Stage Eleven

A bull fight was on the television in the lone bar in the small town of Gallargues-le-Montueux.  A disheveled older guy was the solitary patron in the bar.  He was seated at a table and had his gaze fixed on the television. As always, I came in wearing my helmet to authenticate myself as a cyclist, hopefully giving me some rights when it came to asking to put The Tour de France on the television if it wasn't already. I told the bartender I was looking for a bar with a television that might be showing The Tour.  He picked up the remote control and asked his patron if he minded if he switched to The Tour.  He nodded his approval.  That made me very happy.

It was down to the last twenty kilometers.  Sagan was at the front pushing the pace.  There was no breakaway to chase, just an entire peloton to leave behind.  With twelve kilometers to go he gave an extra acceleration and he and his teammate Macjiej Bodnat managed to break free.  Froome was near the front and he sped up to the duo and so did his teammate Geraint Thomas.  Before anyone else could react they had gained a few seconds and then some more.  This was an astounding development and looked as if it might actually work.  Sagan is known as an animator, but to see Froome join him was a brash demonstration of how much he wanted to win this race and how strong he was.  Quintana had made a practice of remaining glued to Froome's wheel, but he was caught unawares here just as he was when Froome charged down the mountain descent a few days earlier to gain sixteen seconds on him and claim the Yellow Jersey.   A helicopter shot showed Quintana well back in the strung out peloton and not looking too concerned.

Merckx and Hinault, arguably the two greatest who lived by the mantra "Attack" not "sit back,"  had to be cheering wildly at this rare display of aggression by today's conservative modern riders.  Even fans of Quintana, who must be growing weary of his nonchalance, had to be rooting for Froome to stay away, though not to gain too much time.  Their advantage grew to twenty seconds but dwindled to six by the finish with Sagan, not unsurprisingly, holding off Froome in the sprint.  But Froome gained a bonus six seconds for his placement, extending his lead over Quintana to thirty-five seconds, still not much, but it was another brash assertion made by Froome that he has come to race and seize any opportunity that presents itself.  This certainly wasn't planned, nor launched by a voice in his earpiece.  He was just being vigilant and opportunistic. This move has to inspire Froome's teammates to give their all for him, as much as it sews seeds of concern in his competitors.  As the French would say to Froome--"chapeau."  He is making himself a deserving champion.

Sagan and his teammate hugged triumphantly.  Froome could have joined in, as they had been valiant allies who fought as one for those last five miles, but they went their different directions at race's end..  One can be sure there will be hearty handshakes at the start line tomorrow when they line up beside each other at the front of the field with the White and the Polka Dot jerseys.  Whether the camera went to Froome and Thomas I don't know as the bartender switched the television back to the bull fighting.

Now Froome has to hold his own on Ventoux tomorrow, though it won't be as much of a test as it usually is, as the final several miles to the summit have been lopped off due to the prediction of more high winds.  They were gusty and strong today.  They'll be considerably worse, dangerously so, on the upper reaches of Ventoux above the tree line. 

The wind greatly affected my riding today too as I alternated from flying along at better than twenty miles per hour in my biggest gear one minute, and then struggling in a small gear to go ten miles per hour when the road or the wind switched directions.  At least it was a refreshingly cool wind.  

The wind interrupted my sleep the night before.  I was camped in a forest. I kept waking at the sound of debris falling on my tent, thinking at first that it was rain and I had to rush out and put on my rain fly.  The wind made the riding perilous entering and exiting the traffic clogged metropolis of Montpellier, the stage finish and start of the next day's stage.  Montpellier has always been my nemesis.  There's no easy way in or out and it always leaves me flummoxed.  I thought I would be spared this time, with course markers leading me into the city and then out, but they failed me.  On the way in they led onto a highway that prohibited bicycles.  I was too early for the road to have been closed down, so had to struggle to find my way.  At the finish I came in on the side that was for VIPs and officials only, so had the additional frustration of having to backtrack to get to the other side.

I was way early, before noon.  The crowd was just beginning to gather.  No one was giving anything away yet except a bicycle service organization that was handing out very worthwhile reflective bands.  When I asked for one I was told to stick out my arm and then a guy clamped one around my wrist.  The same group had a pump and offered to check my tires.  They were both down about twenty pounds.

