by Carol McGann
Every vehicle in the caravan tried to be cleverer, louder and of still less taste than the others. They yelled of “the mint alcohol of Ricqlès, which stimulates, refreshes and comforts” and “Byrrh—the drink that sportsmen prefer.” Lucky Strike went further. Not only did it shout about cigarettes “which don’t hurt your throat or make you cough” but it pictured André Leducq smoking beside the caption “I like Lucky Strike.” Before long the drinks companies expanded into the evening as well, holding street parties with popular singers such as Tino Rossi and Charles Trenet.
Desgrange felt pleased. He had routed the bike factories. He had saved the Tour. And he had arranged to have his costs paid by companies outside the sport and by the cities his race visited. What he hadn’t foreseen was that those companies would, within a couple of decades and against the Tour’s wishes, take over the sport in a way the bike factories couldn’t have imagined. But by then Desgrange was dead and the problems fell to others.
