THE PELOTON OF 180 riders took a sharp right turn at fifty-five kilometers per hour and then lined up for the final push to the finish line by the Promenade des Anglais in Nice. Thirty thousand people lining the barricades of the 500-meter-long straightaway saw only a blur of color as the cyclists bumped and elbowed for space. The danger was palpable to the onlookers, most of them shrieking encouragement.
Behind the riders came a cavalcade of team cars. In the second vehicle—an apple-red Volkswagen Jetta used by the Global Projects team and piled high with six bikes—Directeur Sportif Pierre McManus yelled “Allez, allez, allez! Go, go, go!” into his radio speaker, although he knew his lead riders were too focused to pay much attention. But he was on an adrenaline rush, and so he yelled louder and louder.
As soon as the riders zipped by the turnoff for the team cars, two yellow-clad Tour de France officials hopped into the road and madly waved the vehicles off to the right and into the parking lot set aside for them.
“Allez, allez, Raoul!” McManus screamed at his top sprinter as he turned right, coming within ten meters of one wide-eyed official.