At 107 years old, some believed the Grande Boucle was on the knees. Defeated, like an old lady in her nursing home, by the coronavirus epidemic. It is not so. Delayed by a few weeks to avoid the peak of the disease, the Tour de France will take the start from Nice on Saturday, like a kid on the way to school.
To the chagrin of the eco-bobo elites, the old world is resisting. Denigrated for its natural good nature, jealous for its stainless popular success, the queen event of the little queen overcame the difficulties. Under high medical and moral surveillance - the hostesses have been removed from the podiums -, kept at a distance from a public which threatens them dangerously but gives them wings, one hundred and seventy-six couriers will set off to conquer France. From Nice to Saint-Martin-de-Ré, from the Col de la Luzette to the Col de la Loze, they will cover more than 3000 kilometers at an average and unreasonable heights.
There is something insane and reassuring about this race
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