Le Tour et Le Tour

I’m fortunate enough to have seen the Tour de France on many occasions and it’s always fun and different to the last time.

Amongst my many great memories are cooking to near death on the Champs Elysees as the sweltering sun beat down on us for hours before the race came by in 2008; watching in breathless awe on the final few metres of a completely flat sprint stage that finished down a dual carriage-way and which Robbie McEwan emerged from the snarling bunch to win; waiting by the start of a team TT, close enough to touch the likes of Cadel Evans, Cav, Gilbert, Greipel, Wiggo, Thomas, Voekler and Schleck; witnessing a big pile-up under the flamme rouge on a steep-hill finish in Les Herbiers; seeing Tom Boonen get mobbed, One Direction style, by fans maddened by too much sun (including me, I love Tom!) about a minute after he finished a TT in Rennes and, of course, witnessing Wiggo triumph in the final TT of the 2012 Tour edition in Chartres. And then there were two glorious days in Yorkshire last year, which was bonkers.

So, with the Tour de France starting this year in Holland and then working its way along the north coast of France, the lure of the Grand Boucle proved to be too tempting to resist and I made a late decision to pop across la Manche and watch Stage 6 of my favourite yearly sporting spectacle.

Simplicity was the key to my adventure being successful.

I put the kids to bed at 7.30pm, kissed Mrs CTP a fond farewell and headed in the car to Newhaven with my trusty single speed bike in the back. Once there, I unloaded, got changed into my cycling kit and headed for the midnight ferry to Dieppe. I was travelling light, just a tiny rucksack packed with arm and leg warmers, a lightweight rain jacket, earphones, ear plugs, iPhone and emergency charger, sunscreen, tooth brush, credit card, 40 Euros cash, a hat, a magazine and a pair of lightweight trainers.

There was a gaggle of about 40 cyclists gathered waiting to get on the ferry for the four hour crossing. Once we had perched our bikes in the car deck and made our way upstairs to the lounges, I bought a nice ham baguette and a bottle of beer, then settled down for a short kip. After four lumpy hours on the channel, we got to Dieppe and unloaded onto the quay.

I cycled into town, which is right next to the port, and it was empty of all but a few workmen putting up barriers and advertising hoardings. The intrepid few British cyclists who had made the trip slowly dispersed as we made our separate ways onto the Tour route. Not knowing the area at all, I decided to turn right onto the stage route and head for the stage’s two Category Four hills just outside town.

The roads were pretty much clear of any traffic and the weather dry, so I decided to keep going past the climbs until I found a nice café. This was a slight mistake as there weren’t many cafés around and the ones that were dotted along the route were closed as it was still only 6.00am. I was getting a bit cranky from a lack of food and caffeine but, two hours after getting off the boat, I got a waft of baking bread as I passed a small village, so I stopped to find the boulangerie nestled on the square of a picture perfect Normandy village. I was so hungry as purchased a tasty croissant aux amandes that I forgot to be embarrassed about how my French linguistic skills were escaping me, I was just happy to eat something. Then I turned round and headed back to the second climb again as I knew there was a small town at the foot of it, which meant cafés and coffee.

By now people were waking up and I got a few cheers as I made along the Tour route in the wrong direction from crazy Belgian fans as they sat outside their campervans. Once I got to the town, Pourville-sur-Mer, the crowds were thickening, so I got a coffee and a baguette and watched the world go by for a while, taking in the wonderful atmosphere that the Tour brings as small French towns light up with excitement for the day. I then went back up the climb, just for something to do (no mean feat on a single speed bike, I assure you), found a spot near the top and parked myself there to wait for the Tour.

Now, some people question the wisdom of spending five hours waiting to see a bike race go by for probably no more than twenty seconds, but that’s not the point. It’s the atmosphere, the smiling faces, families and friends huddled in groups on deckchairs eating enough food to feed, well, the Tour de France. It’s the wiry, leather skinned retired gentlemen on ancient steel framed bikes and wearing faded cycling club kit who nail the climb before sitting down at the road side with a bottle of beer. It’s the incredibly serious local police officers urging the crowds to move back hours before we even get a scent of cycling action. It’s the way that normal people, men, women and children, turn into rabid animals as they fight for a sample of washing powder or a cheap keyring thrown from a Caravan float as it flies by and it’s also about the rather clueless British MAMILs who stand out completely on their expensive bikes, breathless and exhilarated from the short climb.

It’s warm, amiable and quite beautiful to witness.

The vehicles flying by us towards the finish in Le Havre increased in number and speed and I cheered Dave Brailsford as he wafted past in his Jag. Then, eventually, the Tour came by.

