Raid Day 3. Peyresourde, Porte D'Aspet and Col de Port

Going to be short one tonight, unlike the ride which was long. Rolled out of Arreau at 8.30ish after the now familiar morning routine and straight up Peyresourde. Last night I couldn’t get the Wifi to work and it was a close thing as to whether I had a laptop or whether I had thrown it out of the window. Not an ideal way to relax after a long day.

So, back in the saddle for day 3 and another lumpy one. Fortunate again with some glorious sunshine and, despite a think layer of factor 30 I now have a Texan neckline, red arms and knees. The few low clouds blew away as we set off up the first col of the day, another classic well used on the Tour and a reasonably pleasant incline. The only problem was that it took me an awful long time to resurrect tired and aching limbs from after two days of, as Francis would say; ‘Smashing it’ Actually Francis would spice up the sentence with a few choice expletives as well.

From the hotel it was 22km to the top of Peyresourde but it was not until the 8km to go marker was passed that I began to feel as if I might get into some sort of rhythm. From there to the 1km marker, I actually felt ok but the last few hundred metres were horrible. Except for the view, the view was astonishing. At the top, the usual banter with Frank from Le Domestique Tours and some welcome words of encouragement and then another wonderful descent and the conversion from ‘why the hell am I doing this’ to trying to think of new ways to describe the exhilaration of sweeping effortlessly down the mountainside, with its banked corners and clean dry roads.

Coffee stop near the bottom at a patisserie and a bottle refill. Some brave folks eating mille feuilles with a decent cup of coffee. Felt almost like a proper Sunday ride as we sat in the sunshine watching a colourful set of parasenders/ gliders or whatever those crazy guys are who throw themselves off mountains towards the nearest powerlines they can find.

Bit of valley work then up a smaller but nonetheless reasonably significant climb trying to conserve energy for the Col de Porte D’Aspet, reputed to be the toughest of the day with gradients up to 27%. Our plan was to ascend passing the memorial to Fabio Cassertelli, a pal of Lance Armstrong’s, who died in the 1995 Tour descending at pace. I had built the climb up so much in my head that when it did come, it wasn’t quite as bad. I also did the whole thing with Colin, and we even had enough left in the tank for a daft sprint finish at the top. From there, a short descent to a café for lunch. Being late, and on Sunday and short-staffed, it wasn’t the quickest but welcome when it did arrive.

After lunch, and maybe partly because it had taken so long, we set off at an insane pace on a long descent, a long flat section and then a long, gentle ascent. Average speeds well in the red for mile after mile most of which I was debating whether I was at the tipping point where the benefit of hanging on the back of a speeding group was outweighed by the enormous effort of keeping up. Then, almost as one, the whole group blew up and had to slow down.

One more climb, Col de Port and then another long descent. By now, the climbs have all coalesced into one but this one was particularly memorable for the new affliction I seem to be suffering from, where my feet overheat. Painful it is too. Anyway, that done, heads down for the finish in the spa town of Ussat-les-Bains, just in time of dinner. Almost 11 hours from when we set off with various parts of me now so tender that I had to cycle doing the rising trot – out for 5 seconds, down for 5.

Tomorrow? Not ready to contemplate that yet, but I have got this far so I can’t see how I won’t make it now even if there is another bucket-load of pain tomorrow. I am not really thinking about much other than riding, I haven’t yet had a decent night’s sleep and most parts of me hurt. Am I enjoying it though? Hell yes. The relief that my relative slowness is not a burden, the growing belief that I can finish this thing and the sheer pleasure of the downhills all make it worthwhile. The best thing though? Getting to the top of those bloody big mountains propelled only by my own effort, the satisfaction of ticking them off one after the other. I just think I could do anything if I really tried. Just let me rest a while first.

Raid Day 2. Marie Blanque, Aubisque and Aspin. Really?

I have just drunk 2 of the best beers ever brewed outside a charming bar in the centre of Arreau,which sits alongside a vigorous river swollen with melt water from the Col D’Aspin, from which we have just descended in unbelievable sunshine. I can now feel almost no pain except the sharp throbbing in my toe, which I have just stubbed on a nasty little door stop in the apartment where we are lodged for the night. It seems a little unjust, because pain has not been in short supply today. A day that started at 8.00 and led us straight to the Col De Marie Blanque, and then almost immediately to the ferocious slopes of the Aubisque, one of the giants of the Pyrenees.

