Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon.
I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was.
Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition. But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of La Rochelle, I was reunited with French steel. He generously loaned me his Motobécane for the month.
Not a bad way to spend August.
Every morning I’d head out early, clip into the Motobécane, and point it inland.
This was long before GPS, bike computers, heart-rate monitors, power meters, and apps that tell you when you’re underperforming. My training program consisted of pedaling hard and trying not to get lost.
The roads wound through villages like Puilboreau and Saint-Xandre, bordered by enormous fields of brilliant yellow tournesols—sunflowers—that seemed to stretch forever. If you’ve never ridden through the French countryside in late summer, put it on your list. It’s hard to have a bad ride when you’re surrounded by fields that seem to be smiling at you.
I was training to stay fit for the Illinois racing season, waiting back home. I had no idea how many watts I was producing. I only knew that my legs hurt, which seemed like a pretty reliable training metric.
The real challenge, however, wasn’t the riding.
It was lunch.
August in France means vacations, extended family, neighbors dropping by, leisurely meals that somehow last half the afternoon, and enough bread and cheese to derail any athlete’s nutrition plan.
Without fail, someone would grin and announce:
“Alors… on voit que Patrick s'entraîne pour le prochain Tour de France !” (“So… we see Patrick is training for the next Tour de France!”)
Everyone laughed.
Truth be told, I wasn't the only Patrick making waves in France that summer. The 1983 Tour had just been upended by a 22-year-old rookie named Laurent Fignon, with wire-rimmed glasses and a blond ponytail. I found myself fiercely rooting for him—partly for his fearless riding, but mostly because his full name was Laurent Patrick Fignon.
If a Patrick could win the greatest race on earth, I figured I should at least do my part on the Motobécane.
Then came the question.
“How far did you ride today?”
I’d answer, “About fifteen miles.”
Silence . . .
In America, that sounded respectable. Around a French lunch table? Miles might as well have been measured in bananas.
So I’d frantically start doing mental arithmetic.
“Uh… about twenty-four kilometers.”
That usually earned a few approving nods. Apparently, kilometers sounded much more impressive.
I decided to embrace the joke. If everyone insisted I was training for the Tour, I figured I needed the proper wardrobe. So I wandered into a bicycle shop in La Rochelle, determined to buy the iconic Maillot Jaune—the Yellow Jersey.
That’s when I learned a lesson in French cycling culture. The shop owner looked at me with the expression usually reserved for someone asking whether they could buy an Olympic gold medal.
Non.
The Yellow Jersey wasn’t a souvenir. You earned it.
The Maillot Jaune has symbolized the leader of the Tour de France since 1919, when race organizers chose yellow because it matched the color of the newspaper, L’Auto, that created and sponsored the race. More than a century later, it’s still the most recognizable jersey in cycling—and in France, it carries a certain reverence.
No amount of francs would allow me to buy one. Properly humbled, I bought a simple red-and-white jersey instead. No sponsors. No logos. No borrowed glory.
Probably for the best.
When it came time to leave France, Uncle Jean Paul handed me something far more meaningful than anything I could have bought.
A simple plastic Contrex water bottle.
It had been tossed by a Tour de France rider as the peloton thundered through the region, scooped up by my uncle, and saved. To anyone else, it was an old water bottle. To me, it was a tiny piece of cycling history.
Holding that bottle made me feel, in the smallest way, connected to a race that has captivated fans since 1903, one that crosses impossible mountain passes and creates legends whose names are woven into the sport.
These days, the sting of losing my Mercier has finally faded.
The Motobécane belongs to memory, but my Raleigh Competition still hangs in my garage, exactly where it’s been since about 1998.
Every time I see it hanging in the rafters, I tell myself, “Maybe–this is the year.” Then I glance at those old racing gears and remember they were designed by people who apparently believed hills were character-building exercises. My carbon-fiber Trek, with its modern gearing, is considerably more forgiving—and so, frankly, are my knees.
But hanging there with the Raleigh is that old Contrex water bottle.
It’s still one of my most treasured possessions, not because it’s valuable, but because every time I see it, I’m reminded of sunrise rides through endless sunflower fields, the unmistakable feel of French steel beneath me, family laughter around a crowded lunch table, and one unforgettable summer spent chasing the Tour—even if the Tour never knew I was chasing it.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask better questions. See you next time.
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