Stage Thirteen

There were several strong contenders for the day's most original bike sculpture. In the category of most inventive use of material specific to the business that displayed the work was an elongated bike with rubber tubing to form the bike's wheels in front of a hardware store.

A bike pyramid with a Siamese yellow bike at its apex with two bikes sharing a front wheel in a round-about was something I'd never seen before.

But the most startlingly original bike art was a trio of wiry figures emulating the skeletal cyclists on wiry bikes hung on a cliff wall.  This was art that should have had a placard identifying the artist.  But perhaps that wasn't necessary for the people in the region, who might instantly recognize the person responsible for these visionary pieces.

These emaciated figures were particularly fitting on another scorchingly hot day.  I arrived at the Big Screen by 1:30, well in advance of any road closures, letting me ride at a reasonable pace and appreciate all the road had to offer. Yesterday featured a gigantic polka dot jersey.  Today included one of yellow.

Three categorized climbs tested the peloton in the last forty miles, the final one coming twenty miles from the finish.  I expected to see The Devil along the climb as he generally stations himself as close to the finish as he can on a climb when there is one.  He must have been familiar with this route as he had set up shop on a final two-mile climb out of a gorge that wasn't identified on the route sheet.  He was sitting in the shade of a camper's awning, but lept to his feet with an "Allez, Allez," as I passed.

The route plunged back down along side a river on the outskirts of Rodez making several sharps turns on roads that narrowed.  It looked very perilous, something a rider's union might have protested, but they are such incredible bike handlers they flew with not an ounce of hesitation.  Almost as astounding is the skill of the gendarmes on motorcycles leading the race and their ability to stay ahead of the racers when they plunge down deep descents.  I marveled at their dexterity on roads that had me most cautious and restrained as I watched the action in a bar ten miles down the next day's course.  The peloton was chasing the last two members of the day's breakaway.  I didn't think they had a chance of catching them when they were still nine seconds behind with a kilometer to go, figuring the duo would be able to much better negotiate the tricky turns than the hoard behind them.  

But there is no underestimating how voracious and merciless the chasers are when the riders ahead are in sight.  They are like sharks who have smelled blood.  They gobbled up the two just a couple hundred meters from the finish.  It was all thrills as Sagan in the Green Jersey battled Greg Van Avermaet of BMC throwing everything they had into their pedals.  It was a nail-biter to the last centimeter and that's all that separated them. Sagan is on his way to a record number of second places at The Tour and he added another to his bagful, the fourth this year and fifteenth overall.  As they mount, he becomes more and more frustrated. BMC notched its third stage victory of this Tour.  They are having almost as impressive of a Tour as Sky.

I was watching the action in the comfort of a hotel sitting room.  I was drawn to the hotel by the sign for a bar.  The bar was small and without a television.  I savored my menthe á l'eau as never before sitting in a comfortable padded chair.  It touched taste buds on the back of my throat I didn't even know I had, perhaps made more sensitive by how dry and dehydrated my mouth was.  And I supplemented it with my water bottle filled with the frigid water that comes out of every bar tap in France, another of the ultimate pleasures of this country.  I only had to be careful not to guzzle and drink too much.  There have been some legendary such cases of Tour riders doing that in the early years of The Race.  I was just disappointed when I left that the socket I had plugged my iPad into for charging wasn't operative.  I was still over fifty percent but I would have liked the cushion of being close to one hundred.

Stage Twelve

I pulled into Muret at eight a.m. and easily found the plaza that the peloton would be departing from the next day and the course markers that would be guiding them.  All was quiet.  I was hoping to see the three vans and car and motorcycles of the One Day Before The Tour group and the eleven cyclists that I rode with for a few miles on the stage two route out of Utrecht almost two weeks ago, as the one and only Lance Armstrong was to join them today for the next two stages.  Their web site gave no departure time or invitation to join them.  Eight seemed a likely time, but maybe they left early to beat the heat or maybe they were leaving later to recover from their ride up to Plateau de Beille yesterday.

It was going to be hot, so I headed out, knowing they would catch up to me if they hadn't left already.  Muret had gloriously accessorized the route through its outskirts with attractive oversized yellow bikes.

One round-about had sprouted several sculptures of wheels.

