Well, yesterday I went to check out the Tour de France Route for the last
stage from Melun to Paris. Before recounting this adventure, I should
say that after moving completely to Paris last August, I decided to
take a break from cycling, due to the disappointing comparison of the
conditions to what I had been used to in the past, e.g., numerous
years in California. I decided to take up roller skating, a sport which
I deem much better suited to heavily urban environments, and doing this 
about eight hours a week helped me to keep in shape. 

However, I started getting a little antsy from not being able to do my
usual long rides in the country, and a month ago, I started cycling
again. This has been working out rather well and I was slowly upping
the distance. 

A big problem of Paris cycling is getting out to the country which can
involve many miles of absolutely horrible and depressing recently
constructed suburbs, the horror seemingly related to the "red ring" of
Communist controlled communities whose urban planning had been
inspired by the Soviet school. My experiments seemed to indicate that
the best way out was by the South West towards Versailles due to the
hilly terrain and the consequent higher rent neighborhoods.

Since the Melun to Paris route was from the East, where I had been
particularly annoyed by the suburbs, I didn't even consider doing this
ride when I woke up on Sunday morning. However, while eating breakfast, I
thought that maybe the Tour route would be a good way to find a nice
course to get out to the country. 

So, 10 minutes before leaving the house, I decided to try out the
stage course. From the description, it was about 80 km (50 miles) to
Melun so the round trip would be 160 km (100 miles). My longest rides
so far had been about 100 km (60 miles), so I didn't think I was ready
for this distance. Moreover, I had just ridden about 360 km (220
miles) in the last seven days, and my right knee which had regularly
been bothering me when cycling, but had been fine skating probably due
to the lesser volume, was sore again.  Finally, the weather report
indicated that this would be the warmest day of the year so far, about
33 C (90 F) and I hadn't done too much training in the heat at all.

I decided to do the bone headed thing, figuring that muscle memory
would get me by the distance, and that "heat memory" from living in
California would help me out.  I left the house at 8:40, which would
give me just about enough time to get there and leave before the
publicity caravan would start off at 11:45.  I was assuming that I
would be able to latch on to a bunch of racers also going to see the
start, and so be able to do some respectable speed as soon as I got
out onto open roads.

I got on to the race course at the Bois de Vincennes, and the police
were already there. I noted that they had cleared the street of the
vans which prostitutes use to do their "business." I was impressed
that there were policemen every 100 meters (110 yards) standing on the
side of the road with nothing to do and this was 9:15 am, so at least
6 hours before the race would pass by. Talk about a long day standing
around in the heat!

I then followed the race course backwards and to my surprise it
followed the exact route that I had taken two weeks earlier when I
checked out the area East of Paris. However, it is somewhat hard to
figure out the course when going backwards, and got lost a couple of 
times. 

I passed by the new city of Marne-la-Vallee, home of Disneyland Paris,
formerly known as Euro Disney. This was where I had turned around last
time and ended up taking incredibly boring bike paths on the Marne
river.  This time, I kept on going and the irony is that this was
exactly where the decor started improving. First was an imposing
castle in Guermantes, and wondered whether it have been the home of
Marcel Proust, due to his book "Le cote de Guermantes." My wife
later told me that he had indeed lived in this village. 

Once the real countryside started, there were many groups of
cyclists, but all were going the other way. I assumed that this was
because I was traveling close to a group's speed and wasn't getting
caught. This turned out to be incorrect. 

I was also surprised by the number of people on the side of the road
who had set up picnics and parasols. A lot of these people seemed to
be retired, but there were also complete families. Everyone seemed
very friendly, and most people were yelling "Jalabert!" or telling
me that I was going the wrong way. 

The only spectator that I recognized was the "Devil" who had parked
his van which had "The Devil" painted on it as well as names of the
races that he followed. I had seen this guy already when I went to
check out the arrival of the Grande Boucle Feminine in 1999.  Since
there was almost no one present on that occasion and the riders were
taking 5 minutes per lap, I went over and tried talking to him.  But
when I got close, I noted that he had a kind of expression on his face
that reminded me of a wild animal caged up in a zoo, except that he
wasn't in a cage. I decided to give up on my plan.  This time was
somewhat worse, because he was topless, and he was even more
disgusting than in his Devil suit. He was turning a pole in a bucket
filled with some liquid. The only possible explanation seems to be
that this is the pole for his trident and that he was administering
glue to put a new trident on.

I wasn't feeling too good, due to having ridden too much in the last
couple of days, and I was already quite sore at 40 km (25 miles) and
not riding fast at all, so I decided to just go 60 km (37 miles),
which would allow me to turnaround at 11:30. Anyway, if I had gone all
the way to Melun, I would have had to wait two more hours for the race
to start, then follow it. It turned out that this might have been the
wiser choice...

