The Tour de France in Mormant

Today was the last day of the Tour de France. The Tour is one of France's most popular national obsessions, preceded only by the sport of Hating Lance Armstrong.

The French will tell you that they hate Lance Armstrong because he dodges doping charges and is a jerk. But secretly, truthfully, the French hate Lance Armstrong because he won so many Tours, and he isn't French.

Why Lance Armstong is a Jerk has been a reoccurring topic of discussion with various friends and colleagues over the past three weeks. I can fill just about any awkward silence in a conversation just by stating: "How about that Lance Armstrong, huh?" and sitting back calmly while my companion rails.

I don't mind admitting that I support the American cyclist. He is a legend, after all. Seven Tours won, and third place this year isn't so bad, considering he's quite a bit older than most of his competitors now. That and the whole comeback from cancer, obviously.

With Lance's return to the Tour, David and I have been following the race closely this year. It's impossible to watch during the work day, of course, but on Saturdays and Sundays we did our chores and sports in the mornings, then parked in front of the tv to watch the Tour, only to doze off somewhere in the 60th kilometer.

I had hoped that the tour would pass within day-trip range of Paris, so that we might take a drive out to the countryside and see the Tour on one of those tranquil French ribbons of asphalt. But the timing never quite worked out - the Tour was always too far away on our free days. The last day is always in Paris, but I wasn't particularly keen on fighting the masses in Paris like my last trip to see the Tour a few years ago. So I devised a plan to see the last stage before it entered Paris and wrapped around the tourist-choked Champs-Elysees.

Today's stage started from Montereau-Fault-Yonne, about an hour south of Paris. David and I picked a village on the route, packed our picnic bag, and set off this morning. We arrived in the mid-sized village of Mormant around 1, parked our car outside the barricade, and walked into town.

The Tour passing through town was a big deal in Mormant, and we found a festive atmosphere at the town hall. We sat in the shadow of the hôtel de ville to eat our lunch and people watch, feeling like complete aliens in this town where everyone seemed to know each other. We were dressed casually, but I felt like everyone could tell that we were Parisians (that is, living closer to Paris then they do...as betrayed by our license plate), or worse, Americans.

Anyway, after lunch and watching a dozen-odd support cars roll by, we finally ambled to the street and situated ourselves on a corner in front of the hôtel de ville. Not packed 5-deep with over-excited fans, but shoulder to shoulder with the village locals. Definately worth the drive (of course, I wasn't the one driving, but David didn't seem to mind).

After a half hour of nervously watching the road to our left, when I was just about to burst with nervous anticipation, my trigger finger poised on the camera for far too long, we heard a strange thundering sound. We tore our eyes from the road and looked skyward as a low-flying helicopter with a camera mounted to its underbelly buzzed into view. Just then a few more motorcycles zipped by, then the peloton was upon us.

Watch out for Contador in yellow. Armstrong is a bit further back, right when my camera wanders to the right to follow him a little. With this low-quality video it's difficult to see him, but he's there. Look for the black socks.

Such excitement for only 30 seconds, but I relished every moment. I waved to Contador, who was casually talking to his neighbor, but facing my direction so he might as well have been looking at me, and got a good clear view of Lance (also having a friendly chat), and picked out a few other riders I recognized from the past weeks' coverage on the internet and tv.

Everyone knows that the last day of the Tour is a throwaway - by then the winner has pretty much been decided, and unless Contador broke a leg or similar, he had it in the bag. But I still expected to see intense faces, hard pedaling, and deep concentration. Instead, I witnessed casual coasting, fraternal joking, and merriment in general. I appreciated it, I liked to see the human side of the tour, and I guess it was easy going in the early kilometers of the stage because when we got home to watch the final stretch on the Champs Elysees, the riders looked quite a bit more focused.

The 3 hour round trip drive in the heat was strenuous enough for us today, and we lazily watched the end of the epic race lounging in our living room. Sure enough, David fell asleep and I had to poke him awake to see the finish.