It made for a great start to the 124-mile stage to Rodez up on the Massif Central.  The only downer was that the neutralized zone continued for eight miles, making it in actuality a 132-mile stage.  The neutralized zones have been running long this year adding a good one hundred miles to The Race.  I don't know if that is to allow the racers time to warm up or to trick them into thinking they don't have to ride as many miles as they actually do.  They do ride at a reduced rate in the neutralized zones, but not me. I maintain my usual pace expending the usual amount of energy.  The route sheets keep the distance of the neutralized zone a secret.  As it continued on and on, it dawned on me that Lance's group might have skipped the neutralized zone and just driven to the actual start to spare their legs those miles.  I noticed on their web site not everyone was in the photo at the summit of the Tourmalet.  I can well imagine that not everyone in their group is riding every mile.  My surmising was verified when I later read at cyclingnews.com that Lance had given an interview to a hoard of journalists in a supermarket parking lot where the group had departed from several miles into the actual route.  

The end of the neutralized zone came at the beginning of a long gradual hill that would make it easier for early attackers to get away.  It was the first of a series of climbs in the first fifteen miles, none of which were categorized.  Its not going to be the easy day that the riders may have been looking forward to after three hard days in the Pyrenees.  At least they had sunflowers to look upon.

I took a quick break after ninety minutes to eat and rest my legs and get out of the sun, but I kept an eye on the road.  A group of cyclists in matching uniforms and in formation came struggling up the climb I had stopped at, but it was a Dutch group with just one following van.  They were in anguish already and their day had hardly begun.  A stiff headwind out of the east wasn't helping matters for any of us.  

I just kept it in a low gear and plugged away.  By eleven I had given up on Lance and company coming by.  I had been looking forward to showing Lance the yellow wrist band the caravan was distributing and also telling him how much I liked his bike shop Mellow Johnny in Austin.  It was lacking a course marker when I was there and I had one to offer him.  Though there was no Lance in body, Lance appeared on the road and it wasn't "Lance Go Home" or "Lance Stay Away" but a series of affirmations, as during his racing days.

The last time I had seen such graffiti was in 2010, the second year of his two-year comeback.  It was in great abundance back then when thousands of Americans flocked to The Tour.  The Lance-effect contributed millions of dollars to the French economy.  Now I am practically the lone American here.  Interest in The Tour has dropped dramatically stateside as well.  Charles Pelky says that during the Lance-era 30,000 people a day would turn to his website liveupdateguy.com to follow his commentary on each stage of The Tour as it was unfolding.  Now he gets 1,000.

This was rolling hay and grain terrain, which meant hay bale art.  A simple TDF adorned a distant hillside.

A huge polka jersey was wrapped over a platform of bales.

And a couple of bales elevated a mutant cyclist.

It was such a hot day, in the upper nineties, that I didn't mind waiting in line at an air-conditioned grocery store, but it made the heat all the more ovenish when I went back outside.  It was so hot that I didn't have to ask for ice in my menthe á l'eau at the bar where I stopped to watch The Race.  I sat in front of a fan.  The riders had it slightly better as it was raining in the Pyrenees.  It was pelting down with hail at the finish a couple hours before they were due to arrive, but had stopped as they began trickling in after the ten-mile climb.  The road wouldn't have slowed them and in fact the cooling effect may have helped some riders to hang on.

As with yesterday, a breakaway group was well up the road.  Froome and his Sky team would let one of them have the victory, content simply to keep his contenders within their reign.  Joaquim Rodriguez took his second win while Froome maintained his comfortable lead arriving together with those behind him in the standings.  Contador, Nibali and Quintana mounted token attacks that didn't amount to anything.  Froome didn't even dignify Contador and Nibali with a chase, just waiting for their efforts to wither.  Quintana was a different story.  When he went, so did Froome. Van Garderen showed why he hasn't been lumped with the lead four by not mounting any attack, perhaps already focused on not risking or overextending himself and concerned about preserving a place on the podium other than the top step. Froome tested his legs to see if he could leave everyone behind as he did on Tuesday, but his legs weren't up to it.

It had cooled somewhat when I returned to the road, truly welcoming the cool in the late evening hours until slipping into a mown hay field for the night.  My last fill-up came from a woman watering her flowers.  The water was as refreshingly cool as any I've ever drunk.

Stage Eleven

The three stages in the Pyrenees aren't cutting a swath through them such as the route that is known as The Raid that goes from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean over all the high peaks that cyclists attempt to do in one hundred hours.  Rather these stages are snaking in and out and around them, with each stage starting out in the flats and then ending up at a summit.  That's made it easy for me to connect with each stage without having to endure all the climbs and keep my mileage to under one hundred a day.

I left today's stage at its forty-eight mile mark after two Category Three  and one Category Four climbs, foregoing the Category One Aspin and Beyond Category Tourmalet, having ridden them both in previous Tours. If I stopped at Capvern I'd be just five miles from tomorrow's Ville Départ, Lannemezan.  I needed to reach Capvern by eleven-thirty, an hour before the caravan was due.   I started riding at 7:15 and rode with a mild sense of urgency pausing briefly just a couple of times.