It was two miles from the finish besides a sports center to the town center where the next day's stage would start.  The central plaza is huge, five or six blocks long and two blocks wide and surrounded by magnificent buildings.  As I entered I spotted a course marker and began on the next day's stage.  It took me past the city's Arc de Triomphe and another noteworthy sites. The neutralized zone went on for over ten miles, some of it along a tramway whose accompanying road was too narrow for cars and bicycles to share.  I had the pain of riding on the sidewalk for a couple of miles.  As happens in large cities, the course markers are sometimes appropriated by ne'er do wells, and so it happened here at a crucial turn. I found myself on a busy highway and had to turn back, not such an easy task.  Montpellier had caused me another headache.

The route sheet allows the peloton thirty minutes to complete the neutralized zone.  It took me over an hour.  It made the small, picturesque towns all the more pleasing.

Stage Ten

Thanks to the rest day I could leisurely inspect Revel, the Stage Ten Ville Arrivée, the afternoon before the peloton came storming in.  Masses of trucks were congregated around the already blockaded finishing stretch a few blocks from the town center.  No one was in a great hurry to start erecting the many structures that would line it.  The huge staff that sets up and dismantles The Tour villages at each stage start and finish and all the paraphernalia along the route welcome the two rest days during this 23-day event as much as the riders do.  

A most pleasing display of enlarged photos from previous Tour visits to Revel hung under a large rustic wooden gazebo that housed the tourist office in the central plaza.  Tables were being set for some affair that evening or the next day.  A photo from 1960 captured a young Poulidor fan with his back to his hero surrounded by others.  Most were of the racers in action, including Anquetil and Merckx.  Each conveyed the drama and intensity and poignancy of the sport. Cycling is as much a friend of the photographer as any sport.

My route to the next stage in Carcassone, thirty miles away, overlapped for a couple of miles with the end of the stage into Revel, including a steep mile climb that could thwart the sprinters.  My route continued to climb another five miles, gaining over 1,500 feet.  I was lucky I wasn't doing it immediately after the stage and under pressure to be riding as many miles as I could before dark.  Being a day ahead, I could be relaxed and enjoy the climb and its views into the valley below.  I was also fortunate that the temperatures had cooled considerably since the hail storm that hit Andorra the day before.  It was like someone had turned on the air conditioning.

Carcassone had been a Ville Départ two years ago as well, but it wasn't using the same departure point, as then the peloton headied out towards the Pyrenees, rather than the Alps as it is this time.  The Départ was near the World Heritage Canal du Midi, which the peloton would follow for a spell before Prudhomme waved them into action.  

The one hundred mile route to Montpelier was dominated by vineyards.

It's always possible to camp amongst them, but the rocky soil isn't the most pleasant.  But I didn't have much choice in the matter.

I didn't need to get an early start, but I was awoken at 6:30 by someone on a special narrow tractor who had come to plow the furrows between the rows of plants.  I was far enough away from where he started to be able to be on my way before he reached me.  I'm not even sure if he was aware of me as the plants were higher than my tent.

I didn't mind the early start as I was curious to see if there were any special groups riding the stages a day ahead as there have been in year's past.  I haven't heard of any this year or encountered any on the occasions when I was riding a stage a day ahead.  The only other coordinated group of cyclists I have met were a group of young girls wearing matching pink jerseys and riding double file.  But they didn't have a support vehicle as groups riding the entire Tour do, so they evidently weren't doing the whole thing.  I was also hoping to catch the crew that puts up the course markers in action.  They have zipped by me in years past, but I have never made contact with them while they were stopped.  I was prepared to hang out at a roundabout, knowing they have to stop there for a minute or two to mount all the arrows required, especially if the peloton is making a turn.  

