 8 x 11s of Lance and Virenque and others in its window taken as they lingered in the race village. All the checkers at the Champion supermarket, sponsor of the King of the Mountains competition, wore red polka dot t-shirts. And painted on the road were the names of all the fan favorites.
This was just the second time in the 91 editions of The Tour that Montereau had been a host city, the other in 1977. The official Tour de France guide, with detailed route information and statistics galore, listed the number of appearances of each of the arrival and departure cities and when. The Tour organizers try to get as many cities in on the race as possible. Only four times this year did the Tour depart from a city it had arrived at, sometimes making the whole entourage transfer hundreds of miles after its usual five p.m. finish before it resumed at around noon the next day, putting quite a strain on followers such as me. The Tour transferred a couple of hundred miles to Montereau by high speed train from Besancon after the 19th stage time trial.
Of the 36 "Ville Etapes" seven were first-timers, including Chartres, surprisingly enough. Much as The Tour would have loved to have concluded or started a stage with its spectacular Cathedral as a backdrop, Chartres simply doesn't have a large enough central plaza to accommodate the thousands involved with the Tour and the tens of thousands drawn to it. This year's stage finished on the outskirts of Chartres, several miles from the town center and cathedral.
Besides the seven first-time cities, there were seven second-timers, meaning more than a third were virtual rookies. Seven of this year's host cities had hosted the Tour more than ten times, including Paris, which has been its final destination all 91 times, and 38 times a departure city. L'Alpe d'Huez ranked second among this year's participants with 23 finishes.
I'm presently 20 miles from the Charles De Gaulle airport scouting out bike access and a place to camp. Euro Disney is just ten miles away and Paris another twenty. I'm scheduled to fly back Wednesday morning. I'm still winding down.
Lance's picture is still plastered all over in the media. Paris Match had a two page photo of Lance's mom in a yellow dress sitting beside Sheryl in a green dress at the finish line of a stage. Robin Williams was alongside wearing a "Six" hat. They all sported the yellow Livestrong bracelets.
Later, George
Many of the shops still had Tour displays in their windows--cut-outs of the yellow and green and red jerseys, bikes or bike wheels, yellow ribbons, a red polka dot hat on a wig in a beauty salon. A photography store had a dozen 8 x 11s of Lance and Virenque and others in its window taken as they lingered in the race village. All the checkers at the Champion supermarket, sponsor of the King of the Mountains competition, wore red polka dot t-shirts. And painted on the road were the names of all the fan favorites.
This was just the second time in the 91 editions of The Tour that Montereau had been a host city, the other in 1977. The official Tour de France guide, with detailed route information and statistics galore, listed the number of appearances of each of the arrival and departure cities and when. The Tour organizers try to get as many cities in on the race as possible. Only four times this year did the Tour depart from a city it had arrived at, sometimes making the whole entourage transfer hundreds of miles after its usual five p.m. finish before it resumed at around noon the next day, putting quite a strain on followers such as me. The Tour transferred a couple of hundred miles to Montereau by high speed train from Besancon after the 19th stage time trial.
Of the 36 "Ville Etapes" seven were first-timers, including Chartres, surprisingly enough. Much as The Tour would have loved to have concluded or started a stage with its spectacular Cathedral as a backdrop, Chartres simply doesn't have a large enough central plaza to accommodate the thousands involved with the Tour and the tens of thousands drawn to it. This year's stage finished on the outskirts of Chartres, several miles from the town center and cathedral.
Besides the seven first-time cities, there were seven second-timers, meaning more than a third were virtual rookies. Seven of this year's host cities had hosted the Tour more than ten times, including Paris, which has been its final destination all 91 times, and 38 times a departure city. L'Alpe d'Huez ranked second among this year's participants with 23 finishes.
I'm presently 20 miles from the Charles De Gaulle airport scouting out bike access and a place to camp. Euro Disney is just ten miles away and Paris another twenty. I'm scheduled to fly back Wednesday morning. I'm still winding down.
Lance's picture is still plastered all over in the media. Paris Match had a two page photo of Lance's mom in a yellow dress sitting beside Sheryl in a green dress at the finish line of a stage. Robin Williams was alongside wearing a "Six" hat. They all sported the yellow Livestrong bracelets.
Later, George
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Auxerre, France
Friends: Yesterday afternoon's half-hour concert/service/prayers of the monks and nuns in the Vezaley cathedral was so exceptional, I lingered all afternoon at this hilltop village of 500 residents, so I could have a second hour-and-a-half dose of their gentle, almost mournful, singing at six p.m. It wasn't exactly a performance, as the nine nuns and seven monks of the Fraternite Monestique de Jerusalem face the altar and keep their backs to those in attendance during their daily singing-of-their-prayers ritual.
The earlier service was only briefly interrupted by readings from the Bible, while the evening service was a full-fledged Mass with communion and incense and organ interludes and the white-robed clerics going out into the audience giving everyone a two-handed greeting. It was a most moving and soothing experience attended by about 100 others in a nearly 1,000 year old cathedral. The singing and the spectacular location of this cathedral aren't its only attraction. People also come to pay homage to the remains, or relics, of St. Mary of Magdalene. They reside in the crypt below the altar and are available for viewing. They were brought here in 1036 from Provence. Mary fled to France from the Middle East after witnessing Jesus' resurrection, fearing reprisals against his supporters. Her remains were initially interred in Provence, but were later moved here as a safer place for them. This cathedral has been a significant pilgrimage site ever since.
I took advantage of the amenities and spaciousness of the Dijon campgrounds the day before to tend to an assortment of neglected chores--laundry, hacking back the facial hair, patching tubes, and sifting through my panniers. It had been weeks since I had thoroughly investigated my four panniers. I was shocked at the quantity of Tour trinkets and memorabilia I'd accumulated--key chains, magnets, hats, noise-makers, pens and miscellaneous doodads, along with an array of water bottles and newspapers and brochures, almost enough to fill a pannier of their own.
I shouldn't have been too surprised, as each of the nine times I was at roadside when the caravan of 39 sponsors, most of whom had multiple vehicles, passed by dispensing booty, I came away with a small hoard of swag, even when I wasn't trying. A lot I could consume on the spot (packets of cheese and crackers, biscuits, candy, water, mini-sausages) and some I gave to people nearby, but most got stuffed into a pannier or backpack or handlebar bag. The majority were small items that didn't seem to amount to much, but over time, added up to a significant molehill. I ought to have been tossing some of them myself to the crowds as I preceded the caravan.