The crowds once again weren't as thick as I'm accustomed to, but those that were out were certainly enjoying themselves. It mattered not that they might be sitting in a ditch for four hours, they were happy to be out in the beautiful countryside and participating in this storied event.

It is considerably warmer 450 miles south of northern France where the first nine stages took place, so hot that six riders abandoned today reducing the peloton to 177 from its original 198 riders.  I could feel the heat and heavy air the moment I stepped off the train in Pau right across the street from a park where a Tour event was taking place attended by former Tour winners Hinault, Thevenet, Roche and LeMond.  They were all on a stage with Christian Prudhomme and the mayor of Pau.  I stopped for a few moments before going in pursuit of the Course Markers and getting on down the road.

I've been stopping at nearly every cemetery and communal water outlet I come upon  to douse my head and soak my shirt.   I was fortunate to find a faucet in a park in Capvern while I waited for the caravan and ate my lunch.  I had enough privacy to soak my neckerchief and plop it on my back.  I'd remove it after a couple a minutes and soak it again.  It took nearly half an hour before the neckerchief wasn't scorchingly hot when I removed it to resoak it.

It took no effort to find the Départ in the moderate-sized Lannemezan.  There were color-coded signs for all the different groups that are part of The Tour entourage directing them to where to go.

The Départ was in the small town center.  Fencing was already set up to keep cars out.  A stage had been set up for a band that would be performing that evening, though it wasn't part of The Tour set up.  Non of that had arrived as it was still being disassembled in Pau, where the peloton had just left.  I just followed the course markers for a mile and then headed due west to Saint Gaudens and then north to Muret for the next stage start sixty miles away.  The terrain was table flat.

Saint Gaudens is a genuine city that has served as a Ville Étape many times and had bars aplenty.  I zoomed in on an outdoor cafe that had televisions inside and out.  Inside was actually cooler on this sweltering day.  It was so not that a woman brought her dog in for a bowl of water.

I arrived two hours before the finish in time to see the breakaway group of seven cresting the Col d'Aspin five minutes ahead of the peloton.  The half hour climb up the beastly Tourmalet followed.  There was no aggression among the contenders, as the finish remained twenty-five miles from its summit up a measly Category Three.  Quintana and Contador and the other threats to Froome were conserving their energy for the next day's summit finish up the Beyond Category Plateau de Beille.  Today was a semi-recovery day after yesterday's hard effort.  If Frooome showed any weakness they could capitalize better tomorrow than today.

They all still rode hard, but within their limits on the forty-minute climb up the Tourmalet.  The Yellow Jersey group had been whittled down to fifteen, including the top ten overall.  Other than the breakaway group, everyone else was strung out down the mountain.  Nibali was looked stronger today after yesterday's disastrous effort, showing his face up near the front with Froome.  He may have been inspired by his team director Alexander Vinokourov, a man who gave him a million euro bonus for winning The Tour last year, but was disenchanted with him ovef yesterday's poor showing and now said Jakob Fulsang was the team leader, even though he was two minutes behind Nibali in thirteenth place.  Fulsang wasn't inspired and finished nine minutes behind Nobali dropping to eighteenth.  Nibali waned on the final climb and lost another minute and fell from tenth to eleventh.

It was a day for others to reap some glory.  Contador's teammate, Rafal Majka of Poland, who won two stages last year and the Polka Dot Jersey,  was in the breakaway group and sped away a mile from the summit of the Tourmalet and held everyone off to take the victory.  Cannondale-Garmin's Dan Martin was the lone rider with enough energy to chase after him, taking second, his second of The Race, showing his team may have some say in The Race despite Talansky not having the form to be a factor.

I rode until 9:30 closing in to within ten miles of Muret where Lance Armstrong will be joing the One Day Ahead of the Tour group that I rode with on the Stage Two out of Utrecht.  If they don't leave too early to beat the heat I ought to be able to ride along with them again.  Even in the evening hours the shade of the plain trees was welcome.

Stage Ten, Bastille Day

Some of my most memorable days of riding The Tour have been on Bastille Day.  It always seems like there are two or three times as many people out along the road on this great national holiday and a heightened degree of festivity.  They begin flocking to the roadsides early with large picnic baskets and board games and newspapers and magazines.  It is a day, too, when there are loads of cyclists riding the route.  But today, despite ideal warm weather and the promise of a dramatic stage in the mountains, it appeared as if the people of this region didn't get the news The Tour was passing through.  Fewer people were out along the course than any other stage this year, and almost any stage in my memory.

