This was it! Our first day of cycling the TDF route. There was an air of excitement at breakfast, and it was not over the mediocre food. There were several new faces who had joined the group in Toulouse, some of whom had already been cycling in the hills as preparation.

After loading the bus we drove along the motorway to near Lannemaran where we stopped at the side of the road and unloaded the bikes. After pumping the tyres and several last minute adjustments we were ready to roll. I headed off with an American named Jeff and we cycled together into a very strong headwind. The bane of all cyclists. After a few km there was a fork in the road so we cycled into Lannemaran with a few others who were also confused. A case of the confident leading the less confident.

To add to the confusion the tour was passing through Lannemaran the following day so there was an extra set of markings pertaining to the next day’s race, instead of today’s. Eventually we exited town but it didn’t feel right so I went to a garage and bravely asked the way in my ancient high school French. Surprisingly I was understood and even more surprisingly I followed the gist of the instructions which took us in the opposite direction to where we were heading. Being lost was to become a regular pattern in the following days.

We found the correct road and, joined by an English cyclist Dave from our tour, we made up a group of six and formed a line which is the most efficient way to cycle. The lead cyclist fights the wind and the following cyclists conserve energy by drafting behind. The challenge is to not be spat out the back because once this happens it's very difficult to rejoin the group, and also more difficult on your own.

Pierre, from South Africa, was leading the group and it was impressive to see how strong a rider he was. Even though there was a relatively strong head wind he didn’t drop back and let others take the lead. Not that I complained. With an average speed of about 35 km/h for the first hour, I was not up to leading such a strong group. I set myself the goal of keeping up with them until the steep climbs started, and managed to achieve it – much to my surprise (poor Jeff got dropped after a while).

The countryside was magnificent. We were in the Pyrenees foothills with rolling hills and tidy villages lining the road. There was also a lot of traffic as today was the first day of the climbs and people had come from all over to watch the race. It was great to see the level of local support as people picnicked by the roadside waiting for the cyclists to pass, and cheered us on as if we were ‘real’ cyclists instead of masochistic tourists.

I kept up with the others for the first short distance up the hill but it was soon obvious that they were too far beyond my abilities so I happily cruised up, stopping to enjoy the views. Jeff joined up with me again and we cycled together. There were quite a few New Zealanders on the hill who cheered me on when they saw my shirt. I do have a cultural identity problem as Canadian born, lived in NZ 20 years and now living in Washington D.C. My South African parents add another dimension to the equation.

People were camped out along the entire route to the top, especially on the hair pin corners where the cyclists would need to slow down (at least a bit). There were team flags, country flags, and even the road was painted with messages like ‘Don’t touch my postal service’ – support for Lance Armstrong and the USPS team.

There is only one thing I enjoy in life more than flying down a long, steep hill on my bike so to say I relished the downhill ride would be an understatement. With the road closed to traffic the only danger was wiping out a pedestrian, or falling off on a curve, and I was more worried about the latter. I really need to work on my high speed cornering as I back off a lot more than most other cyclists. I guess the legacy of a few too many falls over the years. I was also not overly impressed with my brakes which seemed to overheat relatively quickly.

At the bottom of the hill there was the village of Payole which was full of camper vans. I passed a marquee where people were having their lunch and watching a huge TV screen. Shortly afterwards a very beautiful female Gendarme stopped two cyclists ahead of me so I also stopped. She told us that the route was closed and we had to return to the last village. More cyclists arrived until there was group of about 20 of us. Then Doug, an American cycled up, and upon being told the road was closed he said OK and hopped off his bike. Walking 10 m he said ‘is that far enough’, hopped on and rode off! That was enough for the rest of us and we all surged forward. She didn’t try to stop us and, we learned later, that it was a common ploy of the Gendarmarie to maximise the tourist spending in their local towns.

It was a great ride down the valley except there was some light rain so the road was a bit slippery. Jon, a Canadian triathlete from our group, and I zoomed ahead but I backed off and let him go on as I didn’t want a crash. My crash a fortnight before was still with me, especially in the form of the brace I was wearing on my left wrist.

At the town of Ste Marie de Campan the TDF route turned left to climb Col du Tourmalet. This was a long, steep climb and the race ended about 5 km from the summit. The roads were lined with spectators and they loudly cheered us as we turned and started the climb. As before there were many pedestrians walking up, and quite a few other cyclists as well. The tree lined hills meant that we were sheltered from the sun, but the sky was changing with the portent of rain.

At about the half way point up the hill I got a puncture. Jon and Doug, another Doug and another American, who were climbing with me offered to wait but I told them to go on. I sat on a wall by the side of the road and pulled my wheel off, watched by several spectators next to me as well as on the hill across. Much to my embarrassment I was feeling tired and was not able to get the tyre irons under the wire rim of the tyre. It took me ages to remove it and then replace the tube with my spare tyre. I tried to find the hole to patch it, a practice I learned two years ago when cycling the Rocky Mountains, but couldn’t find it. Not to worry, I would do it that evening when I had water at hand. One of the spectators gave me a push off th get me on my way which was great; I wished it would last for the rest of the hill. Ten per cent grades get tedious after a while.

