Cyclists? Those chiselled creatures with the padded little, lycra-clad bottoms, skinny bikes and wraparound sunglasses? Who gives a toss about them - here comes

Mickey Mouse. Cunning strategy is required. Spotting an opening in the crowd about 10 yards up the hill, I make a dash for it; fling dozens of polite, little toddlers out of the way, claim the space, stick both arms out - and wave like a maniac.

Yes, it's fairly savage but it has to be done. The tension rises as the mobile Mickey slows down and the smiley lady inside reaches for the goodies beside her.

Arms in the crowd reach out imploringly in one great Mexican wave. "Ici!

Ici!" we yell. Finally, she throws . . . One lands behind me. Poor reflexes.

Children scatter hysterically as I turn and make a frantic dive. It's between me and the little man with the huge camera swinging aggressively from his hairy chest. His rugby training pays off. He throws himself onto it, clasps it to his sweaty bosom and glares at me defiantly.

I glare right back. "So. What's in it?" I ask him, in a low, threatening voice. Several dozen distraught children watch watery-eyed, as he pulls apart the cellophane wrapping and slowly, reverently, unfolds the object of all our desires; a cardboard cut-out of the mouse's face. What can I do? I concede. We shake hands.

"Salut les Irlandais ! A l'annee prochaine!" he trills gallantly, in acknowledgement of the Tour de France en Irlande-liveried vehicle from which he has seen me alight.

Ah yes, Monsieur, I mutter darkly, there will be another time, another mouse, another aggressive little man comme toi. That's the magic of the Tour de France.

Next year, when it comes to Ireland, we'll meet again, this time on home territory. Those French have had plenty of practice - nearly 100 years of it -

but we'll be ready for them.

Never heard of Ullrich, Pantani, Virenque, Cipollini? Haven't a clue why someone with any kind of taste might want to wear a jersey with big red dots on it? Can't understand why grown men want to half kill themselves cycling up a mountain? Doesn't matter. None of it matters a damn when you do it like the

French. Find a good, vertigo-inducing slope where the poor, skinny-bottomed creatureens have to cycle upwards (this separates the climbers from the boys and facilitates great close-ups of pain-wracked features); set up the barbecue, uncork the Beaujolais, lay out the rugs, implore the children not to fall in front of a race car, and start warming to the notion that this is not just a bicycle race. This is one of life's longest and greatest street parties.

For non-initiates, this is the surprise of the Tour de France. The bikes flash past in 20 seconds but the preceding circus goes on for hours. The logistics are awesome. Forget about the bicycles and consider that a staggering three miles of Tour traffic will be transported by Stena Line next year between

France and Ireland. Add to that 3,500 accredited personnel, 13 helicopters, four fixed wing aircraft, 500 radio channels and 1,000 media people. So before you lay an eye on a bike, all of that has to flash past in one way or another.

This week, for your benefit, I got to ride in the Tour de France. Those of an envious disposition should stop reading here.

At 10 a.m. one morning, I lounged in the sunshine on a grassy Alpine slope, breathed deeply of the mountain air, pondered how a little puff of cotton wool cloud defined the highest peak of the Eiger, sipped a smooth red while picking at a plate piled high with tartiflette (delicious potatoes and things) and compared my muscles, tan and general fitness level with a fellow called Museeuw.

Obviously , he is something important in cycling given the number of adoring fans, gazing, gooey-eyed, at his remarkably skinny body, saddle and tyres.

Anyway, the upshot of the conversation about the exigencies of cycling was two wheels bad, four wheels good. This four-wheeler - a shiny, Tour en

Irlande/Bord Failte liveried Fiat Ulysse, driven by former cyclist and Tour en

Irlande begetter and organiser, Pat McQuaid - is one of eight Irish cars in the stunningly well organised publicity cavalcade that takes off about an hour or so before the cyclists. The idea is to get to the end of the stage well ahead of the latter. Well, we did.

To say we hurtled through the Alps is an understatement. To say that barrelling along empty roads (closed to all but the Tour) through a 100-mile street party, up and down swooningly theatrical mountains and valleys at the height of the French tourist season, cheered on by hundreds of thousands of dancing, partying villagers and holidaymakers armed with whistles, cowbells, accordeons and huge Alpine horns . . . to say that all that was a thrill, is another feeble understatement. Even with cavalcade competition such as the fibre-glass Mickey Mouse, Pluto and the Michelin Man; giant, mobile peaches and strawberries; cars shaped like watches or with 10-foot camemberts or razors or coffee grinders on top - all lashing out tooth-rotting, plastic largesse; even with all that, the Irish are making quite an impact.

Forced to stop on a hill for some reason, our driver, in perfect French with a perfect Dublin accent, waves gaily at a picnicking Frenchman who promptly responds with a bottle of red. His wife struggles across the grass with a large, home-made cake. We eat and drink while Jacques launches into a local anthem, makes a short, slightly slurred but impassioned speech about sport uniting the world and shakes hands. "A l'annee prochaine! - En Irlande!", we promise volubly to our new best friends before tearing on up the mountains, slaloming round and round the hair-raising, hairpin bends, up slopes so neck-breakingly sheer, in heat so draining that for the first time, this reporter - whose ignorance of cycling is bottomless casts off the smugness and wonders what drives cyclists to such extremes. "Money", responds a cynic.

That evening as we stand at the final, savage slope just outside Courchevel, watching them speed past so close you could touch them, still pedalling like dervishes after 90 miles of hellish, death-defying climbing, I find myself moved to tears. Then again, it could have been the fact that we survived that last hairpin while dodging the giant strawberry. Or maybe it was all that wine...

Could the Wicklow Gap ever be like this?

Pat McQuaid, his business partner Alan Rushton, Reginald Kearns, all the men and women of Bord Failte, the Irish Government and the lunatic on the cavalcade who spent July driving an airplane undercarriage (a pair of enormous Michelin tyres basically, with a tiny space shuttle on top) 2,500 miles across France believe so.

Millions of pounds, military-type planning and years of sweat and tears are going into this awesomely huge and complex exercise. According to Noel Toolan of Bord Failte, it could be worth £30 million to our tourist industry, never mind the publicity bonanza involved in getting places like the Wicklow Gap in the sights of 950m television viewers. Minister for Tourism, Jim McDaid, says that it puts us at the centre of the world: "Where we were once at the edge of the world, we're now a bicycle ride from Paris - albeit for the very fit!"

Now fix your spot somewhere between Dublin, Enniscorthy and Cork in plenty of time for July 11th, 12th or 13th, 1998.