Chasing Lance

Travel Stories: Watching a recent Tour de France on TV wasn't enough, so Frank Mungeam packed his bike for the main event

The next morning, as we prepared our bikes to chase Lance once again, Pauline smiled at a distinguished Spanish couple also getting ready to leave. They pointed at her bike and her jersey, she mumbled a few Spanish words, and they became more animated. Their brother joined them, he and I both knew some French, and we battled through our language barriers.

They, too, were following the race. In fact, they were the parents of Igor Gonzales de Galdeano, a dashing 28-year-old Spaniard who was currently in third place in the Tour.  “He loved to ride a bicycle since he was a little boy,” his mother gushed with parental pride. Before going on their way, they gave Pauline a water bottle emblazoned with the logo of the team sponsor ONCE, and signed a photo card of their son for us.

Later that day, as we refueled at a Foix patisserie after viewing the day’s race, I poked Pauline in the shoulder.

“That’s Robin Williams!” I squealed as a squat, beret-clad man bounded into the patisserie.

“Right, good one Frank,” Pauline replied, disbelieving.

“No really, he’s a big fan of Lance’s,” I lobbied.

We leered through the open shop window like a pair of paparazzi. The gentleman ordered some pastries in French. Maybe it wasn’t him.

“Hi, how ya doin’?” Robin Williams asked us on his way out.

It was him. He eyed our bikes, then commented approvingly: “Trek? Lemond? Nice bikes!”

Here we were, a famous actor and a couple of weekend riders, brought together halfway around the world by a shared passion for cycling. We talked about where we’d each ridden that day, and when I asked him about his relationship with Lance, he replied with a modest glance at his feet: “Lance is a good friend.”

Then he said goodbye, bounded into a white minivan and was whisked away.

The killer climb

Two days later, we tackled the most daunting ascent of the Tour de France, Mt. Ventoux. This mountain was murderous. During the 1967 Tour, second-placed Tommy Simpson rode himself to death within sight of its barren, windswept summit.

For cyclists, Ventoux was the ultimate test. For spectators, it was the Indy 500. On this weekday morning, a half million fans flocked to the flanks of Ventoux to witness their heroes’ suffering firsthand.

Pauline and I began the 12-mile climb to the summit about four hours ahead of the pros. The road to the top was closed to cars but was crowded with thousands of other recreational riders making the two-wheeled pilgrimage to cycling’s Mecca.

To my amazement, the spectators cheered for us like we were real racers.  I floated up the steep pitch, buoyed by constant cheers of “Allez Lance” (“Go Lance!”), “Ooh-Ess-Ahh” (“U.S.A.”), and “bon courage” (“be brave!”).

After laboring under the midday sun for an hour, we pulled over half-way to the top so we could watch cycling’s gladiators take their turn. Once again, we shared the hillside with chest-painted teenagers, drunken tailgaters, and legions of lycra-clad cyclists.

Frenchman Richard Virenque was first to arrive, his face contorted in a combination of concentration and anguish. His jersey was unzipped to his waist and he rocked his bike violently from side to side, climbing out of the saddle in a desperate search for speed. He glanced once nervously over his shoulder and was gone.

Each rider that followed was a similar portrait in pain, pedaling through a narrow, frenzied human corridor.

Suddenly, Lance arrived, in fourth place. His face was drawn, his body leaking sweat. His hollow eyes had a steely, almost frightening focus. He scoured the road ahead like a hawk searching for its next prey.

I stood four feet away from him and desperately wanted to be part of the moment, to jump from the crown and run alongside him. But I was so mesmerized by his effort that I simply cheered: “Allez, Lance! Go USA!”

Once the racers passed, spectators swiftly abandoned the mountainside, leaving Pauline and I alone to follow the riders’ tortuous route to the moonscape summit. As we climbed higher, the pavement gradually deteriorated beneath our wheels. The extremes of sun and wind and cold punished the road to Ventoux as much as those who traveled it.

Thirty arduous minutes later, we reached the finish. I felt a rush of pride for pedaling to the top of this cycling temple. But after a week watching the titans of the sport duel with the mountains, I understood my modest place in the pantheon.

Hungry and humbled, we hobbled into the now-deserted mountain top café where we were met with the sounds of boisterous laughter and clanking glasses. The patrons were gone but the owner was filling a row of glasses while the staff took turns toasting and throwing down shots in honor of the victory by their countryman.

Oh no, I thought. Will they even serve us?

The owner eyed our cycling jerseys, smiled, then handed us menus and said: “It eez a dee-ficult climb, yes?”

“No worries,” I replied with a smile.


Tags: Cycling, Europe, France

.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) is a travel writer from Lake Oswego, Oregon. His travel stories have appeared in Fitness Runner, Running Times, Citysports magazine and Travel Oregon.


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