The climb up Marie Blanque was hard; not the biggest mountain around, but consistently between 10 and 12% for 10 kilometers. Cloudy as first, the clouds became mist as we ascended and there was not a great deal to see as we ascended through heavily wooded countryside. Nonetheless, to have scaled our first peak by 10.00am felt good. At the top, arm warmers and gilets were donned to fend off the cooling breeze of the descent from our now sweatily damp kit.

Aubisque was an entirely different proposition, not quite as steep but way longer and coming on top of the first climb, the first really big question of the trip so far. The group was mostly pretty spread out – well, I assume it was because other than the odd glimpse of Mark up ahead, I saw no one for over an hour as I ground out the kilometers. Up through an oddly deserted spa town with a giant but deserted hotel, which must have been quite something in its pomp. I felt similarly derelict and battered going on up into the clouds. Eventually, I reached the typically brutalist Ski resort, concrete tower blocks scarring the mountainside and managed to get confused between the road to a hotel and the route to the col, only for a few metres though, so not too much damage done. On and on up, ticking of the kilometer marks which started at 16 and were now down to low single figures when Frank and the minibus passed me. Suddenly I was out of the cloud and extraordinary views opened up. Frank had pulled over and I couldn’t resist stopping to take a couple of pictures. From there, the few remaining kilometres dribbled by; out of the treeline and into grassy meadows with increasingly stunning views all around.

Cresting the peak, with the 3 strange ornamental bikes and many other cyclists, bikers and assorted onlookers was a special moment and I had to punch the air in triumph. Then some much needed lunch in the café at the top.

The descent, around the ‘Circle of Death’ has to rate as one of the most stunningly memorable rides ever. The road had been hacked out of the rock face on the side of the mountain and circles the most breathtaking bowl of a valley. It then climbs up again to go over Col de Soulor and then a magical decent to the valley below. There then followed a detour to skirt Tourmalet which, sadly was closed by landslides last week. The detour, I swear, was harder than Tourmalet would have been, up and down into a nasty headwind and then up and up over a bonus hill to get us to Bagnolles de Bigorres, a town I lodged in on my last but one visit to the Pyrenees to complete the Etape in 2007. By this time, I was having to soak up prodigious quantities of pain. My shoulders, arms, neck, backside, legs and toes all sending out clear signals that 6.5 hours of up and down was more than enough for one day. However, still Col D’Aspin to do and my sense of humour began to take a well earned break, particularly as a gasping breath had me chewing on a pretty chunky flying insect of some sort. At last, we stopped at a roadside café for a break. Coffee, cheese sandwich, stretch, water, gels, more stretches and finally I felt ready to head on once more. 

Aspin was easy. Well, it would have been had we not already done the last 2 days. A mere 12 km of climbing, with nothing over about 9%, it nonetheless required another deep dig into the diminished supplies of energy. I can’t really remember much about it, other than that the road was made of tarmac and seemed to go on and on, but eventually the welcome sign showing just 1km to go arrived and I got that little surge of hopeful energy that comes when you know it’s almost over and the ever-welcome sight of the Le Domestique Tours trailer and minibus with fresh supplies of drinks and snacks. Up and over and another great descent to those wonderful beers.

The hardest day done, more suffering and more stunning scenery than I’d normally expect on a Saturday, but that’s why we do it. The feeling as I sit here is one of relief, fatigue and anticipation. I am so hungry I could definitely eat most of a horse, if not the whole thing. I may even make a start on the jockey too. Then I plan to sleep. Something I am yet to make a decent go of so far, but surely tonight. Tomorrow can’t be harder than today can it. Can it? 

Le Depart

Day 1 Hendaye to Lurbe St Christau

Day one done. Lycra off, clean, stretched. Today was the easy day and the theme was damage limitation. There was certainly limitation but there was also damage. 6.5 hours in the saddle, 103 miles and over 2000m of climbing is going to feel like a proper ride however fit you are.

