Cycling the Tour de France Route

There is a difference in cycling in France, not the landscapes or the roads that are in good conditions, but the fact that one is a part of a bigger picture. I also remember how I decided to follow part of the course of tour de France.

It was a cool air, reeking of grass and fresh bread at the boulangerie next door. No, I was not going in pursuit of speed or competition; I just wanted to experience, over a few miles, what generations of bicycle riders had experienced on the same roads the agony, the silence and the bursts of happiness.

The initial couple of kilometres were not very tough to make me believe that it would be a smooth ride.

Birds flew through the road, fields were stretching indefinitely on both sides and the rhythm of pedals was a certain kind of a meditation.

It reminded me of the peace I feel when everything is planned before a journey like booking meet and greet parking at Heathrow before catching a flight.

There’s a comfort in knowing that part of your trip is taken care of, leaving you free to focus on the experience ahead.

It is weird how bicycling actually clears the head as each time a push is done, it seems like one is letting go of something in the past.

When the Mountains Arrive

Then the road tilted upwards. The muffled grunt of the tyre-things greeted the ear and replaced the breathing of the labouring engines, and the moaning of the grinding wheels. I was now among the Pyrenees, or a part of them, that lovely, vile country which tries the savour of any cyclist.

Even a slight part of the Col du Tourmalet was an embarrassment to climb. The celebrated climb seemed immortal, the trail winding around like a strand of mist. I overtook other bikers, some were professionals in smooth jersey, other and me were just dreamers on borrowed stamina. We all nodded our heads without saying, such a little movement which meant we are in this together.

On some occasions, I did not feel like going on. My legs were trembling my lungs were on fire yet something back in the mountain could not get me to give up. You do not go on because of the sight, not even because of pride but merely because it would be a shame to yourself to turn round and leave the road itself.

The Towns that Cheer the Strangers.

The falling out of the mountains took me to the places of life and breathing of the Tour. In such destinations as Pau and Albi, the path is not only geography but also a narrative which is demonstrated by flags, written words on the street, and even laughter of people living there. I had to stop at a cafe, where the owner (an older man with an old-fashioned smile) poured me water even before I requested it.

"Vous venez du col?" he questioned-- "You went round the pass?

At my nod he gave me a pat on the shoulder and muttered something in praise of bravery and then produced a croissant and coffee and would not allow me to pay. That bit of courtesy was a medal.

It is in these little towns that you get to know what the Tour de France really is to the people, not sport, but memory. Endurance is celebrated by generations as they come to the same roads every summer cheering faces that they will never see.

Note: Always check Stansted Airport Cheap Parking**** and book according to your needs.

The Rhythm of the Road

When the path became flat once more I had a beat. On one side the Loire River gleamed, the road winding gently over vineyards. I went past stone houses, bikers in shiny jersey, and sunflower fields that were facing the afternoon sun. I used to stop every few kilometres not because I had to, but because I had a desire to do so. To gaze, to inhale, to take in the beauty that can never be photographed in motion.

Long rides in France are somehow meditative. The scenery does not make any haste but moves at its own pace. And maybe that is what the Tour is all about, that endurance is not about speed, but about being there on the climb, on the descent, and on the never-ending in between.