Instead, I'll offer a sample to anyone who can correctly identify the country where each of these incidents took place. #1 More often than not, it seemed as if the line I was in at the supermarket checkout counter in this country was delayed by someone needing a price check on an item, but no one, not the cashier, not the person responsible, not those in line behind, nor I in my non-messenger mode, ever expressed an iota of impatience. #2 The one and only time a cashier asked to look in my backpack to make sure I hadn't pilfered something. #3 Occasionally I'd be asked to check my pack at a supermarket, but only once was I asked to remove my helmet and check it as well. I didn't always leave it on my bike, especially when I hadn't had a shower in a couple of days, not wishing to inflict my matted hair on the public. #4 One other time besides in France I had to buy a new tire. The shop owner refused to let me leave my old tire, saying he had to pay for garbage removal and he didn't want any that wasn't his. #5 Which country had the cheapest peanut butter, which incidentally had an emblem on its label stating "USA Quality."
And a bonus question. Name the beloved French rider who competed in the Tour 14 times (only three riders competed in more) and achieved the podium eight times without ever finishing first, managing three seconds and five thirds. A street was named in his honor this year on the Tour route in his home town of St. Leonard, departure city for the stage before Bastille Day on the Massif Central. I was halted by the ceremony, as a mob of people blocked the road out of town at six p.m., as the unveiling took place. The 70-year old Pou Pou, as he is affectionately known, was in attendance, along with TV crews and journalists and camera-toting fans. Hanging from the building alongside the road sign plaque with his name on it was an old bike of his and his Gans Mercier jersey. It was a noteworthy event to be on hand for the birth of a bicycling pilgrimage site. Getting a glimpse of one of the sports' luminaries was another of the highlights of this trip. The following day his name was among those written on the pavement of the race route.
As a reminder, the countries I've passed through are France, Italy, Belgium, Germany, Holland, Switzerland, Austria, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein and Monaco. You have a week to reply and anyone is eligible. Good luck.
Now its on to Montereau, final departure city of this year's Tour, to see what remnants remain of its Tour participation.
Later, George
The earlier service was only briefly interrupted by readings from the Bible, while the evening service was a full-fledged Mass with communion and incense and organ interludes and the white-robed clerics going out into the audience giving everyone a two-handed greeting. It was a most moving and soothing experience attended by about 100 others in a nearly 1,000 year old cathedral. The singing and the spectacular location of this cathedral aren't its only attraction. People also come to pay homage to the remains, or relics, of St. Mary of Magdalene. They reside in the crypt below the altar and are available for viewing. They were brought here in 1036 from Provence. Mary fled to France from the Middle East after witnessing Jesus' resurrection, fearing reprisals against his supporters. Her remains were initially interred in Provence, but were later moved here as a safer place for them. This cathedral has been a significant pilgrimage site ever since.
I took advantage of the amenities and spaciousness of the Dijon campgrounds the day before to tend to an assortment of neglected chores--laundry, hacking back the facial hair, patching tubes, and sifting through my panniers. It had been weeks since I had thoroughly investigated my four panniers. I was shocked at the quantity of Tour trinkets and memorabilia I'd accumulated--key chains, magnets, hats, noise-makers, pens and miscellaneous doodads, along with an array of water bottles and newspapers and brochures, almost enough to fill a pannier of their own.
I shouldn't have been too surprised, as each of the nine times I was at roadside when the caravan of 39 sponsors, most of whom had multiple vehicles, passed by dispensing booty, I came away with a small hoard of swag, even when I wasn't trying. A lot I could consume on the spot (packets of cheese and crackers, biscuits, candy, water, mini-sausages) and some I gave to people nearby, but most got stuffed into a pannier or backpack or handlebar bag. The majority were small items that didn't seem to amount to much, but over time, added up to a significant molehill. I ought to have been tossing some of them myself to the crowds as I preceded the caravan.
Instead, I'll offer a sample to anyone who can correctly identify the country where each of these incidents took place. #1 More often than not, it seemed as if the line I was in at the supermarket checkout counter in this country was delayed by someone needing a price check on an item, but no one, not the cashier, not the person responsible, not those in line behind, nor I in my non-messenger mode, ever expressed an iota of impatience. #2 The one and only time a cashier asked to look in my backpack to make sure I hadn't pilfered something. #3 Occasionally I'd be asked to check my pack at a supermarket, but only once was I asked to remove my helmet and check it as well. I didn't always leave it on my bike, especially when I hadn't had a shower in a couple of days, not wishing to inflict my matted hair on the public. #4 One other time besides in France I had to buy a new tire. The shop owner refused to let me leave my old tire, saying he had to pay for garbage removal and he didn't want any that wasn't his. #5 Which country had the cheapest peanut butter, which incidentally had an emblem on its label stating "USA Quality."
And a bonus question. Name the beloved French rider who competed in the Tour 14 times (only three riders competed in more) and achieved the podium eight times without ever finishing first, managing three seconds and five thirds. A street was named in his honor this year on the Tour route in his home town of St. Leonard, departure city for the stage before Bastille Day on the Massif Central. I was halted by the ceremony, as a mob of people blocked the road out of town at six p.m., as the unveiling took place. The 70-year old Pou Pou, as he is affectionately known, was in attendance, along with TV crews and journalists and camera-toting fans. Hanging from the building alongside the road sign plaque with his name on it was an old bike of his and his Gans Mercier jersey. It was a noteworthy event to be on hand for the birth of a bicycling pilgrimage site. Getting a glimpse of one of the sports' luminaries was another of the highlights of this trip. The following day his name was among those written on the pavement of the race route.
As a reminder, the countries I've passed through are France, Italy, Belgium, Germany, Holland, Switzerland, Austria, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein and Monaco. You have a week to reply and anyone is eligible. Good luck.
Now its on to Montereau, final departure city of this year's Tour, to see what remnants remain of its Tour participation.
