Prologue. Biking in France

Tom Ricketts here, reporting from France on the Tour de France. I’m a long way from the action, which is in cold, gray Luxemborg and I am in warm and now sunny Provence. My view of the Tour comes via Canal 2--channel 2, which provides 6 or so hours of pre-show to après-show coverage. The lead up to the action included a long story about the Lance Armstrong Foundation and Lance himself. Everyone is trying to not say that the Tour will be a boring walk-over for Lance. The Herald-Tribune included a description of how, when asked whether there were challengers he feared, he forced himself to keep from smiling while giving a politic response, something others in the audience couldn’t do.

On the TV in my apartment, Tyler Hamilton has just come across the line in 6^th but few are talking about him as having much chance. There’s also very little talk about Levi Leipheimer, I can’t tell if he’s in the race. The commentary includes a lot of discussion about the prologue course, it’s described as “tortured” and “sinuous.” Laurent Brochard is running out now and getting a lot of good comments—there have been interviews with Jacky Durand and Francoise Simon. The French are trying to keep the big show associated with French cycling. Botero has taken the lead and he merited a spur-of-the-moment cartoon (something the French seem to like to do with their sports coverage). Didier Rous is in the starting house now but coverage of his start is displaced by Brochard moving into second as he finishes. Hold it, Rous has had some problem and that has the announcers are really pounding out the French—I haven’t a clue what they’re saying, but it sounds like he hit a fence or forgot to wind his watch. Nope his “cyclo is terminee,” the Bonjour team mechanic is holding a useless bike and looking pretty disappointed. Now the big moment, Laurent Jalabert is starting off. The announcers use that special reverential tone that you hear when a good but aging athlete is introduced but everyone knows they’re on the way out. He rates a cartoon as well.

The local newspaper coverage ranges from really good (the national sports paper L’Equipe) to very good (The Dauphine which sponsors the Dauphinee Liberée and is published one Departement to the north), to so-so (La Provence, which included two or three team profiles over the last week).

Now LAWNSE (that’s how they say it) Armstrong is on his way and they really do treat him like a god. They’re also pumping up Beloki saying he’s a true “pursuer” of Lance—no one is a competitor, just pursuers. Virenque has crossed but he’s not getting the play others French riders are getting—oops, there’s a cartoon that says “Oooh Papa!” Makes no sense to me. Virenque was the only Frenchman with his name still visible on the way up Mount Ventoux today—oh forgot to say I rode up the mountain today, more about that later--because Jalabert has just taken the lead. There were no “Ja-Jas” on Ventoux either, there was lot’s of white paint for the Germans and a series of Danish flags and the famous repeated Pantani-Pantani-Pantani in yellow paint you see in pictures.

Well, you know it by now, Lance blows the field away. He rates a somewhat resigned but, nevertheless enthusiastic bit of commentary. The cartoon they show just after LA finished says: “Heu – reux” Meaning happy, but the picture is of Jalabert. Now we hear that Lance is the “Dominateur.” “The boss is back” (en Franglais) says one of the commentators, showing Lance. Then they cut to Jalabert. Later, Lance is giving an interview in French and I can understand what he says—the tour is special but his family is his first choice. The route in Luxembourg is “speciale” as well, “technical” and the “ville est belle.” He does the podium thing and the special guest is Charly Gaul.

The biking scene where I am is a bit less than overwhelming. The town I’m in, Aix-en-Provence, has a racing and “cyclosportif” club, the Club Velo Amical d’Axois—which translates to the “friendly cycling club of Aix.” They are hard to find but I’ve been told they do Wednesday rides up to and around Mount Victoire and they hold a more informal, three level touring ride on Sunday morning at 7 a.m. That ride leaves from the very beautiful center of the town, the “Rotonde” a traffic circle with an ornate and rather large fountain, surrounded by speeding Renaults and Volvos and wandering tourists of all types. I may do it, but I did a bit more today that I thought I would.

I’ve been by the two local bike shops and gotten a few routes maps and taken two 60 km rides around Mount Victoire. That route includes 900 meters of climbing (2,700m feet) with the “col de portes” at 580 meters at the top of the foothills under the Mountain itself which is quite imposing and viewable from the higher parts of Aix. It fascinated Cezanne and he seems to have painted it every other day of his life.

