Christmas in July

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Just as Christmas comes each December, and with it the anticipation and joy of the season, so the Tour de France comes each July. For what seems like forever, this means I get on a plane a week from now and fly to Paris, rent some sort of fast sturdy vehicle, and head off to find my press credential. Then I spend the next 23 days chasing the bike race around France. The month of July and road-tripping around France are synonymous in my mind, so much so that it seems weird to be staying home this year.

It's not that I don't what I'll do with myself, it's just that it's been so long that I've passed a July in the United States that this year will be something of a novelty. And it's not that I'll miss the bike race -- on the contrary, I will see much more of it on television here than I would at the Tour. There, it's common to spend the day driving, arriving at the finish just an hour in front of the racers. Then it's a quick mouthful of food at the press buffet, and on to the interview room. In fact, I'm rather looking forward to hearing Liggett and Sherwen calling the race. It'll be a nice change of pass after hearing it in French. 

No, what's weird about staying home this year is that I will miss France. I've done a bit of soul searching on this matter, and I can tell you that the bike race itself ranks a distant second to the small towns and pleasant restaurants you stumble into while covering the Tour. I will miss the trail runs on old Alpine forest paths, and eating out in the open air surrounded by people speaking a dozen different languages. I will miss the stale sweat smell of the press room as we travel through the balmy South of France, and I will miss the little nip into Italy this year. The bike race will be there forever, as will France. But France in July has become so second-nature that the entire country feels like a sort of second home.

But I need a break. Part of the wonder of covering endurance sports is seeing it through fresh eyes. When everything is fresh and new the senses are open, exploring and listening and soaking in the nuances that bombard you. That holds true at the Ironman and the Tour de France and even the Trans-Rockies Stage Race. But when you cover an event two or three or four years in a row, a level of weary cynicism sets in. At the Tour, for instance, I stay at the Hotel Cristina in Lourdes when the Tour hits the Pyrenees. There is a river out front and a nice cafe just to the right of the main door. I look forward to that hotel every year. But last year, as if dashing from the bike race, I found a reason to sally further down the road that night. There were too many Tour tourists (those who come to watch, and can often get downright annoying) in Lourdes, and I wanted to be in a place where nobody cared what had happened at the Tour that day.

So maybe next year I go back, and with fresh eyes. Maybe I'll take my wife again, and we can see a different side of the Tour together (last time she came with me it rained every day; it would be nice for her to feel the sunshine of Aix on her face).  Or maybe I'll find some other new event to cover. Either way, I'll be back at the Tour sooner or later. It gets in your blood, and once you've spent July in France it is hard to imagine being anywhere else. 

Keep pushing... always.

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