To have been in Paris over the last week has been paradoxical. The day after the Time Trials last Sunday, I visited a friend to find him triple screening sport, with his whole flat and extended guests staring intently at a French fencing duel. In a similar vein to London 2012, Paris has appeared to embrace the unique sporting festival, each and every bar finding a television or just projecting France Television onto walls. In Leon Marchand, they have found a new cult hero for whom life will temporarily stop as he achieves yet another gold. On Saturday night, bar after bar saw crowds gathered outside, each human cluster peering at screens to see if national hopes could again be salvaged in the Judo. The respective roars from the pockets along the Avenue de la Republique, finally showed they could.
Yet at the same time, things are quiet. The streets, by-and-large have not been as bustling due to the annual summer exodus of Parisians that has been heightened by fear of Olympic overcrowding. That didn’t appear to have materialised, before Montmartre woke up on Saturday.
Having briefly caught the neutralised roll-out on the banks of the Seine, we arrived at the final climb of the day some four hours ahead of the race itself, at that time led by a breakaway some 15 minutes ahead. Yet the steep, cobbled climb up Rue Lepic was already lined out by people of the world, assembled since the early hours with chairs, cool bags and power banks to endure the long haul. Instead, we seized the wall and railings on the first corners of the descent, ready to see if the gaps sustained on each climb could possibly be held through our cobbled chicane.
Soon enough we were swarmed, crowds six deep, pavement space eroded by both the bodies who knew where to be, and the passers-by who didn’t. Yet everyone around was lured in, willing to capture the world’s best under their nose for only the cost of standing vaguely still. As the masses gathered, elbows sharpened for space you didn’t realise existed, manspreading on behalf of shop-hunting friends. As the race drew nearer, phone signals ground to a shuddering halt, the last update showed Ben Healy alone up front, where he liked it, where he won big, where he was now always a marked man.
On the first of three ascents, that’s where he remained with Alexey Lutsenko behind slowly drifting towards an improvised selection of riders seeking head-starts over the favourites. Politt, Küng, Wright, Madouas, Mongolia’s Jambaljamts Sainbayar. Then came the protagonists: Van der Poel with Van Aert grimacing on his wheel, Alaphilippe trying desperately to latch on, then what remained of a peloton, strung out by riders having sacrificed themselves for their teammates of country or sponsor. Later came Matej Mohorič, his punctured bicycle having left him desolate from company on the hillside.
With the race frantic up front, rider identification came easier with those whose races were effectively over, whose faces were most well-worn, and not buried over their handlebars. Michael Mørkøv’s job was done, as was potentially his career on the road. The only man older than him was Yukiya Arashiro, 40 next month. Lap after lap he rode on, aware that, despite no retirement announcement, this would still surely be his final Games. Again the sole Japanese entrant at a major event, his tactic was well-worn, to conserve his energy and simply hold on, hold on until the strongest set a pace he could not follow, at which point he would ride alone until he found company, finishing with Sainbayar among others.
On our chicane the atmosphere intensified, Belgian, Dutch and Danish fans swarmed the roadside, the occasional French attempt to restart an “Allez Les Bleus” met only with the loud Belgian call that didn’t need its own response. “REM-CO” one man would scream, “REM-CO” the dozens would shout back. Amidst their group, Kronenbourg proved popular, its copious consumption requiring water bottles be repurposed to the relief and disgust of all those in proximity. This is what this Belgian prodigy has done, he has exported a whole degree of fandom to a level of fanaticism that can be compared to a football ‘ultra’. He is their man for this moment, indeed any moment; his attack was inevitable. On the second ascent of Montmartre only Madouas from the earlier move could stay with him, writhing a bike length behind before utilising Evenepoel’s tentative braking to stay with him. By the final ascent though the Belgian had gone clear, in a world of his own except for the swarming camera lenses seeking to rudely intrude.
