Watching the
Tour de France in person
(what you don't get on the TV)
Someone asked why
you'd want to see the Tour de France in person-
You won't get very much out of watching a road race in person,
unless you are on a motorcycle or car following the race. Unless
it's a time trial, you will stand for many hours to get a few
seconds or minutes of racing.
If you want to ride your bicycle in France, then it's best to avoid
the Tour de France, as all the roads are blocked off for hours prior
to the race.
To which I replied- I'll have to disagree; there's very
little that compares to the thrill of being on a steep mountain
climb and watching the shattered peloton come through. You are
so close to the action that you become almost a part of it
(especially if you're flinging a handbag around), and the drama
unfolds in front of you over a significant period of time, not
fleeting seconds.
True, you've got to get to your place fairly early, as they'll close
the roads to bikes about three hours ahead of the race, but the cars
have been shut out earlier than that, so you've got the mountain all
to yourself (along with a few hundred thousand people, many of them
cheering you on as you climb up the col). It's an experience like
no other, a huge party that you have been invited to. There
will be the crazy Dutch corner (easily identified by all the
orange), the Telekom Pigs (who really don't put Germans in the
best-possible light), the Devil himself (the guy you've seen in all
the photos, and yes, he enjoys having his picture taken with you!),
and a steady stream of overweight guys hauling big beer coolers
miles up the mountain.
Perhaps you'll ride to the top of the pass, and then head back down
to a spot you scouted on the way up... but not before having your
picture taken at the very top. You descend maybe a couple of
kilometers, looking for that spot where, on the way up, you were
thinking "Geez, this is a nasty stretch!" because that's
where the attack might come.
You look at your watch and note that it's about 2.5 hours before
they come through; quite a long time! But it passes quickly, as you
trade stories with others you meet, new friends brought to the same
place as if they were called there by some mysterious power. You
try to hear what's happening on somebody's radio (or, if you were
really smart, you brought your own... or perhaps even an LCD TV!).
If you've got a cell phone and don't mind the cost, you call home
(if that's in the US) and ask your wife if she could turn on OLN and
let you know what's happening (never mind that it's 6am in
California!).
Before long (two hours prior to the riders) the first competition
begins... the Caravan arrives, and everybody's acting like a little
kid, trying to score whatever trinkets & trash they throw from the
vehicles. You could spend days studying the Caravan and never
figure out how they decide who they're going to throw to (but
eventually you start analyzing trajectories and learn where stuff is
likely to land). If you're smart, you'll pay attention to the
Aquarel vehicles; they pass out bottled water, which is a very
valuable commodity when you're miles from nowhere!
The Caravan takes about 30 minutes to completely pass through; an
amazing assortment of vehicles, many of which you simply don't
believe could travel up & down the passes safely. It's incredibly
goofy and leaves even the most jaded with a strangely giddy feeling.
But you've still got an hour and a half to go, and it seems
like the gendarmes have temporarily given up on stopping people from
riding up the hill (if you wanted to move, this is the time). An
occasional car goes flying through, perhaps transporting a
photographer or dignitary or race official to some key spot further
down the course. The tension is building noticeably; people are
talking about whatever strategy has unfolded so far, and wondering
who's going to be in the lead by the time they get to your spot on
the course.
By this time your neck is pretty fried if you haven't put on
sunscreen, and your feet a bit tired if you're trying to walk around
in racing shoes (definitely consider bringing along some of those
roll- up shoe/sock things with the rubberized soles and mesh tops).
But you're hanging tough, along with everyone else, and something is
telling you that, at this moment, there's no place on earth better
to be than right where you are right now.
Half an hour to go and the gendarmes are aggressively keeping people
off the road. Time to park your butt so nobody takes your place!
And then, with the riders maybe 20 minutes away, you see the first
helicopters, way down the valley. The first ones you see are up
high; they're used to relay the television signals. But shortly you
spot the lower helicopters, the ones that closely follow the riders,
and you can see them moving up the valley, moving towards you. The
air becomes strangely chilled for a short period of time as you get
goose-bumps in anticipation.
Ten minutes away and, for the first time, you hear the
helicopters. As one closes in on you, it seems to almost slow down
and hover, as if the riders have stopped just short of you. Soon, a
car comes blasting through at very high speed, with a bull-horn
blasting out in indecipherable French (as only a bull-horn can do)
that the riders are just two minutes behind! But what riders? No
way can you make out what they're saying; it's the worst
Jack-in-the-box speaking imaginable. But you catch bits and pieces
of conversations around you, and put together that a Frenchman's off
the front by a minute or two but is losing ground fast, and an
attack has just flown off the front of what's left of the pack,
which is quickly disintegrating.
