Le Rite Grand Depart

This Bank Holiday weekend just passed saw the inaugural Tour de Yorkshire, a three day cycling event taking in the best of the counties, East North and West.  This latest addition to the professional road race circuit – which incidentally went past my Mum’s house, hello Mum – came about largely because of the huge success of last year’s Grand Depart which saw the Tour de France set off from Leeds and the first two stages take in much of god’s own country, Yorkshire.  So it seems like a fitting time to delve into the archives from July 2014.

“Home” has always been a complex notion for me.  I grew up outside of Huddersfield but never really felt much attachment to the place.  But I do feel a very strong sense of “generic Northerness”.  And why shouldn’t I?  It’s god’s own county after all.  Even with all the places I’ve travelled, I am still of the opinion that the countryside from Leeds to Harrogate is some of the finest in the world, and a drive through there on a sunny day ranks as one of the finest roadtrips you can take, ticking off some of my favourite haunts like Malham Cove and Almscliffe.  So the real question is not, why did the Tour de France start in Yorkshire, but why did it take so long to do so?

Over two days, some two million people lined the route to cheer on the competitors.  Tour organisers remarked, in their finest French accents ‘zat never before ‘ave we seen so many spectators on every single section of zee stages.’  The main attraction on Day 2 was the big climb up Holme Moss – also just a stone throw from my Mum’s house, hello Mum.  Now admittedly, a never-ending alpine ascent Holme Moss is not.  The professionals were expected to reach the summit in just seven minutes; a mite faster than the existing Strava record.  However, it was a popular choice to watch the race and take in the fantastic festival atmosphere of that historic weekend.

There must have been a record number of flat caps dotted over the hillside, and a slightly higher than normal ratio of whippets.  But the best costumes were undoubtedly the three men who’d travelled up from Nottingham as Compo, Cleggy and Foggy.  They fitted in perfectly on the hillside, looking down into the valley where much of Last of the Summer Wine was filmed, and I’m pretty sure they made the trip back home via metal bathtub.

We packed our raincoats as the grey skies did look particularly ominous, but by some miracle (did I mention god’s own county?) the rain held off and the sun came out. There was plenty of time to take in an ice-cream and some promotional Yorkshire Thé as the caravan drove past, building the excitement.  Optimistic and energetic amateurs continued to try out their luck against the mighty Holme Moss, being greeted with as much enthusiasm and support as the professionals, before gravity – and stewards – won out.

At last, the circle of helicopters overhead indicated that the moment was upon us.  A shout of “Stand back, lads and lasses”, a buzz of tyres on tarmac and a blur of lycra.  The peloton flashed by in a second and before we knew it, it was over.  But what a day, what a weekend.  Yorkshire did itself proud, as if there was ever any doubt.