Monday 23rd July  Replan Day, and the rest

I had to come home on Friday to fulfill a wedding shoot that I'd promised I'd do. That meant missing Saturday and Sunday, but I reckoned that would be OK, and that I'd go back to France on Monday. Wrong. My house flooded, and I had to stay put. Its too boring for words to write about and anyway, I'm sure that many other floodees have better tales to tell, so we'll leave it at that, but suffice to say, I didn't get back to France as planned, and had to do some major juggling to get back at all.

But by the time I did - on Sunday 29th - it had all gone horribly wrong anyway. Vinokourev was out, so was Rasmussen, Sinkewitz had abandoned but had also provided a postive test, but then Colfidis got booted out thanks to Cristian Moreni, and that meant no more Bradley Wiggins to cheer on. That changed everything for me, and even the one remaining day became a chore. By the time that Iban Mayo was nabbed, I couldn't really have cared less.

I stood on the side of a street in Paris, looking around as I waited for what was left of the peloton for the last time. Something had changed, and it wasn't just me. There was something in the air, a feeling of disappointment and an air of going through the motions. As I wandered around looking for the last few photographs, I chatted to several people.

“I think that people have had enough of the cheating this year” said one man. “ It has been quite shocking, and  I should think that real fans have had enough, but it’s the same for the ordinary people who come out of their homes to cheer them on.  It comes along here every year and I always come out to see it but there is hardly anybody here this year in comparison to normal. I don’t know why, but for me, it is the cheating. Why bother when you don’t know who deserves it and who doesn’t? ”

But why is this year different?

“ I don’t know, but I think people are just fed up with the whole thing.  The riders are all professional athletes and they have the best of everything – people to help with their diet, the best bikes, good equipment. They are also well paid and well looked after – in a way, all they do is turn up and ride and everything else is done for them. But even with all of that, some of them still cheat. Why? It is very sly.  It’s not like in the old days when some were poor or also had to work at a job to pay for themselves, or had to cheat because they didn’t have everything that they needed.  No, today none of that is necessary. Those who cheat today cheat because they want to not because they need to.” 

Or as another spectator said: “It’s a bit like finding out that somebody who you’d thought was special is really just like you, and nobody wants that. It makes me think that if I trained and had the best bike and didn’t have to work, and had somebody to massage me and feed me, then maybe I could win!”

But on a more serious note, it seemed that national pride had been dishonoured. One lady summed it up very simply:

“ This has been a very bad year for France and for Le Tour. I watch a bit on the TV and when it gets to Paris, I come out and watch from the street.  It is usually exciting to come out and cheer. But this year, we (the French) have no riders near the top, so that is not good for us, although in the early stages, our riders were doing well. But when one of our teams (Cofidis) abandoned, that was terrible. I felt really bad. These men and their drugs…….. a French team caught cheating in a French event! They embarrass France. Before it was foreigners but now it is us – that is not good.”

I wonder how many of those people who'd struggled up the Galibier, or who'd sat out in hot sun all around France, just to see a few minutes of the pro peloton, will turnout next year? I've got just under a year to decide on whether I will.

Tuesday  17th Col de Galibier

Today was probably the best day of the Tour so far. Back on track after yesterday, we were up very early and on the road to get to the Col de Galibier before it was shut. This is one of the high passes in the Alps, and we knew that it would be difficult to get to the summit without a fight, even though we had the required passes.

The pass sign at the base in the town of  St Michel de Murienne said ‘Ferme’ but we decided to test it as the sign really denotes the condition of the pass weatherwise, rather than Tourwise, but it had obviously been called into service to help traffic regulation. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, and we carried on, up past camper after camper, bend after bend until we reached the town of Valloire, and a huge traffic jam. 

It turned out to be gendarme inspired, with two directing French motorists one way and the French motorists refusing to follow their instructions, and intent on doing their own thing. It looked like stalemate, and I thought that it was the end of the road for us, but then we were unwittingly saved by another press vehicle. While the driver drove down the wrong side of the jam, the passenger lent out of the window brandishing a piece of paper at a bemused gendarme guarding the barrier and access to the Col. I spotted that he had the same sticker category as us, so I followed him, waving my own hastily grabbed piece of paper and driving straight at the same gendarme who by now had opened the barrier for the first car but was unable to shut it before I was through and away up the mountain.

