Friends: With my arrival in Montereau-Fault-Yonne, starting point for the final stage of this year's Tour, about 50 miles outside of Paris, I have now ridden all or part of 16 of the 21 stages of this year's race, not as good as last year's 20 of 21, but right around my average these past six years.
This year's route was particularly heavy on transfers from stage finishes to the next day's start, so much so I was wondering if the course had purposely been designed to thwart anyone from trying to follow The Race by bicycle. The gendarmes sure seemed to be in on the conspiracy, as they were extra fierce this year in harassing me. One cop in a car ordered me off the course several minutes after the peloton and all the team cars and official vehicles had passed, including the final vehicle with "Fin de Course". As soon as that "Fin de Course" vehicle passed, I hopped on my bike and headed down the road. That's always been accepted policy. But not by this cop. He told me I had to wait 15 minutes before I could continue on. And he actually expected me to sit there and look at my watch and count down the minutes before proceeding. If he'd been serious, he could have called over to a nearby gendarme to quarantine me, but he just sped off. After giving my neck a rub I took off after him.
The Race's final transfer from Mont Ventoux to here was by far the longest, some 400 miles, possibly a record. The total number of transfer miles this year increased the course's official distance of 2,100 miles by nearly 50 percent. There was another transfer of over 200 miles before the first rest day, and several in excess of 50 miles. No one likes them except those who are pocketing the fees from the city that paid for the privilege of being a Ville Etape.
While the peloton was whisked by TGV train after competing its climb of Ventoux, I remained faithful to my bike. I nearly resorted to alternate means of transportation this year for the first time, but I never managed to meet up with Jesse and his car-driving posse. I wasn't disappointed at all to be saved from being transported by car. It no doubt would have been exasperating as hell trying to coordinate the desires of five others--deciding on meeting points and camp sites and getting food and how many miles to ride each day and when to set out. I might have destroyed a computer keyboard or two pounding out the tales of that experience. It would have enabled me to ride more miles of the actual race route, but at what cost I can't say. I was interested in sharing the exaltation of several first-timers to The Tour, as well as teaming up with Jesse once again, back for his third. Maybe next year with a little more advanced planning it will happen.
I arrived in Montereau with five photos remaining in my old-fashioned, non-digital camera, hoping the town would have enough bike art and celebrations of The Tour still standing to finish off my roll. At the roundabout outside of town were a couple of mannequins covered in greenery straddling bikes in a flower bed. That was photo number one. Many of the shop windows were still adorned with bikes and such, but none exemplary enough for a photo. I'll have to hope for some worthy bike and Tour acknowledgements as I follow the route towards Paris.
I have been negligent in photographing any of the road graffiti this year. There was an abundance on Mont Ventoux, as many people arrived a couple days early to secure a spot and had plenty of time to decorate the road. A fan of English rider Bradley Wiggins was quite busy writing "Wiggo" on steep turns and "15 Seconds," the amount of time he needed to make up his deficit on Lance for third place.
People with causes take advantage of the opportunity to convey their message to the thousands of people that will be traveling The Tour route and watching it on television. On Ventoux someone had frequently written "Non Au Parc." Someone else had come along and added "Fig" to the "Non," turning it into "Fignon," a French two-time winner of The Tour in the 1980s who was diagnosed with cancer just before this year's Tour. If the local authorities do not approve of someone's political message they send out a crew with black paint to paint over it.
One of the biggest hits of this year's Tour, along with the crew passing out the Bouygues Telecom jerseys, was a couple of Nike vans passing out packets of three sticks of thick yellow chalk several hours ahead of the official publicity caravan. It gave those early arrivals something to do. Few though were using it to write exhortations to Lance.
My biggest prize was finding two Liquigas team water bottles along the road, bottles I had been on the hunt for, as they were one of the few team water bottles I had never found in my years of following The Tour. They are a distinctive mellow green. That will be my bottle in the airport and on the plane tomorrow as I fly back to Chicago. It is an eye-catcher that will mean something to any racing fan. Liquigas is an Italian company, but any racing fan knows that it sponsors a Tour team. Liquigas had an exemplary Tour, with one rider finishing in the top ten and another winning the climber's red polka dot jersey.
Usually the rider wearing the polka dot jersey goes red polka dot crazy, putting red polka dots wherever he can, on his gloves, his helmet, his shorts, his socks, his sun glasses, his bike, his teeth. When Pellizotti took possession of the jersey he surprisingly continued to wear his green Liquigas shorts, as if he was being faithful to his sponsor. It was quite a surprise, as Pellizotti, like any Italian, is extremely fashion conscious. The green shorts clashed quite garishly with the red polka dot jersey. But he was just waiting until he received a repainted red polka dot bike before he went with the red polka dot shorts and gloves and all else.
"Cycle Sport," an English monthly, will no doubt have an array of snide remarks about Pellizotti in polka dots, probably wondering why he didn't polka dot his long curly hair as well. Hardly an issue passes that it doesn't ridicule his hair. A glance at the photos of the magazine's staff explains why, as they are all follicly challenged. Hair is not the only thing they are short on. Integrity is another. They continually deride Lance, though when he announced his return to cycling they put him on their cover three straight months. They know what sells on the news stand.
If there were an English Better Business Bureau I would unleash them on the magazine. Last July it published a letter-to-the editor of mine and named it the letter of the month, the "Star Letter," earning me a 160 dollar Fiz-ik saddle. I'm still waiting to receive it despite repeated assurances from Nicole in marketing and deputy editor Edward Pickering, that they were about to send it. I finally told Ed that he could hand deliver it to me in Monaco at The Tour start. He said he wasn't attending The Race this year, and didn't care to entrust the mission to a minion. Instead, he said he would send me a bunch of racing DVDs and energy bars and maybe a skeleton he had hanging in a closet, not exactly the saddle I had been promised, but at least something. That was over a month ago and still nothing.
Lance has brought back so much more attention to the sport, dramatically increasing television ratings and no doubt magazine sales, maybe the "Cycle Sport" staff will finally be in a mood to live up to their promises. Ed will be hearing from me again soon. If anyone else would like to raise this issue with him, his email address is edward_pickering@ipcmedia.com.
Green was a theme of this year's Tour for me, not only scoring a pair of green Liquigas water bottles and the battle for the Green jersey between Cavendish and Hushovd, but also discovering an emerald green mint drink served in French bars--menthe à l'eau. It is a combination of mint syrup with water. It is as refreshing as it is pleasing to regard. Some bars serve it with a quarter glass of syrup and a bottle of ice cold water on the side. It is a traditional French drink that would immediately win the favor of any bar tender when I ordered it, indicating that I was somewhat wise to their culture, just as when I would address someone with a "Madame" or "Monsieur" along with "Bonjour." I grew to look forward to a menthe à l'eau. It took a bit of the sting out of having to watch a stage finish in a bar rather than on the jumbo screen at the finish line, as I would much prefer.
Every year I make new discoveries about the French culture and ways. I look forward to all those that await me next year. Next year's race could be the most riveting in years, as Lance will definitely be on a mission. He could surround himself with the most American team ever. Rarely did he have more than one or two fellow countrymen on his team in his seven victories--George Hincapie and someone else. It will be interesting to see if he can entice Hincapie from the Columbia team to rejoin him. It will be interesting, too, if he enlists the services of former teammate Floyd Landis, disgraced winner of the 2006 Tour, who has served out his two-year suspension and is back racing in the U.S. No chance to bring back Tyler Hamilton though, as just a couple months ago he tested positive again for an illegal drug. He's gone for good this time. Lance will no doubt have Leipheimer at his service as well as Chris Horner, one of the great warriors of the peloton, who was tragically left off the Astana roster this year. He will be a demon in Lycra next year. Bring it on.
Later, George
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Mont Ventoux
Friends: The most popular person on Mont Ventoux, that stand-alone monster of a mountain in Provence, as an estimated half million fans flocked to its steep and forbidding slopes Saturday, was the man dispensing Bouygues Telecom jerseys, one of five French teams in The Tour.
When I came upon him he was parked two miles below the summit, and two miles above the tree line. The last time I had seen him was at the summit of the Colombiere. There was a neat and orderly line of five or six people at his window awaiting their handout that time. By the time I parked my bike and sauntered over, he was on his way and I missed out.
There was no danger of him escaping me this time though, as his van was surrounded by an ever accumulating swarm of frenzied fans in a panic that he would run out before they got one. They weren't so desperate for a souvenir, but rather for an extra layer to protect themselves from the fierce, coldly biting wind that was ravaging the upper reaches of the mountain.
