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?
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