The local shops have nice bikes with one featuring Orbea and Orbea-made bikes called Veneto. I see a lot of these and they are nicely priced; I got a picture of a guy at the summit of Ventoux with one set up with Campy Record gear, looked sharp. There seems to be some sentiment for the Basques around here, more than one person has corrected me when I ask if the Orbeas are made in Spain. “Neither Spain or France,” they say, “Ah, Pays Basque” I say back, to their satisfaction. I get even more points if I mumble something about Roberto Laiseka who dominates the sales posters in the stores that stock Orbea. A Veneto Columbus Airplane frame as light as you can get goes for around $1,000; an entire bike with Campy Record for $3,500. The Pinarellos and Colnagos are a little less than in the US but I’ve seen models I’ve never seen in the US. What is much cheaper is all that fancy European clothing with Assos and Castelli stuff 35% less than the lowest mail order. What they don’t have is chain wax; everyone wants to sell me Teflon-based lubricant that I know will grit up things. One guy told me he had Pedros but was sold out and would have more in two or three weeks. If you come, bring a little bottle of chain wax and you’ll be happy.

What they say about people being friendly to cyclists is largely true. I read my e-mail yesterday about the Tarwheel guy getting hit by a car. If that happened here, it would be really big news. When I first arrived and checked out escape routes from the city, I was really scared by the traffic. Chaotic, busy, dense and seemingly very fast. Then I see this guy looking all of 65 years of age tooling up the main circular around the town center at rush hour and everyone is giving him room and he’s pedaling nicely. After arriving Sunday afternoon, I wait until Tuesday before I get up the guts to get on the road. As I ride from my place in the center of town around the circular road, I’m pedaling too fast, full of adrenalin, but then a car stops to give me the right of way in a traffic circle and I see that the drivers are giving me plenty of room. I’m still wary because the roads are hard to figure and I have to obey all the traffic lights. (I’ve seen other riders and they are meticulous about this—it’s the kids on scooters who push themselves in and out of traffic but they obey all the lights.) Before I know it I’m out of town and the traffic thins to—nothing. The route I’m doing basically goes no where but around Mount Victoire and, except for one or two painfully pretty villages, there’s not much out here. At one point, I go for perhaps 30 minutes before being passed by a car and then—this is true, I swear—12 perfectly matched, brand-new Porsches pass me. Are they shooting a commercial?

The route features two “grimpes” or climbs that pitch up to 12% at times but they are short, just a few kilometers—Borland is a kilometer and 8%, I tell myself with some degree of satisfaction, then realize that I am looking at 12 km/h on my computer, which is a bit slower than 12 mph.

The circuit I did this week is 50 or 60 kilometers depending on some options. The locals at the bike shop tell me that the club does it with a 30-35 kph average, I do 23.5—maybe I’ll give them a pass. I don’t see many people out on the Tuesday and Thursday schedule, a group of three and then two fast riders pass me going the other way (I’ll so learn why) and a few people who rented mountain bikes and regret it as they struggle up the hills. I can see by the bikes they have that they rented it from the guy who told me that the circuit was “moderate”—moderate for people who ride bikes a lot, not the German (they hailed me in German) family that wanted to get some exercise on their holiday after packing in wurst for the better part of the spring—that’s what they looked like. My smugness evaporates as I shift to the 39-25 to get over the next hill straight into the Mistral, which is the local term for the steady 20-30 mph wind that blows up every now and then. Mt friend from Mount Airy who stayed in the region for a week two years ago called it “the Idiot Wind” because it blows so hard for so long it drives you crazy. I’m doing a 6% downhill with my middle crank (yes, I have a triple) and it sounds like I’m doing 60 mph with the wind pushing me upright. Happily the Idiot Wind is only driving people nuts on one side of Victoire and the other side is fairly calm and warm. It gets to the 90s but it’s dry heat, as they say in Arizona. Here they just say it’s hot, they don’t have much experience with North Carolina in July.

