FRENCH FRIDAY – MOVED TO SUNDAY FOR THE FINAL STAGE OF THE TOUR DE FRANCETo avoid disappointment, let me state right now that I am not a sports journalist. Nor even, my husband would probably say, a sports fan. In general.
However, build up enough atmosphere, enough history, enough daring and enough personal flair and I’m hooked. And the Tour de France ticks a lot of those boxes.
Sweeping across the whole of France – and throwing in Britain, Spain or Monaco for good measure – anyone who finishes the 3,500 km course earns my respect. These pointy-hatted athletes climb mountains, plunge into valleys and patiently pedal away for 23 days before reaching the streets of Paris in glory. Crowds fill the cities, fans paint slogans onto roads and local news stations highlight whichever tiny village participated that day.
If only Lance Armstrong had been born French, the legend would have been perfect.
For most of this year’s competition, I’ve been learning Spanish in Seville, but I remember when the Tour de Force reached Toulouse last year.
Despite the rain, people cheered and jostled, a flotilla of canary-yellow anoraks, caps and jerseys bobbing along the grey roadside. We watched, we waited, we craned our necks and violated international conventions on personal space, until finally the moment arrived. And what a strange moment it was.
A procession of cars, vans and motorbikes cruised along for an achingly long time before anyone so much as glimpsed a cyclist. You’ve probably heard the term “blink and you’ll miss it,” but in this case it’s true. A stream so fast, so blurred, so hidden by the waving hands of the people in front meant that I couldn’t make out a single competitor. Ah well, at least the atmosphere was worth it.
The proper site – Le Tour de France
