WHAT GOES ON TOUR
After another glorious July in France, Ned reflects on the unsung heroes of cycling’s biggest race…
The life of an itinerant cycling fan is a curious one. To spend one’s summer trying to park a colossally expensive camper van by the side of the road on an Alpine hairpin, only so that you can eventually set up some garden furniture alongside your mobile home and admire an endless stream of diesel-powered vehicles grinding up a mountain, seems like a really pointless thing to do.
Yet the Tour relies on these befuddled celebrants of this annual nonsense. The Tour is not the Tour without an elongated helicopter shot of a long, hot, straight, undulating avenue somewhere near Toulouse, flanked by campervans and tall flags flapping in the crosswinds. Someone has to hoist these totems; the black and white of Brittany, the yellow sun of Cofidis, the dragon of Wales. There is human endeavour at work here. We should not take it for granted. A mankini without a man in it is simply a limp tangle of nylon bereft of meaning.
I recently discovered that there is a team at work on the Tour whose contribution to the spectacle is every bit as niche and remarkable as the chap who parades up and down the finish line dressed as a baguette. A Dutch TV crew made a short
documentary about the two men whose job it is to drive the race route in search of penises painted on the road. They drive a mini van every day and stop every time they spot genitalia emblazoned on the playing surface of a major global sporting event, where they spring into action, roller in hand and paint pot at the ready.
Their skill is considerable. The obvious thing might have been to simply paint over the offending phallus with black paint. But this is the Tour de France; the race that contrives to make straightforwardness convoluted. Therefore, these poorly remunerated Banksies don’t merely eradicate the offending image, they adapt it. From the simple outline of the male member emerges a fully-fledged owl, a tree, a parrot, a pirate; whatever inspires them.
This is high art, indeed. It is a wonderful addition to the pageantry and a reminder of just how much everyone on the Tour contributes to make the spectacle so complete. Be it the President of France himself, Emmanuel Macron, dropping into the race on the Tourmalet to bathe in the reflected glory of Thibaut Pinot and Julian Alaphilippe, or the bloke who has the job of emptying the sacks full of human waste and sawdust from the ecologically friendly bio-toilets in the TV compound; each and every one of these people play their part. Then there are the tireless barrier guys who set out and remove kilometres of barriers before and after every stage (and sleep while the race is on). And the caterers, the police, the security guards, the riggers, the motos, the marshalls… even the riders play their part.
I know that the constituent parts of the masses are not universally lovely. There are those amongst them who spit and snarl and swear and punch. But, mostly, they are simply there to enjoy themselves, to roar (and I mean roar) their encouragement, and to celebrate this sport and this race. The parting sea of distorted faces ahead of a group of riders on a mountain stage is among the greatest sights in sport. I don’t know what drives them to such a frenzy of passion (Leffe?), but I do know that they make the race every bit as much as the mountain does.
One day I fully intend to head off to France in a camper van of my own. I have only ever witnessed the Tour with an accreditation around my neck like a noose. I yearn to cut free, hit the open road, paint a penis on it, and then park my van next to some family from Rouen who support some nitwit from Arkea-Samsic. With them, I shall break bread, and when the race passes you will spot me, hollering at the riders, red-faced from sunburn and vin rouge, but not remotely ashamed. Vive le Tour.
“A mankini without a man in it is simply a limp tangle of nylon bereft of meaning”