The 2004 edition of l’Etape du Tour and the Tour de France

Tom Ricketts

Introduction and Preparing for l'Etape

The Longest Day

On the Puy Mary Again

Joining the Roche Group

Rest Day on the Tour

A True Cannibal

The_Village_Départ

Back in Paris Again

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Introduction

My riding in France this summer was as a part of two guided tour groups.  The first was High Gear Travel and it was set up to have two separate groups.  One was more or less accompanied by Alex Stieda, a Canadian who was the first North American to wear the yellow jersey—for a few hours on one day between a short road stage and a team time trial that was a 7-11 disaster, and Davis Phinney, who was also a 7-11 rider and a stage winner in the Tour and a strong sprinter in his day.  For the High Gear folks this was their first venture into managing a trip around the Tour de France and, well, it didn’t go so good.  I’ll spare the gory details and just let it go at that.

My arrival was in Toulouse after a connection through London Gatwick which is a good way to get to Southern France because the London flight goes direct from Raleigh-Durham, was amazingly empty, and this meant that I’d have a pretty good chance of getting my bike to where it was going because there was plenty of time for the connection onto British Airways.  This worked as it should. I have done this connection three times and it’s worked all three times, so I recommend it for folks wanting to cycle in the Pyrenees and traveling from RDU

We were met at the Toulouse Airport but were held up there as we waited for someone or something to arrive. This delay made the whole trip from RDU to the first hotel a 24 hour slog.  The final 6-8 hours were due to little misunderstandings on the High Gear end and that set the tone for the trip.  My experience with the Tour de France told me that nothing but the Tour riders themselves would meet any kind of a schedule, so I wasn’t unprepared for a bit of chaos. But the cumulative delays made for a long week.

On the trip between Toulouse and Aubazine, where we were staying, we went via Varetz and the “Platinum,” group’s chateau.  This is where we learned about the difference between our group and the Platinum People as we drive up to a very nice place on a hill with plenty of folks offering the two people who were getting off there a hand.  They had been late and the “other” group simply had to wait while they were taken to their place.  Who cares; I’m in France, but it is getting toward midnight when I finally get a chance to get into my room.  I’m still road-juiced so I put my bike together in the dirt-floored garage under the hotel so I’ll feel like I’m a cyclist when I get up in the morning.

The next day, Saturday, we’re to go to l’Etape’s info village in Limoges and we learn that the bus driver has no idea where he is.  This condition lasts for quite a while.  First we drive to the Limoges Palace of Sports before we take over and tell him to follow the clearly posted signs that are stuck all over town to guide clueless foreigners out-of-town bus drivers to the village.  Serge, our driver, is good at getting the bus into small places, but the big picture eludes him for the week.  It doesn’t help that he is happily a monophone, this being France and he being French and our guides are more or less monophonic themselves.  But they can communicate to some degree and I can even pitch in with my Franglish and we generally end up within 20 miles of where we are headed for the remainder of the trip.  It does bother me that I am the only one to have an actual map of the region.  I lend it to our guides and it seems to help.

We do make it to the Etape village and I get my number after the longest Etape registration wait I’ve had in the three years I have done this, 5 minutes.  These folks know how to run a bicycle ride.  I see Raymond Poulidor and get his autograph on a picture he hands out in the Credit Lyonnais tent; buy a wind vest, having forgotten mine; and shop around in the many dealer and trade tents surrounding the central square where the organizers are trying to whip people up into a frenzy with a “géant tombola” or door-prize-raffle.  Most folks are just milling around, slowly going up to the very large display of the  course that is placed I the middle of the village, gauging the effort they’ll need to get across 147 miles of central France. 

I run into Alex Stieda and Davis Phiney and get a picture of them, and that’s the closest encounter we get with our celebrity “hosts” although Stieda does come by our hotel for a Q&A two nights later.  He’s entertaining, but seems like he wants to be backat the chateau with the high rollers. 

I eat a ham sandwich at the little buvette and hope for a good night’s rest when we get back to the hotel.  That will be helped if I can get in a little ride to get my system oriented.  The two hour bus ride back gives us an hour to ride before dinner and I spend most of that dealing with two flats.  I figure I’ll have to change the tire as well as the tube to resolve this and things seem to hold together as I adjust the bike for the big ride the next day.

Doing the 2004 l’Etape.  “The Longest Day”

The plan for our group is to get away from our hotel really early and get to Limoges for the start.  The plan is also to get a good night’s rest before the big ride.  But, dinner is late-ish and I’m not really sleeping until after midnight  It’s a 4 am departure, but we get away at 4:20.  Everyone is in a panic because the bus driver gets lost, but I’m of the mind that if we get there a little late we can always hop the barrier and get a good place in the line-up.  That doesn’t quite work out as the ride is staged on a relatively narrow main street and everyone has filled the starting pens.  So I get as close as 5 meters from the actual starting area on a side street and wait.

Its 6 am and the crowd of riders is generally awake and in a good mood.  Two French riders next to me are stuffing cardboard into their jersey fronts to ward off the cold.  A couple of Brits close by marvel at this Gallic oddness.  I ask the French guys where their more traditional warmers are, by this I mean the local newspaper, and a third guy with them lifts his shirt to show a copy of  “le Populaire du Centre” stuffed in.  “I am a respecter of tradition,” he says.  And it’s true, at the tops of the big climbs on the tour they still hand out newspapers for the riders to put in their jersey fronts to keep them warmer on the descents.

There’s a generally good mood and not a lot of shoving and or pushing but we are packed quite tightly and there are enough glares and “oooh, la, lahs” to stop a hyperactive American from doing his entire 20-minute Pilates stretching routine, or whatever he was trying to do to warm up that involved lots of reaching and flailing.

Soon enough it got to be 6:30 and the start happened somewhere down the street.  This year the music wasn’t so manic and throbbing and the announcer made less of a fuss over the visiting VIPs who were riding.  These included the usual appearance by Alain Prost, the former race car driver, and this year, a Wimbledon winner, Richard Krajicek, lined up at the start.  Abraham Olano, former world champion of road cycling was there and our group hoists, Alex Stieda and David Phinney, former tour riders, were in the VIP pen.

That didn’t matter much to me since these folks will finish well before I do, although I did manage to pass Stieda and Phinney since they were taking it easy telling stories about life with the old 7-11 team.

The charge out of town was generally uneventful but to a person new to this sort of thing it was quite a show.  It takes close to 30 minutes for the whole group to pass the start line and the spectacle is described as “ENORME” in the headline of the Populaire the next day. 

Out of town we go on to a main road, taking all 4 lanes and going the wrong way around traffic circles if we want.  The crowd never thins as we progressively filter down to a narrower roadway but there are no “bouchons” or traffic jams of riders as we get onto the country roads.  There are the usual hundreds of people slipping off the road and taking a leak just about anywhere.  At a small cross roads where several family types had lined up to cheer the group you got the sense that the left side of the roads was for spectators and the right side was an open air urinal.  At least there was a clear separation of purpose here.

The first 60, 70, even 80 k of the ride were pretty easy going in terms of hills and turns and I was happy to see myself keeping pace with most folks. Not a lot of people were passing me, which in a big ride like this is a bad sign for me—this means I’m likely carried on by adrenaline and going too fast.  I’d more clearly recognize that sign a little later.  The first categorized climb, up Mont Gargan, was a steady 5-6 percent in most places and I slowed to my usual plodding uphill rate and that’s when people began to pass in droves.  I wasn’t going to sucker into any heroics but I did find myself moving at a little better pace than I anticipated. 

