ROYAL ASCENT

Chris Marshall-Bell ventures onto Alpe d'Huez with the most famous group of British cycling fans to get an alternative perspective on Tom Pidcock's blistering win

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“I hereby knight you as Sir… wait, what’s your name?” says one of eight English knights to a kneeling Dutchman, a deflated plastic sword resting against his shoulder. His wife – knighted as a Dame just moments before – stands by, blushing with pride.

Just behind the ceremony taking place on Alpe d’Huez, Rob, one of the Beefeaters (see box on p30) responsible for all this, turns to his co-conspirator Steve and, gesturing to another reveller in fancy dress, says: “We need to get rid of the giant inflatable penis.” It’s quite the regal atmosphere.

I’ve somehow managed, after 16 consecutive days at the Tour de France, to persuade Cycling Weekly – whose car I’ve just screamed at and banged on like a monkey at a safari – that I should skip a day of reporting and join the Beefeaters on Alpe d’Huez because it is in the greater public interest that I be part of cycling’s greatest fête on Bastille Day. Little do I know what I’ve let myself in for.

Return of the Beefeaters

The clock ticks past 1pm, and the atmosphere (scented with burning sausages cremated on a nearby BBQ) is heavy with anticipation and unfettered excitement, for the Beefeaters and their followers have waited three years to return to the Tour.

The publicity caravan is a couple of hours away, and the race even further behind, but there are already hundreds here, a multitude of nationalities, ages and backgrounds dancing to the sounds of Europop and singalongs, heeding absolutely no respect to choreography.