As I began drafting this, Sarah Gigante had just come second overall on the stage and general classification of the Tour de France Femmes (avec Zwift, can’t forget avec Zwift) after a monster effort on the bike. ‘Dancing on the pedals’ as Phil Liggett would say, having reached into her ‘suitcase of courage’ as Paul sherwen would have concurred. Cycling is the most beautiful sport in the world and you cannot convince me otherwise.
We’ve been traversing France for the Tour de France hommes this year, taking in the Grand Depart in Lille and the grand finale in Paris. While not all my readers may care for the sport or understand it (cycling can be more complex than it first seems), what I wanted to do was try and take you roadside. Because so many ask me why I watch, or why I attend races, and even find the idea of me being interested in the sport perplexing in itself.
Lille, Saturday 5 July 2025: we walked along the Rue Pierre Mauroy past Avenue President John Fitzgerald Kennedy until we found a seemingly quiet stretch of road. Settling in to take in the pre-race caravan, we suddenly were no longer alone – and I never expected us to be for very long. A wealth of British fans descended, flags of Yorkshire, Isle of Man, Stroud and Wales proudly flying high in the sky. Across the road, a Canadian flag, a Norwegian, an Australian. Four Dutchwomen set up next to us, two doing coffee runs for the group and the others brushing up on their cheers while they waited. A global sport, the streets become a melting pot of cultures and accents from across the globe cheering out for their rider and their team. The sky was dove grey, obscuring the sun from fully reaching through, prime spectating conditions given you don’t run the risk of getting burnt or overheating.
The pre-race caravan is a pseudo-pageant of floats/cars/mopeds promoting the sponsors of the race. Think: fruit-shaped cars, giant chickens, motorised detergent bottles spraying cleaning liquid into the crowd. Yep, this is all totally normal – and people go wild for it. A mild scuffle broke out between two spectators next to us over, if I remember correctly, a biscuit thrown from a float, and again over a Park Asterix ruler. The procession takes roughly 40-50 minutes and it’s some of the most eccentric and confusing 40-50 minutes you can experience. Car horns blazing, Freed From Desire playing from every third float, promo workers hyping the crowd up with cheers and chants.
As they departed, there remained roughly an hour before the actual cyclists themselves came through the streets. Rather than staying sat on the side of the road on a somewhat dusty piece of pavement, we strolled further down towards Park Jean-Baptiste Lebas where we found a marching band and bagpipers alongside the Porte de Paris.
Come 1:15PM, the riders cruised by at slow and close range, neutralised behind the race directors car. At the front, all the national champions led the procession, followed by Geraint Thomas, Tadej Pogacar and Jonas Vingegaard closely behind. Two Belgians - I assume - were extremely excited to have seen Wout van Aert before their own eyes, screaming like they’d seen a pop star. I loved hearing and seeing it. After they departed, fantastic Australian photographer Zac of ZW Photography was crossing the road and we gave him a shout as we walked past. You always find your own no matter where you are.
The streets of Lille took on a party atmosphere, shut to traffic because the race literally blocked in all the roads to the city centre as it departed one way, at the same time preparations were in place for them to return the other way. There were curbside beer tastings, baguettes being nibbled on alongside cheese and small goods on real and makeshift balconies. People were everywhere, a sea as far as the eye could look. Even former world time trial champion Fabian Cancellara was spotted amongst the action as we sought to take a seat at a nearby restaurant, eventually ordering a champagne and beer respectively – the ultimate feed zone feed.
As the race reproached Lille for the finish, we managed to find a space on the barriers (front row), a few hundred metres from the finish line where the riders would roll through at a slower pace. Any cricket fans out there? Basically, a space kind of like the nets where you can watch them cool down and chat to their team. We cheered for the Australians – shout out to Luke Plapp who gave us a smile as he went past – and ended up in the background of Scandinavian TV interviews. We yelled out to SBS Australian TV, who didn’t hear us. Moral of the story? The atmosphere is contagious and even the most composed of fan gets taken in by the fanfare. After all, it is the GRAND Depart for a reason.
Stage 21 in Paris. Slightly different weather. Actually, let’s cut the shit: the weather was horrendous. I have never stood in the rain for so long and I lived in Wales for university.
I forget how tremendous the roadblocks and security precautions are for the stage that takes in essentially every major monument in Paris. Roads close kilometres from the finish line, police checking bags from streets away. It’s a process I understand and sympathise with the French for having to undertake, but blimey – does it cause some headaches even for those of us who plan and leave hours ahead! Once you’ve secured your spot on the Champs Élysées, one doesn’t move. This is your terrain. Elbows out Mark Cavendish, keep firm-but-friendly on the barriers and wait for the rush to come through!
As they parade the avenue, the caravan don’t throw out any freebies this time. Its final procession is ceremonial in its own sense. It’s also a logistical nightmare and ends up with several traffic jams as the floats traverse the Arc de Triomphe roundabout and the narrow course. As this is happening, I can’t help but feel a change is in the air: the wind has picked up, the sky has significantly darkened, my yellow summer dress suddenly seems not the best choice. But hey, I’m at the Tour de France. Nothing can ruin my day.
A quartet of British fans set up camp behind us, Scouse and Welsh accents combining. One brought out his flag to “say hello to the other Welsh people” across the road. I appreciated the energy, and Brits are simply infectious when you’re around them. Then came the racers, Pogacar and his UAE Team leading the peloton up the famous stretch of road for the first time, resplendent in his Mailiot Jaune. The army planes drew their Tricolore in the sky, a blink and you’ll miss it detail. As the peloton came back down towards Place de la Concorde, it was game on: time to form a breakaway. And as they raced the streets of Paris, us spectators were in a different type of race: the race against the clouds above. And my dear readers, I’m sorry to say we lost, embarrassingly so. Our optimism washed away with the downpour that came three laps in.
I stood firm on the barriers maintaining that I had travelled halfway across the world specifically for this stage of this race as rain the heaviest I have ever stood in drenched me. My dress started to become transparent. Damian had disappeared. I was shivering. Questioning and begging and bargaining with a higher power for the rain to stop. And then I gave in and the Nike store was my refuge for lap five. €100 and a shell jacket later, I returned to the outside, still manifesting the rain’s respite, which came after another lap of racing.
Every other spectator seemed to have bought the last umbrellas in Paris, yet dry skies prevailed for the final lap. We watched Wout van Aert pound the pavement of Montmartre before returning to the Champs on my phone, thanks to the gods of streaming at France TV2 and then saw the dregs of the riders come through after the finish, completely spent, three weeks of racing in their legs. Vive le Tour, they say. Next year, we Femmes.
Attending a stage of the TdF is a bucket list item for me…thanks for sharing your incredible experience; I felt like I was there. Love seeing close ups of the riders, and the caravan!