Adventures in France on a bike!

A Tent, A Girl, A Bike and A Mountain … or Two! (le Tour 2006) If you had asked me a couple of months ago if I’d like to spend a precious week of my summer holiday cycling up some mountains, I would have laughed to such an extent that my sides would have hurt. However, two months on from being introduced to the wonders of a road bike by my very fit and highly keen partner, as well as cycling around the countryside, I thought that seeing a few men in lycra, sitting around in the sun, eating French food and having the odd leisurely ride would be rather splendid. Little did I know what was to come.

So it’s June and I am avidly reading the Official Guide to the Tour de France. I am learning a few names like Ivan Basso, Jan Ullrich and so on. Just to confuse me, days before the tour begins both those names and about 10 others vanish from the Tour. I am stunned. I can’t quite come to terms with the fact that a race of such enormity has suddenly lost its potential top riders, why would they risk taking drugs and being banned from the sport they love? Obviously sport attracts these problems but these cyclists must know the consequences of their actions. So I am back pouring through the magazine trying to work out who may win. Anyway, as the tour starts, I am in America. I lose track of what is happening and American TV only shows highlights, so I am not sure who is doing what or who has the yellow Jersey. By the time I return, Floyd Landis is wearing the Yellow Jersey and is performing well in the Pyrenean mountain stages. At this point, I can honestly say that my enthusiasm is a passive one. I am not enthralled! After all, I keep missing bits and all the riders I’d heard of are out of the running.  

Heading out to France on the 16^th July, I am more interested in where I may be riding than if I will see any fast moving bikes at all. I have booked a friend’s Chalet in La Clusaz little realising that it’s located on the road that leads down from the Col D’Aravis! I am feeling rather smug as it looked like I planned it (I didn’t it’s a coincidence, but a rather brilliant one!). Not only that, I am surrounded by beautiful mountains in one of France’s traditional ski resorts. There’s no purpose built apartment buildings here or ugly skiing hotels, just traditional chalets and farm land. It’s wonderfully peaceful, in fact. I am grateful for the cool night air as the temps during the day in France are hitting around 35 degrees C, how will anyone cycle in this heat? The next day I find out. So the madness begins. 

The first day’s riding is a gentle introduction to the area, after a long drive from the UK. 22 miles around Lake Annecy in the midday heat! Of course, the Tour is on a rest day and so it’s worth getting out of La Clusaz in order to see something of the surrounding countryside. Annecy is cooled by the breezes off the lake and there are hundreds of cyclists pounding their way along the old very flat, former, railway track, small children, the old, the young and the serious cyclist who is going so fast that I become irrationally worried about small children on bikes wobbling in front of them. I tell myself to get a grip and look at the scenery. As we complete the circuit into Talloires, I hear the first of what becomes a familiar cry from my faster, more experienced and braver partner, “get off those brakes!” I am not yet confident in my bike going as fast as a car, especially as I am reminding myself of some of the nasty crashes I had seen on the Tour already. The thing is it’s very easy to believe that this is as hard as it will get. After all if the truth be known, I’ve only been on a bike for about 8 weeks and I hadn’t ridden one before that for about 10 years. So there’s no way I am really going to be cycling any mountains, particularly as it’s so hot. I mean no one in their right mind would do that, would they? 

At 8 am the next morning, I am on my bike attempting a category 2 climb up the Col D’Aravis. It’s cool because it’s 8 am and I should be in bed. Why am I doing this? Well I wasn’t pushed, in fact I was quite keen (my legs would tell a different story!). So I’m on the bottom chain ring, legs spinning and remarkably, I’m ok. In fact, if the truth be known, I’m enjoying it! I’m not really looking at the romantic setting or the lovely alpine cows, just focusing on the next bend in the road. I discovered something too as I ride my first hairpin bend, you can accelerate uphill out of a bend! I know all the seasoned cyclists will be thinking, “and?” but I hadn’t realised that the camber of the road can seem to catapult you uphill! So even though it’s hard and the top seems to take forever, I am delighted by the fact that I get to the top. A rather kind Dutchman (who looks like he was born with a bike attached to him) congratulates me on my first mountain climb. I feel a growing sense of pride, I had done something that not many people are going to do in their lifetimes. On that same day, the Tour has hit Alpe D’Huez, somehow my ascent of 400m pales into insignificance but for me this was Alpe D’Huez, I conquered my mountain, I am Queen of the Mountains! 

That afternoon, tent packed and ready, we head for the next stage of the Tour to camp out and enjoy watching (yes I said watching) the real experts climb what was considered the hardest day of the Tour, Stage 16 from Bourg D’Oisans to La Toussuire. We are in a shady spot which is wise considering the rising temperatures and the ground is relatively flat. My little tent perched on the side of a French road and I’m making tea, to be drunk out of china mugs I hasten to add … There is a sense that we English know how to have a good cup of tea in any circumstances even at 9pm in the evening outside a tent on the side of a D road. Undeterred by the confused and amused looks of our French counterparts, we carry on, civilised and refreshed of course! Sleeping is easy, I’m shattered. 

