Le Tour Toujours (The Tour Forever)

The 2009 Tour de France was supposed to be all about Lance, and if you followed the media coverage, it certainly was. But it was also pretty clear that things didn't pan out the way the 7-time champ had planned. He wound up standing on the third step of the podium in Paris, not the top, and played second fiddle to his own team-mate, Alberto Contador, for most of the race.

The last time Kel and I watched Lance pedal past was in 2003, standing on the side of the road of the Tour's first significant climb, the Col de la Ramaz. As ridiculously stupid as it may sound, waiting for 4 or so hours to watch a professional bike race pass by in a few seconds is actually not a bad way to spend your day. So why not give it another shot?

We watched 4 stages of the 2009 Tour; downhill finishes in the alpine villages of Bourg Saint Maurice and Le Grand Bornand, the individual time trial around Annecy and the final circuit of the Champs Elysee in Paris.

On a hot afternoon at Bourg Saint Maurice we packed a french picnic (baguette, cheese, jambon & other goodies) with our boxing kangaroo flag and walked for about 5 kilometres up the mountain until we found a quiet, shady space (see photo above). This proved to be a masterstroke for collecting the various pieces of crap thrown by the publicity caravan as it drove past.

At Le Grand Bornand we settled for a spot a little closer to the township itself, and as a consequence got friendly with a few of the locals. Bruno, owner of a local boulangerie, took such a shine to our company he ended up searching his shop until he unearthed a suitable gift for us (a Tour de France notebook). After he handed over his present, Bruno assured us that that evening he would be drinking champagne with Tour celebrity Bernard Hinault, as he and Bernard were bestest buddies. Bernard, for those interested in accumulating potentially useless pieces of sporting trivia, is French, a former 5-time winner of the Tour and had the nickname of 'Badger' during his riding days. I'm really not sure why they called him badger, apart from the fact he does seem a bit aloof on the telly.

I think it's not stretching the truth too far to say that you could easily mistake Mr Hinault for a badger if you were visually impaired and had drunk 11 shots of tequila. In other words, it's a ridiculous nickname. Word has it a Tour de France spectator once punched Bernard Hinault in the stomach as he cycled past - probably didn't like badgers, I'd wager. But I digress...

Our next encounter with locals happened soon after. We left Bruno to his Hinault-worshipping ways and wandered up the hill to find a vantage point. Arriving at a suitable location, I soon found myself the focus of attention for two small, curious, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-their-mouths twin girls (see photo, Kellie in white shorts, the twins either side of boy with orange hat). Our efforts at communication were hopeless. The girls thought my command of the French language was hilarious - and rightfully so - so we settled on exchanging greetings (you say bonjour, I say g'day) followed by lame impersonations of a kangaroo. Their parents (in far left of photo) took pity on Kel and I, inviting us in for a coffee, but we declined, having decided to walk further down the road. At this point, about to say 'au revoir', the two girls broke my heart by scurring over to plant a unprompted farewell kiss on my cheek. Priceless moment!

The time trial day in Annecy was a much anticipated showdown between the 'big hitters' in the race, including Armstrong and Contador. The entire town had exploded with people and tour paraphernalia. Determined to get a few autographs from riders, Kellie and I parked ourselves behind the barrier next to the Team Columbia bus and watched the bike mechanics as they prepped each rider's machine. We waited patiently for a glimpse of any of the riders, with a rock band groupie-like obssessiveness. Team Columbia had two Australians in their Tour squad, Michael Rogers (in photo below) and Mark Renshaw, who we thought could be lured over to the barriers provided we: (a) made loud noises in an Aussie drawl; and (b) yelled out the names of their home town (Canberra and Bathurst, respectively). Our strategy worked a treat - they both came over for a chat - most likely because they wanted us to shut up as quickly as possible.

The final stage on the Champs Elysee in Paris was, if I am truthful, a big let-down. The barriers along the famous boulevard were lined about 8-10 deep with fans and it was nigh impossible to get a clear view of the action, much less any spectacle of the Arc de Triomphe looming in the distance. The wall of arms and hands with digital cameras that extended when the peloton passed by was the final straw. We fled the scene to the nearest Metro station before others had the same idea, a disappearance that would have appealed to Cadel Evans given his train-wreck of a Tour performance.

The Venice of The Alps

All of us have a favourite place we like to escape to, right? You know, the sort of place you catch yourself daydreaming about on a mid-week afternoon, wishing you could drop everything and just be there.

For Kel and I, such a place is a mix of natural, coastal vibe with good food and wine - the Noosas and Dunsboroughs of the world are legitimate candidates - if only they weren't so posh and we could afford them. But, ladies and gentlemen, there is now an elephant in our room of dream destinations, and this elephant happens to wear a beret, bites the ends off baguettes and plays a mean accordion. It's Annecy, it's French, and it's very, very beautiful.

It was, in truth, our second visit to Annecy, which lies an hour south of Geneva in the Haute Savoie province of the French Alps. We had camped there for a few days in the sweltering summer of 2003. I remember leaving our poor little tent to bake in the sun to frolic in the clear waters of the alpine lake that borders the city. This time around we pondered over another bout of camping, but once hotel accommodation in the heart of the historic old town district was secured, the tent never stood a chance.

Our hotel, Le Royal Résidence de Tourisme (http://www.le-royal.fr/), was perfect. It is clean, has a modern fit-out, and while our room was small, it featured a kitchenette for self-catering. Sandra and Elodie, two of the hotel's three concierges, were friendly and immensely helpful - recommending restaurants, a good boulangerie (vital) and laughing politely at French spoken with an Australian twang. In fact, the night we arrived, Kel and I ditched our bags and took a late dinner at La Freti - a 'must' for regional specialties according to Sandra. It didn't disappoint. I ate enough Reblochon cheese (in the fondue and tartiflette) to be constipated for a year. Seriously delicious, as you can tell from our smiles (and I already appear to be sitting uncomfortably).

It is ridiculously easy to fill in a day at Annecy. You can wander the cobbled streets of the old town, crisscrossing a canal that connects to the lake. There's loads of cafes and restaurants, boutiques (that have a bizarre penchant for white linen outfits) and, most importantly for Kel, an assortment of glace artisans (ice creameries). You can stroll around, sunbake by, or jump into, the picturesque lake. If you're feeling adventurous and need to be relieved of large sums of cash, you can hire a pedal boat or motor boat. There are enormous mountains nearby that you can hike to, climb up or ride over the top of. Some words of warning though: don't expect to be able to navigate a vehicle in the city centre's one-way road system (I became trapped in a bus-only zone and almost picked up a group of ticket-waving pensioners), and be prepared to drive halfway to Marseilles before you can find a free carpark.

Annecy had successfully bid for a stage in the 2009 Tour de France - a individual time trial around the lake, no less. The crazy travelling circus that is 'Le Tour' had permeated the atmosphere of the city well ahead of it's actual arrival - shop windows were full of posters and yellow streamers, while laneways were adorned with flags made from replica yellow, green and red-polka dot jerseys signifying the leader, best sprinter and best climber of the race.

While the tour had lured us back to this lovely piece of France, Kellie and I came to the conclusion that there are many more reasons why we should return - including a visit during winter to tackle the snow-covered slopes of the Alps. To paraphrase Arnie "The Governator" Schwarzenegger (and because I couldn't be arsed coming up with something original): "We'll be back".