It’s 5:45AM in my Airbnb near Nice. I wake up five minutes before the alarm I set: a 5:50AM alarm to get to a mountain to spend the day to watch the Tour de France fan-style. Am I crazy? Maybe. Will it be worth it? In hindsight yes. This is a story of lessons learned spending the day on a Tour de France mountain following the race as a fan.
The passage of the Tour de France peloton is exactly 10 hours later than my ridiculously early alarm. There is only one road from the coast up the Col de la Bonette and only one down for that matter. Tour de France doesn’t work with a rolling closure where a lead car stops traffic for a while and then signals the road is open. The Bonette was closed from 8AM. I arrived at the foot in opposite direction at 8:45. Here is where the fan experience goes a bit awry. I have the coveted stickers on my car signaling press. The gendarmerie waves me through. Even after twelve years of working in this sport it is still humbling to realize I have a place in this little world.
I have the mountain almost to myself and it’s glorious in the morning light. What can possibly go wrong? I know once I reach the top and descend where the riders will climb later that day. The mayhem at 10AM is already incredible. It’s a sea of white, the universal colour of camper vans. Flags from so many countries and counties – hello Yorkshire – on the cars, tents, vans, bikes and on the jerseys. Tens of thousands of people climb this mountain today because with an 8AM closure it’s the best way to get up there.
Sadly, so many riders, experienced and not-so-experienced, mixing with the cars of press, Tour de France partners, technical service and sales causes problems. Just before me a descending rider crashed into a sweeper truck that was coming up to clean the roads. A trauma helicopter was called in. Three kilometers further down the Bonette a descending rider hit a child (per local media reports, the child was not seriously hurt). Today is not the day to set a record on your Bonette descent but some riders are willing to try. It’s the downside to what should be a festive day.
The parade of riders coming up makes the early morning alarm worth it. I ride a bit myself and am happy to see all shapes and ages going up. Men, women, kids but also dads towing a stroller and even a dog in a basket. Everyone seems happy yet tired. It’s a hot day here and the higher you get (the Bonette road summits at 2,800 meters or more than 9,000 feet), the less oxygen your muscles get. The scenes up the mountain must be crazy but I see nothing. I parked the car where there were two bars of network signal strength on my phone.
The bars disappeared after two minutes of heading down the course and after that, it was like following a women’s race 10 years ago. I had no idea what was happening in the race. Were they going fast, ahead of schedule, who was in the break, what did the key players say before the start? No idea. You are on the mountain without cell reception and you just count down the hours.
I chat with some people. A family from Slovenia with an impressive display of flags are here. They are on first name basis with their heroes, Tadej and Matej. The Belgians with their Chimay flags. The roadside parties with good and not-so-good music. A local family from a village down in the valley set out a picnic blanket. The young grandson had the widest of eyes when a truck with a gigantic Mickey Mouse passes. And that is only the start because the highlight of every Tour de France experience is the publicity caravan.
It arrives two hours before the race. You feel the excitement of the people. They are walking back and forth to choose the most strategic of places for the maximum haul of Haribos, bucket hats, bottle openers, dried sausages, mayonnaise, little bottles of olive oil, cans of Orangina (handed, not thrown). The giant chicken trucks don’t throw out schnitzels or cordon bleus but keychains.
Maybe that is for the better at 32 degrees Celsius. I have 1980s-style sweatbands to keep my wrists cool and I do get washing detergent to wash my sweaty clothes after this experience. The scramble for freebies by grown-ups doesn’t cease to amaze me. Two years ago, I was sat at the pavement in France somewhere and a bucket hat ended between my legs. A grown woman jumped at me and grabbed it. From between my legs. Today I gave most of my haul to the kids but I kept the Haribos.
The anticipation of seeing a peloton truly never fades. I also hope to never lose that feeling as it reminds me where I started and where I am now. Being at a bike race instead of in a studio or in a Zoom meeting, to actually see all the familiar logos on the clothing and the cars and the familiar faces beneath the helmets, is what matters. I want to bring that joy for this sport across in my features and in my commentary.
The moment is always brief and the run-up to it always long. I spent seven hours driving the Col de la Bonette up, then down again, then up following the broom wagon with Arnaud Démare in front and then down again at high speeds. Side note: I will never be suited to drive an actual race caravan downhill.
Most importantly I saw again how big the Tour de France is and how strong pro riders actually are. I am sick because of eating too many Haribos and drinking too little water because, hey, as a woman where to do your thing on a mountain full of people? Despite being completely tired I feel strangely energized. I know why I do this job, despite the setbacks and the hardships. There on that mountain today, I felt that love again for that colourful circus that is pro cycling.
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