For 20 days, three billion people watched on as the hopes and dreams of nearly 200 of the world’s best cyclists, played out on the global stage. And then on the 21st day, in the humidity of Nice at around 7.34pm local time, it stopped.
So while Katy and the team worked so hard to bring us amazing and intriguing insights over the 21 days - I thought I would bring you a slightly different look. The 24 hours from waking up in Nice - the final day of Le Tour.
In truth it started Saturday night with an amazing drone display, perfectly capturing the excitement of locals and those who had flooded into the town. Tens of thousands of people lined the port and beachfront to watch a truly epic display of light and sound - who doesn’t love a 50 metre revolving cyclist riding a bike in mid-air above their heads. And the firework display… just wow. It was a celebration of everything that the Tour de France brings to its country of origin - colour, passion, noise and just a little bit of magic.
With the last spectacular explosion in the sky, the night moved on to the morning. THE morning at Le Tour 2024 and the last Tour morning for Cav, the last Tour morning for Bardet and I suspect the last Tour morning for many riders rather less celebrated or feted, but still essential to the race’s outcome.
I woke up on last Sunday morning and felt inspired by the tens of cyclists and runners outside at 6am. Yes, loads at 6am! I donned my trainers and decided to run to the finish of the race - some 5km away. I won’t lie, running at 6.30am is not usual for me... in fact running isn’t usual for me, but what a moment.
Running into town you could have been forgiven for thinking someone had painted the city yellow. Signs, posters, benches, chairs, bridges…you guessed it. Yellow. And what an incredible infrastructure. Then there was the run. Aside from the hellish heat, I had the ‘fun’ of running down the fenced route of the Tour and under all of those yellow bridges - past the security, minders and cocktail tables already in place. It was hard to believe that so much infrastructure had actually been put up over night - an incredible operation. The beating heart of the race was already astonishingly loud in the silence of the early morning.
Now. It was not my fault that a security guard left a gate open to the finishing straight. I also didn’t know I wasn’t allowed there - at least I didn’t before I was firmly spoken to by a couple of security guards. Having captured my fair share of photos, I took the point and decided to get back to the flat before I ran out of luck. Running is not my thing and my legs were reminding me of this.
Having arrived back and briefly recovered, throngs of people began to flood in from all corners for the much-awaited Tour Caravan. Fans came in waves - first the thousands waiting to get a bag of Haribo thrown at their face from a passing float…and then be delighted at getting hit by a packet, thrown by a bronzed bloke dancing frantically to Dutch trance while being strung from a trapeze on the back of a lorry. Particularly worrying was the throwing of the complete works of Asterix, consisting of ten books thrown at roadside fans at head height and at speed. More than a little violent. As soon as it started, the Caravan was gone again for another 344 days. All that remained now was the race.
Now Christian and his army of utterly insanely clever organisers could not have planned better for Cav to start second. What absolute genius to ensure the final time trial for the final stage started with the final ride for the legend that is Mark Cavendish. It certainly worked in Nice. For the many fans that left after the Caravan, thousands more came to the side of the road looking for that moment to see Cav for the final time in the Tour. I know I did. The fans were so loud - the Slovenians having a party in the port, it was incredible.
So many people watching in the surrounding bars, unable to get close to the fence, were deep in discussion about the finer details of time trialling, cycling technique - but one conversation dominated - Mr Cavendish. A quick name check for Nick and his pals from Cheshire who kept me company in the local Irish pub until the time came to be at one with my inner sprinter… to see Cav pass me in less time than it takes for me to eat a hotdog, was exhilarating! If I had blinked in the sunlight, I would have missed him. But I didn’t and neither did Nick, his mates and the thousands that screamed support like a Mexican wave - from our corner along the route, across the port and up and round the hill. It was incredible. For those old enough to remember, it was reminiscent of a Roman amphitheatre at the peak of Caesar's European Tour stage winning domination.
And then Cav was gone. And we set ourselves for the remaining riders over the next four hours. If this race ever finishes again in Nice, I fully recommend watching it in the Port. The noise was incredible and probably the last point that reacted as a stadium before needing to pay for your seat in the stands or corporate enclosure.
If we thought it couldn’t get better, we were wrong. First ‘the little bastard’ went through… then the Danish favourite and then the chants started. At first, a few started and then seconds later the unmissable sound of “Pogi! Pogi!” rang out - across the Port - on all sides. That football stadium noise with the beauty of the biggest cycling race in the world. And then he passed gloriously in his yellow and the Tour was done.
By 8pm, the crowds were gone, the riders were off to their parties, and the forklift trucks were moving into position to clear away the railings. The dreams were done, and the city was already moving on.
Yes, yellow signs stayed up on bus and tram stops. And the empty stands were still standing proud Monday morning along with the scaffold structures littered across the city to accommodate the public. But they were empty and soulless, and the only thing left to do was wait for the riggers.
And I think that is the thing here.
The Tour de France is an event. It has a start, a middle and an end like all events. In many ways it is no different to the Olympics and the World Cup. But it is. Because for many of us, it lives in us for 344 days until the next one. It is like a little germ that pops up the moment the Giro finishes - that ignites our soul beyond that scaffolding or posters. The Tour starts with the plastic toys and Haribo thrown at our heads during the Caravan and ends with that yellow jersey (skinsuit does not sound right). It really is a religion for many, and yes it is absolutely fine for mortals to not care or understand. But we do and that bonds us together beyond the sport.
I watched this year's race with my father-in-law, one of those mortals not touched by Bianchi or Pinarello. But I like to think he is going back home thinking Le Tour is something special. Because it is, and despite us both sitting up watching lorries and forklift trucks moving barriers into the night - those 24 hours in Nice were and will always be a moment in time.
Member discussion