Later, George
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Dijon, France
Friends: Another of those things that makes France such a wonderful place to cycle tour is that there are official road signs to campgrounds, and not only out in the country, but in urban areas as well. It made finding the campgrounds here in Dijon, just 1.2 miles from the city center, but still within the city limits, a snap to find. Without those signs it wouldn't have been easy. Its the first I've paid to camp in weeks, but I needed a real shower, rather than river and lake bathing, plus it was a bargain at less than five dollars.
I thought I was going to have to spend an extra day here anyway, when the lone tour of the Mustard Museum was already "complet" when I arrived yesterday afternoon. One must purchase a ticket for it at the Tourist Office. I paid the three euros for the next day's three o'clock tour, but went over to the museum anyway to see if there might be a no show and I could slip in on it. It wasn't easy finding the museum, as I didn't realize it was part of the Amora factory. I figured it out with some help just moments before the tour was to start. The guide was benevolent and let me join. There were about 25 of us, about 2/3s of whom were French. Still, the guide alternated between French and English. When the tour started, I was hoping for an actual factory tour, but we didn't get to see any of the manufacturing process. Instead we were led through a maze of several hallways of photos and exhibits just like a museum, though it is only open to the public this one time each day.
We were given some mustard seeds to chew at the start of the tour and advised to save a few to plant in our gardens. About 95% of the seeds are imported from Canada, as France doesn't have the vast prairies necessary for their cultivation. Dijon mustard is a style that was pioneered here in Dijon and is used by manufacturers all over the world. This Amora factory also produces ketchup and mayonnaise and other dressings, though the exhibits were strictly devoted to mustard. We were encouraged to try to include some in our daily diet as it helps digestion. Its also full of vitamin C and was used by sailors to combat scurvy. If you're wounded on a picnic, mustard works as an anti-septic as well.
Thanks to the kindly tour guide I can be on my way to Vazeley, a medieval city on a hill and another World Heritage site, first thing in the morning. It is 60 miles away. Among its attractions are monks and nuns who present their daily prayers three times a day to the public in song.
Yesterday was another superlative day on the bike through rural France and today should be no different. Its just 70 degrees and partly sunny and calm. But best of all, the traffic remains nearly non-existent off on the departmental roads. The tranquility is utter bliss. I'm simultaneously reveling in the moment and in moments from tours past and also reveling in tours to come. I'm totally enraptured. I can thank the transcendent powers of the bike, but also the pleasantness of France. I would unhesitatingly recommend cycling France to anyone who can hold their balance on the bike, but with one reservation--be prepared for a fair amount of climbing. If one's not conditioned to it, the rolling terrain can become demanding and demoralizing. Only in the Loire Valley and parts of Provence was it flat for any length of time. I enjoy climbing, so France is all positive.
Unfortunately, it's not entirely so for Lance. The French don't want to fully embrace him. The
French press goes overboard lauding the French riders, while showing restraint for his exploits. All the acclaim and coverage heaped upon Voeckler during his week-and-a-half in yellow was laughable. He was in yellow thanks to a fluke, but the press seized upon him as if he was the next Armstrong. Actually, they were just pleased to have the opportunity to ignore Lance. Voeckler showed his true status in the two time trials in the last five days of the race when he finished 88th of 155 riders still in the race at L'Alpe d'Huez and then 85th of 147 three days later. He couldn't even hold on to the white jersey for the best young rider. But for ten days no one received more press than he did. He and Virenque, the other French rider standing out in the field, were the two big stories day after day, not Lance making history. It was worse than America's nationalistic Olympic coverage. The day after L'Alpe d'Huez "L'Equipe" quoted 34
of the 35 French riders still in the race on what the experience was like. The only one not quoted was Moreau, one of the stronger French riders who didn't have such a good day and didn't want to talk.
Later, George
I thought I was going to have to spend an extra day here anyway, when the lone tour of the Mustard Museum was already "complet" when I arrived yesterday afternoon. One must purchase a ticket for it at the Tourist Office. I paid the three euros for the next day's three o'clock tour, but went over to the museum anyway to see if there might be a no show and I could slip in on it. It wasn't easy finding the museum, as I didn't realize it was part of the Amora factory. I figured it out with some help just moments before the tour was to start. The guide was benevolent and let me join. There were about 25 of us, about 2/3s of whom were French. Still, the guide alternated between French and English. When the tour started, I was hoping for an actual factory tour, but we didn't get to see any of the manufacturing process. Instead we were led through a maze of several hallways of photos and exhibits just like a museum, though it is only open to the public this one time each day.
We were given some mustard seeds to chew at the start of the tour and advised to save a few to plant in our gardens. About 95% of the seeds are imported from Canada, as France doesn't have the vast prairies necessary for their cultivation. Dijon mustard is a style that was pioneered here in Dijon and is used by manufacturers all over the world. This Amora factory also produces ketchup and mayonnaise and other dressings, though the exhibits were strictly devoted to mustard. We were encouraged to try to include some in our daily diet as it helps digestion. Its also full of vitamin C and was used by sailors to combat scurvy. If you're wounded on a picnic, mustard works as an anti-septic as well.
Thanks to the kindly tour guide I can be on my way to Vazeley, a medieval city on a hill and another World Heritage site, first thing in the morning. It is 60 miles away. Among its attractions are monks and nuns who present their daily prayers three times a day to the public in song.
Yesterday was another superlative day on the bike through rural France and today should be no different. Its just 70 degrees and partly sunny and calm. But best of all, the traffic remains nearly non-existent off on the departmental roads. The tranquility is utter bliss. I'm simultaneously reveling in the moment and in moments from tours past and also reveling in tours to come. I'm totally enraptured. I can thank the transcendent powers of the bike, but also the pleasantness of France. I would unhesitatingly recommend cycling France to anyone who can hold their balance on the bike, but with one reservation--be prepared for a fair amount of climbing. If one's not conditioned to it, the rolling terrain can become demanding and demoralizing. Only in the Loire Valley and parts of Provence was it flat for any length of time. I enjoy climbing, so France is all positive.