There were still people all along the route, but just in droplets and handfuls.  And as it has been the previous nine stages, there weren't many on bikes.  Maybe it was a Basque backlash.  The Tour entered Basque country today.  There used to be a Basque team, Euskatel, until two years ago, when it was disbanded due to the Spanish economy being in the dumps almost as deep as Greece.  The orange-clad Euskatel fans were among the most enthusiastic.  They took over the roadsides when The Tour came to the Pyrenees. There were some out today, though not in orange, identifying themselves instead with their flag or garb resembling the flag.

There were those sporting the French flag, the tricolor, as well.

Decorations were sparse.  A dangling bike from a crane was about the extent of it.

The most striking sculpture of the day was a Paul Bunyan of a fisherman in a roundabout advertising the fishing in the area.

There were a few handmade signs exhorting French riders, to go along with the one of the girls asking for a water bottle.

The best exhortation though was the one a family was painting on the road the evening before for the French rider Mathieu Ladagnous.

The day's route passed through Mourenx, whose velodrome had been named for Eddie Merckx, honoring him for one of the most dramatic stages in Tour history that finished in Mourenx and that he won in overwhelming fashion in the 1969 Tour.

I realized, as I was gliding along in the cool and still of the evening, after spending all day traveling the 450 miles from Vannes to Pau via train, that the best decorations of all are the black-arrowed course markers on the bright yellow background with The Tour emblem in the corner.  One comes into site up the road every couple of minutes, and each tugs my face into a smile and gives me a perk a joy with all they represent. They truly allow me to lose myself in the thrill of riding The Tour, not having to worry about finding my way, and fully reminding me where I am and what I'm doing.  All I have to do is follow those arrows and all is well.  And my joy is elevated by all the motor homes parked along the route with chairs and picnic tables out front occupied by others appreciating the experience.  

That there weren't the usual mobs on Bastille Day hardly mattered.  I could especially enjoy these miles, gazing upon the Pyrenees ahead,  as I didn't have the pressure of trying to get as far down the route as possible.  I intended to stop thirty miles from the summit finish, where I could turn and pick up the next day's course forty miles away.   I only had to ride forty miles by noon, an hour before the caravan was due.  I cut it a little close, as I was slowed by two Category Four climbs.  While I waited for the caravan, I finished off some cornflakes and chocolate milk and made a couple of peanut butter sandwiches for later.  There wasn't much competition for the items from the caravan, so I gathered up an item from nearly every sponsor, finally getting a Festina bicycle hat.

It took two hours to reach a town with a bar, as I had a couple of ridges to ride over that were higher than either of the rated climbs I'd ridden earlier in the day. It was the most climbing I had done since I'd been in the Alps over a month ago, but my legs were up for it, especially after nearly a complete rest day before, even napping a little on the train.  Though my seat didn't recline, the train was so smooth and the passengers so quiet, it was easy to nod off.  It was my first train experience in France and had me wondering why I hadn't taken advantage of it before.  I could roll my bike fully loaded right on to the train.  I had to remove the front panniers to hang it, but could leave on the rear panniers and the gear strapped atop.  I needed a reservation for the bike, as there is only room for no more than two per car and many people travel with bikes, but it is only five euros.  I had to make two transfers, but since French trains are on time to the minute, there was no concern about missing a connection, even when I had only fifteen minutes between one of them.  

The bar I found had The Tour on and a crowd watching it.  Maybe that's why so few were on the road. They wanted to be in front of a television watching all the dramatics.  The final ten mile climb lived up to all expectations, finally sorting out who was for real.  Froome proved that his dominance so far was not an aberration and Nibali revealed that his struggles were a true indication that he is not on form this year, losing nearly five minutes to Froome, effectively ending his Tour.  It was rumored even before this that he knew he was subpar and wanted to go home.  That would be a shameful thing to do.  Unfortunately,  Van Garderen proved his sceptics correct that he is not a bonafide contender, at least for the Yellow Jersey.  He lost two-and-a-half minutes to Froome, though clings to second place by a few seconds over Quintana, who only lost a minute and can still hope to challenge Froome even though he was able to ride away from him today.  With three days in the Alps and two more in the Pyrenees, he'll have the opportunity.  Contador lost nearly three minutes and looked as if he may not be fully recovered from his winning effort in the Giro.  No one has won them both in the same year in nearly twenty years and it doesn't look like it will happen this year.

