The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1764 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Despite getting a flight over to Paris, by the time we’d checked in to our hotel, the Há´tel Ritz, it was too late to get to Chartres for the individual time trial. So instead we had a light meal and a walk along the river.

Then we wandered along part of the course including in front of the Louvre, the museum and art gallery which featured in the Da Vinci Code. We looked at the glass pyramid just like the guy, Robert Langdon, from the film did, though personally, I didn’t think Mary Magdalene was buried there.

We watched them doing the final preparations for the race for a little while, just enjoying being on our own. However, I called home and David assured me that Catherine was fine–she gurgled down the phone to me and laughed when I spoke to her. I also called Julie who told me they were having an ace time, and she’d met this really nice bloke called, Miguel. I then rang Henry and he roared with laughter, the little cow had set me up–it was all a fiction. I’ll kill her when they get home.

We changed and had dinner at the hotel. This was the same one that Diana and Dodi had gone from when they were so tragically killed in the road traffic accident in Paris in 1997. I mused on this while we were waiting for our first course, but I didn’t share it with Simon, who might think I was complaining. I wasn’t simply orienting myself in this lovely old and deliciously expensive hotel, which boasts amongst its guests Ernest Hemmingway who stayed there for some time, and the fashion designer, Coco Chanel.

Both have an interest for me, I’ve read a few of Hemmingway’s novels though found his romantic view of the Spanish Civil war a serious contrast to Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, which was written as a biographical experience of the war from the rebel’s point of view. Orwell was badly injured in the war, being shot in the throat.

My head was reeling all this history and places or people to see or think about and we watched Brad Wiggin’s time trial, where he was again the stage winner. His lead was unassailable barring some disaster like an accident or sudden illness, he would be crowned King of the Tour, tomorrow after the final stage into Paris.

We spent the morning after an early breakfast of eggs on toast, cereal and fruit juice, and snaffling an apple and a banana for emergency supplies, walking round the streets of Paris, along with thousands of others. There were Union Jacks aplenty as Brits gathered near the turn just below the Arc de Triomphe. We chatted with some of them–they’d come from all over, some planning it for months, others getting on the Eurostar and arriving that morning to be part of the historic achievement of Team Sky. Some weren’t even bike racing fans, but wanted to share the moment, especially as the Sky riders had announced they wanted to set up Cav for a crack at making it four in a row–four wins on this stage, that is.

We had a lunch in a street cafe and suitably fortified went off to find our seats–yeah, we had seats near the finish line–okay, sometimes it pays to have a few quid. If it was any consolation to those standing against the barriers down the road, the seats were damned uncomfortable.

We followed the course of the stage on the big screens and when they entered Paris, led by Team Sky, they allowed George Hincapie to lead the procession as it was his final tour and he returns to the States to deal with the Armstrong investigation.

Suddenly Jens Voigt decided to make a play for the stage and we watched as others joined his breakaway and the gap grew to thirty seconds. I could hardly bear to watch as it seemed the peloton would never catch them, and Cavendish’s blistering pace wouldn’t be seen.

They did eight circuits and it was on the penultimate that the sprint teams took control, pulled back the breakaways and set themselves in train for the climax. I gasped as we watched the yellow jersey lead out the Sky train down the Rue de Rivoli, for Boasson Hagen to take on the job and release the Manx Missile.

Cavendish went early and once they lit the blue touch paper the result was inevitable, no one could catch him though the likes of Sagan and Goss had a good try, and Cav got his fourth in a row sprint wins on the Champs Elysées, and his third of this tour.

I was jumping up and down and shrieking like a banshee for him to win while Simon was trying to pretend he wasn’t with me–so, I like my cycle racing–and I show my enthusiasm–volubly.

He did forgive me and I sat quietly while they made the presentations and stood as Lesley Garret sang God Save the Queen while wearing a dress which looked as if it had been made from a stolen flag–perhaps it had–anyway she sang it better than I could. I was naturally more casually dressed in some denim shorts and a tee shirt with a discreet Union Jack on it, and a TdF baseball cap, Simon bought me. I was glad to keep the sun out of my eyes, so it was doubly appreciated.

We waited while Team Sky did a ride up and down the road waving flags and applauded Wiggo’s achievement–and it was one, and he seemed really down to earth about it. His spontaneous address to the crowd afterwards was quite funny, about they were going to draw the raffle prizes and then he added, don’t drink too much and a safe journey home. A very British understatement and reaction to claiming the largest prize in cycling.

Simon and I wandered back to the Há´tel Ritz and I had a bath while he consumed a Pimms. We cuddled for a bit and I think I might have fallen asleep when he prodded me and told me to make myself beautiful as he’d booked a table in the Imperial dining room, which is apparently the place to eat.

The food was brilliant and I had to resist the sweets with great determination, they looked so mouth-watering. In the end after much pressure from Si, I had a sorbet to shut him up while he stuffed himself with gateau–this on top of a lobster thermidor–of which I accused him of murder. I had wonderful lamb dish and he retaliated by asking how they’d got the sheep in the oven for my dinner.

We had a couple of glasses of wine followed by coffees and then we went up to the room. To say I felt replete would be an understatement–I was so full, I felt stuffed to the gills, from the knees upwards.

We changed and lay on the bed cuddling and dozing and I thanked Simon for such a lovely weekend. Then we made love or tried to, but we were both still too full to feel athletic enough to actually consummate the holiday.

Then just as we began to get it together my mobile rang, I answered it despite Simon’s protests because it was Trish’s phone calling me.

“Hello, darling...” I started.

Julie’s voice interrupted, “Er, Houston we have a problem...”