Here comes the rain
Tour de France 2025
Sunday 6 July: Stage 2 Lauwin-Planque - Boulogne-sur-MerBy car: 42 km
By bike: 0 km ☹️
Tat: Haribo sweets, La Vache Qui Rit cap, FDJ ‘lucky 13’ lotto ball bag, E.Leclerc biscuits.
Technology creeps up on us unseen. I was expecting to miss out most of the action of both yesterday’s stage and the Tour generally. I’m old enough to remember eagerly awaiting the half-hour Channel 4 highlights programme to find out what had happened in that day’s Tour. My boss at that time would still wait for “The Comic” - the weekly publication ’Cycling’ to get most of his cycling news. Yesterday I could follow the rider’s progress in real time on the Tour’s very own tracker. Within a couple of minutes I knew who won the two small climbs of the day, that Filippo Ganna had retired. On the train I watched live as Benjamin Thomas and Mattéo Vercher tumbled to the cobbles as they fought for the climb. Within a few minutes of finishing I was being offered the last kilometre of the race. Throughout human history, each generation marvels at the wonders bestowed upon them, the next generation blindly accepts it.
I have a confession to make. My impression of the Flanders area is coloured by an overnight stay my wife and I made quite a few years ago. Breaking our journey home after a long drive, we spent a Saturday night in the Campanile hotel in Seclin - a former mining town just south of Lille. Seclin was closed and the only food we found was memorably The Worst Pizza Ever. We retreated to the brutalist concrete bunker that is a Campanile hotel. Next morning we drove through Lille - that was closed too, and we never got our morning viennoise. I thought my impression of Flanders had changed over my time in Lille - and then I drew back the curtains this morning. Rain. Lots of it. Stereotypical Flanders rain. I was supposed to cycle 20 or so km to Arras. The forecast for tomorrow looks even worse - when I have another ride planned. I spent two hours staring out of the window, and finally reached for the car keys.
I probably need to explain The Caravan. From its inception, money from sponsorship has been a crucial part of the Tour de France. It was formed in an attempt to sell newspapers. The maillot à pois - the climbers jersey - takes its colours from a Poulain chocolate bar.
Over the years sponsorship has grown, and now there’s a whole other entourage in advance of the riders where the sponsors can show off their wares.
The Tour de France is unlike any other bike race, and literally millions of French (and other nationalities of course) take to the streets to watch the race. The unspoken contract is mainly to scramble for the cheap tat hurled at them from, say, a bed under a massive Velux window, a giant Asterix, or a big yellow lion. The poor people who staff the Caravan have to drive 3,500 kilometres on a quad bike mocked up as a melon, or a giant mug of blood (I kid you not). At least the people who hurl the tat from the back of the speeding lorries now have to wear full safety harnesses and are given proper wet-weather protection - which certainly wasn’t the case in years gone by.
Today was a fruitful day for tat for me. No one in the Caravan wanted to hang around, so unlike yesterday, it passed through fairly quickly - so best to stand further back as the tat travels further. The good people of Arras fought like tigers over every plastic keyring today. No quarter given, young or old, male or female, whoever you are. This is the culture of the Tour de France.
I have a confession to make. My impression of the Flanders area is coloured by an overnight stay my wife and I made quite a few years ago. Breaking our journey home after a long drive, we spent a Saturday night in the Campanile hotel in Seclin - a former mining town just south of Lille. Seclin was closed and the only food we found was memorably The Worst Pizza Ever. We retreated to the brutalist concrete bunker that is a Campanile hotel. Next morning we drove through Lille - that was closed too, and we never got our morning viennoise. I thought my impression of Flanders had changed over my time in Lille - and then I drew back the curtains this morning. Rain. Lots of it. Stereotypical Flanders rain. I was supposed to cycle 20 or so km to Arras. The forecast for tomorrow looks even worse - when I have another ride planned. I spent two hours staring out of the window, and finally reached for the car keys.
I probably need to explain The Caravan. From its inception, money from sponsorship has been a crucial part of the Tour de France. It was formed in an attempt to sell newspapers. The maillot à pois - the climbers jersey - takes its colours from a Poulain chocolate bar.
Over the years sponsorship has grown, and now there’s a whole other entourage in advance of the riders where the sponsors can show off their wares.
The Tour de France is unlike any other bike race, and literally millions of French (and other nationalities of course) take to the streets to watch the race. The unspoken contract is mainly to scramble for the cheap tat hurled at them from, say, a bed under a massive Velux window, a giant Asterix, or a big yellow lion. The poor people who staff the Caravan have to drive 3,500 kilometres on a quad bike mocked up as a melon, or a giant mug of blood (I kid you not). At least the people who hurl the tat from the back of the speeding lorries now have to wear full safety harnesses and are given proper wet-weather protection - which certainly wasn’t the case in years gone by.
Today was a fruitful day for tat for me. No one in the Caravan wanted to hang around, so unlike yesterday, it passed through fairly quickly - so best to stand further back as the tat travels further. The good people of Arras fought like tigers over every plastic keyring today. No quarter given, young or old, male or female, whoever you are. This is the culture of the Tour de France.
 |
| These people have been standing in the rain for an hour or so, waiting to have tat thrown at them. |
Likely spot me tomorrow at : Billy-Berclau (101 km remaining)
Tomorrow's T-shirt: Like today, probably nondescript as I’ll be swathed in a bright yellow waterproof.
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