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| The sun sets on La Tour and Le Tour |
‘It takes 20
years to become an overnight success’
Eddie Cantor
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Daffodils, William Wordsworth
As I stood in the Montparnasse tower and looked down on the
sun setting over the Eiffel tower I was minded of the story of the writer Guy
de Maupassant. Of whom it was said, took lunch every day in the Eiffel Tower.
When asked why he replied.
‘Because it is the only place in Paris where I cannot see
the Eiffel Tower’
As I drank in the view of the sunset, I had precious little
sympathy for that point of view. With champagne flute in hand, it was a wonderful
vista. Bastille day Paris was laid out infront of us, and from our vantage
point all was still and peaceful in the gloaming. As the sun dipped beneath the yard arm, the City of Light was just beginning to illuminate. The sun was setting on both La Tour and Le Tour. It was a fitting
end to a wonderful journey.
And so that is it. We have finished. Everything is now in the past tense.
There is no stage tomorrow. No early rise to contend with, no huge breakfast to
eat. We rode into Paris a fortnight ago now. What a journey, what an
experience... but what a come down.
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| I can see the pub from here... |
The ride into Paris itself was easy enough. Just like for
the pros, it was nothing more than a procession. We rode on l’Autobus Ecosse for the last time to Versailles.
Sharing banter and a joke, riding like old friends, even though most of us had
never met three weeks previously. A number of my family and friends were in Versailles
and we stopped briefly to share hugs and hand shakes. As we moved closer, the
Paris the neighbourhoods became more and more built up, until there was a non
descript sign telling us that we had made it into the city limits. It wasn’t long
until we rounded a corner and all of a sudden there it was. The Eiffel Tower. I
will leave aesthetic judgements to others, but there surely there cannot be a
grander finishing post?
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| Je suis fini |
My mood was strangely melancholic, however. There was
obvious elation at having finished the Tour, satisfaction of what was a
fantastic journey but sadness too. Sadness that the journey was now at an end.
It had been the most fantastic experience, the most fulfilling and satisfying
three weeks of my life. But, alas, it’s now in the past.
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| The 'Lifers' |
There was a sense of anti-climax too. When my flat mate had
first suggested that he fancied riding the Tour de France all those years ago.
I had mocked him. That, I said, was the hardest sporting event in the world.
That, I said, was impossible. Well it wasn’t impossible. If truth be told I
didn’t even find it that hard. Deep down I was confident that barring technical
or physical misadventure I would make it. Any lingering doubts evaporated on
the Ventoux and it was there where emotions were at their most raw. It was
there that we had tasted that heady elation and on reflection Paris was always
going to be comparatively flat.
You see, the achievement was not getting to Paris. No, the
achievement was getting to Corsica strong enough to make Paris. The achievement
was unseen, it was the long rides in the rain and wind during the winter and
suffering the snow in the spring. The achievement was getting a kicking every
Saturday from the Anniesland Bunch and every Monday from the North Side Chain
gang, but still going back the next week, knowing what was in store. The
achievement was all the crashes and the interminable hours on the turbo. The
achievement was getting to Paris and wanting to ride my bike the minute I got
home. The achievement was winning my first race back only two weeks after finishing the tour. Paris was just gravy. As
Eddie Cantour alluded to, this achievement had been a long time in the making.
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| The Gales take Paris. With the metronomic Lee Vernet. Dig in. |
The re-integration into normal society has been tough. It is
hard going back to auld claes and purridge when you have been dining from the
king’s table.
When I am in vacant or pensive mood, my inward eye flashes
back to the high Alpe, or the Pyrenees or the Ventoux, or any of the my myriad of mental photographs. When I should be concentrating on the task in hand I
often find my mind wandering to what the next challenge I will take on. There
has to be something to sustain me through the next winter and the innumerable
kicking’s meted out my Glasgow’s cycling hardmen. I have found my heroin and I
need to get my next kick.
It is almost two weeks ago now that I cycled into Paris. I
have tarried in writing this blog post. I have started it a few times, but I
haven’t had the heart to finish it. As if, somehow, the writing of ‘Stage 21’
would properly signal the end of my tour. However, I am glad that I have
procrastinated a while. It has given me time to reflect. When de Maupassant ate
his lunch in the Eiffel tower it was the only place in Paris he could avoid the
view. Whilst I don’t agree with the overall sentiment, there is something in
what de Maupassant said. My Tour was wonderful whilst I was in the throws of
it. We lifers called it ‘the bubble’, so wrapped up were we in the experience
that we had little notion of what was happening outside of our little world. In a funny way the only place that we
couldn’t fully appreciate what was happening on the Tour de Force was in the
Tour de Force. With a little
distance and time to reflect I have been able to stand back and admire the
view, as it were. It has been possible to appreciate just how magical those three weeks were. And, ultimately, who cares about the size
of achievement, anyway? I had the three best weeks of my life. I loved every
second of it. I allowed myself the greatest indulgence possible: I was allowed
to ride my bike for three solid weeks, that would have been enough. But not
only that, I was allowed to do it in Corsica, in the Alpes, in the Pyrenees and
on the Ventoux. I did it in the shadow of the greatest edition of the greatest
sporting event in the world. And to cap it all, the sun shone endlessly from an
azure blue sky.
And as time passes, the memories will fade but the mountains
will doubtless get higher, the views more breathtaking and the sky a deeper bluer.
Unlike de Maupassant, when I finish my lunch from the king's table, climb down from my Eiffel tower, and
turn to look at the view, I will love it more each successive time.
From Glasgow, via Paris,
N
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