Right at Home

Although his family is coming home today, Rudy has made himself right at home with us. When I woke up this morning and looked over, he was snuggled right up to OilMan, on his back, with his little short legs curled over the covers. By the time I fetched the camera and came back, they were both awake. We call him Mini Me as he trundles around after Ozzie, copying everything he does.

The Tour de France starts live here at 5am most days, so we record it and watch later, fast forwarding our way through the myriad commercials. The Yorkshire Dales are beautiful, but probably not from a bicycle with nine categorized climbs in one day. We love the countryside and the strategizing, the feats of endurance, the personalities and the drama that rolls around every July.

The first time we watched was in 2003. We were stranded in a hotel near Malpensa, (Milan Airport) with a flight out early the following morning. We had turned in our rental car, and it was too hot to do anything but stay in our air conditioned room and watch TV. Our viewing choice seemed to be The Tour de France in either Italian or French. I had a working grasp of French, and we watched fascinated as the peloton made its way through places we had just been staying. We were hooked.

We returned to Italy many times after that. My niece lives with her Italian husband in Saluzzo, a medieval town in the foothills of the Alps. We've driven many Alpine roads and sought out some passes that featured in stages of the Tour. (Never in July!). We watched through all seven consecutive Tours that were won by our hero, Lance Armstrong, and no longer our hero, his ignominious disqualification from all seven when he was banned from competitive cycling for life for doping. Not much consolation in the fact that it was difficult to find someone not guilty of the same offense upon whom to bestow the titles.

Although I don't condone the use of performance enhancing drugs, I feel that the stakes have gotten so high, that it seems almost inevitable. I love the old clips of tours of yore, when a cyclists with a problem would seek out a farmer to help him make repairs, have a cup of tea with him, and then be on his way again. No phalanxes of cars with extra bikes, no moving doctor's car, feeding stations or domestiques. Things have come a long way since then. It makes for great viewing, but it pushes the athletes to the limits of their endurance and beyond.

So we will be glued once again to our television for the better part of the month, admiring the scenery, the villages and cities, and the superbly fit participants as they head for the Champs Elysees.

And we'll miss Mini Me, begging for the milk foam in my coffee and settling down beside me on the couch….