‘No, sir, we cannot put a smaller chain-ring or a bigger cassette on your bike. You already have the lowest ratio possible. Welcome to the Rockies.’

Brian, University Bicycles, Boulder, Colorado. Two days before the start of Haute Route Rockies 2017.

I was in Colorado for the first American edition of the Haute Route, seven days, 815 km and 16,000 vertical metres, all at altitude. One of the toughest multi-day events for amateurs in the world. And Brian’s statement did little to ease my nerves.

When I have entered big events such as this in the past I have worked pretty hard on my training during the lead up period. This time, unfortunately, I had to turn up to the starting line seriously under prepared. For reasons no one has been able to adequately explain, I decided in my mid 50’s to enrol in a fairly demanding post-graduate course. I was now at the pointy end, with big exams shortly before and shortly after the trip. At the beginning of the year I had to make a choice – commit my after-work time to study or commit to training. Training lost. I cancelled my scheduled trip to Victoria for the 3 Peaks. In the 26 weeks leading up to the event I managed only ten trips to the hills. Only a handful of those were more than 100 km. No early morning intervals. No back to back long, hard rides. No coach scheduling / monitoring / pushing me. My daily commute plus sporadic sessions on the Watt bike was all I could find time for. My strength and endurance plummeted. It was going to be a long week.

Day 1, Boulder – Boulder: 107 km, 1,900 m vertical

107 km, 1,900 m vertical – not much different to an SPR Sunday long hills ride. Except North Boulder Park, the Coode St jetty equivalent, was over a mile above sea-level and we kicked off with a HC climb that contained a significant stretch of dirt road.

Boulder is at the base of the Front Range, the ‘foothills’ that guard the eastern aspect of the Continental Divide. Our first day was flat for about 500 m, then it went straight up. Sunshine Canyon had a few steep pitches and included about 15 km of slippery gravel. I took it gently (well, as gently as one can on a climb with a HC classification). The gradient eased at Gold Hill, a fascinating old ‘wild west’ town (we had stopped there for coffee on a recce ride a few days before). Undulating gravel followed for 20 km before we were rewarded with a spectacular descent back to the plains on a beautiful, wide state road, super smooth surface with sweeping curves and very little traffic (marshals were on most corners and we had police escorts but the roads were always open). A bit of a slog along gently undulating territory got us back to Boulder. Day 1 – survived.

Day 2: Boulder to Winter Park: 138 km, 3,500 m vertical

‘I’ve lived in Boulder for 28 years and I’ve ridden up Magnolia Drive once’.

Connie Carpenter-Phinney, Olympic Road Race Gold Medallist, 4 World Championship titles, 12 US National titles, US Bicycling Hall of Fame & US Olympic Hall of Fame member. Pre-stage briefing, Boulder, June 2017.

I was about to venture into territory that even the legendary Connie Carpenter-Phinney had never been in: climbing Magnolia Drive for the 2^nd time. My first attempt, two days prior to the start, led me to the bike shop that generated the quote with which this story started. I got to the top on that occasion, but only just. To be fair, it is a brutal climb and I was jet lagged and unused to the altitude.  It is the steepest paved road in Colorado, kicking off with a vicious 14% for the 1^st km and averaging 10% for 7 km. Some of the early switchbacks nudge 18 – 20%.  When Olympic champions who live 10 km away choose not to train on it, you know it isn’t gunna be fun.  On my earlier foray Niall Henry kindly stopped to wait for me three times as I battled painfully up the pitches. I don’t think I have ever seen Niall struggle on the bike as much as he did that day – only his superb bike handling skills kept him vertical as he tried desperately to ride at my barely discernible pace without falling off.

Fortunately Magnolia seemed a bit easier 2^nd time round (NB easier, not easy). I managed to survive the steep pitches and got to the top feeling relatively OK. We rolled across some compacted gravel roads for a while before another section on the state highway that traverses the Front Range, wide shoulder, not too much traffic so lots of fun. Another dirt climb followed with the big one of the day, Berthoud Pass, saved till last. Topping out at 3,446 metres, this was the first of four ascents above 3,000 metres for the week. Like stage 1, I took it very steady, passed by lots of riders on the Berthoud climb but just happy to get to the finish at Winter Park in one piece.