It’s Wednesday 19^th July, 6am I am awake and outside the tent making more tea. To my surprise the gaps that had been surrounding the small plot that had become home, are full of excited race followers. There are tables and chairs around us, cars parked in a fashion that only the French can get away with and voices travelling on the cool morning air. I am beginning to wonder if our limited territory can be preserved. The two French couples next to us, seem somewhat bemused by the bacon sandwiches that are made on my little stove, I don’t think they do that in France! I also know that I will need the sandwich to take on another climb. I have no chance of cycling the whole of the Col Du Glandon this early in my cycling career but I am determined to go up part of it. So from about 650m up I am set to climb to 1113m to St Columban des Villards. The prospect of this is worrying me. I am not sure why. I think the thought of the searing heat is setting me on edge and I don’t like the idea of being fried and exhausted all at the same time. But, as I am not a girl to be beaten by a little sunshine, I get on my bike and start the steady ascent. To say it felt like a long way would be an understatement. I am pleased that not too many people over take me and that somehow I seem to pass a couple of mountain bikes and the odd 65 year old (yes even this gives me cause for celebration!). However as I reach the top, I begin to realise it’s because most people are still eating their croissant and drinking coffee and not because I have gone at any great speed. As has become the tradition, I am photographed at the top; pleased that I have managed a tiny section of a Hors Category Climb.  

The race itself was a complete surprise. The caravan experience had been explained to me but I could not have imagined the assorted vehicles that would pass by me. There were giant ice-creams, a large Sylvester the cat, a giant water bottle, oh and a London taxi! All very surreal and great fun. Like a child, I stood there waving my arms desperate for the assembled cars and girls to throw some piece of Tour tat at me. Standing on the opposite side of the road to our French neighbours, I seemed to be a target for rather more goodies than they were, luckily it caused nothing but amusement, no resentment at all. I found myself caught up in the carnival atmosphere and sunshine, enjoying the all the paraphernalia of this extraordinary event. There is no doubt in my mind that there are few events in the world where a) you can get so close to the competitors that you can touch them and b) the people around you are all there for a common purpose to have fun and share the experience with you. No fighting on the roadside, just sheer enthusiasm.  

After a whole day of waiting, the Gendarmes come up the hill with blue lights flashing and Michael Rasmussen is in the lead. There is no sign of Floyd Landis. The fact is, he’s crumbled under the heat and it’s taken its toll on him. I feel sympathy for him and the other riders who are struggling to make it up the mountain after already cycling105km. I am shocked and stunned by the speed these guys are going. They seem to be going as fast as I would be on the flat. What I find even more surprising is the collection of cars that support these ultra fit men as they scale the mountain. They seem to weave their way between the riders, shouting at them and handing out drinks and even making super fast bike changes when necessary. It’s overwhelming. You cannot imagine the noise of the crowd, sirens from the motorbikes and noise of the cars. A cycling cacophony like nothing I have heard before, I am enthralled.Then … they are gone. There is a stillness and then a general buzz of activity as everyone who has made friends say, “Au Revoir” and disappear, home or back to their campervan, tent or, like us, back to a chalet and another day searching out the Tour. 

Heading back to La Clusaz and the comfort of the Chalet, I am starting to realise that I am being gripped by some kind of obsession. I am thinking how I can fit a ride in before the Tour comes through in the morning. How can I prove that my riding has improved? What should I be doing next? Do I need to get out every day and become super fit and do I want a go at this? I am starting to wonder when the women’s race is. I know there is one (the feminist in me cannot let this be a male only preserve). I also know some of our British women cyclists are the best in the world. So what next? I fall asleep pondering the next day. 

Thursday dawns. Quiet and still. I am ready to attack the Col Des Aravis before the Tour comes through and I am determined to go just that little bit quicker than last time. After all I have done a Hors climb now! What could be easier than a category 2?? Oh how deluded I am, but I allow myself a little indulgence and pride at my achievements so far. However disaster has struck. A broken gear cable and the morning’s plans are sliding away. With the help from some of the people in the chalet, we ascertain that there is a bike repair shop in Thones. Whilst not far away, it may well scupper our plans to make an ascent before the heat kicks in. Of course, that’s not the only problem. We don’t actually know where the repair shop is and between us we have limited French language skills. However, not one to be deterred by a mere language barrier, I run into the first available sports shop and ask where the nearest “magazine des velos” may be. The lady owner explains it’s around the one way system where some traffic lights are and then on the right. I am following this in the most basic of terms but I believe I’ve got it. As we pass the supposed bike shop, both of us look at the outside of what looks like a domestic garage with dismay. Despite the fact that the word, “bike” is on the outside of the door, it doesn’t look hopeful. We drive around Thones killing time before it opens at 0900hrs and wait. I sit in the car, we’re not about to have a great holiday if the bike can’t be repaired. In fact the consequences do not bear thinking about. To say that I am delighted when there are brake cables and a gear cable in the car is an understatement. All we have to do now is repair the bike. It takes less than 10 minutes and we’re off climbing the Col. 