I stopped in some town called Villepatour and talked to a very nice
policeman from the South of France who told me that I was about 17 km
from Melun.

I turned around, and figured I could make good time since I wouldn't
get lost and there was a slight tailwind in that direction. I was
going at a good clip until some town called Tournan-en-Brie where two
policemen started yelling at me. I kept on going, but a third
policeman up a little hill stepped in front of me and told me to turn
around. I asked him what was up and he just said to turn around
without providing any further information. He was looking at my
handlebars in a way that made it clear that he was about to grab the
bike and force me to comply. The cops at the bottom showed me how to
get off the course and started making remarks about how this would
increase my distance by 500 meters. I couldn't understand what was up,
as this was more than one hour before the publicity caravan was
scheduled to pass by. Also, I had no problem riding on the course when
I went down to Pau in 1999. Finally, I had this (wrong) idea that a
cyclist might be tolerated on a course reserved for a bike race.

Anyway, I managed to get back on the course and rode a further 200
meters when another policeman told me to get off the course. 
I had to turn right, and two spectators from the village told me to
be careful, but that I would be able to get back on the course easily
enough. I took the road which quickly turned into a gravel path 
going downhill at about a 5% grade. 

Undaunted, I got back on the course, but this time riding on the
sidewalk.  At the next intersection, yet another policeman told me to
turn off, and remarked to two other cyclists that failure to comply
would lead to a notification of authorities up the road and a
subsequent 450 Franc fine. I decided to shut my big mouth and not to
mention that France was no longer using the Franc as currency. I asked
him where this road led to, and he said words to the effect that I
would find out.  It was clear that continuing on the course would be
hopeless. The majority of nice police officers would simply let me
ride, but the minority of jerks would do anything to get me off the
course.  The rest of the ride would therefore have to consist of
crossing the Tour course transversally.

So, I took this small country road heading directly East, almost
exactly the opposite direction that I needed to go to get home.
I took comfort in the fact that it was a very small country road
in a beautiful forest, so this hardship was actually a way to 
do the kind of ride that I had been missing. 

This small road was winding around, but thankfully the sun was out,
so I didn't lose my sense of direction. I also ran into a couple of
other cyclists who asked me for directions, but informed them that
I had no clue where I was. 

I finally got to Villeneuve St. Denis, which was on my map, and
figured out how to get back in such a way that I would cross the Tour
route transversally. I also got a small bottle of water to replenish
my dwindling supply. 

This plan worked well, and I soon saw signs for Marne-la-Vallee.  By
this time the temperature was getting close to the predicted 33C, and
I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. With a little
determination, I got back to Guermantes.

By this time, the Tour caravan was in full steam and numerous vehicles
were passing by, including the Men in Black II cars, one of which has
a big rubber alien is sitting in the back of a big black Cadillac
convertible -- sitting on the trunk with his feet on the seats, which
was also the way actual human passengers were sitting in many of the
Tour convertible cars. There was also a Poulidor car, which could 
be identified by the name written on it and the likeness of the 
perennial second spray painted on the bodywork. 

I also thought that many of the caravan vehicles were going at
excessive speed, over 60 kph, and were definitely driving inches from
the spectators (there was a barrier, but people were in front of
it). From what I saw, it is surprising that only one child was killed
or injured in this Tour. I realize that the caravan was going at a
speed comparable to the actual race, but the race has lead vehicles
which warn the spectators, while the Caravan vehicles appear
randomly. Moreover, the caravan should have been keeping up with the
race by going faster on open roads, not in the middle of crowded
villages. However, blasting through narrow village streets is a
typical driving habit of the French, so I suppose that it would be
difficult to unlearn in only three weeks.

Since it was about 1:30, it was high time that I put on my sunscreen
in order to preserve my boyish good looks. I applied liberal amounts
on my face to give me that Kabuki look, as well as a tiny amount on
the back of my hand not protected by my gloves. This attracted the
attention of my fellow spectators who were apparently not too familiar
with sunscreen, the French tend to use tanning oil with maximum SPF
factor about 5.

I managed to cross the street, and so get on the other side of the 
Tour course. From that vantage point I could feast my eyes on one
of the female spectators, a 50+ year old, 200+ lb. woman wearing
tight fitting bathing attire (one piece, not a "mono-kini" thankfully). 

I followed some streets back West until I got to a little town called
Noisel. The street I was on led straight into the Tour route, so I had
to find an alternative. I saw a side street leading to the French
headquarters of the Nestle corporation. I wasn't bonking yet, because
the sight of the chocolate factory didn't produce any unusual
cravings. I hoped that the street would not turn into a dead end,
which it did.

