Part one of a two-part column honoring the greatest sporting event in the world, other than the Wife Carrying World Championship.
When the sun peaks over the Pioneers on Saturday morning, it will find much of the Wood River Valley paying for our nation's independence with the echo of Reckless Kelly playing accompaniment to a pounding headache, courtesy of cheap beer.
Meanwhile, partway around the globe around 180 of the world's most masochistic athletes will be in the midst of a 125-mile bike ride, signifying the start of the Tour de France.
Also known as the Grand Boucle, or big loop, because of its circumnavigation of the country, cycling's greatest race will once again captivate the attention of America, or at least those that accidentally sit on the remote and land on Versus.
While Lance Armstrong's seven-year reign not only made bright yellow bracelets fashionable for straight men, it also opened up America's eyes to the breathtaking vistas of the French countryside, men in lycra peeing by the side of the road and the social status of having a bike that costs more than a luxury car.
However, much like the World Cup does for soccer or the Olympics do for, well, nearly every Olympic sport, the interest in the Tour lasts only as long as the contest itself.
And in the case of this year's race, where no U.S. rider has a chance of riding up the Champs-Élysées in the Maillot Jaune without enough EPO in the bloodstream to kill Barbaro (too soon?), Tour ratings will likely rank somewhere between table tennis and rhythmic gymnastics.
It's pretty sad that we, as a nation, care more about the rumor that Lance dated one of the Olsen twins (incredible news, I must admit) than the stirring battle to name his successor.
For sure, the sport itself has been plagued for the last decade with the revelation that many of its participants take some form of performance enhancing drug, but honestly, can you blame them?
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Here they are, faced with the challenge of riding over 2,000 miles in 21 days, at least nine of which are in mountains I don't think my truck could climb, and have to do so on no more than pasta and Gatorade.
In the meantime, NFL players take to the field once a week, 16 times a season, have a players' union that essentially refuses effective testing for steroids, and suspends the guilty for a mere four games, compared to two years in cycling. Yet this is our favorite sport to watch?
Of course, cycling doesn't necessarily lend itself to television viewing, especially for the casual observer who thinks the peloton is a gourmet cheese, a domestique is a fancy name for a non-alcoholic beer and a soigneur is a creepy old guy that rubs down the riders' legs. Oh wait, never mind on that last one.
But, much like European football, when seen in person, it's impossible to deny the beauty that comes with such a tremendous travail, and before you know it you're running alongside the riders screaming encouraging words like those people you ruthlessly mock when you see them on TV.
And that's one of the greatest aspects of the Tour.
Can you imagine if you were allowed to stand right next to the batter's box and scream at Big Papi to hit a home run or jog up court alongside KG while dumping water on his head because you think he looks tired?
One of the greatest thrills of my life was standing under the first of the 21 famous hairpin turns on Alpe-d'Huez, watching Lance dance in his pedals, charging up the 11 percent slope as if some Italian rider was at the summit making a move on Sheryl Crow (yes, it was that Tour).
And best of all, it cost nothing.
Tune in next month to find out how it felt to get dropped by an overweight Frenchman who may or may not have been smoking a cigarette.
Jon Duval is a staff writer for the Idaho Mountain Express.