 After our previous ascent, there had been us, the Dutchman a few other cyclists and the cows for company. Now there are thousands of people, cars and camper vans strewn all over the place. Parking is an art in France, do it where you can and hang the consequences! There are untold cyclists, everywhere you look another bike. We bump into another English couple, also gripped by the bug of following the tour. They saw the start in Paris last year and now they are here again in the Alps. An American who seems to be cycling the whole stage staggers over and asks us if there’s a water fountain. We have no idea but the bar will fill his water bottles. The atmosphere is carnival again, there’s a buzz about this tiny little place at the top of a hill. People are discussing the potential outcome of the Tour, how today is a really important day and the winner of this stage could change the effect of the time trail tomorrow. Photographs taken, we leave the Col and watch the Tour from the chalet, dashing outside to see the riders flash past downhill. Floyd Landis is making a super human effort and seems to be pushing himself to his limits in order to make up the time he has lost, some how he does it. Making up over 8 minutes and putting himself within 30 seconds of the leader. Stunning. 

Friday, the week seems to be flying by and so far I have not had a day out of the saddle. As my partner has decided to climb the Col du Columbiere today, I am contemplating a morning sat in café reading L’Eqiupe. I am happy to do this; climbing 700m over 12km is not really within my capabilities. However, I am happy to see how far I can get, taking it steady and seeing how I go. Having set off, I feel quite happy my legs seem ok and I am enjoying it, well mostly enjoying it. Around every bend I am convinced that I will see the top but as we keep going I realise that I am not likely to see the top for some time. After about 9km, I am starting to feel it. But wait a minute, I was only going to go half way, what on earth am I doing. That café at the bottom of the hill suddenly looked like a very sensible option but part of me, the stubborn, determined, pig-headed part now wants to see the top. After all I have seen 2km written on the road, I know I can do it. What I hadn’t banked on was the gradient. It has risen from a between a steady 5 – 6% to a massive (and believe you me after 10km it feels massive) 9%. I am struggling, in pain and exhausted, I am not sure for the first time that I can keep going. Belligerence is my only motivation now. The hand on my back and the push I am given, along with “come on, you can do this, nearly there” keep me going. As we pass the assembled walkers by the side of the road with about 200m to go, they cheer, very loudly, the pain is worth it. The Col de Colombiere is conquered. I cycle round in circles trying to make sense of what I’ve done. As I look down the valley, I can’t even see the bottom. At 1600m that was an awesome climb.   

Saturday, time to go home, load up the car and head back to the UK. I’m tired but happy. There is one last thing to do, see the time trial at Le Cruesot. As we charge into the outskirts of the town, I am unaware that time has been playing a game with us too and it’s late. We might not see anything. My navigation has us parked just outside a section of the trial and the idea that I might not get on my bike today is scuppered! I am back in the saddle following my partner (as I have done all week!) as we head for the roadside. We watch as the big names pass us by and I attempt to take some photographs, not easy, as these guys are travelling at some speed. Then an idea takes over, can we get to the finish before the riders reach it. I am thinking this will be easy after all they have about 45k to ride and we only have 15. How wrong I was, my little legs are cycling along the side of the canal at such a rate that I am convinced I like climbing more, certainly seemed easier than this sustained push. I am tucked in behind, head down, hoping nothing disastrous happens in front because I will simply plummet to the ground. I am astounded that at 150m from the finish, we see the last 5 riders fly past in the time trial. Somehow we made it, with a little time to spare. I am glad we did. It was good to see the finish of a stage and all the drama and paraphernalia that goes with it.   

Wending our way back to the car and the thought of the journey home, I am contemplating how on earth I will carry on without the Tour. I have been easily converted to this sport. I am hooked on my bike and I love the mountains. So the only thing left to consider is … when will I be back?  

UPDATE       UPDATE       UPDATE       UPDATE       UPDATE       UPDATE 

After returning from France in the summer of 2006, another story played out before us. Floyd Landis had taken testosterone to make that incredible climb and journey on stage 17 of the Tour. The tale of his, in my opinion rather outlandish claims of innocence, seems to have scarred the tour and after last year’s debacle of drugs invading the sport it may be that irreparable damage had hit cycling. However, after my second year in the Alps, still trying to keep up with my much faster and stronger partner (although always with a smile!), the Tour still has a magical and almost magnetic draw. The spectators and the cyclists know what this event is all about; it is about the impossible climbs, the speed and the wonder of an event that cannot be recreated in any other part of the world. The drugs have been a minor story in the greater picture of the feats of endurance and bravery shown by human beings powering themselves up the mountains. I for one will be back watching in 2008 and beyond, a girl, a bike, a tent and the Tour de France!