Several miles later, we were at the summit, looking down from 2645m onto the most amazing impromptu campsite in the world, with throngs of people lining every ridge and pathway. And in the absence of vegetation , their presence stood out even more against the stark landscape and backdrop of show capped mountains.  But what was really amazing though was the continuous stream of people who had walked or cycled from the bottom, carrying cooler boxes and chairs, and dragging reluctant dogs, children, and elderly relatives, albeit not all on a lead. They then all walked back down again after the race had passed, but at least it was downhill.

It is something like a 40km climb from St Michel de Murienne so by the time the riders reached the summit, they were shattered. Standing just beyond the summit on the first part of the decent proved to be a wise move as many sat up and took in a lung full of air before the welcome descent. Understandably, the race was very elongated by then and the riders went past in a long straggle rather than a bunch. They disappeared from view, only to reappear several minutes later, no bigger than tiny specs as they reached the straights after the hairpin bends.


Monday   16th Rest Day Italy

No doubt the riders did need it, but boy, so did we. We’d covered well over 1500 miles by today, map reading on the go, jumping in and out of the car, climbing walls, running across fields and up vineyards with heavy camera gear, dodging gendarmes, then eating and sleeping when we could. All we needed was a day to clear out the car, refold the maps that were strewn across the seats, recharge laptops and cameras, and buy some food. Either that or find a willing soigneur to do it for us.

But we didn’t want to relax too much for fear of not getting going the next day, so it was up and out as usual, do the chores, then off across the Alps to Italy for a spot of lunch. We followed the route of the previous day and realised that after ‘our climb’ there were more before the stage finish, but by the time we’d got to the St Bernard Pass, we’d forgotten about the riders and how hard it must have been for them, and were much more interested in the mountains and our impending lunch.

There was still snow at road level so we had a bit of a toboggan on plastic bags, before eating pizza in a restaurant on the Aosta road. That’s when it got a bit surreal as we met a waiter that we knew from London, who was homesick for Hounslow – really. We ventured a bit further down the Italian side of the mountain into a town called La Thule and then headed back.

Sunday  15th   Le Grand Bornand to Tignes

A very hilly day today, with six climbs and an 18km, 5.4% uphill finish into Tignes. This is a proper Alpine area that really comes to life in the ski season, but in the summer months has a fledgling tourist industry of hill walkers, campers and Tour fans.

Unlike the flat areas of the Tour, the mountains can be a bit restrictive since roads follow rivers and valleys and there is usually not an easy alternative route. That means that you have to go with the road and often can’t get round another way. This was the case in Beaufort, just over 50 miles from the start of the stage, and where we arrived on Bastille Day.

Although Beaufort was a feed station, we decided that hairpin climbs would be more interesting, and made for the mountains very early in the morning. We slept in the car to get a good spot. It was worth it, firstly for the early morning view, but secondly for the sight of the peloton winding its way up from the town. By the time they reached us, about 4 miles up from Beaufort, the sun was hot, and they riders were clearly suffering in the heat. With jerseys open, there was a distinct lack of chatter from the bunch as each man focused on the ground in front of his wheel, no doubt visualising reaching the top of the climb.  The bunch was also very strung out by the time it reached us, taking a good twenty minutes to pass. Charlie Wegelius was the first Brit, followed by Wiggins, then Millar, and Geraint Thomas in the last few. Mark Cavendish was conspicuous by his absence, and just as we were wondering where he might be, the T Mobile car came along, with a very tired and fed up looking Mark in the passenger seat. He looked wrecked, with fresh cuts and scrapes on his arms, and his later retirement was no surprise.