But I struck out on both counts.  I encountered no groups and the course marker crew in their two vans with flashing lights and warning of frequent stops flew past me before I had a chance to set up  a stake out.  But it was so nice to suddenly have the route marked for me, my initial flare of disappointment was quickly dissipated by the great comfort of having a virtual yellow carpet unfurled for me for the rest of the day.  I didn't care to get within twenty-five miles of Montpelier, so I could stop early to watch more than just the end of the stage.  Good thing that I did, as it ended in more than the standard sprint. A very strong breakaway group with multiple Tour stage winners from over the years was holding off the peloton.  It was largely instigated by Sagan, who would secure the Green Jersey if he could keep the sprinters from catching up.  He had won the intermediate sprint, giving him enough points to overtake Cavendish.  

The sprinters' teams didn't seem to have the motivation to close down the eight-minute gap, perhaps conceding that it might have been futile anyway with the steep climb two-and-a-half miles from the finish.  Sagan managed to whittle the breakaway down to five riders, but all his efforts weakened him just enough that Michael Matthews of the Australian Orica team was able to edge him out for victory.  It was his first second place finish this year after a first, third and fourth. Matthews becomes the second Australian to win stages in all three Grand Tours along with his teammate Simon Gerans.  That makes six stage wins for native English speakers.  

The French can start to agonize in earnest, wondering if they will win a stage, now that we've reached the virtual half way point of The Race.  All will be forgotten if one can pull it off on Bastille Day Thursday.  It will be especially dramatic to win on Mont Ventoux.  But that will be the big showdown between Froome and Quintana.  The last time the Tour visited three years ago Froome sped away from Quintana. It will be hard to give much thought to tomorrow's flat stage to Montpellier with the specter of Ventoux looming the next day.  Riding past all the throngs along the road on this great national holiday is always one of my Tour highlights.  I don't plan to climb Ventoux, as there is not room at the summit for a giant screen to watch the drama unfolding on the mountain.  I'll be content to make it as far as the town at the foot of the climb and watch it at a thronged bar there.

Stage Nine

The surprise of the day was being passed by the Sky team bus shortly after nine this morning as I was closing in on St. Girona.  The stage start was back the other way.  Froome and company couldn't be aboard the bus.  It must have been sent on a mission to pick up some goods or needed mechanical attention.  Not long afterwards the Katusha bus zipped by and then BMC and the rest of them.  Evidently I was on the "off course" route to the finish line.  Later, studying the map, I could tell they had all gone to Foix and then climbed up to Andorra and the stage finish.  

If I hadn't lingered in L'Isle-Jourdain yesterday morning, I might have accomplished the same thing.  But I'd seen a stage finish in Andorra in a previous Tour, so there was no great incentive to suffer up the big climb to it again.  Instead I was happy to watch the last two hours and three climbs of the stage in a bar in Foix, fifty miles down the road from where I had camped outside St. Gaudens.   Lucky I did, as a deluge with hail hit the finish line about thirty minutes before the racers started arriving.  The rain would have felt good on this beastly hot day, but I wouldn't have wanted to make the descent on wet roads.  As it was, I was baked in an ovenish bar with no air circulation while I watched the racers getting baked until the rain hit on the final Beyond Category climb.  I had my choice of several bars in this sizeable town that is an occasional Ville Étape.  The first two were insufferably hot.  Air-conditioning is not known.  Most people prefer to sit outdoors in front of the bars.  The third I checked out wasn't as hot as the others and it was the only one with others watching The Race.  As the finish neared, more and more people joined us.

When I began my viewing, Froome and the contenders had let a large break of more than twenty riders up the road, unlike yesterday.  When it's advantage had grown to over eight minutes it was clear no one with Froome was interested in a stage victory, only trying to wrest the Yellow Jersey from Froome.  By the time this group was more than half-way up the final climb, about when Froome might have launched his attack as he did last year flying away from everyone, the rain had set in.  That shouldn't have deterred anyone too much on an ascent, but when Froome and the others made their accelerations, no one could escape free, though it thinned their ranks to just Froome, Quintana, Porte, Martin and Yates.  

