MAGNIFIQUE!
GERAINT THOMAS CLINCHES HISTORIC TOUR WIN: PAGES 2-7, SPORT SUPPLEMENT AND AN EIGHT-PAGE TOUR DE FRANCE SPECIAL INSIDE
THE Champs Élysées wasn’t exactly a sea of red as Geraint Thomas’ Tour de France victory procession unfolded. But it didn’t need to be.
It was enough that every few dozen metres, around every other street corner, the sight of the Welsh Dragon flapping in the wind could be seen and the unmistakable accent could be heard.
And pride dripped from every little pocket of Thomas’ travelling support. Perhaps a degree of disbelief as well.
Every so often in Paris on Sunday afternoon, especially if the wind was blowing in the right direction, you could pick up distant strains of Delilah and Hymns and Arias.
Better known as rugby anthems perhaps, but somehow they fitted the occasion in the most snug way imaginable. The excitement of those who boomed them out was palpable.
It was six deep in sections of the city’s course perimeter – but don’t doubt Thomas must have heard it all, more than likely he fed off it as the last few kilometres of his journey to sporting immortality were completed.
Maybe some of the locals recognised the songs from Six Nations weekends. One thing is certain, none of them begrudged having to listen.
At the end of a Tour that has attracted adverse headlines about the treatment from some roadside watchers meted out to former champ Chris Froome, there was a tangible buzz of admiration for Thomas in the French capital yesterday.
Not a shred of jealousy or ill-will could be detected as he sauntered home, protected by his Team Sky team mates.
Welsh cycling followers – and increasingly larger chunks of the general public – know all about Thomas’ humble boy-next-door personality, but there was a sense at the finale that the French have cottoned on to it, too.
Paris, understandably in these dangerous times, was on lockdown earlier in the day. Despite Thomas’ inevitable coronation there was a bit of a tense feel on the streets.
But by the time the Welshman climbed onto the podium there was nothing but elation. It’s no exaggeration to say it felt a privilege to be there.
Everything from the draping of the flag around his shoulders to his continued acknowledgement of those Maindy Flyers roots spoke of an attachment to his nation that runs all the way to the depths of Thomas’ heart.
Tension on the streets? As the sun set on the wide boulevards, a carefree party atmosphere began to generate.
The Welsh headed off into the Paris night, chests puffed out, chins held high and intent on marking Thomas’ heroics in time-honoured fashion.
This was the day one of their own achieved something most never dreamed they would see. An ‘I was there’ moment if ever there was.
It was as if Paris, however briefly, belonged to Wales and the Welsh, with the French standing to one side like a gallant courtier would do in the presence of a king.
For now, Welsh sport has a new king, albeit one devoid of airs and graces, whose first instinct is to acknowledge those who have put him on that throne.
There was a never a day like it.