Front row seats for the Tour de France

Seeing the world’s most famous bicycle race up-close

All photos © copyright Matthew Brace

The Vallée d’Ossau was full of summer radiance that morning. The river of the same name was burbling merrily, fresh from its birthplace in the nearby Pyrenees. Either side of its flood plain the valley walls rose steeply into the sunshine.

The main road through the valley—the D934, if you’re interested—was almost deserted but at the roundabout near the hamlet of Béon, the laybys and grass verges were covered with vans, motor homes and rented Peugeots.

People had put up sun awnings and set out camp chairs and tables. They were halfway down bottles of wine and busy consuming quarter-wheels of cheese, slabs of pate and plates piled high with bread. Some had elaborate cameras on tripods, including lenses that looked long enough to take close-ups of villages in the next valley, let alone this one. One man had escaped the crowd and was sitting in the grass down the road reading the newspaper in peace.

We were all waiting for the Tour de France.

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I’m addicted to Le Tour and watch most of it every year on TV. I’m not really sure who’s who among the riders, which teams they are racing for, or how they score points. I watch it to see France’s stunning countryside from the comfort of my armchair.

There is less countryside footage these days and more focus on handlebars, spokes and sweaty legs but it’s still worth watching to see those fabulous aerial vistas. From one of the tour’s TV helicopters, even a soggy field in Normandy looks breathtaking. I had never witnessed a stage live, en France, so I decided to leave the living room and get close to the action.

Many of those waiting in the Vallée d’Ossau nodded or waved to each other subtly as if they were members of a secret society. Some took it very seriously, adorning their motorhomes with flags and wearing matching t-shirts to show their loyalty to a particular team. These were the die-hards, the tour faithful. They drive the entire route of the race so they are on-site each day to watch every stage.

One retired couple said their daughter works for one of the teams, in marketing, and they spend each July following the tour to cheer her and her team on. They gave me a croissant, which, thankfully, did not have the team logo on it.

Soon there was commotion in camp. “Allez, allez,” one man shouted. Race radio had announced the approach of the riders. From the roundabout, we had a view for most of a mile along a straight stretch of the D934, down which the race would soon hurtle.

Anticipation levels rose. The thrum of the TV helicopters could be heard in the distance. Baguettes and cheese were hastily packed away, wine bottles re-corked, awnings rolled up in record time. The tour faithful were preparing to wheel-spin their Winnebagos out of there the minute the last rear-guard motorbike gendarme had passed. On to the next stage.

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What you don’t see on the TV is the ‘caravan’ that precedes the riders and which presumably funds the whole thing. These are the sponsors, who attach elaborate constructions to cars and vans to promote their products. First through the Vallée d’Ossau were some giant plastic bottles advertising the official water supplier to the race. These were followed by some huge wheels of cheese, cartoon characters and oversized mobile wheatsheafs, presumably advertising the race’s official bread provender.

Promo girls and boys sat inside or on top of these contraptions, waved eagerly and liberally distributed free samples; so liberally that as I was distracted taking photos, one of the girls hurled a muffin at me with such accuracy that it struck me in what I imagine a Frenchman might call his ‘noisettes’.

The girl was very apologetic, holding her hands to her face and shouting “pardon, pardon” but the accuracy of her throw and the site of an Englishman doubled over in pain on the grass verge was too much for her promo chums. They were in hysterics.

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I just had time to catch my breath and wipe the tears from my eyes before the tour faithful cheered and there in the distance was the peloton. In seconds it was upon us, a multi-coloured whir of spokes, legs and helmets. The riders rode within centimetres of each other, slipstreaming to save every bit of energy for the exhausting climbs ahead. After clearing the valley, they start the gruelling pull up the Col d’Aubisque, a mountain pass that rises to 5,607ft (1,709m).

Most of the teams were bunched up and passed by in blurs of green, blue and bubblegum pink. However, despite their collective speed, a remarkable number of riders chatted with each other as if it was nothing more than a gentle Sunday pedal.

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In less than a minute it was over. The blur disappeared into the distance and the faithful began lumbering off in their motorhomes.

I lingered to watch the valley return to its quiet, unassuming self. A Pyrenees zephyr picked up and rustled the summer trees, while the river burbled on over its smooth grey stones and under ancient bridges. The residents of Béon began to emerge, opening shutters and peering out to see if the hoard of strangers had finally moved on and left them in peace.

Huge birds of prey circled high overhead, riding the thermals. They were griffon vultures, for which this valley and its La Falaise aux Vautours wildlife reserve are famous.

Only a slightly dented muffin on the grass verge revealed the recent passing of the world’s most famous bicycle race.