Aristotle’s quote, “The more you know, the more you realise you don’t know,” perfectly sums up my understanding of life in general and the Tour de France.
The Tour is a staple winter accompaniment in our home, as is Rugby, a rewatch of the Game of Thrones series, and the scrumptious aroma of cold-weather cuisine emanating from my kitchen.
Over the years, I’ve resigned myself to observing the Tour more from the perspective of a fast-paced French travel journal. That way, I can at least enjoy it rather than feigning an understanding of the complexities of point accumulation.
David often remarks how he’d love to go over to watch the Tour with me one year in person. I nod politely, and my eyes glaze over, knowing full well there’s a little voice in my head warning me that I might end up standing on a stinking hot roadside next to a group of men dressed as Jarlsberg wedges who have consumed their body weight in Stella Artois.
I admit that I harbour fundamental concerns preventing me from wholeheartedly bonding with the sport. I have unanswered, basic questions like, “Why would a human voluntarily sit on such an uncomfortable seat?” Also, cycling clothing goes unaddressed by society. It’s the elephant in the room. I ask, “What are the post-traumatic effects on innocent bystanders?” I may know nothing about a cyclist as they approach me on the street. But by the time they’ve passed, if unwittingly caught in the line of sight, I’ve been combated by highly personal physical details and too much information.
I can’t unsee that. It is intimately etched into the sport’s fabric and my eye’s memory. So, my advice is simple – accept and anticipate it. Take off your glasses, look away now, and think of the French countryside.
