Tour de France 2009

Ah, the Tour! With drama and intrigue, lacking the shadow of doping that has haunted the past few years. As soon as the route for the 2009 Tour de France was posted I scoured the calendar to determine a promising date to visit a stage. The mountains are where the excitement is: a cycler cannot win the Tour without conquering the mountains and the slower pace while climbing allows spectators to better see the peloton as it is stretched by the ascent.

This year the first high mountain stages in the Pyrenees were over the weekend before Bastille Day, which is celebrated on a Tuesday. This would give us a few extra days to make the long drive back from the Spanish border. We targeted the finish in Andorre Arcalis for stage 7, the Col d’Agnes in stage 8, and the Col du Tourmalet for stage 9.

Drama began to build months before the race would begin, when Lance Armstrong announced he was returning to competitive cycling. And he would be racing with Astana, the New York Yankees of cycling, a team already stacked with top talent including the 2007 Tour winner Alberto Contador, American Levi Leipheimer (3rd in 2007 Tour), and Andreas Kloden (2nd in 2004 & 2006 Tour). Astana performed well in the races leading up to the Tour; Armstrong began to show flashes of his prior form in the Giro d’Italia, despite having broken his collarbone only a few weeks before. Tension between the Astana team members added to the interest, as the debate centered on who would be the leader and contend for the overall title in the General Classification.

The stages we were planning to visit were over a weekend from Friday to Sunday. We had planned to drive halfway on Wednesday night, camp near Limoges, then drive to Andorre on Thursday morning. This would allow plenty of time to find and setup a campsite before the mountain filled with spectators. But the week before we had visitors from the US, Shereen’s brother and two friends, and we were not able to pack before Wednesday. So we made the 9 hour drive on Thursday. Interestingly, the traveling trio was flying to Barcelona and would be there when stage 6 ended on Thursday evening and stage 7 left on Friday morning.

We zipped along the smooth French highways, making good time until we arrived at the base of the Pyrenees. Then the steep switchbacks slowed our progress, so that the last few kilometers took hours. In the mountains there is only one road between each town, making it easy to track the Tour route. There were banners hung from houses and already painted cyclist’s names were drying on the road. We twisted higher, nearing the peak, stopping to ask a police officer standing with a group where to camp. He directed us to follow another officer into a car. Driving higher he pointed us to a gate by a bridge leading to a short gravel road wrapping around a large meadow on the slope. Other cars were already there and several tents were in various stages of being setup. We turned to the left in the first level grass path, squeezed the car past two others, avoiding the boulders, sidled over against the slope, leaving room for the tent in front of the car. This was a nice spot to camp. We were several kilometers from the finish, but we could see the large metal ring at the peak of Arcalis near the finish line. Camping beside us was an older French couple. The man was very friendly and spoke enough English that we could communicate. On the other side of the French was an Australian with a Japanese woman.

It was peaceful as we sat next to the car munching the food we had stashed in the cooler, overlooking the small stream below. There was plenty of empty space for campers between the tents already dotting the hillside. Cars trickled in throughout the evening, but we were to discover the next day that the main camping site was further up the mountain. The temperature dropped quickly, encouraging us to hide in the tent, deep in our sleeping bags.

The next morning I woke up early, anticipating the activity I had been most looking forward to since the 2008 Tour: climbing the mountain on a bike in imitation (a poor one) of what the pros would do later in the day. Our mountain bikes had made the trip hanging from the back of the Golf. I would be in sneakers and sweatshirt (it was still quite cold in the morning), but would fit right in with the motley crew soon to be pedaling towards the peak. All types tackle the challenge before a Tour stage: from the past professionals and up and comers, to the weekend adventurers like me using whatever bike is available to ascend the mountain. My excitement got me out of the tent and on the road before most. I coasted down the hill, bumping across the grate of pipes guarding the entrance to our camping area, then across the stone bridge, beginning the initially gradual ascent. There were only a few bikers and hikers on the road this early; the campers perched on the roadside between blacktop and cliff, lounging and eating breakfast, were entertained by the few of us climbing. Shouts of “Allez, Allez!” were common from the French, although in Andorre the Spaniards were probably more numerous. The knobby tires of a mountain bike are not optimal for road climbing, but this was offset by the lower gearing of a mountain bike versus a road bike. Ascending Arcalis I was able to find a low gear that I could sustain and crank slowly. Once my body warmed up, and I reached the series of switchbacks farther along, I would shift to a higher gear, stand in the pedals and pretend I was Contador putting the hurt on the peloton. But being in only a semblance of fitness, this did not last long, and I was soon back in the saddle, fumbling for a lower gear as my heart beat a quick staccato inside my skull. My pride was only saved by being able to ride the several kilometers to the finish without having to stop, even if at an extremely slow pace. Arcalis is classified as a “hors categorie” (HC) climb, meaning “beyond classification”, a climb among the most difficult due to its steepness and/or length. I had begun at roughly the mid-point of the climb and pedaled up grades averaging 6 to 7%. Rounding the last corner to the finish, I passed by the large, steel ring sculpture, then the Tour trailers and a few team vehicles. Then looping around and beginning the long descent. The ascent had been difficult, but dropping down 7% grades was thrilling, enhanced by the thought that my brakes may not be up to the task.