Unfortunately, it's not entirely so for Lance. The French don't want to fully embrace him. The
French press goes overboard lauding the French riders, while showing restraint for his exploits. All the acclaim and coverage heaped upon Voeckler during his week-and-a-half in yellow was laughable. He was in yellow thanks to a fluke, but the press seized upon him as if he was the next Armstrong. Actually, they were just pleased to have the opportunity to ignore Lance. Voeckler showed his true status in the two time trials in the last five days of the race when he finished 88th of 155 riders still in the race at L'Alpe d'Huez and then 85th of 147 three days later. He couldn't even hold on to the white jersey for the best young rider. But for ten days no one received more press than he did. He and Virenque, the other French rider standing out in the field, were the two big stories day after day, not Lance making history. It was worse than America's nationalistic Olympic coverage. The day after L'Alpe d'Huez "L'Equipe" quoted 34
of the 35 French riders still in the race on what the experience was like. The only one not quoted was Moreau, one of the stronger French riders who didn't have such a good day and didn't want to talk.
Later, George
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Besancon, France
Friends: I didn't initially plan on biking to Besancon, site of yesterday's time trial, as it was 60 miles beyond the previous day's stage finish and not on my way back to Paris, 250 miles away, but after learning it was the birthplace of the Lumiere Brothers, fathers of cinema, that was reason enough to alter my route. It's nice to be under no pressure to be anywhere for the first time in weeks. My only deadline is to make it to Paris in ten days for my flight home. I can
once again dig out my long forsaken, 1,100 page, Lonely Planet guidebook to France and let it dictate my meanderings for a change.
Its been two months and two days since I concluded my gluttony of 60 films in 12 days at Cannes. I haven't seen a movie since, which puts me right on my yearly average of about 20 per month. Fahrenheit 911 has opened in France, but I'll hold off seeing it until I return to Chicago. Its Sunday, so the Lumiere Brother's home in the city center here, right across the street from
Victor Hugo's home, wasn't open. That meant I could go straight to a sports bar with a big screen to watch the Tour's promenade into Paris and its multiple concluding circuits of the Champs Elysees.
I was happy to have one last chance to ride a Tour route while it was still fresh from all the previous day's energy. As soon as I picked it up, I could feel the charge right to my bones. It happens every time, whether I'm preceding the riders or following them. The yellow arrow markers were long gone, so I didn't have that thrill of letting them guide my way, but the
official plastic orange garbage bags still lined the course, bulging with refuse, waiting to be picked up. There was little stray litter between them, as everyone conscientiously picks up after themselves. There were a few people out walking the course, as I always see, hoping to find something. And surprisingly, despite the thousands that had lined the course, there is still stray stuff to be found. I picked up some cheese and crackers and a racing cap and a can of soup. I kept my eyes peeled for the newspaper "L'Equipe," but saw none. There was plenty of writing still on the road and an occasional banner left posted and also decorated bikes in the small towns the route passed through.
The possibility of more bike art was another of the attractions that drew me to Besancon. The
previous arrival city had a fantastic cluster of paper-mache bodies on bikes ranging from Charlie Chaplin to insects and animals and bare-breasted women. There were mobs of people still attracted to them in the town center. That could be Chicago's next summer art project--give 300 artists a bike with a mannequin and let them go wild. As this exhibit showed, the possibilities are infinite and so is the interest in it.
I took a 15-mile detour on my way to Besancon this morning to see one of France's 27 UNESCO World Heritage sites--the utopian industrial city Saline Royale. Like all the other of these sites I've seen here (the Roman Theater in Orange, the Chartres Cathedral, the walled city of Avignon) it was most exemplary and worthy of special recognition. The UNESCO sites invariably offer something truly unique, inspiring a sense of awe and appreciation and wonder. They inspire hope and confidence in the ability of humans to create things of nobility that can lift the spirit and soothe the soul. This was the first such site I'd gone out of my way to see. If I'd had a map of all of them, I would have made a genuine effort to see as many of them as I could. Seeking them out would make for a great bike tour in the future.
Saline Royale was built in the late 1800s to harvest salt. It lasted just over 100 years. The
industrial complex was laid out in a manner that treated the workers with respect, somewhat influenced by the philosopher Rousseau. The ten or so large stone buildings, laid out in a semi-circle with vast lawns around them, are now devoted to championing humanistic urban development. One of the huge buildings had a special exhibit devoted to Danish architect and designer Verner Panton that was also most exhilarating.
Its now on to Dijon and its Mustard Museum, 60 miles away, and a ride through champagne country. I will eventually make my ride into Paris following the route the peloton took today. That will mean that I will have ridden at least some segment of 16 of the 20 stages of this year's Tour, much more than I anticipated. I was able to witness nine of them. I will now be able to answer in the affirmative that question I'm asked by those not so versed in cycling, "Have you ever ridden the Tour de France?" Until now I've responded by asking them, "Have you ever played in Wimbledon?", if they're a tennis player, or "Have you ever played in the Masters?", if they're a golfer. They always seem disappointed that I, with all my biking, have never ridden in the Tour to France.
Cheers to Lance and his exceptional efforts. I hope his intimations of this being his last Tour are
just frustrations with the French for letting that book alleging his drug use to be published here. Even though it was written by an English journalist, it has only been released in French. Lance tried to get it stopped. Lance used to live in France but moved to Spain, in retaliation to a lingering investigation into his team's alleged drug use. He definitely can't retire, obligated as he is to his new sponsor and teammates. If he elects to race in the Tour of Italy or the Tour of Spain instead, both three week grand tours just a cut below the Tour de France, he would bring them great attention and luster. But fear not that this is his last race. He is still too good and relishes it
too much to bow out just yet. And that's good news for all of us who appreciate superlative performance.
Later, George
once again dig out my long forsaken, 1,100 page, Lonely Planet guidebook to France and let it dictate my meanderings for a change.
Its been two months and two days since I concluded my gluttony of 60 films in 12 days at Cannes. I haven't seen a movie since, which puts me right on my yearly average of about 20 per month. Fahrenheit 911 has opened in France, but I'll hold off seeing it until I return to Chicago. Its Sunday, so the Lumiere Brother's home in the city center here, right across the street from
Victor Hugo's home, wasn't open. That meant I could go straight to a sports bar with a big screen to watch the Tour's promenade into Paris and its multiple concluding circuits of the Champs Elysees.
