This is about a small country village of some 700 inhabitants, tucked peacefully away in Brittany somewhere along that breadth-taking beautiful stretch of coastline known as la Côte d’Émeraude or the Emerald Coast. In truth, few things have ever really changed in this part of the world, oh to be sure, many years ago they filmed a swashbuckling-type movie at a nearby castle and indeed a few stars where seen being whisked through town but with that exception, there’s been the occasional car accident, usually involving a tourist, some low level truancy and of course the usual summer tourist falling off the high rocky cliffs. Quite frankly, other than that, very little has upset the natural ebb and flow of daily life in this village that is until one day when the mayor proudly anounced that they had been chosen as a ville de stage for the Tour de France. It was an event of seismic proportion and one that proved to be a life changing moment for everyone.
There are likely only a few things that truly stir the passion in Frenchmen, young and old, as much as the world famous Tour de France. Years ago, legendary names such as Anquetil and Poulidor literally divided France, right down to the smallest village, even families were emotionally split into two rival camps. Today the passions remains as strong, if not stronger, of course with different heroes the likes of iron man Lance Armstrong, recent Tour winner Alberto Contador or the Frenchman, Christophe Riblon. For every Frenchman who has a favorite cycliste, the Tour de France is an event of passion, high drama and emotion, discussed at great lengths in cafes or argued in smoky Bar-Tabac over beers and endless cigarettes. Although the climax of this exhausting, marathon event culminates on the grand Avenues des Champs-Élysées, the emotional battles are fought tooth-and-nail by brave men, one stage after the next, throughout the French countryside.
Having written an occasional human interest story for my local paper, the editor inquired if I was interested in pedalling over to the Côtes-d’Armor in the western part of France and do some sleuthing for a background piece on the upcoming Tour de France. I knew this was an important event near and dear to the hearts and minds of every self respecting Frenchman. Yet here in the U.S. my impression was that the level of interest was pretty close to where soccer (European football) was some twenty odd years ago. In other words, if a football, basketball or hockey game was on the big screen why in the world would you want to watch a bike race.
The editor interrupted my deep thoughts, “you speak French, right?” he barked, I assured him I did “well then find out what all this excitements’ about, get behind the story, look for the human interest angle and all the BS that goes with it, just don’t tell me how to build a GD bike or strategies to win some bicycle race. I’m in the business of selling newspapers, every damn day so don’ t forget that.” He added “one more thing ace, no four star hotels or fancy restaurants on my dime. Just come back with a story.”
It was becoming increasingly clear to me that with the Tour de France six months away, the anticipation was slowly but ever so surely building a head of steam and beginning to permeate the daily ritual of the inhabitants in this “stage” town. Whether it was over a bol de café and a croissant while reading the sports section in Ouest France or standing in line for a baguette at the Boulangerie-pattiserie, the Tour was becoming the only talk of the town. It was almost as important as the weather! Madame at the Boulangerie said the upcoming event was nothing short of a crisis for her and she had no idea how to handle the anticipated volume in baguettes, demis, couronnes, croissants and patisseries, she has been having nightmares ever since the announcement but her doctor has prescribed her a “calmant” which she said had helped. At the Boucherie-Charcuterie, Monsieur Daliot appeared to be ahead of the game and had already posted a sign reminding customers to kindly place their special orders well in advance of the event. Monsieur Dalio, in his stained white butchers bib confided in me, as he was busy ficeler-ing un rôti, that his customers seemed to have gone, in his words, un peut fou with planning special celebrations for the weeks leading up and after the event. He added that he would be hiring a junior butcher from Rennes. One of his customers had informed him that her entire extended family including those from Quimper and Lorient were arriving a month ahead of time with their camping trailers and tents. He shrugged his shoulders and returned to slicing a country ham. End of conversation.
I continued my investigation by going next door to the cafe bar Chez Pamplouse which advertised free wifi in large letters on the front door. A song by Pierre Perret was coming from the jukebox, and the jumbo screen had a bike race on from somewhere in North Africa. No other customers seemed to be around. Sitting at the bar I ordered a petit café and cognac and bought a Calva for Marcel, the owner, who stopped his energetic cleaning the counter just long enough for me to ask him a few questions.
“Behein oui, we are all excited to be sure, I mean this event could make my entire saison d’un seul coup, so I am very optimistic, I have even invested in a super large flat screen TV.” There was a picture behind the bar of a much younger Marcel in a green and yellow bike jersey holding an armful of flowers and flanked on either side by two blonde beauties.
“So you were a cycliste and a champion as well?”I inquired.
Marcel grinned a little embarrassed “that was so many years ago before I hurt myself, you know one bad spill et voila, on est terminé.”
She stopped and put her scissors downs and said “mais Monsieur, let me tell you something: I have been cutting and styling hair for over twenty years now, first in Paris where I received my certificat and completed my own stages, and of course at a salon de beauté in Rennes before marrying my husband and coming here. I have never seem so much euphorie in my life.”
I finished her statement with a question “so is this a good thing for everyone, for you, for the town, I mean?”
She resumed her clipping, “bon, je vais vous dire quelque chose, mon mari Henri and I have alread (she lowered her voice at this point) invested in four brand new ergonomic styling chairs, the very latest from Germany which are expected to arrive at the Lamballe station sometime next month and, de plus, we are adding a large plasma screen television.” In a triumphant note she added “voila Monsieur c’est finis” and spun me around to show off her handy work. The hair cut looked like, well, she seemed so pleased with herself that I paid her, said thank you and left wishing that I had brought along a hat or even a beret.
“The arrival of the Tour de France”, the mayor noted leaning forward for emphasis “in our own backyard is nothing short of miraculous and comes at a time in our village’s history when we need it the most. I can tell you, in no uncertain terms Monsieur, that my office will do whatever it takes to extract the utmost economic benefit from this blessing; yes, I call it a blessing for that’s what it is.”
I probed, “Madame mayor, for example, how are you planning to prepare for this blessed event?”
The mayor sat back in her chair “well, for one thing we will be adding a police presence which we plan on having sur place at least a month ahead of the event.”
I nodded my head thinking smart move mayor, and scribbled furiously “anything else” I asked?
“Yes we are adding a paramedic team thanks to a mutual aid compact with the town of Erquy and of course we are adding 500 hundred portable bathrooms which will be placed along the race course to preserve the delicate coastal ecosystem but there are many other things that the town is doing as well as the cumulative efforts of each and every petit commerçant, this is an opportunity of a lifetime Monsieur!”
I didn’t know if I was expected to stand, salute or sing the Marseillaise after such a passionate display so we ended up shaking hands and exchanging emails instead.
My follow-up to this piece of investigative journalism
Tour de France Stage de Velo hits home