Even those who came with blankets and coats wanted an extra layer. It was 10:30, six hours before the racers were due. Those who were determined to last until then were already hunkered down in what crevices they could find protected from the wind. I was fully prepared with 50 pounds of gear on my bike, though I had sent home my tights before The Tour began. I still had a wool hat and gloves to go with a sweater and vest and more layers. I hadn't expected such cold though. The day before in Nyons, less than 30 miles from the summit, it was so sweltering hot at the outdoor cafe where I was watching Cavendish win his record tying fifth stage of the race, an overhead misting device sprayed the cafe's patrons every minute or so. I sat as close to the nozzle as I could.
That night though a northerly wind moved it, rocking my tent all night long. It was so strong it was a challenge to dismantle the tent in the morning to keep it from blowing away. As I wound around the back side of the mountain before making the long climb to its summit, I was somewhat protected from the full fury of the wind. I was also helped by a paceline of a trio of three Dutch cyclists. As we climbed higher the road was lined with parked cars and campers on both sides Leaving a passage not much wider than a car's width. There were many, many more people walking than biking clogging the narrow roadway. When the Dutch guys paused I latched onto an older French guy who shouted "attencion, attencion" to clear the way.
Four miles from the summit the forest ends and the landscape becomes lunar. There is a ski chalet and a wide open space where two roads to the summit merge. It was thronged with cyclists and pedestrians trying to decide if they wanted to go higher, or to make this their vantage for the day.
I knew from my last visit to The Ventoux five years ago for the Dauphine-Libere time trial, when Lance finished third behind Iban Mayo and Tyler Hamilton, that there was a water spigot off to the side of the chalet. I feared it could be a half hour wait to fill my water bottles. But only a handful of people knew about it. It was a brutally hot day my last visit. I needed to wear a long sleeve shirt to protect my arms from the intensity of the sun. I was prepared to fill all my water bottles for a long day in the ovenish heat, but on this day I figured four bottles would be enough.
The final four miles to the summit are the mountain's steepest, close to 10 per cent. It was more like 20 per cent into the blast of the wind. A mile from the summit is the memorial to Tom Simpson, the British cyclist who died at that very spot in the 1967 Tour overcome from heat and amphetamines. Nearly everyone who passed paused to mount the dozen or so steps and give a close look to the words on the slab of marble or to place a momento before it, along with the dozens of other items left by fans. I went around the backside and emptied out the small packet of ashes of Joey the Schnauser that I had carried for over 5,000 miles, about as many miles as she had been transported over her life across Iowa doing RAGBRAI on the back of Kathy's bike. I tried to protect them from the wind and place them under a rock, but most were sent flying.
As I neared the summit I peered about for the giant television screen mounted atop the 18-wheeler that transports it. There's not a great amount of room at the summit, so I wondered if it would be there, or if it was, whether the wind would be too strong to put it up. It was not to be seen. I asked an official if it it would come later, but he said it wouldn't. Then I had the dilemma of sitting up there in suspense for hours wondering how the race was unfolding, as the racers approached and then fought their way up the mountain until they emerged from around the bend where the Simpson memorial was for the final mile to the summit.
It was a suspense I did not care to endure, so after lingering at the summit for several minutes finishing off a liter bottle of chocolate milk and sharing the revelry of the swarms of cyclists who had made it to the top, most taking photos of one another, I continued on biking down the backside of the mountain, the third of the three arteries to its summit.
From Ventoux I had 500 miles to bike back to Paris for my flight five days later. It helped to be getting a jump on that, especially since I would initially be battling a strong head wind. I stopped at the town 18 miles away where the press headquarters for the day was set up and found a bar to watch the race. As it had been the last several days, people continually slipped into the bar to check on the race's progress and then was packed for the final 20 minutes of the stage.
France this year was somewhat akin to my experience of bicycling through New England in the fall when the Bosox were in the middle of a pennant race. Baseball was the prime topic of conversation then. The Tour, even without a French rider in contention, had captured the interest of just about everyone, much, much more so than in my five previous Tours. Everyone wanted to know if Lance had it in him to hold on to third place. And he did. Not only did most bars have the race on their televsion, most had that day's "L'Equipe" laying around as well.
Andy Schleck made several accelerations trying to shed Lance hoping that his brother Frank could hang on as he had on the Colombiere, enabling him to surpass Lance and slip into third place, but the only one able to keep up was Contador. Andy would let up, allowing Frank to latch on again, then repeat the process, but brother Frank did not have it in himself this time to keep up and shed Lance. Nor did Lance have the strength to keep up and put further time on Frank or anyone else. The strong head wind helped to neutralize their efforts.
Usually the third and even the second place rider of The Race is long forgotten. This will be a rare Tour when everyone will remember the rider who finished third. And even before this year's race concluded, people began talking about next year's Race when Lance will return with a team of his own sponsored by Radio Shack. It will be one of three American teams in The Tour. Last year was the first time there had even been two. Speculation began flying about who Lance would recruit for his team. There was even talk that he was interested in the Schleck brothers.
Later, George
When I came upon him he was parked two miles below the summit, and two miles above the tree line. The last time I had seen him was at the summit of the Colombiere. There was a neat and orderly line of five or six people at his window awaiting their handout that time. By the time I parked my bike and sauntered over, he was on his way and I missed out.
There was no danger of him escaping me this time though, as his van was surrounded by an ever accumulating swarm of frenzied fans in a panic that he would run out before they got one. They weren't so desperate for a souvenir, but rather for an extra layer to protect themselves from the fierce, coldly biting wind that was ravaging the upper reaches of the mountain.
Even those who came with blankets and coats wanted an extra layer. It was 10:30, six hours before the racers were due. Those who were determined to last until then were already hunkered down in what crevices they could find protected from the wind. I was fully prepared with 50 pounds of gear on my bike, though I had sent home my tights before The Tour began. I still had a wool hat and gloves to go with a sweater and vest and more layers. I hadn't expected such cold though. The day before in Nyons, less than 30 miles from the summit, it was so sweltering hot at the outdoor cafe where I was watching Cavendish win his record tying fifth stage of the race, an overhead misting device sprayed the cafe's patrons every minute or so. I sat as close to the nozzle as I could.
That night though a northerly wind moved it, rocking my tent all night long. It was so strong it was a challenge to dismantle the tent in the morning to keep it from blowing away. As I wound around the back side of the mountain before making the long climb to its summit, I was somewhat protected from the full fury of the wind. I was also helped by a paceline of a trio of three Dutch cyclists. As we climbed higher the road was lined with parked cars and campers on both sides Leaving a passage not much wider than a car's width. There were many, many more people walking than biking clogging the narrow roadway. When the Dutch guys paused I latched onto an older French guy who shouted "attencion, attencion" to clear the way.
Four miles from the summit the forest ends and the landscape becomes lunar. There is a ski chalet and a wide open space where two roads to the summit merge. It was thronged with cyclists and pedestrians trying to decide if they wanted to go higher, or to make this their vantage for the day.
I knew from my last visit to The Ventoux five years ago for the Dauphine-Libere time trial, when Lance finished third behind Iban Mayo and Tyler Hamilton, that there was a water spigot off to the side of the chalet. I feared it could be a half hour wait to fill my water bottles. But only a handful of people knew about it. It was a brutally hot day my last visit. I needed to wear a long sleeve shirt to protect my arms from the intensity of the sun. I was prepared to fill all my water bottles for a long day in the ovenish heat, but on this day I figured four bottles would be enough.
The final four miles to the summit are the mountain's steepest, close to 10 per cent. It was more like 20 per cent into the blast of the wind. A mile from the summit is the memorial to Tom Simpson, the British cyclist who died at that very spot in the 1967 Tour overcome from heat and amphetamines. Nearly everyone who passed paused to mount the dozen or so steps and give a close look to the words on the slab of marble or to place a momento before it, along with the dozens of other items left by fans. I went around the backside and emptied out the small packet of ashes of Joey the Schnauser that I had carried for over 5,000 miles, about as many miles as she had been transported over her life across Iowa doing RAGBRAI on the back of Kathy's bike. I tried to protect them from the wind and place them under a rock, but most were sent flying.
As I neared the summit I peered about for the giant television screen mounted atop the 18-wheeler that transports it. There's not a great amount of room at the summit, so I wondered if it would be there, or if it was, whether the wind would be too strong to put it up. It was not to be seen. I asked an official if it it would come later, but he said it wouldn't. Then I had the dilemma of sitting up there in suspense for hours wondering how the race was unfolding, as the racers approached and then fought their way up the mountain until they emerged from around the bend where the Simpson memorial was for the final mile to the summit.
It was a suspense I did not care to endure, so after lingering at the summit for several minutes finishing off a liter bottle of chocolate milk and sharing the revelry of the swarms of cyclists who had made it to the top, most taking photos of one another, I continued on biking down the backside of the mountain, the third of the three arteries to its summit.
