There has been chaos in Beaucaire recently; chaos, bad weather, and great excitement.

The occasion was the 44th Etoile de Besseges cycle race, which for a short while had Beaucaire in a state of almost Monaco Grand Prix fever, except much quieter.

The first we knew of the race was the notices on the windscreens of all the cars that park daily on both sides of the marina, and along the one-way traffic circuit which is a key artery through the centre of town. Our own Van Rouge got a notice, which advised of restrictions on parking and driving on Tuesday and Wednesday, pending preparations for, and the running of, the cycle race.

Basically there would be no parking in any of the usual places, subject to being towed away, from early Tuesday evening. To reinforce this, bigger signs had been cling-filmed to trees. (Not sure if this is a Particular French thing, but here in the Provence/Languedoc-Roussillon area it seems common to advertise various things by placing your notice on a tree then wrapping it firmly to the trunk with cling-film. Nigella would be amused, and the trees probably like it too)

And then there were the other signs plonked unceremoniously between parking bays, the principle being that you would have to get out of your car while parking to make sure you hadn't crashed into one, at which point the authorities presumably hoped you'd read it.

We took it with due seriousness and shifted Van Rouge to a safe location by the boat yard. Meanwhile, on Tuesday night the rain started. On Wednesday, race day, the rain redoubled its efforts aided by a gusty wind as we awoke to a ghost-town Beaucaire, the streets devoid of cars either parked or mobile, an eerie silence that only enhanced the sound of the rain pelting against the windows of the boat. We looked at each other and wondered why anyone would hold a cycle race in weather like this.

In the main car park, team support vehicles lined up... not just any vehicles either; these were huge bus-sized trucks, shiny and splenderous and sign-written in sponsor's logos. Each would have been worth hundreds of thousands of Euros. The French take cycling very seriously.

Meanwhile, officials in dayglo safety jackets stood around morosely with their hoods up, hopping from one foot to another to keep the circulation going. It was a miserable sight, made moreso by the complete absence of any cyclists. Perhaps flooding had closed the route further up the road and les cyclistes were now floating down the Rhone clinging to their Shimanos and heading for the Med.

But then, glory be! A cyclist sped past our windows, followed by another, and another. We scrutinsed these die-hards in lycra, and discovered they were all terribly young, barely teenagers. Turned out this was a local 'Cadet' race around the marina, not the main event. We mentally applauded them for their stamina and sheer guts, silently yelled our support, turned up the heating and poured another glass of wine.

After the cadets had finished there was a lull, during which - frustratingly for them - it stopped raining and brightened up, to the extent that we ventured out for a stroll. A few tens of kilometres away, unbeknown to us, the real race had already taken in two or three nearby towns and was on its way here. The first we knew of it was a group of four gendarmerie motorcyclists with blue ligts flashing riding fast and in loose formation around the marina, along with other official vehicles and motorbikes, and the odd ambulance, which presumably carried bandages, salve cream and spare lycra patches.

There was an increase of tension in the air, and people began to line the route, especially on the other side of the marina where the Finish line was. A commentator started broadcasting over the PA system, even though there were still no cyclists, but he sounded excited. (Is a cycling commentator a 'spokesperson'? - Discuss)

And finally, with a surge of applause and yells of support, the race leaders swished into town... dozens and dozens of them in two or three colourful bunches, or whatever the collective noun is for racing cyclists. A Saddle? A Pump? Actually, a Blur sounds about right, because as we tried to capture some of the action with our cameras in 'sport mode' that's pretty much all we got... a blur. And we were getting multiple shots of race cyclists' backsides, the rest of them already having left shot. If the gendarmes had confiscated my camera and checked the images they would probably have locked me up.

We lost count of how many times the two or three Blurs went by - four or five maybe - each time faster and more tightly bunched, except on the second to last lap when all of a sudden they seemed to idle by as though on a Sunday jaunt. We decided this was to conserve energy for the Final Push (but at least we managed to get some decent photos).

As the commentator's babble reached top gear, the lead Blur came into sight, the faces on the front cyclists masks of determination, some with gritted teeth, one guy with his mouth permanently open (too much wind resistance I would have thought) and another with his tongue hanging out like a dog leaning out a car window. Knees pumped, thighs strained, the crowd yelled, my camera went kitchickitchickitchik, the commentator orgasmed and the guy in the blue lycra threw his arms in the air in victory as he swept over the finish line to the delight of the crowd.

But the one we watched for was the poor guy who was last. We'd seen him on his own a few minutes each time after the main blurs had gone through, valiantly pumping along, his race support car alongside him to protect him from all the other race support cars festooned with spare bike parts which were overtaking in pursuit of their more successful riders. He did finish eventually, to some good-spirited support from the crowd, which was nice to see.

We went back to the boat, proposed a toast to the Spirit of Cycling, and deleted all the bum photos for fear of being labelled cycling perverts. Or 'pedalphiles'.