It Is Le Tour

It's early morning.  The city is silent.  It is just like any other large city in the morning; quiet, damp, with the smell of pungent garbage and urine wafting from the alley ways.  The street sweepers are circling around and around, flicking their dirt and debris as they clean up from the festivities of the night before.   As you walk through the empty streets from the train station, you wouldn't know that the biggest event in cycling, one of the biggest sporting events in the history of sporting events for that matter, is officially beginning in full force today in this city.  Windows are shut.  Lights are out.  The only sound you hear are those street sweepers and the crash of crowd barriers being laid along Rue de la Cathédrale for the parade to the start ceremony.  At the Tour Village, some people gather early to get their prime spots in front of the stage for the roll call and team presentations.  They want to be sure to see their favorites up close, maybe even get an autograph if they're lucky.  The only other people out are the street sweepers, fresh faced Tour volunteers, skittish bums looking for a handout from a sympathetic fan, and droopy eyed cops.  


You stop at one of the official merchandise booths, have a chat with the kids selling the T-shirts, key rings, bidons, and umbrellas.  Might as well pick up one of those quintessential yellow shirts.  Heck, a replica jersey would look great hanging on the wall (replica jerseys should never actually be worn, you know).  It's not every day you get to watch the start of the biggest race in the world.  You can't go home with only pictures and memories.

You pass the crowd gathering in front of the stage, the news trucks, and the nearly overflowing port-o-johns.  It's tempting to stay for the presentations, but that's not what you're here for.  It is the first time you'll be a spectator at the Tour de France. It's the sweep of the peloton passing in all of its glory, color, and sound you want to experience.  That is the image you've watched on the television screen for years.  It isn't the individual riders that matter, it is the Tour itself.  You want to be in the thick of that.


So, you walk a mile to the place where the official start ceremony will take place.  That is your chosen spot for the day.  You can't be 100% certain this is the best place to watch, but it's the chance you will take.  The great Place Saint Lambert is nearly empty.  A few spectators have camped out at the barriers, some with their chairs, flags, and snacks.  The stage for the band is all set up and occasionally a musician will climb up to tune their instruments.

T minus 3 hours.


The people begin to trickle in.  They mill around looking for a good spot.  You do the same.  Will they pass on this side of the pillar?  What are the chances of sun or rain when they finally come into the square?  Which would be the best spot  for each situation?  Do you want to be at the barriers or climb on this giant block of stone and just look above the crowd.  Faces poke out of windows above. 

T minus 2 hours.  

You decide on the barriers, just before the turn.  Police officers emerge from wherever they've been lurking and take their places along the course.  Tour officials drive by, Tour merchandise wagons stop here and there hawking their wares.  A motor bike passes through.  More people begin to line the street.    The band begins its march to their stage from who knows where.  They're playing some sort of march.  You don't know which.  You don't care.  No one is here for the band, bless their hearts.  Cycling clubs whiz past, making their lap of the official route to say they did.  The waiting crowds cheer them on.  They smile and laugh in response.  The band starts playing Bohemian Rhapsody.  Interesting choice.

T minus 1.5 hours.  


The people down on the route begin to stand and cheer.  Here comes the infamous caravan.  All the stories are true.  It.  Is.  Ridiculous.  You've never seen a stranger parade.  Cars decorated with bread, steaks, and bottled water blow by.   Most throw some form of junk to the crowd- hats, rubber bracelets, gummy bears, and key chains.  The spectators scramble as if they were throwing gold coins.  Each float is gaudier than the last and more ridiculous.  You have to turn away and cover your camera lens when the Vittel water float goes by, spraying the crowd.  That might be nice on a hot day, but it is not very warm in Liège. 

But, once they're gone, the crowd disperses, arms laden with their booty.  That was all they were interested in.  They're off to find a better vantage point for the race or to grab a coffee.  Maybe they'll be back.  Maybe they won't.  The rest of hold their places.  Some sit, some stand.  All go back to their conversations and relax.


T minus 10 minutes.  The sound of helicopter blades whirrs overhead.  It is the tell tale sign that the peloton is on the move.  They have begun their parade from the village.  No doubt, the yellow jersey will be in the lead.  The crowd is silent in anticipation as the course cars, officials, and police begin to come through.  

T minus 5 minutes.

First, the motor bikes.  Then, here they come! The crowd erupts in cheers and clapping, nearly drowning out the sound of the spinning pedals and chains as they make their way to the starting line.  The yellow jersey is indeed in the lead.  It is only a matter of a moment, a moment full of color, gears, and powerful legs pumping by.  Some of them are relaxed and talk or joke to one another.  Others are tense and lost in their own thoughts of how the first stage will play out.  Yesterday was the time trial and they're are already ranked.  The favorites are in position from which to make their attempt at the general classification win.  Will it be their year?  Will it end in glory or failure?  Will expectations be met?  Will they even finish?  No one knows how things will play out.  This moment is just the beginning.  They have 20 stages ahead.  Each one has the potential to bring glory or ruin.  But, it hasn't started, not yet.  For these last few minutes they can laugh and smile.

They clump together at the official start and come to a stop, resting on their top tubes.  A yellow ribbon blocks the way.  The riders wait patiently, milking those last few moments before the gun to gather strength and breathe.  All cameras, professional and spectator alike point to the front of the group and the yellow jersey, awarded to the man for his incredible time trial the day before.  They call him Spartacus, that champion of the Swiss. He chats nonchalantly to those around him.  How many days will he wear that jersey?  One day, two?  He acts indifferent to the matter.  The riders behind him make adjustments, yawn, run through whatever one runs through on the day they start the Tour de France.

T minus 3, 2, 1...Speeches are made amidst the shutter clicking and cheers of the crowd.  Spartacus is handed the scissors to cut the ribbon, then "click, click" go the 396 cleats into pedals as the peloton moves in shaky unison across the line to the thunderous applause of the crowd. 

"Allez, Allez!"

Whoosh! Then they are gone.  The crowd disperses nearly as quickly.  Barriers are taken down just as fast.  After a year of anticipation, Liège's hosting duties are nearly at an end.  The stage will end in Seraing, 198km later.  You won't see the finish.

Today was for the start, the start, the Grand Depart.  The first day standing amidst the pomp and circumstance of the holiest of bicycle races.  You cheered on legends and legends in the making.  You stood with them.  You successfully had your experience, and for today that is all you need.

Nothing compares to the Tour de France.  Being there at that moment is something you could only dream of until now.   You never thought you would be here. It is the greatest race of the season in the greatest sport on earth.  And, you witnessed a moment of it in the flesh.  You stood and waited for hours for those few minutes of Le Tour.  You would do that again and again, for all twenty stages if you could.  But, for now it is time to head back to the train station.  You'll sort through your pictures, discuss with your friends why being there was so important and wonderful, you'll replay that moment in your mind for years to come.  


Why, you don't know.  You're a fan of cycling, of course, but why does this race mean so much?  Is it the fame, the intensity, the suffering, the length, the scenery, the legends, the blood, the sweat, the panic, the drama?  Who really knows why they love the Tour.  It captures the imagination for three weeks in July and it has done so 99 times.  It will keep doing so.  Vive le Tour!  People around the world wait with baited breath during the sprints and the climbs.  They cringe in unison at the sight of a crash.  They exhale in elation and in disappointment when the hopes of the riders are fulfilled or denied.  They dress in costume and sit on mountainsides to see it.  They use all of their vacation days to see it.  People have been following the Tour religiously since 1903.  That is quite the legacy.


Why? Who knows? 


It is Le Tour.