Day 3: Winter Park to Avon: 153 km, 2,000 m vertical

‘I’m never going to do another Haute Route’.

Jim Flynn, Toulouse, France August 2015.

My sole previous Haute Route experience was in the Pyrenees in 2015. I treated that event like a race. I finished relatively high up in the GC for an old fella, but it hurt a lot. Looking back at the story of that ride, there is a consistent theme of pain & suffering :  ‘my legs screamed’, ‘exhausted, I crossed the finish line’, ‘suffering severely’, ‘slumped on my bike’, ‘couldn’t move’, ‘work, work, work, thrashing myself’ are just some of the phrases included in my blog ( https://southperthrouleurs.com.au/2015/08/29/haute-route-pyrenees-2015/  ). It was an amazing week but I was determined not to put myself through that again. Once was enough for me.

There is, however, another way of tackling the event. We travelled that year with a group from Manly who essentially treated the week as a club ride (albeit, a pretty solid one!)– lots of regroups, steady pace, chatting away en-route. They enjoyed themselves.

Maybe I could enjoy a Haute Route too??

My lack of training actually turned out to be a godsend. I was reasonably confident that I had the baseline fitness to get me to the finish line before the sweep wagon and that became my main priority. There were a few unknowns, namely the effects of the altitude and my lack of ‘bum on saddle’ time, so I deliberately started out very gently with the aim of easing myself back into form. I slipped back into my old cycle touring mode, where I would ride for hours and hours working about as hard as I would now on a recovery ride.  I didn’t care how long it took me to get to the top of the hills. And it felt really good! It was actually quite liberating for me. After six years of dedicated training, power-based interval sets, time-trial torture sessions, smashing myself in a race to chase down a break, I settled back and enjoyed myself. The result was sensational. I stopped at the drinks stations instead of pushing through. I chatted to fellow riders from all over the globe. I loved breathing the fresh, mountain air. I marvelled at the scenery. I tapped up the climbs and luxuriated in the long, sweeping descents. I still did some work, especially towards the end of the week, but unlike in the Pyrenees, I always kept a comfortable distance away from the red zone.

It was a week in which I was constantly reminded why I love riding my bike so much.

Stage 3 was a bit like a transition day, quite long (153 km) but with no massive climbs. Three climbs, two of them on beautiful, quiet backroads, a fast descent and then a short climb to Avon, another day completed.

Stage 4: Avon to Avon: 17 km, 650 m vertical

‘Time-trials aren’t for people who like pain, they’re for people who love pain.’

Gilbo. A few years ago, when he used to do TT’s.

The traditional time trial stage on Day 4 of the Haute Route can be approached in two ways – either a torture session aka Gilbo style or as a rest day. I chose the latter. It was a relief to only have a short 17 km ride to tackle, especially as we had two massive days to follow. I slipped back in the rankings. Who cares?

Stage 5: Avon to Snowmass: 164 km, 2,700 m vertical

‘I haven’t been this high since I was at university’.

Safest to attribute this to ‘anonymous’. Independence Pass, Colorado, June 2017.

Billed as the queen stage, Stage 5, 164 km long with 2,700 m vertical, including three serious climbs, was always going to be a challenge.

I have been privileged enough to have ridden up Alpe d’Huez (1,860 m) , Mont Ventoux (1,912 m), Col du Tourmalet (2,115 m), Col du Galibier (2,656 m) and Col Agnel (2,744 m). Today, however, I was venturing into unknown territory, climbing Tennessee Pass (3,177 m) then the mighty Independence Pass, at 3,687m, the highest paved crossing of the Continental Divide in the USA. Some form was starting to creep back into my legs and I felt strong enough on the Tennessee climb to drag a few people up the hill behind me.  Independence Pass was long (27 km) but gentle, with most stretches between 2 and 4 % (with a bit of a kick near the end). I had no thoughts of attempting to challenge Strava records at these heights so slowly but steadily tapped my way up and felt pretty comfortable at the top. I certainly noticed the effects of the altitude, in particular my heart rate seemed to be about 10 -15 bpm lower for a given perceived effort compared to what it would have been at sea level. It was a bit difficult, however, for me to quantify what effect the hypoxia had on my performance because I deliberately kept to a tempo that I knew I could sustain. Talking to those who were pushing themselves, though, it appears that power outputs were down by anywhere between 50 and 100 watts above 3,000 m. Each increment in altitude seems to get exponentially harder. How people can climb mountains like Everest at > 8,000 m without supplementary oxygen is beyond my comprehension.

