A remarkably trouble-free drive
took us, in convoy, to our car park close to Grinton where after a wander round
Reeth to soak up the atmosphere and partake of a leisurely snack, we headed up
the moor, secured a few yards of roadside verge, and settled down amid a
good-natured crowd to await the action: first came the official souvenir vans
from which £20 secured a reasonable collection of branded T-shirt, cap, buff
and bag; an hour or so later came the caravan, a bizarre parade of vehicles
promoting the sponsors wares from which freebies were hurled to the scrabbling
masses; finally after another hour, that developed into an expectant hush, the
riders shot through with Jens Voigt a couple of minutes ahead of the peloton,
whose passage felt almost unreal in its proximity and intensity, a feeling augmented
by the swirling helicopters overhead; then they were gone up and over the
summit, the back-up cars and final police outriders behind them, leaving the
crowd to slowly melt away down the hill, we with them and more than glad we
came.
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