Tour de France racers, eat our dust
By Jim Russell
To my surprise our touring
bicycle team finished ahead of the racers who crossed the finish line in Paris the last day of the Tour de France in July 2012. That day is the most memorable of any biking day I’ve had. If a klutz like me can achieve that at the age of 71, any casual biker has a chance. We never expected to be on the racecourse the final day, always held on the streets of Paris on a Sunday. The Saturday before, I was riding with my wife, Karen and our 12-year-old granddaughter, Alena, on a bike tour of Versailles. Versailles is the grandiose royal estate of King Louis the XIV and Marie Antoinette where most tourists view a fraction of the gardens and other palaces. Instead of walking, we joined Fat Tire’s bike tour to roam the full spectacle before seeing the traditional locations. Our guide was a Brit who was ecstatic that Bradley Wiggins was the first rider from Great Britain who had an insurmountable lead and would officially become the overall winner of the world’s most prestigious event on Sunday. The overall winner has always been declared the winner at the end of Saturday’s stage and Sunday is the ceremonial ride into the finish line past the throngs of fans on several laps around the Champs Elysees and other Paris landmarks, although
Jim and Karen Russell and their granddaughter, Alena, are part of a biking team heading toward the Eiffel Tower after they finished an early morning ride on the final leg of the 2012 Tour de France, cycle racing’s most prestigious event.
sprinters compete on the final day. Fat Tire received approval to lead groups on the streets of the final race paths early Sunday morning before the racers arrived. Our guide surprised us by recruiting participants for Tour de France tour from the group that was touring Versailles. Karen and I were excited to ride the Tour de France route because we watch the annual three-week-long race every morning and evening each year when it’s broadcast. Alena’s father watches every day and their family often bikes together. The guide assured me our bike team had demonstrated the skills to safely follow him around the streets they raced on to the finishing line. We signed up in disbelief at the opportunity, but I said, “We’d better have champagne to celebrate at the finish.” In the early Sunday dawn we rode through Paris’ empty streets to reach the Arc de Triomphe at the head of the final stretch of the race looping
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around the Champs-Élysées. Pennants hung from streetlights and barriers lined the streets as our guide, draped in the Union Jack, shouted out the final instructions above the noise of vehicles detouring around us. We bumped over the empty cobblestone street. We passed platforms where video cameras would soon stream images around the world, but we focused on keeping our riding group together and safely finishing. Soon we reached the point where traffic for residents and vendors squeezed us to the side of the street and traffic lights stopped us. We never saw Tour de France racers ride under those hazardous conditions. We swung around the Concorde with its Obelisk and fountains to leave the traffic behind and rode the paved Quai de Tuileries between the Tuileries Gardens and Seine River. We picked up our pace until we passed through the tunnel to emerge at the Louvre, just as we’d seen racers surge into
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| July 2013
the sunshine as they battled for position Our guide stopped to count riders. I fell over with my bike trying to swing my leg off the unfamiliar bike. We turned left to ride up the Rue de Rivoli past the Royal Palace back to the Concorde. We re-entered the Champs-Élysées to circle it a second time until we arrived back at the Arc de Triomphe. The final lap was a hoot. More people on the streets stopped to watch us. Vendors were clanging their displays into position. People shouted out encouragement. Others raised their arms to display their Tour de France t-shirts in the traditional salute of racers crossing the finish line. I was gripping my handlebars to make sure I didn’t spill on those cobblestones, amazed sprinters could control their bikes. We celebrated at the Arc de Triomphe with champagne pulled from the guide’s backpack. He thanked me for the idea.