Saturday   14th -Bastille Day Bourg en Bresse to Le Grand Bornand

A huge cathedral dominates Bourg en Bresse, and the town is famous for its cuisine. Poultry and pike seem to be top of the pops for gastronomes, with Bresse Fowl getting the vote from everybody apart from chickens and vegetarians. The foothills of the low alpine region start round here, and are reminiscent of Italy, Austria and Switzerland, yet with vineyards still reaching up the lower slopes.

Le Grand Bornand  is higher still, and is big on Reblochon cheese. It’s also home to the first ski club (founded 1923) and was the scene of a mass execution in WW2 when 76 suspected collaborators were publicly put to death by the French Resistance. Unfortunately, it was realised too late that several were innocent.

We stopped on the main road to Culoz, next to a steep vinyard. The area was fought over at various times by ancient Greeks, Romans and then Barbarians, but thankfully on the day we turned up, nobody was interested in anything except the cycling, and dozing in the sun. What a relief, and as a result, the peloton passed by peacefully, and without incident, brightening up the uniform greenness of the surroundings with multicoloured lycra.

Friday  13th  Samur en Auxois to Bourg en Bresse

Our day started half way down the route, on flat land just south of Givry. It was hot – very hot – and with no shade, so we draped covers over the car and crawled under them when it all got too much.

One of the difficult things about the Tour is working out what is going on. There are so many competitions within the main race, that it’s almost impossible to follow. But today was a bit different, because as the race approached, a nearby spectator turned up his radio, and “Bradleeee Weeegeeens” and “ le anglais Weeegeeens” could be heard over everything else. Nobody was quite sure exactly what the commentator was on about – even the French were confused – but it was clear that our Brad was up to something. But it all became very clear when the small dot that appeared on the horizon several km down the road morphed into a red clad and very hot looking lone Cofidis rider from London, surrounded by motorcycles and helicopters. It was Bradley, way out on his own, leading the stage. The French cheered because it was a French team, but we yelled and waved and generally shouted ourselves hoarse because he was one of ‘ours’, and in the hope that it would spur him on. Poor bloke must have wondered what was happening, especially when I jumped out of the drain where I’d taken refuge from the sun. He kept it up till 7km from the finish, when he was finally caught, but the ride was sufficient to win his the combatative rider prize. The atmosphere at the presentation was electric. What a day!

Thursday  12th  Chablis to Autun

After the flat of yesterday, we went looking for something different, and found it in the woods of Morvan.  The scenery changed noticacbly round here and looks a bit like Devon, although the area is at the heart of France.

But before picking our spot, we drove down from Chablis, waved at the Milram team who were sorting out their bags in front of the Campanile, looked furtively at the women’s prison at Joux la Ville, and resisted any temptation to try the region’s famous white wine (Chablis).  The whole area is very rural and was the political stronghold of Francois Mitterand, former president of France and town Mayor of Chateau Chinon.

Having driven down the route ahead of le caravane, and waving to hundreds of assorted spectators as we did so, we finally stopped just beyond the summit of the 7km climb not far from Chateau Chinon. Despite the  remoteness of the area and the exceptionally narrow lanes, the route was packed – cars, campervans, people on bicycles. But it gave us the opportunity to catch the riders just as they were resting after the climb but before the next one several miles to the south.  It was also quite cool, but the light was difficult – constantly changing from sun and harsh shadows because of the trees to dull diffused light that was quite dark.

Getting away afterwards was an absolute nightmare, with very large campervans fighting for space on roads that were less that half of the width of one, and with deep ditches either side. After a few hundred metres of crawling, we parked up and let them go, slipping quietly into Autun after the rush.

Wednesday  11th  Villers Cotterets to Joigny

About 55 miles east of Paris, Villers Cotterets is not only the home town of Three Muskateers creator Alexandre Dumas, but it’s also where in 1539, Francois 1st binned latin and other useful local dialects, and made French the official language of administrative and legal matters. It’s also got a half finished castle (as opposed to the more usual half destroyed version) after workers downed tools when their boss Louis, the younger brother of King Charles the Mad was murdered by the dastardly John the Fearless. But today, it was just the start point for stage five, due to end 193km later in Joigny.

