On the Champs-Elysees

I wake up in Paris. The long journey is over. On this warm summer day, I will witness sporting history when Lance Armstrong is crowned champion of the Tour de France for the sixth consecutive year. It is July 2004, and I leave my quiet hotel for the bustling boulevard of the Champs-Elysees.

Walking the narrow cobbled sidewalks, I feel in a dream. My travels began in southern France, where I followed the fields of sunflowers to the base of Plateau de Beille. I cheered the blue army of the U.S. Postal team, as it powered through the small ski town of Les Cabannes before disappearing up the ominous incline to the summit. The next day, I descended from the ancient hilltop castle at Carcassonne to join the crowds surrounding Armstrong, who would end the day in the yellow jersey.

When the peloton headed to the Alps, I detoured to the Riviera. The Texan battled his German rival, Jan Ulrich, while I gazed at the Mediterranean from the cliffs of Monaco, watched glass-blowers in Biot, and enjoyed Picasso’s seaside garden in Antibes. Phil and Paul updated me on the race each night on TV. In Cannes, I dreamed of Sheryl Crow speaking French.

The high-speed train took me north to the capital city, that seems to hum in anticipation of the grand finale. Or are the Parisians aware of the race at all? In the morning, I stroll up the grand Champs-Elysees toward the Arc de Triomphe. Looking back down the boulevard, the bleachers and barricades await the coming crowds. At the top of the vista, I feel triumphant, like I have accomplished something myself.

Tourists pass by wearing yellow wristbands. Everyone wearing Lance’s team cap or an American flag on his t-shirt wears a band. Even French couples and kids have them, too. It signals their support of today’s man in yellow, and I feel a little left out. I stop a cute young woman on the go selling the bracelets for the Livestrong Foundation. For two euros, I buy one for myself, another for a fellow cycling fan back home. A few weeks later, his business colleagues in posh suits are eager to get ahold of the wristbands. “Where did you get yours?” they ask him. “The Champs-Elysees,” he replies to their surprise. I don my bracelet, a wink to the fellow Armstrong fans swarming Paris.

Hours before the cyclists arrive, my daydreaming dissolves as I plot my viewing strategy. No more coffee, no more water, no more bathroom breaks. Groups stake out territory along the barricades, and I feel foreign and vulnerable looking for a spot to stand for the next six hours. A middle-aged man in a Texas cap sits with another couple, all wearing Livestrong bracelets. I figure we’re on the same team and ask if I can join them. Cheerfully, the man welcomes me, revealing a British accent. A cycling enthusiast, he is working in Texas and joined his English brother and sister-in-law in Paris for the race finale. I relax as the French race announcer talks non-stop over the loudspeakers and pop songs play in the background.

The mostly French crowds start to fill in the wide sidewalks, and the next few hours are a lesson in the European disregard for personal space. I have traveled a long way and will not give up this spot at the roadside. I stand elbows out with my feet shoulder-width apart and firmly planted on the ground. My American flag pokes out of my bag like a weapon. If someone tried to tackle me, I would stay standing. In the moments before the riders arrive, the crowd swells, and a French family tries to push their kids in front of me. I do not give an inch. Sorry, I’m not moving, not even for kids.

The race caravan streams into town with hot girls dancing like Mardi Gras and cars in the shape of the Laughing Cow and her triangular cheeses. The noise grows, and the crowd pushes toward the barricades in anticipation of the riders. A young Frenchman squeezes in through the spectators and plants himself up against me, literally up against me. Do I give up my space to escape this creep? Do I ask the British-Texas guys to defend my honor? I will not be moved and do not give in. Just in time, the creep slithers away.

Finally, the cyclists race in for the first of eight circuits around the boulevard. The sprinters are looking for a stage win, and they drive hard at the front of the peloton. I’m thrilled like a girl catching sight of Justin Bieber. They’re here! They’re amazing! In a flash, the riders shoot by, turn at the Arc de Triomphe, and head back down the opposite side of the street. Now, we wait for them to return. The loudspeakers play a recording of Sheryl Crow, Lance’s then-girlfriend. “All I Wanna Do,” they blast, but I think more appropriate would be “Everyday is a Winding Road.”

At each circuit, I try to cheer and wave my American flag and take pictures, but what I manage best is to see the riders. Those skinny little arms are even skinnier after three weeks of competition. They’ve been racing since before the Fourth of July, and they still take the incline at remarkable speed. The spectators applaud every rider, each time they come around the circuit. A few men are exhausted, trailing off the back. They receive applause meant just for them. We are in awe of their accomplishment—finishing the Tour de France. Everyone recognizes the physical punishment these athletes have endured and remembers the colleagues sent home early with broken bones. The riders who persevered to the finish line are honored by the crowd. The stage is won by Belgium’s Tom Boonen, and the cyclists take a final, honorary lap at a leisurely pace.

