There is no dress code at the Tour de France. It’s strictly a come-as-you-are-crazy affair.
This being a French event, you have to wonder when they”ll put the clamps on spontaneous dress. Maybe it starts with the gaudy lycra madness of the team kits and goes from there. You can wear as little or as much or as amusing or embarrassing as you like.
I found these — what — clowns, drunks, freaks, visionaries — just two kilometers from the finish of stage 7 to Station des Rouses. Their strange theater show was done for the day but thong man was still working his hips while his side kick Sponge Bob was already feeling the effects of a hangover. Why do they do this?
Imagine you’re Armstrong or Contador or Schleck and you’ve just ridden a hundred or hundred fifty miles under the hot, humid sun, up a few irritating climbs and you figure your day is about done when you roll past these two guys.
Do you shut your eyes and hope not to crash? Do you smile and say, “ahh, I love Le Tour” or do you shout at the gendarmes to arrest them immediately? Tough call.
The Tour de France is the supreme test of a riders capabilities, mental and physical and perhaps also a test of their ability to block out all distractions. Like these two charming nut-balls.
Note: for other stage seven photos, click here or go to the flickr gallery at the bottom of the site.