The Tour: Standing on the Side of the Road … Waiting and Waiting … Until, Finally, It Rained Sausages. Yum.

By Maureen Quinlan
This weekend the Tour de France began its tour of the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Alps.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><?xml:namespace prefix = v ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:vml" />A sport that is very much in the "other" category for many Americans, here in France professional cycling is a way of life. Fred and I live with in a few minutes of the Puy de Dome, a giant volcano which has occasionally appeared on the tour's itinerary, and so most Saturdays and Sundays we are stuck in an only-in-France traffic jam as a steady stream of men in hot pink jerseys and strange-looking shoes pedal furiously one behind the other up, down and through the volcanoes.I find it extremely cool to watch these uber athletes on their bikes (that cost more than my car!) in hundred-something temperatures looking so thin and so cool with leg muscles that could surely crack walnuts if a need presented itself.I am occasionally tempted to get back to the gym for my version of the Tour de France on my spinning bike, rocking out to Justin Timberlake and Gloria Gaynor under the black lights in a gym basement the way I once did. But the temptation never seems to be strong enough.Instead, I sit in the passenger seat as Fred whizzes by the bikers on our way out to the country each weekend occasionally huffing and puffing under our breath for the cyclists to get a little further to the right so we can be on our way.And so, after my big move last year my brother Danny and sister Betsy came to see what there was to see in this town that nobody had ever heard of until I moved to it.My brother Danny is a huge fan of Team Postal/Discovery/Lance, or rather, professional cycling in general. He was already intimately acquainted with the majestic landscapes found all over this land of the Gauls. With all of its treacherous mountain stages and cool landscapes, the Tour made Danny a lover of France long before I even flirted with her.Being a teacher, he spent his summers in France by way of the television set visiting all of the nooks and crannies as Lance and the boys won tour after tour, getting deeper and deeper under the skin of old Europe.And so, when I called him up a few years ago to break the news that not only was I involved with someone I met online, but also a guy who was French and lived in France, Danny couldn’t have been more excited for me (yeah, that's it.)When I said that this mystery man had also offered to put him in touch with his friends in different parts of France so that he could watch The Tour from their fields, the courtship was over. He fell in love with Fred immediately.Of course, a lot of boyfriends come around with big offers and promises of grandeur eager to win over the family early on in the relationship. Why be someone's sister's boyfriend when you could be someone's sister's really cool boyfriend? But, it's more than that.Not knowing exactly how he would make Danny's dream a reality, he knew he could do it. Fred is just like that.And so, during their three week visit, Fred's promise to see The Tour was to be paid in full. Coming in July, we figured that at least watching the tour live on television in a bar drinking a tall, licoricey Ricard and listening to non-stop, non-translated commentary on the big screen while eating a croque monsieur might count for something.  From the second week of July straight through to the end of the month The Tour is everywhere. It's on the radio, on the television, in the newspaper, at the bar and on the kitchen televisions everywhere you go. It's more just like background noise, really. As ubiquitous as wine or cheese. This isn't a Super Bowl. It's like an all-day-long March Madness with North Carolina and Ohio playing non-stop daily for a month. It is a true test of endurance for the riders as well as the fans.When you see the race on television, it seems like the easiest thing in the world to go and see. It's one of the only sports events with fewer spectators than riders and, naturally, I expected it to be easy to picnic on the side of the road baguette at the ready.  Before Danny's arrival, Fred and I started asking around for strategies on where to best see a stage, preferably a mountain where they would pass slowly so that we could take pictures and finally use that high-speed, sports function on our fancy digital cameras.But nobody around here had ever been to see it in person.Instead of strategies, we heard story after story. How people camp all week on the side of the road only to watch the race on their little portable television sets as the real riders sped by.

How a horse occasionally breaks free from the fields and runs with the riders…and usually wins.

The mysterious vile of Lance Armstrong's urine.The conspiracies.The drugs.The hassles. Oh the hassles.But being a good big sister, I was desperate.I contacted a few hotels and with the road blockages and one-week-minimum stay requirements we were priced way out of our league.I felt terrible.Our plan would have to wait until I sold a media concept to Rupert Murdoch before we could afford a bed along The Tour route. And then a miracle found its way to us.A few days before they arrived, Fred's aunt called. The itsy bitsy roads connecting the stages had been posted and the riders were passing by the round-about at the end of her street on their way to their big time trials later in the day. She was thinking about walking down and thought, perhaps, we might like to come and watch them ride by.And so we were on our way.We'd spend the weekend with Fred's family near Annecy on the Swiss border and hang out at their house near Zidane's summer cottage. Incredible.Whose life is this anyway?We drove out Thursday night and woke up early on Friday.It was 103 in the shade.We headed out around 10 a.m. for an 11:50 passing of the team. Team Quinlan was psyched. We loaded our backpacks with cameras and tripods, sunscreen, hats and water and walked down the street.  First setting up camp right at the round-about and then moving to a little covered area not far beyond when we realized that we had a serious wait time ahead of us. One thing that you rarely see on a televised race is the sponsor mobiles that distribute free crap to the people standing on the side of the road.And, quite frankly, that's what I remember of the afternoon. We are a completely captive audience and went for the bait every time…excitedly clapping and jumping for free gummy bears like trained seals.After all, when you have nothing else to do walking out into the street to pick up a free hat six sizes too small seems like a good idea.Why not?Having worked in marketing for nearly a decade, I am well aware of the power of schwag, as we used to call it.People at the office would go crazy for a free t-shirt or a free magnet even if it did have the company name printed on it, even if it was an XXXXL or bright purple.Free is still free no matter what.And it was no different here. The race newspaper passes by and gives out free editions flinging them at us and, like a well-trained dog, we go into the bushes and dig them out. What else do we have to do?  The Credit Lyonnais van comes by and tosses out free bags to keep all of your loot in.What a good idea. The Nesquick car drives by way too fast to get any freebies. Damn. The Extreme brand ice cream car comes by just to taunt us! They aren't even giving anything away. They're here to use subliminal marketing and suggest that after standing in the heat for 2 hours before seeing any actual action, we might want to go to the store and buy ourselves a lovely ice cream cone or something. But this is France and nobody snacks so their power of suggestion is lost. Then the pretzels, the bags of coffee, the magnets that don't stick, the sweat wrist bands (!?!), the jelly beans, the cheese and then, coup de grace of all coup de grace, the free mini-sausages. Hilarious! I couldn’t believe it and I couldn’t have been more excited than if Floyd himself had handed one to me. Of course, I didn't eat it. Sausages thrown to a crowd from a moving car? Ew. But I was in love with the ridiculousness of it all. And then another lull, but this time we were filled with anticipation because the wait will eventually pay off. The crowd is sufficiently loaded down with bags of salted meats and everyone has their Festina noise maker, so we're ready to go.Waiting.Waiting.And within a few minutes – and for only a few seconds – the riders pass.First a big pack.And then a couple of little ones. And then it's over.The police vehicles, emergency vehicles and extra bikes drive past and it's finished.Time to go home.Glad I didn't break into my 401(k) to get a hotel room.It was the fastest four seconds of our lives.Those Sports Illustrated photographers really earn their dollars. I couldn't even find the fancy take-five-pictures-in-a-row sports function on my camera before it was too late. Within minutes the bags of loot that we were so excited to get seemed stupid. Time go to find one of those Extreme ice cream bars.

Hey, who ate all of my little sausages?