All eyes search for the yellow jersey. Escorted by his teammates, Lance travels with the peloton up and down the Champs-Elysees. Everyone cheers and waves, and the jubilant mood seems to create a halo around the champion. Especially for the French, it is an accomplishment to finish the Tour de France, and a triumph to win it. Armstrong is elevated to cycling legend, alongside Eddy Merckx, Miguel Indurain, and Bernard Hinault, also five-time winners. In the following two years, Armstrong even surpasses them, reaching a record-setting seven victories. Back on the Champs-Elysees, I wave my American flag as he rolls by on his victory lap in the afternoon sun.

The crowd roars for Lance Armstrong.

The cyclists finish the final circuit, and the winners are presented on the podium with the Arc de Triomph in the background. The green jersey to the winner of the points competition, Robbie McEwen. The white jersey for best young rider to Vladimir Karpets, and the polka dot jersey to king of the mountains, Richard Virenque. I cannot get close enough to see Armstrong stand at the top of the podium to receive the yellow jersey. I will watch tonight on TV, back at the hotel.

Masses of people leave the Champs-Elysees. Pedestrians fill the streets, the cafes, and the bars. I am exhausted from six hours at attention and head back to the hotel. The next morning is gray and cloudy. I sleep in and cancel my sidetrip to Madrid. I don’t want to leave this experience in Paris. I want to stay right here and dream on.

Today, I watch Cadel Evans, joyous on the same Parisian boulevard. I dream of being there, cheering with the crowds, now even larger and more international. The Tour de France, the world’s most prestigious cycling race, an epic athletic competition, an inspiration, an adventure.

The Yellow Wristbands

Why do people wear the yellow wristbands? You don’t see them as much anymore, and it prompts me to wonder: what are the reasons behind the wearers of yellow wristbands today? You see them on Senator John Kerry, Lakers star Derek Fisher, a number of professional cyclists. My cousins wear them now. They are a family of baseball players, and they didn’t used to wear the bands when they first came out. So why now? What does it mean to them?

The rubber bracelets were a stroke of genius—an effective fundraiser and promotional symbol for the Livestrong Foundation founded by Lance Armstrong to support those facing cancer. In the foundation’s partnership with Nike, over $80 million has been raised, largely from the sale of over 70 million bands. So a lot of that was $1 at a time.

I got my wristband on the Champs Elysees in 2004. It was my second trip to the Tour de France, and on several stages of the Tour, I had seen cheerful young people in Livestrong t-shirts selling them for one euro each. Usually, I am a sucker for souvenirs from a big event like the Tour, but I thought the bracelets looked cheap and goofy. Yet as I strolled the Champs Elysees on the day of the grand finale, I noticed many people in the gathering crowds were wearing them and standing in line to buy more. Nearly all of the American fans had them on. It started looking like the bands were a symbol of respect for Lance, his triumph over cancer, and remarkable fifth Tour victory.

With that, I was sold, so I stopped the next cheerful Livestrong girl and bought three yellow wristbands. I promptly put on a band, joined a group of guys in Texas hats (though they turned out to be British), and watched Lance and the peloton ride their victory laps. Over my final days in Paris, spotting another passerby wearing a wristband was spotting a like-minded cycling fan, or even more so a Lance fan. When I got back home, I gave one of the bracelets to a co-worker and sent another to a friend in Chicago.  The wristband trend was just starting to break, and people couldn’t even get a hold of them. My Chicago friend told me he was in a corporate meeting when an exec asked him where he managed to get his band. From a friend, he replied with pride, direct from the Champs Elysees.

I developed some strong superstitions about my yellow wristband. While I wanted to wear it everyday, I was afraid that it would be damaged by the elements. I limited my band-wearing to the cycling season, when I kept it on religiously (except when showering—again, damage from the elements). As a Lance fan, sporting the bracelet was my way of sending him some moral support, good wishes in the atmosphere, positive thoughts for his success. If he was competing, I was wearing my bracelet.

I had a cancer scare, and Lance’s success was personally meaningful to me. The yellow wristband was a precious reminder that I was okay, that Lance was inspiring me with amazing athletic achievements, that I had traveled the world, that I had been in Paris for Lance’s fifth win when I bought that band. If I ever lost it, I would be devastated. It is so special to me.