Stage 6: Snowmass to Crested Butte: 170 km, 3,000 m vertical

‘I agree, darling, you really do need another bike’.

Robyn Fary, Applecross, April 2017

OK, I made that one up.

Unlike the European Haute Routes, part of the Rockies brief was to include at least 20% of unsealed roads for us to play on. I had ridden dirt once on my Dogma (from Observatory down Lockwood Road to Mundaring Weir Road) and found it decidedly unnerving. New Bike Time, I reckoned. Hello Roubaix: endurance geometry, 28 mm tyres, disc brakes, even suspension in the head-set, it fitted the bill perfectly for this event. The gears were more than adequate for everything but Magnolia (and I don’t think there is any combination of gearing that would make that climb comfortable). The price I paid was an extra kilo to carry up the hills but it was well worth it, especially on some of the more technically challenging sections of course. I ended up actually looking forward to the dirt sections and enjoyed them more than a lot of the bitumen.

Stage 6 was the ‘dirtiest’ day, with about 80 km of dirt riding in the 170 km stage. Kebler Pass, the 4^th and final of our 3,000 m passes, was unsealed. It was one of the most beautiful of all the climbs, with carpets of wildflowers, forests of aspen, spruce and pine trees and amazing views of the surrounding mountains. The highlight of the day, however, was the sighting of a bear and her cub on the lower reaches of McClure Pass. Perched on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Crystal River, she watched serenely as we pedalled past. Perhaps we were too skinny a bunch to entice her down for a meal?? I was grateful she stayed where she was. I am confident that, if she had approached, I would have easily smashed my five minute power record, regardless of the altitude and the lack of training.

Stage 7: Colorado Springs to Colorado Springs: 70 km, 1,400 m vertical

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine into trees.”

John Muir, Scottish – American naturalist

The Rockies are stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful. Our ride took in only a small portion of them, but I saw enough of them to make me want to come back. The accompanying pictures will, I think, be more effective than words in describing the country we rode through.

We were blessed by extraordinary weather – the worst we had to put up with was a bit of a chill on a couple of mornings that quickly dissipated as the sun rose. We were warned to be prepared for everything (the ski slopes at Winter Park were still open two weeks before we arrived) but arm warmers and a gilet were more than enough for the week. We were truly spoilt.

Unfortunately delays in a bus transfer (the only one of the week) meant our last stage was truncated: a ceremonial parade through the Garden of the Gods and Old Colorado Springs, a seven km timed stage with a small climb then a roll back to the finish to collect our medals.

I hadn’t planned to ride the following day but Niall & I couldn’t resist the temptation to ride the beautiful loop on Gold Camp Road that the organisers had planned to take us on the day before. It was a fabulous way to finish a very memorable week on the bike.

I would highly recommend a Haute Route experience. It is challenging, but the cut off times are very generous and I think almost all club members, with the right training, could complete the ride. The organisation was very efficient, with bike boxes collected on D1 and delivered to your final hotel on D7, luggage transported daily to the next hotel, a back pack available at the finish line which could be used to have clothes / shoes to change into, plenty of food at the rest stops, safe roads, en-route mechanical support. Most importantly, there was a wonderful atmosphere, with plenty of camaraderie amongst the riders. Even Emma Pooley, who not only won the women’s race but beat all comers on Stage 5 (first female to lodge the fastest time of the day after almost 100 Haute Route stages) tweeted ‘what a fun and friendly environment’ it was to race in.

There were some fabulous videos produced by the media team each day. This one sums up the week quite well. (Incidentally yours truly features briefly @ 1.30 in the video on a rough track where I trailed the motor bike for a few minutes).