I was happy to have one last chance to ride a Tour route while it was still fresh from all the previous day's energy. As soon as I picked it up, I could feel the charge right to my bones. It happens every time, whether I'm preceding the riders or following them. The yellow arrow markers were long gone, so I didn't have that thrill of letting them guide my way, but the
official plastic orange garbage bags still lined the course, bulging with refuse, waiting to be picked up. There was little stray litter between them, as everyone conscientiously picks up after themselves. There were a few people out walking the course, as I always see, hoping to find something. And surprisingly, despite the thousands that had lined the course, there is still stray stuff to be found. I picked up some cheese and crackers and a racing cap and a can of soup. I kept my eyes peeled for the newspaper "L'Equipe," but saw none. There was plenty of writing still on the road and an occasional banner left posted and also decorated bikes in the small towns the route passed through.
The possibility of more bike art was another of the attractions that drew me to Besancon. The
previous arrival city had a fantastic cluster of paper-mache bodies on bikes ranging from Charlie Chaplin to insects and animals and bare-breasted women. There were mobs of people still attracted to them in the town center. That could be Chicago's next summer art project--give 300 artists a bike with a mannequin and let them go wild. As this exhibit showed, the possibilities are infinite and so is the interest in it.
I took a 15-mile detour on my way to Besancon this morning to see one of France's 27 UNESCO World Heritage sites--the utopian industrial city Saline Royale. Like all the other of these sites I've seen here (the Roman Theater in Orange, the Chartres Cathedral, the walled city of Avignon) it was most exemplary and worthy of special recognition. The UNESCO sites invariably offer something truly unique, inspiring a sense of awe and appreciation and wonder. They inspire hope and confidence in the ability of humans to create things of nobility that can lift the spirit and soothe the soul. This was the first such site I'd gone out of my way to see. If I'd had a map of all of them, I would have made a genuine effort to see as many of them as I could. Seeking them out would make for a great bike tour in the future.
Saline Royale was built in the late 1800s to harvest salt. It lasted just over 100 years. The
industrial complex was laid out in a manner that treated the workers with respect, somewhat influenced by the philosopher Rousseau. The ten or so large stone buildings, laid out in a semi-circle with vast lawns around them, are now devoted to championing humanistic urban development. One of the huge buildings had a special exhibit devoted to Danish architect and designer Verner Panton that was also most exhilarating.
Its now on to Dijon and its Mustard Museum, 60 miles away, and a ride through champagne country. I will eventually make my ride into Paris following the route the peloton took today. That will mean that I will have ridden at least some segment of 16 of the 20 stages of this year's Tour, much more than I anticipated. I was able to witness nine of them. I will now be able to answer in the affirmative that question I'm asked by those not so versed in cycling, "Have you ever ridden the Tour de France?" Until now I've responded by asking them, "Have you ever played in Wimbledon?", if they're a tennis player, or "Have you ever played in the Masters?", if they're a golfer. They always seem disappointed that I, with all my biking, have never ridden in the Tour to France.
Cheers to Lance and his exceptional efforts. I hope his intimations of this being his last Tour are
just frustrations with the French for letting that book alleging his drug use to be published here. Even though it was written by an English journalist, it has only been released in French. Lance tried to get it stopped. Lance used to live in France but moved to Spain, in retaliation to a lingering investigation into his team's alleged drug use. He definitely can't retire, obligated as he is to his new sponsor and teammates. If he elects to race in the Tour of Italy or the Tour of Spain instead, both three week grand tours just a cut below the Tour de France, he would bring them great attention and luster. But fear not that this is his last race. He is still too good and relishes it
too much to bow out just yet. And that's good news for all of us who appreciate superlative performance.
Later, George
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Lons-le-Saunier, France
Friends: Lance the Great hardly needs any training advice, especially after trouncing the field at L'Alpe d'Huez and dominating this year's Tour from start to finish on his way to becoming its first six-time winner, but if he wants to be even stronger in his bid for seven next year, he ought to add training on a loaded touring bike to his regimen. When he returns to his feather-light racing bike, he would positively float up the climbs, as I did on L'Alpe d'Huez the morning of the race, when I was able to leave all my gear at my campsite and ride up virtually weightless and gravity-free.
It was quite a contrast to my earlier ride there a month-and-a-half ago. I didn't even need my lowest gear or have to accelerate my heart rate, as I glided up the mountain's 7.9% average grade, not even deterred by its brief ten per cent sections. It helped mightily, too, that there was an unbridled amount of upward energy and momentum generated by a huge mass of humanity, mostly on foot, being drawn up this mountain road of 21 switchbacks for the day's time trial, in
what has become an annual migration of unrivaled proportions, in numbers and spirit.
It began at least by six a.m., as that's when I was awoken by the rhythmic sirens of the gendarmes trying to clear the way for their passage. When I joined in at seven a.m., the road was already clogged with foot traffic. Those of us on bikes had to slip through what narrow crevices we could find and ride wheel-to-wheel before the crevice closed, at least for the first mile or so until the throngs began to thin a bit. There was a great sense of festivity in the air. There wasn't a soul among us who wasn't buoyed by the thrill of being there and hadn't been anticipating this day for weeks or months or years. My every cell was beaming with great cheer from the contagion of this atmosphere of delight. My legs spun as effortlessly as if my bike was chain-free. This was my greatest climb ever. I didn't want it to end. I resisted chasing after those who passed me, so I could prolong it and savor its every moment at my leisurely, strain-free pace.
The road was lined top-to-bottom all the way, seven hours before the first competitor would be off, but there was loads of space to fill in, along the road and on the mountain-sides. Many people had set up camp along the road, some days before. Some still lay asleep in their sleeping bags on the pavement, not even bothering with tents. Some were bathing in their underwear in the many springs that gush from the cliff walls along the road. There were cans and bottles, mostly of beer, chilling in the gutter where the cold spring water flowed. There were occasional bursts of music, from American rock to German drinking songs, blasting out of boom boxes. It was nice to ride anonymously on my unladen bike and not have to acknowledge any applause or accolades. I was still an anomaly, however, astride a bike with racks and fenders and wearing sandals, but fortunately that didn't prompt any more than a second or prolonged look from the masses along the road.
The Postal Service jerseys were more prominent than ever, and those wearing them all seemed to be riding a little faster than anyone else. The spirit of Lance was palpable. We all knew he would romp and stomp today. One of the many exhortations to him on the road was, "Lance, rip their balls off." There was already a thick crowd encamped in front of the giant screen that would be carrying the cable feed of the proceedings, 250 meters from the finish line, just
before the final bend in the course, but I was able to find some space behind one of the dozen or so pup tents that fans had slept in the night before. It provided a sliver of shade from the intense sun. It was nine a.m. when I settled in, nearly eight hours before Lance would be the last of the 160 riders out of the starting gate ten miles away.
