Tours and detours - pics have been added

So we’re not even here two weeks and we have started on Ann’s dream list. First stop: the Tour de France. Since the tour started about a week ago, it seems every guy old enough to own a bike but not too old to ride one (and here that means really old) is out personally reliving their favorite moments from tours past. It turns out we’re only 3 ½ hours from the Tourmalet, one of the most renown legs in the tour’s history because of its nastiness. While we were packing up the bikes two days ago I was assuming we’d park somewhere and have a leisurely ride to a suitable viewpoint, complete with a traditional French picnic lunch. Only later, as we approached the Pyrenees, was I informed of Ann’s plan to park somewhere nice and take a somewhat less than leisurely ride to the tippy top of the mountain (a picnic lunch was still included but required someone to act as pack animal).

Arriving in town, I discovered the locals have reinvented the principles of parking cars in such a way as to place four cars into spaces where perhaps two cars would normally be. Fortunately, we got lucky and found a spot where these new theories did not need to be put into practice. There was a true carnival atmosphere with thousands of biking enthusiasts decked out in every way imaginable to support their favorite competitor, their country, or their favorite dinosaur (I didn’t get the last one either) For the first ten minutes I genuinely believed I would have a pleasant and invigorating experience capped off with an even more pleasant lunch. Even after I saw the first sign indicating a mere 16 km to the summit and a reference to a grade of 9-10% I still had hope. It wasn’t until I noticed most of the other people grinding up the steady incline wore fairly serious expressions and only the people sitting in lawn chairs along the road were actually having any fun. At the eight kilometers to go mark I asked Ann when we’d take a break. “No breaks” said Ann. “If I stop I won’t get started again”. Great. We then entered ‘epic hill  climb’ territory, and as we rose above the tree line I realized this is the sort of adventure that gets guys my age in the obits.

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At the one kilometer to the summit mark, I did my best to convince Ann that we were essentially there and getting to the top would be nothing more than an academic exercise. Little did I know the Tourmalet is Ann’s Everest. 

About 200 meters from the summit the gendarmes stepped in front of us to convey in the strongest possible terms that the road is now closed to bicycle traffic.  I considered the effort a technical success.

Then, drenched in sweat, we sat down to enjoy our much-deserved lunch while waiting the two short hours for the race to arrive. Shortly thereafter the wind picked up and the clouds rolled in. We were in the south of France in July. How cold could it get? At 1500 meters: Very, as it turns out. To save you all some pathetic details, I’ll fast forward through the mild hypothermia, the actual race, and the 16 kilometer downhill ride at breakneck speed in the wrong lane (the right lane was full of cars, but not moving ones), to a local restaurant and a proper meal compete with friends and wine.  All’s well that ends well (?).

One more thing: there’s some weird stuff that goes on at the tour, most of which you see on tv, but not all. For example, one guy was dressed up as a giant penis complete with testicles. It was really quite good and I’d have a picture if I wasn’t going up a particularly nasty pitch at the time. Why would you dress up like that to watch a bunch of guys ride bikes up a hill? Curious.

The last picture, when I put it here, will be to illustrate how close we were to the racers and how happy a professional cyclist can be after 3 hours of riding when not quite at the top of the second nasty hill of the day.