![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleLongest stage of the Tour. Oh, that sounds like fun, doesn't it?
Breakaway of twenty-one riders, and they're over nine minutes away, which, Phil Liggett tells me, is the biggest time gap this year. Well, when you've got twenty people to share the work with you, I guess it's not surprising. Cheerfully, we're passing the spot on the Col de Portet d'Aspet where a mostly run-of-the-mill crash killed 1992 Olympic gold medal winner Fabio Casartelli in 1995. There's a monument here to his memory with a sundial that illuminates the day and time he died. I wish it did that for the day he was born, but it's beautiful, either way.
The descent is not particularly fast, nor scary, and this time, everyone comes through safely. The landscape is gorgeous, and the weather is to match. And Ask Bobke has just answered a burning question I know I certainly had. I know how riders pee when they have to during the stage. But: "For the full monty," they can pull over and ask to borrow a spectator's camper bathroom. *laughing* And now we know. (The illustrative rider apparently had had bad gastrointestinal problems on the day in question. But it IS a brilliant solution.)
The roads are slightly narrow, perhaps, but the breakaway and peloton are untroubled. Astana is pushing the pace of the peloton for Nibali, as ever, but no one in the breakaway is a serious threat to him. It's 39km to the end, and they don't need to worry just yet. They'll have to worry when the peloton gets to the descent on the last mountain of the day.
The breakaway, however, is making more of a commotion. They've started the climb, and, as climbs do, the group's starting to fracture. Europecar's Kévin Reza, being the only black man in the race, is hard to miss in the front, supporting teammate Thomas Voeckler. But the Porte de Bales, this mountain, really doesn't give a damn for your puny plans, humans. From twenty one, we're down to twelve, now. And now six, with a few desperate riders falling clinglingly off the back. One even manages to come back. Voeckler tries an attack, but he's caught in mere seconds. He's not giving up, though-- he is absolutely determined to try to win this stage. It'd be the third time winning in this particular town, and no one's done that since, I'm told, 1961. One way or the other, he'll never pay for a drink in France again.
4k to the top of the climb. Cyril Gautier, of Europcar, is trying to make a name for himself. Saxobank's Australian rider Michael Rogers, Lampre's José Serpa, and Voeckler aren't yet fazed. They know they can catch him without killing themselves, and soon enough, the four are together again.
Back behind them, Movistar is trying to move Alejandro Valverde into contention for the GC, keeping him near Nibali. Behind them, well, it's going to be another day when the last riders come in after all the prizes have been given and the press has packed their lenses.
Gautier has destroyed himself, and though he's trying desperately to hang on, he watches the other three of his group slip away. Voeckler doesn't exactly need him: with the three remaining riders working together, he's going to have someone to draft him. And once they get to the summit, he's an amazing descender, and he'll need no help there.
Sad news: American BMC rider Tejay Van Garderen, fifth in the GC, seems to have cracked. Come on, guy: get it together-- we're rooting for you! He's not the only one-- the road is littered with guys who look like the road under their bikes is made of cookie dough.
Lots of wind as they come up to the summit. I suppose the screaming crowds are a bit of a windbreak, but it's a trade-off: they're very close, and very loud. The summit comes closer and closer-- can Voeckler take the points and start the descent first? Serpa is all of a sudden not screwing around, and unexpectedly pips them both. As they get ready for the descent, Voeckler grabs a bottle from his soigneur-- and nearly topples as a result-- as the men grab newspapers (to put over their sweaty chests so the wind of the lightning descent doesn't get them sick), zip up their jerseys, and get down to it. So to speak.
Watching the top riders descend is exhilarating, beautiful, and wholly terrifying. They're topping out at about 60mph, tucked down over their handlebars, nearly in free fall, and still pedaling to go yet faster. It's mesmerising to watch, until you think about what happens should they fall.
Oh, FFS. Is it Rogers, trying to get away? There's a fucking press car in front of him where it emphatically SHOULD NOT BE. There should be NO cars in these gaps between riders on a descent, but this looks like the little silver hatchback is panicking as it's being chased by a guy on a bike. No, it's not Rogers. Was it Nibali??
Jesus. Our front three are now five, and they are not screwing around. Well, no one is. Everyone is going SO fast now, on these narrow, sinuous roads cut into the side of the mountains. In small groups and singles, they whip through the course, 45mph in the corners, 60mph in the straights. Gaultier is back, and now he has taken off. Rogers follows, and then shoots past him. Vassil Kiriyenka of Sky is behind with the Voeckler, Serpa, and Voeckler. Rogers has the bit in his teeth, and he's racing for the stage win. He's in town now, and the flame rouge is over him! Does he have time? They're gaining on him! Can they catch him? One turn, another, 400 meters-- no. He knows he has it. And yes! He sits up, pumps his fists, then does a courtly bow over his handlebars.
Oh, but it ain't over yet. The race for the maillot jaune is still hot, as is the battle for Best Young Rider. Here comes the yellow jersey group-- safely-- and Alejandro Valverde is in it. He certainly has his eyes on the prize. Minutes later, BMC arrives, shepherding Tejay to save some precious seconds. He's slipped, but only to sixth, so it could have been much worse. Nibali collects his stuffed lion yet again, but he can't be sure he's going to collect one tomorrow. Or the next day: we have two more difficult mountain stages in a row, now.