The sun was warming things nicely by the time I arrived at the campsite. We ate breakfast, chatted with our neighbors, including two guys from California who were on sabbatical from IBM, grabbed our American flags, and then began the hike towards the top. We took a direct route on a grassy road, which met with the stream at a mini falls, before we had to deviate up the steep hillside through scattered fir trees. Probably more difficult than just following the road, but definitely more interesting. People were now out and about, in various activities to kill time before the cyclists would arrive in the late afternoon. We passed groups painting the names of their favorites in white, yellow, and orange across the road. Paint rollers were put to good use spreading white paint in broad letters. At one switchback, a couple of enthusiastic Livestrong volunteers were darkening the yellow letters of LIVESTRONG spread across the road. Someone was filming the activity. The Livestrong organization was well represented in each of the stages we attended. Flags of all varieties, from countries and provinces, were draped, hung, and waved from the rows of campers. Amongst the cultural mishmash we spotted more American flags than one might expect.

The switchbacks nearer the peak would allow us to see more of the road from above, so we continued hiking until reaching the Skoda advertising section, then climbed over the temporary, yellow railing to stake out a spot. We had a good view of several switchbacks and could see the long-haired Livestrong volunteer still occupied with his yellow letters far below. It was now time to wait. It would be an hour or so until the caravan would arrive. Then a few more hours until the cyclists reached us. We amused ourselves watching the bikers struggling up the mountain. Some were wearing costume, one had a turkey on his head, another was clanging along with a large cow bell under his seat. The loudest cheers were for a one-legged man cranking up the hill at a good pace (much faster than I had been on two legs), a group of teenage cyclists dressed in blue who appeared to be the next generation of Tour hopefuls, and a woman who was running up Arcalis. There are always a few runners in these mountains; I have seen them running up and down, though I’m not sure how their knees survive the pounding descent. The grass beside us began to be filled by others; a large group of young bikers threw their bikes over the railing and stretched out to wait.

Cars, bikes, and hikers continued to move up and down the mountain. Soon the first arm of the caravan approached. The caravan is a several mile long string of cars and floats that travels the length of each stage, preceding the cyclists. Tour sponsors will create elaborate floats with various themes, surround these with cars or vans painted with company colors and logos, and fill all of the vehicles with models who throw freebies to the throngs. This is almost more exciting than the race, screaming and waving your arms to catch the attention of a model who either lobs green, foam fingers over her shoulder without looking or takes deadly aim and whips packaged candy directly at your head. There then proceeds a chaotic scramble amongst your neighbors to grab the key chain or hat that bounced off your hands to the ground. If you are quick, soon red, blue, and checked hats have been stacked one atop another on your head, a replica bike jersey is stretched over your shirt, your bag is full of magnets and key chains, and you are munching on sample packages of sausage. It’s one of the few times an adult can act like a kid at Christmas gloating over his loot. And it makes the wait for the race much more interesting.