Up the road Dutchman Tom Dumoulin had made his own escape and took the win.  Back down the road the Froome group remained a merry group of five and finished together.  Whether the rain was to blame for the lack of separation or just the fact that not much separates these five remains to be seen. But it does make Froome's bold attack on the descent yesterday all the more significant.  Maybe he's confident he will dominate the two time trials, both of which are climbers' delights, and they will secure his victory.  With nothing definitive coming out of today's stage, there will be loads of speculation on tomorrow's rest day and over the following two flat stages until the summit finish on Ventoux Thursday the 14th.  That now looms as the most significant test of The Tour since today's stage didn't live up to its billing as the Queen Stage.  Eleven riders are within a minute of Froome with two other English speakers in second and third, the Brit Adam Yates 16 seconds behind and the Irishman Dan Martin at 19 seconds with Quinta four seconds back.  That is tight.

There will be one less contender, as Contador dropped out early in the stage, as he came down with a fever in the night to go along with his ailments from his Stage One crash.  Three others bowed out as well, including one of Cavendish's lead out men, Mark Renshaw.  There was concern the heat and mountains might be too much for Cavendish himself, but he persevered, just clinging to the Green Jersey after Sagan won the day's intermediate sprint and closed in on him.  The question remains whether Cavendish will take his leave before the Alps and rest up for the Olympics, or whether the motivation to win on the Champs Elysées will keep him in The Race. 

When I left the bar, clouds had moved in and somewhat blunted the heat of the sun.  Ominously dark clouds hung over the Pyrenees and Andorra to the south.  I would continue my skirt of the mountains to Lavelenet, seventeen miles to the east, and then pick up Tuesday's Stage Ten route heading to the stage finish in Revel, fifty miles north.  It would continue my streak of riding some portion of The Tour route for the past nine days and even longer pre-Tour.  There were camper vans already stationed along the route, nearly forty-eight hours before the peloton would pass.  

I had a slight downhill from the Pyrenees, and though I didn't need to ride late into the evening, the riding was so blissful I couldn't stop.  After nine the traffic went dead, as that's when the championship soccer game between France and Portugal began.  That had even more interest than The Tour, what with no French riders contending, though Pinot did take over the Climber's Jersey today.  The front page of a paper I read in the bar was taken over by the game with the headline "It Is Good for Moral" and a sub-headline of "The Bleus have seduced France.  Nothing is better for the recovery of optimism."  If I had come upon a campground I would have opted for it if it included a television room, but no temptation offered itself so I had another ideal campsite in a field of large rolls of hay.  I could follow the game on my iPad.  The French I would have watched the game with would not have been celebrating, as they fell 1-0.  The next day's headline was "It Was Not Our Year."

Stage Eight

The large plaza in L'Isle-Jourdain where a giant screen showed yesterday's action was filled this morning with a bustling farmer's market.  The only evidence that The Tour had been to town was an occasional  person wearing one of the hats distributed by sponsors the day before--the yellow cap of Credit Lyonaise, the red polka hat by Carrefour and a green one from Skoda.  The plaza was so packed one could easily overlook the large yellow Tour banner adorning City Hall facing the plaza.  

If one ventured into the public library within the City Hall the large display of books relating to The Tour and bicycling would have been a reminder that The Tour had been to town. That is a common feature of libraries in towns on The Tour route and an added incentive to pay them a visit.  I was familiar with many of the books, but there were just as many that were discoveries.  They always provide an incentive that fails to stick for me to increase what little fluency I have in French.  A 150-page book, "Un Petite Philosophie du Vélo" by Bernard Chambaz in particular appeared to be a gem packed with homages to the bike.  It had short chapters on predestination, fatigue, death, God, aesthetics, effort, grace, sadness, passion, time, space, night and many more with references to Spinoza and Descartes as well as many significant cyclists.  

I also spent some time paging through another philosophical book of a different sort--a 500-page tome of cycling cartoons that have appeared in "L'Equipe" over the past fifty years. There were other most inviting and worthwhile cycling books.  How could they not all be checked out?  Luckily, or unluckily, the library did not subscribe to "L'Equipe."  They'd have had to kick me out when it closed at 12:30 if it did.  As it was, I lingered until nearly noon before getting about my business of riding my bike.  

