“Ullrich & Armstrong, le dernier explication” (Headline in Sud-Ouest)

The final time trial will be a ride in the rain. We decide to not try and follow the route on our bikes as we planned but just get in the bus and head for Paris where we can watch the drama unfold on television in our hotel. It’s raining pretty hard in Nantes and the PMU dancing girls don’t look so excited about romping in the rain, poles or no poles. We’re happy to be avoiding the wet as well and pile onto the big Van Hool bus to watch videos of last year’s tour as we settle in for the four and a half hour ride to the city of light. Yesterday, a few in our group got interviewed by a local reporter and the story appeared in today’s Aujourd’hui de France (Today in France). There was a color photo of two of our ride leaders, Geordie and Richard, sitting next to Jeff and Shelley from our group. The picture run under the headline: “3,200 Euros to follow the Tour.” The newspaper seemed to emphasize the angle that tourists, especially from the United States, were willing to drop lots of euros on the Tour. The 12-inch story did describe the seriousness of the riders and how our overall average speed of 30 kph was no mean feat.

The Autoroute back to Paris was crowded; this was another of those weekends when vacationers leave their two week rentals and head back to home in Sweden or Poland or wherever and another group takes to the roads to replace them. Our picque-nique stop was an “aire” or rest area along the highway. French Autoroute aires are a full kick above what you might find in the U.S. with clean restaurants and stores, picnic spots, and often some form of roadside entertainment—like an exhibition of the local apple picking customs or a description of the local geological strata or other universally ignored efforts by the local council. At one of the aires on the road between Tarbes and Pau ther’re a monument to cycling in the Pyrénées (see the picture). There’s also often more than one gas station. The prices of fuel are posted along the autoroute so you can decide what brand and where to buy based on locations and price. The range isn’t that big, a few Euro cents per liter, but, if you’re putting in 40 or 50 liters, it can add up. Our stop is strictly a brief feed and pee stop since we want to get to Paris in time to see the last riders depart on the time trial and it is raining and the place is crowded so we get 30 minutes to grab what we can and then get back on the road again.

We’re staying at the Sofitel Porte de Sevres in Paris. This is a high rise, business-oriented hotel just outside the Peripherique to the south of the center of the city. It’s one of those hotels that seems to be favored by airline flight crews and is utilitarian at best. The top floor restaurant does a pretty good petit dejeuner and we take full advantage of that the next morning.

The vigil for the time trial takes place in the first floor bar of the hotel. All of the group knows the dangers of riding in wet conditions, and riding really fast when it rains is a teeth-clenching exercise at best. The day’s danger is underlined when Jan Ullrich skids on a turn and slides into the barriers. This might make it easier for Armstrong but he too runs a risk of coming unglued. There is palpable relief when it’s over; the group is not so much exultant as relieved when it is apparent that Lance with take his 5^th Tour win. The desired result was achieved, but in a style that made the event all the more enjoyable for the cycling fans. The Brits in the crowd were quite happy with David Millar’s winning the final time trial, edging out Tyler Hamilton. The British fans are a keen lot, as they might say, and the fact that only one Briton is in the peloton has been a disappointment for them. The French likely suffer the most; their top finisher, Christophe Moreau could only get as close as 8^th in the general classification but there were highlights like King Richard winning a mountain stage and the maillot a pois or polka-dot jersey for the King of the Mountains. Jean-Patrick Nazon made it a good day for the French by winning the final stage on the Champs Elysées, beating the two Australians, Baden Cooke and Robbie McEwan, who were vying for the Green jersey given to the top sprinter. Cooke won that contest by nipping McEwan at the line in a rough and tumble sort of way that let Nazon slip by for the stage win. In l’Equipe, Cooke was quoted as saying that when he sprints, his head is “empty” and that he and his compatriot were going at it like “boxers.” The more experienced riders in our group, those who had raced, recognized that McEwan’s sharp lean into Cooke just before the finish was just part of the game. Sprinters have a reputation for rash behavior which is needed in order to win a 100-meter dash at the end of a long race on a narrow finishing straight with fifteen guys pedaling frantically out of their saddles at speeds up to 40+ mph. You can see the bikes bend with the effort and it’s surprising that more of these machines don’t come apart at these times.

The program has us going as a group to Montmartre for a taste of French Cabaret at Chez Ma Cousine, a small restaurant in the heart of this very touristy section of Paris. Montmartre has long known as the original artist’s colony of Paris and was home to painters like Toulouse Lautrec and Picasso. We walked up to the restaurant because the bus couldn’t manage the narrow winding and quite hilly streets of this part of Paris—not that our Belgian driver, Barthe wouldn’t have tried. He nudged, squeezed and wormed the bus and the bike trailer into spots I don’t think I could get a VW bug into. We passed the Lapin Agile, made famous by many painters and writers and the Montmartre vineyard—le Vigne du Clos Montmartre,, reputedly the oldest in Paris. The 500 bottles of wine that are made from the grapes in this small city plot are auctioned off to support a local home for the aged. Chez Ma Cousine (at my cousin’s—or friend’s) has been presenting cabaret since 1928 at its location at 12 rue Norvins. This is a form of entertainment that has never quite gone out of style in Europe but is not easy to find in the US. It also relies a lot on its context and the singting and humor are laced with contemporary French references and cultural symbolism, which means a lot went right past us as we ate our salmon entrée then lamb entrecote main course. There were perhaps 85-90 people jammed in a small space with a tiny stage off in one corner. The master of ceremonies kept things lively with flamenco guitar and songs that the natives could sing along to. Ben, the Irish veterinarian clapped so vigorously and appropriately to one of the Spanish songs that he was invited to share the stage and microphone. Ben relished this and it gave the English speakers a needed sense of belonging. Ben then proceeded to relieve the emcee of his guitar and sing a comic country and western song. This went down well with the mostly French crowd and the evening was made, even the impressionist who did political figures, got laughs from the group and the magician managed to include John from Connecticut in his “I’m not really going to cut off your hand” routine. The closing singer came on toward one a.m and the group was restless, thinking about their ride through the center of Paris the next day so we took advantage of a brief break and headed downhill and back on the bus.

