I got back yesterday from France.

It was one heck of a ride. Toulouse, hot as it is, is a great city, and the Pyrénées are beautiful as well. The only real disappointment is the Cité de l’Espace, which I think would be more fun if I were ten to fifteen years younger. Or ten euro cheaper.

It was amazing to be there for the Tour. The lack of sleep as trucks roll by, horns blaring at all hours of the night, while meanwhile I’m freezing under a British Airways blanket on a beach towel in a ditch on the side of the road, then the waiting all through the morning, accompanied only by the local French language paper and the Aquarel caravanne preview paper, also in French, and whatever reading I brought with me, which quickly runs out. The sun breaks over to my side of the road, finally, and the temperature swings thirty degrees in ten minutes, eventually warming to what must have been over 100°F. Finally, early afternoon, some official cars start rolling through. All of a sudden, the caravanne has arrived! I collect my schwag, and then I wait again. Everyone looks down the road as more team and official cars go breezing by. Then two gendarmes on motorcycles. I already know who is up front; Levi Leipheimer’s brother, whose family I camped next to, has been checking on the TV on the RV parked across the road, and he is happy that it is fellow Gerolsteiner rider Georg Totchnig, though there is a detectable feeling of disappointment that it couldn’t be his teammate Levi. But that’s racing.

And behind the red cars, there he is. The stage leader. Then boom! He is gone.

A couple minutes behind, three riders: Armstrong, Ullrich, Basso. They breeze by.

Then individual riders, and perhaps groups of two. Levi Leiphemier. Michael Rasmussen. Haimar Zubeldia. Others. After a time, the peloton finally rolls through. More dropped riders. I cheer every one, because any one of them could drop me like a rock on a flat road, much less one with a 10.5% maximum grade. Finally, the autobus rolls in, with Thor Hushovd safely in the pack clothed in green. A few more riders. By now half of the riders in the Tour have come back down the mountain, rolling downhill as their compatriots struggle up, to meet the team busses in Ax-les-Thermes. Are these last riders within the time limit? How long has it been, anyways?

Finally the last couple of cars in the Tour train come through, with the sweeper van proudly proclaiming, in French, “End of the Course,” on a European-style road sign with the red slash through it just to make the point. And that’s it, the Tour has ended for us. Amateurs mount their bicycles as the few remaining pros try to descend safely with them. And the Tour autotrain starts to descend as well, the ceremonies having long ago been completed.

As I myself descend from my place nearly 8 km up the mountainside, all that remains of the Tour by the time I reach the base are the km-to-go banners, and a couple of gendarmes.

I had changed my mind about camping out the second night. The excitement of the Tour got me through the first cold night, but I didn’t look forward to a cold, lonely evening. After finding there were no rooms in Ax-les-Thermes, I got my train ticket changed to leave that night for Toulouse and went back to the hotel in which I had stayed before. Turns out I ended up in the same room (Hôtel D’Orsay, room 507, near Toulouse Matabiau-Gare SNCF, the train station). I slept solidly that night.

So I made it back to Oxford exactly when I anticipated.

Newest addiction that is sucking away my life: Sudoku puzzles. I’ve done two, including the “difficult” level one in The Independent on Sunday, which I picked up when I landed at Gatwick so I’d have something to do while I waited for the coach and then rode the coach for the two hours it takes to get back to Oxford. I think it took me about an hour to solve today. Like I said, sucking away my life.