LE GRAND DEPART by Nic Lance
In a landscape rugged and wild
Lycra-clad cyclists wheel easy, ride easy
Cheered on by sun-kissed crowds
They wend their way
Down vale and over dale
By becks and falls,
Along dry-stone walls,
Up limestone escarpments.
Out of breath...
But what a view!
-“It started on a white line
In t’ middle of road
Here in Leeds -
The Depart Fictif!
-The what?
-The Depart Fictif.
Le Tour de France started here with
The Grand tour of Yorkshire
It’s only the biggest cycle race in the world!
-What are you blabberin’ on about?
-Honest! The Tour started here in Leeds!
Believe me!
-Over here?
The Tour de France in Yorkshire?
Nah! Why would they wanna do that?
You’re winding me up!
What are you on?
Cos I want some of that stuff!
-Listen to me - everyone’s talking about it
Where’s tha bin?
-I’ve bin wokin’ in Scotland – I’ve bin on t’ road,
I’ve heard nowt
I cum back to find the whole place closed for road works.
-Why d’y a think we couldn’t park on t’ road for bloody days?
What were all them crash barriers doin’ eh?
Look yonder at t’ yella sign – what does it say?
‘Closed for le Tour de France’
See!
Le Tour de France in t’ dales?
That can’t be right. Come on, tell me I’m dreamin’.
-You’re not dreamin’ it’s happened here!
Right under your very nose
Gerrit in you head!
I don’t understand owt.
- Yorkshire’s not exactly t’ Alps, is it!
Why would they bother to cum ere?
-Becos it’s God’s own county!
That’s why.”
After Leeds, they’re given a second send off,
This time a right-royal send-off
At “Harrwood“(Harewood) House.
The peleton and trailing cyclists stop,
Together with escort motorcyclists,
Camera bikes, spare bikes on car roof racks,
Vehicles, sponsors and a convoy of support teams.
They hear out La Marseillaise and
God Save the Queen
Played by the band of the Royal Engineers.
The Red Arrows do their tricolour “crop spraying”.
The Duke and Duchess of York (...oops, sorry, Cambridge)
Are accompanied by Prince Harry.
Ribbon cut, the cyclists are loose.
They coast along, but this is still a mock departure,
Not, the real depart, which is further down the road!
So after two warm-up starts,
There’s a third start, at the zero kilometre marker
– this one actually counts.
But just at the very moment the flag goes down,
TV images break into a thousand cubist rainbow fragments.
The real depart was beyond belief,
Beyond cultures,
Beyond TV,
Beyond transmission ...
Beyond comprehension!
The potholes in the roads have all been patched up.
The riders pass the great stone arches of ‘Le Viaduct d’Arthington’,
On to Otley, where three men break away.
The red team Lotto are going well too.
Down vale and over dale.
In the distance, le Cow and Calf
- great rocks deposited by giants -
Swing into view,
Although legend has it that a woman spurned
Split the rocks apart,
Or something of that ilk.
To Ilkley (Ilkla Moor Baht’at and all that)
Cyclists, head down over handle bars,
Won’t see the yellow jersey hanging off the church tower.
A helicopter whirls around the le Château de Skipton
As the cyclists file through the outskirts of the old wool town.
They go round the “wrong” side of the roundabout!
The peleton wend their way
Down vale and over dale.
Wheel hubs spin by Buttertubs
Where butter was once kept cool before market,
Then over the river Swale and on to le Corpse Way.
Down under,
Darker and deeper,
In the old lead mines,
An underground arched ceiling
6ft 6 inches tall,
Where men could just stand
And where horses used to pull
Great tubs of ore.
Now the dank darkness is the domain
Of helmeted pot-holers
Who come in search of new caves,
Far from the jubilant crowds above.
All over the Yorkshire Dales
Pubs are adorned with Yellow Bikes.
Not to be outdone,
One shop knitted a bike!
The county has gone cycling mad!
A drawing of Shawn the Sheep, riding a bike,
Pops up in a school playground.
Artists have decorated fields
For a helicopter’s eye view.
There’s a bike in hedge
With a man in the hedge!
This might seem like a tall Yorkshire tale of
When Le Tour de France headed up north and met the Dales. When British cycling was given the recognition it truly deserved -
Cycling was literally put on the map.
However, this tale does not end happily.
A spit and a throw from the Harrogate Finish line,
Cheek by jowl, elbow to elbow,
In-the-frantic-full-on-sprint,
Mark Cavendish fell
And in a splice,
He was out of the race.
Over & out!
Holding his bruised arm,
A shoulder dislocated,
Bemused.
All that Alpine training and pre-race recce
Down the tubes.
Down vale and over dale...
