PICTURE the scene. Somewhere miles from anywhere in rural France, an old woman in faded black is sitting in front of her house in the one street of a tiny village. Something is happening.

All day, police bikes and cars, and vehicles of all sizes and strange shapes have been heading through her birthplace, all going to the same horizon. Now there is a helicopter in the sky steadily heading towards her in the same direction as all the traffic.

Suddenly, as the helicopter passes overhead, the traffic reaches a crescendo. A mobile police command vehicle preceded by police outriders goes past followed by a large bunch of cyclists. “Allez, mes petits” she cries and they are gone. An endless cavalcade of cars in gaudy livery carrying bikes follow and finally, quiet. That is the Tour de France. On that day, that tiny village became part of a line more than 2,000 miles long linking cities, iconic mountains, coastal communities, hamlets, ski resorts and Paris: and whenever that year’s race is recalled, that village will be part of it.

The Tour de France is massive. Every autumn, France plays a game guessing the route before it is officially released. The Tour has a fine sense of history, so this year, it made sure it would mark the centenary of the start of the First World War by starting a stage in Ypres. A sure giveaway of the route is a shortage of hotel beds in any particular town in July. The Tour has to accommodate everyone essential to the race, so it books its rooms in advance of the announcement before the fans can.

The Tour occupies 1,450 beds per night, housing the competitors, their support staff, the police, the race officials, the caravan convoy personnel, the media and so on. The caravan convoy doesn’t get on television because its last vehicle is at least an hour ahead of the cyclists. It is like a carnival procession, full of exotic advertising floats, some with music, some in the shape of giant animals, and can take up to an hour to pass a given point. As it rolls through, the people on board toss out all sorts of goodies – watch the children scramble for the sweets and the adults for the inflatable plastic sticks used for banging to encourage the cyclists.

Then you have the spectators in their millions all along the route. Hundreds of thousands on any one stage. It is almost impossible to find a camper van for hire in July in France. They are all following the Tour and are parked in endless lines on the mountain climbs the day before the cyclists arrive.

The Tour de France is also tiny – like that old woman in deepest France. She really existed. She didn’t know any of the cyclists. But she could appreciate the magnificent madness of what they were doing, daring to pedal round an entire country, and by cheering them on, she was part of that incredible journey, even though she never left the village where she was born.

One of the cyclists who saw her was struggling. He had a nasty blister on his foot, his legs were exhausted, but when he heard her, he gained extra strength for the last 60 km of that day’s stage. His name was Robert Millar, the only Briton ever to win the King of the Mountains jersey, and before Bradley Wiggins, holder of Britain’s best ever finish, fourth overall in 1984.

It’s been a long build-up, 19 months since we knew the Tour would definitely come to Yorkshire and 18 since we knew York would be a Ville du Depart. The time for preparation is almost over. Yorkshire is about to be invaded by road, rail and air. Are we ready to welcome the Tour and all it brings with it ?