The climbs in l’Etape are marked with signs that tell you that it’s “3 km a sommet” or whatever distance it was  to the top, and this climb metered out nicely and I was able to accelerate for the final kilometer feeling pretty strong.  The same happened on the col de Lestards, a 5 km run up to 856 meters altitude.  After the col the winding downhills got serious and my bulk gave me a little advantage over gravity-challenged descenders.  I made good time downhill all day, very rarely getting passed and passing many folks who I’d later see passing me on the uphill.  This happened with Elvis over three climbs and descents.

Elvis was an English guy dressed in a pretty convincing Elvis Presley impersonator get up with a big head of black hair, a truncated cape, rhinestone glasses, and a nice voice.  He actually sang as he passed waving and cheering crowds.  We struck up a conversation because we were both riding Litespeed Vortexes, though his was a year newer.  Nice guy and clearly a good rider because his mini-cape didn’t seem to hold him back.   I agreed to be his agent and went ahead in a few little towns announcing that “The KING arrives! Vive le Roi de Rock”.  Hey, if he was going to go to all that much trouble to be silly, I could help. 

Elvis, like so many other riders, vanished up the hills as we started into serious climbing later on and I was beginning to pay for my early enthusiasm. The cote de Soursac and the cote de Montplasir were tougher but shorter climbs and by kilometer 120 I was getting that empty feeling and struggling to hold wheels in groups.  These “cotes” are the uphill exits from the Gorge de Dordogne, a very scenic river that runs through this area and is the summer stomping grounds of many hikers and holiday-makers from the UK and other parts of northern Europe.  The climbs were stiff but short and they tempted me to keep my pace up while trying for the final uphill kilometer on each cote.  The “flat” after those two was actually a very long uphill and it tolled on me as I struggled into the pretty town of Salers and the feed station. 

I’d passed up the first feed station because it was real chaos.  Instead of having it along the side of the route it was in a parking lot off the road and there was a jam of people going in and trying to get out.  I had lots of food with me in the form of power bars and some Goo packets (sugary, gooey stuff) and a full bottle of sport drink, so I went ahead.  By the time I got to Salers, though, I was empty and in need of sustenance, so I wolfed down four orange quarters as fast as they’d go in my mouth and gulped down water and Perrier, and flavored Vittel water, and tried some bottled stuff that was bright yellow and looked energy-producing but was really gas-inducing.  I took a brief sit under a tree at the far end of the feed station and took inventory of myself and decided that I was OK and could go ahead but I needed to keep calm.  Calm I wasn’t when five minutes later I’m chasing a group and trying to hold a set of fast wheels. I manage to get my pace back up and I start getting a feeling I can actually make this in less than ten hours and get a silver medal, which, for my age group, is achieved with a ride of 9:45 or less.  Ah, hope springs eternal.

The col de Neronne is a classified climb and starts just outside of Salers.  It’s a gentle rise up into the Volcano country and the views and the countryside were very pleasant.  Verdant is a word that springs to mind, green hills and pastures with the occasional farmhouse and small village.   The cone shaped hills, or Puys were visible in the not so far off distance and I knew that one of these was Puy Mary, the anticipated monster climb.  It was reached by going up the relatively gentle slope of the col de Neronne, which is in a pleasant, wooded park.  After the col, the road then descended through the woods and it was a twisty, but easily managed descent, down to a little crossroads.  If you looked up toward the end of the downhill, you ran the risk of getting very disheartened, though.  You could see the side of a mountain, no problem, but as your eyes glanced up the apparent wall of green, you saw that there was a road up there, almost straight up and that there was a long slow thread of riders going up that road to a switchback.  This view was the most dramatic view of a bike ride I have ever seen from the bottom of a climb.  My first thought was, “where’s the elevator that got them up there.” The elevator was right ahead, only there wasn’t a button to push, just two pedals.

In the paper the next day there were pictures of the riders on this climb and the cut lines for the pictures read things like “Every person for himself” and “the longest day” and “To finish you must suffer.”  They also ran a picture of Alain Prost getting a push up the hill from a friendly spectator.  That guy stuck around for me and gave me a nice boost during the 2.5 kilometer, 13 percent average, climb.  There were ramps that felt like 20 percent and a sign that identified the slope near a culvert as 25%.  The striking sight was the many, many people walking or falling over or cussing in low tones in French, English, Breton; I think I even hear Occitanian.  But “holy crap” is sort of understood in any language.

I talked myself up the climb by meters and had a conversation with my bike computer as it read out the slowly changing hundredths of a kilometer.  I was going a roaring 4 kph and actually passing people.  One guy started to weave in front of me, got straightened up, stood on his pedals to continue on and… nothing happened.  He just fell over, keeping a firm grip on his handlebars and his shoes clipped in. He just thudded over on his side.  The spectators seemed to have seen this lots of times and were able to help him up but he was going to walk if he was going to get to the top.

The top of the climb came into view, still way up and you could see the camper vans of the people who had come to see the real tour that was going to pass this way in three days.  The spectator groups were out cheering us on even though it was 40 degrees farenheit and the wind was piping along at 20 mph.  The struggle up to the top was first eased by the widening of the road then hindered by the fact that there were people all over it, collapsing, pushing, wandering.  There was a feed stop, but it was 40 meters SHORT of the summit.  No way I was going to stop and have to get back going on an uphill.  I spotted a bar or restaurant or something at the very summit and aimed for that, sure that I could buy something to replenish my glycogen stores.  There was, indeed, a little outdoor buvette, or drink stand, and for 1.30 euro I got a coke and moved to the side of the road to gulp it down and suck on a nearly frozen power bar. 

“I’d done it,” or so I thought.  “It’s all downhill from here,” I told myself.  Knowing that it really wasn’t but nothing could be as bad at the Col du Pas de Peyrol which is what this little bit of elevated hell was called.  It allowed Richard Virenque the chance to get away from Axel Mercxx on the Wednesday stage and from where I stood, it looked like it also blew up Tyler Hamilton.  It was a tough, if short, climb even for the pros.

The downhill wasn’t that bad, that is, what I can remember.  When I came back to see the Tour go over the Puy, I realized that I got going really well on the downhill part after the first sharp turn and the road stayed straight and the descent got really fast. 

It was cold, I knew that, but the warming was palpable as I descended, passing people but fewer and fewer as I went along.  There was another small climb, the col d’Entremont, it was like the day’s first,  but the fact that I’d gone 100 miles made the trip up this cat 3 climb a lot different.  The downhill from the col was thrilling, a long relatively straight slide off the side of the hills that led to the valley where St. Flour was, but there was a turn to the right and an awful sign appeared, “sommet a 9 km.”  This was the Plomb de Cantal which peaked at the Prat de Bouc.  Not so high, but long and tough at this point in the ride.  There was some serious talking to myself at this point.  I tried to spot a wheel that was at slightly better than my sluggish pace to see if I could smooth out my pedaling.  I’d count revolutions; see which combinations of hours, minutes and seconds made a prime number; contemplate the sweat drops on my stem, wonder if the fizzy stuff at the next feed stop would be toxic; anything to take my mind off the growing pain in my legs.

But like all climbs to date, it ended, and we rolled down into a small town, I was almost feeling good.  I was in a group that seemed willing to pull hard and the mood was lifting.  Then we turned left and, oh no; or actually a chorus of “merde” went up from the group.  There was a slope up to a hilltop with god only knew what beyond.  The panic was so palpable that a lady by the side of the road hurriedly blurted ”seulment 800 meters.”  “I’ll count every one,” said one of the riders.  Up we went and it was only 800 meters and the drop down to the next valley really was where St. Flour lie, but I knew that town was on a hill.  No matter, life was now downhill and good.  A group got together and we pulled along the flat and winding road.  I rode with a nice guy from Ireland side-by-side, neither of us feeling the need to either pull or draft, just glad of the company and the warm sun we could feel.