I followed the route the peloton took for thirty miles right up to the fringe of the Pyrennes and then turned east to pick up the Stage Ten route that they would follow to leave the mountains after Monday's rest day.  There were painted yellow bikes along the road and an occasional bike edifice.  I picked up a small pack of candy that the caravan had tossed as well as an inflatable pillow that had somehow escaped the gleaners who walk the course after the peloton has passed and the fans have dispersed. 

At four o'clock I stopped at a bar to watch the final hour of the peloton's day in the Pyrenees.  The bartender's wife was temporarily filling in for him and wasn't too cooperative in putting it on even though the peloton had ridden past their bar the day before.  She asked if The Race was later that evening and didn't even know what channel to try. When her husband relieved her, he kept his back to the television and then charged me three euros for my menthe à l'eau, double the usual price.  Quite a contrast to my last bar, when the bartender only charged me a euro, thankful that I had asked him to put on The Tour as it brought people inside to watch and linger and buy more drinks.

There were a few patrons at tables outside this place too, but no one joined me.  They were missing out on some most determined racing.  For the first time this year no breakaway was up the road. A phalanx of Sky riders led a group of the significant twenty-five on a long climb riding as if they truly meant business.  They were clearly trying to make something happen, testing the limits of those left and trying to shed the weak.  No one was going to attack at the speed they were maintaining.  They were halfway up the third of the day's big climbs, the Category One Col de Val Louron-Azet.  Froome zipped ahead at the summit to take the King of the Mountain points. After a quick descent it was back up the day's final climb, the Peyresourde, another Category One.  The Sky troops kept up a relentless pace.  The only one to fall off was one of the French hopes, Pinot.

Froome once again spurted ahead at the summit and then caught the others off guard by propelling himself with extra vigor.  He opened a small gap and then crouched over the cross bar on his bike to make himself as aerodynamic as he could and continued pedaling in this ackward position at nearly fifty miles per hour.  He always looks gawky on the bike with arms akimbo and body swaying, but in this position he almost appeared fluid and at one with his bike.  It was a ten-mile descent to the finish in Bagnères-de-Luchon.  He opened a gap of ten seconds and then extended it to twenty by the time the descent somewhat leveled.  It looked as if he was going to pull off this audacious attack and claim the Yellow Jersey.   Those in pursuit remained in a bunch and remained seated on their saddles.  They made up some ground in the final kilometers, but Froome still won by thirteen seconds.  He punched the air several times and his face was tugged into the broadest grin possible.

It may have been an excessive expenditure of energy for such a small gain, but it was a strong statement that could cause his adversaries some concern.  The next day's stage is far more important with the first long climb to the finish where much larger time gaps can be achieved.  That's when we'll truly see who is the strongest and who could claim the Yellow Jersey for the rest of The Race.  Earlier, Froome had said that Stage Nine is when The Race begins.  He was bluffing, as for him it started ten miles before that.

Shockingly, the actual race has only ended for one rider.  Today saw the first abandon, the deepest ever in the 103  editions of The Race that someone dropped out.  It was the Danish rider Michael Merlov who had been persevering despite an injury.  That leaves 197.

The biggest surprise may have been the Irish rider Dan Martin, who used to ride for Garmin but switched to the Beglain team Etixx-Quickstep that Cavendish used to ride for, coming in second.  If not for Froome's bold move he could have claimed the Yellow Jersey.  He was surprisingly climbing with all the top dogs at the Dauphiné as well.  Tomorrow's climatic climb to Andorra, where he relocated after living with the Garmin guys in Girona, will tell if he is truly transformed and a full-fledged contender.  It ought to be the best day of racing yet.  

Stage Seven

From ten miles out of L'Isle-Jourdain, today's Ville Départ, signs warned that the road ahead was blocked.  Indeed, all roads into L'Isle-Jourdain were blocked, as the town center was totally taken over by The Tour.  Its central district was strictly walking and biking today and too packed for much biking.   At each road entering the town the tourist bureau had set up tents staffed with locals providing information.  When I asked a young man the whereabouts of the library, he had to ask someone else.  It didn't matter, as it was closed today.

