We all know the feeling. It’s a horrible wet day and you’re walking along the pavement when you spot a huge puddle on the road, just as a bus or lorry or stupidly sized SUV and its oblivious driver approaches. You instinctively try to jump back out of harm’s way, but it’s no use. Your trousers are soaked, your shoes have changed colour, and you’ve got a whole day of work ahead of you.
Watching the Tour de France can be like that sometimes. Or even worse, if I’m honest.
During today’s fifth stage of the biggest bike race in the world, I got splashed by that metaphorical puddle. Or at least I wish it had been a puddle.
It all happened on one of the seemingly never-ending straight roads that seemed to make up most of the 158km route between Lannemezan and Pau, on which young Baptiste Veistroffer ploughed his lonely, heroic, futile furrow.
When you’re travelling with a photographer at the Tour, like I am, the first half of your day is spent hunting out the perfect mid-stage shot. I’ll be honest, it took a while today. There really wasn’t much about, apart from poor Baptiste of course.
But eventually we stumbled upon not one, but two whole fields packed with sunflowers, the bright yellow symbol of the Tour in this part of the world, sandwiching another road dotted with the odd shade-providing tree.
With the exception of the scenario-starved phalanx of photographers who all had the same idea and descended upon this rare beauty spot, the odd gendarme, and a young picnicking family of three, this beautiful section of the route was essentially deserted.
Which, I belatedly realised to my horror a few moments later, made it the perfect spot for the peloton to, ahem, answer the call of nature in relative peace.
Two minutes after Baptiste rolled past, not even halfway through his own personal Cavalry, the peloton appeared, easing around a right-hand before speeding downhill in our direction.
There’s Alpecin, controlling things at the front, I thought to myself. Ben Healy’s keeping well-positioned, too. Pogačar’s nowhere near his teammates. Hold on, what’s that…?
On the right-hand side of the road – my side – a rider (who will remain nameless, for his sake and mine) veered towards the verge, riding with one hand. The other hand, meanwhile, was performing the action that generates thousands upon thousands of bewildered Google searches every July. The action cycling commentators euphemistically refer to as a ‘comfort break’.
Sorry mate, there was nothing comfortable about it.
> How do Tour de France cyclists pee on the bike? Your comprehensive guide to in-race relief
I jumped back, but to no avail. I was firmly in the splashback zone. Expect this time, I couldn’t even wave an angry fist, like this relieved Tour de France rider was some obnoxious bus driver. After all, he simply spotted what he believed was a largely deserted road and seized his chance. Those are few and far between at the Tour, where overt public urination is largely frowned upon these days.
When I mentioned my close encounter with a comfort break to one of my colleagues in the press room, he suggested that I march straight to the offending rider’s team bus and complain. I thought it best to keep quiet.
Also joining me in the splashback zone was the lone family to my right. Not that they cared much, or even noticed.
The father, I later discovered, is the mayor of the local village, a place he says has been decimated in recent years by mass migration to France’s big cities. The population is aging rapidly, the local shops are closing, the post office has been stolen, and the mailbox is locked.
But the Tour de France still comes around, and that makes him happy.
As well as stray urine, the family – in particular their son, who wasn’t more than eight or nine – were busy gathering up the half-dozen bottles chucked to the side of the road by some rather more generous members of the peloton.
The mum was particularly chuffed when I pointed out to her that one of the bottles came courtesy of current maillot jaune Torstein Træen.
Thankfully she didn’t ask about the splashes of fresh liquid on my shoes.
1 thought on “The day I got peed on at the Tour de France”
Hey, at least you got some #content out of it on a slow news day and perhaps it’ll be some sort of cycling lucky charm? Best to think of it like that.