There were no Americans in the vicinity to talk to or eavesdrop upon, mostly Germans, some of whom booed when Lance was shown on the screen. There were Americans in abundance, however, some blatantly obvious carrying, or draped in, a Stars and Stripes, and others equally obvious talking loud and cocky. There were still patches of snow streaking the mountains. A chair lift was in operation and there were people walking around with skis headed for some distant glaciers.
For the vast majority this was the first stage of the Tour they had seen this year. I met an English guy who had taken the train from London to Grenoble and then biked the 30 miles to L'Alpe d'Huez. I met another English guy who had come by motorcycle. There was a Czech who had bicycled from Karlovy Vary to cheer the two Czechs in the race, one a Postie. I talked to an American businessman from Salt Lake City who had flown in to Paris and rented a car and camped in town. It was a momentous day for all of us, especially those in the Lance camp who could go crazy when we saw him pass Basso on the big screen, who had started two minutes before he had, the ultimate humiliation.
I was lucky to have my bike when the proceedings concluded and the mass evacuation began. Those on the lower part of the mountain began dispersing as soon as Lance passed, so the most difficult part of getting down the mountain was fighting through the initial mobs. There were gendarmes standing every 50 feet on the center line all the way down the mountain ordering us cyclists to slow down or occasionally to dismount and walk, which we would do for a minute or
two, and then remount. There was no motorized traffic to contend with until after I reached my campsite, took down my tent, loaded up my bike and hit the road at seven. Then it was bumper-to-bumper traffic at a crawl for five miles out of town until I turned off on the road to the first mountain pass, the Col de Glandon, that the peloton would ride over on the next day's stage. I had ridden over this Category One pass the month before, though from the opposite direction. It was twelve miles to the summit. I was five miles short when it was too dark to keep riding. I camped with three German cyclists who had biked over from Germany just for these two stages.
In the next two days I encountered countless American cyclists with tour groups who had come to ride a bit of these mountain stages and watch the riders pass. They were all in a state of ecstasy. Some even knew a little bit about racing. A guy from Maine recognized acclaimed English photographer Graham Watson, who has had many books published of his cycling photographs, stationed at the same bend of the road we were at waiting for the riders to pass, and asked him to sign his yellow "6-Shooter" t-shirt. I have, at last, finished my pursuit of The Tour, and feel a bit of the same relief that all of Lance's teammates feel at having successfully done their job. They can celebrate, but they can also rest. I've had to ride long and hard to keep up with it, but have been amply rewarded. To be more efficient, I would almost need to scout out the course ahead of time as Lance does, to learn the best short cuts when necessary to save time. It would also be worthwhile to know ahead of time the best escape routes from the larger cities that host The Tour. I lost quite a bit of time trying to find my way out of some cities when the route wasn't clearly marked.
On the two stages after L'Alpe d'Huez I was halted at the start of a category two climb two-and-a-half hours before the peloton was due, a bit premature. I really wanted to be at the summit of those climbs, for the viewing and also to be further down the road. Both times it stymied me in my efforts to get as far as I wanted before dark. I have been riding at a much harder than touring pace, racing to get as far down the road as possible before it was closed. I had to try to be in position to see each day's conclusion on television and find a town big enough to have an Internet outlet.
Yesterday I was lucky to see the end of the race on a big screen under a tent set up in a small town along the road, the first time I had come upon such a thing. I had passed through two small ski towns that had bars, but neither had a television. It wasn't a crucial finish, as there had been a breakaway group of six almost ten minutes ahead of the Postal Service led peloton, but still I didn't want to miss anything. While sitting under the tent I was joined by an Australian couple I had passed who were in bumper-to-bumper traffic coming down the mountain. They were living in Geneva, about 50 miles away, and after seeing the L'Alpe d'Huez stage on TV were inspired to go see a stage live. It is infectious. It will be hard not to be a part of it again.
Later, George
It was quite a contrast to my earlier ride there a month-and-a-half ago. I didn't even need my lowest gear or have to accelerate my heart rate, as I glided up the mountain's 7.9% average grade, not even deterred by its brief ten per cent sections. It helped mightily, too, that there was an unbridled amount of upward energy and momentum generated by a huge mass of humanity, mostly on foot, being drawn up this mountain road of 21 switchbacks for the day's time trial, in
what has become an annual migration of unrivaled proportions, in numbers and spirit.
It began at least by six a.m., as that's when I was awoken by the rhythmic sirens of the gendarmes trying to clear the way for their passage. When I joined in at seven a.m., the road was already clogged with foot traffic. Those of us on bikes had to slip through what narrow crevices we could find and ride wheel-to-wheel before the crevice closed, at least for the first mile or so until the throngs began to thin a bit. There was a great sense of festivity in the air. There wasn't a soul among us who wasn't buoyed by the thrill of being there and hadn't been anticipating this day for weeks or months or years. My every cell was beaming with great cheer from the contagion of this atmosphere of delight. My legs spun as effortlessly as if my bike was chain-free. This was my greatest climb ever. I didn't want it to end. I resisted chasing after those who passed me, so I could prolong it and savor its every moment at my leisurely, strain-free pace.
The road was lined top-to-bottom all the way, seven hours before the first competitor would be off, but there was loads of space to fill in, along the road and on the mountain-sides. Many people had set up camp along the road, some days before. Some still lay asleep in their sleeping bags on the pavement, not even bothering with tents. Some were bathing in their underwear in the many springs that gush from the cliff walls along the road. There were cans and bottles, mostly of beer, chilling in the gutter where the cold spring water flowed. There were occasional bursts of music, from American rock to German drinking songs, blasting out of boom boxes. It was nice to ride anonymously on my unladen bike and not have to acknowledge any applause or accolades. I was still an anomaly, however, astride a bike with racks and fenders and wearing sandals, but fortunately that didn't prompt any more than a second or prolonged look from the masses along the road.