Froome was elated crossing the line and later waiting to go on stage for his win.  He could be thrilled by his effort and also of his team. Richie Porte finished second just ahead of Quintana and Geraint Thomas was sixth on the day, after accompanying him much of the way up the climb.  Quintana dropped Porte when he accelerated trying to catch Froome. Porte could have let up and waited for his future teammate Van Garderen, a minute-and-a-half back, to help him, but that would have brought an explosion of controversy.  Porte announced the day before he would be leaving Sky after this season.  He didn't say so, but it is generally believed he will join BMC.  But he remained a dutiful teammate to Froome and caught back up to Quintana.  As they approached the finish he surged past him, denying him some bonus seconds that could be crucial to Froome.  

Froome may have attacked a little early, with four miles to go, as he must have been eager when the lead group had been whittled down to just him and Quintana and Porte.  The hierarchy may have been established today.  The podium would well be Froome, Quintana and Van Garderen.

Teklehaimanot of Etria wore the Polka Dot Jersey for the last day as he finished 132nd, 21 minutes and 34 seconds back,  Froome claims the jersey but since he will be in Yellow tomorrow, Porte will be wearing it since he ranks second in the competition thanks to his effort overtaking Quintana.  And Sagan gives the Green Jersey back to Greipel, as Greipel won the intermediate sprint and Sagan put in no effort to finish among the top riders to get some points there.

One of the bigger disappointments to the day was Talanksy finishing sixteen mini tea back in 25th.  He's got a lot to do to improve upon his tenth place finish of two years ago.  He won't be challenging Van Garderen for the top American in The Race, as he had hoped.

I continued biking until after nine after knocking off a few miles of the next day's stage that starts in Pau.  I joined up with Stage Eleven in Nay, home to the Beret Museum, whose sign is doffed with a concrete beret.   I had a fine campsite in a narrow corridor between two cornfields that were already head-high ten miles from Lourdes.

Stage Nine

As I sat outside the cathedral in Plumelec giving a one-hour charge to my iPad, a continual wave of fans walked by heading to the stage finish a mile away at the summit of the Côte de Cadoudal.  It was only noon, three hours before the riders would be leaving Vannes, seventeen miles away, for the day's team time trial.  It was hard to imagine that there would be space for all of these people on the one-mile climb.  

Also passing through the town square, coming from the opposite direction,  several of the teams rolled by in their aero helmets having just previewed the course, looking hardly out of breath, though I know they would have ridden the course at speed to gauge how fast they could take the turns.   They are so well-conditioned, it was more important for them to put in a practice ride so there'd be no surprises on the course, than to relax and conserve energy.  Their level of fitness is beyond fathoming.

When I finally joined the mobs streaming to the course I was relieved to discover a huge meadow in front of the Big Screen and a wide expanse of open space along the road with enough room to accommodate this Woodstock of people flocking to The Tour.  

Not all, probably not even a majority, of them could be defined as cycling fans.  Rather, they were fulfilling their national duty and their inbred conditioning to contribute their presence to The Tour.  They are a sporting crowd unlike any other--orderly and well-mannered--and of all ages. Kids joyfully in tow are in abundance and show no boredom, even in the long lull between the caravan and  their brief glimpse of the racers. They don't come out to party or to be raucous, but rather to uphold the tradition of their upbringing, having come to the roadside with their parents or grandparents, and now they're bringing their children for this family outing.  

Every day, wherever I find myself along the course, whether at the start or the finish or somewhere in between, and in every part of the country, it is always the same.  I marvel at the almost religious devotion they bring to the roadside.  They all sincerely and vigorously applaud as the racers pass.  And the moment afterwards they gather up their belongings and their trash and beat a fast retreat.  Within minutes the roadside is deserted and one would never guess that it had been packed with people for the past two hours.  Since The Tour varies its route every year, some localities have years between The Tour's visit, so it is truly a momentous occasion for them when it passes near.

Equally amazing at the start and finish of the stages are the vast array of buildings that are erected just for a few hours and then disassembled and set up one hundred miles or more away in less than twenty-four hours.

Just around the bend from the finishing stretch a permanent sculpture of a cyclist consecrated this legendary climb.

The black and white flag of Brittany was sported by many.  The region has its own language.  Many road signs are in French and Bretagne. It is similar to Corsica, as its flag is in prominence there and so is its language.  And like Corsica, there is a minor separatist movement that was once much stronger and serious than it is now.