After a few hours the last car in the caravan passes and things become much quieter. Only Tour cars have been allowed on the road, but fewer of these now pass and the majority of the bikers have climbed the hill and found a place to watch along the road. There was little room in our area, and Shereen protected her personal space with sharp words to a few Spaniards who were crowding. One responded with a joking “do you have a ticket”, but in a friendly way and they moved over and sat down to give us room. The first indication the racers are approaching is the helicopters. There are typically two choppers circling at a high elevation and a third hovering low to get a closer camera angle. At times during the Tour this chopper has gotten too low and the breeze from the rotor has blown cyclists into one another. Once the higher chopper is in sight, the stream of Tour and team cars begin to thicken. From our vantage point we could see the leader emerge from a tunnel, then enter the switchbacks, passing in and out of view as he approached. We could not identify the leaders, but it was easy to see the Astana colors on a cyclist ahead of a small pack. Was this Armstrong? He was not wearing a black helmet, so we knew it was probably Contador. The cheers from the Spaniards around us confirmed this. The yellow railing was intended to keep us out of the road, but there was not enough security to enforce this, so everyone was over the barrier, standing in the road. As a biker approached, police motorcycles would zoom by attempting to push us back. But as soon as they passed the crowd would press in leaving only a few feet in the middle of the road clear. Then would come the slower moving motorcycles carrying the camera crew, closely followed by the cyclists. Contador had broken ahead of the other contenders, who were clustered in a small group charging towards the finish. Looking down we could easily distinguish the black helmeted Armstrong (great idea on his part) among the group. As they passed we could have reached out and grabbed them, one of the few sports that allow fans this close to participants during the competition. The peloton was well spread over the mountain, Arcalis being the first HC climb of this Tour. We cheered each as he passed for several minutes before joining the others walking down the mountain. The majority of the spectators began walking down the road before all the cyclists had passed. The road became crowded with walkers and bikers descending against the cyclists still trying to finish the stage. We passed one pro who had been dropped several minutes behind struggling up the hill who nearly collided with a walker who was looking the other direction. The pro swung his arm and walloped the guy in the chest grabbing a fistful of shirt and shoving him away. He was venting frustration at the fan, but also at having been dropped. A bit further down we were passed by a large pack of cyclists; the sprinters who climb the mountains together for moral support ride just fast enough to finish under the time limit so they can continue the Tour. The sprinter group occupied the entire road, forcing spectators into the grass. We continued walking, past a group of drunk, costumed guys, one wearing a police uniform sans pants and underwear. All of sudden Shereen said, “Was that Lance?” Sure enough we saw the Astana colors and a black helmet on a cyclist descending at a fast pace. He was dodging in and around the crowds. Soon we were able to pick out other pros descending among the amateur bikers. Apparently the quickest way for them to get back to the hotels in the town below was to hop back on their bikes after finishing. There is no town at the peak in Arcalis, and the only building is a small ski lodge. But only in the Tour would the pros risk injury riding through an inebriated crowd at breakneck speed to reach the nights lodging.

We had been planning to drive that night to see the stage on the following day. But it was late in the evening by the time we were at the campsite, and the road would be closed for at least another hour, so we decided to setup the tent we had torn down in the morning. This night was colder than the previous; we had only time enough to eat dinner before hiding in the tent to escape the chill. We woke early the next morning so that we could get down the mountain ahead of that day’s stage before the roads would be closed. It was a long drive down into Spain, twisting through too many hairpins too count, then looping around and climbing back into France. We went through rural areas and were greeted by a herd of cows loose on the mountain scattered across the road. Our destination was the Col du Tourmalet. To reach the Tourmalet we went over the Col d’Aspin, the peak where I had watched the 2008 Tour. We passed the place where I spent a memorable night on the hillside, sleeping in the car wedged against the passenger door while rain pelted the windows. Several kilometers farther we were at the foot of the Tourmalet and began the long ascent. The Tourmalet is another HC climb, one of the longest and steepest in the Tour. Although both Arcalis and Tourmalet are classified HC, the Tourmalet is a more difficult climb, reaching grades approaching an average of 9%. We arrived in the afternoon, but it quickly was apparent that finding a camping site would be more difficult than Arcalis. There was not much open, flat space beside the road; most campers had simply pulled to the side of the road and were teetering on blocks beside the cliff. The few campsites were already filled with those who looked like they had arrived the day before. There was no place to camp on this side of the mountain; the side the cyclists would ascend the next day. We drove to the peak and then down the other side. It was a similar situation near the peak on the opposite side, but far below we could see flatter space with cars parked. After a few kilometers we swung to the left on a gravel driveway, passed a small, stone building and parked near a few other campers.