In cycling terms though, the wide open fields and flat terrain of this area of France is not that exciting, so we made for a the feeding station at Nogent Sur Seine, about half way down the stage. Gustave Flaubert set one of his novels here, (A sentimental Education) but that was before the nuclear power plant arrived and it two cooling towers turned any notion of sentiment to horrible blot on the landscape.

The whole town was cordoned off, so after a quick recce, a cheery way to a distant gendarme and then a scrambling hike over a wall and through a nearby garden, we got onto the course and found a narrow bit of road where the riders would have to funnel through after picking up their musettes.

We also found Australians – lots of them – at various points along the main street. None of them were connected but they’d all chosen the same town on the same day. Some were on a cycling tour, two from Melbourne lived in the town, while several others had just turned up because ‘it was easy to find’.

The Tour was running late though, and that made me walking up and down the route with heavy camera gear the only point of entertainment for onlookers. But they were happy to chat, have their picture was taken, and afterwards use me to swap caravan freebies with friends across the course.

When the riders finally arrived, our spot on the edge of town turned up trumps. The pace slowed but was quick enough to be exciting, and riders threw unwanted items into the kerb as they rummaged in their musettes.  I’m not sure if the Gerolsteiner rider who lobbed his bidon, intentionally aimed at my head, but having ducked and still managing to catch it, it was a welcome trophy for the day.

The day ended with a Credit Agricole/Thor Hushovd victory, set up by Julian Dean, and a sprint from the 300m mark. Sylvain Chavanel and Matthieu Sprick who had been way out in front were caught 5km from the finish, but Fabian Cancerella retained his yellow jersey for stage five.

Tuesday  10th    Waregem to Compiegne

Monday’s rain did not linger into Tuesday, but Quickstep’s home victory did; you could feel it in the excitement lingering as the riders prepared to leave Waregem in Belgium and return to France. As they set off, the wild cheering of Boonen and Steegmans followed the peloton all the way to the border.

Waregem is a big horseracing town akin to Newmarket, yet only became a city in 1977 when four smaller towns merged ,but its most recent claim to fame is the annual staging of the semi classic Across Flanders cycle event. The French finish point for this stage though, is perhaps more famous than the Belgian start; Compiegne – aka The Imperial City – was founded by the splendidly named Charles the Bald, was the place where Joan of Arc was captured by the English, and in 1940, was where Hitler accepted the French surrender. Its also been the start of the annual Paris Roubaix race  for thirty years, but it the Tour hasn’t visited for twenty five.

But there was no real drama today on what was a uniformly flat stage, with no rises above more than 200m, and David Millar riding into town still decked out in the Polka dot jersey.

Monday 9th July    Off on 'Le Tour'

After a busy weekend of Le Tour in the southeast, it all went wrong on Sunday evening when I missed the boat to France. Despite indestructable plans and spares of everything, a computer glitch forced an unscheduled return to London. Unfortunately, several million other people were also making their way back via the M25, although thankfully not to my house.  But the ensuing jam provided some cathartic rant time, followed by constructive thinking, and it wasn’t long before I’d fixed what needed fixing and was on my way back to Dover.

On the map, the Tour route looks quite straightforward. But of course, it takes no account of road closures and spectators, albeit some disruption can be anticipated. Not the gendarmes though, who as I quickly learned, are best avoided at every opportunity. “ Oui madame, your pass is in order but mon chef is eating and he has not yet told me if I can let anybody through.” or  “ You must turn around and go to the first exit” “Yes, but it is shut and your friend says I must come here” “But it is his turn to be open, and I cannot change it without le chef”. Zut alors. Perhaps not deliberately awkward but definitely working in another dimension.

However, Le Tour is bigger than the minor problems, and it was always going to be worth persevering. So much passion and effort goes in to the whole thing at every turn, with every village or town on its route competing to put on the best show. Houses and shops, factories and schools, lamp posts, street signs, even farmyards are all decked out with yellow balloons and ribbons. Likewise, locals enter into the spirit and turn out for the tour, regardless of whether they are cycling fans or not.
And within an hour of the peloton swooping through and the voiture balai bringing up the rear, the detours and barriers have gone and its business as usual.