Actually, the road ended at the Marne river and one could continue on
a gravel and dirt path. So, I took this dirt path for 2 km before
reaching the beginning of the bike path that I had taken two weeks
before. Besides being boring, the way to get home after taking that
path was to use the Tour course, so I decided to take an alternate
route.

I got on to a very wide street leading directly back to Paris, assuming
the signs were correct. It was now 2 pm and it was getting really hot,
especially at stop lights, which felt like I was getting worked over by
a blow dryer. I really had to get some more water, since all I had left
was half a bottle of hot water. It was Sunday afternoon, so everything
was closed. I eventually managed to find a gas station where the 
"boutique" was open, it is more usual in France to have automated
gas stations. Since I have a suspicion that the area just outside Paris
may not be the safest place to leave a bike lying around, I decided to
take it with me in the otherwise empty store. The owner had a fit
and told me to take it outside. I was carrying it, and told him that I
could continue to carry it. He responded by saying that the next thing
I would ask for is to drive my car into his store. However, he did 
volunteer to bring me what I wanted outside. I got 1.5 liters of cold
bottled water, which was enough to get me through the rest of the trip
just fine. 

There was some good tailwind, and I was making really good time.  I
rode over the cobbles of Vincennes nearly at the speed of traffic and
felt like a hero as cycling fans in automobiles cheered me on. I very
quickly got to the Bastille since I knew that the Tour was going
there, and my plan was to cross the Tour route by going through the
Bastille subway station.

That plan was foiled, as the route was completely on one side of the
subway entrances. So, I rode down to the banks of the Seine, right up
to the barriers and asked the policeman how one could cross.  He
pointed to the Canal St. Martin, which flows into (or out of, who
knows) the Seine and said that one could get down to the marina and
walk under the course.

So, I rode over there and got to the banks of the canal. Going under
the Tour route meant walking on a narrow 1.5 meter (4.5 ft) wide
cobblestone ledge which continued on the other side. So, there I was
on the banks on the Seine, on a narrow cobbled ledge with a wall to my
left, and to my right a clean 10ft drop into the river (no railing,
this is France, no lawsuits). 

I tried riding the 200 meters or so leading to the normal banks of the
Seine, but I started getting nervous, as an error could lead me to
fall into the Seine with the bike still attached to my person. Despite
my slow progress on this ledge, I was still going much faster
than a roller skater who had also found his way there. He was kind
enough to stop and let me by. There was one final (literal!) hurdle to
cross. At the end of the embankment was an annex of "Tata Beach," the
area on the Right Bank of the Seine in which men sunbathe wearing very
small thong bathing suits. Anyway, one of these guys had decided to do
his thing transversally on the ledge. He was lying prone, the
default position, since it allowed all to gaze upon his bare buttocks.
He heard me approaching and bent his knees leaving me about a foot
between these and the Seine.  I waited for him to move some more, but
he was too engrossed in his book to notice. So, I just walked over him
carrying my bike over his denuded body as well.

From then on, it was an easy ride to my house. I wasn't too tired
physically from the experience, though I was definitely tired of the
Tour, having tried to avoid it for the last 3 hours of my trip. This
experience also added the last touches on my cycling tan, my
definition being almost up to Tour standards, and the gaps due to my
roller skating knee and elbow pads had virtually disappeared.

So, this was a real learning experience. First, I learned that if you
want to ride the Tour route, you definitely have to do many hours
before the race comes by. This advice is kind of like the Saturday
Night Live skit where you are told by some really scarred guy never to
feed a bear honey using your face. Second, I have decided not to go on
very long rides on Sunday, since all the stores are closed, not a good
thing when it's really hot out. 

Anyway, I just went out for a short ride today and it unfortunately
made me think twice about my decision to resume Paris cycling.  I
followed the Tour route again, this time on the rue de Rivoli leading
up to the Place de la Concorde. I was in the bicycle lane which is
about 1 meter (3 feet) wide when some other cyclist decided I was
going too slow and tried to pass me. He ended up jamming his
handlebars into my elbow. He then asked me to kindly let him pass and
when I failed to do this, he rode up behind me and pushed me forward
with great force. I looked back and noted that he was about 6ft. 4 in.
and given his complete disregard for his own safety (bashing his bars
into my person) I decided to do a quick getaway rather than stand and
fight this madman. My wife tells me that the summer months bring out
this type of behavior due to frustrated people who weren't able to get
out of Paris for the summer vacation. Alternatively, he might have
noted my University of Washington jersey and have been enraged at yet
another American in France doing whatever he wanted on his bike.
 
-ilan