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.

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.