The Postal Service jerseys were more prominent than ever, and those wearing them all seemed to be riding a little faster than anyone else. The spirit of Lance was palpable. We all knew he would romp and stomp today. One of the many exhortations to him on the road was, "Lance, rip their balls off." There was already a thick crowd encamped in front of the giant screen that would be carrying the cable feed of the proceedings, 250 meters from the finish line, just
before the final bend in the course, but I was able to find some space behind one of the dozen or so pup tents that fans had slept in the night before. It provided a sliver of shade from the intense sun. It was nine a.m. when I settled in, nearly eight hours before Lance would be the last of the 160 riders out of the starting gate ten miles away.
There were no Americans in the vicinity to talk to or eavesdrop upon, mostly Germans, some of whom booed when Lance was shown on the screen. There were Americans in abundance, however, some blatantly obvious carrying, or draped in, a Stars and Stripes, and others equally obvious talking loud and cocky. There were still patches of snow streaking the mountains. A chair lift was in operation and there were people walking around with skis headed for some distant glaciers.
For the vast majority this was the first stage of the Tour they had seen this year. I met an English guy who had taken the train from London to Grenoble and then biked the 30 miles to L'Alpe d'Huez. I met another English guy who had come by motorcycle. There was a Czech who had bicycled from Karlovy Vary to cheer the two Czechs in the race, one a Postie. I talked to an American businessman from Salt Lake City who had flown in to Paris and rented a car and camped in town. It was a momentous day for all of us, especially those in the Lance camp who could go crazy when we saw him pass Basso on the big screen, who had started two minutes before he had, the ultimate humiliation.
I was lucky to have my bike when the proceedings concluded and the mass evacuation began. Those on the lower part of the mountain began dispersing as soon as Lance passed, so the most difficult part of getting down the mountain was fighting through the initial mobs. There were gendarmes standing every 50 feet on the center line all the way down the mountain ordering us cyclists to slow down or occasionally to dismount and walk, which we would do for a minute or
two, and then remount. There was no motorized traffic to contend with until after I reached my campsite, took down my tent, loaded up my bike and hit the road at seven. Then it was bumper-to-bumper traffic at a crawl for five miles out of town until I turned off on the road to the first mountain pass, the Col de Glandon, that the peloton would ride over on the next day's stage. I had ridden over this Category One pass the month before, though from the opposite direction. It was twelve miles to the summit. I was five miles short when it was too dark to keep riding. I camped with three German cyclists who had biked over from Germany just for these two stages.
In the next two days I encountered countless American cyclists with tour groups who had come to ride a bit of these mountain stages and watch the riders pass. They were all in a state of ecstasy. Some even knew a little bit about racing. A guy from Maine recognized acclaimed English photographer Graham Watson, who has had many books published of his cycling photographs, stationed at the same bend of the road we were at waiting for the riders to pass, and asked him to sign his yellow "6-Shooter" t-shirt. I have, at last, finished my pursuit of The Tour, and feel a bit of the same relief that all of Lance's teammates feel at having successfully done their job. They can celebrate, but they can also rest. I've had to ride long and hard to keep up with it, but have been amply rewarded. To be more efficient, I would almost need to scout out the course ahead of time as Lance does, to learn the best short cuts when necessary to save time. It would also be worthwhile to know ahead of time the best escape routes from the larger cities that host The Tour. I lost quite a bit of time trying to find my way out of some cities when the route wasn't clearly marked.
On the two stages after L'Alpe d'Huez I was halted at the start of a category two climb two-and-a-half hours before the peloton was due, a bit premature. I really wanted to be at the summit of those climbs, for the viewing and also to be further down the road. Both times it stymied me in my efforts to get as far as I wanted before dark. I have been riding at a much harder than touring pace, racing to get as far down the road as possible before it was closed. I had to try to be in position to see each day's conclusion on television and find a town big enough to have an Internet outlet.
Yesterday I was lucky to see the end of the race on a big screen under a tent set up in a small town along the road, the first time I had come upon such a thing. I had passed through two small ski towns that had bars, but neither had a television. It wasn't a crucial finish, as there had been a breakaway group of six almost ten minutes ahead of the Postal Service led peloton, but still I didn't want to miss anything. While sitting under the tent I was joined by an Australian couple I had passed who were in bumper-to-bumper traffic coming down the mountain. They were living in Geneva, about 50 miles away, and after seeing the L'Alpe d'Huez stage on TV were inspired to go see a stage live. It is infectious. It will be hard not to be a part of it again.
Later, George
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Bourg d'Osians
Friends: Bourg d'Osians, the small town at the foot of the most legendary climb in cycling to L'Alpe d'Huez, looks like a refugee camp. Tents are pitched everywhere on any scrap of unoccupied turf. The roadsides are jammed with parked recreational vehicles. Thousands and thousands of fans are milling about, though it would be very hard to mistake any of them for being a refugee. Most are clad in bright cycling jerseys and tight black racing shorts and wear a deep tan from hours spent on the bike. Some are scrawny enough to be a refugee, but their faces are too aglow and their demeanors too ecstatic for any of them to be a refugee. There is a strong buzz of anticipation and excitement. All present have been looking forward to this occasion for months and are thrilled to be on hand for this Woodstock of an event. I doubt any of them would rather be anywhere else than here.
There were 900,000 here last year and by all indicators it will be well over a million this year. A paltry few are staying in legitimate campgrounds and at the handful of hotels. The vast majority are squatters, camping along the town's streets and the highway in and out of town and on any patch of vacant land available from church lawns to construction sites, and all with the blessing of the town. Anything goes when it comes to supporting THE Tour.
Thanks to the Englishwoman I met on Bastille Day, I sought out a meadow at the start of the climb that she said she would be camped at. She and her husband had arrived several days before and were able to claim a prime spot for their camper right along The Race route. Though it was already wall-to-wall campers, I was able to squeeze my tent into a bare spot on the fringe of the meadow. The Englishwoman had recommended this spot not only for its location, but also because it included a port-a-potty and a spigot of water. I'm sandwiched between a 66-year old Italian and a Dutch father-and-son. The Dutch pair have been following the Tour from the start and immediately recognized me as the lone touring cyclist they have seen along the way. They had been eager to find out where I was from and how much of The Tour I had seen.