I had my choice of two screens to watch from where I was sitting in the grass under a tree depending on whether people blocked my vantage--the giant one that folds out of an 18-wheeler and a smaller one on the side of one of the several two-story structures erected for VIPs to sit in.  The twenty-two teams went off at five minute intervals starting at three.  There wasn't much likelihood of one team catching another as happens in individual time trials when the riders are separated by a mere minute.  As it was, four minutes and fifty-eight seconds separated the winning team, BMC, which started at 4:40, and Orica-Green Edge, which was the first team out of the gate.  The Australians were riding with only six riders with three of their riders having retired from the race due to injuries, putting them at an extreme disadvantage.  The last time The Tour included a team time trial Orica won it three years ago in Nice.  Not only did Orica finish last, they did it convincingly, by two minutes and twenty-six seconds.  The other twenty-one teams were all clustered within two minutes and thirty-two seconds.

BMC, one of three American teams, won by a mere second over Sky, twelve seconds less than what they needed to put Van Garderen in Yellow.  It would have been a tremendous honor, but it will make tomorrow's Rest Day much more restful for him limiting his media obligations, leaving him better prepared for the following three days in the Pyrenees.  He regains second place overall, slipping past Sagan. 

The next three days will give him a chance to prove how seriously he must be taken.  Last year he had a bad day in the Pyrenees that kept him off the podium, knocking him down to fifth.  He's riding much better this year and finished second to Froome in the Dauphiné just before The Tour.  He also finished second at the Tour of Oman, which he should have won if he had taken an obscure Italian seriously on the Green Mountain climb rather than towing him to the finish letting him have the extra energy to sprint past him and gain enough time to win the week-long race.  He has been on the fringe of breaking into the limelight.  Maybe the training he has been doing with Lance in Colorado will make the difference this year.  He was the only one who could keep up with Froome on the climbs at the Dauphiné, but still the press hasn't put him in the contender category here.  He admits that it irks him, but he can understand why.

After the stage I retraced the route to its starting point in Vannes where I will take a train to Pau on the fringe of the Pyrenees while the peloton will be flying.  The road was a virtual parking lot.  There were only a handful of us on bikes flying past them all.  The wise lingered at their picnic sites along the road. There were fields with tents for large groups and a few decorations along the way.

Stage Eight

I pulled into the large city of Rennes at 10:30 Saturday morning, just ten minutes before the caravan set out on its 120-miles of dispensing trinkets.  The route through the city was already mobbed from the official departure arch for blocks and blocks.  The caravan is as big of a draw as the racers.  It brings the masses out early and then keeps them there for two hours until the peloton passes.

 I watched the scrambling for free stuff for a few minutes, then went in search of a bike shop.  My rear derailleur cable was starting to fray at the lever on the bar end and wasn't responding as promptly as it should.  My spare was a few inches short.  I could have trimmed the cable housing if it had snapped out along the road to make it fit, but was glad I didn't have to perform the operation out there. I also wanted to pick up a new tube, as all my spares have multiple patches and my last few flats have been due to slow leaks from patches going bad.

The young man who sold me the cable to agreed with me that Froome looks to be the favorite to win The Race once again, though he wasn't rooting for him.  He said he didn't look good on the bike, a common criticism with his ungainly, gawky style.  Looking good is a prerequisite for the. French.

The racers were off at precisely 12:40. 

I wasn't quite ready to capture Christian Prudhomme standing in a car preceding the peloton led out by the Jersey wearers--Froome back in Yellow, Griepel in Green, Sagan in white and Daniel Teklehaimanot in Polka Dots.  The latter is this year's feel good story of a rider from a country that has never been represented in The Tour.  The pasts few years it has been riders from China and Japan.  Neither country has a rider this year.  

Daniel is one of two riders from Eritrea, a country of six million in the horn of Africa bordered by Ethiopia and Sudan.  There is a UCI development program there that has been paying dividends.  They are riding for MTN-Qhuebeka, the first African-sponsored team in Tour.  The team is also comprised of three riders from South Africa and one each from Norway, Great Britain, Belgium and the US (Tyler Farrar).  Like most of the twenty-two teams they are a polyglot of nationalities.  Two teams (Etixx-Quick Step and Cannondale-Garmin) have eight nationalities.  The French Europcar team is the only one with all nine riders from the same country.  The Russian Katusha team only has one Russian.  The Kazakhstan Astana team has only one from Kazakhstan.  The Australian Orica-Green Edge team at least has three of the nine Australians in The Race.  The other six are sprinkled among six other teams.  The British Sky team has five Brits.  The other five Brits are riding for three other teams.  The ten Brits competing are the most in nearly forty years.  The mere three Americans are  its least in years.

Rather than tagging along behind the peloton I cut across to Plumelec, the Ville Arrivée for the next day's stage sixty-five miles away.  For the first time in a week I wouldn't be looking to ride one hundred miles for the day, a welcome recovery day for the legs.  I could even get an extra hour of sleep.  And I could stop a little early to watch the final hour of the stage which ended on the Mur de Bretagne, a Category Three climb. 