The locals are organized into leagues and clubs of four levels racers, clyclosportives, cyclotourists and randonneurs. These translate to: really, really fast; very fast; fast with conversation, and seemingly forever up lots of hills with lots of conversation and luggage on the bike. The paper carries news of the local “concentrations” and ”rallyes” around the area. They also do a little book that lists all of these and there are 6-8 per weekend in various places within an hour’s drive from where I am. I decide to do the “rally du vins” in Vacqueyras—who wouldn’t, knowing that Vacqueyras is a really fine area for wine. It’s a hour north and when I leave at 6 a.m. it’s gray but dry and the weather report from the day before said “stabilite” which, to me, meant the same as the day before, which was warm and clear. Not to be, it starts to rain 30 km from town and continues as I go through the better parts of the wine region of Chateuneuf-du-Pape. When I arrive in Vacqueyras, a very nice place to spend a day sipping the local vins du table or better, a few disappointed fellows a wandering away from the presentation stage that was set up in the very small town center. “Rally Anullee,” is written on a cardboard sign on the stage and a fellow riding up on a ‘cross bike in rain gear looks really disappointed when I tell him that the rally is “annulled.” Amazingly, he seems to understand (or he’s very disappointed by my French). What to do? Why not head over to look at Mount Ventoux which looked very impressive from the air when I flew in and just check it out in the car.

I ride over to the towns I read about as the staging point for trips up the mountain, Malaucene and Bedoin and see a lot of folks, men and woman, kids and families, headed up the mountain, or so I thought. They were headed in the direction of the mountain and then turning off for another town as part of a local ride. This area is in the heart of the cycling tour area and there’s a steady flow of groups and singles tooling along from restaurant to restaurant. On the spur of the moment (well, I was prepared and brought my rain jacket, knee and arm warmers). I change in the town center parking lot figuring things won’t get stolen in front of the local bank and head on off for the Mountain taking the jacket but forgoing the warmers based on what the race-types looked to be wearing.

I make it to the top in two hours with no stops—stopping is something a fair number of riders seem to do—and get passed by only two people while passing 10 or 12. I thought the route would be more crowded on a Saturday in July. It turns out there’s sort of a schedule for the mountain; most people depart from or go through the approach towns either around 8 a.m. or much later in the day. I left at 11 am, the middle of the day—something that isn’t too smart, apparently, and I can understand why: If the sun comes out you could get baked.

The route from Bedoin is 21 kilometers of steady and then hard climbing, 6% at best, mostly 8% with two little breaks and 10% over a few kilometers in the middle with a 10-11% last two kilometers in the strange, movie-scene loneliness of the windy and cloudy top. The Tom Simpson memorial is a little less than 2 km from the top in a place that is as lonely and barren as anywhere I’ve ever been. (For those who don’t know…Tom Simpson was the very popular British rider who was World Road Champion in 1966. He died trying to lead the Tour up Mount Ventoux. He’d been ill, was using stimulants and had stopped in a café in Bedoin and gulped down a glass of brandy before heading up the mountain on a hot July afternoon…he died on the road where the monument is located). I could see the lonely rock stele and the summit in one moment but when I passed the engraved stone, the clouds closed in and there was just rocky nothingness mounting upwards or tumbling endlessly down on the other side of the road.

I grind it out deciding to not let my pulse rate go above 90% and using the small gear the last two-thirds of the way, saving the rescue gear (39-27) for emergencies. The emergency is the second-to-last kilometer which has that “it’s getting farther and farther away” feel to it. The last kilometer has the advantage of adrenaline and the end clearly in sight and I manage to pass a clout of riders near the end. They don’t care, they’re happy to be there themselves. I do not fool myself that I could have done it faster with this energetic finish. With a year of training, maybe I could cut the time significantly, but there’s a limit on a climb as steady as this. In any event, a guy I met at the top made it up almost an hour faster than I did. Then there’s the people who are there to do it three times in a day, up the three different approaches. The look surprisingly ordinary, and old-ish.

I passed up the cookies on sale in front of the little, well-stocked quick-mart at the observatory, pulled on my jacket and headed down. It was cold, 8 degrees C, and the clouds came and went and the wind was “idiotic” in how it blew. The way down saw new, really, really big numbers on my cyclo-computer. Scary doing 60+ kph. I had to slow way down when I got a good chance, just to loosen my grip on the brakes and bars. In the end, I felt like I had a hard but not killing day. I was happy to change in my car and head across the street to the local bar for a congratulatory “jus d’orange” that turned magically into a beer. The barkeep seemed to understand when I said it was my “premiere essaye.” I took the air on the street, the same street the Tour will pass on its way up the Mountain in a little less that three weeks. If they only had a shower.

Here’s what the top of Ventoux looks like when you’re at the Tom Simpson memorial

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