I completed the twenty-eight miles left on the transfer from Montauban by ten, an hour before the caravan made its departure.  That gave me time to wander the bustling streets after leaving my bike in front of the cathedral.  A small plaza overlooking the starting line had a fence around it.  Two security guards checked the bags of everyone entering.  Volunteers in yellow t-shifts circulated everywhere.  This was the first time L'Isle Jourdain had hosted The Tour.  It might have been the biggest day in its history.  

The road the peloton would be take out of town was lined with barricades for half a mile and was already deep with fans.  So was the street leading to the starting line from where the twenty-two team buses were parked.  All sorts of goodies were being handed out by sponsor reps from behind the barricades--some useful, such as shopping bags, and others not, such as giant sunglasses.  The CGT, the labor union, had placed a tent at the first bend and was giving out red balloons.  Janina had been hoping I could get her one of their large flags she sees every night on the French news at protests.  They had flags, but not to distribute, even for a price.  She'll have to be satisfied with several balloons.

Rarely do I witness all the hoopla at the start of a stage, as I'm usually well down the course, so I didn't know how generous the caravan would be since there had already been a pre-distribution of product.  That didn't matter.  The young folk tossing booty started out with great relish.  At times when they pass me well down the course after several hours of trying to look like they're having the time of their life, they are clearly eager to get to the end of the stage, sometimes flying along at excessive speed.  Out of the gate their vehicles were at a crawl and those aboard were happily responding to all the eager fans.  With such skimpy offerings this year (no "L'Equipe" or wrist bands or collectible frig magnets or reflective bands or Tour-monogrammed glass wipes or significant food items) I could just stand back and watch the spectacle of delight over silly nothings.  Young and old are thrilled with whatever they nab, at least until later.

Once the caravan had fulfilled its duties I retreated to the shade to get some food into me and then ventured over to the stage where all the riders sign in and are quickly introduced.  There is no particular order.  Every individual is on his own.  It seems that they prefer to go in clusters so that the announcer can't grab them while he's talking to someone else.  Sagan, now out of Yellow and back in his World Champion jersey, was quick about it and avoided the microphone.

Just before the sign-in stage was a Power Bar tent dispensing drinks and gels and energy bars for the riders in case their team didn't have their preference.  Most seemed to grab something, including Sagan.

I went back down the course to watch the launch.  I was close enough to the start line to hear the countdown.  All around me there was an intense focus anticipating the riders.

They were led by race director Christian Prudhomme, who team director Marc Madiot referred to as God in his latest blog post at cyclingnews.com, in his open-topped car.  Once the peloton completes the neutralized zone and he signals them to start racing he peels off and speeds ahead to the arrival city. I could have spent the next four hours sitting in the main plaza in front of the City Hall watching The Race on a giant screen, but the first three hours were all flat until a Category Four, then One, climb.  Instead, I went to a nearby lake for a much needed swim, my first of these travels, and then to the tourist office and its WIFI for a call to Janina.  It has been go-go-go for the past week, the longest stretch since we've been able to talk.  She had the exciting news that she'd decided to paint an owl on her shed.

When I returned to the Big Screen the scorching heat had kept the crowd down.  There were only a few diehards in the thin stretches of shade.

The Yellow Jersey (Van Avermaet) was in a breakaway with Nibali and several others.  Since Nibsli had lost fifteen minutes earlier, the GC contenders allowed him this latitude and Van Avermaet too, as he was no threat when the real climbing begins in the next two days.  He could handle this Category One (the Aspin), as it had a not so severe five and six per cent grade.  He fell off a bit, but clung to the Yellow for at least another day.  

Steve Cummings too can contend on such a grade. He was in the breakaway and then attacked and held everyone off.  The mighty climbers five minutes back had declared a truce and saved their powder for another day.  It was an unlikely site, Froome's Sky team and Quintana's Moviestar team, riding a semi-tempo pace up the Aspin and not flexing their muscles.  It allowed the spotlight to shine on Cummings and Van Avemaet and also on British cycling and Cavendish's Dimension Data team, as that is who Cummings rides for.

He was so ecstatic at his stage win that he was hurling fists in the air the last fifty meters and then gave his director a hug that didn't seem as if it would end. This is just the second year for Dimension Data.  They are having a sensational Tour, winning four of the seven stages, with more possible when the flats return and Cavendish can contend.

