An American in Paris

30 July 2002

The American national anthem played on loudspeakers along the Avenue de Champs-Élysées in Paris. Was it a movie location? Liberation Day festivities? Hip-hoppers playing a practical joke from their car stereos?

No, it was a normal scene for the last Sunday in July as the world celebrated the 4th consecutive victory of cancer survivor and Texan cyclist extraordinaire Lance Armstrong winning the Tour de France. For three weeks, he used nothing but foot power and gravity to race 2,000+ miles – the equivalent of riding from Denver to Los Angeles – on a bicycle seat 6-8 hours a day, 150 miles each day, at speeds averaging 30+ mph, against the 190 best riders in the world over a course so long and mountains so high they literally take your breath away.

As an American ex-pat living in Holland, cycling is a national passion for the Dutch. Public television here provides wire-to-wire coverage every year for this nation of frustrated tour riders.

When my buddy Ed invited me to drive down and see the final stage with him, the first thing I did was check the US State Department terror threat website. There I was petrified by page after page of warnings about avoiding obvious terror targets – places where lots of Americans abroad gather and here I was driving to the one place in Europe where everyone knew several thousand American spectators gathered out in the open? I said, naaaahhhh, not here, threw caution to the wind and got in the car.

I’m glad I did. It was a giant international street carnival. The man next to us waved Basque and Spanish flags and cheered on his friends in Spanish, a couple from Hong Kong had their faces painted with Chinese, French and American flags and the food, sites and smells were wonderful.
Up at 4:00 a.m. (because I was like a kid on Christmas morning - too excited to sleep anymore), I was on the road at 4:45 with a cooler full of snacks and water. By 6:00 am I was in very heavy traffic. A battalion of Dutch tourists were invading France. The three-week construction trade workers holiday began so every camper and trailer in Holland was loaded and on the road early to beat the traffic.

Paris has many park and ride garages and that seemed to make the most sense on a day that many streets would be closed to traffic. I boarded the Metro and met my friend from LA who had an extra ticket for the final day. Ed spent the previous week on a tour of the Tour de France. He is a big-time cyclist and last Sunday while everyone else slept, his group climbed Mount Ventoux the same day the Tour did.

I caught him on his cell phone after completing a Category 1 climb, which had a 15% graded descent. He said he was a little nervous when at 45 mph the wheels of his bike began to vibrate. Tour riders hit 55-60 mph. Drive your own car at that speed and see how ridiculously fast that is for a bicycle.

We walked around the Champs-Élysées for two hours and took in the sights – the media tents, finish line and private spectator areas. The temperature was in the mid-90s when we stood in our assigned area 200 meters from the finish line. There was a big screen television to our right and some commentator screaming at us in French all day in our ears over the loudspeakers.

When the racers entered Paris and passed the finish line for the first time it was 153 riders led to the line by 8 US Postal team members leading Lance to the finish line. The roar was deafening. They raced to the Arc de Triomph and back down the other side of de Champs Élysées. Suddenly there was “DA Man” less than 20 feet away whizzing by in a blur of colors. The caravan of cars, police, motorcycles, medical team, ambulances, trucks, etc that accompany the tour extends for almost a mile in length. By the time the last vehicle passed, the lead police motorcycles were on the other side approaching the finish line for the second of ten laps around this course. Two helicopters hovered overhead providing amazing camera angles before the bell lap.

There were several attacks, at one point a lead of more than a minute was held briefly over the Peleton until the last lap where they were all together setting up a sprint to the finish that would determine the owner of the green jersey. Robbie McEwen from Australia had been here before. He and Eric Zabel were tied and would fight this last mile for the sprint king jersey Zabel wore the last five years. With 500 meters to go (remembering how they stopped him last year) Robbie swung wide and began the final sprint. By the time they came around the last curve, he was ahead by a bike length and the scramble to the line began in earnest in front of our vantage point.

When the stage was over, Lance stood alone in the yellow winner’s jersey on the podium. Even though we knew it was coming, it was strange to hear the Star Spangled Banner played on that most famous of Paris streets. There were many of us choking back our emotions and bursting with pride.

When the awards ceremony ended, the teams parade slowly by to thank the fans for carrying them over those mountains and through the sprints. There you speak briefly with, cheer them on and take close-up photos. On this day, we cheered for all 153 riders. For merely to finished this journey you needed the heart of a lion and all were champions of the Tour.

(As appeared in Het Financieel Dagblad Emglish Edition)