Le Tour Weekend (Sunday)

Sunday morning and my left leg has decided to divorce my body and not even make a claim for maintenance. I'm out of the hotel after breakfast and at the top of the Champs by 7:50 a.m , yep only nine hours to go until the peloton arrives!

It takes me forty minutes to drag myself down to the place I'd decided I wanted to stand, about fifty yards up from Clemenceau metro station, on the right if you are standing with Etoile behind you. I send a text home, that I have arrived and that I can only walk on one leg, knowing full well that nobody in their right mind will be up back home in England.

On a bench close to where I want to stand I notice a blonde wearing a white t-shirt and shorts, she looks tanned, fit (in both the old and new sense of the word) and in her early forties, she doesn't look a million miles away from possibly being Chris Evert's better looking sister, anyway more of that later. I walk around taking some photographs, there aren't that many people around, the roads are still open and it's hard to imagine that soon the streets will be filled with over a million people.

I take up my position - why? It's a rhetorical why, I couldn't sleep, got up, showered, shaved, had breakfast and here I am, ready to inflict this years scars on my arms and elbows by leaning on a metal crash barrier for the best part of twelve hours. I turn to my left and the blonde lady is standing there, she's resting on the barriers, "You'll regret doing that in about nine hours," I say and pull up the sleeves of my fleece to show her last years scars. We make some small talk and then introduce ourselves, her name is Ginny and over the next eleven and a half hours I will discover that she's a divorced, High School science teacher from Florida, visiting Europe with one daughter and visiting her eldest daughter who lives in Milan. She hates big corporations, thinks bankers are all crooks, can't understand why health and education are political footballs everywhere in the world and worships Lance Armstrong.

About an hour after meeting-up with Ginny three Kiwis (two women and one man in their fifties) pitch-up and they are doing the big tour of Europe, including Le Tour for which they have hired a camper van. At around eleven the crowds are already two deep and one of the Kiwi women, who is standing next to me, does a live interview with Australian TV. She's brilliant, arguing the New Zealand corner for Julian Dean who has headbutted by Cav's Aussie team mate Mark Renshaw. When the Aussie TV guy says that Renshaw being expelled seemed a little harsh she comes back at him quick as a flash, "Well it's about time we got you back for Greg Chappell's underarm." Blimey, that was 1981 when he instructed younger brother Trevor who bowl underarm to prevent a Kiwi victory in a one-dayer. "You still holding a grudge for that?" the Aussie asks.

Gary Imlach, ITV4 anchorman, takes in place in the road opposite us. I do that really nerdy thing of shouting out his name and he stands and waves, what a nice bloke. The day then takes a slightly surreal turn. Whilst the giant TV screen whirrs into action the DJ or MC puts on some music, now I'm sure there are a million songs we could come up with that would inspire the crowd but this guy has obviously decided that we need calming down, he plays three tracks from Portishead's debut album. I bought the album (Dummy) back in 1994 and love the sound of Beth Gibbons but this is so weird.

Now I love France and I love the French and there's no doubt that today they are giving the rest of the world the big finger. During the whole day there is not one announcement in English, not a single translation, which given the fact that the majority of the public are either English speaking as a first language, or, in the case of the large Viking contingent, able to understand English seems a bit off in a city that makes plenty of concessions for those who can't speak much French.

As the race time gets closer things start to get a little fractious in the crowd. People have left gaps and latecomers try to push in, this is met by some hostility, as one of the long present members puts it, "Nobody wants to stand here and be crushed to death," quite an unfortunate phrase given the weekends events in Duisburg. The race is shown on the big screen and due to the lack of translation nobody can understand what is happening with Radio Shack as all the team members seem to be stripping off at the roadside.

Once the race hits Paris the excitement level goes up another gear (no pun intended). Having been standing on the same spot for the best part, so far, of eight hours I am now going to watch 170 plus cyclists race past at 40 m.p.h about half a dozen times. In one of the those strange occurrences that seems to happen at big events we have been joined during the day by more English speakers than not and the three names that everybody keeps mentioning are Mark Cavendish, Andy Schleck and Lance Armstrong. As the Peloton makes it's first run up the Champs there is a breakaway, then the Astana group comes through with Alberto Contador in second place, then a gap and a group led by the green jersey followed by Cav. The guy behind me is under strict instructions from his wife that he's not allowed to leave Paris until he has a decent photograph of Cav, he misses but I get the shot at the top of the page (Cav is second from the left in the white jersey behind the green jersey) and she asks me if I can e-mail her a copy!