My yellow wristband was carefully tucked away when Lance retired and pulled back out for the Comeback 2.0. Now Lance has retired again, and I am wearing it in support of pro cycling as a whole. The good guys in the sport need some good wishes, particularly with another round of doping dramas in the headlines. I also continue to support Lance. He remains a hero to me until proven otherwise, and regardless of his athletic victories, he has achieved greater worldwide recognition for the needs of cancer patients than any other public figure through smart, hard work. That is why I wear the yellow wristband now—for Lance and for the sport of cycling.

Why the others? A little research reveals John Kerry had prostate cancer while his wife was treated for breast cancer. Derek Fisher’s young daughter faced cancer of the retina. I will have to ask my cousins why they were the bands, though it makes sense that the bracelets are worn by cancer survivors and their families. There are 28 million people living with cancer worldwide, and I know that thanks to the Livestrong Foundation and their yellow wristbands. 

Do you wear one? Why?

Chasing Lance

The athletes, the competition, the journalists, the history, the mountains, the food. Martin Dugard captures more than the race in his book, Chasing Lance: The 2005 Tour de France and Lance Armstrong’s Ride of a Lifetime. He serves up a taste of the carnival atmosphere that surrounds the greatest cycling event in the world, as he follows each stage of Armstrong’s final grand win.

Dugard actually provides three stories in one. First, he introduces the reader to the sport of professional cycling—how it works and what to watch for. While an effective primer, the quick, straightforward information does not bore the serious fan. Next, the author shares the build-up of Armstrong’s victory and the chronicle of his career to that point. Now years later, it is a reminder of the athlete in his prime, prompting the question, could Armstrong have pulled off an eighth win if he had not retired (then come back, then retired again)? The book also gives a pre-Twitter insight into the smack talk and ego dramas among the players and the multiple stand-out achievements that year. It is not all about Lance.

Perhaps Dugard’s most unique offering is the story of his adventure chasing the Tour around France. He takes us along the precarious mountain roads to the odd little hotels to hear from the French waitress, the English photographer, and the many other characters along the three-week journey. It is the closest thing to being there, explaining why some of us take planes, trains, and automobiles just to see it in person.

Easy-going with a sense of humor and adventure, Chasing Lance is a great read for cycling fans as well as traveling enthusiasts. Dugard is a compelling writer of other books about heroes and adventurers, including Farther Than Any Man about Captain Cook, though his own journey with the 2005 Tour is a true highlight.

Journey to the Giro

I start up the mountain. Slow and steady. Step by step. I’m going as far as my feet will take me. I’m heading up the mountain, in the afternoon heat, with no regard for how I will get back down. This is what I came for—to see Lance Armstrong in a mountain-top finish at a Grand Tour. So I just keep walking up and up. It’s May 2009.

Back at my real estate office in LA, I joked that I would make it to that finish line if I had to walk all the way up Mt. Vesuvius. I have seen Lance in the Pyrenees, on the Champs Elysees, at book signings. I’ve seen sprint finishes and time trials, but never a mountain-top finish. This is my chance to see the master in his element, maybe for the last time. So I traveled from LA to Italy, Rome to Naples, Pompeii to Mt. Vesuvius. This is the day, and I am actually walking it.

This morning, I began at the ruins of Pompeii. Broken-down stone buildings hide little gems, like perfect tile mosaics and elaborately painted dining rooms. It’s not much to look at, but as you cross the stone streets, it is easy to relate to people who lived here so long ago. Like them, I am distracted by the lovely green and blue mountain in the distance. With only a few hours to get there, I gotta go.

An absence of taxis does not bother the other tourists, but I’m headed where buses are banned today. No service because of the bicycle race. After asking every local I can find, I jump into a van with some guy and cross my fingers that he is a gypsy cab driver. The guy thinks I’m nuts to travel so far to see a bike race. I’ll never get back to Naples on my own, he warns. He wishes me luck and drops me at the base of mountain. A little past the first traffic barricades, the race markers read 10K to the finish. I start walking.

The afternoon heat is beginning to build. Most Italians are having a siesta right now. I’m climbing this mountain in 95 degree heat. As the road winds back and forth, I enjoy the cool shade where I can find it. Vesuvius is lush and green here. Sometimes I am trekking through a cool forest of tall trees. Keep going, and the trees are replaced by short bushes with wildflowers and sweeping views of Naples below. 8K to the finish.

This is quite a work-out. The steep incline limits my pace, and I can’t imagine riding a bike for five hours before hitting this. My face reddens, and I feel the heat building in my core. Better slow down or I’ll pass out. I reapply sunscreen and watch the other fans walking with me. Mostly men: grandfathers with kids, guys with their girlfriends. Everyone looks Italian, except for a few hard-core fans. They stand out in their team kits and Texas caps, walking their bikes up the mountain. We’re all heading the same direction: up.

