After three days of stunning riding in one of the most spectacular areas I have yet visited, today was about one thing and on thing only; watching the Tour de France. Live.

Having studied the Tour route, and taken into consideration the time constraints of our short trip, there really was only once choice: the Port des Bales. While not as fearsome as the Tourmalet, which troubled the Tour the following day, this 20km climb came just at the end of the stage with a 15km descent to the finish, so while not being of interest to the main contenders, it’s prime for a decent breakaway.

And so it was. After riding up and reccing the climb, we settled on a spot near the top, above the last hairpin. Perched high up on the grassy slopes above the road, we had an incredible view down into the valley with the road coiling up the mountain. This, we agreed, would give us a great shot at watching the action unravel in the last kilometres.

Experiencing the drama of the Tour on race day is difficult to put into words, and I urge everyone reading this to make the pilgrimage next year to watch a stage of the Tour in the mountains. There can be no other sporting fixture on the planet that comes close to the incredible thrill of watching the Tour de France circus pass by.

There’s the thousands of people standing wherever there is space beside the road, the scores of white motor homes camped in advantageous spots, most having been there for days in advance to ensure the best spot, and lastly the hordes of cyclists riding the climb just hours before the professionals race up the same road.

Once you’ve ridden up and got your good spot, the well-organised now tuck into a pre-prepared lunch of jambon baguettes, Haribo and bottles of Coco Cola. Then it’s just a case of sitting back and waiting for the pandemonium. Chaos ensues when the Tour caravan, a travelling motorcade promoting the many brands and companies sponsoring the race in a carnival procession, proceeds up the road.

Then it goes silent.

The calm before the storm. Nothing much happens for what seems like an age. You get a bit fidgety, start applying some more sun cream as the sun batters your pale skin.

An unseen helicopter’s rotor blades break the silence.

The first of the organisers’ Tour vehicles, which are Skodas dressed up in official livery, rounds the distant corner and then, the sight of the first rider. It’s the French national champion, Thomas Voeckler, weaving a line through the crowd as it squashes onto the hot Tarmac and breathes open as the lone rider keeps to his ridiculously high tempo.

By this point the cacophony of noise is astounding. A Mexican Wave of excited spectators shouting, cheering and tooting horns signals the rider’s progression up the road.

And then he’s gone.

A couple of moments and then the crowd go ballistic as the yellow jersey, today on the shoulders of Alberto Contador, comes into view. By this point we’ve rushed from our high vantage point to get closer to the road side, to get a closer look at these superheroes of the road, the crowd spilling ever closer onto the road to get a better photo, a closer look into the eyes of the cyclists.

In small groups they pass, the high pace clearly too much to keep the peloton in one cohesive group. The fast climbers at the front, then a long wait, it seems to the last group of racers, and the sprinters who follow up a long time after the first rider broke into view. As the last riders and support vehicles race out of sight and over the crest of the hill, it’s all over.

And then chaos. The road fills with vehicles and cyclists trying to get up the road, and many more trying to get back down, either on foot, in cars or by bicycle. It’s completely mental. People get feisty trying to squeeze through nonexistent gaps; it’s like commuting through the narrow streets of London. But soon we negotiate the thousands of other cycling fans and we’re down into the valley, sharing stories of the incredible experience we’ve just shared, comparing opinions on who we thought looked strong and who was struggling, how this ride will affect the overall classification.

It’s a rush. Watching the Tour on the box is one thing, but here on the roadside with the pros just metres, inches, away, puts the entire race into perspective. It’s been a great day.

So much so that we’ve decided to push back our arrangements to return home by one day to watch the race tomorrow. On the Col du Tourmalet. Does life get any better than this? [Smug or what? – ed.]