The road was a gently curving and generally downhill run that wound around farms and small copses of trees.  The Massif Central was showing itself well.  My Irish buddy and I wondered if there was to be an uphill finish in St. Flour, but we agreed to believe that that was only for the Tour and we’d be spared a final humiliation.  Over a bridge, the last upclick on the route, brought us into the suburbs of St. Flour.  I wasn’t the pretty hilltop village of the posters, but, from this way in, a standard French town with a factory or two. The 5, then 3, then 2 kilometers “a arrive” signs passed with beneficent aplomb, then there it was, in a bend to the right, the big balloon arch and the little red triangular flag, the “flamme rouge”, the mark of the last kilometer.  Oh joy! And I mean corny thoughts like that literally leapt into my head.  I was with 10 or so guys and it looked like we were going to get stupid and actually sprint to the finish.  There was a bend to the right onto a wide city street and we cranked it up, then a bend to the left and, whoa! there was a group of same-uniformed bike riders spread completely across the road with “Course Control” on their jerseys and they were preceded by a car with the same message on a roof top sign and it was leading them at 25 kph into the town center.  They had slipped onto the road to keep silly, exhaustion-addled cyclists from trying to sprint to the line and likely disaster.  We relented, although the transition happened on a downhill part and my gravity advantage took me to the front of the group as we swept around a left turn. 

There it was, the finish arch, and a huge crowd and noise and the line and people helping me across the line and more or less gently directing me to a guy who gives me a food ticket and the medal while someone, unseen, grasping at my feet, takes the transponder.  I don’t see the big clock that displays the elapsed time, but my computer tells me I’ve been rolling for 10 hours and 14 minutes and my blood starved brain starts an hour-long calculation of how long I took at the stops and my visit to the loo at kilometer 140 so I’d know my “official” point-to-point time. 

The High Gear chaos took hold again, there was no one waiting at the finish for the riders, but I was almost mentally prepared for a long wait.  I got my post-ride food bag and found a spot to sit where someone might see me.  The promised person waiting at the exit from the course was AWOL for the duration.  I did spot one of our group and we wandered a bit gathering up strays and then got word, somehow, that we were to meet in the middle of a traffic circle not far from the village.  There, in the midst of swirling traffic, we learned that we were to go down the hill to a hotel near the train station and we could get showers and have a meal. This came off with a few glitches and by dusk (10 pm) we were on our way back to Aubazine for a midnight arrival.  The Longest Day was right.

My scratch time turned out to be 10’50” (Official time 10:40:17) and I finished something like 4769 out of 7,800 who actually started; only 6,555 finished in the cut off time.  I was 1,143 in my class of 1,660—the men’s 50 to 60 age group.  This was good, but my grandiose notions of a sub 10-hour ride kept nagging at me until I told myself the truth—I was really hoping to be able to just finish, and under 11 hours was a good thing for a recreational cyclist like myself, 55 years old and nursing some cartilage-less knees.  So, I ought to be happy.  I will be, when you see me.  I’ll be glad to boast how I conquered the longest, hardest stage of the 2004 Tour, the “Monstre du Massif.”

Tom Ricketts

Dossard Number 3701

On the Puy Mary Once Again

The day before yesterday  we started in Salers, one of the “most beautiful villages” in France and it was a really pretty place.  The village sat on a slight rise in the rolling countryside, all gray and neat.  The light brown fields set off the dark stone that all the buildings were made of.  We’d ridden through the town on l’Etape and the feed station there was unlike the others because the people running it were careful to let you know that they didn’t want you throwing your water bottles or banana peels or ham sandwich detritus on their lovely lawns.  They wanted to keep their “most beautiful” status.  That appellation is awarded by some arm of the tourism establishment in France and is a sure attractor of tourists who were swarming the town in their thousands, both to shop for the regional cheese and handmade toys, as well as the Tour, which would come through later in the day.

I didn’t take much time looking about because I knew that the Puy Mary climb would have lots of people there and they were likely to close the roads and make it difficult to get to a good place to watch the climb.  This was so, as the gendarmes closed the road at the bottom of the climb and then even further back a half hour after I passed through. 

The Puy Mary is an extinct volcano, one of hundreds that dot the regional landscape, but these geologic relics have left only the cone shaped peaks to remind us of their violent past because they are all green and give the horizon an interesting and soothing effect rather than suggest explosive power.  The Puy Violent is the only reminder that these were gas and lava-generating vents to the hot core of the earth.

Heat was, however, starting to be an issue for bicycle riding.  The cool days of the Tour were now giving way to the sunny, more seasonable weather of the south of France and the climbs for the day were going to have riders shedding their arm warmers and long pants for open jerseys and a dousing with water.

My ride from Salers was uneventful, the climb up to the col de Neronne serene and steady.  I stopped at the col for a coke and to look over the scene which was dominated by Serge the bar singer who had set up outside with his music machine and was torturing the growing crowd with morose love songs.  The crowd paid no attention and chowed down on hot dogs and baguettes. 

The riders were mostly pausing at the col before heading on to Puy Mary and many of these riders were of the American kind happy to blurt out their life stories in a few moments as they hailed other American riders with their recognizable Postal garb, or BackRoads Tours, or Clem’s Chiropractic (Best in Boulder), or whatever was flashy US-style cycling gear.  Lots of yanks, as the Brits would say.  No matter,, they rode well and I rode on by myself. 

The drop of the col de Neronne was less of a downhill than I remember and I pushed on the big ring through most of the descent reflecting that I coasted during l’Etape.  At the bottom I rode along with two Americans I’d seen in Limoges. He was a tall guy with a Colavita Bollla and she with a US Naval Academy strip.  “You go to the Academy?” I asked and she replied that she did. I said that the coming climb was going to be tough and noticed the two were running 23s in the back (A 23 tooth rear sprocket, a tough gear to use when climbing steeply), but they looked young a fit.  When we reached the clearing in the forst that gave a view up to the Puy Mary, and this is a vertical look, I pointed it out, “we go up there,” I said.  “Impressive,” the woman replied.  The gut shot off with glory in mind and I stuck just behind the navy cadet.  When the road turned left and jumped up to its MINIMUM 15%, she pushed up her pace and disappeared.  I got into my smallest ring and began to churn noticing that I could work with my third largest rear cog which I am slightly embarrassed to say was a 23, so I’m running 30x23, not quite mountain bike gearing, but in the range.  The climb stayed reasonable but hard, it was a lot different to go up this hill after 10 miles than 100. 

The crowd was closing in on the road and there were hundred walking up the hill with backpacks and there were a lot of other cyclists struggling up the hill riding all manner of two-wheeled craft and some were just stopping where they gave out.  I was happy to test myself on the slope and very pleased at my rate of progress.  When I got tot eh 25% ramp in the middle of the first half of the ascent, I just geared down to the truly mountain bike 30x29 and had no trouble.  After that it was a steady ride up to the switchback and then after the road turned right I felt so good I geared back up and stepped up the pace, able to move well in the crowd.  The remaining one kilometer of 15% was no problem except for the “Blue Wall.”  That’s the cluster of gendarmes who are stopping people and not letting them go into the barricaded final 400 meters.  So, I stop and walk around to the right hand side of the barricade, not knowing that this would seal my fate as to where I watched the climb.