And then the lead motorcycles, two of them, flying fast and close to
the edges of the road in an attempt to move you back and make room
for the riders. And they do come very, very close. They
have their prescribed line, and I don't know what would happen if
somebody didn't move out of the way fast enough.
Now they're upon you. Lead motorcycle (with photographer), and then
the stage leader, seeming to both fly and struggle at the same time
(and in your mind you could swear that each pedal stroke is slower
than the one before). This guy's not going to make it; the attacks
behind are going to swallow him up shortly. He's followed closely
by his team car, with the DS (team director) leaning out the window
yelling encouragement (or obscenities, if it's Saiz).
A minute or two of silence follows, and you're briefly thinking "Is
that it?" You know it's not, but you're thinking it anyway. There
were just a couple of cars, maybe four motorcycles. But then you
notice the air around you is moving and you look up and there's
a helicopter hovering right over the top of you, and noise levels are
increasing at an astronomical rate as a flotilla of cars and
motorcycles rush past and you're suddenly in the middle of a
traveling maelstrom of activity. Don't blink now, things are
happening fast! Where are they? Motorcycles, cars, helicopters,
more motorcycles, all making quite the racket, and now the crowd is
yelling, cheering wildly, the noise literally rolling up the hill
towards you. You look down the road and notice where people are
starting to yell; obviously the riders are within their sight!
Camera, is the camera ready?
At this point you have to make a decision (one you should have made
some time ago, but is now up for grabs). Do you watch the events
unfold, get caught up in the moment and cheer your heroes on... or
do you take photos? It's an unfortunate fact that you really can't
do both... to take decent photos requires that you become almost
detached from what's going on. Timing is everything! Those who are
there to stand and cheer will be able to replay the event in their
mind, over and over. The photographer, if he/she doesn't get the
shot, loses everything. There's no half-way.
Zoom in on the motorcycles. Ignore those used for crowd control;
the ones to watch for are those with photographers and race
officials, as they'll be in the thick of the action. They'll always
have a passenger, and often a tall antenna on the back. Right
behind them, or maybe to the side, will be the action, the racers
who are doing their best to blow things apart. Your heroes.
Virenque (if it's not the final hill). Heras. Lance. Ullrich.
Tyler. Vino. Guys who are looking very serious, like this is
all-business and they're at 110% and refuse, absolutely refuse to
crack. Their speed is unbelievable for such a steep grade; these
guys are simply not mortal. They turn the throttle and see if they
can push it to 11...and hold it there for as long as it takes.
And then they're past. The helicopters, the motorcycles, the
cars, the riders... gone on up the hill. Maybe 15 seconds later you
get somebody who wasn't able to keep up, but still doing pretty
good, in no apparent danger of falling apart. Whatever
discouragement comes from falling off the back is at least partly
offset by the tremendous amount of attention that single person is
getting from the crowds! And, when you talk with them later, they
tell you they do hear you, and it does keep them
going.
Another minute or two and you get a bit larger group, riders who are
working really hard, trying not to lose too much time in the GC
(overall time).
There's a bit of panic on some of their faces; nobody looks
comfortable. Nobody in this group is going to win the stage, but
there still might be opportunities for a couple of them to move up
in the GC.
Now you start getting the stragglers; people who have blown up and
are steadily losing time. These guys are going visibly slower than
those that came before, and they look really, really awful.
Mortal. Like you & me when we're totally bonked and have three
miles left on a nasty climb and can't imagine how we'll make it over
the top. No pedals turned in anger, just anguish!
By this time things have really thinned out and maybe twenty minutes
(or more) have passed since the lead rider. You start counting in
your mind how many have gone by; it just doesn't seem like all that
many. Did everyone drop out? But you wait a bit more and here it
comes... maybe 80 guys all bunched together, riding almost casually
up the hill. Their work was done long ago, and none of them are in
contention for anything but perhaps sprinter's points... their only
fear is the dreaded time-cut. But as long as a large number ride
together, they figure they'll all be allowed to stay in the race,
even if they miss the time-cut, because the organizers aren't going
to disqualify half the field!
And, finally, the broom wagon comes along, giving far too much
attention to the poor guy in front of it, the last rider on the
course. This guy probably doesn't have a chance of making the time
cut, but suffers on. Everybody watching can relate to him,
and sometimes the identity surprises you (in '03 on the Tourmalet
it was Axel Merckx).
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Before long (two hours prior to the riders) the first competition
begins... the Caravan arrives, and everybody's acting like a little
kid, trying to score whatever trinkets & trash they throw from the
vehicles. You could spend days studying the Caravan and never
figure out how they decide who they're going to throw to (but
eventually you start analyzing trajectories and learn where stuff is
likely to land). If you're smart, you'll pay attention to the
Aquarel vehicles; they pass out bottled water, which is a very
valuable commodity when you're miles from nowhere!
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