The scene is a little chaotic. I’m on the outskirts of Valloire at the base of the Col de Galibier, in the Alps, with hundreds of other cyclists milling around a food stop. I’m leaning against my bike to keep it upright while attempting to balance French bread, a triangle of Brie and a Madeleine cake in my hands.
From over my shoulder comes an Irish voice: "Are you the chap who wrote the article in The Irish Times?"
“Yeah,” I say, to which he responds: “Fair play to you . . . no pressure so!”
You can't beat Irish understatement. The article he is referring to was published on June 19th as part of a week-long series on cycling. In it, I set out my plan to realise a long-held dream by climbing some of the biggest mountains of the Tour de France, in a one-day cycle called the Marmotte.
And now I'm here. On July 6th, I'm among 7,000 cyclists taking on the 175km challenge, which includes four haut categorie mountains. The last of them, the Alpe d'Huez, with 21 hairpin bends, holds a near mythical status in cycling history.
With my Orwell Wheelers clubmate Billy Parker, I get away on schedule at 7.30am, through a cheering mass of spectators, along a 10km flat road, to the village of Allemont. From here the route begins to rise which, with one short exception, it will do for the next 26km to the top of the Col du Glandon, at 1,924m. This is the longest climb of the day, but with an average gradient of “only” 5 per cent, it is the least difficult.
The first descent presents a different kind of challenge. So sharp are the bends that the clock is stopped to remove the incentive to try to make up time. When I reach the village of Sainte Marie de Cuines – where the clock starts again – my hands and arms feel worse than my legs, from constant braking. And I’ve encountered at least one ambulance coming towards me.
Next is a rare 30km of almost flat road through the valley to Sainte Michel de Maurienne. This turns into an “armchair ride” at more than 40kmph in an 80-strong group, sheltered from the prevailing headwind. But the comfort is brief: the town leads straight to the 12km Col du Telegraphe, the second big climb of the day.
At an average gradient of 7 per cent, it is harder work than expected. And the day is getting warmer with shade difficult to find. Over the top, there’s some relief as the road falls for a few kilometres to Valloire.
Then the Col du Galibier comes into sight – all 2,642m of it, the summit wrapped in snow and still 18km away. It’s an intimidating prospect, compounded by the sight of cyclists snaking their way upwards for as far as the eye can see. It’s like a giant anthill.
A few kilometres from the top, the sides of the road are framed by walls of frozen snow. And then it gets steeper – in excess of 10 per cent. A kilometre from the top, mechanic Stephen Burns is waiting with water, words of encouragement and a push uphill to get me moving again. A few bends later, I reach the summit: it’s as if you can see forever.
Memories and emotions
What follows is the most spectacular hour I've ever spent on a bike, all downhill and much of it around sweeping bends, the bike rolling with almost supernatural ease. It feels like the culmination of years of cycling – racing as a teenager and returning to the sport a decade ago to get fit again.
It’s an odd mix of memories and emotions. I decided to do the Marmotte exactly a year ago, shortly after the death of my mother gave me a shove to get on with something I had talked about for too long.
I’m riding a bike which she partly funded as a Christmas present not long before she died. We used to joke that she was the only octogenarian with a part-share in a carbon-fibre racing bike. I know she’d get a great kick out of being here now, and with that comes both happiness and sadness – although she’d be less keen on the speed of the 65kmph section through tunnels cut into the rock beyond La Grave.
But there’s nothing like a hill to restore reality, and soon I’m back at the start town of Bourg for the sting in the tail: the 13km climb to Alpe d’Huez. I’ve ridden more than 5,000km in training since Christmas. I’ve done two spinning classes most weeks. But still this hill hurts.
I learn later that it’s 29 degrees at the top so the base temperature must be well into the 30s. It’s like cycling in an oven. I’ve consumed several litres of water during the day but it’s just not enough. The road is littered with devastation as cyclists hang over their handlebars, others walk and some grind to a complete halt.
At one point, a young girl throws a bottle of ice cold water over my neck. It’s like an electric shock – and one of the most welcome things anyone has ever done for me.
Bend by bend, the road rises, the names of past winners of the Alpe d’Huez stage of the Tour de France interspersed along the way. It’s a history of triumph and pain. For now I’m only feeling the pain.
More than 1km from the summit, the cheering crowds at the finish line become audible. Then it’s over a final crest and down through the barriers to the finish.
It has taken me more than 90 minutes to climb the Alpe. My final finishing time is 9 hours and 6 minutes, which puts me in 2,984th position out of 6,288 finishers (the fastest a remarkable 5.32; the slowest 14.17). The cut-off time for a gold medal in my age-group (40-49) is 8 hours 39 minutes and I’ve had to settle for silver. Yet after the toughest day I’ve ever spent on a bike, there are no regrets.
For now, I’m simply glad it’s over.