The barricades kept people from crossing the road, so you were either on the bar side or not on the bar side.  On either side you had viewing choices that were elevated.  On my side, up the actual Puy Mary, which was a very steep climb to the top of the cone of the extinct volcano, there was no bar—I chose to call it the “family side.”  On the other side there was a steep climb up a companion hump of mountain that rose a few hundred meters less than the Puy.  I locked my bike to a fence along side another fellow from the group and started to climb the Puy.  I stopped climbing shortly and just lay down in the lush grass and decided I’d take in the spectacle on the road and slopes below without conquering this particular Puy.

It was very peaceful; bright sunshine, fresh air, the noise from below was a distant and not unpleasant addition to the day.  The crowd was growing and people came up the three ways to the pass constantly throughout the next two hours it took for the caravan to go by and the race to arrive.  These folks either walked up the three miles or rode a bicycle—and there were thousands of them.  The Tour de France may be free to all spectators, but they truly pay with their effort.

I stood next to a cyclist and turned to comment on the day and realized that he was Jon Vaughters, an ex-pro rider, a member of the Credit Agricole team until a couple of years ago, a one time team mate of Lance, and he held the record for the ascent up Mount Ventoux until Iban Mayo broke it this spring. 

“Hi, Jon. How’s it going?”

Vaughters is a nice fellow, like most accomplished cyclists.  He was there with the Trek group and had ridden up just like any of the other fans.  We talked for quite a while about developmental cycling.  He’s running a team sponsored by TIAA-CREF to help move junior cyclists into the upper ranks of amateur and then into pro competition. That’s a good thing. 

When the race started to go by we were generally distracted and didn’t say much but after the first bunch crested the hill we both agreed Tyler Hamilton looked quite cooked.  Vaughters had spoken to him the night before and Tyler had said he was having problems in general, not the least of which was a bad back.

The autobus of riders soon went by and then the “fin de course” van, and then we all started down the mountain.  I grabbed my bike and pushed against the flow of the crowd who wanted to take the short route down—which to them meant going up the hill—while I wanted to go down and back the way I came.  I eventually got past the barricades and onto my bike and headed down the puy.  This was pretty hairy and people were lurching around, chatting distractedly, waving flags, hailing buddies, and not taking any set course on their way to where they were going.  A rather stupid fellow was struggling up the hill on an overgeared bike and he zigged directly in front of me but somehow we didn’t crash.  This was another “stoopeed Americain” given the loud “Damn” he gasped as he lurched back away from my wheel.  The descending crowd unanimously razzed him to get off his bike and walk up if he was going to try to get through the thousands now coming down.

The ride back into Salers was uneventful until I rode past a pile of bikes and one guy from High Gear standing by the road.  I stopped and asked what happened.

One of the fellows in the group had mounted his fanny pack on his handle bars and the bouncing downhill threw it into his front wheel whereupon he crunched. This launched the guy behind him into a somersault, and the five who were riding together all crashed out.  All five bikes has some damage as they went down at 30 mph.  The remaining fellow held up a wheel with half its spokes torn out attached to a fork that had lost its frame.  Davis Phinney was with the group but didn’t get bruised.  Later he reportedly said the second guy in the group went higher in the air than any cyclist he has ever seen.

When we got back in Salers to see King Richard (Virenque) solo in for a Bastille Day victory in a bar, we learned the special secrets of the day.  First Sheryl Crow arrived on the really steep switchback ahead of the race to watch her boy, Lance, keep the tempo up the hill.  He must have told her that that spot was a “defining moment” place.  She was all in white and had a minder with her.  When the race went by she headed up the hill and got into a team car and chased on ahead to St. Flour.  I almost ran into her going down.

Tyler Hamilton took at least one long push from the crowd and maybe two as he went up the short 25% part of the climb.  He was really hurting.

Many of the High Gear group got in a front page picture in l’Equipe the next day and that made the tour for some folks.

The “Cutters” and the Roadside Tour thing is really awful to watch.  This is staged enthusiasm with a lot of elitist separation from the real crowd.  There are likely a thousand real American fans who ride bikes along the Tour route, up long hard hills, and cheer on their favorites—while these bozos lounge around waiting for the camera to get pointed at them.  Not a great thing for cycling to turn it into another spectator sport where the spectators are abnormal louts.

My close encounter with them in Noblet was weird as they debated among themselves how to make commitment to cycling on the part of small-town French people a joke they could put on the air.  I was asked by one of the producers if I had seen any segments while I was in the US and I said I had.  “How does it look?” he asked.  “Well, you’re trying” was my answer.

The ride back to the next hotel was long but through some very pretty scenery that one day I will return to.  The hotel in Causse Comtal was isolated and OK.  I left my room window open when I went to the 9 pm dinner and forgot to turn off the light in the room.  When I returned, it was filled with flies and flying ants and moths and other beasties.  Oh, well.

The next day, yesterday, was a long ride into Lourdes for a small group of us in a van.  My intention was to transfer to another van and get a ride directly into Pau but, that didn’t happen.  The guys were going to ride the Hautacam and I was either going to wait in Loopy-Lourdes with tens of thousands of pilgrims circling me, or head out on my bike for the relative sanity of climbing 13 kilometers of 8 percent grade.  I chose the latter, telling the guys not to wait at the top for me, I’d be happy to come down when they passed me on their return. It turned out that I got to the top when the last of the others had finished their rest and taken pictures and had a drink and whatever.  I guess I was 10 minutes slower. But, I had bagged a “grand col”,  and this was the one Lance won in 1999 to announce his return to the top of racing.

Monday, July 19^th The Roche Group

I got into Aix-les-Bains and settled in to the Hotel Astoria; the people who were to ride with the Stephen Roche group were going to come in over the next day and a half so there wasn’t much that was formally arranged.  The early arrivers got together for a ride at 2 pm and I joined them.  This was maybe 14 or so of the folks, half with rented or purchased Stephen Roche bikes, half with their own..  Almost half were women and the riders were of all abilities.  Phillipe and Geordie, the two ride leaders—both of whom were veterans of the Roche camp on Mallorca—led the group out of Aix-les-Bains for a ride around lac du Bourget, an alpine lake that is joined to the Rhone by a canal.  It’s a long lake, 12 kilometers by 3 at its widest and surrounded by mountains; the Massif du Bauges to the east and the Mount Chat to the west.  We were to take the relatively easy bike route around the lake that included a climb up the col du Chat (which can be translated as Cat’s Pass).

The day was getting hot, mid-eighties, and a little on the humid side so folks were filling their bottles at the big fountain in front of the hotel that spouted drinking water from four spigots  It seemed like everyone in town would use it to fill their liter bottles and to splash some on their heads and faces.  It was pretty handy for us, given that there wasn’t a handy place to get bottled water nearby, the big spa seemed to have a monopoly.

The ride was reasonably calm on the bike path that led down to the south end of the lake.  You had to cross town and over the train tracks to get to it and it served as a commuting and leisure trail that connected the various beaches and marina on the eastern, or city side.  The group rode with a reasonable amount of caution and managed to get to the south end of the lake in good order before we turned up on the west side where there was an awkward turn or two then the road rose a bit and we were in a quiet section on rural roads.  We made a wrong turn and got to a tunnel that led under Mount Chat where bikes were not allowed so we traced backward to the turn that led up to the col du Chat and immediately began a 4 kilometer 7-8 percent climb. 

Elizabeth, a fellow Triangle, North Carolina rider who I’ve been able to generally keep up with back home, was going well and I was pacing with her but I stupidly spun harder and tried to stick with the lead group for the first hilly bit.  When the road tilted up strongly toward the col du Chat, I dropped back to the middle of the group that had strung itself out along the climb.  Soon Elizabeth and I were talking with Jean-Pierre, a Frenchman from Sallanches, a town near Mont Blanc in the French Alps.  He was a business man who made good and was now living la Vie en Rose, riding bikes and taking it easy; nice guy. 