The Randonee Centenaire brought 10,000 cyclists all wearing replica yellow jerseys onto the streets of central Paris at 8:30 on the final Sunday of the Tour. This was an awe-inspiring sight given that the group filled almost 15 linear kilometers of the 30 kilometer route when it got to the halfway mark near the Arc de Triomph. Our group rode up to where we thought it might start and realized we were mid-way along the staging area with no way to get into the flow unless we jumped a fairly low fence just as the mass of riders pushed away. This we managed with little problem and no one seemed to mind us jumping the queue. The group compressed as it passed over the Seine away form the Eiffel Tower toward the Palais de Chaillot and took a right onto the quai that follows the right bank of the Seine toward the Louvre.

As we got to the tunnel where Princess Di came to an unfortunate end, the group opened up and the pace quickened. Some riders were hell-bent on making this a time trial, but most of the folks were happy to just parade along enjoying riding a bike on the closed streets, avenues and boulevards of Paris. We carried along the Seine past the Place de Concorde and the Tuilleries and then on to the Place Bastille where we turned away from the river, then doubled back down toward the river then right along the rue de Rivoli. We were tracing a lot of the central city route the Tour would take later that afternoon when Lance and company would ride triumphantly along the Champs Elysees before the remainder of the field fought it out to the final sprint finish. As I passed through the finish arch for the Tour I rolled over to the right and stopped just to savor the sight. Ahead of me, coming down the hill that the Arc de Triomphe occupied, you could see the two leading red cars, one with Jean-Marie LeBlanc ,followed by this huge mass of yellow. It was very impressive. A few hardy types jumped the barrier to get in front of the lead group to actually go back along the river route and repeat the ride. It was that good. As you made the turn at the top of the Champs, the view was spectacular, enough to distract you from the rattle and bump of the cobbles. I’m not sure I’d be very happy or stable trying to race on the very uneven surface. It’s a lot bumpier than it looks on TV and the threat of rain and the morning moisture on the road made it really slick. But the day progressively cleared and, save for one crash in some standing water, the weather wasn’t a factor for the pros.

I saw only one incident in the randonée where a person needed medical help and only one crash or “chute” that slowed the riders in one of the tunnels. The ride seemed to go remarkably well and as we rolled at 30 kph along the last bit of the ride toward the small replica Statue of Liberty that sits on a small island in the middle of the Seine, I wanted it to go on for a lot longer. We were shunted back along the river and across to the Champs de Mars where you could get a cup of coffee and see a velo-expo, but our group stopped where we joined the ride and headed back to the hotel to prepare for the day’s finale back on the Champs Elysées.

Our “picnic” spot was at a bike shop on the Boulevard Grande Armée, which is the extension of the Champs Elysées past the Arc. The shop was once a small, hole in the wall family run place I’d visited before but a friend of Claude’s had bought and remodeled it over the previous few months to make it a bright and relatively well stocked store. The shop, La Gazelle, is the twin of another bike store in the Boulogne section of Paris and I recommend it. They feature Stephen Roche bikes and apparel and also carried Colnagos and Bianchis, components and lots of team jerseys. The store was doing an open-house and wine was already flowing at noon. Our tent was going up on the sidewalk outside and champagne was in the cooler. The group was gearing up for the big day but there was a general lack of sleep and folks were looking for spots to sit and catch a quick cat nap.

Watching the finish on the Champs Elysées is something for the young and sturdy because it means getting there no later than noon to get a place at the barriers and then waiting for the riders to arrive sometime after 3:15 or so. One strategy is to consider it just a big tableau of people and to stake out a table at one of the sidewalk cafés and just watch the folks from everywhere ebb and flow up the boulevard. That was my plan and I stuck with it.

There were souvenir vendors everywhere and this year they seemed to have a wider selection and more stock than last year. Another different thing this year, was that the area around the Arc, l’Etoile, was closed off to stage the many elements of the grand parade that would follow the end of the race and the riders’ victory lap. That came on at 7 pm and was quite a spectacle with balloons holding up acrobats, explosions of yellow confetti covering the wide street, dancers, drummers, people rolling along inside big wheels, gaggles of young kids in yellow outfits on yellow bikes, celebrities and just plain folks having a good time. It was one big yellow moment.

Our group struggled back to the hotel and a final dinner. A nice formal dinner with filet mignon and other goodies to keep the culinary standard where it had risen to. We toasted each other and gave Claude a Poire Williams from the Basque Country and a little lagniappe to Geordie and the other riders as we drained the wine bottle and the champagne that some had ordered. Carl, who took a spill earlier in the week and had to abandon riding because of his broken collarbone, was presented with the commemorative yellow jersey signed by the group. The bonhomie was palpable and the gang felt a real sense of togetherness that caused more than a few who were likely to old for it, to follow the ride leaders off to a disco in central Paris round about midnight. The dancing was exuberant but couldn’t be sustained and we older folks melted away in cabs back to the hotel to get ready for the flights and trains out of the city. But not after we pledged that we’d be there next year—for the alps.