Lost in France

With a sharp intake of breath and a profane exclamation I too have been aghast at the antics of others. 

We have all wondered at the stupidity of individuals who have been airlifted from the summit of a high mountain having been caught out in adverse weather wearing flip-flops, t-shirt and shorts. 

Similarly a few have been plucked out of a treacherous ocean after having drifted into a main shipping lane on an inflatable air-bed shaped like a cartoon character.  

Others have been caught out by looking for a gas leak with a naked flame or have become stuck in glutinous mud whilst crossing a tidal river in pursuit of a short cut which may have saved mere minutes from the proper and prudent overland route. 

These are all real examples of the foolishness or ignorance of the few. 

Unfortunately I would have to admit to being a strong candidate for such a list. 

It was in July 1984 when I set off on my bicycle from the UK to see a stage of the Tour de France. 

It did help that I was already in the country having ridden, laden with panniers and saddle bags, with my younger brother from the Port of Dieppe to the very posh Paris satellite of Rambouillet to spend a few days with our sister who was working as an au pair or more like a general skivvy for a well to do French family. 

The town of Rambouillet  best known as the location of a Presidential residence, is set amongst beautiful countryside including extensive forests and lies about mid way between the Capital and the historic Chartres. 

Our bike ride had been quite ambitious although saying that, a good part of the journey from Hull in Yorkshire had been by train and ship so that out of the first 350 miles we had only actually pedalled for about 15 of them. 

However, in the misty dawn of disembarkation on the continent we had about 150 miles ahead of us. 

I was at that time a keen cyclist and had competed in road events for a couple of years but my younger brother, aged 15 although thin and athletic had only managed a two hour practice ride in the weeks leading up to our trip. 

I have no idea on the route that we took from the coast inland. 

It was just a succession of wide roads, pretty towns, sleepy villages, gradual ups and downs , historic bridge river crossings and more of the same. 

I do however recall being mightily impressed by the cathedral at Rouen which we stumbled across by accident at about one third distance. We sat on the stone steps to eat a lot of chocolate filled pastries. 

For all I know we may have just ridden in a series concentric circles for our 15 hours on the roads as my Michelin series map was one that covered from the far North of Scotland to the shores of North Africa and with very little discernible detail by way of routes in between. 

It was certainly more by luck and fluke that, by that evening, we eventually rolled into Rambouillet and were met by our very stressed out but relieved sister. 

We had a couple of days rest in a large country house setting , although we did have to do domestic chores which was a great source of amusement to our hosts in that the English were, for a change, in servitude to the French. 

Part two of my haphazard plan was to see part of Stage 6 of the 1984 Tour which took the race from Cergy Pontoise to Alencon passing within 80 km or 50 miles of our base. 

I knew that if I rode broadly north west for roughly that sort of distance I would at some point cross the actual race route. My potential failings were many although would be seen by my contemporaries as complete stupidity and naivity. 

I knew nothing about actually getting to a position to bisect the course nor the timings of the riders. Add to these imponderables the prevailing weather, the mechanical reliability of my bike (now stripped of carriers, mudguards and touristy attachments), my fitness and my limited abilities of French language which only consisted of a few phrases from my O’level some 6 years previous. I would, I kidded myself, get by if the only people I met were called Monsieur Leblanc and they had a dog or a cat. 

I set off on a cool summers morning with a determination to, hopefully, offset the negative factors that could at any time curtail my intentions. It was a wonderful day and on my lighter machine and some improved fitness from recent exertions I had a sensation of great well-being and forward speed. 

I liked counting down the kilometres as it gave an enhanced sensation of progress when compared to boring old English miles. 

Good luck and fortune over the next two and a half hours brought me to a deserted stretch of main road with way markers attached to signposts announcing that I had reached the actual route. It was by now early afternoon and evidently the Tour de France had not yet passed by. 

I sat on the grass verge and waited. 

The fact that I had not brought any food, drink or money did not strike me as important. I was treated to the Tour entourage from the publicity vans and hospitality cars to the police outriders before the full field of riders hurtled past. 

My basic Canon camera, well before the digital age, only managed a few hasty shots and my own vantage point of the race was through that slightly fogged up viewfinder. 

I still wonder how I found my way back to the small English enclave at Rambouillet but I did and in one piece, man and bike. 

It was not until a few weeks later that I got the film developed. 

Amongst what are now my most prized possessions are a series of photos of part of Bernard Hinault’s face, Sean Kelly’s right eye and the pictorial masterpiece that is Laurent Fignon’s distinctive Renault Elf headband.