Le Tour! or The Long Buildup to a Few Minutes of Spectating

Pictures:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2004878&l=8e38b&id=1173293194
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2004880&l=d30aa&id=1173293194
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2004882&l=83810&id=1173293194

Once I learned that I would be in France during the month of July I began to make plans to see one of the world’s great sporting events: The Tour de France. For the uninitiated the Tour is a bicycle race that lasts 3 weeks, traveling throughout France, and is known as the premier test of physical endurance in any sport. Each day, or stage, is a bike race unto itself with different specialists vying for their chance to win. The flat stages showcase the powerfully built sprinters, the mountain stages in the Pyrenees and French Alps are lead by the lean and light climbers, while only the best riders have hopes of capturing the overall Tour win in the General Classification (GC). What sets the Tour apart from other races is the long and grueling climbs through the mountains. These climbs are categorized by their length and steepness: a 5 is the lowest category, a relatively short and shallow mountain, a 1 is the second to highest, extremely steep and long, and above a 1 is the dreaded Hors Categorie (HC), which means “beyond category”, so steep and long it is beyond mere mortals to attempt.

Fortunately this past Sunday was the first mountain stage of this year’s Tour. The mountains are where the action occurs, the top contenders for the GC begin to attack and put large chunks of time between themselves and lesser riders. Also, the mountains are better for spectating simply because the riders are moving slower and are more spread out as they climb. Yesterday’s stage traveled from Toulouse to Bagneres-de-Bigorre, including two category 1 climbs, the second of which, up the Col d’Aspin appeared to be a prime place to watch the race. This was the first stage in the Pyrenees between France and Spain.

Once again my travel plans were somewhat unrefined. I was disappointed to learn that none of my coworkers had an interest in seeing the Tour; I would be on my own to figure this out. I was able to find some info on the web, including this humorous write-up (http://gearchangeup4.blogspot.com/2006/07/brit-what-happened-at-tour-de-france.html) by a Brit who followed the Tour the year Floyd Landis “won”. I knew that I would be camping somewhere along the race route, so decided the best plan was to get to Bagneres-de-Bigorre and then use the GPS to travel to Arreu, the town at the base of the climb up the Col d’Aspin. My assumption, which proved to be correct, that in the mountains there would be few roads between towns, so that I was sure to be on the road of the Tour stage. I had food to get me through the weekend, a sleeping bag (a tent didn’t fit in my luggage), and my suitcase full of clothes. Besides a map of the stage, including the times when riders were expected to be at checkpoints, that was the limit of my planning.

The drive to Bagneres-de-Bigorre took over 6 hours and I arrived in a steady rain on Saturday about 5 pm. Climbing out of the town up the side of the mountain I was forced to shift to first gear on the hairpin turns. These were the curves the riders would descend the next day. All that I knew is that I wanted to camp somewhere on the other side of the mountain, along the road the riders would be ascending. Nearing the top I could not believe the way campers were parked at the side of the road with their wheels not more than a couple feet from steep drops. I was beginning to think that I would spend the night in such a precarious position. Fortunately when I reached the peak, the spine of the mountain opened up into a clearing where hundreds of cars and campers were parked along the slope. Interestingly in socialist France, capitalism was alive and well at the peak of the Col d’Aspin, for only 5 Euro I was allowed to drive my car along the hill and park in the grass. The rain was still heavy, so those with tents were hurrying to setup. Not having the luxury of a tent, I knew that I would be spending the night in my Renault Laguna. A fairly roomy car, I was glad that I had not asked for a small car at the rental. Not so good was my choice of parking locations. The car was clinging to a rather steep slope, so steep that when I reclined the passenger seat and spread my sleeping bag out, gravity persuaded my body to nestle in the crack between the seat and the door. After a few machinations with the sleeping bag I was able to add sufficient padding to prevent hard plastic from leaving imprints in my body.

The rain was severe enough that I scratched plans to roam the area. I had meant to bring a rain coat along from the US, but in the hurry to leave I made a poor trade for a tiny umbrella that barely covered my head. It would be uncomfortable, without the added discomfort of being wet. The revelry from the other spectators was dampened as well, I could hear drunken singing at a nearby campsite, but most were bunkered down in their tents. That night it continued to rain hard and the wind rocked my car as the gusts roared over the Col. It was very cold too, and I ducked my head into my sleeping bag to stay warm. I had visions of myself standing in the rain during the race struggling to stay dry under my tiny umbrella with a garbage bag improvising as a rain coat (I had remembered the bag in my luggage at some point and decided that if worst came to worst I would layer up with clothes, tear holes in the garbage bag, and tough it out). Not sure how much I actually slept, but suffice it to say that when I woke up for good at 6 am I would have gladly traded this night for one crammed in coach class on an international flight between two fat men! But the anticipation of the Tour made me quickly forget this.

The rain had stopped in the morning, but it was still very cold, probably in the upper 30’s or low 40’s. Sticking with my plan from the night, I layered up with 5 T-shirts and 2 long sleeve shirts. I would have loved to have had a more thermally appropriate hat than a baseball hat, but there wasn’t much of a breeze, so I actually felt fairly comfortable. I loaded my bag with food and water (stuffed the garbage bag in just in case) and literally fell out of the car to begin exploring. The mountains were shrouded in a low cloud, with only hints of the vaunted steepness of the Pyrenees.
Reaching the road and beginning to drop down into the valley I crossed paths with the fans painting their favorites names on the road. For almost the entire climb up the Col there would a bike riders name on the road, each rider seemed to have his own fan section where his letters were spread across the pavement for several hundred yards. There were already amateur cyclists ascending and descending the stage route. It is common for enthusiasts to follow the Tour and ride the climbs while the road is closed to cars before the race. These were bikers of all stripes, from the wannabe pros decked out in full regalia, to the slackers riding a mountain bike with sneakers, and every shape and size in between. As I was learning, watching a Tour stage is more about the prelude than the actual race. There was a LONG time to wait before the riders would arrive at about 5 pm.