The climb was a Cat 2 climb for the Tour and a good initiation to the French climbs for the people who just got to France.  Two kilometers up, there was a beautiful view and Elizabeth asked if she should stop to take a picture and I said, if it looks good here, it might not look good up there, and we stopped for a very brief snap.  We got back going as the slower riders caught up but we crept away and kept up a decent pace.

At the top of the climb we came to a place and a bar called “Belvedere “and it truly was a beautiful view out across the lake to Aix-les-Bains.  It also served as a welcome spot to stop and get a coke at the little bar.  We took a group photo, supposedly for the Roche Tour web site, and then headed off for a rolling up-and-down ride across the side of Mount Chat and then a winding and reasonably fast descent into a little village called Conjux and then across the very pretty, flat marsh end of the lake.  This led to the more or less main road to A-l-B where the group got together again.  The riding from here on in was a little ragged, some riders seemed to want to take up the whole of the road having the misconception that there is, as one of the guys said at dinner, “a great bicycle culture here” that accepted silly riding as the norm.  I tried to tell them that, from my experience, they ought to be a little more wary of the French drivers, they aren’t too much aware of this great cultural trait they’re supposed to share.  Still, we made it back into town with no incidents or problems and the 36 mile tune-up was a wake-up to some as they thought a the ride around a lake wouldn’t mean a climb or two.

Well, most of us made it without incident.  Pedro, the father of one of the stronger riders, and a bit out of shape, reversed course after the climbing started and he wasn’t seen or heard from until 10 o’clock in the evening.  We’re not sure where he went but he was hungry and thirsty when he made it back.

The ride leaders, Phil and Geordie are quite good at their jobs and don’t let the group get too strung out or let riders fall off unless they have a plan for getting back.  Papa Pedro was just a few meters off the bike path back to the town and the hotel when he made the killer wrong turn, but we didn’t catch it and he was off course for 8 hours.  Message to ride leaders, anything and everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. 

Tomorrow the plan is to take the bus to a spot 20 miles or so from Alpe d’Huez and then ride to Bourg d’Oisans to climb the Alpe; then watch the stage in a bar on the Alpe.  We figured that on the following day, Wednesday, the day of the time trial up the Alpe, would be too crazy to actually get a ride in on the Alpe, so we’ll try to do it tomorrow.  My prediction is that it will be crazy anyway, but do-able, so it’s up the 21 switchbacks for me tomorrow.

The next day we’ll try to sneak on to the Alpe via the col du Glandon and arrive in the town of Huez by a side road—that is, if it’s open.  With crowds in the hundreds of thousands and narrow alpine roads to deal with, who knows what will be possible. But, I’ll be going up the 21 Ks of the col du Glandon to 1,900 meters on Wednesday.

Aix-les-Bains was a bit quiet today, the tea dance in the park next to our hotel was the big thing and there were hundreds of folks spinning or waltzing to the canned music.  It punctuated our tour briefing in the hotel parlor where the tall windows were opened to relieve the heat. We got our jerseys, tee-shorts, hats, day bags, guide books, and general bike stuff from the staff and took another group photo. We toasted ourselves with Kir and Champagne and headed up to a nice dinner of chicken accompanied by a vin du Savoie, a plain, unremarkable pinot noir that most folks ignored.  What we really liked were the carafes of ice water that the waiters brought out.

Monday, July 19^th Rest Day for the Tour

There isn’t much to report from the Tour lately.  I’ve been taking a break and traveling with my daughter and her boyfriend across the bottom on France then up to Aix-les-Bains where I’ve joined the Stephen Roche Tour Group.  I caught snatches of the tour on television, sorry to have missed the really dramatic stage up to Plateau de Beille.  The French announcers and l’Equipe are ecstatic that Voeckler is still in yellow, “Ti-Jaune” is the headline in yesterday’s paper.  That’s a play on the use of “Ti-“ to signify ‘little’, standing for ‘petit’.  You might hear it in Louisiana where Ti-Tommy is little Thomas.  So much for family linguistics, the real rumor story is the guy stalking Lance trying to rummage through his hotel rooms. The undertone of dope accusations keeps spoiling a ride in the sun for a lot of people.

We’re ensconced in the Hotel Astoria which is just across from the old spa.  This is one of those old style European thermal baths towns where thousands of old folks come for water-based treatments.  Our group of hearty, tanned, athletic (more or less) cyclists is very much a contrast to the many older folks who inhabit this and other hotels in the town.

The Astoria is a classic early 20th century hotel, built to accommodate the spa goers.  A central open gallery gives the interior almost an airy feel with the five balconies running up to a sky-light, but the heavy classical ornamental trim and decoration keeps the guests firmly rooted to the ground, eyes down.

There’s a big parlour filled with older folks eying newspapers and chatting. Across the main foyer is a formal dining room, pleasant but dull, with glass and wood partitions giving it slightly chopped up feeling.  The cycling group gets a place on a balcony, away from the regular clientele.  That’s not a bad thing, I conclude, there’s likely to be a bit of wine go down up there.

The hotel sits on a square named after Diana, the goddess.  This place was originally a hot springs for the Romans who lived here 1,900 years ago.  There’s an arch on the corner of the square and the remains of the temple of Diana are visible in places.  The rest of the square is taken up by the ruins of a church that dates back to the 11^th century, a museum of lapidary, and the town hall.  It’s pleasant but dominated by the Thermale, or hot springs building, which has lost its classical façade to multiple renovations and modernizations that seem to have stopped mid-sixties.  One wing looks abandoned and the whole affair is reminiscent of a building housing a soviet ministry of mandatory good health.

Two dark blue vans arrive in the square and begin to disgorge two groups of American cyclists.  This is the “group-that-rides-very-expensive-bikes” and they put back together their Colnago 50^th anniversary carbon frame bikes or their Merlins or Sevens; there’s even a customized-for-travel Litespeed with two lugs that allow the frame to be disassembled. They seem a little aloof, after all they’ve been here riding for a while and our folks are still trying to figure out why they haven’t seen a French guy wearing a beret and smoking a Gitane out of the side of his mouth.  No matter, tomorrow the hills will sort things out.  Like Laurent Jalabert wrote in his column in l’Equipe yesterday, there’s a time when every one finds their place.  For the Peloton it was Plateau be Beille.  For us, it will be multiple unknown climbs around the Massif de Bauges.

It turns out the group is 14 people who have been riding in the area for a week and will join Inside Track Tours later today Inside Track is semi-sponsored by Tyler Hamilton and the group is a little depressed about Tyler’s withdrawal.  What that means though, is that they might see a lot of Hamilton when they get to Alpe d’Huez later toady.

It’s amateur night in Aix-l-B, at least at “Le Rex” where five of us go for dinner.  A big crowd is jammed into a part of the pedestrian area behind the hotel and the Town Hall square.  They’ve set up a key board and a stage and microphones next to the café.  While we dine, we are entertained by amateur singers including a talented woman who does opera and show tunes.  The guys seem to do classic sing-alongs or topical humorous cabaret-style songs.  I’m getting half or less of it and spend more time with my Salade Norvegiene, a smoked salmon and shrimp mess on a plate. 