This was pasture of some kind, there were dried, manure pies scattered in the grass. The peaks bowled around us and then marched in parallel down the valley which opened up below us with scarcely a tree to break the view. Near our car were several large concrete slabs, the purpose of which we were to discover the next morning. Shereen was not too happy as we watched our step to avoid any fresh “pies”. We found a somewhat flat place to spread the tent. The sun was bright, and it was quite warm as we dragged our gear from the car. The sound of a clanging cow bell was ringing incessantly; we soon located the source far away, halfway up a steep mountain where a large flock of sheep was walking. The sheep intermittently created small rock slides as they minced along a narrow ledge. There progress was slow since a lead sheep would often lose heart and stand motionless for several minutes until working up the courage to proceed. Unlike the Andorre campsite (which had port-a-potties), there was no nearby place to use a toilet. There were no trees or hills to hide behind. Walking far out into the sheep pasture we found a dry gully that cut deep enough that we were hidden from view when inside. We were to make several treks here over the next two days; others were to leave evidence that they had done likewise. This did not add to Shereen’s enjoyment of the experience. The Tourmalet stayed warmer longer than Arcalis; we were comfortable as we stood and watched the sun disappear behind a distant peak.

In the morning, I woke to ride my bike up the vaunted Tourmalet. As I was getting the bike at the car, the clanging of the sheep bell was getting louder along with the bleating of sheep. Soon the shepherd appeared and began to spread salt (it was white substance that looked like salt) on the concrete slabs. Periodically he would whistle loudly. Soon a few sheep came over a hill hump, hesitated for a moment, then thundered down to lick the salt. The sheep dog ran round the herd keeping them in a tight pack. Spectators soon gathered to watch. The sheep milled around licking and the shepherd dispersed more salt. Then putting down his bag he grabbed a modern shepherd’s crook and moving quickly through the furry mass soon had his target by the leg. I stayed long enough to snap a few photos of the sheep milling near our tent before riding to the road. I was to hear later that Shereen woke up to see Dolly looking into the tent. One more reason that she does not have fond memories of the Tourmalet.

Initially the ride to the peak was similar to Arcalis, but nearer the top the road steepened significantly. I passed a sign stating that the grade averaged 10%. There was an obvious difference at this point and it was all I could do to stay in the pedals while in first gear. At the top there was a large banner stretched across the road near a sculpture of a biker with a face contorted in agony with the strain of climbing the grade. A small bar was across the road, snuggled against the shoulders of the mountain. Crossing over a river of campers twisted down the mountain. This would be the gauntlet that the cyclists would traverse during the stage. I rode down a short way, before turning and imitating an Armstrong charge to the peak (well, in my mind anyway). I returned to the campsite to hear the sheep story from Shereen.

Later in the morning we again chose the more interesting route up the mountain and hiked across the pasture, then followed a zigzag grass path up the cliff, before deciding to go straight up the hill, climbing by grasping handfuls of bushes. We popped out on the road near the 10% grad sign, then continued the short distance to the peak. By the time we arrived the police had blocked the peak and were not allowing any bikers to cross over. There was a huge mass of bikers jammed, trying to turn around. We decided not to navigate through this mess and staked out a place in front of the bar within view of the banner and sculpture. The wait was similar to Andorre, but security was tighter here and no one was allowed on the road. We remained leaning over the barrier. Near the end of the caravan some officials cars pulled up and Bernard Hinault (a Frenchman and 5-time winner of the Tour), Christian Prudhomme (the Tour director), and a few others placed flowers at the base of a bust to some dead man with significance to the Tour. It was short ceremony, mostly they stood with necks craned back to look at the bust while photographers snapped pictures.

The cyclists soon began arriving at the peak. Typically they were zipping up their jerseys to prepare for the cold wind of the descent, after having opened their jerseys to cool down while climbing. Many grabbed bags filled with newspaper, slung the bag around their neck, then stuffed the paper down their jersey to act as an extra layer of insulation. It is not hard to imagine it would be very chilly to descend at high speed after being drenched in sweat from the ascent. Shereen and I were caught on film for a few seconds by a camera shooting the leaders. I am in the yellow shirt and blue hat taking a photo, Shereen is behind me in the yellow hat waving the US flag. Check out the 2:03 mark in this video: http://www.steephill.tv/players/vimeo/large.php?title=tdf-st9-highlights&id=5564609

We stepped inside the bar to get a snack of fries and watched the cyclists zipping through the towns below on TV for a few minutes. Then merged with the crowd for the walk back to the car. We were both tired and ready to get back to civilization. As in 2008, the Tour had delivered a great spectator experience. What other sporting event is free (there is no ticket required), allows you to imitate the pros the day of the event on the competitive surface, immerses you in a cultural bonanza, puts you close enough to see the competitors grit their teeth, and provides eye candy for nearly an entire day (or 21 days if you attend each stage)?