I roomed with Steve last night and a somewhat sleep-restricted night was bought to a clanging end by Steve’s alarm which I am convinced is so loud it could precipitate a Zombie apocalypse. Lack of sleep partly due to trepidation, partly due to an extremely enthusiastic young lady who was either exaggerating wildly or in the hands of a lavishly talented Latin lover in a neighbouring room.

We arrived last night just after the bar had closed, so had to console ourselves by emptying the vending machine which, conveniently, sold beer. We had all met at Toulouse airport off the flights from Heathrow and Gatwick and joined up with our hosts for the trip, Rob and Frank who run the very appropriately named Le Domestique Tours. Breakfast and re-assembling bikes following a reasonably late arrival the night before took until 9ish and then a slightly confused ride to dip toes in the Atlantic and to have Raid cards distributed and stamped before getting underway with the great trans-Pyrenean adventure.

Team photos done, we pulled out of Hendaye, a town just across the border from Spain on the West coast of France at around 10.30 in slightly cloudy but intermittently sunny and warm weather. From St Jean de Luz and up into the first climb of the day, a nice gentle 3km run up the first of our 18 cols. St Ignace – just enough of a workout to sort out the pecking order in the group of 10 without any prizes being handed out. As predicted, I was nearer the bus than the lead out group, but not right at the back which was a relief.

The morning flew by, with a quick breathtaking run up a gradually ascending valley alongside a river swollen with melt-waters from the mountains above. Roads of a smoothness simply not found in the UK, a decent following wind and a reasonably tightly knit group, we chewed through the miles at between 20 and 24mph. Uphill, mind.

Lunch at St Jean Pied de Port was a bowl of pasta on a leafy terrace outside in a quite charming setting near the river and it was with a little reluctance that we unhitched our steeds and sallied forth once more, knowing as we did that the biggest climb of the day was still to come. When it did come, it was ok. Col d’Osquich is a 500m peak with nothing more than about 8% with some fabulous views and a descent through wide swinging bends that was about as much fun as you can have with cycling shorts on.

After that, one more coffee stop and just ticking off the miles, trying to limit the damage until we reached our destination for day one, a rustic little hotel on a small hill outside Lurbe-Saint-Christau. Most of the day’s grime, sweat and pain washed away by a dip in a pool you might describe as ‘refreshing’. Now I need a beer and some food that isn’t as sickly sweet as the gels, bars and drinks I have been guzzling through the day. Then I need to sleep hard, because tomorrow is another day and it’s the big one. Roughly twice the climbing we did today and I am trying not to think about it too much. Sorry if there are any spelling mistakes, but I do need that beer.

Where's my motivation?

If you venture out into the countryside early on Sunday morning, you will no doubt encounter large numbers of cyclists. You may even be held up in your dash to the in-laws for lunch by a range of body shapes, mostly men, mostly of a certain age, almost all of them dressed in tight fitting and brightly coloured lycra. Their shiny carbon-fibre steeds will have cost well over £1000 and weigh next to nothing. They flock to places like Box Hill and a number of other well known landmarks to pit themselves against nature and take on their own best times and average speeds, before hurrying home to their neglected wives and children, back to being dutiful fathers and husbands.

As well as the unflattering clothing and shiny bikes, the most common feature of these heroes of the road is less obviously discernible at first. If you pass them in your car you may not even notice their faces, etched with a zealous determination that can only be described as ‘religious’. There is something in the cocktail of suffering; dragging oneself out of bed early on a Sunday morning, particularly when the weather means most sane people just wrap the duvet more tightly around them as the cyclist tiptoes from the house in his clacking hard-bottomed shoes; the clean, fresh air of the countryside blowing away the filth of exhaust-fume choked city life; the exquisite agony of self-inflicted suffering. Explain otherwise why cyclists go out of their way to find hills to climb, taking on the twin challenges of gravity and wind-resistance, the least helpful force of nature, to increase the difficulty of the ride.