A hot day. A good day. We'll see who's where tomorrow.
Breakaway of twenty-one riders, and they're over nine minutes away, which, Phil Liggett tells me, is the biggest time gap this year. Well, when you've got twenty people to share the work with you, I guess it's not surprising. Cheerfully, we're passing the spot on the Col de Portet d'Aspet where a mostly run-of-the-mill crash killed 1992 Olympic gold medal winner Fabio Casartelli in 1995. There's a monument here to his memory with a sundial that illuminates the day and time he died. I wish it did that for the day he was born, but it's beautiful, either way.
The descent is not particularly fast, nor scary, and this time, everyone comes through safely. The landscape is gorgeous, and the weather is to match. And Ask Bobke has just answered a burning question I know I certainly had. I know how riders pee when they have to during the stage. But: "For the full monty," they can pull over and ask to borrow a spectator's camper bathroom. *laughing* And now we know. (The illustrative rider apparently had had bad gastrointestinal problems on the day in question. But it IS a brilliant solution.)
The roads are slightly narrow, perhaps, but the breakaway and peloton are untroubled. Astana is pushing the pace of the peloton for Nibali, as ever, but no one in the breakaway is a serious threat to him. It's 39km to the end, and they don't need to worry just yet. They'll have to worry when the peloton gets to the descent on the last mountain of the day.
The breakaway, however, is making more of a commotion. They've started the climb, and, as climbs do, the group's starting to fracture. Europecar's Kévin Reza, being the only black man in the race, is hard to miss in the front, supporting teammate Thomas Voeckler. But the Porte de Bales, this mountain, really doesn't give a damn for your puny plans, humans. From twenty one, we're down to twelve, now. And now six, with a few desperate riders falling clinglingly off the back. One even manages to come back. Voeckler tries an attack, but he's caught in mere seconds. He's not giving up, though-- he is absolutely determined to try to win this stage. It'd be the third time winning in this particular town, and no one's done that since, I'm told, 1961. One way or the other, he'll never pay for a drink in France again.
4k to the top of the climb. Cyril Gautier, of Europcar, is trying to make a name for himself. Saxobank's Australian rider Michael Rogers, Lampre's José Serpa, and Voeckler aren't yet fazed. They know they can catch him without killing themselves, and soon enough, the four are together again.
Back behind them, Movistar is trying to move Alejandro Valverde into contention for the GC, keeping him near Nibali. Behind them, well, it's going to be another day when the last riders come in after all the prizes have been given and the press has packed their lenses.
Gautier has destroyed himself, and though he's trying desperately to hang on, he watches the other three of his group slip away. Voeckler doesn't exactly need him: with the three remaining riders working together, he's going to have someone to draft him. And once they get to the summit, he's an amazing descender, and he'll need no help there.
Sad news: American BMC rider Tejay Van Garderen, fifth in the GC, seems to have cracked. Come on, guy: get it together-- we're rooting for you! He's not the only one-- the road is littered with guys who look like the road under their bikes is made of cookie dough.
Lots of wind as they come up to the summit. I suppose the screaming crowds are a bit of a windbreak, but it's a trade-off: they're very close, and very loud. The summit comes closer and closer-- can Voeckler take the points and start the descent first? Serpa is all of a sudden not screwing around, and unexpectedly pips them both. As they get ready for the descent, Voeckler grabs a bottle from his soigneur-- and nearly topples as a result-- as the men grab newspapers (to put over their sweaty chests so the wind of the lightning descent doesn't get them sick), zip up their jerseys, and get down to it. So to speak.
Watching the top riders descend is exhilarating, beautiful, and wholly terrifying. They're topping out at about 60mph, tucked down over their handlebars, nearly in free fall, and still pedaling to go yet faster. It's mesmerising to watch, until you think about what happens should they fall.
Oh, FFS. Is it Rogers, trying to get away? There's a fucking press car in front of him where it emphatically SHOULD NOT BE. There should be NO cars in these gaps between riders on a descent, but this looks like the little silver hatchback is panicking as it's being chased by a guy on a bike. No, it's not Rogers. Was it Nibali??
Jesus. Our front three are now five, and they are not screwing around. Well, no one is. Everyone is going SO fast now, on these narrow, sinuous roads cut into the side of the mountains. In small groups and singles, they whip through the course, 45mph in the corners, 60mph in the straights. Gaultier is back, and now he has taken off. Rogers follows, and then shoots past him. Vassil Kiriyenka of Sky is behind with the Voeckler, Serpa, and Voeckler. Rogers has the bit in his teeth, and he's racing for the stage win. He's in town now, and the flame rouge is over him! Does he have time? They're gaining on him! Can they catch him? One turn, another, 400 meters-- no. He knows he has it. And yes! He sits up, pumps his fists, then does a courtly bow over his handlebars.
Oh, but it ain't over yet. The race for the maillot jaune is still hot, as is the battle for Best Young Rider. Here comes the yellow jersey group-- safely-- and Alejandro Valverde is in it. He certainly has his eyes on the prize. Minutes later, BMC arrives, shepherding Tejay to save some precious seconds. He's slipped, but only to sixth, so it could have been much worse. Nibali collects his stuffed lion yet again, but he can't be sure he's going to collect one tomorrow. Or the next day: we have two more difficult mountain stages in a row, now.
A hot day. A good day. We'll see who's where tomorrow.