From Ventoux I had 500 miles to bike back to Paris for my flight five days later. It helped to be getting a jump on that, especially since I would initially be battling a strong head wind. I stopped at the town 18 miles away where the press headquarters for the day was set up and found a bar to watch the race. As it had been the last several days, people continually slipped into the bar to check on the race's progress and then was packed for the final 20 minutes of the stage.
France this year was somewhat akin to my experience of bicycling through New England in the fall when the Bosox were in the middle of a pennant race. Baseball was the prime topic of conversation then. The Tour, even without a French rider in contention, had captured the interest of just about everyone, much, much more so than in my five previous Tours. Everyone wanted to know if Lance had it in him to hold on to third place. And he did. Not only did most bars have the race on their televsion, most had that day's "L'Equipe" laying around as well.
Andy Schleck made several accelerations trying to shed Lance hoping that his brother Frank could hang on as he had on the Colombiere, enabling him to surpass Lance and slip into third place, but the only one able to keep up was Contador. Andy would let up, allowing Frank to latch on again, then repeat the process, but brother Frank did not have it in himself this time to keep up and shed Lance. Nor did Lance have the strength to keep up and put further time on Frank or anyone else. The strong head wind helped to neutralize their efforts.
Usually the third and even the second place rider of The Race is long forgotten. This will be a rare Tour when everyone will remember the rider who finished third. And even before this year's race concluded, people began talking about next year's Race when Lance will return with a team of his own sponsored by Radio Shack. It will be one of three American teams in The Tour. Last year was the first time there had even been two. Speculation began flying about who Lance would recruit for his team. There was even talk that he was interested in the Schleck brothers.
Later, George
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Aix-les-Baines, France
Friends: Back in his heyday Lance dominated The Tour with his legs. After a three year absence, despite returning with not quite the same dynamite in his legs, he is still dominating The Race, but with his personality and his legend.
After faltering in Tuesday's stage, falling behind the leaders by 30 seconds on a category one climb, but then recovering and rampaging back like the Lance of old to rejoin them before the summit, the front page headline in the next day's "L'Equipe" was "Armstrong does not abdicate."
Yesterday's third and final foray in the Alps on the Tour's most challenging stage with four category one climbs and one category two was a bit much for Lance, as he lost two minutes to Contador and the Schleck brothers, falling to fourth overall. He could regain a podium spot though today in the 25-mile time trial around the unspeakably beautiful alpine Lake Annency. Whether or not he finishes on the podium, he is not dispirited. He has demonstrated he is more than competitive and a force to be reckoned with. He has vowed to return next year in better shape. That's exciting news for all race aficionados. Lance is most definitely an animator in all respects. He lives up to his motto--"Go hard or go home."
I arrived at yesterday's finish in the ski town of Le Grand Bornard by eleven after finishing off the category one Col de Colombiere, 15 kilometers from the finish. I arrived in ample time to find an Internet and file a report, but in this touristy town the only Internet outlet was charging three euros for 15 minutes, way beyond my budget. That's about my limit for one hour of Internet time. Just after I arrived, clouds moved into the valley and a light drizzle began, the fourth mountain stage with rain. It was an off and on rain for several hours, just effecting the early part of the race, causing a few falls, including Menchov turning on a painted line.
The day's broadcast on the huge screen at the finish line began at one o'clock, giving us four-and-a-half hours of virtually uninterrupted racing action. The camera was focusing on Thor Hushovd in the green jersey when the telecast began. My first thought was that he was off the back and in trouble, as he is not a climber. But he was off on a solo breakaway gobbling up a few more intermediate sprint points to sew up the sprinter's jersey.
He was all tuckered out when the peloton hit the final two category one climbs 25 miles before the race finish. The first was the Col de Romme just outside of Cluses. It had never been included in The Tour. It began with a killer grade of better than ten per cent for its first two miles, a steeper start than L'Alpe d'Huez. Sastre attempted to repeat his heroics of last year on L'Alpe spurting ahead, but it was too much for him. The afternoon before it took all my might standing on the pedals to manage the climb. It was just under six miles. There was a four mile dip after its summit to the start of the Col de Colombiere, another killer with an average grade of just under nine per cent. Those back to back at the end of a 100-mile stage would be tougher than Mont Ventoux.
I camped on the descent from the Col de Romme, doing something I rarely do, setting my tent up right alongside the road. If the race had come from the opposite direction, my sliver of turf would have had a couple of RVs already parked on it, but few care to establish a watching point on a descent with the racers flying past at 50 miles per hour. I had camped the previous two nights on narrow ledges just above the road in gorges with a minimum of flat spots. There is so little traffic after dark in the mountains, I didn't have to worry about my sleep being interrupted, and the terrain so steep, there was no worry of deranged wart hogs on the loose.
As I began my day climbing the Col de Colombiere it hardly seemed like a weekday, as there were hundreds of people on foot and on bike flocking to the mountain. As always, it was a thrill to be a part of this throng of devotees, thousands of them gathering for an all day picnic on the mountain. Only official cars were allowed on the road even at that early hour. There were police barricades at the top and bottom of the climb.
The large screen in Le Grand-Bornard was in a semi-graveled parking lot alongside the race course. It was one of the larger viewing areas I've encountered. I tried several different spots for my vantage. I left the first as the exhaust from an idling truck was drifting past. I abandoned my second spot as there was a nearby smoker. Body odor sent me scurrying from my third, before I finally settled on a corner location on a slight rise. I flattened a cardboard box for a dry and soft cushion to sit upon. I was near a booth that was tossing small packages of biscuits to the crowd.
I was hoping to finally connect with Jesse the Texan, but we continue to miss each other. I did run into the English school master though once again, with his son and daughter-in-law. He was as exuberant as ever, thrilled that Wiggins could finish top five.
There was a huge exodus of cyclists from Le Grand Bornard after the finish all flocking down hill to Lake Annency. Once I reached the lake I followed the yellow course markers for the next day's time trial around the top third of the lake before breaking off and heading towards Mont Ventoux. Friday's stage begins 60 miles from Lake Annency, another most unfriendly transfer for me. But I'll make it well before the peloton and be on schedule to reach Saturday's finish atop Mont Ventoux before they do. I'll be content to watch the time trial in a bar later this afternoon.
Later, George
After faltering in Tuesday's stage, falling behind the leaders by 30 seconds on a category one climb, but then recovering and rampaging back like the Lance of old to rejoin them before the summit, the front page headline in the next day's "L'Equipe" was "Armstrong does not abdicate."
Yesterday's third and final foray in the Alps on the Tour's most challenging stage with four category one climbs and one category two was a bit much for Lance, as he lost two minutes to Contador and the Schleck brothers, falling to fourth overall. He could regain a podium spot though today in the 25-mile time trial around the unspeakably beautiful alpine Lake Annency. Whether or not he finishes on the podium, he is not dispirited. He has demonstrated he is more than competitive and a force to be reckoned with. He has vowed to return next year in better shape. That's exciting news for all race aficionados. Lance is most definitely an animator in all respects. He lives up to his motto--"Go hard or go home."
I arrived at yesterday's finish in the ski town of Le Grand Bornard by eleven after finishing off the category one Col de Colombiere, 15 kilometers from the finish. I arrived in ample time to find an Internet and file a report, but in this touristy town the only Internet outlet was charging three euros for 15 minutes, way beyond my budget. That's about my limit for one hour of Internet time. Just after I arrived, clouds moved into the valley and a light drizzle began, the fourth mountain stage with rain. It was an off and on rain for several hours, just effecting the early part of the race, causing a few falls, including Menchov turning on a painted line.
The day's broadcast on the huge screen at the finish line began at one o'clock, giving us four-and-a-half hours of virtually uninterrupted racing action. The camera was focusing on Thor Hushovd in the green jersey when the telecast began. My first thought was that he was off the back and in trouble, as he is not a climber. But he was off on a solo breakaway gobbling up a few more intermediate sprint points to sew up the sprinter's jersey.
He was all tuckered out when the peloton hit the final two category one climbs 25 miles before the race finish. The first was the Col de Romme just outside of Cluses. It had never been included in The Tour. It began with a killer grade of better than ten per cent for its first two miles, a steeper start than L'Alpe d'Huez. Sastre attempted to repeat his heroics of last year on L'Alpe spurting ahead, but it was too much for him. The afternoon before it took all my might standing on the pedals to manage the climb. It was just under six miles. There was a four mile dip after its summit to the start of the Col de Colombiere, another killer with an average grade of just under nine per cent. Those back to back at the end of a 100-mile stage would be tougher than Mont Ventoux.
I camped on the descent from the Col de Romme, doing something I rarely do, setting my tent up right alongside the road. If the race had come from the opposite direction, my sliver of turf would have had a couple of RVs already parked on it, but few care to establish a watching point on a descent with the racers flying past at 50 miles per hour. I had camped the previous two nights on narrow ledges just above the road in gorges with a minimum of flat spots. There is so little traffic after dark in the mountains, I didn't have to worry about my sleep being interrupted, and the terrain so steep, there was no worry of deranged wart hogs on the loose.
