Le Tour de France 2014

Marcel Kittel in the Yellow Jersey.

I have been to many pivotal games in the NHL playoffs -- most notably in 2002 during the Carolina Hurricanes run to the finals, I have been to two NCAA Final Fours (San Antonio '08, Detroit '09), I have been to multiple men's and women's ACC Tournaments, I have been to venues like Madison Square Garden, Old Trafford, the Dean Dome, Kelley Rink, The Carrier Dome, Fenway Park, Yankee Stadium, and TD Garden, I have played at the Olympic Center in Lake Placid where the 1980 Miracle on Ice happened, as well as the 1932 rink where the U.S. finished second, and at the World Arena in Colorado Springs, and at Zimni stadion Lud'ka Cajky in Zlin, but none of what I have seen or done compares to the spectacle that is the Tour de France. Do not get me wrong, all of the above in their own right represent great importance to a culture dominated by sports, but the precision in orchestrating such a grand public party has such a small margin of error and year-to-year it is done.

The "venue" is literally picked up and moved daily for a shade over three weeks for 21 stages and not every mile a particular stage is the same either. Spectators show up and line the streets, hills, or farms for free arriving by bike, skateboard, foot, motorcycle, or car, and wait for hours on end for a single moment that may last for 10 minutes, sometimes even less, and then promptly disperse as if nothing had ever occurred. There is a distinct buzz after, but even that, too, dissipates quickly.

De'Ath munching on ROTC preparation.

Like the cyclist, its the journey from Point A to Point B that is of interest: how the spectator arrives to view that single moment.

Today, myself, Andrew Mackinnon, and the man with arguably the best surname in the business, Kieren De'Ath made that journey to a makeshift car park in a farmer's field at the start of the Peak District in Yorkshire and simply began walking. Yes, walking, along with many others the painful 6 to 7 miles to a random corner so that we may be witness to the sounds we hear on our televisions: the odd high-pitched shrill of car horns as the convoy bustles along, the warning sirens to clear the road, the sound of helicopters hovering above the riders (plural because there had to be at least six), the crowds rising to their feet for riders "whooping", ringing cow bells, ect., the churning sound of tyres on asphalt as the riders flew by, the mix of French, English, and other languages, and the sound of engines as team cars chased their riders.

It was a work of poetry, and of pageantry -- the recognisable LCL sponsored cars, the Gendarmerie, the carriage of team cars with extra bikes on top. It was both visual and audible, yet it all moulded into something that vanished just as quickly as it was created -- where at times, sound even lost itself in the moment.

I only began watching the Tour around 2003. At the time, I had little cycling experience and even littler cycling knowledge. I would just get on the bike and pedal -- to a friend's, to school, to the shop to buy candy. But a colleague of my mother's, a Mr Randy Schmitz, followed the Tour regularly and cycled himself in races across North Carolina. That year, on his family's July visit to our beach house in South Carolina he flipped Le Tour on one morning to check the Stage's progress. I, sat on the couch, was captivated not only by the great distances or grueling climbs, but by the commentary of Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, the sight of grown men dressed as the devil or a bunny rabbit chasing after the riders, the tradition of ending on the Champs-Elysses. As many of you know the type of person I am, I flooded Randy with questions. Since then, my experiences of personal cycling have grown little, much like my knowledge of cycling tactics in general, but each July I tune in everyday, for every stage as if I were now an expert.

Now it was here. Six inches in front of my face. My knees feeling the cool wisp of wind as the sole stage leader and chasing peloton whizzed by -- my feet almost getting in the way of several motorcycles.

It was the two-hour trudge up and down the winding roads and footpaths of the Peak District ; it was the last 1/4 mile run as the crowds behind us prematurely erupted ; it was the chicken sandwich clenched in my right hand in anticipation, crumbling as I took photos ; it was seeing Sesame Street cast members Ernie and Big Bird stood on a roadside at the foot of a hill ; it was seeing Marcel Kittel in the famed Maillot Jaune; it was knowing that somewhere in the pack were the likes of Chris Froome, Peter Sagan, Alberto Contador, Thomas Voeckler ; it was saying to Mack and Kieren that if we missed the Tour it might possibly go down as one of best blunders for a blog post, maybe even more so memorable than if we had made it ;  it was for that moment back in 2003 sitting in the little house at the beach watching men on bikes race across France and having little idear what was going on ; it was all for the 6 minutes, from the sight of the lead car till the final ambulance ;

it was all to see, in person, one of the greatest spectacles in sports.



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Edit note: Sir Rodney Walker estimates that 2.5m spectators lined the route over the last two days (via BBC).