“Sit down,” my husband says to me, “it’s the last 2 ½ kilometers before the final sprint.”
I sit beside him in front of the television, happy that I arrived only moments before the end of one of the stages of the Tour de France which average three hours or more. My husband tapes all 21 days of the Tour and we watch them at our leisure. We are a cycling family so the Tour is our Wimbledon, but we watch that, too.
In 1980, I studied in Paris and happened to be there for the final stage when the riders do circuits on the Champs d’Elysee. I had no idea what was going on but just followed the crowds into the street. With my instamatic camera, I shot blurry photos – nearly impossible to identify any focal points in the shots. I only could discern that I was in Paris and there were bicycles and guys with colored jerseys, or race kits as cyclists call them. I wish I were there now, settled in on one of the mountaintops with a baguettes and fromage waiting for the peloton.
In the last kilometers, we watch as the cyclists strategize for position. My favorite rider, Peter Sagan, is in the middle of the pack. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but it is nearly impossible to see his face. The race is filmed from above at this point and all I can see is his green jersey and helmet. Even then, it is because the commentators pointed him out as a favorite. Sagan is not only adorable with his long brown hair and closely shaven goatee, he has a sly sense of humor which is made even funnier by his accent.
I see he has begun to move toward the front where there is already a lead-out train formed. He will need to tuck in behind one of the other contenders soon if he has a chance to win. Suddenly, one of the sprinters takes off solo in the hopes of catching the peloton by surprise and gaining the advantage. The leaders have no choice but to start their sprint early to catch Gilbert and pull him back in. there is less than a mile to go. From the overhead camera, we can see that Gilbert is being sucked back into the group. This will not be his day. With three hundred yards left, the sprinters are supremely focused while pedaling at top speed, more than 35 mph.
That’s when I see the green jersey braiding through the group toward the front. He is coming from behind to catch the two leaders. That’s how he does it. He comes from behind, relying on his final burst of power, more power than the other riders, to win the stage.
“Hey,” I said to my husband, “isn’t this the same stage we watched this morning?”
“Yeah, I thought it might be.”