Since I didn’t have a bike, I kept hiking down the mountain. Within a kilometer of the peak I found the place that was to be where I watched the race. The road twisted below into a series of 8% grade hairpins, then stretched out in a long straightaway, before snaking around the side of a hill and disappearing. I could see the road at 6 different locations, maximizing the amount of time I could see the riders. Usually you don’t see them until they are right onto top of you, so this was a great place to be. The road was narrow, leaving little room for spectators, so I decided to make sure I was back at this spot by noon to make sure I had a place. Walking down the peak for a few more kilometers I had a good taste of what the riders would experience. The amateurs continued to fly down the road, or struggle up it, in increasing numbers. There was almost a continual procession of riders going in one direction or the other. The crazies were there in full force, most sporting their home country’s flag (yes, I did not represent very well, I forgot to bring a US flag).

Back at my spectating location, a few meters more than 1 kilometer from the peak, I settled in to wait. The side of the road was already filling up and the amateurs were flying fast and furious or slow and haggard on their bikes. The French are not the friendliest of people, they make little effort to speak English even if they know how, so I was glad when a Spaniard from Catalonia parked near me, and a short time later a German from Berlin leaned his bike against the fence post guarding the cliff. These were to be my Tour “buddies”, the Spaniard kidded me about being a Tour virgin. Both had seen the Tour before and were quite glad to practice their English as we waited for the riders. Compared to them, and most of the other fans, I was better dressed for the weather. It was still cold and would remain so throughout the day. Since many of the watchers had biked up all or a portion of the Col, they were dressed in shorts and thin shirts, including my Spanish and German acquaintances. All were obviously cold. {One story I initially forgot to include: The German had spent time in Montreal recently. Rather than waving the banner of his home country, he had purchased a Canadian flag and enthusiastically waved it as assuredly the only German with a Canadian flag on that day}

The first indication that race is approaching is the “Caravan”. This is a long chain of floats advertising whichever company pays for the privilege, with models perched inside whipping free stuff at the fans as fast as they can. This is actually quite exciting. You holler and grab at whatever you can, the hot chocolate and real bike jersey were big favorites, while trying to avoid being bruised by a flying package. The floats drive fast up the narrow road, amazing that none of us was hit as we squeezed in to grab the freebies. At least it kept us warm as we surged back and forth toward the next float. This lasts for a LONG time, I didn’t time it, but possibly an hour of floats passed by. Capitalism rules!

Once the Caravan had passed I could feel the anticipation build, the Peleton would not be far away! (The Peleton is the term used for the main body of bike riders). The first indication the race has approached is the noise of helicopters. There are three following the riders, one close to the ground following the leader, a second a bit further back and higher, and a third higher still circling for wide angle TV shots. I could not interpret the French announcers on the handheld radios around me, but the German said that a German, Sebastian Lang, had broken ahead of the rest by over 2 minutes. This is a big lead, but since he still had more than 7 km of 8% grade to climb, not insurmountable. Soon Lang broke onto the long straightaway below us, disappearing as he entered the hairpins. But almost immediately another rider came into view, the Italian Ricco was charging hard to catch Lang. We could see the gap closing as Lang looped up the slope with Ricco closing fast. As Lang approached, the cops on motorcycles blasted through to clear a path. If you’ve ever seen a Tour, you know that the roads are narrow and the fans crowd close enough to touch the bikers. I was in position to be one of these! A series of Tour cars cruised by preceding the TV camera motorcycle, with Lang in tow. He was moving fast. Compared to the amateurs of the morning it was amazing to see his legs gobble the slope. It is mass confusion along the road at this point, people hollering and running across the road where there is a break, surging forward to get close to the rider. Similar to other individual sports, you root for each cyclist that passes. I had barely finished taking a picture of Lang when Ricco was on top of us and past. A better climber than Lang, he had closed to within a few bike lengths by the time he passed, and I would learn later Ricco would blow by Lang putting over 30 seconds between them before reaching the peak. This is what the mountains are all about!

In regular intervals the rest of the competitors raced by, there was a group of 20 or so bikers not too far behind that I think would have contained most of the contenders for the GC. The time began to stretch out between the racers, and there was still one large group to come. Eventually this group came into view and began to struggle up the climb. These were the sprinters. Traveling together for moral support and going just fast enough to beat the time cutoff to remain in the Tour. Built for short bursts of speed, not these long, grueling climbs, the look on their faces was pure pain by the time they reached us. They were riding 5 wide so the motorcycle cops drove right at the fans on the edge of the road to push us back into the grass. For all intents this was the end of the stage for us, and people began to hike or bike back to their cars. The drunken Basque kids were still hitting on the French girls as said goodbye to my Tour pals and trudged uphill.

It was a long day, I didn’t get off the mountain until after 6:30, but I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I hope to do it again, only this time with a bike, so that I can be one of those struggling amateurs gasping up the steep of a Category 1. But if I’m going to go the effort, better make that a Hors Categorie!!!