Le Tour De France is the Grand Prix of bicycle racing. Since its first running in 1903, this marathon has attracted the best cyclists from all over the world. I spent several years knocking around the Continent in the early Sixties and sketched Jacques Anquetil and Raymond Poulidor when their Tour de France rivalry was at its peak.
Now a new endurance star has appeared. These days, Bernard Hinault often wears the maillot jaune--the yellow jersey--of the race leader. This marathon winds a course through France and adjacent countries and ends, almost a month later, under the Arc de Triomphe. No sport utilizes a more varied and beautiful landscape: from the orchards of Normandy, the Loire Valley château country and the Bordeaux wine region to the Pyrenees and Provence; along the Côte d'Azur; across treacherous alpine peaks. It is a spectacular picture-postcard route through the gorgeous and abundant country-side that provided so many motifs for Cézanne, Van Gogh and Renoir. Provincial dwellings empty as their inhabitants line the roadways for miles, hysterically welcoming the athletes, handing out refreshments and cheering as they race on. This scene is repeated again and again along the route, reaching a tumultuous climax as the racers enter Paris. From my balcony on the second floor of the Hotel Regina, with the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance and the gold statue of Jeanne d'Arc below me, I watch as the weary riders relentlessly pedal full speed around bends over cobblestones made slick by a fine Parisian drizzle. They cross the Tuileries, leave the Louvre behind and shoot up the Rue de Rivoli, lapping the gardens six times before riding up the Champs Elysées in glory, to be greeted by the president of the republic under Napoleon's grand archway.