It didn’t matter that news eventually spread of a puncture, or that Van der Poel had given up the chase with Van Aert stuck resolutely to his wheel. Evidence of past success proved again fitting for the new champion, the first to complete the Olympic double in 24 years. Gathered around whichever phone could find a suitable enough stream, the eventual celebrations proved euphoric. Among the Kronenbourg consumers, anyone and everyone bedecked in black, yellow and gold was someone to embrace, to hi-five and scream at until the voice was hoarse.
The rowdiest had dispersed when Charles Kagimu rode past some 25 minutes later with only the voiture balai for company. A lone survivor from the original break that once seemed so far ahead, the race was the longest of the Ugandan’s career, one he had completed to the applause and appreciation of all who remained, a reminder of the Olympics’ participatory cause that, even down to 90 riders, remained pertinent to the end.
For the women, the attrition of the parcours denied the eventual backmarkers the same uniform appreciation lap after lap, yet the peloton’s appreciation of the crowd was visible, visceral through grimaced smiles, arms thrown to the crowd through the narrow streets of Montmartre, riders occasionally turning and acknowledging when hearing their name called. The crowd the women faced was boisterous, chanting for hours beforehand anything and everything, Belgian fans of Lotte Kopecky were matched by those of Marianne Vos, whilst a sizable French contingent gathered in support of Juliette Labous, though broadening their appeal for forceful renditions of La Marseillaise and, still, the yearning rallying cry of ‘TiboPino’.
In contrast to the more stoic appearances of the men, the women of the peloton appear aware that they are sources of inspiration, that the continued growth of their sport, and indeed their careers, depends on them broadening the appeal of women’s racing in a way the men simply haven’t had to do. Sharing the wall on Saturday with a Belgian father, we heard how enthusiastic his young daughter’s adoration was for Lotte Kopecky, how she drew a picture to give the defending World Champion that Kopecky later shared on social media. Human off the bike, as she passed us on Rue Lepic, everything appeared almost mechanically within her control, even when events suggested otherwise.
On the first ascent of three, Kopecky was the strongest athlete on the climb, bridging to the front group that had forced a split after Chloe Dygert’s crash at the bottom had left her stranded. On Lap 2 she was attentive, denying Mavi Garcia any leeway to accelerate away for an unlikely solo cruise to victory on the climb, then eventually helping to reel in Pfeiffer Georgi’s initiative on the subsequent descent. Then on the final ascent, Kopecky was again in control, bridging with Kristin Faulkner to a powerful two-up attack of Marianne Vos and Blanka Vas, reactive rather than proactive, but surely setting up a manageable four rider sprint.
Faulkner’s attack with 3km to go was smart, coming when a tiring Vas could not close the gap for the remaining three, immediately embedding a ‘group 2 syndrome’ in Vos and Kopecky that left neither wanting to be the sacrificial lamb for 4th place. So it was instead Faulkner, watched through the phone screens of American exiles on Rue Lepic who took gold, while the superior sprinters of Vos and Kopecky denied the talented Hungarian the most decorated achievement on her palmares.
That aforementioned Parisian paradox was reignited on a calm walk home from the tourist trap of Montmartre’s Basilica, on streets slowly emptying out on a Sunday evening. Suddenly a dozen people stood outside a bar, forcing us to stop on the pavement and watch. An elderly woman braked loudly on her bike beside us shouting not for us to move, but only to say ‘C’est Flo?’ Where Leon Marchand is the poster boy of the Games, Florent Manaudou is the poster boy of France, flagbearer for the opening ceremony, again an individual swimming medallist at his fourth Olympic Games. Here his freestyle leg gave France bronze in the team medley, received with polite applause rather than cheers for the expectant crowd only a few kilometres away.
In pockets of the city, and in people’s attention, the Olympics appear to have warmed the hearts of a French public, a public convinced that the typical summer exile is worth missing for just one year. Over the weekend, the road cycling filled the other public’s void, bringing in hordes of new supporters from the continent and beyond, to cheer, in part, for their favourite riders, whose names remain etched onto flags, cardboard and cobbled roads. But given the criticism levelled on the internet towards the directorial decision-making of the host broadcasters, they also best illustrate the alternative of being on the road for the mere spectacle exists, for the novelty and the joy of an Olympic event open to the masses, out along the open roads.
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