Chasing the Yellow Jersey

Le Tour is more than a race. It’s a travelogue.

A 21-day race over endless miles of roadway, narrated by play-by-play announcers chattering about wattage and crank-arm lengths and false flats. . . a race where competitors slow down while their opponents stop to take a leak, where the winner may never actually cross the finish line first. . . a race where someone has to wear polka dots, and not because he’s a clown – yeah, I realize the Tour de France is not everyone’ cup of tea.

But it’s the reason I moved to France. And last week I finally got to see it in person.

For the past 30-plus years, I’ve spent the first three weeks of July glued to the tube, watching the likes of Miguel Indurain, Chris Froome, Jonas Vingegaard and, yes, that s.o.b. Lance Armstrong fly across the French countryside on two wheels. I watched in awe at Marco Pantani’s climb to the peak of Alpe d’Huez and winced as Jens Voigt went over the handlebars at 60 mph.

The sprints, the tactics, the rivalries, the arcane rules, the colorful jerseys, the bikes – I loved it all.

But mostly, I admired the televised pictures of France.

Sweeping shots of sunflower fields in Provence, switchback roads climbing above the tree line of the Pyrenees, ancient cathedrals towering above postcard-perfect villages, row upon row of sun-drenched vineyards – the country never looks better than on HDTV. How often I listened to British announcer Phil Liggett describing helicopter shots of 17th-century chateaux along the Loire, or just sat transfixed at rushing mountain brooks cascading beneath centuries-old stone bridges.

As much as I enjoyed the competition, over the years I came to understand that the Tour de France is more than an athletic event. It’s a travelogue.

And it made me want to be there.

So after settling in Rennes we waited impatiently till the tour organizers finally blessed Brittany with the route. I had it mapped out within weeks of their announcement, and found it would pass within about 10 miles of our apartment.

A Tour mural in Saint-Malo.

I could stand by the road and watch Pogi and Primož and the rest of them whiz by. That would be a blast! Maybe I could dress up like the Devil, as I’d seen so many times on TV. Or hold a handmade cardboard sign urging on my favorite Belgian: Woot Wout! Or just yell, “Allez, Allez!”

But I’d been to enough bike races in Philly to know that a flat road is the worst place to watch a race. At speeds around 30 mph, the peloton would be here and gone within the blink of the eye.

Maybe, instead, I could head for a mountain stage, where the riders creep along more slowly. How often had I seen the hordes surrounding struggling riders, giving them inches to make it up the hillside? Horns blasting, smoke bombs filling the air with thick, tricolored clouds, motorcycle cops pushing the surging spectators to the side – it looked like pure madness on TV.

But Brittany is decidedly flat; the biggest hill is no steeper than Manayunk’s Wall. And besides, Theresa would yell at me if I jumped into the riders’ path to join the fray (as if).

So, instead we headed for the Stage 7 departure, in Saint-Malo. It’s one of our favorite towns, perched along the coast of La Manche, just 45 minutes by train from our home.

Getting named a departure town is a big deal. It brings in thousands of tourists and generates beaucoup bucks for local business. We booked a hotel for the night before and grooved to the sight of so many cycling fans, outfitted in those ubiquitous polka-dot jerseys (officially awarded to the best mountain climber), wheeling their carbon-fibers across the city’s cobblestones.

Beneath the mammoth wall that surrounds the so-called Corsair City, the Tour set up a stage with huge flatscreens to introduce the riders. A mini-village of race sponsors sprouted up overnight.

We headed for the start line — or, to be more precise, the “fictitious start.”

The real start was about 5 kilometers outside of town, in a relatively unpopulated area where race officials would have more control over the proceedings. The fictitious start is purely ceremonial, a chance for riders to warm up as they parade en masse past teeming crowds lining the sidewalks.

More importantly, the fictitious start is where the pre-race caravane publicitaire begins its tour. About two hours before the race, a procession of motorized floats takes off from the departure town to spread the good word about Cochonou sausage, Velux windows, Panzani pasta, the Zoo de Beauval, Le Gaulois chicken, Krys eyeglasses and the all-important variety of Haribo candy. One hundred seventy floats with larger-than-life characters: Clucking chickens, Asterix and Obelix, a smiling rider sucking down a 5-liter bottle of Orangina, the always-cheerful Vache Qui Rit, dishwasher soap tabs as big as a pillow, too many to count.

Cycling fans greet a giant chicken in the the pre-race caravane publicitaire.

A throbbing cacophony of music accompanies each float, manned by deejays and dancing models tossing free samples into the crowd. Candy, hats, bags of potato chips. Some spectators bring fishnets, others fill up canvas bags like it’s Halloween night. They push, they shove, they laugh excitedly when they score something, anything. You really don’t want to be in the scrum when the Haribo float goes by.

It’s said that half of the Tour de France crowd is there solely for the caravan, and I don’t doubt it.

Afterwards, we found a spot in the shade to await the riders. The breeze was gentle, the high-tide lapped at Saint-Malo’s walls. In the distance a ferry headed into the blue waters of the channel for its 12-hour crossing to Portsmouth. Below us on the gravely sand, sunbathers found spots near the swishing surf. Theresa crouched down to pet a pair of dogs who stopped to sniff our feet. Their owner told us their names.

We listened to a multitude of languages as passersby in multi-colored bucket hats gathered along the roadside barriers. Flags from France and Germany and the USA and Belgium and the U.K. and, naturally, Brittany.

As we decided to leave Philly, I told myself there were many reasons to come here. The slower pace of life, the cheese, the desire to leave behind all that MAGA anger, the opportunity to travel more often in Europe, the cheese.

But looking around at this melting pot of happy campers, enjoying themselves in a thoroughly beautiful spot under the sun, excited for a sport that I love, I knew this was the real reason.

The cyclists flew past us in seconds.

“That was it?” Theresa said.

I said, “Yeah, it was great, wasn’t it?”

We took the 3 o’clock train back home to catch the finish on TV.