Le Tour Part 4 - Plateau de Beille

It was already getting on a bit when I started driving from Arles to Toulouse (looking to be on top of Plateau de Beille that night), but I still had to stop and try and take photos of the magical sunset over the fields of sunflowers. I was actually getting quite poetical, but I won’t torment anyone with anything more than simply saying I felt Van Gogh was on a winner with the light in this region.

I just made the last open petrol station before hitting the mountains, one of only about 4 times that I filled up on my big journey (why don’t we all have gutsy little cars that handle mountains and fast highways with no problems on just 4 L / 100 km?). It was getting near midnight as I followed the road, but I didn’t really need all those stops to check the map – I could have just followed the camping cars. I did though, after the experience coming out of Paris and one or two other slight diversions (have I mentioned that I’m getting a GPS next time?).

The Plateau de Beille was to be my first real mountain top finish. It was near midnight by the time I hit the village at the bottom of the mountain, but there was still a huge party going on – bands and crowds of people and lots of lights in this absolutely minute little town. I later learnt that my pink combie mates had hit the party and decided to stay down there, riding their bikes up some of the way for the actual race day. I was tempted, but I would have had to have walked 20 km rather than the 10 km up Col du Galibier, and I really wanted to be at the very finish of this monster stage (a very important one as it turned out of course).

So I crawled on up the super steep, tight mountain in thick fog, passing the usual precariously parked camping cars on the side and after this dreamlike journey I finally arrived in the big carpark of the ski station that was hosting the finish. Here I met the security guards, who were very friendly but made it clear that I had to move first thing in the morning or be in the way of the Tour. Fortunately they had the key to the station so I could go in to the toilets and I got a nice hot chocolate the next morning after walking around in the mist taking photos of the magic sunrise. A little bit of French goes a long way in France!

The ski station was also a working farm, so after re parking my car in a nice little spot, I went for a bit of a walk. We were above the fog for most of the day.

Once again, I wasn’t alone on the mountain! Remember, this is still a day and a half before the race arrives.

On my walk, I found the GR10 trail, which is one of two that traverse the Pyrénées from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean (the other, the GR11, is on the Spanish side). I have a secret ambition to do this one day on horseback, one of many dreams highly unlikely to ever happen! I also found this sign, and was amazed by how much lower I was than on top of Aiguilles de Midi in the Alps, and how much colder I was than in Chamonix which was still a good 1000 m above sea level. Of course, just to put it all into perspective, Mt Kosciusko is 2228 m above sea level.

By the time I got back to the station, the party was in full swing! It was all good traditional (and very loud) French accordion music that morning with the beer flowing as freely as the café.

I got a bit of a laugh by pointing out how the cows were “tranquille”, so close to all the action, which sort of translates as “everything’s sweet mate, no worries”. And look, bells! The sheep on the next mountain had them too, they were actually really loud first thing in the morning.

And while we’re talking about animals, heaps of people had brought dogs with them. They were all pretty well behaved.

That afternoon, the weather set in in a big way, some of the only rain I saw on my trip. I wasn’t too worried because by then it was time to sit inside and watch the ultra exciting contre la montre (time trial – ever wonder why it always had clm on TV? Lit – “contest the watch”) where Cadel managed a fantastic race (and as we now know, should have won it).

Then it was back to the bar for a few more beers, where I met a bunch of Basque farmers. These guys all had an annual pilgrimage to the Tour, and were definitely getting into the swing of it. I got talking to one of Basque heritage but who’d grown up in California (with all the noise and beer and wacky accents my French wasn’t up to much conversation), so they started including me in their rounds and eventually invited me back to their awesome long tent for a stew that almost rivalled Nige’s best camping efforts. The ladies were taking photos of me for souvenirs and the kids couldn’t stop staring! After a rowdy card game that seemed to involve lots of lying and cheating we headed back and I caught up with my friendly security guards. It was late and dark and the fog had descended again. I went for a walk around to the empty carpark where I’d first arrived the night before, to be greeted with the utterly surreal sight of the massive Tour trucks looming up out of the mist. It was truly freaky.

Next morning, I woke up and the empty carpark was now completely full, in a very organised spiral that later that night unravelled itself again to move onto the next village. Amazing. The more I saw of the Tour, the more I was stunned by the incredible organisation.

Also there in force that morning – the Gendarmerie.

