Photo by Photo by Megan Bell

Saella Ware, 10, describes her time at the Tour de France

It’s not all that often you get to be a part of something more important than walking across the graduation stage or wiping the tears from your eyes as you say your farewells to your family and friends before heading out to the lucky college you‘ve been dreaming of attending since you were 12. But I got to. I had the very fortunate opportunity to this summer in France.

Ever since I was 5 or 6, I’ve cycled with my mother, and that was a major part of our lives since it’s our way of bonding. As I became older, my mother and I began to race like the 25 mile and 50 mile races at Hotter N Hell. As time passed, cycling became a growing passion of mine that would not stop, and when I saw Tour de France on television, it was like a dream of something I never thought I would ever get to see in person. I remember pushing grown men out of the way to watch the race and how they would stare at me crazily because I was the only female around who showed even the slightest bit of interest in anything associated with cycling. It was astonishing to me that men from all over the world biked over 2,000 miles all over Europe for over a month straight at their own will.

Approximately three hours prior to the racers arriving to the village, my mom and I made our way to the  general direction of where the event would be held. It seemed like miles of cars stretched along the roadways, and people were walking in bunches excitedly talking about the current stats of each racers and conditions of their route for the day, which would be about 114 miles in mountainous terrain.

When we arrived to the village , it was quite a spectacular sight. If anyone ever wanted to know how true patriotism could get, then this was just the right place. A sea of French flags and anxious fans in yellow jerseys, the highest honor in the race, engulfed the area.

Families all around munched on their baguette slices and cheeses calmly as we all watched a group native to town dance to what sounded like Hobbit music. It was soothing with its elf-like pitch, and I could feel myself whisk off the floor with the dancers as they twirled, unaware of all who were around. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason I continuously watched the dancers with the consistent amount of interest a five year old has when they first learn how to tie their shoes. There was a very attractive guy dancing among the group, and, me being the typical teenager I was, thought I had even the slightest chance of getting his number after he was done dancing. I know, it’s silly, but I really thought it was plausible at the time, and hey, you never know when you could end up meeting a hot French guy while in France again.

As I was pretending to work up the nerve to go and talk to him, one of the things that I dreaded the most  came along. A crazy crowd came with a camera man. Any way he ran, they came too: smiling, waving and knocking others out of the way. It was miserable and just added to the reason why I hated crowds. A man even came up to the event with a pig just to be on French television. As soon as his pig was aired, he left, and it was a bit offensive to me, given that he didn’t stay to watch the racers that were nearing.

In addition to all of the lovely dancing and rambunctious crowd, I was lucky enough to  meet a pretty cool college student, Mya, who was also from the states. She was one of the few people that actually didn’t make me feel cornered when the camera came around.

We became acquainted when she complimented my wannabe-Polaroid camera case, which I had been begging my parents for it for quite a while. From there, we had small talk and gained insight into what actually was all the hype for Tour de France.

In the few moments we spoke, I learned that the Tour de France race was a mere preface to all of the free merchandise from the Peletons, sponsored cars in various shapes ranging from chickens to giant sandwiches, which people went absolutely nuts for — I nearly got kicked in the face trying to get a keychain from one of them.

Nearly two to three hours passed with all the extravaganzas that had taken place, and the time was now nearing where the racers pathway would intersect our line of sight. I could feel the anxiety building with each second that passed. The rowdy crowd was finally settling down, and all of us lined up along the side of the street, leaning as far as we were permitted by the policewomen in order to get as close as we could to where the racers would pass.

Ten minutes fly by, and we are all finally awarded what we have all been waiting for. The crowd farther up the hill screamed and jumped as the first rider whizzed by.

I whipped my wannabe Polaroid out and started taking pictures as fast as the camera allowed me. One by one, my flash went off, and it did not dawn on me that I was a safety hazard to all of the racers going downhill until afterwards. I was guilty as charged, but it was certainly worth every single possible crash — I know, typical tourist entitlement right there.

The amount of time we all got to see the racers lasted all but ten minutes maximum, but I will say that all of the waiting was certainly worth it, and hopefully, I will definitely do it again in the future.

In all honesty, watching the racers go by wasn’t all that memorable for the simple fact that I didn’t even really get to see them. But watching families come together, and seeing this one little boy’s expression of pure admiration and pride as he tried to catch a glimpse of the racers, is something that I will never forget.