Follow the leader

L'ALPE D'HUEZ, France -- The way I usually experience the Tour de France is the pretty-as-a-postcard way.
On my TV screen, the brightly colored peloton rushes past fields of sunflowers, through pristine alpine valleys and up dramatic peaks.
The fans line the road, the stars smile, and then everyone magically appears in a different town the next day.
Tuesday was one of those made-for-TV Tour days. As the cyclists raced through stunning countryside from Provence up into the Alps, Lance Armstrong regained the yellow jersey for the first time in 13 days and won the stage with a dramatic sprint to the finish, pumping his fist as he crossed.
But, as I'm beginning to comprehend, behind the pretty image on the screen, the Tour is utter and complete madness.
Sorting through
The Tour de France is a bewildering maze of giant teapots, burning brakes, sweating humanity -- a place where one can be totally lost one minute and, the next, open a door and discover the world's most famous cyclist.
There is nothing comparable in American sports. It is as though the Super Bowl and Olympics joined forces and take place in a new town every day for 23 days.
The day began as my colleague and I sped 140 kilometers per hour along the Autoroute that roughly paralleled the Tour course, trying to make an end-around connection to the race.
The day ended 19 hours later in a ski hostel on top of a mountain jam-packed with people in sleeping bags, squeezed into every available space.
Wedged between the day's start and finish was a kaleidoscope of cycling, inflatable devils and colossal traffic jams.
Tuesday's stage was tricky. For the cyclists, yes -- there were four different Cols, or peaks, rated Category 1 or 2 -- but also for the reporters. The press center was four kilometers from the finish, just over a small alp.
I set out with Gil LeBreton of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram to make it to the finish before the race, feeling slightly like a Von Trapp trying to escape.
Unfortunately, at the top of our tiny alp -- somewhat like a Von Trapp -- we had to abandon the car. No enemy lurking -- just the danger of being run off the road by a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade worth of inflatable devils, teapots and a huge Spiderman. The sponsors were making their way off the course and out the Tour's back door.
Media on the move
The air was filled with the acrid smell of burned brakes and stripped clutches as press members and team officials tried unsuccessfully to maneuver the hill. Overhead was the deafening sound of the television helicopter; the hills were alive with the sound of media infiltration.
We raced down the mountain, but Armstrong had already swooped through the finish line. Smashed against a metal fence, I saw Armstrong step up on stage to accept the yellow jersey.
The roar of the crowd was deafening. French children and their parents, German teenagers and a massive group of yellow-clad fans from Austin who chanted "Six, Six, Six" -- they all seemed to be rooting for Armstrong. People held their babies aloft to catch a glimpse of fame. If there is any resentment of Armstrong, it wasn't apparent in Villard de Lans.
Up in the press room -- on the other side of the small alp -- the assembled European press (which had wisely waited for quotes to be piped into the room) also roared its approval at his effort at the finish line.
The postrace interview area was a maze of TV trucks and cables. I squeezed through tiny cracks and slipped between metal barricades in search of the man with the yellow jersey. But I couldn't find him anywhere.
Finally, I opened a trailer door. And there he was -- Lance Armstrong talking about why he was wearing black socks (they were the first thing he pulled out of his bag on Tuesday morning). He had on his yellow jersey, over his regular Postal jersey, despite temperatures in the stifling trailer that made it tempting to emulate the two streakers who ran beside the cyclists on Tuesday.
The view from the top of the mountain is as pretty and pristine as a postcard. Don't be deceived. Behind it lurks Tour de France insanity.
XAnn Killion is a columnist for the San Jose Mercury News.