Central London CTC blog

And so Le Tour came to Central London. No-one knew what to expect - was this to be another rain-sodden anti-climax, a few diehard fans scattered around the streets whilst the world walked by? Were we to expect a repeat of last year’s Tour of Britain, a tribute to British Sports management? The BBC seemed to think so, the Ken Livingstone haters hoped so.

But the hum began on Friday. Course preparations were well under way, with seemingly little impact on transport. Riders had been spotted out training on the route, mingling with the work day traffic. At 6 p.m. Trafalgar Square welcomed the opening ceremony, a good crowd cheering each rider in turn as they stumbled a few words of English to the microphones.

Then it all came through. Saturday broke the raindancers’ spell in glorious style. The parks were at their finest, soft green swathes wrapping the lakes, the paths sheltered in leafy shade. At first, there was space by the barriers, but steadily the numbers grew. Unexpected friends stumbled into each other, whilst others searched for those they intended to meet. Nearby railings were soon bedecked with bikes, locked in deep stacks representing their owners - racers and fixies, folders and tourers. Near stood the shaven-legged club lads, the family riders, the old boys who remembered when.

Yet this was no mere meeting of cycle fans. This was more, the hype had worked, that nebulous and fickle creature, the general public had responded. Beneath the big screens, around the streets, everywhere was packed. Maybe not everyone knew what was going on, maybe very few could follow the detail, perhaps they were merely out to enjoy a spectacle, from the curiosity that is the Caravan onwards.

At 3pm, grinning from ear to ear, Our Ken started the first rider down the ramp. As soon as the helicopter shots were relayed, it was clear why - London looked gorgeous, the watching world be treated to 3 hours of publicity for the capital. As the field pushed round, the speeds rose, the excitement grew. The harsh rumble of carbon wheels sounded as they were riding the boards, the following cars fought round the turns, the gendarmes remained cool. Each home rider was met with an extra roar, yet every rider had their home fans, squealing with delight as they recognised their heroes’ thighs. This crowd was looking to be enthusiastic not to be partisan. And at last the fast boys were out. As ever, the home dream was not to be, the clever-money favourite went beyond all expectations, conclusively breaking the record for a Tour prologue.

It all worked. The numbers came, there was room for all. There was food, drink, even toilets. The big screens prevented any crush onto the course, the security was efficient yet subtle. Even the foreign press could only praise. The BBC chose to virtually ignore.

And next day it starts again. A shameful decision by SouthEast Trains to ban bikes throws the plans of many, merely watching the caravan and warm-up ride through a bleak South London back route, thence retiring to watch on Eurosport. Once more a glorious day, once more a glorious route, once more glorious crowds. Again the fairy tale of a Brit in yellow was not to be, but as if time stood still, the Millar boy came through to take the polka dot jersey into France. And Robbie did what Robbie does, a fantastic finish.

Estimates of 4 million roadside spectators over the two days, the most successful ever start of Le Tour, presumably the largest crowd ever for a sporting event in the UK. No crowd problems. No chaos.
But cycling is a minority sport.