The next five laps go by in a blur and then the peloton are on the Rue De Rivoli for the final time. Thousands of necks are stretching upwards to see the screen, I can see Cav on the outside, Tony Martin, in the absence of Mark Renshaw, has dragged his man to the perfect position. The race crosses Concorde and turns right onto the Champs. The hairs on my hairs stand on end, this is as close to a communal sexual experience I will ever get, people around me are shouting and screaming and then.......

Cav appears on the left of the Peloton as we are looking. I feel like I am having an out of body experience, this is daft. I'm fifty years old I shouldn't be getting this excited about sport surely? "Go on Cav," I shout, knowing full well he can't hear me. He wins. Cav crosses the line in first place for the fifth time on this tour and in first place on the Champs for the second year running. When people talk about the atmosphere being electric this is what they mean. I start laughing, it's that adrenalin release.

The medal ceremony takes place and we can see Cav being interviewed on French TV but can't hear him - so frustrating. Then it's the final ceremonies and after Contador gets a big cheer Andy Schleck gets an even bigger one and then when Radio Shack pick-up the team award Lance Armstrong gets a richly deserved ovation from the crowd.

Once all the paraphernalia of the ceremony has been cleared there is a short wait before the traditional parade which sees the teams cycle up to the Arc de Triomphe and back again. At just after 7:40 p.m it's all over. Ginny offers her hand and says, "Thanks for letting me hang out with you for the last eleven and a half hours," then she's gone.

I walk about twenty yards and sit down on a bench, take my phone out of my pocket and switch it on, I have nine messages. The first is from a work colleague saying, "Looking at it on TV, can't see you." The next one is from Nathalie which says, "Can't see a one legged man wearing a trilby."

I hobble along to Clemenceau and take the metro up to the top of the Champs, it's then just a short walk to a restaurant for something to eat. I'm back in the hotel around nine and beginning packing. I set the alarm on my mobile phone, I have to be on the 6:30 a.m bus to the airport so that means getting up at 5:45 local time - and this is a holiday?

Monday Morning

I'm at the bus stop well before the bus, surprise surprise, which as it turns out is no bad thing. At CDG the Flybe desk isn't open and it won't be opening at the appointed time either, there's a bomb scare. Now there's one thing I've learned over the years about the French and that is they don't hang around when it comes to suspicious packages. There's an announcement that somebody has left some luggage on the Shuttle and then less than thirty seconds later two men in Army uniform are pushing the crowd back.

Once all the fuss over the suspected bomb has been sorted check-in is straightforward and then its up to the security area. I don't fly often but I've learned pretty quickly that security checks seem to vary between England and France. The woman in front of me is asked to remove her boots, I'm not (although I was requested to do so in England), I empty my pockets into one of the luggage bins but forget my suitcase keys, these set off the metal detector, which I suppose is reassuring. This ringing bell entitles me to a free frisk and pat down courtesy of Emile Heskey's slightly bigger brother.

Even before getting to the plane I have one more experience that just adds to everything so far since Thursday. The plane hasn't been able to get one of the top boarding areas so we have to be 'bussed' about fifty yards. Now obviously the bus cannot leave until all the passengers are on board which really annoys the driver of the shuttle bus behind us, in the end his horn stops working and he gets out to remonstrate with a young female flight attendant. He is all arms waving and gesticulating, she says nothing. Three times she performs the sexiest Gallic shrug and eyebrow raising I have ever seen.

The plane takes-off and I watch a TGV racing beneath us, then we are above the clouds. The next land I see is Beaulieu Abbey, quickly followed by Fawley and we appear to scrape over the top of the Queen Mary 2 in Southampton Docks. The Captain apologises for not being able to make-up more time due to a headwind. I look at my watch, it's 10:10 BST, I left Paris at 10:25, I have time travelled - okay I haven't but it sounds good!