No Day But Today

I got goosebumps driving up L'Alpe D'Huez this morning. The scene was utterly mad and utterly inspiring. The road was jammed with thousands of cyclists riding the mountain's twenty-one famed switchbacks, some on their way up and others, already finished, weaving their way back down. Campers lined the roads (not the G-rated campers of last week, but the hardcore campers who party and abuse the riders with a fiendish delight, particularly the Dutch group that set up shop on an entire corner).

I couldn't take my eyes off the road for a single second. Between the cyclists and the campers and the johnny-come-lately's showing their naivete' by painting slogans on the road the morning of the race (the real pro's do it in the dead of night, so their insults/exhortations will dry before footprints and wheel marks can besmirch it), my entire focus was getting up that road without killing someone. Leaned on the horn like a European while playing the Sopranos theme song, one elbow out the open window. Caught myself feeling like Tony himself for a minute.

So why would I get goosebumps? Because the energy in the air was overwhelming and organic, with not an air of contrivance. Everyone -- EVERYONE, which conservatively means 100,000 people -- on this big, bald ski slope knows that the Tour is going to go off today. L'Alpe D'Huez is where it's going to happen. After 106.95 miles of suffering through a hot and dry afternoon, the peloton arrives in Bourg D'Oisans right around cocktail hour (though for some of the people dancing on the road, it's obviously been cocktail hour since sometime about midnight last night). That rabid little village marks the beginning of the final climb to this summit. There the real racing will begin.

L'Alpe D'Huez has a gradient is 7.9% and goes on for 8.5 miles. The mountain is a rocky crag, and the road to the top is a long series of switchbacks clinging to the slope. Each switchback is numbered, with signs at each hairpin bend counting them down (21, 20, etc). The shoulder is negligible, so most campers and tents are on the right side of the road.

The first switchback is like a kick in the teeth. It seems to shoot straight up from the valley floor. I can't begin to tell you how impossibly steep this mountain is. A few years back I rode it, and vividly remember standing up in the pedals while sweat literally rained down from my forehead from the exertion. It took me just a little over 90 minutes to finish. The peloton today will climb L'Alpe D'Huez in less than half that time.

I saw exactly one (1) fan holding up an American flag and a "Go Floyd" sign. On the other hand, it seems as if all of Sydney has decamped to the Tour, brandishing signs and flags offering their support of Cadel Evans. The Germans, of course, are everywhere, wearing their puce T-Mobile jerseys and painting the horizontal yellow, black and red stripes of the German flag on the road. And Denis Menchov of the Dutch Rabobank team, while Russian, has -- among countless other boosters -- a group known as The Devils wearing orange capes, tails and horns, ready to cheer him on.

I don't think Floyd cares, one way or the other. He's always been his own man. Who does or doesn't cheer for him isn't a motivational tool for him.

The stage starts in about twenty minutes -- 11:45 local time. The finish will take place sometime between 5:02 and 5:41 p.m. (the Tour is very precise about this, and even publishes a pace chart to show potential finish times based on various speeds). There isn't a cloud in the sky right now, and there's a slight breeze.

Stayed in Les Sorres again last night. After the Landis press conference, Austin and I drove back up the mountain feeling famished. Ate dinner at a little restaurant called Au Refuge. My salad was butter lettuce with slivers of cured duck and fresh tomatoes. The entree was sauteed chicken breast served with a most compelling ratatouille (I've never used that word to describe food, not that I know of. But the ratatouille was different from any I've had -- not squishy or soupy), and a tender slice of fresh local cheese. The big surprise, however, were the French fries. The proprietor, Marko (who along with his girlfriend Agatha, a former Olympic figure skater, own the place) explained that he was deeply offended by what McDonald's has done to the simple French fry, so he took it upon himself to do better. He did. And, I mean, in a big way. That dinner at Au Refuge was the best meal I've eaten since arriving in France. It was the kind of dinner where you leave the restaurant feeling balanced and sated. Before we could leave Marko pressed a shot of goldwasser on us -- Polish vodka with bits of fools' gold in the bottle. A very nice send-off, indeed.

The thing about the Tour is that when you stay at a beautiful place like Les Orres -- despite its college dorm-type rooms and showers that flood not just the bathroom, but the carpeted floor of the bedroom, too -- it feels wrong to leave. Austin and I both felt a tug of nostalgia as we gnawed on a couple croissants and some thick black breakfast coffee before heading out. Someday I hope to return.

That nostalgia turned into anticipation the instance we reached the bottom of the mountain. We were on the Tour course, with signs pointing towards L'Alpe D'Huez. I got a giant nervous anticipation buzz just thinking about being there. So even as we drove past medieval fortresses and castles in ruins and rivers the blue-gray color of a dolphin, I looked forward, always forward to The Mountain.

Campers and spectators were everywhere (generally, the camper folks just show up on the climbs or on other parts of the course where riders have to slow down, such as a sweeping turn). Music up (the Alabama 3 playing the Sopranos theme, Van Morrison, Springsteen, The Fugees, The Last of the Mohicans soundtrack, and that song from Rent that admonishes us to "forget regret, or life is yours to waste", and on) loud. The scenery was one wonder after the other. At some point, perhaps when staring up a waterfall pouring down the side of a Yosemite-like Alpine crag, I realized that Austin and I were commuting to work -- or what passes for work in our world. Yeah, they pay us for doing this, but it sure isn't labor. I felt like the luckiest guy on earth just driving that winding valley road, window open and a great big goofy smile on my face. This is an e-ticket day, my friends, and I feel very fortunate to be here.

So now I'm in the pressroom. We're staying at the Club Med tonight, along with Phonak and Discovery and a bunch of other teams. The town of L'Alpe D'Huez is a ski resort in winter, so gondola wires and chairlift bisect the city. They stand idle today, even as the city below them is a swarming international horde of cycling fans. The sunshine, the tailgating, and the knowledgeable enthusiasm of these people makes it feel like we're all doing some sort of cycling NASCAR event.

Alright. The French feed of the race doesn't start for two hours (sometimes they show the whole race, but usually they just pick it up for the last three hours). I'm going to take a walk around and get the lay of the land. Usually when I come to L'Alpe D'Huez I walk down the course a few kilometers to watch the riders suffer. But today I'm going to hang out at the finish line. If there's going to be a tight finish (particularly if Landis or Leipheimer is involved), I want to see it in person.

Talk to you later.