As I began my day climbing the Col de Colombiere it hardly seemed like a weekday, as there were hundreds of people on foot and on bike flocking to the mountain. As always, it was a thrill to be a part of this throng of devotees, thousands of them gathering for an all day picnic on the mountain. Only official cars were allowed on the road even at that early hour. There were police barricades at the top and bottom of the climb.
The large screen in Le Grand-Bornard was in a semi-graveled parking lot alongside the race course. It was one of the larger viewing areas I've encountered. I tried several different spots for my vantage. I left the first as the exhaust from an idling truck was drifting past. I abandoned my second spot as there was a nearby smoker. Body odor sent me scurrying from my third, before I finally settled on a corner location on a slight rise. I flattened a cardboard box for a dry and soft cushion to sit upon. I was near a booth that was tossing small packages of biscuits to the crowd.
I was hoping to finally connect with Jesse the Texan, but we continue to miss each other. I did run into the English school master though once again, with his son and daughter-in-law. He was as exuberant as ever, thrilled that Wiggins could finish top five.
There was a huge exodus of cyclists from Le Grand Bornard after the finish all flocking down hill to Lake Annency. Once I reached the lake I followed the yellow course markers for the next day's time trial around the top third of the lake before breaking off and heading towards Mont Ventoux. Friday's stage begins 60 miles from Lake Annency, another most unfriendly transfer for me. But I'll make it well before the peloton and be on schedule to reach Saturday's finish atop Mont Ventoux before they do. I'll be content to watch the time trial in a bar later this afternoon.
Later, George
Monday, July 20, 2009
Geneva, Switzerland
Friends: There was simply too much pep in the young legs of Lance's teammate Contador and the Schleck brothers for the old war horse Lance to keep up on the climb to the Swiss ski resort of Verbier and the finish line of the 15th stage of The Tour. Lance has looked painfully hollow-eyed and at his limit whenever there has been any climbing during the previous 14 stages. It was no act, as he once famously hoodwinked Jan Ullrich on L'Alpe d'Huez. Lance needed his German teammate Andreas Kloden to pace him the last few miles, finishing over a minute and a half behind Contador, though holding second in the overall standings. Eight riders finished ahead of him, including Cadel Evans by nine seconds. I couldn't tell if he muttered to Lance as he passed him, "c'est fini," as Lance pronounced of Evans' chances over a week ago.
With Leipheimer out of the race with a broken wrist, the next American to cross the line was Vande Velde, a disappointing 22nd on the day, 2:41 behind Contador. He dropped to 12th in the standings, 3:59 back, his podium aspirations gone. The biggest surprise of the day was his English teammate Bradley Wiggins coming in 4th. He's never been known as a climber. Few are stronger on the flats though. He won two gold medals on the track at the last Olympics. Since then he has lost 25 pounds, making him into a potent climber. He is the surprise of The Tour so far.
An English school master, who I met at last year's Tour and rode several hours with after the Dignes-les-Baines stage, and encountered again this year was thrilled by the result. Wiggins had tossed him his water bottle a few years ago when he was on a long solo breakaway. The school master later had him autograph it. The school master spotted me and my loaded bike along the race route just after the peloton had set out from Pontarlier, a veritable miracle. It was the second stage he had seen this year. He's in a camper once again with his wife. He is headed to Lake Annency and a campgrounds right on Thursday's time trial course around the lake. There are two more stages in the Alps before the time trial. Contador is looking so invincible, the race ought to be decided by then, though anything could happen on Mont Ventoux on Saturday, two days later.
With Leipheimer out of the race with a broken wrist, the next American to cross the line was Vande Velde, a disappointing 22nd on the day, 2:41 behind Contador. He dropped to 12th in the standings, 3:59 back, his podium aspirations gone. The biggest surprise of the day was his English teammate Bradley Wiggins coming in 4th. He's never been known as a climber. Few are stronger on the flats though. He won two gold medals on the track at the last Olympics. Since then he has lost 25 pounds, making him into a potent climber. He is the surprise of The Tour so far.
An English school master, who I met at last year's Tour and rode several hours with after the Dignes-les-Baines stage, and encountered again this year was thrilled by the result. Wiggins had tossed him his water bottle a few years ago when he was on a long solo breakaway. The school master later had him autograph it. The school master spotted me and my loaded bike along the race route just after the peloton had set out from Pontarlier, a veritable miracle. It was the second stage he had seen this year. He's in a camper once again with his wife. He is headed to Lake Annency and a campgrounds right on Thursday's time trial course around the lake. There are two more stages in the Alps before the time trial. Contador is looking so invincible, the race ought to be decided by then, though anything could happen on Mont Ventoux on Saturday, two days later.
Lance has conceded the obvious and vows to be Contador's domestique for the remaining six stages. The question is if Lance can hold off his teammate Kloden and also if this will be his final race or if he will return next year. Kloden has twice finished on the podium. He has served as a super-domestique for both Ullrich and Vinokourov over the years, pacing them up mountains just as he did for Lance up Verbier, sacrificing his aspirations. Lance did let Kloden sprint ahead at the end to finish a couple seconds ahead of him, securing a fifth overall place in The Race.
As I followed the peloton out of Pontarlier I was on the alert for a "L'Equipe," the French daily sports newspaper, along the road. The caravan is passing out copies this year. It is the most exciting item for me that the caravan has ever dispensed. It is a sports periodical without peer that I occasionally even buy. It reports on The Tour with an incomparable thoroughness and intelligence, devoting up to eight pages an issue to The Race. "L'Eqipe" is owned by the same company that owns The Tour de France--ASO, Amaury Sports Organization.
Since The Race was short on sponsors this year, "L'Equipe" was added to the entourage. I arrived in Pontarlier at eleven, 45 minutes after the caravan had set out and an hour before the official race start. It didn't take me long to find a discarded copy in one of the translucent green plastic trash bags hung along the course route. That gave me plenty of reading material as I watched the last two hours of the stage in an Irish bar in a small ski town.
Unlike most of the other items the caravan gives out, the crew distributing "L'Equipe" looks for adult males to hand them to, rather than children and pretty young women. They do toss out refrigerator magnets indiscriminately, one of the few items I will scramble for. I'm also on alert for the food items--crackers and sausage, and also the pen one sponsor tosses. Quite a few sponsors toss key chains. The only one I'm interested in is one with a yellow jersey with "Rotterdam 2010" on it. Rotterdam will be the start of next year's Tour. That will be a sensational starting point, as the Dutch greatly embrace The Tour, almost as avidly as the Belgians. The Dutch start means a couple of days in Belgium as well. The Tour has skipped Belgium the past two years. It tries to make a visit every other year, just as it does to "L'Alpe d'Huez." The Belgians line the road two and three times as thickly as the French and make a wild, boisterous party of it, often with quite a bit of drinking. The best part of Belgium for me is that the Belgian gendarmes are far more lenient than the French in letting bicyclists continue riding on the course right up to the arrival of the caravan.
The oddest item the caravan is tossing this year is a balloon with a plastic nozzle for inflating and a handful of pebbles inside as a noise maker. That is less obnoxious than the long plastic tubes that people clang together to make noise. One of the most popular items, the red polka dot cycling cap, is slightly different from last year's version, as the Champion supermarket is no longer the sponsor of the King of the Mountain competition. Rather it is Champion's parent company, Carrefour. This year's hat includes the Carrefour emblem among all those red dots.
Later, George
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Pontarlier, Ville Départ
Friends: I had expected to be biking luggage-free the past three days, but I failed to connect with Jesse at Vittel. But if I'd been accompanied by a support vehicle, I might not have spent too much time on the bike these last three stages, as it has been raining most of the time, and I would have missed out on some fine riding and more exceptional experiences.
I was able to watch the final ten miles of yesterday's fourteenth stage at a portable roadside tavern with Stella Artois on tap. There was a small television at the bar with a crowd standing in front of it. I'd had a great hour's ride after the peloton had passed me, scavenging three course markers and four water bottles. Two of the bottles were from teams I hadn't collected over the years, Caisse d'Epargne and Liquigas, and another was a bright orange Euskatel bottle that is among my favorites.
It was turning into a great day, even though earlier in the day I was soaked and shivering, with hypothermia nipping perilously close. It was cold enough that I was wearing a long sleeve shirt for the first time in days along with a sweater and vest under my Gore-tex jacket. But that was barely enough to keep me warm, as my bare, soaked legs were allowing more body heat to escape than I could retain with my multiple layers on my torso. I was fully prepared to stop at any moment to set up my tent along the road and crawl into my sleeping bag to warm up.
