Those who have only known me in more recent years may regard with surprise the fact that in 1984 I was at the peak of fitness and stamina as an athlete and racing cyclist.
I accept that my weight and girth now would probably buckle a lightweight bike frame and, yes, I did recently get overtaken by a small girl on a pink bike on my ascent of a steep hill but she did only come out of one driveway, pass me and then immediately go up the next so it doesn't count as full humiliation. I would have shouted something at her for inconsiderate cycling but I was either eating a mars bar or just a bit out of breath, I cannot clearly recollect which.
I was quite late into competitive cycling after being more of a runner and footballer, the catalyst being purchase of a Carlton Pro-Am 12 speed racing bike from the proceeds of a holiday job in 1981. A beautiful ice-white frame with good wheels and components within that price bracket. It did serve me well and was converted for cyclo-cross.
My collection of bikes steadily grew with the 1982 custom built Langdale by Brian Green from Nottingham which is still in regular use, a Dave Marsh winter frame which saved me from serious injury in a head on crash with a car and oddments of bits of bikes which one day could be aggregated into something a bit special. No distance is too much for an athlete in prime condition and in 1984 I set off with my younger brother to stay with our sister who had an au-pair position just to the west of Paris.
We caught the train from Hull to Dover and then rode the short distance to Newhaven for the ferry to Dieppe. Landfall in France was at 4am but in July the gloom and mist rapidly lifted and we were soon climbing out of the town heading south. Navigation relied on a Michelin map sheet covering from Edinburgh to Cannes so it took half a day to travel less than an inch which was a bit demoralising. Breakfast was at Rouen, I think, and I cannot today work out which route we took or hazard a guess at the actual mileage as compared to the linear distance scaled from the map.
Some 12 hours later we reached our destination. We did split the return journey over 2 days using a much more suitably scaled roadmap. The trip coincided with the cycling fest which is the Tour de France and I was keen to see the race and my heroes namely Sean Kelly, Robert Millar, Bernard Hinault and Laurent Fignon amongst others. I crudely translated a french guide to Le Tour and Stage 4 would be passing within reasonable cycling distance of where we were staying.
For credibility I took off the panniers, racks and mudgards from my bike and wore my heavy, and subsequently wholly unsuitable, woollen club jersey which had Trent Valley CRC in large white flocked letters but with the core colours being akin to the French National colours. Again time elapsed and distance covered is now a faint memory and I have never attempted to locate where I eventually came across the stage route which from my now extended Tour library was from Bethune to Cergy Pontoise. None the wiser there. I was early enough to see the freakish caravan of publicity cars and promotional vehicles but was not handed any samples or merchandise as a) I was not a child b) I was obviously English in wholly unsuitable cycling apparel and c) I did not hold out my hands as I was dumbfounded to have acheived by objective of witnessing the race.
Soon the official cars appeared down the long open country roads and the wining and dining crowds moved closer to the roadside. Behind a swarm of lead motorcycles and precariously mounted press photographers was a small cluster of 3 riders ,Barteau and Le Guillox , both French and cheered and applauded and the Portuguese Ferreira- cheered and tolerated.
These riders contested the finish some 17 minutes ahead of the main peleton with Barteau retaining the yellow jersey well into the second week as a national hero. I readied my small 35mm camera for a series of rapid shots to record my attendance at the Tour. The main field of some 190 riders, not counted at the time, coasted past and I had time between shots to glimpse the imposing and influential Hinault, the diminuitive figure of Millar and the bulk of Kelly.
The flash of team colours, the sound of the racing tyres on the tarmac and the shockwave of embrocation fragranced air from the mass of cyclists I will never forget.
Back in my pitiful bedsit in Lincoln I viewed my photographs from the trip. The ferry, breakfast at Rouen, I think, bike rides and moped rides with my younger brother and sister, obligatory Eiffel Tower and Paris views, house where we stayed, a few local sights including Chartres Cathedral and some where I was evidently a bit drunk.
The roadside photos of the race were very disappointing particulary as I had imagined magazine quality and posed shots.
The 35mm camera was intended for stationary monuments and not to catch 30mph riders. The last photograph however made the whole trip most memorable.
The clearest most dramatic picture was the money shot.
I considered syndication to cycling magazines worldwide. I had the perfect photograph of the upper spectacle frame, forehead, blond locks and very distinctive trademark headband of my particular hero, Laurent Fignon. RIP 1960-2010.
No comments:
Post a Comment