It’s a slow climb out of bed for many of us still struggling to fill the late-night void left by 169 finishers who covered 3500-odd colossal kilometres in France.
But what now for weekend warriors, the legions of Saturday morning cyclists who have ridden the rivet on sofas and sprinted to the fridge during ad breaks for three weeks straight?
The lack of sleep is sadly not the only reason for my comatosed state, it’s the persistent talk of drug taking that has permeated my body and the veins of many: Pantani, Ullrich, Armstrong and now, most gut-wrenching of all, Stuart O’Grady.
Stop the rot and get on your bike! Clip some cardboard to your wheels, time trial yourself around the block and make some noise. This is not the time to back-pedal to 1998.
Despite the juiced-up talk, the memories of this year’s Tour de France remain vivid and the discussion at the café is as invigorating as drinking alpine water from a spigot.
Gabrielle Gate fried fish, whipped up an omelet and crafted cheese quicker than Cav sent his missile into Tom Veelers during Stage 10. Ah, bike riding, it’s always appetising and I’m hungry for more.
The Sagan began more than three weeks ago when the world’s best cyclists straddled their iron horses on the island of Napoleon’s birthplace – a fitting place to begin battle.
21 stages of racing during the centenary of Le Grand Boucle was just what the Commissaire ordered, a perfect tonic to put a bit of distance between oneself and other sports.
Bound for Les Alps I left the Blues behind and The Ashes safely in the old enemy’s gloves, and put my trust in Rogers, Stuey, Gerro, Cadel, Gossy, Clarky and other Aussies to satiate my appetite all the way to the golden arch in Paris.
At the ‘front end of the main field’ Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwin never dropped their cadence. Around and around and around they went, the pair of mellifluous masters managing to reinvent the wheel of cycling commentary yet again. “Job done.”
Most talk of carbon concerned its composition in bike frames and wheel rims, not tax. ETS was replaced with SKY, AG2R, and SAXO.
Chateaux popped up like cardboard cutouts on our TVs, helicopters hoverered above the lycra army as it beetled along from Mont-Saint-Michel to Mont Ventoux, Versailles to Paris.
It’s the myriad moments indelibly etched on one’s mind that keep the conversation flowing: Bakelants’ gritty win, Gerro the gentleman, Impey, a first for South Africa, and Chesty Bond Voeckler, always the showman.
The red, white and blue tricolour missing on the Bastille Day podium was replaced just days later by a brown, blue and white Riblon.
The plucky Frenchman winning not once but twice, his crowning glory ascending Alp d’Huez. A standout for the frogs.
Pushing 42 years and big gears, Jens yearned for young legs but that didn’t stop him from winning the most combative rider on the penultimate stage. Shut up legs.
Under threatening skies, Froome – the self-effacing Avatar on two wheels – found his Porte in the storm, and Col du Colombian Quintana made mole hills out of mountains.
His white jersey and polka-dot-faced expression as smooth as the snow-capped terrain he conquered.
Van Garderen’s early quest for glory may have Costa him a lot but there were no gripes with Greipel, or Marcel, who beat his own drum to the line for Omega-Pharma Quick-Step.
And whether taking the piss, a reporter’s recorder or stage honours on the flat and fast sections, Le Tour lit up when Cavendish started to jostle. Says who?
Vive le Tour.
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