In rural France on a Saturday, one simply doesn't find warm spots to retreat to. I thought I was in luck in one town when I passed by its Mediatheque, a fancy name for a library. I was due to send out a report anyway. But a sign on its door said it was closed due to the Tour de France passing by. I came close to stopping several times in search of warmth when I started becoming uncomfortably cold, but each time the rain dissipated just long enough for me to recover, before reinflicting its punishment. By mid-afternoon after I had been halted in a medium-sized town, the rain relented for more than a few minutes and blue patches appeared above. I had been cowering under the awning of a small shop, while all about me the road was lined with people under umbrellas and ponchos. The pavement dried and I could later even stop and do some wash.
Stages 13 and 14 into and out of Colmar have been along the German border. There is more of a German flavor to the environs than French. Many of the towns end with "heim" (German for home)--Wintzenheim, Pfaffenheim, Ungersheim. People along the road shout "Hup-hup" rather than "allez-allez." The television at the beer stand was tuned to the German broadcast. The commentators were much more restrained than the French.
George Hincapie was in a 12-man break eight minutes up on the peloton. The German announcers seemed to take as much delight in rolling "Hincapie" off their tongues as do the French announcers. They blurted out his name almost exclusively. I didn't realize it was because he was far enough ahead of the man in yellow back in the peloton that he was the virtual leader of the race and would inherit the coveted jersey if the break could hold its time advantage.
It wasn't until he crossed the finish line and there was a brief interview with him in English that I learned he could assume the sacred yellow jersey if the peloton finished five-and-a-half minutes after his group. But the peloton managed to chase back just enough time to keep the yellow jersey on the back of the Italian who has worn it the past week, though by just five seconds. Hincapie moved up to second, just ahead of Contador and Lance. That will all change today with a mountain top finish in Switzerland.
As I walked back to my bike, a tall lanky guy in his 30s followed me and asked if I spoke English. He was attracted by my panniers and asked how it was following the Tour as a touring cyclist. He had been following the Tour the past five stages since Limoges with a car and bike, he said. After several minutes he divulged he was the guy who chases alongside the peloton wearing a football helmet with the horns of a Texas longhorn steer while brandishing a large flag, sometimes the American flag and sometimes the Texas state flag.
I'd been eager to meet this guy ever since first seeing him on television and in magazines and newspapers a few years ago, but had never spotted him out along the road. He is the American version of The Devil, though unlike The Devil, he isn't perpetually in costume. The Devil is such a fanatic he wears his costume when he flies to races that he can't drive to. He causes quite a commotion if the airline personnel don't know who he is when he tries to walk on with his pitchfork.
The "Longhorn Steer Man," also known as "Antler Man," depending on what costume he's wearing, introduced himself as Dore Holt. He had done his routine several miles back on a steep climb. He always selects a steep climb, enabling him to somewhat keep up with the racers. He said he's good for 80 meters or so and that he warms up for an hour just before the racers arrive. He had stumbled upon this outdoor bar with a television, just as I had.
Like The Devil, Dore has a sponsor, the Rudy Project, an Italian company that makes sun glasses. His costume has "Rudy" on it. A French guy, who met him at the Giro this year and was telling me earlier in The Tour what a nice guy he was, thought that was his name. Before Dore revealed who he was, I never would have guessed I was talking to the "Longhorn Steer Man." He was a surprisingly normal guy, not the wacko I suspected he might be. He lives in Seattle and works for Boeing. His first Tour was in 2002 when he was laid off by Boeing and given a nice severance. He is back with Boeing now.
He was inspired by The Devil and Lance's book "It's Not About the Bike." He's on good terms with the premier Tour photographer, Graham Watson, who likes his photogenic image ambling along behind the racers with flag afurl. Watson's latest coffee table book of photos features two of Dore. He has three costumes--a football helmet with long steer horns honoring Lance, a helmet with elk antlers honoring Leipheimer, and the most recent addition, a helmet adorned with an eagle honoring fellow Washingtonian, Garmin's ace sprinter, Tyler Farrar, the first person from Washington to compete in The Tour.
We talked for nearly an hour. Only once has he gored someone with his horns. It was Lance's chef. Dore was waiting to meet Lance for the first time before the start of the final stage of the 2002 Tour into Paris, when he turned his head and just barely nicked the chef below his eye. He said if he ever seriously injured someone, that would be it for him. He had missed the last three Lanceless Tours, though in the interim he has followed the Spanish Vuelta and this year's Italian Giro. He had never acquired a Tour course marker, so I gave him one of those I had just scavenged. He said he plans to start a website so people can keep up with him. He is a fanatic football fan too. He considers Austin, home of the University of Texas and its great football team, as well as Lance, a holy site. I look forward to meeting up with him again. He has a fascination with Japan too and was excited to learn I had biked there as well. He was eager to go to my blog and read about my impressions of the Land of the Rising Sun.
Later, George
I was able to watch the final ten miles of yesterday's fourteenth stage at a portable roadside tavern with Stella Artois on tap. There was a small television at the bar with a crowd standing in front of it. I'd had a great hour's ride after the peloton had passed me, scavenging three course markers and four water bottles. Two of the bottles were from teams I hadn't collected over the years, Caisse d'Epargne and Liquigas, and another was a bright orange Euskatel bottle that is among my favorites.
It was turning into a great day, even though earlier in the day I was soaked and shivering, with hypothermia nipping perilously close. It was cold enough that I was wearing a long sleeve shirt for the first time in days along with a sweater and vest under my Gore-tex jacket. But that was barely enough to keep me warm, as my bare, soaked legs were allowing more body heat to escape than I could retain with my multiple layers on my torso. I was fully prepared to stop at any moment to set up my tent along the road and crawl into my sleeping bag to warm up.
In rural France on a Saturday, one simply doesn't find warm spots to retreat to. I thought I was in luck in one town when I passed by its Mediatheque, a fancy name for a library. I was due to send out a report anyway. But a sign on its door said it was closed due to the Tour de France passing by. I came close to stopping several times in search of warmth when I started becoming uncomfortably cold, but each time the rain dissipated just long enough for me to recover, before reinflicting its punishment. By mid-afternoon after I had been halted in a medium-sized town, the rain relented for more than a few minutes and blue patches appeared above. I had been cowering under the awning of a small shop, while all about me the road was lined with people under umbrellas and ponchos. The pavement dried and I could later even stop and do some wash.
Stages 13 and 14 into and out of Colmar have been along the German border. There is more of a German flavor to the environs than French. Many of the towns end with "heim" (German for home)--Wintzenheim, Pfaffenheim, Ungersheim. People along the road shout "Hup-hup" rather than "allez-allez." The television at the beer stand was tuned to the German broadcast. The commentators were much more restrained than the French.
George Hincapie was in a 12-man break eight minutes up on the peloton. The German announcers seemed to take as much delight in rolling "Hincapie" off their tongues as do the French announcers. They blurted out his name almost exclusively. I didn't realize it was because he was far enough ahead of the man in yellow back in the peloton that he was the virtual leader of the race and would inherit the coveted jersey if the break could hold its time advantage.
It wasn't until he crossed the finish line and there was a brief interview with him in English that I learned he could assume the sacred yellow jersey if the peloton finished five-and-a-half minutes after his group. But the peloton managed to chase back just enough time to keep the yellow jersey on the back of the Italian who has worn it the past week, though by just five seconds. Hincapie moved up to second, just ahead of Contador and Lance. That will all change today with a mountain top finish in Switzerland.
As I walked back to my bike, a tall lanky guy in his 30s followed me and asked if I spoke English. He was attracted by my panniers and asked how it was following the Tour as a touring cyclist. He had been following the Tour the past five stages since Limoges with a car and bike, he said. After several minutes he divulged he was the guy who chases alongside the peloton wearing a football helmet with the horns of a Texas longhorn steer while brandishing a large flag, sometimes the American flag and sometimes the Texas state flag.
I'd been eager to meet this guy ever since first seeing him on television and in magazines and newspapers a few years ago, but had never spotted him out along the road. He is the American version of The Devil, though unlike The Devil, he isn't perpetually in costume. The Devil is such a fanatic he wears his costume when he flies to races that he can't drive to. He causes quite a commotion if the airline personnel don't know who he is when he tries to walk on with his pitchfork.
The "Longhorn Steer Man," also known as "Antler Man," depending on what costume he's wearing, introduced himself as Dore Holt. He had done his routine several miles back on a steep climb. He always selects a steep climb, enabling him to somewhat keep up with the racers. He said he's good for 80 meters or so and that he warms up for an hour just before the racers arrive. He had stumbled upon this outdoor bar with a television, just as I had.
