My newest bedtime story involves men of steel, hellish treks at breakneck speeds, and drugs. This is because my newest bedtime story is the Tour de France. It's shown on Czech Television 2 every night at eleven after the news commentary, and I enjoy it greatly. Mostly I laze on the couch and go - haha, you have to go up that hill and I don't. Suck it! I am very mature.
The Tour itself is a bastion of proud history and why-the-hell-would-anyone-do-thatness. (Kind of like France. Speaking of stereotypes, I could have had escargot the other day but didn't because I was cheap. Way to broaden my horizons) It started in 1903 and had only six stages (It now has 21), but the stages were ridiculous - 471km, ie. more than 300 miles, in a day, on the type of bike common for 1903. Over a hundred years later, it's as popular as ever, and the traditions of the Tour have become a lore. In the biking world, it's a really big deal - the best cyclists have been known to skip the Olympics because the Tour was that much more important. The course changes every year, and every village it passes through has throngs of people of all ages cheering it on.
The first winner ever. Awesome facial expression much?
The first person to wear the yellow jersey. He doesn't look very happy, but I doubt I would be...
Sweaters, goggles and camaraderie. I kind of love this picture.
P.S. The title is taken from a sign that people used to post on the route of another epic Alpine race. Crude? Maybe. Kind of sick? Very.
