French Revolutions

the
speed. There were three times listed alongside each climb and village, giving
the riders’ ETA at three different average rates of progress. On some of the
flat stages, the most cautious prediction was that they would barrel along at
40 k.p.h. all day, with 44 k.p.h. the most optimistic. Tomorrow’s stage was
estimated to be the second slowest, but even then the organisers couldn’t see
the riders letting their average speed drop below 31 k.p.h. On a flat road, 31
k.p.h. seems fast. At that speed the wind noise deafens and your hair is blown
right back. You’re really travelling. If a red squirrel ran out in front of you
it would be a dead squirrel. The concept of maintaining such a speed while
ascending some of the highest roads in Europe was an outrage against logic.
    I don’t think I slept at all. At
about 5 a.m. I filled the bath and lay for an hour up to my ears in Bond-girl
foam. The breakfast-telly weatherman shouted out something about 28 degrees in
the Pyrenees, and when I finally wound up the electric shutters everything was
already all hot terracotta and azure. Merciless sun and mountains — you wait
all week for an unreasonable physical challenge, and then two come along at
once.
    I’d ordered breakfast in bed as a
treat; ‘Bon appetit,’ said the chambermaid, but looking at all those little
pots of jam I felt sick. The off-to-battle panic punched me in the guts again,
and I had a strong desire to crock myself by knocking steaming hot chocolate
into my lap, like the Somme soldiers shooting themselves in the foot as the
order came to go over the top. After forty-four hours of virtual inactivity, my
buttocks and legs still pulsed with discomfort. How could I have whined about
those lovely flat forests?
    Negotiating ZR through a sea of
tables laid for some grand buffet reception, a Leslie Phillips chap with a
waxed ’tache and cravat sidled over with a camp leer.
    ‘Le Tour de France?’
    I tried to look a bit less like
leftover guacamole. After my stuttering explanation, he stood back, saluted
theatrically and barked, ‘Aux montagnes, Anglais!’

Seven

     
    In a sporting world where the
adjective ‘professional’ is often a euphemism for cynicism and naked commercial
greed, there is no sport more professional than road-race cycling. Riders have
always been willing to throw away certain victory if the price is right, often
holding muttered in-the-saddle auctions to sell their services in assisting a
breakaway. Most smaller races are shams, their results fixed in advance by an
unsightly round of horse trading.
    And the Tour de France itself can
claim no noble Corinthian origins, having been founded purely to promote a
sports daily; when the yellow jersey was introduced in 1919 it was to emphasise
that L'Auto Vélo was printed on paper of that colour. Bike companies had
been splashing their names across riders’ chests even before that, and in 1957
the sponsorship expanded to include anything from ice-cream to beer. Soon it
went a step further. I still found it hilarious that the names on the riders’
jerseys — at least, the main names — were those not of the team’s sponsors so
much as their actual owners. In his prime, Eddy Merckx had flogged himself to
the brink of collapse for the sake respectively of Faema, a manufacturer of
coffee percolators, and Italy’s leading speciality butcher, Molteni. At the end
he was riding for C&A, which no doubt explains his early retirement. I
guess I’d give it some oomph for a nice espresso-maker, and the thought of a
plate of sliced salami might give you something to aim at when the bonk came
knocking, but you just can’t imagine Eddy grinding up the Casse Deserte under a
merciless sun, driven onwards by the terrible, soul-swallowing prospect of a
world without slacks.
    Fans have always sought to emulate
their heroes. You’ve got your replica bike and your replica jersey: all you
need now is your replica amoral rapacity. This is where the caravane
publicitaire comes in. The faxed itinerary plotted the progress of this
brashly commercial vanguard as it sped along the route 30 kilometres ahead of
the riders, and standing astride ZR on the Boulevard Saint-Pierre, starting
point of stage ten, I pondered the scenes of grasping hysteria that would
accompany it.
    Channel 4 always breaks up its
on-the-road coverage with behind-the-scenes reports, and a staple of these is
the ‘day in the life of a Tour follower’. I must have seen half a dozen