The kids, piled on his lap and hanging from his arms like little spider monkeys, soak up his knowledge and mumbled factoids about polka-dotted jerseys and French landmarks like little sponges. Watching them ooh and ahh over hairpin turns and crashes in the peloton is part of what made me fall in love with the TDF in the first place.
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| You see? I mean c'mon! |
Well, that and the athletes razor cut calves and quads. I actually like the fact that they 'knock the bark of their trees' despite that redneck macho men bag on them for this girlish practice. Cyclists' chiseled, hairless legs are downright lickable no matter what Jeff Foxworthy might say. The shrunken bird chests and spindly arms that apparently do great things for aerodynamics however, do absolutely nothing for me. Still, what's not to love about a perfectly sculpted lower half shoved into thin spandex shorts? Sometimes leaving things to the imagination is overrated!
Whatever the draw for each of us, gathering in the family room to cheer our favorite teams and riders through stage after stage has become somewhat of a Lowery Family Tradition and I'm a bit of a sucker for tradition.
For 98 years the TDF has winded and twisted it's way throughout France and surrounding countries attracting some of the best cyclists and teams from around the world. The New York Times has called it "arguably the most physiologically demanding of athletic events" comparing the effort to "running a marathon several days a week for nearly three weeks", while the total elevation of the climbs was compared to "climbing three Everests." It's like witnessing the ultimate test of the human spirit challenging you to believe in the impossible.
Waaaaay back in the olden days, before a white dress, a gaggle of kids, and responsibilities, Frank and I started to plan a trip to see the Tour in person. I was beyond excited to experience the sights, sounds and tastes of France. I would wear my hair in a lose chignon and we'd sample funny smelling cheeses from corner markets, buy fresh sunflowers and stick them in our bike baskets as we wound our way down cobblestone streets. We'd run alongside Lance Armstrong, American flags whipping wildly over our heads and cheer him to what would become his 6th TDF victory. After 3 or 4 glorious day Frank would take me to a top of a bridge, get down on one knee and ask me those 4 little words in the most romantic city in the world. Of course I'd whisper yes, hand against my chest and jump into his arms while he spun me around and around under a sea of stars. Maybe even the skies would open up and warm sprinkly rain would fall around us. It would be magical.
Three weeks passed while potential itineraries and cute little B&B cottage photos flew back and forth via email. We hadn't anticipated come January that a bout of nausea and a sudden obsessive craving for spaghetti would bring us our first son; A shotgun wedding quickly replacing our dreamy French excursion.
It goes without saying that I'd take my sweet Frankie Tankie a million times over a trip to France. That boy, with his big, deep brown eyes and spattering of freckles has a vice grip on my heart. But every July when our TV's are perma tuned to Versus we reminisce about the trip that never was.
So last summer, when the "someday...maybe's" filtered their way back into our conversation, we decided that the 100th Anniversary of the Tour de France would be the perfect time finish what we'd started all those years ago. It is almost surreal to have this grand vision back in our peripheral; we've been so consumed with building a family and a business and a life that our fancy French rendezvous had taken a serious back seat. Like waaaaaaaay back. To the bumper. And somehow, the object in my mirror is closer than it appears! With only two years to go it's high time we get back to our research. I can hardly wait for it all to come full circle!
Perhaps I'll still wear the chignon, eat smelly cheese and pedal over cobblestone. Lance may be absent but something tells me nice legs and spandex laden asses won't be in short supply. And I'm pretty sure Frank and I can find some way to occupy ourselves on a rainy starlit bridge. Lord knows after 8 years and four nosy children we've mastered the art of making our own creative magic!
What you wont find in July 2013 is a living room fortress, that gaggle of nosy spider monkeys, or a plate of spaghetti within a 30 mile radius.
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