Here’s something that happened last Sunday in Paris during my amazing day with the Luxembourg car in the Tour de France Publicity Caravan.
-After following the course past the Louvre, Tuileries Garden, Place de la Concorde, up the Champs Elysees and around the Arc de Triomphe, then back down the Champs to the Place—all of it lined six-deep with eager cycling fans, our car pulled into a barricaded-off parking area for the caravan’s 200-plus vehicles. There’s a bit of fun, end-of-Tour mayhem as the caravan’s young folk chase each other around the vehicles, squirting each other with water and just letting off some steam.
They’ve driven some 5,000 miles in the previous three weeks, not only each day’s racecourse—during which they smile and wave, toss swag to the crowd and in general, be the appealing face of Luxembourg—but also the many miles between each stage’s location. Just the day before, after caravanning the day’s stage, they’d driven some 400 miles from the Alps to Versailles. Their days are so full that they pretty much never get to see the race itself.
Personally, I had no steam to let off, plus I’m 30 years older than most of them so I wasn’t inclined to get in on the chasing and squirting. Besides, I was already drenched myself. Just before parking, our car was water-bombed twice by another vehicle. (I’m not sure by whom; it might’ve been the Madeleines float.) So much so that not only were my clothes soaked but everything in my wallet was wet and in my running shoes, my feet had that inches-deep-of-water feeling.
So I went to have me a look-see around. How close were we to the finish line? (The racers wouldn’t arrive in Paris for another hour or so.) Can I get some good pictures? Are we close to the obelisk and those fountains at the Place de la Concorde? I took note too, of the poor slobs—that is, fans—lining the racecourse on the other side of the barricades that surrounded the caravan. What chumps, I thought to myself. Packed in like sardines. Sweaty and no doubt stinky as hell on this brutally hot July afternoon. Earlier, I’d heard that we caravan folks would have a special area from which to watch the racers pass by on their multiple circuits. I had to admit: life was much better on this side of the barricades.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a gendarme charges toward me, yelling for me to get back on the other side of the barrier. (I assume that’s what he was yelling; it was in French.) Apparently, he thinks I’m one of them—the folks on the other side—and that I’ve climbed over the barricade and am now trying to pass myself off as one of the caravan people.
“But I’m with the Luxembourg car,” I plead.
And pretty much as soon as I hear my own American-English, born-and-raised-in-New-Jersey voice say these words, I know I’m done for. I have no credentials; no cool, laminated I.D. badge thingee around my neck. I’m just a 51-year-old American who’s soaking wet for some reason and is hanging around near the caravan vehicles. I wouldn’t have believed me either. And given what happened at this year’s Boston Marathon, I can’t blame the gendarme’s overzealousness. My hosts from Luxembourg’s Ministry of Tourisme rush over to plead my case, but to no avail. Without credentials or an I.D. badge I’m not supposed to be there.
With the gendarme’s hand in the middle of my back pushing me forward, I’m forced to the other side of the barricades and left to fend for myself.
Just like everyone else.
-After following the course past the Louvre, Tuileries Garden, Place de la Concorde, up the Champs Elysees and around the Arc de Triomphe, then back down the Champs to the Place—all of it lined six-deep with eager cycling fans, our car pulled into a barricaded-off parking area for the caravan’s 200-plus vehicles. There’s a bit of fun, end-of-Tour mayhem as the caravan’s young folk chase each other around the vehicles, squirting each other with water and just letting off some steam.
Personally, I had no steam to let off, plus I’m 30 years older than most of them so I wasn’t inclined to get in on the chasing and squirting. Besides, I was already drenched myself. Just before parking, our car was water-bombed twice by another vehicle. (I’m not sure by whom; it might’ve been the Madeleines float.) So much so that not only were my clothes soaked but everything in my wallet was wet and in my running shoes, my feet had that inches-deep-of-water feeling.
“But I’m with the Luxembourg car,” I plead.
And pretty much as soon as I hear my own American-English, born-and-raised-in-New-Jersey voice say these words, I know I’m done for. I have no credentials; no cool, laminated I.D. badge thingee around my neck. I’m just a 51-year-old American who’s soaking wet for some reason and is hanging around near the caravan vehicles. I wouldn’t have believed me either. And given what happened at this year’s Boston Marathon, I can’t blame the gendarme’s overzealousness. My hosts from Luxembourg’s Ministry of Tourisme rush over to plead my case, but to no avail. Without credentials or an I.D. badge I’m not supposed to be there.
Just like everyone else.