It is no co-incidence that these modern zealots seek salvation through suffering, it fulfills a deep-seated instinctive need for pain and suffering to redeem us from our wrong-doings and to raise us to righteousness; think Jesus being nailed to a cross to die in agony to save us from our sins; think monks in the middle-ages wearing hair shirts to chafe their skin to punish themselves for impure thoughts; think supplicants walking hundreds of miles across northern Spain to Santiago di Compostella.

England is a relative newcomer to the religion of cycling; few of us know much about Tom Simpson who cycled himself to death on the brutal, unforgiving slopes of Mont Ventoux. For some, first memories of cycling are of Chris Boardman and his Olympic heroics and his records in “the hour’. (Which, incidentally is one of the toughest events on the planet. A lone cyclist travels as far as he can in an hour and if you really want to understand the levels of pain a human being can inflict upon himself, you should read some of the accounts of riders who have done this. If you get even a mild thrill from slamming your fingers repeatedly in a drawer, you might be able to glimpse the levels of pain these self-harmers can bring down upon themselves.) For most of us, and for the hordes of Sunday morning lycra-boys, it is Sirs Chris and Brad or maybe Lance the drug-cheat that have inspired and awed us into the cult of self-imposed suffering.

Italy, France and Spain, perhaps because of those countries stronger ties to the Catholic faith, with its fascination with confession, abstinence and absolution through penance, have long been the spiritual homes of cycling. (With apologies to Belgium) Maybe it’s just that the hills there are bigger, the views better, but I think it’s more than that. You only have to watch the Tour de France on Bastille Day. Each year a deranged Frenchman takes off ahead of the peloton, making the ride even harder than it already is as he ploughs a lone channel through still air rather than be wafted along in the slipstream of 150 others. As the day nears its inevitable conclusion, his face contorts in pain and every sinew strains as he endeavours to stay ahead as the peloton gradually reels him. The crushing inevitability must break his heart as he is swallowed up and spat out just yards from the finish. Why would you inflict such public mental and physical agony on yourself unless you thought the cleansing flames would do anything less than forge your soul anew and guarantee eternal happiness and salvation?

There is a chapel in the Italian Alps above Lake Como. The chapel of the Madonna del Ghisallo. It is decorated with bikes and jerseys donated over the years by the great and the good of cycling; Hinault, Indurain, Binda, Pantani, Cippolini, Bartali. By the alter is a prayer which reads:

O mother of the Lord Jesus

Keep us pure and fervent in our souls

Brave and strong in our bodies

Keep us from danger in training as well as racing

We ask you to make the bike an instrument of brotherhood and friendship

Which will serve to lift us closer to God.

Outside the same chapel, there is a large bronze statue. Two cyclists, one his arm raised in triumph, the other fallen to the ground, writhing in despair. It bears the inscription;

“God created the bicycle as an instrument of effort and exultation on the arduous road of life”

So is this my motivation? Am I just another zealot looking for a cause? Or am I just impetuous and a bit competitive and have I just got in out of my depth. We’ll see.

In the meantime, the good news is that the avalanches and flooding in the Pyrenees are now under control and most of the mountain passes are open, my bike is clean and has new rubber, all I have to do now is go and do it. I’ll try to do another post on Friday at the end of day 1.

Don’t forget to make a donation to Great Ormond St and thanks if you already have. I am always amazed and humbled by people’s generosity. 

A new obsession and the powerful fear of failure

I've really done it this time. Every so often, I throw myself into an insanely difficult challenge with almost no thought of the consequences of my actions. A year ago I was barely able to walk, brought down to earth and betrayed by a 48 year old spine, bent out of shape by years of slumping in front of desks and TVs with occasional bursts of lower body activity. By which I mean cycling, hiking, running of course. Unable to exercise for 5 months I compensated by eating and drinking with typical enthusiasm and became about as fat and unfit as I have even been. Something had to change so, as my back recovered, I eschewed alcohol for 100 days, dug my bike out of the shed and re-entered the battle to delay the decline into middle age.

Then something happened that often happens to men of my age. A dangerous new obsession. Obviously my wife is upset, and the children just don't understand and refuse to get involved. I, however, am like a man re-born. For years, I have allowed myself to drift, gradually making less and less effort but kidding myself my heart was still in it. I'm talking about Strava, the new sensation of the exercise world, which allows you to measure and analyse your rides in forensic detail. A pitiless and ever-present, all-seeing training companion that ignites the competitive tiger within.

