TdF - ten years on (part 1)

Climbing Galibier with Harry, my steel framed bike, and my one change of clothes drying on the back rack. 

I can't believe it has been ten years since I took off on a month's break to France, bringing with me my sturdy steel frame bike named Harry, a one man tent, sleeping bag, 3/4 sleeping mat, one change of clothes and 30 days worth of insulin and test strips to follow as much of the Tour de France as possible.

Holidays don't get more adventurous or epic when you are on your own, in a country where you don't speak the language (well), and when trying to pull off following the world's biggest bike race. When you are on your own the bad things are the worst things in the world ever, and the good bits are amplified to be the best thing ever.  The memories are still as strong today, ten years on.

My trip in 2003 was a celebration of the 100th anniversary of the very first Tour de France. This year, 2013, is the actual 100th edition of the Tour de France. Timely, I feel, to indulge in some of the more classic stories from my epic trip. My language and writing style was a bit strong back then, but it also reflects some of that raw emotion you get when on your own and all alone..

My trip began six days ahead of the 2003 Tour, following the route and riding as much of it as possible. The build up of anticipation going through the Tour towns was fantastic. I finally met the tour upon reaching Alpe d'Huez, where I caught my first glimpse of the action at the end of the 219km Stage 8 (won by Iban Mayo). From there I chased the Tour all the way back to Paris.

Here is part 1. Enjoy!

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Departure of confidence 

My first days in France were spent at the Marist Brothers in Paris (a referral-only hostel from my old Catholic connections) and it didn't take long for word to spread through the compound of my pending plans. Brother Carlos from Mexico was so excited in fact he planned to join me on the train out to St Denis, the unofficial start of Stage 1. However, after consultation with the map, I realised that the tour meandered through Paris, passing not far from the 14th arrondissment. I decided to just ride across to meet up with the route straight from the Brothers place. Bro Carlos was super pumped, and with little to do began hanging around to 'sew hope'. Me, on the other hand, was beyond nerves. I wasn't even sure if the bike would hold me and the rear and front packs. But with the pressure of an audience I just had to pretend all was OK. With everything secured, and with a massive wobble, I waved Bro Carlos off and zigzagged down the road, both from the new weight sensation and from forgetting which side of the road I should be on. 

Photo credit: Bro Carlos
Me: shitscared

The first day was filled with fun-filled adventures that included: 
*losing the rear load at the first cobblestoned roundabout (I blame Harry for panicking) and in doing so putting a slight bend in the rear wheel, 
*falling off after losing the rear load a second time 
*getting lost numerous times beyond belief 
*having the front pack dip onto the front wheel - twice 
*rain 

Once out in the countryside and out of the Paris metropolis, life on the bike became an absolute pleasure. Roads weaving through fields of wheat that you could almost touch from the bike, interspersed with cosy villages, buildings with no setbacks, brown-grey/grey brick beauties w pitched roofs all at least 150 years old, narrow windy streets and little idea of how to escape them, save for the 'toutes direction' sign, which I have discovered to mean, 'follow this way if you want any hope of leaving'.

My entire trip budget was centred on this idea I had at my office desk back in Melbourne, studying the TdF stage profiles stuck all over my surrounding wall space. I had such a small budget for this crazy trip that I would camp by the side of the road - of course! The one man tent, sleeping bag and 3/4 sleeping mat had been carefully purchased for this plan. But once out on the road and in France countryside, the horror of the plan soon crept in. What was I thinking? How on earth could I possibly camp by the side of the road each day ON MY OWN? As I rode along, with the sun setting, my search for the perfect 'safe' campsite grew futile. Every place seemed perfect for a lonely traveller to be attacked and subjected to god knows what else...and I just couldn't shake these dark thoughts everywhere I looked. I had to come up with another plan, quickly (and a cheap one at that), to get me through this month alone.


My saviour was the recollection of Gite's, farm B&Bs that are scattered all over rural France. I noticed one of the outskirts of a small village, and decided I would try my luck. The plan would be to negotiate to camp in the backyard of a Gite in the hope that I could avoid paying a full night's accommodation, but receive some sort of security for sleeping, and possibly access to a shower. 

Camp plans - one man tent, baguette and a 'safe' backyard

The first farmhouse stay was with a famille which spoke no English whatsoever. When I rolled up to the property I met the owner, an older gent. He was with a visitor to the property who could spoke some English, and I was able to relay my camp plans. Fortunately they agreed: it was getting late and I had no back up plan. But when the wife returned things started to sour. There was tension in the air and some heated arguments between the two. I knew she was accusing her husband of being too soft and letting me stay without paying full price. Still, I was invited to join them for a meat filled dinner, again adding to the tension with my vegetarianism. Despite the lack of common language, I understood completely when the wife went on and on about 'the English' who travel to France yet cannot speak French. At one stage the husband said to me, 'le mere cest la fiest!' (the old girl is pretty fiesty!). I learnt more French in that evening than my adult language school course and from my entire trip combined. Over the course of dinner I stood my ground and won her over. The kicker was my adorable explanation, using a mixture of French and sign language, that my parents thought I was crazy. In the morning I used the 'language barrier' to avoid any renegotiation on payment.  We parted as friends.

Memorable first night hosts

Burning ring of fire 

Day 2 started well, with the rear pack better secured. Unfortunately the first day's discomfort had meant sitting far too forward which resulted in some serious arse discomfort. To relieve the pain I was singing 'Burning ring of fire' at the top of my voice as I cruised into Mauperthuis, an intermediare sprint point on Stage 1. I heard a strange low humming noise, and suddenly I was swamped by 10-12 pink and black men - Thomas the tank and friends. It was the entire Team Telekom out on a training ride, followed by their team car (they were a team riding in the 2003 Tour de France, including Eric Zabel (sprint king) and Cadel Evans (an Aussie who is injured (n.b I wrote that in 2003 because I didn't think anyone had heard of a guy named Cadel!))). The shock of the sight momentarily removed the devastation that they had witnessed me singing about my arse at full volume. As we were on a downhill and nearing 60k/h I was unable to pull the camera out - I needed a spare hand in case I hit a bump and lost the rear load again. 

