The sound of summer in the Smith household – a dah-dada-dah-da refrain played on an accordion every 15 or 20 minutes, the dulcet tones of Phil Ligget, reincarnated as Ned Boulting, and the anguished cry of ‘Och, not another ad break! I don’t want a funeral plan. Why can’t the TdF be on the BBC?’ That said, having it on ITV4 is far, far better than not at all. Of course, it wasn’t that long ago when we had only three television channels and there just wasn’t time and space for anything this exotic before shutdown at 23:55. The TdF was something that happened in a foreign country, where everyone dined solely on frog legs and garlic, and was always won by a bloke with an unpronounceable name. Even the first anglophone winner had a suspiciously French-sounding name! Then came Lance Armstrong – the man who hauled his cancerous body off his death-bed to win seven titles. Magnifique! Incroyable! Actually, it was… We heard a bit about the Festina affair that caused the riders to dismount and sit in the road, refusing to go any further. Probably out of pure schadenfreude - the jewel in the sporting crown of La France in tatters and spread liberally all over the road. If only the French had such a word! But in general it remains an event that Britons just don’t get. Even the dour wit of Gary Imlach (who?) fails to enthuse the masses.
‘What are you watching this afternoon – the world cup or Wimbledon?’
‘Neither, the Tour.’
‘Uh? The what?’
And when they do dip in, out of morbid curiosity, they find it impenetrable and, in very short time, lose the will to live. It’s just 200 or so blokes out for an afternoon ride, isn’t it? And through some mysterious process, one of them will be declared the winner, even if he is not seen to have crossed any line in prime position.
To be fair, it is impenetrable. One bloke is declared as winner, but it’s a team sport. It is not a single race – but races within races. Tactics and stratagems are constantly succeeding and failing. Breakaways and soloists will (nearly) always be devoured just before the stage end by a ravenous peloton. A what? A peloton. That’s another barrier – it’s all in foreign. Have a go at these:
Soigneur
Puncheur
Domestique
Flamme Rouge
Bidon
Autobus
Voiture balai
Dossard
Echelon
Maillot jaune
Musette
Is it any wonder that the British have failed to be captivated? Not only that but British success has, until very recently, been sporadic. Tom Simpson was a promising talent until he died on Mont Ventoux. That’s not a sporting metaphor – he really died. Robert Millar won the ‘King of the Mountains’. Chris Boardman spent a few days in yellow and was a brilliant time-triallist. Just winning a stage is a major achievement in itself. Mark Cavendish has won thirty. To put that into context, only ‘The Cannibal’ Eddie Merckx has more, at thirty four. But then came Team Sky with its vast budget and a mission to place a British rider at the pinnacle of the world’s biggest bike race and biggest annual sporting event. Belgium-born Bradley Wiggins took the honours in 2012 (with some help from team orders) and since then the African-born and bred Chris Froome has four wins. Even though and despite this pseudo-British success, it remains a minority sport in this country.
And yet it is gaining popularity – a grand depart in Yorkshire was deemed to have been so successful that it spawned its very own Tour de Yorkshire with its amusing linguistic juxtapositions. ‘By ‘eck, tha ‘e goes, starmin’ oop cote de Buttertubs, t’ tak t’ flamme roodge an’ yella shirt.’ That’s what the winner of the Tour gets – a yellow jersey. Wow! The first edition took place in 1903, having been inaugurated by journalist Henri Desgrange in an attempt to resurrect the ailing fortunes of his xanthous newspaper, L’Auto. It certainly achieved that and proved to be a fantastic way of promoting the stunning beauty and variety of France. This is why we have it on – I enjoy the racing and the scenery and the Mrs Smith enjoys the scenery (and is secretly enamoured of Peter Sagan!). The TV helicopters provide glorious panoramic views of mountains, valleys, lakes and rivers. This chateau de somewhere and l’eglise de st. someone receive historical insight from the commentators. All the while ‘er indoors oohs and ahs – ‘Look! We’ve been there. Didn’t we walk there? And swim in that lake? Ah, happy days.’ Why would you not want it on in the background – even if you don’t have a clue as to what those blokes are up to? And to feel French desperation! You see, they haven’t had a winner since The Badger won the last of his five titles in 1985. It’s not quite as bad as the desperate search for an English winner of Wimbledon, but you’ll get the drift. It’s a national itch that must be scratched but cannot be satisfied. Any Frenchman who shows promise immediately has the full weight of a nation’s expectation dumped upon his shoulders. Nobody expected Tommy Vöckler to win a tour, but he did his best to stir the emotions of many a housewife with a polka-dot jersey, a number of stage wins and many days in yellow. Pierre Rolland came, saw, but didn’t conquer. In 2014 Jean-Christoph Péraud achieved a very creditable, and highly unexpected, second place. But at age 37 he really was over the hill. The younger Thibaut Pinot came third. Romain Bardet has a second place (2016) and a third place (2017) to his name, but just doesn’t have the mettle to overcome Froome. Warren Barguil puts in the occasional stellar performance. He is young so there might be time for maturation. Stage ten of this year’s edition was won by Julian Alaphilippe. An exciting solo breakaway saw him win by a country mile. Could he become someone? The desperation is palpable.
Personally, I don’t care. I just love the whole thing – the breakaways; the heroic solo efforts; the monstrous climbs and daredevil descents; the sprint finishes; the crashes and the visceral determination to climb back on, despite shredded skin and broken bones, in the hope that they can be reassembled to race another day; the foul weather; the heat; the crosswinds; the ever-changing tactics; loyalties and intrigue (Thomas the domestique or Froome the leader? I wonder…); the familiar landmarks and the memories of many a family holiday.
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