


Running short of time, I began heading down the mountain the same way I came up. By now the fickle weather had closed in and rain was bucketing down. It reminded me of my descent from the Col du Granier down into Chambéry, though at least this time I knew where I was heading: the very bottom of the Col des Saisies, to watch the Tour come through.

Standing a few metres from the 90-degree bend in the road was Roz, wearing her by now well worn-in pink rain jacket and brandishing an enormous green hand the size of a wicket keeper’s glove. She’d obviously got into the carnival atmosphere that preceded the passing of the Tour entourage, followed by the even more fleeting appearance of the riders themselves.


Maybe
he’d had bike trouble or had just stayed too long in Beaufort for a beer and
pizza. Whatever the reason, he wore a wry smile as the oncoming crowd began
cheering him up the col.
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Having
cycled around France a few years earlier, I still remember the exhilaration I
felt as I pedalled the few remaining kilometres towards the medieval town of
Langres. The sense of achievement was instantaneous. But far more enduring was
the memory of the whole experience; our closer understanding of the people we
met, and our appreciation of their turbulent history, unique culture and
spirited way of life.
Other books by Mark Krieger:
High Spain Drifter, on Amazon
Easing over
a short rise, the last thing I felt was fatigue. Filled with adrenaline, I wondered
how a poorly placed professional cyclist might feel as he grinds out the last
few days of a major Tour. I can remember a handful of spectators cheering on
one solitary rider who belatedly appeared at the bottom of the Col des Saisies.
It was Stage 17 of the 2009 Tour de France and only the second climb of the
day. At least five minutes behind the group in front of him, all he would have
seen as he braced himself for the long, lonesome climb was a steep gradient and
the last few spectators heading back down the road. While the race leaders up
ahead had the podium to strive for, his only reward was to make it across the
finish line. An occupation as much as an elite sport, he was more than likely
looking forward to packing his bags and moving on to the next event.
Hardly
competing, and certainly receiving no remuneration for my toil, it dawned on me
that I had more in common with the cyclist than I ever would have imagined. First,
we were both riding alone, and second, the distances, the terrain and nature’s
elements would all have been very similar.

Other books by Mark Krieger:
High Spain Drifter, on Amazon
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