First Time at the Tour

Staring up at the blue sky, I enjoyed the quiet. Packed with crowds a few hours ago, the little town in northwest France was now empty and still. I stretched out on the green grass across from the lake and daydreamed in the afternoon sun. I was in love. I had fallen in love with the Tour de France.

Casino du Lac

My first visit to this most beautiful bike race was by accident and almost didn’t happen. For many years, I dreamed of going to Paris and was finally set to go with friends during business school. The first plan was derailed by 9/11, and the second by a friend’s job move. After graduation, I could not wait any longer, so I headed to France on my own. A few days before the trip, I read in a magazine that my visit happened to coincide with the Tour de France. It was 2002, and Lance Armstrong was defending his title for the fourth time. After a bout with skin cancer, I became an admirer, as his story brought peace back to my shaken spirit. So I printed out a map of the race and decided to go on the last day of my trip, when the route would be closest to the capital.

I arrive in Pah-rheeee and set about exploring this romantic city. The bustling boulevard of the Champs Elysees. The boats sailing smoothly along the Seine. The cool white marble sculptures at the Rodin Museum ready to spring to life. I eat snails and drink wine and mail postcards of the Eiffel Tower and flirt with the Irish bartender next door to my hotel. And I walk and walk and walk.

On my second to last day, I stop at a tourist office to figure out how to get to the Tour de France. I assume a short train ride to the Paris suburbs. The woman at the desk looks at my printed map in disgust. This is last year’s map, she says and sends me away. Thanks, lady. At my little hotel, I beg the front desk clerk to help me. He prints the correct map, and we are horrified to find that the next day, the Tour will be further from Paris than ever during my visit! I am nevertheless determined to go. This was my plan for my last day in France: to see a bit of the race with Lance Armstrong.

Amused by my determination, the clerk spends about two hours figuring out how to get me from Paris to the resort town of Bagnoles-de-l’Orne, the start of Stage 7. It will be a journey of 143 miles involving at least two trains and a bus with no guarantees that I will actually get to the Tour. The trains maybe do not run because of the race, warns the clerk. But you speak French, no? No. Absolutely no French. Now the clerk is worried. A complicated trip for a solo girl with no French. I flash him a big American smile and reassure: Don’t worry! I will get there if I have to walk!

Before dawn the next morning, my little legs head for the first train station. Nothing is clear, and no one speaks English. I smile, point, and offer lots of merci and sil vous plais. It is probably easier to get from the Statue of Liberty to Alcatraz, but I manage to get onto the next train and then the bus. The peaceful green countryside rolls by, and we finally arrive in the sleepy resort town known for its thermal baths. The ville depart! I made it!

Everyone is walking one direction, so it is easy to find the race at the center of the village. The whole town is turning out—jumpy kids with their grandparents, young couples cooing at each other, cyclists towing their bikes, old ladies in housecoats, everybody. And they are all French. Music is pumping over the loudspeakers on a temporary stage, and the Tour announcer stirs up the crowd, in French of course. Bagnoles-de-l’Orne is rocking. I think I’m so clever when I find an empty spot right at the curb to watch the race, until a giant team bus pulls in to park right in front of me. The buses, support cars, and police on motorcycles fill the tiny streets. The energetic scene contrasts with the charming candy shops and small restaurants with lace tablecloths.

I head toward the tall banner marking the starting line, edging my way through the throng of spectators. The excitement builds as the riders begin to roll in from the team buses. Some circle a bit on their bikes to warm up. The race will be starting soon. People stand on tip toes to get a look at the cyclists. Another rider arrives, and the crowd hoots and applauds. He looks French. Yet another pulls in, and the crowd hoots and applauds and shouts good wishes. He’s also French.

Then a certain American cyclist rolls toward the start—Lance Armstrong has arrived. I hoot and snap photos, but I am the only one. The crowd has gone silent. They whisper to each other, Ahrm-strongeh! Ahrm-strongeh! They quietly nudge each other and point.

A little boy looks up to his father and says, Le Lance.

As Armstrong finishes a few last interviews, the crowd does not take their eyes off of him. I am struck by the reverence in their silence. They respect him. Sure, they cheer on their Frenchmen, but they respect Lance’s accomplishments. They know how hard it is to win one Tour, and he was on his way to his fourth consecutive victory back then. The crowd packed in to the little town of Bagnoles-de-l’Orne is in awe of Lance Armstrong.

Armstrong teammate: Vjatceslav Ekimov

The French announcer talks on without stopping for a single breath, the music is pumping, and the riders move toward the start. The Spaniard front and center, Igor Gonzalez is wearing the yellow jersey—for now. Lance wears his blue kit for U.S. Postal, but don’t worry. He swaps it for the leader’s yellow jersey four days later and keeps it through to the finale in Paris. That’s win number four.

The starting gun pops, and the mass of cyclists slowly begin to ride up the road and out of town. Here they move like one body, a colorful, undulating quilt. After a short warm-up stretch, the race director will wave his flag, and the real competition will begin. After 176 kilometers, Australian Bradley McGee will win the stage. Fast forward to 2011, and McGee is now sports director for Alberto Contador’s team Saxo Bank.

Back in Normandy, the crowded little town is emptying fast, as if there was a call to evacuate. Cars carrying race referees follow the riders, as do the photographers riding on the back of motorcycles. Next go the team buses and support cars. The announcer is headed to the work the finish line, and workmen dismantle the roadblocks and temporary stage. The young couples hold hands as they walk home. Families flood the tiny ice cream shops.

I take a stroll around town. All of four short blocks, the main drag is decorated by baskets of bright, cheerful flowers. Large green trees surround the village and lead to even quieter lanes dotted with cottages. The big attraction here is the casino, a white Art Deco-style building placed by the little lake, like Cinderella’s castle at Disneyland. Lovely and petite. I buy postcards and taste apple candies, a specialty from nearby Calvados. Most everyone has gone home. I am in a dream, lying on the grass, gazing at the blue sky, alone in a French fantasy land. How did I get here?

 

The Tour de France led me to this old-fashioned resort town a world away from Paris, and it was the first of many journeys inspired by the sport of cycling. I started following the sport on TV, but visiting the races in person is the true adventure. I have taken long roads to remote locations I would never have experienced, and the journeys always begin with a point on the race map. The people, the sights, the atmosphere are intoxicating. I can’t wait for the next adventure.