I could stick around and watch all the post-race interviews as I was in no rush to be back biking.  I was going to camp just outside L'Isle-Jourdain, then take advantage of its library in the morning hopefully perusing a week's worth of "L'Equipe" and it's deep dissection of every angle of The Tour and the French hopes.  The peloton's rest day doesn't come until after Sunday's Stage Nine.  I was taking mine a little early, even though my legs weren't demanding it.

Stage Six

For the first time in days I began paying attention to the altimeter on my watch as the terrain turned sharply undulating after Limoges with climbs and descents of five and six hundred feet and more.  The effort slowed me enough that the peloton beat me to Montauban by two-and-half hours.  It would have been closer if I hadn't gone slightly astray a couple of times, a little out of practice of finding my own way off The Tour route.  But if I hadn't lost that time I would have upped my pace and possibly gone into the red zone, especially in the ninety-degree heat, the first hot day of The Tour. I could feel myself going faint on some of the longer, steeper climbs and needed to retreat to the shade from time to time.  I even rode on the left side of the lightly travelled roads I was on when it was shadier than the right side.  That made a significant difference.

I would have been even later to Montauban if I had found a bar to watch the finish.  I was on a direct road that bypassed towns. I detoured into one small village that offered nothing and  tried two restaurants along the road to no avail, so I reduced to envisioning the sprint as I relied on the commentary provided by the cyclingnews website.  And Cavendish did it again, his third win after just one the past two years--a stunning and unexpected resurrection. After no wins two years ago his Belgian team gave up on him, then signed Kittel a year later, causing them no end of conaternation.  When Kittel was denied on the first sprint at Utah Beach, German journalists asked his team director if he was panicking.  He said he doesn't panic and that if their country hadn't panicked they wouldn't have lost the war, the most controversial quote to come out of this year's Tour so far.

Cavendish now has twenty-nine stage wins since his first set of four in 2008, passing Hinault and putting him in second place of all time.  Merckx can start feeling nervous once again.  His lead is down to five. It had been looking secure the past two years after looking very much in jeopardy when Cavendish won twenty stages in four years.  But he knows it could come to an end any time.

I didn't rejoin The Tour route until eight miles from the finish in Montauban after nearly two days absence. The course markers were long gone, but the red bails of hay strapped to hazards and the occasional barrier beside a side road it had blocked assured I was on the route.  There was no betraying litter aside from the large official trash bags The Tour affixes to posts that had yet to be collected.  The fans were long gone other than a rowdy cluster under a tent beside a "Vive Pou Pou" banner, who is celebrating his 80th birthday this year following The Tour wearing a yellow shirt at all Tour appearances even though he never wore it during his years of battling Anquetil.  They shouted for me to join them for a drink.  That would have been extremely inviting if I hadn't just filled my bottles with cold water at a cemetery and time of the essence.

Shortly after I passed them the route turned off onto a small county road.  It was stenciled every hundred feet with a large yellow announcement that this was The Tour route, the best marking I'd ever come upon.  It continued for several miles.  Too bad the entire 2,000 miles isn't so emblazoned.

It was no easy task navigating through the large city of Montauban on the Tarn River.  The highlight was the large set of Tour jerseys hung from one of the bridges over the river.  By the time I found my way to the river it was going on nine and I had nearly forty miles to ride to the start of the next day's stage in L'Isle Jourdain, a first time Ville Étape east of Toulouse.   It was a shorter stage, just over one hundred miles, though presenting the first Category One climb as the peloton begins its three-day foray into the Pyrenees.  With the shorter distance, the peloton wasn't setting out until one, giving me ample time to arrive before their departure, especially since I wouldn't be following them, knowing I could no longer keep up at this point.  Instead I'll give my legs a break the next three days as I meander to the the end of stage ten in Revel and then down to Carcassone for the start of stage eleven.

Stage Five

The 

I anticipated a day free of the stress of worrying about being ordered off my bike.  My plan was just to bike a few miles down the course to the first town where after the entertainment of the scramble for the caravan giveaways I could make a quick getaway down a side road south to the end of Stage Six where I would next meet up with The Tour while the peloton rode east today.  Even though I was on the course before eight, I still had to suffer that sensation of hands tightening around my neck until the full stranglehold was applied and I had to stop riding, as the gendarmes were already in place at every intersection and the official closing of this early part of the course to non-official vehicles was eight a.m.  

