Alain Breyer


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Meanwhile his Tour de France

The sports literature has rather a habit of celebrating the champions through exploits that forge their legends.
And in this field, cycling in general and the Tour de France in particular have always been a prolific and powerful source of inspiration.
But if, as everyone knows, the Tour is first and foremost the biggest annual sporting event worldwide, it is also this amazing festival that brings in its wake and a captive audience of more than 10 million people .
And this is where the uniqueness of this book.
For here, it's not on the road as it goes. But rather on the side of the road.
Not at the heart of the show. But the heart of the audience.
It was at their meeting that takes us Alain Breyer.
As the kilometers in the countryside or the passage of a village, the objective of his
camera wanders and offers us an astonishing portrait gallery.
Large and small, young and old, fans of a particular, real cycling enthusiasts or simply from other, as they say, see the riders, it's sort of the big family of the Tour France's Alain Breyer gives us to see.

Christian Prudhomme

AND ...

Since its remote creation, the Tour de France has always been of the literary epic. Louis Malle has filmed sixteen millimeters under the enlightened rule of Jacques Anquetil, Blondin was magnified with his poetic in his prose Team or inspiration was there to remind us that the Tour is better than a sporting event: a vast social panorama and generations merge in a burst of identity and shared knowledge. If he continues to fascinate, despite the doping scandals that affect dreamlike in its scope, it is because it defies reality, the present and the past are not together smoothly because each Tour us back to the summers of our fifteen years, the Tour de France of yesteryear, when the sun seemed warmer than today. It is this mirror, which is reflected in these snapshots voluntarily stripped of Alain Breyer. But do not be mistaken: he photographs it is not waiting, the slow approach of the Tour, this is the time, these inert and empty hours, free of any penalty, which meet on the top of the slope down to France too often neglected by large flow of current. Tansad released on his bike, Breyer takes us without rushing to meet the anonymous release, as sprung from nowhere, which débraillent the passage of the race quota in the recall of their youth because they would too many if the Tour at the bottom, they do not tell their story?
Their enchantments, their past fads?
If the tour does not come to remind them incidentally, to burn to the point, in a whiff of nostalgia, memories diffuse, forgotten names, or places of runners, many insignificant details, unknown to the chronic, but if their prégnants memory.
Yes these people are also there to remember.
The passage of time.
As I remember ...

I remember Jacques Goddet wearing a colonial uniform that gave him a little look at the David Niven.

I remember Jacques Anquetil wore his watch on his right wrist.

I remember the initials HD on the yellow jersey for HD Henri Desgrange, the creator of the event.

I remember the yellow jersey is yellow because the paper organizer Auto was printed on yellow paper.

I remember that runners prewar gut knotted around their shoulders and in high mountain passes, they preserved the cold with newspaper.

I remember Robic put lead in his canteen to go faster on the descents.

I remember a picture of Koblet looking at his watch for the arrival of Agen.

I remember Bartali won the Tour a decade apart.

I remember that Dalida was disguised as a man to do two steps in the car Blondin, at a time when women were not allowed in the caravan.

I remember in 1967 in the Ventoux, Simpson was dead in the sun or he wanted to get a place.

I remember that the public said "Poupou" to speak of Poulidor.

I remember they said the two K to evoke the two champions Swiss Kubler and Koblet.

I remember Hugo Koblet the cyclist had been baptized by the charming singer Jacques Grello;

I remember the great voices of radio, Fernand Choisel Emile Toulouse, Luc Varenne, Jean-Paul Brouchon, Bernard Reed and Guy Kedia.

I remember the Italian De Pra yellow jersey in 1966 was a dead ringer for Johnny Hallyday.

I remember an editorial in Goddet Anquetil had treated the Yellow Dwarf.

I remember a long breakaway Roger Pingeon in 1967 in step Legs.

I remember Herman Van Springel in tears, in 1968, on the track of Cipale after Jan Janssen had delighted him the yellow jersey for a few seconds.

I remember we nicknamed Franco Bitossi, the "crazy runner at heart. "

I remember the advent of Eddy Merckx in July 1969 coincided with the first steps of man on the moon.

I remember in 1975, runners were supplied by Unico.

I remember one spectator, a Smith-the-joy hit Eddy Merckx in the ascent of the Puy de Dome.

I remember the blue bike Felice Gimondi, and brand Chiorda.

I remember Raymond Delisle won stage 14 July 1969, after receiving a slap from his leader Roger Pingeon.

I remember the red guts of Rik Van Looy.

I remember the articles by Pierre Chany, the warm voice of Robert Chapatte.

I remember Fred De Bruyne and Theo Matthy.

I remember that this is a rider of the Peugeot team, who baptized Christian Raymond Merckx "The Cannibal".

I remember CeesHaast, Julio Jimenez, Jean-Claude Theilliere, Gianni Motta, Guido Reybroeck, Bernard Van de Kerkhove and Martin Van Den Bossche.

I remember Yves HEZARD his tongue in your effort.

I remember Virlux advertising on the Yellow Jersey.

I remember qu'Ocana, Merckx, Thevenet, Delgado wore the number 51 when they won the Tour, and that Blondin had fun drinking fifty-one 51.

I remember Pollentier, caught cheating at Alpe d'Huez.

I remember Anquetil was driving Ford Mustang and his wife, Janine, had the platinum blonde Martine Carol.

I remember always ended Poulidor second but very rarely in a daze.

I remember the Dane Ole Ritter Merckx who drove down before the start of Valloire in 1975.

I remember that the Dutch Gerrit Knetmann refused by the superstitious number 13 and Bernard Thevenet never wore green gloves.

I remember Henri Pelissier said that a rider with glasses could never win the Tour in witness whereof, Janssen and Fignon won the one and another.

I remember Jacques Anquetil and Raymond Poulidor, shoulder against shoulder, in the ascent of the Puy de Dome.

I remember the red cars of the newspaper L'Equipe.

I remember the checkered Peugeot jersey, the tan color of the jersey Molteni.

I remember that it is Michael Seassau, a journalist with the team, who first spoke of "Merckxisme", referring to the reign of Eddy Merckx.

I remember being criticized when Anquetil and Merckx did not win, because he always won.

I remember that the cans were in turn sponsored Contrexéville, Vittel and Evian.

I remember Matignon was red lantern when he won at the Puy de Dome.

I remember Bernard Hinault was nicknamed the Badger himself.

I remember in the 80s, children wore a hair band to get a look at Fignon.

I remember Fignon, slumped on the pavement of the Champs-Elysées and like an eternity of his eight seconds lost face Lemond.

I remember Armstrong and his eyes iguana.

I remember Marco Pantani as a last reminiscence of the heroes of yesteryear.

Philippe Brunel

Photographs taken on Nikon D200 and D300