The French have never needed an excuse to pop open a bottle of vin rouge, so when a genuine occasion presents itself you can imagine the carnage.
It’s like that on Tour days. Having experienced the exhilaration (and champagne) two years ago on the flat, we decided this year to do something different – a mountain stage and a start. Noting the huge amount of camper vans on the roadside on TV, we thought we’d better get to our mountain – Col de la Croix de Saint-Robert – the night before so, declining Joachim’s kind offer of supper, we arrived in the village of Mont-Dore at 8pm on Friday, only to find the road to the Col had been closed and a hefty gendarme was blocking the way.
He told us the road had been closed at 3pm because there was no more room on the mountain for camper vans, and that several vans had been camped up there since Tuesday!
Disappointed, we parked in what we thought was the last remaining piece of tarmac in the village, wandered into town and returned 20 minutes later to find ourselves surrounded by even more vans! It was crazy. We spent the evening chatting to a family from Lancashire who had parked next to us.
On race day I got up around 7am to buy supplies and was already being passed by people making their way up the Col, even though the cyclists didn’t arrive until 4.30pm. The other lazybone Lezards finally woke up, and at 10am we packed our bags and set off through the intermittent rain to the summit, some 6km away, passing camps of spectators with banners, horns, picnics, and tents but mainly beer and wine (at 10am!).
We stopped halfway when we saw an English van similar to ours and were invited in by Tony and his wife for a cup of coffee, and made it to the summit shortly before midday. We then selected a comfy-looking verge and sat down to enjoy our picnic while we waited.
The crazy caravan whizzed past at 3pm but, much to the kids’ disappointment, it wasn’t able to fling out freebies because we were in a national park. Billy stopped a merchandise van, though, and secured a Tour goody bag. Charlie got over her disappointment by drawing on the road with chalk.
It’s a great atmosphere sitting on the side of the road with hundreds of others, all waiting for the same thing. It’s a bit like a festival; strangers chatting away, sharing food, drink or, in our case, chalk. People are constantly walking up and down and there were a fair few cyclists too, all enjoying (some more than others) the chance to cycle the same route as the pros.
We knew the cyclists were approaching when we saw the first of several helicopters down in the valley, and the intensity increased as more and more cars sped past (much to my amusement, one group of pensioners booed every police car) until, finally, the leaders came into sight.
This was what we’d been waiting for: the chance to see the world’s top cyclists close-up, to look into their eyes and witness their pain and determination as they powered past us up the slope. It was crazy, with people edging into the road to get a better look, to wave flags and banners to yell encouragement at their favoured riders. But that’s the weird thing because although people tend to have favoured riders, everyone cheers ALL the riders in spontaneous admiration, with rivalries temporarily forgotten in the excitement.
The gradient took its toll on the riders, with several groups climbing up and the peleton split into two. We managed to glimpse a grim-faced Andy Schleck as he passed us, and Ruth saw Mark Cavendish on the far side, then it was gone and we began the long walk downhill.
On reaching the van we drove the 70km to Issoire and wandered into town to experience the party atmosphere. It was great, with bunting up everywhere and music playing on the streets. We returned to the van after midnight, all knackered.
We were up early the next morning (yesterday) to cycle into town for the depart. The streets were packed but, to the kids’ joy, they were able to wander round the caravan before it set off, collecting all the freebies they’d missed out on the previous day. Having collected loads, we then found a spot on the pavement to watch the caravan go past, giving them a second chance to stock up.
The highlight of the caravan for me was watching two women scrap over a free packet of sweets thrown onto the pavement between them. They both sprinted towards it and the first one stooped to pick it up, the second stamped her foot down on top of it, inches from her rival’s fingers. Shocking! Surely she would have flattened the sweets. She’d have been better off aiming for the fingers.
When the caravan passed we struggled through the streets to the technical area to see the cyclists warming up. The big stars tend to remain in their team coaches, but we got to see plenty milling around, saw Thor in the yellow jersey cycling past, yelled encouragement to Cavo as he passed, and got David Millar’s autograph. Ruth spotted Alberto Contador too.
We then went back through the streets, beyond the start where all the riders were lined up, to find a vantage point on the course to see them cycle slowly past. What a spectacle!
We saw the end of what was a dramatic stage on the campsite in the chalet of a French family, who gave us tea and cake. The father was a keen cyclist and the following week was riding the same route as today’s stage, with 10,000 others. He reckoned it would take him eight hours. He was very serious, explaining no French people like Mark Cavendish. He frowned when I replied: “Of course not – he’s not French.” His wife laughed though. Their son, Nicole, was the Northern French champion, so must have been pretty speedy, but you wouldn’t have thought it if you’d seen Ruth and I overtake him around the lake later that evening.
We’re off to the Loire Valley today to enjoy our last few days of the trip. Until next time. two words: Vive la Tour
PS Thanks to Joachim for your terrific hospitality – it was lovely to meet you and to see Christophe, Susanna and Ava again – and thanks, too, to Papa-Nous for your kindness. Billy loves his new bike.