A three man break of two Poles and a Dane were a minute ahead with twenty-five miles to go.  They were easily caught as the pace heated up as the climb of a little more than a mile neared.  Cannondale-Garmin led the peloton for a while revealing their intentions of setting up Dan Martin for the win.  They fell five seconds short, though a second place finish for Martin was the best for the American team so far.  The French claimed their first win with Alexis Vuillermoz, a young relative unknown riding for Ag2R, shedding Froome, who had been trying to make another statement and ride away from everyone.  Froome didn't quite have it and came in eighth in a small group ten seconds behind the winner and five seconds behind Martin.  Quintana and Contador and Van Garderen were among them, but not Nibali who lost another ten seconds to Froome and the others.  Almost ss happy as Vuillermoz was Sagan, who finished fourth earning him enough points to take the Green Jersey, which ought to remain on his back for the rest of The Race with no sprints for Greipel for days.

Next up is the team time trial.  If Van Garderen's BMC team can gain thirteen seconds on Sky and eleven on Tinkoff-Saxon there will be an American in Yellow for the first time since Lance in 2006.  I hope he can get a good night's sleep, not too excited about the prospect of being on the front page of newspapers all across the US and the world on Monday.

Stage Seven

I knew I would fall well short of making it to the Big Screen today to watch the end of the stage having camped one hundred miles from the finish, so I had to ride hard, or take minimal rest, to get as far down the course as I could before it was closed down.  It is a rolling closure timed for an hour before the caravan is due.  When I hit the road at 7:30, a little late, forced to finally replace my tube with the slow leak as it was fully flat this morning, I was on a sector that would be closed at eleven.  

I took my first and only significant break at nine when I came upon a supermarket and bought my food for the day (a yogurt drink, quiche and cassoulet), to go along with the madeleines and couscous I had in reserve.  By eleven I had reached the noon to four zone.  That was a relief.  Eleven would have been disastrously early to be derailed.  Noon would still be sooner than I wanted to be brought to a halt, so I road steadily only pausing occasionally for a photo and a swig of yogurt drink.

The bike art was in greater abundance on this stage than any other.  Giant bikes were popular.

So were signs thanking The Tour for coming this way.

And no stage is complete without hay art or Vive Le Tour signs, though rarely are they combined.

When noon rolled around I awaited the dreaded ejection.  I was closing in on fifty miles, the minimum amount of mileage I would be satisfied with.  There was already hardly any traffic on the road, bicycle or otherwise.  Every car that came up from behind I feared would be a gendarme ordering me off the course.  There weren't as many positioned along the course as usual.  Many of the intersections that they would ordinarily be posted at simply had barriers placed in front of them, maybe a cost savings.  It was a relief, as it is very arbitrary whether a gendarme will say "stop" or simply watch, and some are all to eager to exert their authority.

I was still going at 12:30, partially thanks to a long isolated stretch with few fans and no side roads.  It was a hot day and after three hours with hardly a pause I was beginning to wish I would be stopped.  I had gone beyond fifty miles and now every mile was a bonus.  Finally at 12:45 a gendarme stepped out into the middle of the road from a crowd of people and pointed to the intersecting road for me to turn off to.  He gave me a glaring, menacing look to make sure I knew he meant business and that I wouldn't try to ride around him as Skippy and others are known to do.  I nodded an acquiescence as I approached and gladly complied with his order.

There were cornfields all round.  The only shade was an old stone house close to the road. Others brought their own.

I took advantage of the touring cyclist's privilege and leaned my bike up against the stone house and plopped down in its sliver of shade while everyone else clung to the roadside.  I hard barely begun to eat my Tupperware bowl of ravioli and couscous left over from dinner when a rider wearing a Tinkoff-Saxo uniform of Albert Contador's team was halted by the gendarme.  He immediately protested that he was Oleg Tinkov, the owner of the Tinkoff-Saxo team and that he rides the course every day.  The gendarme said that didn't matter, that the course was closed except for official vehicles.  He was being trailed by a team car, but that wasn't official enough to allow him to continue on.  As he pleaded his case a police car arrived on the scene, but they too would not grant him permission, even as he pointed at his uniform and told them who he was.

Then he called back to the driver of his car to bring him his shorts, as they contained his credentials that would prove he was who he said he was.

But that didn't matter either.  Nor did the chants of a few boisterous fans on the opposite side of the road of "Oleg, Oleg,"

"See, everybody kmows who I am," he said. 