Then another thing happened - my old cycling pal, Steve, got in touch to offer me a place on a ride from the Atlantic to the Med with a small group of like-minded bikers and a support crew. 4 days to do 750 kilometres. In old money, that's 117 miles each day - or London to Brighton and back each day for 4 days. Except it's not. 117 miles is quite easy really. The tough bit is that the route from Atlantic to Med is littered with mountains. Proper mountains that make up the 'Hors Categorie' of the Tour de France. Legendary giants of the Pyrenees, like Tourmalet, Aubisque, Marie Blanc. Mountains that have broken the world's best cyclists. We plan to climb 18 of these in the 4 days, climbing a total of 12,500m. To put that in perspective, Leith Hill is the highest point in the south east of England offers the keen cyclist a rise of 113m over 1.4km. So this ride is the equivalent of riding up Leith Hill 110 times in 4 days - or up Everest 1.5 times.

Now, if I were young, fit, light and a natural cyclist (big lungs, long legs) all I would have to do is train hard for this. As it is, the only real talent I have for this type of thing is (to borrow from the film Kick-Ass) an elevated capacity to take a beating. That and Strava.

I have trained quite hard for this. According to Strava, since December I have cycled 4,531km and climbed 42,199m. This through the most consistently miserable winter and spring in living memory and mostly alone. I now have thighs like a Turkish weight lifter and calf muscles with corners and am lighter than I have been since leaving school. There have been a few moments where I have questioned my own sanity; one Sunday as I lay curled on the floor trying to coax my frozen feet back to life at the end of a ride in the snow; each time I struggle up White Down, a nasty little hill that rises at an improbable gradient of up to 20% and seems to go on for ever; another as an energy and morale-sapping headwind whipped off the river Severn as I doggedly reached the end of a foray into Wales from Bristol.

So what was it that kept me going through all of this? Strava was always there, urging me on, reminding me that my fellow cyclists would be poring over my stats as I did theirs. Motivation comes from lots of different things I suppose, but my main motivation here has been the fear of failure. I have not yet failed to complete any of the silly adventures I have signed up to once started. I never got to the start line of the marathon due to injury, but otherwise I have always managed to struggle to complete the allotted distance. On this occasion, I think I have signed up for the biggest challenge yet and the very real fear of failure has stalked me for the last 6 months; prodding, teasing, cajoling and exhorting me to keep pushing, to keep riding and Strava has been my ever-present conscience, highlighting my successes and failures and feeding my obsession.

The ride happens at the end of June; we ride out from the west coast of France on Friday 28th June and plan to arrive on the sunny shores of the Med on Monday 1st July. I am not planning to write a weekly blog purporting to cover my weekly training as I did with the Trailwalker - I have left it a bit late for that as we are now into the 'tapering' phase of the training, but I do intend to write up each of the 4 days as we go.

I also intend to raise a little money for charity. That's not the primary purpose of the event, but it gives me another incentive to succeed and at least someone will benefit from this insanity.

Great Ormond Street Hospital doesn't need much introduction from me. We have all seen the life-affirming, heart-breaking TV shows, we know something of the ground-breaking research and the new treatments, but we perhaps forget how important a role we can play in making sure this work continues.

The charity needs to raise £50 million every year to help rebuild and refurbish Great Ormond Street Hospital, buy vital equipment and fund pioneering research and to provide world class care to very ill children and their families.

Talking of success. If the fear of failure has been my main motivator in training, my mind is now turning to question of how to talk myself into a state of mind that allows me to enjoy and succeed. That's not so easy, but I have some straws I am clutching at:

1) Most of my cycling has been solo. That's about 15-20% harder than cycling in a group, where you get help in others' slipstream as well as the psychological boost of being in a team
2) The sheer majesty of the surroundings will inspire me
3) er..that's it. This talking myself up is a work in progress

You can look at my efforts so far on Strava - and on the ride itself by following the link below and I'll post the link to the blog on Facebook etc.

James on Strava

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