It’s 11 in the morning on the road between Montfort-en-Chalosse and Sabres, France. The sun is shining, and the Tour de France is going to be racing along this rout in about 5 hours. Along the side of the street, through the rolling farmland and in the pine forests, people gather. A family sits on the right side of the road, the father reading the paper while his kids run and play. Several kilometers up the road, there’s a group of Dutch fans, decked out in orange from head to toe; later, a huge picnic set up with a dozen spectators, and nearly as many bottles of wine on the table.
The parcours of the Tour is marked by yellow arrows that show the correct direction. That makes navigating the final two thirds of our ride through southern France particularly easy – follow those arrows, and you’ll not only end up at the hotel where we’ll watch the race go by, but you’ll get there the same way they do, and past the same fans.
A group of us power up a small hill, and I find myself slightly off the back, about 10 meters behind. An older French woman is clapping as we pass her, but as she sees me drop back, the clapping gets a little louder, and the shouting starts. “Allez! Allez! Allez!” she shouts, pumping her fists at me. Clearly, it’s going to require a little more effort for me to stay with my colleagues, and she’s here to motivate me.
For a guy who grew up racing bikes in western Pennsylvania in the mid-80s, when few Americans had heard of the sport, getting the chance to ride the roads at the Tour de France is, quite literally, a dream come true. I used to wallpaper my room with cycling posters shot on these roads, at this most historic of bike races. And now I’m here.
As we pass each group of fans, they offer cheers and encouragement. Hundreds and hundreds of them, cheering for an anonymous group of cyclists they’ll never see again, simply because they’re cyclists, and this is the Tour. The race is embedded into the culture just as surely as foie gras and condescension. The French love the Tour, and cycling, and cyclists – and that’s why even tourists like us get a cheer riding on this festive day.
By the end of the ride, I’m feeling pretty tired (my fitness isn’t what I’d like it to be), but I’m exhilarated. We pull into the Hotel Auberge de Pins where we plan to watch the race, and sit down to a delicious lunch of roast pork, salmon, rillette, rice, and plenty of local wine. As the race approaches, the publicity caravan goes through the village, giving away everything from sausages to laundry detergent to the waiting fans. Kids crowd around the Ricoré truck, clamoring for a cup of the chicory and coffee blend.
Finally, the sound of the TV helicopter starts to grow, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, the race arrives. After hours and hours of anticipation, it’s past in 10 seconds, a stream of the world’s best bike racers flashing by on their way to Bordeaux.
The fans grin giddily at one another, comparing their photos. Everyone gathers their possessions, and heads out. In 20 minutes, it’s life back to normal, and by looking at the town, you’d never even know it had happened.
Photos: Mark McClusky, Matthew Murray. Video: Mark McClusky
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