The folks I’m with are seeking beef and the only two real beefy items on the menu are Boeuf Tartare and Carpaccio.  I let them know that the Tartare is going to be raw hamburger and that the Carpaccio is thinly sliced beef likely to be very, very rare.  The waitress is slightly amused when asked how the Carpaccio is cooked.  “It’s not cooked at all!” she says, it is “au nature.”  Two of the folks choose the Carpaccio, the beef-seeking urge is too strong to let a little strange cuisinary peccadillo get in the way.  As it is, it is not really raw, but served with a vinegar and caper sauce that “cooks” the meat, like a ceviche.

I don’t know how to gauge the group and its temperament.  There are four or five people from the last year’s Roche Tour and two of the dinner group had been to the Roche Mallorca camp some years ago.  Group leader Geordie Probert is in evidence along with Phillipe, who also leads Mallorca rides.  Tomorrow (today) we’re going to ride around Lac du Bourget and get oriented  The Tour is resting in Nimes before they head into the Alps and we’re going to get our legs back into climbing shape.

A True Cannibal!

That’s what they are calling Lance now that he’s eaten up the competition with a sprint finish in the Bourg d’Oisons-Grand Bornand stage.  If you get this message and haven’t watched the replay on OLN, you need to see this finish.  Trust me.

I’d have loved to have been sending messages from l’Alpe d’Huez having climbed it 1.75 times in the past two days.  But the logistics of moving around the Tour in this part of the world along with, oh, I’d say a million people, are very tough.

The first time I climbed the Alpe was the day before the time trial.  We decided that we could ride up to the ski station on the day before because it would be too much of a zoo on the morning of the actual climb.  What is was, was too much of a zoo on the day before for the police and everyone else, so they closed the road 12 hours earlier.  This didn’t mean we couldn’t climb up, just that the many unofficial cars couldn’t go up.  That meant that only 400-500 official vehicles could clog the road and spew out truck fumes while we struggled up the hill.

The group left on our bikes from the outskirts of Grenoble at 0830 headed up to Bourg d’Oisans, the town at the foot of the Alpe.  It was a gradual uphill the whole way and just slight enough to fool us into pulling pretty hard.  That debt was paid as we got to the real climb, but the dread and anticipation fooled me into thinking I was just working on a flat valley road.  The approaches to the Alpe are not very scenic, you have to go through a relatively industrial area, passing the Chateau town of Vizille and a few drab river-side villages before Bourg d’Oisans comes into view.  It’s a nice town but it was chaotic to the max when we rode through around 1030 am.  There were cops everywhere and they were outnumbered badly by the cyclists trying to get up the hill, the walkers wandering, wondering what was happening; it was apparent that a fair slice of the available humans on the planet were here. 

The fans were trying every mode of transport to get up the mountain for the time trial mostly fueled by alcohol (as the cut line to a photo in the next day’s Dauphine read).  Real serious Woodstock-style crowds.  I can hear the French Radio announcer now, hysterically shouting from their remote feed: “Le route nationale 91 est ferme! circulation est impossible! La foule est enorme.”  Traffic was, indeed, impossible and this was hours before the really big trucks bringing the really big stuff to stage the start and finish arrived.

As we rode the 13 kilometers to the top you had to feel sorry for the people who were going to camp along the route that night; besides the roaming drunks and after-dark riders, a hundred or so big trucks were going to drag up portable stages, and really big balloons, and portable stands, and teevee things, and other race stuff up the hill all night.  Camper vans, carefully wedged against the rock sides of the road up the Alpe, were going to have to be moved so the big trucks could manage the tight “virages” or switchbacks on the road up the side of the mountain.

We jumped into the ride without a pause, the fast folks disappeared quickly into the crowd and I managed to stay around a few of our group for the first 10 or so of the virages.  They are numbered as you go up and give you a rough sense of where you are as you ascend.  That is, until you turn onto number 6 and you see the ski village up, way up ahead then you can’t stop but look up and wonder how to get there. 

The thing about the Alpe d’Huez climb is not so much the steepness of the road you climb or its length, it is really the setting and the dramatic side-of-a-mountain feel that it gives you.  When you get high up, the views are stupendous and you see towns and roads way down there.  The many irritating cars and people are almost invisible, they are so small; they even look benign at this height, dwarfed by the enormous scale of the Alps.  It gives you a sense that we might not be able to actually ruin the planet no matter what we do—then you look to the side of the road and a lurching Dutch or German or Spanish or French or American “fan” and the pessimism rises.  It’s truly breathtaking on the Alpe (or was that the high altitude weariness from the climb?)

My climb, like most folks’, was exhilarating and horrible all at once—not to mention tiring.  They traffic was awful, I had to stop three or four times and steady myself against cars or trucks wedged across the road.  The slower riders (and there were riders slower than me) were weaving, falling, stripping gears, dropping bags of beer into their spokes, spitting into your face (mostly by accident) or, worse yet, coming downhill at you at 50 kph.  I won’t be doing this again, that’s for sure.

Jean-Pierre of our group caught up to me and we paced together for three of four virages, then he pulled away and then I caught up again but he disappeared around virage 14.  I was caught between the slower and faster groups from then on until I was passed by Grace from our group, who I’d been trying to beta up hills all week, just after virage 3.  This broke my heart a bit because I mentally had counted her as having been dropped and I was proud of that, she being obviously fitter than I—the obvious was obvious as she smoothly pedaled away.  I can’t imagine why I’d be disappointed, several thousand people probably passed me, but my status in the group was firmly fixed one more peg down. 

The ride into the actual town of Alpe d’Huez was equally daunting, but the traffic was lighter; they had closed the road downhill a while before and only official vehicles, meaning speeding careening motorcycles and honking Skodas, would pass every three minutes or so.  With 100,000 people wandering around the town, it looked bigger than it is, but there were plenty of bars and the supermarket was open and there was beer for sale and there were beer drinkers everywhere  I wound my way through the town, under the snow cover toward the top and then an unexpected wooden bridge across the road, for the time trial renamed the CSC bridge.  The finish itself for Alpe d’Huez bike races is in a big parking lot and you would miss it if you weren’t looking.  There’s a thin white line across the parking lot and a small sign to the side of the road saying “arrive”.  It isn’t at what you’d call the “top of the town” but kind of set off to the side.  The next day the vacant lot would be transformed into the finish village and full of people.

We had a picnic set up toward what can only be called the “far side” of the town, but a little isolation and quiet was fine with me.  We were in front of the “Le Farmer” restaurant and they were accommodating, provided you bought a coke for 4.50 euros.  They were also relatively empty—most other places, including makeshift bars lining the route, were happy to charge 2 euros for a coke or a beer.

The ham sandwich and the chips on offer at the Roche chase car got me back going and I wandered around and watched the race on the giant TV screen that was set up across a road and facing a slight bowl of a hill which had a pond in the middle.  The placement of the “écran Géant” is always a mystery to me, they seem to put it in a place that has some physical barrier to actually seeing the thing.

The race was going well, that is, there were escapers and chasers and the announcers were at high-speed French fever pitch, but we would have to get down the hill of we were going to see the end and after the morning’s struggle, the task was daunting.

We launched ourselves nevertheless and it actually wasn’t so awful.  The closure had surprised a lot of people and it was before many of the official vehicles were scheduled to arrive, so it passed without a problem.  We discovered ourselves clustered at an intersection in Bourg d’Oisans waiting for everyone to get together.  This took a while but, before too long everyone showed up and we began the long race down the hill  It was then that I realized that we had really climbed up a lot on the way to actual climb of the Alpe.  We were pacing along at 50-55 kph for a lot of the descent.  I was with the lead group for a while until I stupidly and predictably worked too hard at the front and was spit out the back when I got off the lead.  I waited a bit for the second group and we worked well together and got into Vizille with some hard pulling and fun descending, letting up just as we got into the town.  Good thing, too, because the bus had been moved from our departure spot and we needed to see the waving Philippe on the side or we’d be riding around Grenoble to this day.

