Caravan of dreams

Watching a stage of the Tour de France from the roadside is emotionally and physically demanding – and that’s before the race has even arrived

One of my darkest moments as a cyclist came years ago on the slopes of the Col du Tourmalet. The struggle that ensued just a few kilometres from the summit was less noble suffering and more undignified scrum. My nemesis was a ten-year-old French boy, whose youth and cunning overwhelmed the supposed wisdom of my middle-age when we found ourselves in pursuit of a cheap plastic keyring that had just been dispensed from the Tour de France publicity caravan.

My wife and I had slogged all the way up the mountain on foot from our gîte outside SainteMarie-de-Campan (a crack in my top tube putting paid to any thoughts of cycling up). Our strategy for getting the most out of the caravan was simple: pick a stretch of road steep and twisty enough for the cavalcade of vehicles to have to slow down, and remote enough to have not attracted too many spectators.

The third hairpin above the ski resort of La Mongie seemed to fulfil these criteria – the few others present were sat in deckchairs with ears glued to radios – so we took out the homemade sandwiches and bottle of wine from our backpacks and commenced le pique-nique.