The Tour de France, possibly the most incomprehensible international sporting event, starts in Dusseldorf (which is in Germany, not in France) on 1 July. It lasts for 22 days, and will cover over 3,500 km. This is the 104th Tour and, for the first time in 25 years, will actually be going through all five mountain ranges of France.
If you are an amateur you will have cracked the Byzantine code. If not, the jerseys, spotty, white, green (we all know what the yellow is), the domestiques (? servants), the lanterne rouge and the significance of a toy lion do not decode easily. No matter, the Tour remains in France the greatest event of the year. Every bar has it on screen, endlessly analysed, endlessly criticised, often with ill-concealed resentment of Team Sky (it is rumoured that this year more hill stages have been introduced to remove them from their seemingly unshiftable lead).
I live in the Alps and the race always passes nearby. Every summer, with neighbours and friends, many of whom have not been on a bike for 30 years, we pack the car and set off at crack of dawn to the nearest point where it will pass. Tables are set up, lunch prepared and we wait. And we wait. A rumble announces kilometres and kilometres of sponsorship trucks, spraying the crowd with sausages, chocolates and bottles of water. The children scrabble in the verge. Then we wait, and we wait. Noon approaches. It is very very hot. Another rumble, motorbike outriders, helicopters, great cheering and whoosh, the peloton. Blink and you miss it. More cheering. Silence. Cicadas. Lunch.