After a long day which included an afternoon of rain, I was pretty keen for an indoor stay. The last 50km had been travelling along the Marne river in the Champagne region, splendid views along the valley with the river surrounded by fields and fields of vineyards, which in turn were filled with hundreds of workers in full wet weather gear trimming the vines. Despite the tourist flavour, there was no accommodation apparent. Each village I passed left me more and more frustrated, and when the rain finally set in fully at Port a Binson I had had enough. I pulled into a pub, politely asked if anyone spoke English, and then asked for directions for accommodation. One guy in the pub could help me out with communication, and after a beer and a bit of a chat, offered his 'spare house' for the night. The 'spare house' was a magnifique three storey, four bedroom home at least 100 years old, complete with two cellars underneath. Great view of the Marne valley and surrounding vineyards. It was unfurnished, so I stayed in the kitchen on my sleeping mat alongside my bike. I was out of the rain, had water and light, and this was simply fantastique! We shared some champagne home brew which every local dabbles in with him and his girlfriend, Du Du. It was terrific to hear how things are from a local: 'This region is shit. The people are shit, the weather is shit, it is nothing..' and I in turn taught them important things about Australia 'no, its not 'a'ku'bre', its 'ArrrkuuuBraaaa'!' 

The depth of despair in Lyon

After travelling around 930km in my first six days, it was time for a bit of a rest day for Harry (my velo) and I in Lyon (pronounced Lee-yonne). Lyon is the gateway to the Alpes, of similar statue to Yarragon, gateway to the Latrobe Valley. 

The most unfortunate thing from the previous few days was I had been missing what was happening with the Tour, apart from receiving updates from my brother back in Australia and from reading the local newspapers the following day (and I use the term 'reading' very loosely).

Despite this, I was making good progress following the route ahead of the main action. The days saw the temperature soar out on the road as I travelled from St Dizier to Troyes, and then south onto a tiny village called Anton where I camped in the backyard of a B&B before continuing onto Nevers (pronounced Nev-yair). Nevers had had a busy week, it hosted the France Grand Prix the Sunday (6th) I arrived, as well as a world Triathlon championship of some sort, and of course with it about to host the arrival and departure of the Tour the coming Thursday (10th). 

Of course arriving on a fully-loaded-and-very-hot-and-tired bicycle into a city full of drunken rev-heads was not looking rosy for an evening camped out beside the road, and after some drunken hoon tried to run over my legs as I sat sprawled out at a petrol station guzzling another couple of litres of water, I thought it best I move on. Got another century in (100 miles, or 160km) and landed at the campground in Decize. This left me with the possibility of making it to Lyon in one day - around 200km.

It would always be a long haul, but you notice that the haul gets larger (and longer) with a few variables thrown in:

*no breakfast (campground only, no food)
*hot-o heat
*headwind
*dead bitumen (the type of road that slugs all your effort onto getting over those chunky bits of stone that lay  clumsily amongst the bitumen)
*a very dirty Harry (what IS the French word for WD40??)

But when broken into smaller, bite size pieces, 200km-odd days become a possibility. Getting the target under 100km is the key for mental sanity, although I didn't actually believe I would make it myself until about 6.15pm, when stopped for a pic and meeting some locals who said it was only 72km to Lyon. A grand 40km section was basically all downhill, along the Beaujoulie valley which I shared with many a log truck and with the enjoyment of waving to the bewildered old coots perched outside their local Bars for an evening biere. 

On route to Lyon, still with 80-odd km to go

I also had my first bit of decent cycling company - a guy out on an evening training ride, who took me the 'back way' into Lyon, which included a couple of 5km hills. I arrived at the river Soane at around 10pm where it was just getting dark, with the speedo at around 205km. Exhaustion had well set in, but all I needed to do was find the hostel. It was somewhere in old Lyon, according to the LP map.

In short, the LP map was shithouse, and suddenly I was on cobbled roads and looking at a ridiculously steep climb - way too steep for Harry, all our gear and me at this hour. Off came the riding shoes, and I pushed Harry up the street, turning the corner only to find the street getting steeper. I continued onwards, disenchanted. 

Back streets of Lyon

Expecting to find an intersection of the street where the hostel was located, I was devastated to find at the top of the street 200+ steps leading into the dark abyss of old Lyon! 

It may be the old part of Lyon, and it may be where people find it easier to use Furniculars to get around, but one thing is for sure: the accoustics in this part of the city are a treat. I sat at the bottom of the steps, too exhausted to think of anything else, and just howled. People up the alley peered out windows, doors closed, cats ran off. And I howled more. It kinda felt good, although it didn't actually assist in the predicament. 

The steps into the abyss of Lyon, and a possible campsite for an overtired and emotional Aussie

I considered setting up my tent right there and then, but a local walked past and was able to confirm that the hostel was at the top of the stairs. I pulled myself together, ate the remaining chocolate I had on me, and still in my socks began the haul up those f'n steps. The local returned, and like a true host was happy to help out and take the back half of Harry. I am not sure he realised just how heavy Harry was, but there was no way I was letting him leave until I got to the top. 

I checked into the hostel at 11pm, and was so happy to find people to speak English with - for the first time in a week. So happy that, I got a second (or fourteenth) wind and ended up staying up til 4am to do washing and chat to some cute French Canadian fellas. Phwoarrr..