In French a crowd is called a “foule” and there were many foules in the region and lots of foule-ing around these past few days.  The police and the tour organization were stunned by the number of people who were headed to the Alpe and who actually made it.  There was general agreement before the actual event that something horrible was going to happen, like the side of the hill coming down or a full-scale Basque revolution being declared and the orange army marching on the local Mairie and free the beer supply.  Not so, in this part of the cycling world the wild orange are the Dutch and they were very organized for their fun.  Nevertheless, there were plenty of free-lance cycling louts loose on the roads.  The newspapers expressed relief that no great tragedies happened on the day of the time trial, but there was the potential for some given the heat of the day and the volume of alcohol consumed.

On the day of the time trial we decided we were to ride the col du Glandon and then upon the back way into Huez to watch the race from that point, 3 km from the finish.  The ride up Glandon, an “hors categorie’ or officially-awful, climb, was a tough one for us.  It started just after we started and, except for a nice flat in the middle, didn’t give up for the 21 kilometers of its length.  The final two kilometers are the toughest of this climb, 10-11 percent in the wide-open sun, up to a pass that is only marked by a sign and a small refuge, or hut, to the side of the road.  It was very crowded, given that the Tour was going to go over this climb on the next day.  Pictures were taken, water passed around, and the descent begun with smug satisfaction that the hard work of the day was done.

We’d been told that there was a 25 kilometer descent on the other side…not so, there is a 10 or so kilometer descent down to a lake and dam then a sharp turn uphill then a little climb before you got into a wooded descent down to another hydroelectric lake.  The flat around the lake was pleasant; and we rolled along happily, we’d been told there was a little climb up to Huez and we’d see the sign.  The turn off to Huez is not well marked.  The roads go from 44c to 44a and we were looking for 44b.  Several people missed the turn and put in an extra 10 kilometers.  This was not good, because the climb up to Huez was three-quarters of the climb up to Alpe d’Huez with the same characteristics, except no shade, no water, and no people cheering you on.  Just upward suffering.  I’d managed my water badly, both bottles were empty and I was not doing so well and had to stop for an extended rest.  I had no idea of how long the climb was (9 kilometers) and what was on the other side (a small town with a hidden bar).  I struggled back on my bike after 15 minutes or so, hoping someone would give me water, but after a turn things flattened out.  Soon, I could see the power lines go DOWN the hill and the cars were now chock-a-block parked along the road, so I must be close.  When the little town of Villard Recule appeared I spotted a sign that said “bar” and headed directly to the sign.  It led to a staircase up to a balcony bar that was strangely empty, but I was determined. They were open and I did get a cold bottle of Vittel and a coke and after I gulped then down I figured I could actually make it to wherever we were to be. 

When I restarted, the road became a little track, paved, but only a car width wide.  The views were dramatic and straight down the 3000 feet to Bourg d’Oisans.  There wasn’t any kind of restraint, the French are trusted to not run off the road or fling themselves into the abyss.  Practical folks, the French.

The road turned and descended into the back side of Huez.  I was tired-irate at any descent given I was going to have to climb back, but that was a function of my condition, not quite recovered.

There was a blocked road and several policemen were telling people to park their bikes at the gate.  Phillippe was there and waved me through, we had an “invite” pass and our chase car was one police van away from the barrier at the 3 km mark.  This wasn’t a place you’d normally pick for a picnic, but given the town was jam-packed, it was pretty desirable.  You could return to the car for a drink, then get back to the barrier to cheer your favorite rider on.

I spent the next 30 minutes stumbling around seeing how many oranges could fit into my parched gob.  In time, I was able to stand, get out of my bike bibs and into some shorts and take in the scene.

This was big and something that you had to get an aerial view to really appreciate.  Guess what, there was a cable car that went from Huez up to Alpe d’Huez and I thought, why not.  It was running and, of all things, empty.  What the heck, I paid my 5 euros for a round trip and got into the little plastic car and off we went.  Whoa, this thing crossed over the last three km of the course and gave you a truly amazing view of the top fourth of the mountain, the side roads where the colorful caravan vehicles were parked (That answered one question: Did the caravan go all the way up?  Yes.), and the whole spectacle in a way that made it even more impressive

I could hear the race announcer booming from the top of the hill (eh, Kloden departe, et, euh, Kroon, traverser, euh) and the cheering below and watch the riders and motorcycles and chase cars snake their way up.  This was the way to see the stage, and when I figured out I could wedge the door open a little, it was even comfortable; the little plastic car being a rapidly heating sun-trap.  The cable car stop was, get this, right in back of the Giant Bicycle-Team T-Mobile VIP area, so it let you off in a place where there was no really big crowd and you could walk right up to the barrier.  I did; I even went back to a bar 10 meters away and got a beer, and came back to watch with some nicely knowledgeable spectators from Spain. 

Still, it was a sunny place and I didn’t have the chutzpah to try to crash the actual T-Mobile inside bar so I opted for the return aerial view.  The view going down the cable car was even more spectacular and I will, to this day, regret not having my camera.

When I got back to our encampment I couldn’t interest anyone in a return visit via the sky train and given that my desire to get stuck in the descending horde was nil, I decided to change back into sweaty cycling gear and head down the hill at 4 pm, a little more than and hour before Lance was to depart.  I thought I could watch the finish in a bar down the way but my timing was off.  At the bottom, it threatened rain and I tried to get as far as I could.  It did rain on me a bit but I could see that I needed to get to a bar with a TV quickly.  Unfortunately, between the eerie rock outcropping that is identified by a sign as the “Head of Louis 16^th” – which did look like the beheaded king – and the town of Vizille, where we were parked, there were no bars.  I was pushing hard when our chase car came by and I flagged them down for a ride into town at 120 kph instead of the 60 I was doing at times. 

Franck, our chase driver, did get us into Vizille before the race ended but an inevitable wrong turn meant we could only hear the cheering from the town center bars when Lance came across for his big win.

During the wait in Vizille for the rest of the group I noticed a bunch of cops leading some black Mercedes into the big Chateau, and in one of the cars was a vaguely familiar face, the Prince of Monaco perhaps, he’d been hanging out with Sheryl and Robin Williams we were told the next day in the paper.  Big deal, he didn’t stop to give autographs.

Today, after the stage into Grand Bornand, Lance is saying, in French on the post-race show, Velo Club, that on the last col Floyd Landis was setting an “incredible pace” and that we thought we could do something at the end.  “Is it your best Tour de France,” the interviewer asks, but Lance deflects the question with an indirect answer.  “Are you better than Mercxx?”  “No, Eddy is my papa…he looks good without the extra kilos.”  Lance is quite happy.

They’ve given out all the trophies and the jerseys well before the “autobus” of the remains of the peloton comes in.  The Madeleine and the Glandon did their damage, then the last two cols, really hurt. The col de Croix Fry is not on many people’s list of grand cols, but it did a job on the leaders today, sending Simoni and Virenque to the rear.

I didn’t see the stage today in person, I managed to ride a few kilometers of the course with the group as they headed to Grand Bornand via the col de Croix Fry.  I was up for a quiet touristic ride and I did so.  The group started its ride in Annecy by the very pleasant aqua-colored lake and I circled back via a bike route back to the lake and along it for a while.  Estivating French, Germans, and Euro-folk were spread all along its alpine serenity, swimming, kayaking, skiing, sauntering, sashaying and doing whatever was needed to work up the appetite for a three hour lunch.  The festival of the lake was happening and they were setting up for an enormous fireworks display and some really neat-looking circus group was warming up.  I wound my way into the very picturesque old town with narrow streets and very old buildings and many bridges over the canals that led away from the lake.  This was a kind of medieval Venice except the canals were too narrow for anything but the swans. 