Like The Devil, Dore has a sponsor, the Rudy Project, an Italian company that makes sun glasses. His costume has "Rudy" on it. A French guy, who met him at the Giro this year and was telling me earlier in The Tour what a nice guy he was, thought that was his name. Before Dore revealed who he was, I never would have guessed I was talking to the "Longhorn Steer Man." He was a surprisingly normal guy, not the wacko I suspected he might be. He lives in Seattle and works for Boeing. His first Tour was in 2002 when he was laid off by Boeing and given a nice severance. He is back with Boeing now.
He was inspired by The Devil and Lance's book "It's Not About the Bike." He's on good terms with the premier Tour photographer, Graham Watson, who likes his photogenic image ambling along behind the racers with flag afurl. Watson's latest coffee table book of photos features two of Dore. He has three costumes--a football helmet with long steer horns honoring Lance, a helmet with elk antlers honoring Leipheimer, and the most recent addition, a helmet adorned with an eagle honoring fellow Washingtonian, Garmin's ace sprinter, Tyler Farrar, the first person from Washington to compete in The Tour.
We talked for nearly an hour. Only once has he gored someone with his horns. It was Lance's chef. Dore was waiting to meet Lance for the first time before the start of the final stage of the 2002 Tour into Paris, when he turned his head and just barely nicked the chef below his eye. He said if he ever seriously injured someone, that would be it for him. He had missed the last three Lanceless Tours, though in the interim he has followed the Spanish Vuelta and this year's Italian Giro. He had never acquired a Tour course marker, so I gave him one of those I had just scavenged. He said he plans to start a website so people can keep up with him. He is a fanatic football fan too. He considers Austin, home of the University of Texas and its great football team, as well as Lance, a holy site. I look forward to meeting up with him again. He has a fascination with Japan too and was excited to learn I had biked there as well. He was eager to go to my blog and read about my impressions of the Land of the Rising Sun.
Later, George
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Chaumont, France
Friends: I was camped in a thin strip of a not very thick forest between a quiet country lane and a field of wheat twenty miles into the Limoges-Issourdan stage of The Tour a few nights ago. Even so close to the starting point of the stage a few Tour followers had parked their campers along the road for the night, but none in my vicinity.
When I turned into the forest less than an hour before dark I feared I might have some mosquitoes to contend with, as there were a few puddles of standing water. But none materialized, so I could leisurely set up my tent and forgo its rain fly until just before I went to sleep. If there had been mosquitoes on the attack, I would have immediately added that extra layer to keep them at bay so when I went out for my final ablutions they wouldn't be ready to pounce. With the upper third of my tent a see-through mesh, I could gaze out upon the tranquil, idyllic, setting as I chowed down.
It was mostly a pine forest, so I had a thick bed of fallen needles to sleep upon, promising a good night's sleep. I hope I didn't sleep too soundly and late, what with the sun, my usual alarm clock, blocked by the trees. There didn't promise to be much early traffic on this secondary road that didn't even have a line down its middle. It was a classic Tour road, winding through tiny, sleepy villages that might not have more than a dozen vehicles pass through on a typical day. I had already given The Tour route makers an A plus for this route, first leaving Limoges along the la Vienne River and then climbing up into almost Appalachia country. It was not a road that I would have ever discovered on my own, as it was a faint doodle upon my map.
I was soundly asleep when I was suddenly jarred awake by an all out stampede through the forest of a frantic animal or two. I knew I wasn't dreaming, as I have occasionally experienced such a sound, but usually in the distance, and never so close to my tent. I had no time to wonder how close this sound could come as an instant later an object crashed into my tent at full speed smashing into my shoulder and knocking me over.
I had no idea what had just happened, but I screamed at the top of my lungs out of instant terror and to frighten off my attacker. I thrashed wildly about, not sure if I was being clawed or bitten. After a couple of seconds I realized I was not engaged in hand-to-hand combat with some creature and all was still. I dug out my headlamp to assess the damage. I expected to see a gaping hole in my tent and perhaps a buckled pole, but there was no immediate discernible damage. The worst casualty was my silk sleeping bag liner. My kicking had torn it to shreds.
It seemed so unimaginable that an animal could have plowed into my tent, I thought that maybe a tree bough had fallen on me, but no, that was only wishful thinking. I pondered whether I need be concerned about this assault--had it been a fluke accident or a premeditated attack? My first impression was that a deer had been fleeing for its life, chased by a cougar or some predator and had lept over my tent and his chaser hadn't had time to react and simply collided with my tent.
When I went out to examine the rain fly, I noticed a small six inch rip and a twelve inch diameter wet spot where the animal's head had made contact. There were also two six inch slashes to the inside of my tent. I could detect no odor from the stain. A cougar ought to have been able to make a leap and not hit the tent so low. I wondered if a rogue wild boar had taken issue with my presence and charged me.
I was so jacked up by the assault I couldn't go back to sleep, so I ate some couscous and ravioli left over from dinner that was to be my breakfast. Half an hour later, as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard the prowl of a nearby animal, snorting as if preparing for another charge. My heart froze. I shouted out a few times then dug out my Swiss Army knife as well as my bread and butter knife for spreading peanut butter, one knife for each hand, though I wondered if either could penetrate the thick hide of a boar. I turned on my headlamp and pointed it towards the top of my tent, hoping light might deter this creature. I didn't know whether I should curl in the fetal position to protect myself from the initial charge, or if I should sit upright. As I lay waiting I wondered what other defensive measures I could take. Then I remembered the Kryptonite lock attached to my bike. That would make a good weapon.
The creature ventured off. It was now nearly two a.m. I'd gotten about three hours of sleep when I was initially wakened. If I'd had four or five hours of sleep, or if it had been closer to dawn, I would have simply packed up and started my day early. As it was, it still might be the best idea to clear out of this place and let this animal have his domain to himself. I managed to fall back asleep before long and that was that.
Its been quite a year--attacked along the road in South Africa by a couple of knife-wielding thugs who threatened to kill me and now this. I didn't encounter anyone the next day who could offer any hypothesis as to what animal might have taken issue with me. It was such an out of the ordinary happenstance in terrain much more isolated than I usually find myself, it won't give me much pause in my selection of camp sites, unlike my attack in South Africa that still haunts me. I had a momentary panic attack in Italy when I came around a forested bend in the road and there stood two Africans.
Its easily the most terrifying night I've spent in my tent, though I have had my tent ransacked by a bear in British Columbia and attracted the attention of a wildly barking dog in Chile that brought his owner wielding an ax concerned about what his dog had found. I had a cow butt my tent in the brush in Baja, not knowing what to make of it, then walking around me. I was in quite a sweat on that one, but didn't want to holler and spook a stampede.
My sleep shortened night didn't prevent me from maintaining the 110-mile daily average I've needed the past three days to make it to Vittel in time to meet up with Jesse the Texan. I'm less than 60 miles away. Then will start a new adventure trying to coordinate the riding styles of a couple of others. Our first day together includes two category one climbs.
For three days now I've been riding stages ten through twelve a full day ahead of the peloton. All along the way I've passed villagers on ladders hanging decorations and banners and bikes, often with one person on the ground or off to the side doing the supervising, pointing and saying, "No, not there, over a little bit." I've passed farmers on tractors stacking rolls of hay to form a bike or to be decorated in some manner. There is a great sense of anticipation for the enormity of the next day when their village will be on center stage around the world for a few moments.
I've been surprised to see a few campers already parked along the road, forgoing that day's stage to find a prime spot for themselves. I thought I might have to resort to asking one of them if I could watch the Bastille Day stage on their television, but I miraculously came upon an open bar/restaurant as the stage neared its conclusion. It was an hour away, much earlier than I would normally stop for a flat stage, but I couldn't pass this up. It was more of a restaurant than a bar and had no discernible television. As I gazed about in search of a television and then had to ask, a woman behind a small bar said she would go get one. She put it on a table in the corner of the dining room for my private pleasure.
It was another supremely delightful way to experience The Tour. When it comes to The Tour, the locals are eager to accommodate. This was one of the more memorable of the many places I have viewed a Tour finish these past six years, distinguished not only by its unexpectedness, but also by its novelty. Though my preference would be to reach the stage finish to watch it on the jumbo screen with hundreds of others right there alongside the finishing straight the racers would be flying past on, such unique, out-of-the-way, unexpected viewing spots are especially gratifying. Ah, to be in France, experiencing and participating in The Tour. It doesn't get much better than that.
Though there was no suspense for an hour as the peloton chased down a breakaway of three Frenchman and an Italian, I didn't mind at all gazing upon the riders and the French countryside. Whether on a small or over-sized screen, the French countryside is stunningly beautiful and ever captivating. The aerial views of the lush fields and small villages and forests and historic sites that I have just biked or soon will are a special treat. There is a continued, magnificent variety to the terrain. France has no monotonous plains or deserts. The entire country could be declared a World Heritage site.
