Le Tour

By the time my alarm went off at 7:30 am, I was drenched in sweat. It had been a long, hot night in Southern France in a small hostel room with no air conditioning. Excited that the day had finally come, I threw on my jersey and headed to the front desk to ask them to call us a taxi. Unfortunately, there were no taxis available in the entire city of Pau. That meant we were forced to walk the four miles to the car rental agency. There, with shockingly little hesitation, they rented a car to myself and my three 20-year-old friends. From the agency, we drove almost two hours up twisting back roads to the top of a pass high in the Pyrenees Mountains. At least, that was the plan. About five miles short of our goal, we were halted by two Gendarmerie blocking the road, ordering us to turn aside. It took about five minutes of driving back down the mountain but eventually we found an acceptable parking spot and started the long walk the rest of the way up the mountain.

Admittedly, this trip ended up being much more difficult than I had expected. But for myself and my friend David, we knew the whole time it would be worth the effort. For as long as I can remember we have both been big cycling fans. Even we will admit this is unusual, especially because neither of us has ever done any competitive cycling in our lives, but every year since we were young we watched the Tour de France together and talked about what it would be like to one day go.

Around 3:30 pm, after well over an hour of hiking up the mountain, we finally reached the race course. We found a spot overlooking the road and settled in to wait for the race, which was still over two hours away. Before the race came the parade, a huge convoy of cars carrying performers, playing music, and promoting various brands that sponsor the race. At the parade, they threw everything from jerseys, to meat pies, to coupons for free tire rotations. Seeing both the performances and advertising, in a rolling caravan at the top of a mountain and in a language I could not understand, was quite the spectacle.

Around 5:30 pm the race finally arrived. We were set just two kilometers from the finish line on the summit of the fourth mountain of the day. By the time the riders reached us, only an elite group was left at the front of the race. In the distance we saw the small group of riders flying down the mountain that led towards our own. On mountain descents, professionals often reach over 50 mph and they certainly achieved that speeding towards us. The group rounded a corner and headed up the final climb towards us. Despite how difficult it was to get to the top of the mountain, the road around us was packed with thousands of people, many of whom had been camped out for days. The crowd was so frantic they were actually completely blocking the road. For this reason, in front of the riders rode two Gendarmerie on motorcycles with their sirens blaring. As we jumped out of the way of the police motorcycles, the group of riders came speeding by us. The Maillot Jaune, a yellow jersey worn by the current leader of the race, was followed closely by the striped jersey of the champion of Italy and the blue and white of the best French rider, who would eventually win the stage. It was incredible to see how quickly these men could ride up a mountain knowing how much difficulty I had just walking up a comparatively short stretch. It all happened in seconds, but it was an event and atmosphere I had wanted to experience my entire life