I have.
But let me paint the scene first. After all, that's exactly what he does!
In Part 3, I am two and a half weeks in my trip around France following the 100th anniversary of the Tour de France. I am on my own, in a country where I don't speak the language (well), riding my bike with a one man tent and few other items. It is 2003 and I am (just!) 25 years old.
At this stage of my adventure I had become well versed in the art of survival on my bike and coping with my own company. I loved the absolute freedom that my two wheeled pedalled vehicle and associated adventures had given me. It did have some logistical challenges though...
This story was shared to my friends and family in the days after it occurred. Not realising that my telling of the tale could be interpreted in other ways (for unknown reasons I originally called the story, 'sleeping with the devil'), it gave my father nightmares. To this day, whenever he sees the character on the TV, he will emit a low growl. It was all completely innocent, believe me..
Enjoy!
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The Devil
"Oh la la! Superb! Photo! Yah Yah Yah!"
That surmises the entire shared vocabulary of the Devil (el Diablo) and myself.
If you have ever seen coverage of the Tour de France, or any major cycling tour anywhere in the world, chances are you might have seen a crazy dude by the side of the road dressed as a devil and going nuts for the camera. This guy, known as 'el Diablo', has followed the Tour de France for the past 14 Tours (now in 2013, this is around 24). He was out in Sydney in 2000. He is German and speaks no English or French. And everyone who rides, works, or follows the Tour seems to love him (they certainly did back in 2003). And we all want our picture with him.
And so, while on route riding out from Toulouse towards Narbonne for Stage 11, I came across the Devil. It had also been one of my aims on this trip to get a picture with him, so I stopped and had a bit of a chat (using the vocab above), met his mate, known only as 'Holland' (you can guess where he comes from) and it was all very exciting with everyone getting along like a house on hire.
Back on the road, I suddenly realised that I was intending to watch the tour by myself which seemed silly when I had just made some friends. So I went into town, bought some beers and food, and headed back out to the devil for the afternoon. They were pumped to see me again, and for the next four hours or so while we waited I watched as he performed for every car, had his picture taken countless times, and put up with Aussie/American tour group riders try to speak to him in French and/or speak like he wasn't in the room. "Hey can you BELIEVE I got my photo with the Devil? My wife is going to love this picture!"
el diablo is a teetotaller, but Holland and I soon took well to the beverages. After the tour passed, the three of us sat in Holland's van to watch the remainder of the stage on his television. I then rode back into Toulouse on the back of an Aussie tour group pack. They had ridden past me and ignored me, so I thought I would just sit on the back of them and mess with their soft-tour-ego-minds. As we got back into Toulouse, the group split up as the traffic increased. I was left with a couple of them in a panic as they had no idea where their hotel was. I had been on the road, fighting navigational woes and other challenges, including lack of safe accommodation for over two weeks. I had little sympathy for their plight, but gave them a cursory hand wave in the direction of downtown, before I turned in the opposite direction to my lame campsite on the other side of town.
The following day was the individual time trial which began 60km from Toulouse at Gaillac. I rode out there with a South African woman, ex-pro cyclist who has ridden in the Tour de Snowy (in Australia)! Along the way we stopped for a photo opp and somehow she managed to drop my camera. I was quietly devastated at losing my camera and the lack of visuals, but my memories still paint a strong picture.
The town of Gaillac was pumping, moreso than a usual start town because of the lengthy 'start' needed for the time trial. The first person we came across was my best mate, el diablo. Welcomed like a long-lost daughter, we conversed where we could get an opportunity between his posing for the cameras. He pulled me over to show me a map of the Pyrenees, identifying the Port de Pailheres, a tough climb on the following stage. He was offering me a ride.
Hmmm, an offer to ride with the devil. I had loose plans to get another 100km in today and take some serious shortcuts through the Pyrenees to keep up and still see the Tour everyday. This new plan would throw me smack bang in the middle of the hills. From what I had already seen, the devil was pretty much as crazy as he appears on camera. And given the massive communication problems, I wasn't even sure if what I thought he was suggesting was actually what he was suggesting...
Yep, alright then. Why the hell not?
It took about an hour to get back to the devil-mobile, due to constant stopping for pics. He drives a van specially built out for following cycle tours and pulls a trailler with a massive bike-frame on the back. It is very easy to recognise, and some people just pose for pics in front of his van! My beloved Harry was tied up to the massive bike-frame, and off we went.
For the next 200km he managed to honk at every single person along the way, and wave one of his pitchforks out the window. He gave me a spare pitchfork to hang out my own window for the double effect, a huge joke he never seemed to tire from.
Passing Quillan on route, the road leads up through a very narrow canyon beside the Aaye river, so small at times the road has been carved out of the rock leaving massive overhangs and barely room for oncoming traffic. Further up river we stopped for some reason, but after watching him grab some soap and head off to the river, I realised it was shower time. It had been a hot day, and although only cycling around 60km, I needed a shower. So, trying to remember that the devil is German (as he keenly disrobed) and more at ease than my Aussie upbringing, I moved upriver and out of sight, and into the mountain river I went. Just as I was finishing I was most shocked to look up and watch as a packed whitewater raft moved down the river in front of me!
We camped 7km from the summit of Pailheres among many Germans, Dutch and their campervans. Once again he was greeted like a rock hero. I set up camp in a quieter area and watched him spend over an hour and half painting the road with all his trademark pitchforks, etc.
I was contemplating what I could possibly paint, and had been trying to come up with a message for some of the Aussie riders. I asked him if I could use some paint, and his reply basically suggested it would be possible if I chose to sleep in the van. I figured there would be more opportunities to paint later in the Tour... and politely declined.
He retired early (you can imagine all that posing must take it's toll!), so with little else to do I joined the campervan party where the beers flowed freely. A German film crew joined us, and the dance moves became most impressive (especially from the Dutch). The crew switched to English to interview me, and my German friends were shocked to see me on German TV with a bunch of crazy countrymen (they got a copy for me, which I have since lost). A German family proudly put on their tape of ACDC for the Aussie. A great night at 1,600m alt.
I strongly recall feeling very sorry for Didi. Although he clearly loved the attention and had great enthusiasm for the Tour and all the spectators, it seemed like such a dependency for him. In the morning of the stage, before the Tour spectacle had passed through, I watched as he sat out in the field, quietly writing in his journal. Precious reflective time. As soon as he returned to the van, it was 'back to the show!' Yes he was normal, just like we all were, and I felt bad that he was treated as a 'scalp' by so many fans. Including me.
In the following days as I desperately tried to continue watching the Tour from various angles of the Pyrenees, I started receiving emails from home. I had made the bible of cycling news sources, cyclingnews.com with this picture:
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| Photo credit: Jeff Tse (article here) |
I wrote to him afterwards and sent him some copies of my crappy photos, and he wrote back. In 2006, while at the World Championships in Salzburg, I saw him again. He was in full 'acting' mode, had no idea what I was trying to tell him, and clearly didn't recognise me.
I remember. A crazy time with a crazy man. It was fun, and I sincerely apologise for causing my Dad so much lost sleep.