Later, George
When I turned into the forest less than an hour before dark I feared I might have some mosquitoes to contend with, as there were a few puddles of standing water. But none materialized, so I could leisurely set up my tent and forgo its rain fly until just before I went to sleep. If there had been mosquitoes on the attack, I would have immediately added that extra layer to keep them at bay so when I went out for my final ablutions they wouldn't be ready to pounce. With the upper third of my tent a see-through mesh, I could gaze out upon the tranquil, idyllic, setting as I chowed down.
It was mostly a pine forest, so I had a thick bed of fallen needles to sleep upon, promising a good night's sleep. I hope I didn't sleep too soundly and late, what with the sun, my usual alarm clock, blocked by the trees. There didn't promise to be much early traffic on this secondary road that didn't even have a line down its middle. It was a classic Tour road, winding through tiny, sleepy villages that might not have more than a dozen vehicles pass through on a typical day. I had already given The Tour route makers an A plus for this route, first leaving Limoges along the la Vienne River and then climbing up into almost Appalachia country. It was not a road that I would have ever discovered on my own, as it was a faint doodle upon my map.
I was soundly asleep when I was suddenly jarred awake by an all out stampede through the forest of a frantic animal or two. I knew I wasn't dreaming, as I have occasionally experienced such a sound, but usually in the distance, and never so close to my tent. I had no time to wonder how close this sound could come as an instant later an object crashed into my tent at full speed smashing into my shoulder and knocking me over.
I had no idea what had just happened, but I screamed at the top of my lungs out of instant terror and to frighten off my attacker. I thrashed wildly about, not sure if I was being clawed or bitten. After a couple of seconds I realized I was not engaged in hand-to-hand combat with some creature and all was still. I dug out my headlamp to assess the damage. I expected to see a gaping hole in my tent and perhaps a buckled pole, but there was no immediate discernible damage. The worst casualty was my silk sleeping bag liner. My kicking had torn it to shreds.
It seemed so unimaginable that an animal could have plowed into my tent, I thought that maybe a tree bough had fallen on me, but no, that was only wishful thinking. I pondered whether I need be concerned about this assault--had it been a fluke accident or a premeditated attack? My first impression was that a deer had been fleeing for its life, chased by a cougar or some predator and had lept over my tent and his chaser hadn't had time to react and simply collided with my tent.
When I went out to examine the rain fly, I noticed a small six inch rip and a twelve inch diameter wet spot where the animal's head had made contact. There were also two six inch slashes to the inside of my tent. I could detect no odor from the stain. A cougar ought to have been able to make a leap and not hit the tent so low. I wondered if a rogue wild boar had taken issue with my presence and charged me.
I was so jacked up by the assault I couldn't go back to sleep, so I ate some couscous and ravioli left over from dinner that was to be my breakfast. Half an hour later, as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard the prowl of a nearby animal, snorting as if preparing for another charge. My heart froze. I shouted out a few times then dug out my Swiss Army knife as well as my bread and butter knife for spreading peanut butter, one knife for each hand, though I wondered if either could penetrate the thick hide of a boar. I turned on my headlamp and pointed it towards the top of my tent, hoping light might deter this creature. I didn't know whether I should curl in the fetal position to protect myself from the initial charge, or if I should sit upright. As I lay waiting I wondered what other defensive measures I could take. Then I remembered the Kryptonite lock attached to my bike. That would make a good weapon.
The creature ventured off. It was now nearly two a.m. I'd gotten about three hours of sleep when I was initially wakened. If I'd had four or five hours of sleep, or if it had been closer to dawn, I would have simply packed up and started my day early. As it was, it still might be the best idea to clear out of this place and let this animal have his domain to himself. I managed to fall back asleep before long and that was that.
Its been quite a year--attacked along the road in South Africa by a couple of knife-wielding thugs who threatened to kill me and now this. I didn't encounter anyone the next day who could offer any hypothesis as to what animal might have taken issue with me. It was such an out of the ordinary happenstance in terrain much more isolated than I usually find myself, it won't give me much pause in my selection of camp sites, unlike my attack in South Africa that still haunts me. I had a momentary panic attack in Italy when I came around a forested bend in the road and there stood two Africans.
Its easily the most terrifying night I've spent in my tent, though I have had my tent ransacked by a bear in British Columbia and attracted the attention of a wildly barking dog in Chile that brought his owner wielding an ax concerned about what his dog had found. I had a cow butt my tent in the brush in Baja, not knowing what to make of it, then walking around me. I was in quite a sweat on that one, but didn't want to holler and spook a stampede.
My sleep shortened night didn't prevent me from maintaining the 110-mile daily average I've needed the past three days to make it to Vittel in time to meet up with Jesse the Texan. I'm less than 60 miles away. Then will start a new adventure trying to coordinate the riding styles of a couple of others. Our first day together includes two category one climbs.
For three days now I've been riding stages ten through twelve a full day ahead of the peloton. All along the way I've passed villagers on ladders hanging decorations and banners and bikes, often with one person on the ground or off to the side doing the supervising, pointing and saying, "No, not there, over a little bit." I've passed farmers on tractors stacking rolls of hay to form a bike or to be decorated in some manner. There is a great sense of anticipation for the enormity of the next day when their village will be on center stage around the world for a few moments.
I've been surprised to see a few campers already parked along the road, forgoing that day's stage to find a prime spot for themselves. I thought I might have to resort to asking one of them if I could watch the Bastille Day stage on their television, but I miraculously came upon an open bar/restaurant as the stage neared its conclusion. It was an hour away, much earlier than I would normally stop for a flat stage, but I couldn't pass this up. It was more of a restaurant than a bar and had no discernible television. As I gazed about in search of a television and then had to ask, a woman behind a small bar said she would go get one. She put it on a table in the corner of the dining room for my private pleasure.
It was another supremely delightful way to experience The Tour. When it comes to The Tour, the locals are eager to accommodate. This was one of the more memorable of the many places I have viewed a Tour finish these past six years, distinguished not only by its unexpectedness, but also by its novelty. Though my preference would be to reach the stage finish to watch it on the jumbo screen with hundreds of others right there alongside the finishing straight the racers would be flying past on, such unique, out-of-the-way, unexpected viewing spots are especially gratifying. Ah, to be in France, experiencing and participating in The Tour. It doesn't get much better than that.
Though there was no suspense for an hour as the peloton chased down a breakaway of three Frenchman and an Italian, I didn't mind at all gazing upon the riders and the French countryside. Whether on a small or over-sized screen, the French countryside is stunningly beautiful and ever captivating. The aerial views of the lush fields and small villages and forests and historic sites that I have just biked or soon will are a special treat. There is a continued, magnificent variety to the terrain. France has no monotonous plains or deserts. The entire country could be declared a World Heritage site.
Later, George
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Limoges, Ville Départ
Friends: For the first time in my six years of following The Tour I ended up watching a stage on a television set I had once before watched The Tour on--in the campgrounds at St. Cyprien.
I thought I might be watching it in Julie's recently renovated centuries old house overlooking the small town, but when the crew showed up at Julie's house the day before to install a satellite dish, the street in front of her house was being repaved. The cable guys didn't want to set their ladder up in the tar or lug their equipment an extra distance, since they couldn't park their truck as close as they would otherwise, and said they'd come back next week.
Even though St. Cyprien has a sizable ex-pat population, it doesn't have a bar with a television. I learned that two years ago when The Tour passed through the town. I was lagging behind the riders that day and hadn't made it to the finish line before they did, so I was in search of a television. Julie was in Michigan that summer tending to her store in Harbor City. I tried several bars and even a large department store that sold televisions. All the televisions in the store were playing DVDs, as they weren't hooked up to cable. I was getting frantic enough to start knocking on doors of any house that had a bicycle out front to ask if they were watching The Race when I noticed a sign to a campgrounds. Campgrounds occasionally have TV rooms, so I made a dash for it. As I approached the reception office a sign saying "television" on a building beside the swimming pool caught my eye. The room was packed with Tour followers who just a couple hours before had seen the peloton pass through St. Cyprien. That was the closest I have cut it to missing a finish, arriving at my finish line less than two minutes before the peloton reached theirs.
I was happy to return to that place of triumph, though we could have tried a television in the house of a friend of Julie's who was out of town. Julie had earlier failed to figure out how to get the television to work. I'm not so adept at such things myself, so declined to even attempt it. Another friend said he knew a bar in a nearby town had a television if the campground didn't work out.
The campground this year was nearly deserted. No one was in the swimming pool nor was anyone in the TV room. But we had no problem figuring out how to turn it on or to find The Tour channel. We arrived with nearly 90 minutes left in the stage as the peloton was climbing a category one mountain. There was a breakaway up the road with no threats to the leaders, so they were content to ride at tempo led by the Astana team over the climb.
