French Letter: following the Tour while keeping score at the Ashes

I’ve been watching the Ashes on the radio this week. Very entertaining. David, the oldest of our pub regulars, has been glued to the series on Sky Sports, to which I, and for that matter he, do not subscribe, and is unlikely to be in his usual place tonight – this being Friday – unless England has managed to bowl Australia out for less than 200. 

Don, our host, is Irish, albeit via Reading, and affects to have little interest in cricket – though he did, oddly, know the exact score when an Ireland eleven took their country’s one-time colonial masters to the cleaners in a one-day international in 2020. 

The French, it is safe to say, haven’t a clue about cricket, which they consider an eccentric pastime restricted to the English-speaking (or as they would put it, Anglo-Saxon) world. Instead, they are transfixed by the Tour de France, which ends this Sunday in Paris after two gruelling weeks on the road. 

I make no prediction concerning the outcome. The fact is, I know even less about cycling than Don knows about cricket. What I can say is that the French don’t appear to be very good at it. As things stand, after Stage 18 of 21, the only French riders of consequence this year are David Gaudu, in tenth place overall, and (hold on …) Christoph Laporte, who finished ninth yesterday in a 189-kilometre dash from Moutiers to Bourg-en-Bresse, in the Auvergne, north east of Lyon. 

By contrast, there are two Englishmen in the top ten, Adam Yates and his twin-brother, Simon, from that globally-renowned cycling hotbed, Bury. Three British riders, Bradley Wiggins, Chris Froome and Geraint Thomas, have won the Tour five times between them since 2012, and the co-holder of the record for most sprint victories is Mark Cavendish, from the Isle of Man, who was prevented from taking the title outright this year when he ended up seriously hurt after a pile-up back during stage eight. 

The last time a Frenchman won the Tour was in 1985, long before any of the current crop of riders were even born, when Bernard Hinault, from Yffiniac, less than an hour’s drive from our home in Brittany, achieved victory for the fifth time. This year, with the final stage coming up on Sunday, the race looks to be between Jonas Vingegaard, from Denmark, and the Slovenian Tadej Pogacar. The poor old French are nowhere. 

But this is strange, is it not? The French are probably the world’s keenest cyclists. Young and old alike, they infest the country’s roads throughout the summer months, dressed in spandex, forcing drivers to give them a wide berth (which they do) as they put in a quick 50 kms before lunch. 

Callac, our local market town, used to be a big noise in the cycling world. The Critérium de Callac was a famous event in the calendar for 54 years, right up until 1999 when it was unceremoniously dropped.  A subsequent event, named after local hero Pierre le Bigaut, which raised money to help find a cure for cystic fibrosis, was staged for the last time this month, after 31 years, having apparently run short of stewards. 

But if French dominance of the sport has faded into history, the Tour remains a dominant fixture of French television, which follows the race over two weeks, eight hours a day, tracking every turn of the wheel and every misadventure as the Peleton carves its way through France, its progress measured not just by the minute, but by the nanosecond. 

For the uninitiated, it is a pretty dull affair, only enlivened on TV by commentators who, when not breathless in considering the exertions of the teams and their chosen leaders, are frequently consumed by emotion over the beauty and grandeur of their homeland. In this sense, if in no other, the coverage resembles Test Match Special, whose old lags are wont to observe the timeless Englishness of Lords, Old Trafford or Headingley and who, at “tea,” issue thanks to those listeners kind enough to have sent them cake. 

The only time I watched the Tour live, as it were, was when “Wiggy” came tearing down the hill outside our house on his way to Guingamp. He was come and gone in less than ten seconds and I never actually laid eyes on him. But to my neighbour, it was a historic moment. If only Wiggins had been French!  

Write to us with your comments to be considered for publication at letters@reaction.life