Six Alps in three days on two wheels

Col du Galibier

A man in is lying in the foetal position on a tatty grey blanket. The blood has drained from his face; he is gently shaking and quietly muttering to himself.

After a couple of minutes he slowly sits up, the sweat on his face glistening in the sun, his forehead creased from more than an hour’s hard exertion.

I hand him a banana, which he slowly peels and then quickly devours. “I think I am beginning to get back my mojo,” he says with a weak smile.

We are at the top of the Col du Télégraphe in the French Alps. It is one of the classic mountains used in the Tour de France and we have just cycled up it at a brisk pace. The climb to the 1,566 metre summit, following an equally tough climb earlier in the day, has taken its toll on my friend and cycling partner, Adam.

We are half way through a three-day organised bike ride to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Support. Our trip takes 50 cyclists over six legendary climbs that have witnessed countless battles and dramas in the sport of professional bike racing.

Today, we are engaged in our own personal battle – with ourselves. Welcome to fundraising by bike, the hard way.

Sponsored rides are in vogue. Charities are tapping into the boom in UK cycling, offering organised trips to cater for all abilities. Our own ride, the fabulously named “Legends of the Alps”, is set to raise more than £150,000 for Macmillan, so it isn’t difficult to see why charities are so keen on cycling.

Not everyone is impressed. Some hardcore cyclists turn their noses up at the idea of being packaged on a trip, where the food, drink and accommodation are sorted. It’s cycling for softies, they say.

In his recent blog for the Guardian, Matt Seaton, a self-certified cycling nut, dismissed charity rides. They are a “walk in the park”, he said. “Almost literally, you can't move for charity bike rides.” His point was why should anyone sponsor a cyclist to have a holiday doing what they love?

However, I would challenge even Mr Seaton, author of a cult book on amateur cycling, The Escape Artist, to describe our trip to the Alps as pootling.

The mountains that are used in the Tour de France are categorised by their severity: 4th category climbs are the “easiest” and 1st category are very tough. There is a further category of uber-climbs labeled Hors Catégorie, or “beyond categorisation”, which are the elite of the extreme mountains.

Our three-day trip took us over one 2nd category, two 1st and three HC climbs.

The first day included the 1,487 metre Col des Aravis that gave us a taste of Alpine climbing: the smooth French roads; the changeable climate; and the wooded foothills which thin out, teasing the rider with glimpses of dramatic vistas.

We then went onto the Col des Saisies. At 1,650 metres, this is a longer, more challenging climb that includes a sweeping descent south that reveals a stunning view of the snow-covered Mont Blanc.

On day two the serious business began. It opened with the longest climb of the trip, the 24.5 kilometre ascent of the Col de la Madeleine, a beautiful 1,993 metre mountain that requires the rider to find his rhythm and stick with it.

I cycled most of the col with a wiry Ulsterman whose sharp wit matched his pace. We chatted for the first few kilometres before simultaneous breathing and conversation were no longer possible.

I was left with my own thoughts. My mind wasn’t filled with big ideas, but bad pop songs from the 1970s and 80s that I unwittingly retrieved from a forgotten corner of my brain; the beat of the tunes matching the rhythm of my breathing, occasionally interrupted by the discordant clang of a cowbell as we passed cattle.

The day’s climbing ended on the Télégraphe, which nearly broke my friend Adam but who quickly recovered on the descent into the ski-resort of Valloire. While we both had to tap deep into our energy reserves during our trip, Adam’s “foetal moment” was, I am pleased to report, an extreme one-off.

To day three, the big one – straight onto the foot of the most imposing and the highest climb of the trip – the Col du Galibier. The mountain, first used in Tour de France in 1911 and which includes a stone monument to the founder of the Tour, Henri Desgrange, has captured the imagination of the French.

They call it “the roof of the Tour” and the “the sacred monster”. A few kilometres into the climb it is clear why. It’s a rugged, exposed, foreboding beast of a col with snow-capped, saw-tooth peaks that bear down on the rider as he climbs through the mist into the mountain’s chilly microclimate.

It is also immensely beautiful. As the road ramped up my body trickled endorphins into my bloodstream and as I reached the summit the feeling of euphoria was difficult to contain.

“If I wasn’t a bloke I would probably cry now,” I embarrassingly said to one of the event organisers stationed at the peak handing out bananas, as I coasted over the top.

But reaching the 2,646 metre summit of the Galibier is only half the story. On the other side is a long, technical descent south that pulls the rider down the mountain at over 65 kph through the cloud base in sub-zero temperatures.

The Galibier can play tricks on a rider. And I fell for an obvious one, stopping half way down to inspect my front tyre, concerned that I may have a flat before realising that my the bike’s unusual handling was due not to a mechanical problem but my uncontrollable shivering.

Refuelled and warm again, we reached the most iconic mountain – Alpe d’Huez, made up of 21 hairpin bends each marked with a signpost that bears the name of a famous cyclist that has triumphed on the slopes.

It isn’t the longest, highest or steepest, and it certainly isn’t the most beautiful climb. But this 1,815 metre mountain-top finish is steeped in history and has shaped the results of more Tours than any other.

It’s where teammates Bernard Hinault and Greg LeMond staged an epic dual in 1986 before agreeing a truce, crossing the finish line arm-in-arm. It’s where Lance Armstrong famously duped rival Jan Ullrich into thinking he was suffering before giving him “the look” and sprinting off to seal the win and the 2001 edition of the Tour.

Being the final mountain of our trip, there was only one way to climb it – flat out. I set my stopwatch at the base, got out of the saddle, clicked up a gear, and attacked the 13% ramp to the first hairpin.