The day before had been a mountain top finish that allowed Contador to show his climbing prowess and sprint away from everyone and to beat Lance's group by enough to move ahead of Lance by two seconds. He missed taking the yellow jersey by six seconds as Rinaldo Nocentini, a relatively unknown Italian rider on the French AGR2 team, had been in the breakaway that gained enough time on the field to take the lead. Contador would have loved to assume the yellow jersey, but it relieved his Astana team of the responsibility of having to defend it. Nocentini is no threat to keep the jersey, so for the team's sake, it worked out for the best, though it would have earned them a few extra dollars and some early glory.
The climb to the finish in Andorra wasn't steep enough for any dramatics other than Contador's surge. The most exciting racing of the day and of The Tour so far was Cancellera in the yellow jersey flying down the backside of a category one climb on Friday trying to catch up to the peloton after suffering a flat tire. It took him nearly 15 minutes. He had to pass all 20 team cars and even more official and press cars and motorcycles at 50 miles per hour. He had several close calls passing cars that the producers played back more than once that were quite harrowing. It was so riveting the producers ignored everyone else in the race and just kept the camera on Cancellera. I was glad I had gotten to a bar three hours before the stage finish to have caught this action, even though the rest of the day's racing was a disappointment.
I didn't stay overnight in St. Cyprien as I have quite a race myself to meet up with Jesse and crew Thursday afternoon. I have 500 miles to ride in four-and-a-half days. I was able to knock off 40 miles Saturday evening after the race finish and my afternoon with Julie. It would have been nice to spend more time with Julie, but we at least had enough time to plot a ride to Cannes and the film festival together next May from St. Cyprien, a 300-mile ride.
From my campsite in a hay field last night it was 55 miles to Limoges, start of Tuesday's Bastille Day stage. The racers will fly from today's stage finish in Tarbes into Limoges tonight. Tomorrow will be the first of their two rest days. I will be getting a head start on them down the course. If I'm not too far ahead I might encounter a few of the teams getting their rest day exercise scouting the next day's route.
This will be the 14th time that Limoges has been a Ville Etape. It is a large city, but I still had a challenge finding an open bar in its center with a television on a Sunday afternoon. One I tried was showing a Formula One car race and didn't want to switch the channel. I nearly went back to the tourist office to ask where I might find a bar after ten minutes of wandering, but then succeeded at a billiards hall. The Tour was on and several guys were watching. I arrived just as the peloton was taking on The Tourmalet, the most legendary climb in the Pyrenees, and the most climbed mountain in Tour history. I was near its summit last year when the peloton passed, the second time I had climbed it, so didn't overly regret not being there amongst the hoards of fans.
Once again there was a breakaway several minutes up the road. No one in the group was a threat to the race leaders, Contador and Lance and company, so this was another stage of lack luster racing. There will be a couple of mountain top finishes later that the main contenders are biding their time for. It may all come down to The Ventoux two weeks from yesterday.
I've had a wonderful several days of riding through the glorious French countryside without having to worry about gendarmes ordering me off the road, though I am looking forward to being back on The Tour route with all its energy and enthusiasm. In whatever form, France offers the ultimate in cycling, whether past gung-ho Tour fans or in the tranquility of quiet country lanes through majestic arcades of plain trees and past luxuriant rows of meticulously groomed vineyards or past acres and acres of impossibly bright yellow, almost blindingly so, sunflower plants gazing unblinkingly upon me and past miles of unfenced fields of golden grains and patches of forest often on a narrow ribbon of asphalt encroaching as little as possible upon nature's kingdom, but without peril from the passing traffic.
Later, George
I thought I might be watching it in Julie's recently renovated centuries old house overlooking the small town, but when the crew showed up at Julie's house the day before to install a satellite dish, the street in front of her house was being repaved. The cable guys didn't want to set their ladder up in the tar or lug their equipment an extra distance, since they couldn't park their truck as close as they would otherwise, and said they'd come back next week.
Even though St. Cyprien has a sizable ex-pat population, it doesn't have a bar with a television. I learned that two years ago when The Tour passed through the town. I was lagging behind the riders that day and hadn't made it to the finish line before they did, so I was in search of a television. Julie was in Michigan that summer tending to her store in Harbor City. I tried several bars and even a large department store that sold televisions. All the televisions in the store were playing DVDs, as they weren't hooked up to cable. I was getting frantic enough to start knocking on doors of any house that had a bicycle out front to ask if they were watching The Race when I noticed a sign to a campgrounds. Campgrounds occasionally have TV rooms, so I made a dash for it. As I approached the reception office a sign saying "television" on a building beside the swimming pool caught my eye. The room was packed with Tour followers who just a couple hours before had seen the peloton pass through St. Cyprien. That was the closest I have cut it to missing a finish, arriving at my finish line less than two minutes before the peloton reached theirs.
I was happy to return to that place of triumph, though we could have tried a television in the house of a friend of Julie's who was out of town. Julie had earlier failed to figure out how to get the television to work. I'm not so adept at such things myself, so declined to even attempt it. Another friend said he knew a bar in a nearby town had a television if the campground didn't work out.
The campground this year was nearly deserted. No one was in the swimming pool nor was anyone in the TV room. But we had no problem figuring out how to turn it on or to find The Tour channel. We arrived with nearly 90 minutes left in the stage as the peloton was climbing a category one mountain. There was a breakaway up the road with no threats to the leaders, so they were content to ride at tempo led by the Astana team over the climb.
The day before had been a mountain top finish that allowed Contador to show his climbing prowess and sprint away from everyone and to beat Lance's group by enough to move ahead of Lance by two seconds. He missed taking the yellow jersey by six seconds as Rinaldo Nocentini, a relatively unknown Italian rider on the French AGR2 team, had been in the breakaway that gained enough time on the field to take the lead. Contador would have loved to assume the yellow jersey, but it relieved his Astana team of the responsibility of having to defend it. Nocentini is no threat to keep the jersey, so for the team's sake, it worked out for the best, though it would have earned them a few extra dollars and some early glory.
The climb to the finish in Andorra wasn't steep enough for any dramatics other than Contador's surge. The most exciting racing of the day and of The Tour so far was Cancellera in the yellow jersey flying down the backside of a category one climb on Friday trying to catch up to the peloton after suffering a flat tire. It took him nearly 15 minutes. He had to pass all 20 team cars and even more official and press cars and motorcycles at 50 miles per hour. He had several close calls passing cars that the producers played back more than once that were quite harrowing. It was so riveting the producers ignored everyone else in the race and just kept the camera on Cancellera. I was glad I had gotten to a bar three hours before the stage finish to have caught this action, even though the rest of the day's racing was a disappointment.
I didn't stay overnight in St. Cyprien as I have quite a race myself to meet up with Jesse and crew Thursday afternoon. I have 500 miles to ride in four-and-a-half days. I was able to knock off 40 miles Saturday evening after the race finish and my afternoon with Julie. It would have been nice to spend more time with Julie, but we at least had enough time to plot a ride to Cannes and the film festival together next May from St. Cyprien, a 300-mile ride.
From my campsite in a hay field last night it was 55 miles to Limoges, start of Tuesday's Bastille Day stage. The racers will fly from today's stage finish in Tarbes into Limoges tonight. Tomorrow will be the first of their two rest days. I will be getting a head start on them down the course. If I'm not too far ahead I might encounter a few of the teams getting their rest day exercise scouting the next day's route.
This will be the 14th time that Limoges has been a Ville Etape. It is a large city, but I still had a challenge finding an open bar in its center with a television on a Sunday afternoon. One I tried was showing a Formula One car race and didn't want to switch the channel. I nearly went back to the tourist office to ask where I might find a bar after ten minutes of wandering, but then succeeded at a billiards hall. The Tour was on and several guys were watching. I arrived just as the peloton was taking on The Tourmalet, the most legendary climb in the Pyrenees, and the most climbed mountain in Tour history. I was near its summit last year when the peloton passed, the second time I had climbed it, so didn't overly regret not being there amongst the hoards of fans.
Once again there was a breakaway several minutes up the road. No one in the group was a threat to the race leaders, Contador and Lance and company, so this was another stage of lack luster racing. There will be a couple of mountain top finishes later that the main contenders are biding their time for. It may all come down to The Ventoux two weeks from yesterday.
I've had a wonderful several days of riding through the glorious French countryside without having to worry about gendarmes ordering me off the road, though I am looking forward to being back on The Tour route with all its energy and enthusiasm. In whatever form, France offers the ultimate in cycling, whether past gung-ho Tour fans or in the tranquility of quiet country lanes through majestic arcades of plain trees and past luxuriant rows of meticulously groomed vineyards or past acres and acres of impossibly bright yellow, almost blindingly so, sunflower plants gazing unblinkingly upon me and past miles of unfenced fields of golden grains and patches of forest often on a narrow ribbon of asphalt encroaching as little as possible upon nature's kingdom, but without peril from the passing traffic.
Later, George
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