Jeff and I were stopped at a long straight and so we decided to sit on the embankment across the road which offered us a better view. After clambering up we found a god position and had settled in when it started raining. During our climb it looked as if Col d’Aspin had rain, with thunder, but we had hoped to be spared. This was not to be. While Jeff felt like sitting it out, I am not good when it comes to getting wet and cold so I decided to go across the road and join some people who were in a marquee. I wasn’t overly concerned that they didn’t know me, as when there is a tradeoff between being embarassed and hypothermic I’ll choose embarrassment every time. Jeff decided to join me so we headed down and I asked if we could shelter from the rain. They were Basques who didn’t speak French (at least my version) but since they didn’t gesture for us to leave we decided to stay. Good move.

Shortly afterwards the vehicles began arriving. I had not appreciated what a show the TDF was. The various sponsors come through in vehicles festooned with different types of decorations, usually reflecting their products. For example, Nestle whose bottled water is a sponsor had vehicles shaped like water bottles, a pork roll company had a pink pig, etc. Quite amazing. They also threw out samples of their products, although Nestle at least stopped and handed out packets of bottled water (hot chocolate would have been more appreciated after the rain). One of the Basques ran across the road where there was nobody else and he did really well. Two different hats, a rain cape, a Mickey Mouse book, sweets, a pork roll and others I couldn’t identify. Whenever a vehicle approached, the Basques in our group let out a huge cheer to get their attention and then scrambled for the goodies that fell in, beside, in front and on top of the marquee. It was fun to watch, even though I didn’t get anything.

Shortly afterwards the next group came through and I recognised Tyler Hamilton among them. They all looked in pain, faces drawn back in a mask of concentration and exhaustion. Having ridden over 200 km that day, with difficult climbs and miserable weather it was not at all surprising. Once again the crowd cheered, and this was repeated for the following groups. Perhaps the largest cheers were for the lone riders who trailed everyone, not willing to quit. It probably took 20 minutes or more for all the riders to drift in and then a blue police van came by signifying the end of the race. We later learned that Lance came in second by less than one second, but that he had made up 4 of the 9 minutes he was behind.

The crowds then began making their way down the mountain and it was a zoo with people, vehicles and cyclists. The cyclists had it the best as we could pass the long queue of parked vehicles. The traffic jam ran virtually the entire length of the mountain and I would expect several hours wait for those at the top to get to the bottom.

Jeff and I cycled together and then I got another puncture! Bother. He passed me but since it was in a difficult place he continued down to the town. Unfortunately, I had already used my spare which meant that I needed to patch the hole. Normally not a problem except for some reason I must have had a bad batch of patches. They were self-adhesive patches which are much faster and easier than the old vulcanizing patches which require glue (and patience). I found the hole (which strangely was on the inside of the tyre as opposed to the outside) and patched it. I then refitted the tyre and pumped it up.

Bother, the patch hadn’t taken. Off comes the wheel, off comes the tyre and I put on TWO patches this time. Refit the tyre, refit the wheel. Lasts about 3 minutes before going flat.

Bother. Still a problem. Off comes the wheel, off comes the tyre. I see that the adhesive on the patch isn’t completely sealing. I’m now getting worried. I decide to try the other tyre that I punctured earlier. Put on two patches to make sure, refit the pump it up and – no real surprise, the patches don’t take.

So here I am, half way down the mountain, no tubes, no adequate patches and only 15 minutes until I need to be at the bus which is about 25 km away. Things are not looking good, but at least it wasn’t raining. Not much to do except beg a spare tube off someone and just then an American woman stopped and asked if I needed a hand. She was on a ‘Trek Tour’ which is one of the Rolls Royce tours. She had no idea what was in her bike’s repair kit but there was a tyre which I gratefully accepted, even though it was at least one size too small. As I was fitting the tyre a second American woman stopped to see if I needed a hand – she was one of the guides with the Trek Tours. I found it ironic that of the hundreds of cyclists who passed me during my 45 minute sojourn changing tyres it was two Americans who offered me assistance. It reminded me of my solo trips through the USA when every time I had a problem the first person I asked, helped. They may not be popular as a country in all quarters, but I have a lot of time for Americans.

It was a very tight fit with  the smaller tube, but I was happy to be on the road again, although I expected it to fail any minute. I continued down the hill past the traffic jam. It was amusing to see people before a curve honking to try and get those in front moving. If they could see that it was jammed down to the bottom of the mountain they might chill out a bit.

I caught up with the Trek Tour group at the bottom of the hill and passed the woman who helped me. I thanked her profusely and then continued on, trying to get to the bus as quickly as I could. It was slightly downhill and with my aero bars I managed to maintain a speed close to 50 km/h. Great cycling. I eventually spotted Jeff by the side of the road and pulled into the parking lot where everyone had been waiting. Some stared daggers until I told them that I had removed and remounted my front tyre four times, and also that quite a few of them had undoubtedly passed me. Jeff felt particularly bad, but he couldn’t have stopped easily. I was quite sanguine about it all, after all there wasn’t much that I could do about it.

We got back to Toulouse quite late and I joined Jeff, his father John and daughter Hope for a ‘Bennett’s Dinner’, as they have the same surname as I do. We opted for an Italian restaurant and enjoyed dinner at a sidewalk café. Several others drifted in, even though it was approaching midnight. Seemed that one of the non-cyclists  had somehow fallen asleep in a bar and it took them several hours to find him. How to make friends and influence people.

So ended a great day. Fantastic cycling with a great group of people through amazing scenery. Pity about the rain and the tyres, but such is life. Just adds to the overall experience. I’m really pleased to be on this trip and looking forward to what the next week brings.