The record for climbing of Alpe d’Huez was set in 1997 by the impish – and it later emerged, drug-fuelled – Italian grimpeur Marco Pantani, reaching the summit in 37m35s.

My more modest goal was to do a sub-hour, which I was told was the benchmark for a half-decent amateur. Maybe it was the five cols in my legs, but I was just 5 minutes shy of my goal.

There are two ways of looking at this. One is that I had been beaten by the Alpe and my own target. The other is that I have unfinished business with the mountain and that one day, perhaps on another charity expedition, I will be back to take revenge.

I discussed this with Adam on the way back to the UK. We didn’t have a long debate.  See you on the d’Huez.

 
Alpe d'Huez

LINKS:

Our ride was to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Support. Read why we chose the charity and make a donation at:

www.justgiving.com/adamandclayton/

Read Matt Seaton’s blog on charity rides at:

www.guardian.co.uk/environment/green-living-blog/2009/sep/10/charity-bike-ride

On Friday hundreds of cyclists will meet outside London’s National Film Theatre. From there they will form a colourful procession that tours the capital’s finest landmarks.

There will be environmentalists, anarchists, pacifists, activists and plain old cyclists. Fixie couriers, weather beaten commuters, mums and kids and the odd racer will form a slow moving chicane that is the monthly Critical Mass bike ride.

But not everyone will enjoy this two-wheeled spectacle.

The monthly go-slow through central London rush hour raises the hackles of many motorists. On the last couple of Critical Mass rides there have been reports of violence – a driver ramming a cyclist and fists flying.

So why do it?

As a university student in Birmingham in the 1990s I participated in a couple of Critical Mass rides. They were anarchic, chaotic, and a lot of fun. They also had a clear purpose. Cycling in Britain’s motorcity – where pedestrians and cyclists had a choice of being forced underground or join the urban motorway which dissects the city centre – was dangerous. We wanted the city council to take notice of the greener alternative to the car.

We may not have changed much, but we knew what we were protesting about.

Today’s London Critical Mass rides are purposeless. Its web site poses the question, “who we are and what are our aims”, without giving an answer. “We are not sure,” it says, “opinions seem to differ”.

Perhaps one reason for this lack of focus is that cycling in London and in many other UK cities is no longer the preserve of the brave and the foolhardy.

Cyclists rightly moan about potholes, taxis and rude BMW drivers. If we are honest, however, our lot has improved over the last few years.

We share car-free lanes with buses and motorcycles. Most junctions have dedicated ‘advance stop lanes’.

London Mayors of both colours have championed our cause. It was impressive to see Boris cycling with Lord Adonis last month scouting routes for a proposed cycle superhighway, even though it was a PR stunt.

Bus drivers are generally courteous. London will soon have an Olympic velodrome. The UK amateur racing and sportive scene is healthy. And the cycle club scene is booming.

My own club, Dulwich Paragon, has hundreds of members, a lively social network and accommodates every type of cyclist from those wanting a brisk weekend ride to racing licence holders, and all shades in between.

In my 13 years of cycling in London I have seen a huge increase in the number of cyclists on the road. On my commute into the office the other day I spotted a woman cycling in high-heeled boots. Bonkers, yes, but proof that commuting by bike is now accepted by all.

What this adds up to is a cycling scene transformed. In fact, about the only thing that has stayed the same is Critical Mass and its monthly ride. There now has to be a concern that, without a purpose, it is doing more harm than good.

Relations between cyclists and motorists in London are strained, but are better than they have been for years.

Cycling is on the up. Purposefully winding up other road users could undermine that.

The ride is over, but the analysis has just begun. As with pro sport, even us (very) amateur types can spend for ever speculating on what was and what might-have-been, especially if aided by some mysterious and complex data. The organisers of the Etape quickly pumped out the times and placings of Monday's event into a website. It's been a quite evening, the saddle sores are subsiding, so I've been sitting here crunching the Team Independent numbers.

( Read more... )

Just had to overcome some initial reluctance from one who was negatively obsessed with the raindrops under the little puffy clouds on the weather forecast website.

"Oh it'll be much brighter this morning," I soothed.

"A couple of light showers nothing more. The real rain will be this afternoon." (Which would be conveniently when I was watching the Tour. Good grief. Brad Wiggins today!!! Time triallist turned sensational Tour rider.).

Anyway, everything looks so vivid and alive after rain and I don't mind getting lashed about the legs with wet ferns.

So it was a really varied outing, riding the gamut of Forest of Dean trails and enduring the classic weather we’ve come to expect in Britain in July;  Sun, cloud, warmth, cold, light showers, torrential heavy showers and moderately windy.

The trail started with a cycle track, glistening in the sun, people kindly restricting their dogs for a moment as we passed, Cannop Ponds with rafts of ducks bobbling, ruffled in the breeze.

Rain didn’t stop play in Parkend where the cricket pitch is about the only flat expanse of land in the vicinity. Then it was up and more up towards Coleford, past the remains of historic Darkhill iron works and then we turned left off piste.  Ducking under low hanging dripping trees, ferns brushing legs, brambles reaching for the face and Capt Sensible pushing on up the hill, unaware of the leafy branch stuck in his cycling helmet looking like a hastily-assembled Private Pike-style camouflage. Discovered laughing is hampered by lack of oxygen on a climb. 

Through Coleford and back into the forest with god-awful roots, boggy bits and bits of wood and stumps everywhere.

"This isn't a track!"  Dissent in the ranks.

It definitely was a track, I maintained, against determined opposition. We pressed on. Well, I honestly thought it was. It turned out it wasn't but it at least took us close to a beaten track, thus avoiding further unpleasant mutterings.