French Revolutions

but it was a start. In fact, as I was
bundled into the office of his boss Isobel, I was rather wishing it had been an
end. Isobel spoke no English, wore Heinrich Himmler glasses and had a Mini-Me
secretary sitting beside her. ‘Cinq petites secondes,’ she barked, glancing
flamboyantly at her watch, but it seemed like vingt grandes minutes before I
managed to think of something to say, and that was asking if she liked
bicycles.
    Wisely ignoring this imbecility,
Isobel slickly engaged human press-release mode. I tried my best to keep up.
Dax had last been a ville d’étape in 1959 (possibly), was only a small town of
20,000 (possibly), and the arrival of the Tour would be a night for citizens to
resemble each other and shoot cat-skins (possibly not). She also gave me rather
a start by insisting that one of the main objectives was to lure old people
here for ‘termalisme’. This sounded uncommonly like a frank synonym for
euthanasia, and my concerns for all those old dears playing bridge in the
Splendide lobby were only laid to rest the next day when I saw the word,
complete with silent ‘H’, emblazoned outside a health spa.
    Eric rescued me with a slightly
apologetic smile and saw me off with a ‘Bon courage’. That was good, but what I
really craved was a ‘chapeau’. Chapeau! — hats off! — was the
traditional roadside hosanna for those who had achieved the memorable: Merckx
on a 130-kilometre solo attack in the mountains during his first Tour, Roche
coming up through the mist at la Plagne. Wandering the soporific early-evening
streets in search of food I withdrew my odometer, which I’d unclipped from ZR in
order to gloat over. In seven days in the saddle I’d gone from wet north to
banana-palm south, covering 808.4 kilometres; risible by Tour standards, but
more than many pros aim to do in a week’s training. And my top speed, 61
k.p.h., was the fastest I had ever travelled under my own steam, probably even
including that youthful encounter with the 577 Crew on Ealing Common. Beginning
to feel quite important, I strode into a pizzeria.
    My previous experience of such
establishments should have taught me some sort of lesson, but I can’t be too
hard on myself for failing to predict that my tormentors that evening would not
be inexpertly preserved fish, but a trio of animatronic harlequins. There were
three of them by the door, each the size of a 5-year-old child, and as they
ushered me through the lobby area with jerky genuflections and Lurex sieg-heils
I chorded merrily at what seemed the kitschest encounter of my life to date.
    This was a response I had cause to
regret as soon as I was seated at a table just behind them. It was then that I
noticed the noise: ominously familiar, yet strangely changed. Drrrr-thweeek…
Drrrr-thweeek ... For a time I thought I could at least control the
situation by working out which machine was responsible: the gold one, forever
beating its brow in reproach for some unknown transgression; the red one, its
outstretched left hand juddering uncertainly about as if passing a verdict of
mediocrity; the silver one with the Queen Bess ruff, scything out a tune on an
absent double-bass... But by the time the goateed waiter glided up it was
already too late. My fillings seemed to be melting; there was something wrong
with my spine.
    Distantly aware that such a request
would usually invite heavy sedation and the removal of belt and shoelaces, I nonetheless
heard myself ask for the little golden men to be deactivated. The waiter’s
empathetic nodded wince said: If you think you’ve got it bad, try working here.
But then he shrugged, looked bleak and in a voice racked with helpless
frustration said, ‘Le patron...’
    Le patron what? ‘Le patron spent his
childhood trapped in a robot’s body.’
    ‘Le patron had a vision in which
three metal boys came to Dax bearing the Ruff of Christ.’
    ‘Le patron is in love with the one in
red, but she’s married to the gold one and won’t leave him, so old silver’s
there to keep an eye on the pair of them.’ There was an argument for returning
with my bicycle, wedging le patron’s tie in the chain and pedalling off at
speed, and this argument became more compelling when I noticed that all the
tables were rhombus-shaped. What was wrong with the man? One could only imagine
the Cinzano-raddled reasoning by which such features were thought to lure
potential diners.
     
    ‘Fancy a pizza tonight, Brigitte?’
    ‘Nice idea,