Today we rode from the chateau in Puissalicon to the finish area in Montpellier, following the actual course a few hours ahead of the race. The ride was more downhill than up, and we mostly had the winds at our back, so we flew down the little country roads.
We stopped for coffee after while in the town of Villeveyrac, which sits maybe a mile off the course. While we were parking, a tiny little old lady hobbled out of her house and explained sadly that her feet (and here she gestured dismissively at the miserable appendages) were too swollen to get down to watch the caravan go by. Did we have anything to give her? But of course! We gave her a water bottle. She was wonderfully grateful, unless we had anything more? Non, et bien, she turned and went back in.
On this one day, we had the largest group of any day on the trip. A man and his son joined us just for the day, a birthday present for the teenager, about the same age I was when I first saw guys riding bikes fast. They had a lot of logistical issues, reinforcing for me the benefits of of paying for the whole guided tour package. But despite all that, I hope the Tour shine in young Victor’s eyes lasts like it has in mine.
Riding on, the group got separated, and somehow we lost Vlad. We waited, backtracked a bit, called the van, nothing. Finally we continued with our ride, which included a ceremonial ride across the finish line and pictures on the podium.
Stuart showed us why he’s Stuart and the rest of us aren’t by bumming a cigarette from an extremely sexy policewoman (but of course…) to use in one of the iconic images of this trip, if not of the entire Tour.
At the finish area, we got through several checkpoints with our guides and our passes and threaded our way through the media encampment to our private viewing area, a seemingly interminable and highly secure process. And there was Vlad, tucking into the snacks, right where he was supposed to be. How in the hell did you get in here??? Of course, he said, which is his reply to basically everything. Somewhere in there Manny and I were able to get ourselves into the Australian TV commentary shot and proudly display the Mummu Cycling jersey. It was very cool when Phil the head guide got texts from Melbourne a few minutes later saying we’d been seen on TV.
And yeah, there’s a bike race going on. On a day like this, the script is written in advance… Everybody who cares about winning stays together, and the pure sprinters come out in the final minute to win by inches. But not today. Chris Foome attacked on the flat straightaway, catching his rivals completely off guard, to gain an important few seconds. In the highly refined language of professional cycling, it was a move that said, basically, my cock is a whole lot bigger than yours.
WHEW! What a great day. But wait, there’s more. I’m right in the middle of our group, ability-wise, and made the decision to join the A group for the return ride. Even though that would put me at almost 90 miles for the day, atop a longest training ride of about 60, there had been a long break sitting in the sun drinking beer and eating chicken wings and canapés. What could go wrong?? Here I am midway through that return trip, feeling a whole whole lot happier than I look.
As it turned out, nothing went wrong. I needed the group’s indulgence to ease up a couple times due to wind and hills, but overall it was a great epic hurt, rolling through the countryside as the sun slowly lowered.
And then burgers at 10 PM, and off to bed. Another day in paradise.
Brattleboro Adventure – the Auckland Edition 
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