For me, if I’m not with Sean, parking is a nightmare because no one is willing to help and I don’t have ‘the gift’, as my friend calls it. And if we happen to be in a medieval hilltop village, the roads and gradients are difficult to negotiate. If there’s one smell that defines the Tour de France for me, it’s the acrid reek of a burning clutch as underpowered hire cars are forced up gradients of 20%. But Sean has an amazing knack of finding little side streets where we’re not too far away but can still make a speedy escape ahead of the huge caravan that is the Tour de France. Sometimes he’ll drop me off while he parks up and will come up to me later, immensely proud of the prime spot he’s found. ‘I’ve found a great place. Fantastic place. We’ll be out of here in no time.’ And he’s usually right.
‘This climb is like a slap in the face with a wet kipper.’
The Publicity Caravan
You’re new to the game. You’ve graduated from clown work entertaining kids at the burger bar and now you’ve landed the big one: your pass says Publicity Caravan, and that gives you a special place in the race. You will be first along the day’s route, first to get away once the course clears of riders – and the last to arrive at your destination. Why? Because you are to drive one of the most unwieldy vehicles ever allowed on to public roads.
You have just been handed the keys to an open-topped VW Beetle that has been transformed, by a skilled fabricator, into what now resembles powered castors beneath a plastic log cabin 6m (20ft) high, from which a honey bear 3m (10ft) tall is leaning out of a window giving his famous (in France) winky, grinny, thumbs-up salute. Something he has been doing since a so-called design guru dropped the 72-year-old bee logo of this famous honey brand in favour of this ‘Awesome Orson’ back in 1983. It’s now your job to drive this monstrosity on an extremely hazardous three-week journey all over France, while battling wind and rain, mountain roads and country lanes, motorways and city centres. Progress will be slow. Very slow. However, despite journeys that are sometimes six hours long, you will smile all the time. It’s in the contract.
Welcome to the world of Grand Tour Publicity, the commercial circus that pays the bills and causes grown men and old ladies alike to fight small children in order to grab the most modest of freebies hurled from some of the very odd-looking vehicles that pass by the massed ranks of cycling fans and confused tourists at the roadside on each stage of every day of the tour.
Every Grand Tour has a publicity caravan. These are the engine room of the sponsors’ summertime promotional push to the masses that gather, sometimes 20 deep, along the roadside of the biggest annual open-access sporting events on the planet. The public loves the publicity caravan. Those working on the race, not so much. And if you feel sorry for those driving these glass-fibre behemoths, then spare a thought for those of us stuck behind the damn things. They are a bloody nuisance, particularly when trying to get around them on a mountain pass. I hate Awesome Orson and his brothers in plastic arms.
Due to safety reasons, the publicity caravan makes rather modest progress along the road. These unwieldy floats are regarded as dangerous at more than 65km/h (40mph). So, in deference to the poor sods who have to drive them for near inhuman lengths of time, there is a vogue among race organisers to let the caravan set off ahead of the press corps at the end of each day’s stage. This is not appreciated by those wishing to get in some solid wine time after a hard day’s broadcasting. So whine time it is, then; particularly if we happen to be going up a mountain road, where overtaking opportunities are few and far between.
Many risks have been taken as Kelly goes for it on a slightly straight bit of road, only to be faced by an oncoming car that means we have to force our way into a modest gap between the Haribo Kid and a giant leg of ham. Having been forced to back off, the driver of the leg of ham now goes for the familiar salute – a blast from the horn – only to realise he’s forgotten that it’s been rewired, and now fires a plinkety-plonkety theme tune, accompanied by a song blaring from those ‘The circus is coming to town’ speakers:
Jam-bon, jam-bon, s’il vous plaît, Ma-man,
Ma-man, Ma-man, s’il vous plaît jam-bon.
All this while showing us the internationally recognised sign ‘You’re Number 1’ . . . well, it was just the one finger; I’m sure that’s what he meant. Though he wasn’t smiling.
One of the saddest sights I think I’ve ever seen was a clearly demotivated teenager in a thick velour banana outfit staring forlornly at the ground as his ‘boss’, no more than a couple of years older, was busy giving him a pep talk before he began his gig at the finish line: ‘Alfonse, you have to feel it! You have to want it! That’s your public out there . . . and we