In no time at all, it was time to wander over the finish line that had magically appeared and get ready to wait for the race. Here I met lots of aussies again, including a few I’d met on Col du Galibier before using my broken French to ingratiate my way into a group of elderly cycling fans (some of whom had cycled up the mountain too mind you). One gentlemen took my picture – neat spot hey? I was well excited.

Being right on the finish line, we got a sort of mini caravan on foot, and so I got enough pretzels to last me till Paris, as well as a few competing sponsors’ hats (ever wondered why everyone at the finish line has a yellow cap on?). Later the real caravan whizzed by as well – one of the many mobs getting publicity was the Tour Down Under. They never gave me anything the bastards!

There was plenty of other things going on to keep us entertained, including the people who were riding one of the official “pre tours” getting up on the podium to have their photo taken, but mainly of course there was the big France 2 TV screen on some sort of swivel arrangement on top of the truck. For the first time I realised how much the crowd was with Cadel (GO CADEL!!). I don’t think they’d known much about him before his big time trial effort, (except for a few die hard cycling fans like one new friend who could quote his VTT wins and prompted me with Phil Anderson’s name and best position when I couldn’t remember) but the whole crowd was cheering him on as he caught up with every one of Rasmussen’s attacks, and then groaned loudly when he finally fell behind Rasmussen and Contador.

The race got closer, and all was chaos just over the finish line with photographers everywhere. Somehow as Contador came through, having miraculously as usual remembered to do up his sponsor’s jersey just before the finish line with Rasmussen right on his tail (despite the agreement they’d apparently made on the road), he managed not to collide with anyone. He shot straight past into the arms of his manager, and the waiting media. The circus behind the finish line was fascinating, it was all happening for a while. Once again I was torn between watching and taking photos – I did get a photo of Rasmussen’s yellow arse shoot past, but then I seriously got the camera out when Cadel stopped just metres from me!

One thing that really stood out to everyone, was that that unlike the first two Cadel was absolutely knackered. He could barely sit on his crossbar unsupported, and how he managed to talk for the interviews I don’t know. I don’t want to throw any aspersions on the eventual winner at all, but here was a man who so blatently was not on drugs. I think that’s why there were so many enthusiastic aussies following the race – unlike the totally disillusioned Germans say, we had an almost indisputably clean champion to follow. And what a nice guy! He came across the line giving Kloden a pat on the back as they’d obviously helped each other up the mountain.

How’s this for a shot – can’t see the man in person because he’s so surrounded by cameras, but I can see his face still on the big screen!

All around the cyclists were coming in and their team were rushing over to get them into warm, circulation aiding gear. A few were changing shirts – man those guys have some serious tan lines.

They got the winners up on the podium amazingly quickly, except for Boonen of course! We all waited a while for him. The podium was a bit weird – only the photographers were really clapping, the crowd were quite silent. The Discovery team definitely have the sexiest colours I reckon, although perhaps black’s not the most comfortable in the heat. I suggested to one of the cyclists I met that the FdJ white might be the way to go, but he looked at me askance and told me in no uncertain terms that it was not! A little on the revealing side I believe he was inferring…

Btw, Bernard Hinault is way cool. And Boonen is super tall – he dwarfed everyone.

And then in no time they were all packing up ready to go. The cyclists in the team cars got out first behind the police on the motos. (Cadel’s in there – GO CADEL!!) But with only one way down the mountain, it was going to be hours before anyone not part of the Tour was allowed to move, so it was time to sit back down and relax for the evening for some.

I decided to go for a walk down the mountain and watch the cavalcade go past. Along the way I met this group (hmm, did you guess they were Norwegians?) who were happy to chat in English. They tried to scare me with their wicked schnapps, but I downed that in one hit and they were mightily impressed.

But watching the thousands of media vehicles go by, I suddenly thought hey, where’s SBS? When I got to the top I suddenly saw an SBS car, so I wandered over and said hi. Mike Tomalaris was waiting for his editor, so we chatted for about an hour, and he had some interesting little insights about the behind the scenes. Those guys had some super long days in the mountains, with maybe 4 hours sleep per stage if they were lucky. I was also able to catch up on some of the amazing news, like the German media pulling out and a few things Robbie had said. But what was also interesting is that I’d seen quite a few things that he hadn’t as well.

I said goodbye when his editor finished his job (there were only 4 guys from SBS covering the race – they must have had to work hard getting between village départ and village arrivée every day). Then, as there wasn’t much point going anywhere that night I settled down for the night in the somewhat more subdued atmosphere.