In a patch of forest about 7K to go, I follow the curving road to meet a huge banner of Lance’s face. “Hope rides again,” it reads, and I know I’ve found a friend. A middle-aged man in full Livestrong cycling gear gives me a big smile when I say hello. He is a cancer survivor of nine years, and with his wife, raised over $30,000 for Lance’s foundation. They followed Lance at the Tour de France for years as their annual vacation and were excited to mix it up in Italy this time. They have staked out a great viewing spot: in the shade, following a sharp turn, at a high incline that will slow the cyclists. They’re cheerful and enthusiastic, and I’m tempted to stay put. But I’m here for the finish, so I keep on walking.

I take a picture at the 5K banner, in case I can’t go much further. If I don’t get crushed by the heat, I’m expecting intimidating crowds. I wish I could have joined them, camping out and drinking for days in anticipation of today’s exciting finish. But on my own today, I’m wary of the drunks and limiting my water intake to minimize pit-stops behind the bushes. Expecting to see a crush of fans after every turn, I’m surprised by the empty viewing spots and subdued spectators.

It’s got to be 110 degrees by now. My face is red as a beet, my Livestrong t-shirt is soaked with sweat. At 3K to go, I refuse to quit. Now it’s a matter of principle. I will keep going as long as my body will let me. Forget about the way back. I did not haul my ass across the world to miss the finish by a measly few kilometers. Like those bigshots nearing the summit of Everest, I cannot imagine explaining that almost-made-it story back at the office. I told them I would walk it, and I keep walking. Step by step.

The sight of the 1K banner is a joy. I imagine Phil and Paul in my ear: She’s gonna make it! She dug deep and found the inner strength to conquer this beast of a mountain! This American has shown the Italians how it’s done! At 500 meters to the finish, the barricades are up, and I’m moving faster through each turn of the road. My feet are so light, as if I had just started walking. Is this how the cyclists feel at the end of the day? At 200 meters, I make the 90-degree right hand turn and see the final banner. I made it.

The crowds are lighter than I expected. The mood is strangely quiet, like for a funeral procession rather than a great bike race. The last 100 meters are lined with drunk, shirtless Italian men who are surprisingly well behaved. There is a polite little tunnel between a row of sweaty bare backs and a second row of sweaty hairy chests. I wiggle my way through to touch the finish. I made it. I made it! I walked up Mt. Vesuvius and touched a mountain-top finish of the Giro d’Italia. One of the sweaty Italians takes my picture and gives me a thumbs-up.

Then a passenger van zips up the barricaded road and drops off a group of spectators. Excuse me? They head different directions to find a good viewing spot. Are you telling me I could have gotten a ride? From within the sweaty man tunnel, hot and red-faced, I burst out laughing. Oh well.

Time to find a good spot to view the cyclists as they come in. I settle in with two Kansas law students clad in pink Giro t-shirts and drinking red wine straight from the bottle. These guys stand out in the crowd because they are actually excited to see the race. They are chatting with Franco Pellizoti’s father, who is wearing a t-shirt with his son’s face on it. Even Pellizoti Senior is surprised by their enthusiasm. All the other spectators in sight look like they’re on a TV set to mute.

Finally the cyclists start to come in. First Sastre and Pellizoti, and only the Kansas boys and I are shouting. Di Luca, Menchov, Basso. How can you keep quiet when you think about what these cyclists have done just today? Stage 19 out of 21, that’s 164 kilometers of riding this afternoon, the last 13 up the steep roads of Vesuvius. Then Levi comes around the bend. The boys go nuts. The Italians around us are laughing, completely ignoring the race and just laughing at us tourists. Undeterred, I’m thrilled that my Kansas boys recognize the cyclists quickly, giving me time to prep my camera and the proper cheer. Go Levi, go!

A few more riders come through. Now here comes Lance and his black socks. He’s riding well today.

Lance Armstrong

Go get ‘em, Lance! Go get ‘em!

In a heartbeat, he’s gone. We cheer the remaining riders as they finish, applauding their efforts. An amazing athletic achievement. Inspiring.

Suddenly the air is cooler. The cyclists head back down the mountain to their team buses, and the spectators follow by foot. Back past the 1K banner, 2K, 3K. The Livestrong couple packed up their bikes and their banner and headed to head to the next stage. The sun is setting. The Kansas boys watch out for me, and we slip through mobs for a few precious spots on a shuttle to the train station. We are all smiles.

By the time I get back to my Naples hotel, it is 10 p.m., and I am exhausted. Time for the a cold shot of the local limoncello. I will venture to tomorrow’s stage start and the time trial in Rome, but I have already accomplished what I came to do. My journey of 6,505 miles—10,469 kilometers—was complete with that mountain finish. Vesuvius: 2009—I was there.