Even if I hadn't known about this plum of a spot, there are many others I could have found space in even if I had put off my arrival until the day of The Race. But then I would have missed out on the non-stop parade and swirl of cyclists on the road through town and in its central district and on up to L'Alpe d'Huez. Its bikes everywhere, parked and being ridden. I stocked up on food and euros before arrival fearful of shortages, but somehow the lone major supermarket in town is keeping its shelves stocked, although it was a half hour wait in the checkout line this morning.
Like all things connected to this race, the town is well prepared and accommodates all.
Tomorrow's time trial is only ten miles long. It begins back in the village. The first two miles are flat before the climb starts. I don't know how everyone will find space along the course, or where I'll end up watching it, but no one will be disappointed, as simply being a part of this gathering is an experience of a lifetime for many. This is the glamor stage of The Tour and has attracted the most international audience by far of any stage. The Postal Service jersey is the dominant garb, and not only by Americans. I am in a microscopic minority, not wearing some team jersey nor riding a high-end racing bike. Most of the jerseys are club jerseys--French, German, Dutch, Belgian, Spanish, Italian and even a few American. There are a few Dutch on three-speeds and a few mountain bikes and even a handful of other touring cyclists, but otherwise it's nothing but two-wheeled hot-rods whose wheels alone cost more than my bike. The town is forest of tanned, well-muscled legs.
I was perfectly content to spend all day today hanging out, watching the spectacle, until the race coverage began on television at three p.m. My legs finally had a day of rest, except for having to stand for two hours in a bar crammed with fans. It was another thrilling stage with a fair amount of climbing. Virenque took off on a breakaway with a Dutch rider solidifying his hold on the King of the Mountains competition. Ullrich made a move with two others to separate himself from Lance. The move was premature, so Lance let him expend some energy off on his own. For a while it gave us four groups to follow--the Virenqe group, the Ullrich group, the Lance group, and the main peloton, which contained Voeckler in the yellow jersey. Each was accompanied by a cameraman on a motorcycle. The three lead groups eventually came together, while the yellow jersey group fell further and further behind and Voeckler's reign in yellow was history. The lead group was whittled down in the last couple of miles to Lance, the Italian Basso, Ullrich and his German teammate Kloden, and the American Leipheimer, former teammate of Lance, who is now the lead rider for Rabobank, the lone Dutch team in the race.
It was a tense sprint. The Germans in the bar were wildly cheering as their two countrymen were in the lead, but then it was Basso and Lance and then Lance alone delivering an emphatic double-armed celebratory thrust with an even greater burst of emotion than he usually expresses as he took the stage. Then I and all the Lance supporters could drown out the Germans. It was another fine moment that made all the effort I've put into this well worth it.
Later, George
There were 900,000 here last year and by all indicators it will be well over a million this year. A paltry few are staying in legitimate campgrounds and at the handful of hotels. The vast majority are squatters, camping along the town's streets and the highway in and out of town and on any patch of vacant land available from church lawns to construction sites, and all with the blessing of the town. Anything goes when it comes to supporting THE Tour.
Thanks to the Englishwoman I met on Bastille Day, I sought out a meadow at the start of the climb that she said she would be camped at. She and her husband had arrived several days before and were able to claim a prime spot for their camper right along The Race route. Though it was already wall-to-wall campers, I was able to squeeze my tent into a bare spot on the fringe of the meadow. The Englishwoman had recommended this spot not only for its location, but also because it included a port-a-potty and a spigot of water. I'm sandwiched between a 66-year old Italian and a Dutch father-and-son. The Dutch pair have been following the Tour from the start and immediately recognized me as the lone touring cyclist they have seen along the way. They had been eager to find out where I was from and how much of The Tour I had seen.
Even if I hadn't known about this plum of a spot, there are many others I could have found space in even if I had put off my arrival until the day of The Race. But then I would have missed out on the non-stop parade and swirl of cyclists on the road through town and in its central district and on up to L'Alpe d'Huez. Its bikes everywhere, parked and being ridden. I stocked up on food and euros before arrival fearful of shortages, but somehow the lone major supermarket in town is keeping its shelves stocked, although it was a half hour wait in the checkout line this morning.
Like all things connected to this race, the town is well prepared and accommodates all.
Tomorrow's time trial is only ten miles long. It begins back in the village. The first two miles are flat before the climb starts. I don't know how everyone will find space along the course, or where I'll end up watching it, but no one will be disappointed, as simply being a part of this gathering is an experience of a lifetime for many. This is the glamor stage of The Tour and has attracted the most international audience by far of any stage. The Postal Service jersey is the dominant garb, and not only by Americans. I am in a microscopic minority, not wearing some team jersey nor riding a high-end racing bike. Most of the jerseys are club jerseys--French, German, Dutch, Belgian, Spanish, Italian and even a few American. There are a few Dutch on three-speeds and a few mountain bikes and even a handful of other touring cyclists, but otherwise it's nothing but two-wheeled hot-rods whose wheels alone cost more than my bike. The town is forest of tanned, well-muscled legs.
I was perfectly content to spend all day today hanging out, watching the spectacle, until the race coverage began on television at three p.m. My legs finally had a day of rest, except for having to stand for two hours in a bar crammed with fans. It was another thrilling stage with a fair amount of climbing. Virenque took off on a breakaway with a Dutch rider solidifying his hold on the King of the Mountains competition. Ullrich made a move with two others to separate himself from Lance. The move was premature, so Lance let him expend some energy off on his own. For a while it gave us four groups to follow--the Virenqe group, the Ullrich group, the Lance group, and the main peloton, which contained Voeckler in the yellow jersey. Each was accompanied by a cameraman on a motorcycle. The three lead groups eventually came together, while the yellow jersey group fell further and further behind and Voeckler's reign in yellow was history. The lead group was whittled down in the last couple of miles to Lance, the Italian Basso, Ullrich and his German teammate Kloden, and the American Leipheimer, former teammate of Lance, who is now the lead rider for Rabobank, the lone Dutch team in the race.
It was a tense sprint. The Germans in the bar were wildly cheering as their two countrymen were in the lead, but then it was Basso and Lance and then Lance alone delivering an emphatic double-armed celebratory thrust with an even greater burst of emotion than he usually expresses as he took the stage. Then I and all the Lance supporters could drown out the Germans. It was another fine moment that made all the effort I've put into this well worth it.
Later, George
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