I got a great view of the breakaway battle for the KOM points and then the peloton flowed past with Cav right at the front, conveniently, for us British fans who needed to spot at least one star from the UK to tell everyone about. I shouted his name but I don’t think he heard me. Even on a climb, they go by so quick it’s hard to properly identify anyone in particular, so I was happy with seeing Cav and getting a positive IDs of Ian Stannard, Michał Kwiatkowski in his rainbow World Champs jersey, the back of Chris Froome’s head and Tony Martin in the yellow jersey. The rest were just a blur of matching helmets, colourful jerseys and finely shaved legs.

Once they’d passed, I had a very broken yet convivial chat with a French bloke and his son who were amazed that I’d ridden a single speed bike up the hill and then I made my way back to Dieppe and the ferry. The town was still humming with happy crowds and the couple of dozen or so of British cyclists who were waiting at the port for the boat enthusiastically swapped ‘spot the Tour rider’ stories from their day.

The ferry ride home was perfect with sunshine, calm seas, tired legs and listening to Pearl Jam on my iPhone.

We landed at about 9.00pm and I was home by midnight, totally knackered. I did the whole thing using up one day of leave from work and spent £80 in total, including ferry, food and fuel for the car.

The Tour is one of the greatest sporting spectacles on the planet and it happens right on our doorstep every year. The French put on a very good bike race and all we have to do is turn up and enjoy it.

Allez, allez!

Lance-gate

What can I say about Lance-gate that hasn’t been said already?

His appearance with Oprah was just about what everyone expected and I was pleased that he admitted to doping but could have done with more explanation; the closed question format that the host used was obviously pre-agreed and my recent flu jab probed much deeper than any of Oprah’s attempts to get to the bottom of it all.

I hope there’s more to come from Lance, but I fear all of this is just a lawyer driven charade to keep him out of the courts. Such a shame, once upon a time he was my cycling hero and I was looking forward to seeing him tackle an Ironman.

Who knows, maybe one day he will?

The Day the Circus Left Town

I’m finding it all a little bit sad that 2012 has actually been and gone. On so many levels, it was the most memorable time I’ve known and I think it will be hard to replicate such a series of events, personally and publicly.

2012 will forever mean sport to many people, and it truly was a fantastic year for Great Britain. The Olympics were, of course, the main attraction for the majority and I will never forget the feeling of sheer happiness that washed over the country for those couple of weeks. I cried when London was awarded the Olympics (sad but true) and I literally danced around the house when I found out I had got tickets to the athletics through the ballot. From my whooping and jumping, my wife thought I’d won the lottery and was a little disappointed when I told her it was Olympics tickets. To be with so many excited and smiling people in the Olympic Park was inspiring; it really was happy land.

I was in Hyde Park on Super Saturday for the women’s triathlon (about the only thing GB didn’t win a medal in that day) and the atmosphere was again wonderful. I spoke to all sorts of people from all sorts of countries and it was beautiful, I really felt part of a global community and was proud to be British amongst so many foreigners singing our country’s praises.

The standout moment for me has to be Wiggo winning gold in the TT. I was fortunate enough to have got a ticket and found myself a spot just 75m from the finish line. The atmosphere when Brad came past and over the line was immense and unlike anything I have ever experienced and probably ever will. You can even see me on the TV footage running alongside him with a camera as he ventured out onto the course once more to look for his family. An incredible day.

My 2012 Wiggofest had actually started a week or so before the Olympics when I dragged my family across the channel to watch the final two stages of le Tour. Seeing, first hand, a Brit wearing yellow and winning the final time trial in Chartres was the most amazing thing and I can honestly say it was one of the best days of my life. Chapeau to Chris Froome too, I like him and can’t wait to see what he does when he’s let of the leash.

Gongs for Wiggo and Brailsford are surely deserved, but where is Chrissie Wellington’s? She’s the most amazing athlete and person and her zero to hero rise in triathlon is the stuff of story books.

For me personally, 2012 was the strangest year. In cycling parlance, the first six months were a steep, steep climb. I’m talking Monte Zoncolan proportions here. Very hard, and no mad Italian Tifosi to push me along the way. My head was spinning, I was tired and scared. I then descended and gained a bit of a gap from the chasing pack, but they caught me up again. As the year ended, I was in the peloton, sheltering from the wind and hoping nobody will touch my wheel with theirs and send me down the road on my backside.

What have I learned in 2012? That swimming, cycling and running, my sports, really did change the lives of millions of people for a couple of weeks and the world really did seem a better place.

And that can’t be a bad thing.