A 4:30 alarm saw the day of the etape dawn cold and wet. After a rushed breakfast and an optimistic slathering of face arms and legs with some Factor 30, I joined 8,000 other madmen assembled in numbered pens to await the 0700 start of what promised to be along day in the saddle and heaven knew what weather horrors awaited us in the high mountains.
Announcements, all in French, were garbled except for the words “tres dangereux", "descent" "Tourmalet et Hautacam". A sombre mood descended on the crowd. Then we were off, barreling through the slick streets of Pau at speeds up to 25mph on closed roads, waved through red lights and junctions by kindly gendarmes. The locals had turned out in force to cheer us on our way and to witness the many crashes on wet, greasy corners as riders caromed into thoughtfully placed padded crash mats.
The first 60 miles were fast, the trick being to stick with a bunch of other riders and save energy by slipstreaming, tucked close behind the wheels of those in front and trusting them not to brake or swerve. Good discipline here I’m glad to say. All the while eating carb gels and sipping energy drinks to keep fuelled. Lourdes came quickly, and our first food stop. Grab some water and fruit and catch another bunch of riders, reaching the first proper climb, an easy 5kms through some woods as friendly spectators cheered us up the hill. Some sweeping turns and we were on the flat, powering towards the base of the Tourmalet and our first real test.
A thoughtfully placed sign informed us that La Mongie, 3kms from the summit, was 22kms away. Just 13 miles. Except it was straight up.
Cloud cover so low that it sat on the road deprived us of the apparently great views as we climbed upwards, banter having ceased as everyone tapped out a steady beat on the pedals. At these times no gear is too low and I ground along at speeds that at times dropped below 4mph, mildly curious as to how I did not topple into the void. Amazingly I passed a few people, although there were no Armstrongesque power attacks as I dropped them awestruck in my wake – just a slow creep as I inched past perhaps a half mile an hour faster.
More food at La Mongie, a place that resembled a winter battleground. Bikes strewn everywhere, empty water bottles, and riders emerging haggard-faced through the cold damp mist that thankfully shrouded the architectural horrors of that ski resort. Then it was a final few kms to the summit and a much deserved descent.
A child's picture of a mountain is often an upside down V. Tourmalet has a similarly very obvious summit. One minute you are toiling in your lowest gear at 5mph, the next your legs are spinning like a flywheel as you scrabble to change up a dozen gears at once as the bike accelerates to 30 mph and the first series of hairpins.
Road bike brakes are useless at the best of times. On a wet Pyrenean descent they are as effective as sticking your hand out the window of a speeding car. A sound like a rifle shot rang out. A tad harsh way to eliminate the slower riders, I thought, but no, the rear tyre of a nearby rider had exploded, his overzealous and continuous braking having superheated his rims.
So I now had a choice, brake, burst a tyre and perhaps die, or don’t brake, miss a bend and certainly die.
Thankfully I avoided his fate and hammered down the mountain, aware that a lapse in concentration could smear me against the rocks or catapult me into the white void without even a view to enjoy for my last five seconds on earth.
The clouds behind us, we were soon in a gorge where a bunch of us swept along through beautiful scenery taking full advantage of the closed roads. One more town before a straight tailwind along the valley led us to the base of Hautacam and our final climb.
Spectators were out in force on the lower slopes and it is a real boost to have total strangers yelling encouragement as you toil up a hill. So up I rode, rain jacket tied around my waist, trying to spin a 30x25 but only managing to tap out a steady rhythm.
Hautacam is a lot like English climbs in that you get some flat or even slightly downhill bits. While they mess up your rhythm they do offer a brief respite from the relentless grind skywards that was Tourmalet.
Km markers ticked by, 12, 11, 10 then single figures. 9kms is six miles so twice up the Dorking-Coldharbour climb in Surrey. 5kms is once up that road. One old boy just ahead of me gave up at that point, turned around and began his sad-faced descent. The 3km marker was passed – less than 2 miles now. My house to CSS. Except a mile of that is downhill. Finally we passed under the 1 km to go arch. There were no heroic sprints here. How far can that be? Just over a thousand yards. I looked up. 2 more hairpins. I could hear the bleeping of the timer mats getting louder. I then made them bleep. Joy! A medal and a bottle of water were thrust into my hands.
I glanced back at the inflatable Finish arch and the steady stream of ghosts emerging from the clouds, then made my way to the start of the descent. Two by two we were let go at fifty metre intervals for a cold descent back to base.
8 hours 6 minutes
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