The day le Tour came to town ...

The plans for the start of this summer's Pyrénéan stroll came to a sudden halt in Pierrefitt-Nestalas, as the bus driver announced the road ahead to my start point, Luz Saint Sauveur, was blocked. It remained a mystery to me why the route ahead was blocked until I started to see growing numbers of people camping along the side, various professional cycle team banners, and the iconic green livery of a Tour de France sprint marker across the road. Initial irritation turned into a small puja to the gods of cyclists and, by default, Tour de France lovers everywhere.

As there was nowhere to go until the road opened later that evening, I joined all the other residents, groupies and stranded, finding a spot  to settle in for a long wait until the Tour arrived later that afternoon. Sporadic team vehicles, officials, sponsors, media and merchandise cars, passing at varying proximity and speeds, from breakneck to 'buy a t-shirt' languid, kept us vaguely amused until 2pm ish when activity picked up and the tannoy announced the arrival of 'le Caravan'.

Le Caravan is the bit you never see on TV and probably never will because what people are really waiting for is to have things thrown at them by giant chickens and fromage on wheels. Floats representing each of the major sponsors toss key rings, fridge magnets, car window sun shades, haribos, biscuits, cheese, sausage, stickers, pens, water, newspapers, hats, and pennants (I got one of those). Children and grown up humans scrambled in the air and on the ground for the bread and circuses. 'Eye of the Tiger' and bubble machines pumped up the energy and a general feeling of surrealism.


After an hour of giddiness the caravan disappeared and again we were left with a mix of boredom and anticipation until close to 4pm when the sound of five helicopters overhead signalled that something was about to happen. In seconds, a lead group of cyclists, spotted jersey in front, blurred past. Then the peloton clattered through with glimpses of recognisable team colours; Moviestar and Ineos among them. Around them, between them, motorbikes and cars sped by with centimetres to spare. Another group passed to more cheers from the crowd; then a few stragglers; and finally just one, the cyclist no-one wants to be at the back of the field.

After waiting five hours in minutes it was over, and I realised that I was still stuck in Pierrefitt-Nestalas. It was too late for the evening bus and I tried hitching with no luck, so a €40 taxi fare finally got me to Luz. But seeing the hundreds of amateur cyclists freewheeling back down from the Col Du Tournelet, the end of the day's stage, and sitting with every woman, man and dog in lycra, from France, Spain, Italy, the UK, Australia and the USA, dissecting the result over a rosé while holding my hard won pennant, it was worth it.