I decided to join the locals for lunch and managed a big bucket of steamed mussels and French (proudly) fries—though the French consider them a Belgian dish.  I even went for the “La Dame Blanche” for dessert, which, to us, is a vanilla sundae with chocolate sauce, the white lady has been compromised!  I was served by a very efficient waiter who wore a “tweety-bird” tie.  This was a good omen; today was my wife’s birthday and I was about to call her at a reasonable east coast time and give her the news that she wasn’t the only one nick-named “tweetie.”  The waiter happily explained that everyone called him “teetie.” 

I rode back to Aix-les Bains on a back road that went wrong for me only once.  The ride was through some quiet agricultural villages and the 85 degree heat was making their agricultural production very obvious in the air.  I crested the hill that made the gap between the two big lakes, Annecy and du Bourget and went happily downhill for a ways, then onto a steep defile after the town of Gruffy ( I kept going “ruff-ruff” to people on the main street, all three of them, to see if they were, indeed, gruffy) and into what is called the Gorge de Cheran.  My goodness, what a fine suspension bridge tucked back into this little crossing.  The one-lane bridge, with red-colored suspension cables, crossed the chasm over the rushing Cheran river, a  few hundred feet down.  Very scenic.  This stopped me in my tracks and got me into the very nice little bar that overlooked the bridge and gorge and which offered intense shade from the hot day and something to drink.

It was three pm , so I was the only person around. Nevertheless, the proprietor came out in response to my “bon jour” and poured me a coke and prized some ice cubes out a teeny-weeny tray to add a little soupçon of “froid” to the drink. Ah, blessed, mid-summer repose high above rushing waters in sunny France.

In time I got back to my hotel, turned on the Tour on TV and let the steady drone of the announcer lull me into a stupor.  Even the noise from the Café-Tarte-Fun, below my window couldn’t distract me from the image of the colorful cyclists headed for le Grand Bornand, a place I had struggled into two years prior on  my first l’Etape du Tour.

The Village Départ

Things are winding up quickly. The three week road show is coming to an end.  For us it meant less riding and more getting to start and finish lines for the tour.  We got up early on Friday and rode into Annemasse for the stage to Lons-le-Saunier.   The plan was to stop along the autoroute and then ride the last 30 k into the Geneva suburb to watch the start.  The ride started with a nice 10 km climb that wasn’t too hard, just another surprise to folks when Geordie called it an easy uphill.  It was much easier that the killer climbs of the days before but still uphill at 4-5%.  Everyone’s grumpiness dissolved when we got to the crest and spread out before us was the valley of the upper Rhone, Geneva, with its huge fountain, and Lac Leman.  We were at 1000 meters with a great view that stayed with us along the 10 k crest of the ridge. 

At the end of the ride we got into Annemasse and we lurked around for a bit until we figured out where the bus was going to be.  Geordie was able to score some bracelets that got you into the departure village and as a returning client I was given one.  This meant you got to go into the fenced off area that was open to the press, teevee crews, VIPs, technical support, riders, riders friends, friends of friends, supporter clubs, local officials, cops, race officials, anyone with tall boots and a snappy cap—in short, to a lot of people who then milled around and checked each other out to see if they were next to someone who was someone.  On some days the village is a good place to be to meet with some featured riders.  The teams select a guy to go an “meet the press” and folks come by and get photos and autographs.  There are also the traveling VIPs who are there and more or less available to be harassed for an autograph or picture.  Unfortunately, today it was raining so a lot of the meet-and-greet sessions weren’t held.  I gravitated to a tent toward the service entrance after gathering my freebie diet coke, regional bread-like thing with jam on it, a crepe, a package with the newspaper and some other printed material extolling the local beef and building products company, and the village newspaper that is printed everyday and features the day’s schedule and some nice pictures of folks who are there to be seen.

Given the area’s beef production, there was also a rather humorous anatomically correct cow figure that was wheeled around the village.  The cow chewed on hay, mooed, wagged its head and—I kid you not—contributed to the recycling of the hay right there on his trailer.  This was a lot of fun to watch for a minute or two then it was back to the newspaper in my tent staying out of the rain.

Two guys in ties came under the tent and one started interviewing the other.  The interviewee was Bernard Hinault.  Hi Bernard!  I took his picture; he didn’t notice and carried on with his interview.   Next to him, engaged in a very spirited discussion was the directeur sportif for Saeco and an Italian commissionaire—or race official.  He was arguing with one of the several commissionaires who were also under the tent.  This seemed to be the place for them to congregate.  I couldn’t make out any of the argument but it seemed important.  I did notice that the American commissionaire stayed outside in the rain.  He called back into the tent, “hey guys, it’s going to be wet on the road, you better get used to it.”  They all looked back at him with that “silly American” look, obviously thinking that the yanks just don’t know how to get in out of the rain.

Some riders did make it into the village and I grabbed a few snaps and then sampled some more of the free food, this time a potato thing on a paper plate.  Got a free pin from some sponsor’s booth and sidled up to a group of people who seemed to be willing to let their “Livre de Route” (Tour Bible) and Michelin map “Pour suivre de Tour” get pinched.  I got the map, but the gaggle wanted to keep their Tour Bibles.

The big tour bell was rung.  This is a new tradition of sorts, a big bell is set up at the entrance to the village and rung 30 minutes before the start to warn people that they had to get in their vehicles to follow the race route. Most of the village inhabitants that had a permanent job with the tour did so after a last visit to their favorite free food display.  I sauntered out and found the US Postal bus just outside the village.  Johan Bruyneel was chatting with some press folks and I snapped him and then the riders as they came out to get their bikes and get to the sign in and the start.  Their bikes all were leaned up against the bus in no particular order with, of course, Lance’s off to the side.  The riders would chat a bit with whoever was hanging around but mostly they were getting their game faces on and trying to figure out if the rain would hold off or drench them.  The 8 Postal riders eventually made their way out of the little area around the bus and the crowd compressed a bit anticipating the yellow jersey.  That term is widely used around the tour to refer to a person, not a thing. 

Lance came out and was immediately confronted by the teevee people and he did a little interview, singed an autograph and chatted with some folks, then went his merry way pp to the sign in and the start and then the whole show got underway.  Another day on the road.

The final day. Paris and Lance’s 6th

This morning we went on a ride around central Paris, leaving from our hotel at the Porte de Sevres and winding around the Eiffel Tower then along the river to Concorde and then up the Champs Elysees.  It was a great thing to do, especially since Stephen Roche, the 1987 Tour winner was with us.  We picked up a few of his fans along the way and made quite a parade as we rode up to the Arc de Triomphe and then back down the Champs to the Grand Palais where we went over to the Seine for a tourist ride.  This took us down to Notre Dame, then back up the Rue De Rivoli.  We were headed for the Boise de Boulogne and a ride on the Longchamps cycling circuit. This is a 3 kilometer ride around the horse track and it’s a big favorite for the local racers to come and do their thing.  They were doing it, it hard and fast pace lines, yelling at the weekend people to get out of the way and passing the many American tour groups with disdain on their faces.  I imagine the real riders were at home today because of the clutter.

Today started cool and gray but has cleared and it’s likely to be a hot day for the riders and the hundreds of thousands who will line the Champs.  I’m headed for the picnic we’re going to have near l’Etoile and likely take in the final stage in bar somewhere.  The view will be much better.