I was rooting for him to win his case as a minor precedent for letting cyclists continue riding on the course up to just fifteen minutes or so until the caravan is due rather than a full hour.  There have been times when I've been allowed to do this, but not often.  The trick is to keep riding beyond the initial cut-off time.  Then the gendarmes down the road will think that since I'm still riding, maybe its okay and they don't want to be the ogre earning protests from the fans all around.

But I was also rooting against him, as it was a minor pleasure to see that this Russian billionaire with a mouth like Donald Trump and controversial Twitter outbursts was being treated no better by these gendarmes than me.  It was  possible that they were fully aware of who he was and were happy to stand up to him.   He is the most outspoken of team owners and had been threatening to lead a boycott of The Tour next year if The Tour didn't start sharing the millions of dollars it rakes in from television revenue with the teams.  Just about all the teams are strapped for money and always desperate for sponsorship money.  Tinkoff himself fears he will lose the Danish Saxo Bank as a co-sponsor next year after firing his Danish director Bjarne Riis and may have to fold the team, especially since his fortune has been jeopardized by Russia's banking crisis, which is the source of his money.

I've encountered Tinkoff riding the course in years past.  Its highly admirable and demonstrates his love of cycling.  Previously he was trailing a team car, almost in its draft.  If he had been doing the same thing here, he wouldn't have been stopped, as the gendarme wouldn't have seen him, and as he whizzed by there would be nothing he could do.  But it is much nicer to be out in front of the car looking out upon all the people along the course and all the decorations.  It is further perplexing that he just can't get some sort of authorization from Christian Prudhomme, The Tour director, to ride the course beyond the closure time for motorists.  I nearly asked Prudhomme if he might grant me such permission when I met him at the Tour of Oman this past February, but after a few pleasantries he had to tend to his official duties. 

After nearly five minutes and another set of gendarmes in a car who wouldn't let Oleg ride, his bike went up on the car and he crawled into the front seat.

It was nearly an hour until the caravan made its raucous passage.  I nabbed a few useful items that I had missed previously. Beside a madeleine I snatched up a packet of liquid laundry detergent, a regular item from years past, that I squeeze into a small bottle and then use to wash my clothes in small doses.  This year's glasses wipe is blue and has The Tour monogram on it.  It can replace my orange one from last year I'm still using.  I also picked up a yellow wrist band from Banette, a brand of food, a some refrigerator magnets that are always nice to have.  As the caravan went by at speed spraying its trinkets many ended up in the cornfields, but not for long.

After the caravan it was a ninety minute wait for the peloton.  There was a town two miles down the road that I reached on some back roads.  I found the cemetery, where I could immediately use the detergent, and then the tourist office, where I could do some charging and follow The Race at cyclingnews.com.  It was just a half block from the race course.  I watched the four-man breakaway whizz by and then the peloton a minute later and the fifty or so following vehicles.  The last entry at cyclingnews was that Ivan Basso was performing domestique duties, dropping back to the Tinkoff-Saxo car for water bottles.  When I resumed riding a minute later I passed several fans walking towards me clutching Tinkoff-Saxo bottles that had just been discarded and saw another on someone's portable picnic table.  There was no hope for me finding one with the road so packed and fans walking both sides scouring the roadside.  But thanks to my trusty pliers I was able to liberate a couple of course markers.

I continued on for an hour to the next big town with a television to watch The Race's finish.  I didn't have to,look hard to find a large outdoor cafe with two flat screen televisions set up.  Both had a cluster of fans sitting and standing watching.

Among them were a trio of Brits who were fans of Froome.

The breakaway had been caught setting up a sprint.  There were no crashes this time and Cavendish altered his style of being led out, biding his time sitting on the wheel of Greipel, as Greipel had been doing to Cavendish.  The stategy worked, as Cavendish surged past and handily won, proving he's not washed up, proving that he is a commodity that teams ought to be interested in.  His contract his up this year with Etix-Quick Step.  They have been saying they don't want to pay him as much as they have and maybe not at all.  If he had win another stage or two, it would be worth millions to him.  He's just thirty, actually younger than Greipel.  So now it is Greipel two and Cavendish one in this Tour.  

At last Tyler Farrar, one of only three Americans in The Race, along with Van Garderen and Talanksy, and the only one to have won a stage in a previous Tour, made his presence known in the sprint.  He only finished seventh, but it was the first time he had collected any sprint points, meaning he hadn't once finished in the top fifteen--most perplexing.  

The interest heightens.  Unfortunately there won't be a sprint finish for a while.  Tomorrow is the Mur de Bretagne, comparable to the Mur de Huy, then the team time trial and then three days in the Pyrenees after a long transfer to Pau.  It will only get more exciting and on all fronts.