- "Cheers for the win Patrice! Have a good evening... And to you too."
Scott Reynolds stumbled out of the tent. He had been dropped alone on the side of a mountain with the intention of making some cutting edge first person journalism. This was Scotts first time at a Tour de France, and the production team decided there was no better way to experience it than in amongst the fans. Which is why several hours ago his broadcasting buddies kicked him out the Citroen and headed for a hotel down in Bedoin.

The Best of Provence was covered in die-hard cycling fans. For the first time since 1975 the race was not finishing on the Champs-Elysees. No, as part of the "New Tour" this race finish was atop the Mont Ventoux. The fabled mountain was about to add yet another great chapter to its history. Thousands upon thousands of people had plagued the mountain sides to secure their spots for the final action of a jaw-dropping race.

Scott had pitched his tent and wandered off to film the fans doing whatever it was the fans did. He had just spent a happy couple of hours with Patrice and his family. Just 5 people lost in the masses on the gradients. It was all very lovely, but it wouldn't make for good telly. So Scott headed off to find something more interesting. On one of the switchbacks below were a set of strobeing lights. The tree line being punctuated by fantastical colors; oranges, reds, blues and yellows illuminated the night air.

It was the Dutch, of course. Someone had set up a makeshift bar/nightclub just under the edge of the trees. It had been swamped by the orange of the Dutch fans. Drunk was being kind to them.
Camera in had, Scott dived into the dancing, drinking fray. Their man Velduizen had sealed the Green Jersey the day before in Marseille, and they were celebrating hard. The GC was a bust but beer put that thought well away. In amongst the Dutch Scott could pick out various other supporters, mostly Gap-year types happily getting more and more drunk. The race wouldn't reach these slopes until 3pm at the earliest, plenty of time to calm a hangover.

The mountain was buzzing. The movement of the thousands giving the impression that the land itself was moving, readying itself for the assault of the riders later that day. One fan was setting up for a totally different kind of assault.

Jesleyh wrote:
I liked that part.
Just one thing: Velduizen is a rubbish Dutch name
Veldhuizen would be better. And what do you mean the GC was a bust? What happened to Kelderman?

The stars grew and grew before popping in an explosion of white light. The tree tops shook and twisted. The pavement rushed upwards at an alarming rate.

Chris hit the deck hard. The left hook had caught him both squarely and by surprise. The tarmac road was still warm from the summer sun and i almost welcomed him down. Before Chris could move a second blow connected with his temple and he was pitched into darkness.

By the time Chris came to things had gone to sh*t. The incident with the Slovak had gotten out of control, and a full on brawl was breaking out on the slopes. The Slovak, his mates and adjoining camp of Serbs were at war with the Germans Chris had been drinking with. Probably one hundred men were scraping away, most for now reason beyond the fact they were drunk and tired.

Chris took in the scene from his position on the flaw, before slinking away up the rocks away from danger. Perched atop an outcropping of limestone he watch as both sides went for it. Nothing was overly vicious, and a lot of it was just a good natured wrestle between blokes. Chris was joined by a few other campers, then a few more and a few more. Soon there were hundreds pushing and shoving for space to watch the chaos!

It took only a moment for things to spread. Perhaps someone pushed too hard, or one of the fighters spilled into the gathered masses. Before anyone knew better the scrap had spread. And on it flowed, outwards, upwards, right across the side of mountain. Exhaustion, heat, drink... the mix of it all, along with the already bubbling anticipation of the days action, and only a slight spark was needed.

It was not the first time unrest has hit a Tour mountain. In fact it's more regular than the organizers and police would care to admit. The huge numbers of people, the atmosphere, the alcohol... It only seems to be a matter of time.

The old arguments fueled the fighting. It had descended to a basic national level. Every fan was defending their favorite home riders. The insults flew, as did a lot of rocks, bricks, bottles, anything that wasn't secure was hurled about. Tents were knocked down, and the occupants then joined the ever growing riot.

Obviously not everyone was involved, and Chris found refuge with a group of people a bit higher the climb. From their vantage point they were some of the first to notice the red and blue flashes down in on the plains. Word had gotten out to the local police who were responding as swiftly as possible. A couple of helicopters cast spotlights onto parts of the mountain. But this intervention only spurred on the anarchy. The in-fighting stopped, and attentions turned to the police. Europeans had an ever decreasing relationship with the police following the failed recovery in 2014. Bottles, poles, rocks, shoes all headed skywards in a vague attempt to hit the choppers.

Down in the woods Chris could make out flashes of fire. He assumed that a stove of something had just been knocked over, and hoped it wasn't anything more serious. The smoke drifting up above the trees cast yet more darkness into the night. The flickers of flame licked menacingly at the trees. The smell of the burning had an immediate impact down below. In amongst the trees there was a clear change in noise and attitude. The combined efforts were simply on putting out any fires before they spread. On the bare slopes above though things continued, violently.

The bright colors of the makeshift clubs and bars was rapidly being outshone by the every gathering glare of red and blue from the various emergency services gathering on the Ventoux. The fighting and riots still continued, but in decreasing and sparse pockets now. The Fire Department was well in control of the small fires in the woods, while the Police had taken back significant control of the upper slopes. Various Ambulances were also dotted around, tending to the injured.

Down below two headlights pierced the dark streets of Malaucene. The Skoda wound it's way through a couple of small backstreets, clearly avoiding the main roads. After a few minutes it pulled up outside Aux Tournesols hotel outside of the main town. The kitchen door swung open and a hunched figure slipped soundlessly into the passenger seat. Away the Skoda pulled, cutting South onto the road towards Carpentras and beyond.

The car and its two occupants sped down the deserted road. Behind them the Beast loomed large, emitting eerie glows because of the concentrations of flashing lights. It was still far too early for any commuting traffic, or even for anything Tour associated.

The car charged into Avignon 40 minutes later. Having again ducked down some alleyways the Skoda came to rest beside the Hotel Mistral. The reception light was still on, illuminating a tall, skinny silhouette. The suited man strolled outside, and sat down in the rear of the car. Not a word was spoken as it pulled away once more, and set off South again towards Aix-en-Provence.

*bbrrrrring bbrrrring*
*bbrrrrring bbrrrring*
*bbrrrrring bbrr*
"Hello?" ... "Really !?" ... "Ok" ... "Yep" ... "I understand" ... "So the race is still on as planned?" ... "Thanks for the update"

The phone call was just one of many that was sent out. Mikel might not have been happy to have been disturbed, but the information obviously could not be ignored. The Ventoux had erupted in violence that night. Many fans had been injured in the fighting, and areas heavily damaged. Some parts of the forest had even caught fire!

The call came from the race organizers. It was simply updating the DS on the events. The police had taken complete control of the mountain now and the unrest was stamped out. The firefighters had extinguished all the fires, and the medics tended to most of the injured.

It seemed a far cry from the hotel in Aix-en-Provence. The night air was totally quiet, save for the occasional car on the street. Mikel had made sure his riders had gone to bed a long time ago, but he roused himself to double check anyway. This was the hidden side of his job. He often found himself in these situations, almost acting like a parent to the squad.

A fairly quick scout around confirmed that all the riders were where they should have been. Mikel softly stole back into his room and drifted back into sleep. His final thoughts turned a bit strange. He could have sworn there was something not quite right in one of the rooms... It could wait a few more hours.

The streets were quiet. The whole town was silent with anticipation. The morning would bring the final start of the Tour. It was as if the town itself was storing up the energy to celebrate the event. Another set of headlights cruised down the streets. It was a Skoda, and it was heading north.