La chance, c’est comme le Tour de France. On l’attend longtemps et ça passe vite. Quand le moment vient, faut sauter la barrière sans hésiter.
[Luck is like the Tour de France. You wait, and it flashes by you. You have to catch it while you can.]
-Monsieur Dufayel in Le fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain
Once again, I’ve let the Tour de France flash by without catching it. What’s up with wanting to follow the Tour de France anyway? Well, I figure I fancy cyclists (Scott, Tamao and Sue, the Robert-Barry-Montana triple threat, the bike cooks of Los Angeles, the king of New York, the cutters of Bloomington…) and bicycles (the sleek and sexy Bianchi, the adorably tuckable Bike Friday, the robo-dynamic torque coupling Co-Motion, the tough and exotically elegant Bambucicletas…) so maybe I could get into cycling? And the Tour de France is, like, cycling with a capital “C.” Plus I have a vague notion that it’s an event rooted in myth, passion, and drama, set against beautiful landscapes, and while I’m not really into sport, I’m a total sucker for myth, passion, drama, and beauty.
Anyway, this year, I came closer to catching it than ever before: the relevant BBC Sport page remained open in my browser a good couple of weeks, patiently waiting for me to peruse it, and I actually called a local sports pub to inquire about commandeering their TV. The doping scandals that dominated the news, however, proved an insurmountable barrier to entry for someone just trying to pick up the lingo and figure out how the dadgummed contest is supposed to work.
Instead I enjoyed following my mum’s very own 2007 tour de France. A passionate secondary school French teacher, she won a fellowship and planned an entire summer of intensive language and culture studies. Next thing you know she’s blogging about her adventures and Skyping me from across the Atlantic. Shucks, I’m proud! I made this map for her.
La Danse en Rond: Sylvie’s 2007 Tour de France
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around Corvallis, and yesterday my odometer ticked past 600. Now, this little 500 isn’t a great distance to travel, geographically speaking, for that stretch of time (three-and-a-half months to do the equivalent of Corvallis–Berkeley** is hardly impressive by contemporary standards), but psychically speaking, it means I’ve come a long way, baby, as a car-free bicycle commuter for peace.