I saw it being overlooked by people pulling out of their driveways, but I knew my hopes of getting to that town five miles from my campsite were in jeopardy.  Fortunately the gendarmes placed at these early junctures were older officers who appeared to be desk workers in the latter end of their career  and not the hard corps enforcers of the officers on the street.  None stepped out into the road with folded arms to stop me as their more hardened brethren love to do.  Most ignored me, but a couple called out a meek "Fermé" which was easy to ignore as I passed.  If they had been real gendarmes they would have been equipped with whistles and blasted me, alerting officers further down the course that a transgressor needed to be stopped.  Some might enjoy the fun of defying the gendarmes, but it constricts my heart and takes the joy out of being at The Tour.  

I sweated out being quarantined along the side of the road for three hours and made it to my destination.  At the intersection where I'd be continuing the town's small, modern town hall was a block away.  They generally have a sign pointing to a WC to the back or side.  When I didn't see one I ventured inside with my two empty water bottles to ask.  The lone person on duty, a dour, not very friendly, older woman, told me there was indeed a toilet out back.  

Outside a side door to a conference room was open.  I ventured inside to see if this related to some Tour activity and if I might spot an electrical outlet.  The room was empty, but moments later two guys followed me in telling me I shouldn't me there.  They could see my loaded bike and knew I was a harmless cyclist brought to the town by The Tour.  I told them I was following The Tour and asked if I could charge my tablet until the caravan came.  One said I could try a cafe across the street, but he was overruled by the other.  

We went back in where the woman was at her desk and he told her what he was doing.  Later as I sat along the road shoulder to shoulder with the townsfolk I noticed my benefactor on the other side of the street greeting everyone, the men with a handshake and the women with a kiss on the cheeks.  He was the town mayor and doing his best to stay on the good side of everyone.  He certainly would have had my vote.

There were several small child near me, including two Africans, who darted after everything the caravan tossed with a startling blink-of-the-eye quickness.  I made no effort for anything except a couple of most welcome madeleines that fell at my feet and another packet of sausages.  In year's past the madeleines came in packs of three, but this year they were just singles.  When I returned for my iPad I gave the woman one of the madeleines.  Her face lit up with delight.

Though I hated to be leaving The Tour, the peace and tranquility and being able to ride without a strict deadline was a welcome reprieve.  With the weather now warm and sunny this was cycling at its finest.  My legs were fully conditioned allowing me to ride all day without fatigue setting in.  I just needed to keep eating and take an occasional rest. 

I would have liked to have watched the last hour of the day's stage with its two category two climbs, the first of this year's Tour. The peloton would climb past the magnificent Puy Mary that I had biked by in May on my way to Cannes when the road had been lined with snow.  But I was still pressed for time to ride nearly two hundred miles this day and the next to meet up with The Tour again, so I didn't stop early but pushed on until fifteen minutes before the stage end.  

I had to ask the bar tender to turn on the television as all his clients were sitting outside in the sun.  Once people were reminded that The Tour was in action they ducked in to give it a look. Greg Van Avermaet of BMC, one of three American teams in The Tour,  had five minutes on the peloton and looked set to win on the climb to the largest ski resort on the Massif Central--Le Lioran. One older guy asked the bar tender if the leader was French.  When he was told he was Belgian he returned to his seat in the sun.

Van Avermaet crossed the finish with arms aloft and an ecstatic smile showing no agony from his exertion, though he later said, "The last kilometer I could enjoy it a bit, but before then there was so much suffering."  His efforts also earned him the Yellow Jersey.  That's good news for Froome as his team will now waste energy defending it that could later cost BMC contenders Porte and Van Garderen.

I pushed on until ten once again, putting me within ninety miles of tomorrow's finish.  It will take some luck to arrive before the peloton, but I will at least meet up with it for the start of the stage the day after on the eve of the Pyrenees, where The Race will truly begin.