© Nic Lance 2014
In a landscape rugged and wild
Lycra-clad cyclists wheel easy, ride easy
Cheered on by sun-kissed crowds
They wend their way
Down vale and over dale
By becks and falls,
Along dry-stone walls,
Up limestone escarpments.
Out of breath...
But what a view!
-“It started on a white line
In t’ middle of road
Here in Leeds -
The Depart Fictif!
-The what?
-The Depart Fictif.
Le Tour de France started here with
The Grand tour of Yorkshire
It’s only the biggest cycle race in the world!
-What are you blabberin’ on about?
-Honest! The Tour started here in Leeds!
Believe me!
-Over here?
The Tour de France in Yorkshire?
Nah! Why would they wanna do that?
You’re winding me up!
What are you on?
Cos I want some of that stuff!
-Listen to me - everyone’s talking about it
Where’s tha bin?
-I’ve bin wokin’ in Scotland – I’ve bin on t’ road,
I’ve heard nowt
I cum back to find the whole place closed for road works.
-Why d’y a think we couldn’t park on t’ road for bloody days?
What were all them crash barriers doin’ eh?
Look yonder at t’ yella sign – what does it say?
‘Closed for le Tour de France’
See!
Le Tour de France in t’ dales?
That can’t be right. Come on, tell me I’m dreamin’.
-You’re not dreamin’ it’s happened here!
Right under your very nose
Gerrit in you head!
I don’t understand owt.
- Yorkshire’s not exactly t’ Alps, is it!
Why would they bother to cum ere?
-Becos it’s God’s own county!
That’s why.”
After Leeds, they’re given a second send off,
This time a right-royal send-off
At “Harrwood“(Harewood) House.
The peleton and trailing cyclists stop,
Together with escort motorcyclists,
Camera bikes, spare bikes on car roof racks,
Vehicles, sponsors and a convoy of support teams.
They hear out La Marseillaise and
God Save the Queen
Played by the band of the Royal Engineers.
The Red Arrows do their tricolour “crop spraying”.
The Duke and Duchess of York (...oops, sorry, Cambridge)
Are accompanied by Prince Harry.
Ribbon cut, the cyclists are loose.
They coast along, but this is still a mock departure,
Not, the real depart, which is further down the road!
So after two warm-up starts,
There’s a third start, at the zero kilometre marker
– this one actually counts.
But just at the very moment the flag goes down,
TV images break into a thousand cubist rainbow fragments.
The real depart was beyond belief,
Beyond cultures,
Beyond TV,
Beyond transmission ...
Beyond comprehension!
The potholes in the roads have all been patched up.
The riders pass the great stone arches of ‘Le Viaduct d’Arthington’,
On to Otley, where three men break away.
The red team Lotto are going well too.
Down vale and over dale.
In the distance, le Cow and Calf
- great rocks deposited by giants -
Swing into view,
Although legend has it that a woman spurned
Split the rocks apart,
Or something of that ilk.
To Ilkley (Ilkla Moor Baht’at and all that)
Cyclists, head down over handle bars,
Won’t see the yellow jersey hanging off the church tower.
A helicopter whirls around the le Château de Skipton
As the cyclists file through the outskirts of the old wool town.
They go round the “wrong” side of the roundabout!
The peleton wend their way
Down vale and over dale.
Wheel hubs spin by Buttertubs
Where butter was once kept cool before market,
Then over the river Swale and on to le Corpse Way.
Down under,
Darker and deeper,
In the old lead mines,
An underground arched ceiling
6ft 6 inches tall,
Where men could just stand
And where horses used to pull
Great tubs of ore.
Now the dank darkness is the domain
Of helmeted pot-holers
Who come in search of new caves,
Far from the jubilant crowds above.
All over the Yorkshire Dales
Pubs are adorned with Yellow Bikes.
Not to be outdone,
One shop knitted a bike!
The county has gone cycling mad!
A drawing of Shawn the Sheep, riding a bike,
Pops up in a school playground.
Artists have decorated fields
For a helicopter’s eye view.
There’s a bike in hedge
With a man in the hedge!
This might seem like a tall Yorkshire tale of
When Le Tour de France headed up north and met the Dales. When British cycling was given the recognition it truly deserved -
Cycling was literally put on the map.
However, this tale does not end happily.
A spit and a throw from the Harrogate Finish line,
Cheek by jowl, elbow to elbow,
In-the-frantic-full-on-sprint,
Mark Cavendish fell
And in a splice,
He was out of the race.
Over & out!
Holding his bruised arm,
A shoulder dislocated,
Bemused.
All that Alpine training and pre-race recce
Down the tubes.
Down vale and over dale...
© Nic Lance 2014
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