A particular highlight of the Rockies ride was the frequency and duration of the un-timed sections, on some days more than 50% of the stage. This gave even the hard-core racers (and there were a few ex Olympians and national champions at the pointy end) the opportunity to enjoy the jaw-dropping scenery.

Stage 8: Denver, Colorado to Perth WA: 16,255 km, 10,900 m vertical

‘Of course, go off cycling overseas again with your mates, I’ll be fine at home’.

Robyn Fary, Applecross, April 2017

OK, maybe this one isn’t true either…

I would like to acknowledge and thank Robyn for her kindness and graciousness in yet again supporting me in my cycling indulgences. Our original plans included her travelling to the States towards the end of the ride so we could have some time in the mountains together but these plans were shelved because of my need to return to study for my remaining exam.

Hoping to make it up to her with a trip early next year.

She is even muttering about going somewhere without my bicycle.

I didn’t realise such destinations existed….

For the past 26 years, the Tour de France organisers have given average punters the opportunity to race a real mountain stage under pro conditions the day before the big boys, with fully closed roads, police escorts and yellow, polka dot & green jerseys for the winners. Recently the format has been expanded internationally and Australia got its first taste a couple of weeks ago in the Snowy Mountains. The organisers drew up a challenging route, with 157 km including 2,700 vertical metres and a ‘mountain top’ finish at Perisher ski resort. A shorter but not insignificant ‘ride’ course skipped the Perisher climb but still entailed 123 km & 1,900 vertical metres, a solid day on the road.

The race commenced at Crackenback, half way up the hill to Thredbo. I was pretty nervous about dropping down to Jindabyne with over 3,500 other riders, particularly as we were being set off in groups of 1,000, but the starting line was located in a small valley with a four kilometre climb out, which was enough to split the mob into manageable groups.

Choosing a pace is always challenging at the beginning of a ride like this. Going out too hard means you run the risk of running out of gas on the long climb at the end, too easy and you miss out on the opportunity to work in a group with the big fellas on the flatter sections. The leading riders headed out at a pace that I knew I couldn’t match so I slotted in behind with the groupe poursuivant, nervously hoping that they weren’t going to smash me in the middle section of the ride. About 50 of us got to the top of the first rise together then descended down the hill and safely negotiated the sharp right hander at the edge of the lake. At the event village in Jindabyne I dumped my wind-vest & arm warmers at the foot of my patient, long suffering wife and, spurred on by her encouraging words, crossed the dam wall and climbed out of town for the next phase of the race.

The next part of the route was spectacular. Rolling hills, some short and sharp, some long and taxing, but nothing too extreme. The weather too, was perfect – the biting early morning chill had disipated, the skies were clear, no wind and a very comfortable 20C as we rolled north to Rocky Plain then headed south east through picturesque country. The pace was, at times, kind enough to let me enjoy the panoramic views of the Snowy Mountains. Knowing the road was clear of traffic made the long, sweeping descents really enjoyable. Corners swept of debris, superb road surfaces, marshals and police coordinating traffic, a solid group rolling through smoothly– it was cycling nirvana.

Berridale, at 75 km, hosted the battle for the green jersey. For a climber like me, the sprint was of no interest but I hung onto the back of the group, just for fun. It was, for me, a warm up, for The Wall.

 

More rollers to Beloka, where things started to get serious. My group worked well together and tackled the long false flat aggressively, if a little nervously, as we headed up the valley. A, short gentle dip down to a bridge. Grazing country disappears. The bush takes over. We are back into the mountains. 100 kilometres on the clock. The next big challenge of the day was upon us.

The Beloka climb is not for the faint hearted. Three kilometres long, it is known colloquially as ‘The Wall’. Unlike climbs like the Goose, which start relatively gently then kicks at the end, Belokia assaults you at the onset, smacks you in the face right at the start. You cross the creek then climb a cliff:  never below 10% for the first kilometre, said my Garmin, with a peak of 23%. At one stage I logged 8 km/hr with a heart rate of 160. Ouch. It hurt even more knowing you are only 1/3 of the way. The gradient eases in the middle, ‘easy section’ but the torture of the intro meant I was still hunting desperately for another gear to help me keep my cadence up. A stiff kick in the slope at the end to squeeze even more lactate into the screaming, burning legs. Then the road flattened. I was at the top.

