(L-R) Keiser, me, Crosby, Frankie

I try to rarely com­plain about my job (Bicy­cling mag online edi­tor) because on a whole, it’s mas­sively cool. I write and edit arti­cles about bikes—riding, rac­ing, fix­ing, and any­thing else you can do with a bike in polite company.

So as part of cov­er­ing this summer’s Tour de France, I got to fol­low the race for eight stage. I joined out pho­tog­ra­pher, James Startt, and the video crew (pic­tured) in Brit­tany, and fol­lowed the race until it hit the Pyre­nees near Spain.

A typ­i­cal day saw us leave the hotel at 9 a.m., to arrive at the Tour’s start town two hours before the rid­ers take off. We’d get set­tled in the start vil­lage and read L’Equipe (or if your French is as mediocre as mind, look at the results and pre­tend to read the arti­cles). Also, because I can’t travel any­where with­out try­ing the local food, and the start vil­lages always had local cheese and meat, I’d make myself a lit­tle brunch.

In the hour before the start we’d stake out the team buses to inter­view rid­ers and coaches, then head out on course about 20 min­utes before the rid­ers left. I usu­ally trav­eled with James, so we’d stop once to pho­to­graph the break­away and pelo­ton, and then a sec­ond time if we could find a place for lunch.

James Startt doing his thing.

Even­tu­ally we’d make it to the press room in the fin­ish town. There’d be more run­ning around and chas­ing down rid­ers for inter­views and then about three hours of writ­ing and editing.

Quit­ting time was often deter­mined by what time our hotel’s restau­rant closed and how far the drive was. Din­ner was almost never open late enough or close enough, so I sat by for more than a few har­row­ing dri­ves with squeal­ing car tires on one-lane moun­tain passes.

We’d stum­ble in the restau­rant around 10 p.m. after sev­eral calls to assure them we were just around the cor­ner so they should really hold the kitchen just a few more min­utes. I’d eat what­ever was local or defin­i­tively French—steak tartare, andouil­lette, lots of duck– and then find some way to include a local cheese in the meal.

No, I didn’t go to France to eat and drink. But frankly, after cov­er­ing this race all month and work­ing four straight week­ends, I’d rather talk about the glut­tony than the work. I’m sure you understand.

A cou­ple culi­nary high­lights were:

–Drink­ing locally brewed and dis­tilled Cal­va­dos in Normandy

–Fresh, unpas­tur­ized goat and sheep cheese

–Eat­ing a cas­soulet in a 13th Cen­tury vil­lage while the power kept going out

–Finally try­ing hip­pocras, a mead/wine hybrid drink

–Hon­or­able men­tion: all the other cheeses. So many cheeses, so lit­tle time.

Johnny Hooger­land limped up to the podium for his polka dot climber’s jer­sey. He received 30-odd stitched after a French TV car sent him crash­ing into a barbed wire fence.