‘Pwah! Everything OK?’ I would ask with a start.
‘Alright,’ he would say and slowly but surely I would nod off again, only for Kelly to go for it again about five minutes later.
‘Pwah! What was that?’
‘Rabbit,’ he would say with a stony face but twinkling eyes. I realised something was afoot and so eventually I only pretended to nod off. Sure enough, after about five minutes, he hit the brakes. I opened my eyes and stared at him.
‘Are you bored, Sean? Shall I drive?’
‘Game’s up . . . your turn.’
Needless to say, I didn’t continue the game of ‘Make the idiot bob his head’. No, this was not for me. I was about to have far more fun . . . with the police.
After about an hour of my shift at the wheel, on a journey estimated to take five to six hours, I spotted a snaking line of single headlamps in the rear view mirror. Result! This was the police motorcade. And they were not hanging around.
The Tour de France has a special place in the national psyche. It is regarded as a gift to the world. The French invest in other sporting events such as the 24 hours of Le Mans and horse racing’s Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, but this is the big one. And all police assistance for the race comes from the State free of charge. This includes a dedicated corps of motorcycle cops. Apparently this is a truly elite unit; the best Motorcycle Traffic Police from all over France. Securing the route and ensuring the smooth passage of the race, they seem to be everywhere during a day’s stage. And they are capable of making progress extremely quickly on board their Bleu de France BMWs.
Back to my game. Now, the thing about speed cameras is that they flash, and at night you can see their activity triggered from some distance. The ideal gap between yourself and your stool pigeon, who will take the camera ‘hit’ for you, is around 1km (½ mile). That way, if someone in front of you causes the cameras to activate, you have enough time to slow down and avoid a fine. If those in front of you happen to be a line of elite police bikers, with a mission to eat as many kilometres in as short a time as possible, then you can regard this as a gift. Game on!
The police don’t pay speeding fines when on duty. So there I was with a by now snoring Kelly snuggled on a fully reclined passenger seat while I followed the red tail lights of my friends in blue. Maybe 20 of them.
Naturally, when I first saw the motorcade in my mirrors I slowed to the speed limit. They shot by, the lead biker hanging a leg in thanks. He had clocked the official Tour race numbers on our car, I presume. Once they had sped by at an alarming rate, it took me about 15 minutes to build my speed back up and close in to the hanging distance of 1km. I was tense but happy, gripping the steering wheel so tight I was pulling myself forward off my seat back. It got so fast I was conscious of not blinking much. My eyes may have been stinging but my mouth bore a smile.
It was surreal. Deep into the French countryside, the darkness becomes total. Streetlights and illuminated signs disappear, leaving the headlamps of your own vehicle as the only guide. Unless, of course, you are tailing a force of moto-gods.
A tunnel of light thrown forwards from my own car gave way to darkness and what looked like red fireflies up ahead of me. I could see their tail lamps dancing and shifting inside a glow bubble from their headlamps. It was so dark they looked like they were hanging in space.
Sure enough, every now and then there would be a flash from a roadside speed camera. I would slow down to pass by at the limit before powering back up to catch them. As the police never eased off, it would take me quite a while to get back on their tail. And so it went on with top speeds reaching an eye-watering number that French law forbids me from repeating. Let’s just say it was very, very fast.
‘Wake up, Sean, we’re here!’
‘No feckin’ way!!!’
We were about an hour and a half early. Kelly’s kip was over, but he was happy. We’d beaten the Germans to the hotel.
‘when you're hanging on by the skin of your teeth . . . keep your mouth shut.’
Sooner or later, over the course of the spring and summer, we’re going to get ourselves into one or two scrapes – brushes with the law and the inevitable speeding fines. These usually turn up a couple of months after the event, and there’s the tricky question to be answered of who was at the wheel at the time. And, because the ticket has usually got to us so late, having bounced around Eurosport International offices in Paris via a hire company, there is often very little time to resolve the issue before the fine is doubled because of late payment. Thus hasty negotiations begin at Eurosport UK as to who will take the hit. Everyone knows there’s no point in phoning up Sean Kelly, who will simply refuse to pay any speeding fines. I see his point. We are expected to be on time all the time for the 25 working days of a Grand Tour. Occasionally this requires a modest manipulation of the rules of the road. With