Not surprisingly, the group I was with was blown apart by the climb. I was doing OK for fuel & fluids so didn’t stop at the refreshment station and made my way back down the hill. For the first time on the ride, I was without friends. The gradient was too gentle to freewheel so I pushed on solo for about 10 minutes. I caught a couple of riders ahead of me but they weren’t willing / able to work so I struggled on by myself. I started to fade, still a long way to go. Looking over my shoulder I was relieved to see a group of riders 50 metres behind me, bearing down with a fearlessly determined driver at the front. I eased up, had a drink and some food, then hitched on and joined the train.

The end of the descent at the outskirts of Jindabyne was pretty close to the finishing line for those who had signed up for ‘the ride’. For mugs like me, however, who had signed up for ‘the race’, there was still 30 km to go. Virtually all of it uphill.

As far as bike rides to ski resorts go, the climb to Perisher is relatively benign. Hugging a creek, it rose gently through the valley at a very respectable 3% average gradient. There were a couple of nasty bites but no tortuous, Alpe Du Huez ramps, no Ventoux forest of 10 km @ 10%. But we still had 120 km of racing in our legs at the bottom, so it wasn’t easy.

I felt pretty strong at the base of the mountain, and climbed solidly for most of the way. A few of the leading group had burnt too many matches on the early sections and I managed to reel in quite a number of riders.

For me, however, the race was about 5 kilometres too long. The last leg hurt. The outskirts of Perisher appeared, but the road kept rising. A nasty kilometre push up out of Smiggins Holes took me to the highest point of the race. The finishing line was in sight, mercifully downhill, 500 metres away. I ‘sprinted’ across the line, then collapsed, comforted and supported by one of the many volunteers who had given up their day to support the riders.

L’Etape 2016, tick.

Five hours, 9 minutes in the saddle was enough to secure me 73^rd place overall. Almost 1,900 riders started the race I so was pretty happy to end up in the top hundred.

At UCI events riders are grouped by age but there was no mention of intent to do this in the pre-race blurbs for this event. I discovered later that night that they had in fact graded us into 5 year blocks and was extra-chuffed to find out that I clocked the fastest time of in the 55-59 year old category.

Chris Froome, rides for Team Sky, a few race victories under his belt, was the ambassador for the race. He started last. According to the pre-race publicity, he was to ‘ride through the groups’. I think the plan was for him to pass all the riders, so we all had an opportunity to ride ‘next to’ him. I beat him to the finish by about 20 minutes. Pretty impressive, I reckon.

So, why did I I beat Froome? Was he out of season, a bit overweight, had too many Kosciuszko Pale Ale’s the night before??

Nah – I am pretty confident that, even with a splitting headache, he could have beaten me riding a kids tricycle with one leg in plaster.

I beat him to the finish line because the organisers made one, simple error when they calculated the splits – they failed to take into account what a nice guy he is.

What to say about the man? I have read a few lines penned from people who met him during his brief stint in Oz and spoken to some people who spoke to him, and some who rode with him on the race.

The story? Universally positive.

A description of Froome’s ride is told beautifully on a widely available blog, written by Harrison Bailey, a young guy who was tapped on the shoulder a couple of days before the race to escort him along the route. They rode hard for a couple of hours, then stopped at a refreshment station. No TdF rolling refuel, he spent 15 minutes talking, posing for selfies, I reckon there must be hundreds on facebook of grinning riders and vollies standing next to the man. He stopped many more times, abandoning any pretence of catching the riders at the pointy end of the race. Reports of his enthusiasm, behaviour and willingness to engage were universally positive. This picture, I think, sums up what he brought to L’Etape Australia 2016.

Respect, Chris Froome.

