LE CYCLISME
By PAUL F. JENNINGS OUR first experience of le cyclisme is during a thunderstorm. A motor-cyclist suddenly materialises out of the rain two hundred yards ahead. He is coming towards us on our side of the road. Do they, perhaps, drive on the left in this Departement? I think he wants us to get off the road. I do so with a second to spare.
There follow three more motor-cyclists, all blowing whistles but
not waving, so we have evidently done what the first one wanted. We are just outside a small village, the single street of which is lined by a great crowd which, by its dress, does not appear to have noticed that it is raining. We have just time to observe that there also seems to be a fair, with a wonderful poop-pooping steam organ, when ten cars come roaring through. Aha! we think, this is one of these famous French car-races. But as they pass we notice that each has a big yellow notice saying "Officiei." There is an expectant pause, then more whistle-blowing from the other end of the village. Two of .the gentlemen in bathing-costumes appear round the corner and pedal through in what appears to us a rather apathetic manner until we are informed that the race has a hundred laps and is not expected to finish until 11.3o. It is now only ten-to-five, and they have been going a mere four hours. They and the next six are received with mild enthusiasm, but suddenly a group of about twenty whirrs furiously past and the ovation is tremendous. We would like to ask whether this is because these are the men of this village or because they are leading and the people in front were really behind ; but this sounds silly, even in English. -
It is rather awkward getting through the village, because as soon as there is a lull in the blowing of whistles and the cries of " Degagez! " the crowd spills into the road and the fair goes on, poop-pooping and all. Nobody else seems to want to go our way. In the end we have to fix it with five gendarmes all along the route, and we get a tremendous blowing of whistles and degagement all to ourselves. The village shows a gratifying interest in UB, our 1926 Austin 7.
Two days later we arrive at the town of Chamnecy, where it is obvious that they are preparing for a much bigger thing. Every other car is "Officiel." Banners across all the streets inform us that there is to be a Grand Nocturne Cycliste tomorrow. Just to bring the point home, a man drives happily round the town from dawn to dusk, one hand on the steering-wheel and the other holding a microphone, his eyes looking upwards and sideways in the way
all holders of microphones seem to have, and makes a non-stop appeal to his chers antis sportifs to turn up in force. They do. When we join the huge throng at the track the same voice is adjuring its dear sportive friends not to press themselves upon the fence and spill themselves upon the piste, because this not only annoys the racers but also destroys the very costly material purchased for us all by the Comite des Fetes.
The main contest is between some people called Les As de France and a collection of local talent, among which is one Bobillard, who, the loud-speaker informs us during the presentation des coureurs, is the champion de vitesse du monde. But, as the pre- sentation, in which names are calved out one by one and the gentle- men in bathing-costumes wheel their bicycles up to the starting-line, gets into its stride, -it seems that nearly everyone is a champion of something. The first race is called the eliminatoire, in which the last man in each lap retires We can understand this, as there are about two hundred coureurs. Also the system of placing seems reasonable enough. But we do not understand the note in the programme about the next two races, the individuelles. This reads : "Daps les deux epreuves individuelles, a cheque sprint, it est attribue aux 4 premiers coureurs classes, 4, 3, 2 et I point. Au dernier sprint, les points sont doubles. Toutefois, le ou les coureurs terminant la course avec au moires 5o secondes d'avance seront classes en tete, les points n'intervenant que pour departager les coureurs a regalite de temps."
This gives us that awful feeling one used to have in exams. when one knew what every word meant, but the thing simply didn't add up to anything. How can the points only intervene to share out the runners at the equality of time? And whatever does " the where the runners ending at least 5o seconds ahead will be classed ahead " mean? Is it, perhaps, a misprint?
And how does one know when there is a sprint, anyway? But this question at least is answered for us as soon as the race begins. "Cher antis sportifs," says the loud-speaker, "les sprints seront annonces sur le haut-parler." And announced they are, apparently whenever the announcer feels like it. Or perhaps it is whenever anyone feels like offering a prize on the spur of the mament,lor after a few laps, when Bobillard and others have begun to draw away from the main body, the loud-speaker begins to make announcements like this: "Mme. Dupont, de la initisserie de l'Avenue Carnot, vient croffrir un prix genereux de cinq cent francs pour le premier coureur de platon dans ce sprint." We gather from a bystander that the platoon is the main body of contestants, who are soon so far behind Bobillard and the Aces of France that they are in front of them (so perhaps we were right back in the village after all). Eventually they are all together again. Then Bobillard and Co. forge ahead once more, taking a few more of the platOon with them until it is difficult to see which is the platoon and exactly who is winning. But the announcer evidently has his finger on things, because every now and then he informs us that So-and-So is deux tours en avarice, and one of his sportive friends is always offering another prize, sometimes for the best time in the next sprint by anybody, but more often just for the platoon, which is now practically indistinguishable. There are prizes for everyone in this race. We begin to see what all those officiels are for. There must be one to watch the progress and record the winnings of each man.
But we still do not understand this business of the equality of time. It is rather difficult to ask any of the spectators, as they are all busily either writing down points or shouting. Harblow gives it up after pointing to the words 5o secondes en avarice and saying, "en avarice de quoi, monsieur ?" and being met with a torrent of French of which the only word he can catch is " iliminatoire." We are sure we have had that one already. We leave as the last race, called Petit Tour de France, is beginning. We go to see a very long film. When we come out the cyclists are still swishing past under the bright lights. But we go back to UB. It seems to us a much better way to do a tour of France. We are a long way from Chamnecy when I suddenly realise that le ou les doesn't mean "the where the," but "the or the." I don't think Harblow has got it even yet.
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