We will always have Paris
Tomorrow I’m going to watch The Tour de France.
I shall be one of those idiots jumping up and down at the side of the road. I can’t decide to whether to wear the gorilla costume or my old Lance Armstrong shirt.
I became addicted to this extraordinary event in 2001 when my pal Robin Williams flew me to Paris to celebrate his birthday. It was the final day. The sun was shining and the tree-lined boulevard of the Champs Elysee was filled eight deep with an enormous crowd of fifty thousand on bleachers. At the end of June Paris was at its most glorious. Blue skies, tiny streets, big wide boulevards. Ah oui, ca c’est la vie. Another glass of champagne? Sure, I guess I could….
On the final day of the Tour, the hundreds of riders, who have just cycled 3,000 kilometers around France in lycra, ride slowly into the center of Paris, sipping champagne and waving to the crowd. Traditionally they complete the final stage of the race by circling the Champs Elysees eight times on a two mile course that takes them in front of the Louvre. It’s more of a parade than a race but a few riders are out to impress and grab a final Stage victory.
Michael J. Fox is there with his family. Robin is, as usual, being irrepressibly hilarious as we give an interview for OLN. We say we are not interested in who has won the Yellow Jersey. We are concerned only about the Pink Jersey, awarded to the rider with the best butt…. well, you know Robin, half an hour later we are still demonstrating effete pedal pushing… swish, swish and bitching about what kind of pedal pushers to wear….
The Tour is down to its last two laps when we are invited to ride in one of the lead cars. We climb over the barriers and jump into a small red Renault, which appears out of nowhere and pulls out on to the Champs Elysees itself. Now we are on the actual race course! We drive slowly up the cobble stoned hill towards the Arc de Triomphe, and pause, the vast crowd on either side of us, listening to their portable radios, awaiting the arrival of the Pelloton, a hundred and fifty cyclists pedaling in unison, and as I look behind me I can already see the bright headlights and flashing sirens of the approaching gendarmes, heralding the arrival of the race.
“Excuse me,” I say to the driver “You’d better watch it. I think they are coming.”
The driver gives a Gallic shrug of immense proportions. I am clearly an English idiot who knows nothing, and so we sit by the curb as this huge flotilla rapidly approaches from behind. I am getting very anxious now. We are definitely in the way, when suddenly four blue police cars flash past us and there, quite clearly, is a wide line of cyclists approaching like a cavalry charge. At the very last moment our driver guns the car and we pull out directly in front of them!
Oh. My. God.
The leading riders are now fifteen feet from us pedaling furiously. We can practically touch them. The realization sinks in: we are leading the riders around the final laps of the Tour de France, a privilege normally reserved for French Presidents. The television cameramen, standing up on their motorbikes, laugh at our astonishment. We are over the moon at this unbelievable view of a major sporting event. Imagine being just ahead of the horses in the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby. This is unbelievable! We are screaming with excitement as we tear up the Champs Elysees, wheel around in front of the Arc de Triomphe and head back down the hill pursued by a bunch of brightly colored cyclists. A loud squealing tire noise as we slide round a tight bend, past the enormous Ferris wheel, and then a stomach lurching dive into a sudden underpass Behind us we watch the breathtaking sight of a hundred and fifty peddlers streaming downhill after us.
“It’s like a dream” says Michael, “a dream where you are being pursued by a hundred bikes.”
And now as we come sprinting past Le Crillon Hotel we can clearly hear the bell. We are on the final lap of the Tour de France. Later on TV, we are so close that you can see us in the same shot as the leaders! They are on their final sprint and our driver has to accelerate sharply to prevent them running in to us. We are kneeling backwards on our seats, looking through the rear window of the red Renault, cheering, and screaming at the top of our lungs. We are like three kids in our unabashed joy at this unbelievable view of this unbelievable ride. Two leaders have broken from the pack and are dueling it out behind us, their bikes shifting furiously from side to side as they stand up on their pedals. They angle dangerously round the corners, skim the curbs and slide perilously over the cobblestones racing for the finish. It’s the final stretch and we lead the entire Tour under the finishing line and then pull in. There is a pause. We are all three utterly shocked, our minds completely blown by what we have just experienced.
“Well,” says Michael, “We will always have Paris!”
Adapted from The Greedy Bastard Diary.