I am in my mid 50’s, and have cycled all my life. I have signed up to many events in Australia (and around the world) but never, ever, previously experienced the enthusiasm and the community involvement that I encountered on L’Etape Australia 2016. Crowds lined the route like nothing I had seen before – clad in yellow in Jindabyne, green in Berridale, polka dots galore in Dalgety and Beloka. Hundreds of old bikes lined the roadside, all painted in yellow, green or polka dot colours. Not far out of Crackenback I spied horses grazed on the high grounds under the protection of yellow blankets, near the sprint all the shops, houses & road signs were decked in green tule, school kids in yellow screamed encouragement as we rode past, polka dot parties galore in Baloka. The Jindabyne shops joined the party – skis and snowboards in the display window of the ski shop were painted yellow, every shop I saw had either a bike, a banner or some sort of TdF colour on display. Kudos to the organisers, but special thanks to the many volunteers, townsfolk & the farmers along the way who, instead of resenting the inconvenience of having roads closed for a day, embraced the event with a passion that stunned me. I will never forget the warmth of the congratulation I received from the local woman who adorned me with my finisher’s medal as I stumbled from the finishing line at the end of the ride.

Well done, Snowy Mountains,  #destinationjindabyne.

Hope to be back next year.

Alpe D’Huez is on most cyclists’ bucket list. The mere mention of Galibier is enough to make some cycling tragics weak in the knees and a bit misty eyed. Could a mug like me do both in one day??

From our base in Grave, we headed down a spectacular valley. A few years ago, this road was the favourite haunt of a machine known as US Postal, who famously charged down the lower slopes at 60 km/hr to deliver Lance to Le Bourg-d”Oisans, the small village at the base of Alpe D’Huez.

The route also has a special place in Australian cycling history – it was here in 2011 that Cadel made an extraordinary unassisted effort to make some valuable time on his rivals. He wasn’t first up Alpe D’Huez that year, but his ride down from the Lautaret that day was one of the keys to his success that year.

The group left at a sensible pace, given the day ahead. Then Jerard took off. I don’t know what possessed him, maybe he thought he was on the US Postal team, but suddenly it was on. He did a really long turn. I sat back for quite a while. Then, I thought, if he can be an idiot, why can’t I? So I sped past him and set the pace. For about 30 seconds, I was strong. Then I was cooked. OK, peel off, I settled in behind Steve, who was next in the line, ‘for a rest’.

Steve Cunningham, our tour leader, is one of the most humble, unassuming men I have ever met. He also happens to be an ex-professional cyclist and is still in very good shape. He has tolerated our various foibles on this trip with remarkable equanimity. He has guided us at very respectable pace throughout the week. But, if we wanted to play, he was quite happy to join in. I was on his wheel for a few minutes. I am pretty sure he was only in tempo mode but I found myself struggling to get my breath back. I braved a glance down at my Garmin and saw I was churning out 380 watts in his slipstream. Whooo, boy, time to ease off – this isn’t my league. I fell off the back. We still had a lot of cycling to do.

Alpe D’Huez is a ski resort. It isn’t extraordinarily high (1,860 m) and the climb isn’t particular long by the standards of this region (13.8 km @ 8.1% average). Those who watched the stage in last year’s race would realise that the village isn’t even at the top of the mountain – the Col du Sarenne is a further 8 km and 228 vertical metres up the road. The main reason it has iconic status as a Tour climb is the fact that it is one of the few locations in France that has the infrastructure to host an uphill finish. On race day, its slopes host hundreds of thousands of spectators, some camping out for days in order to obtain their favourite vantage point. The hill has become the people’s favourite.

We had been warned not to overcommit on the lower slopes, in particular to save our legs for the final few km, where there a few pitches of 10 – 12%. I headed up the hill, counting down the 22 numbered corners. I tried to maintain a steady tempo, keeping my power within 10-15 watts of an output that I knew I could sustain for an hour. Surprisingly, Jerard stayed in my sight. He looked uncomfortable – his upper body was swaying, his rhythm was off, it was obvious he was having a bad day. Later he was to discover that his back brake was rubbing slightly, but neither of us knew it at the time (I honestly swear that the 5 minutes I spent with his bike at the coffee break was spent looking at the geometric aspects of the frame….).

Three quarters of the way up the climb I was feeling good enough to pull my phone out and took a quick snap of the valley below. It wasn’t too long before we were at the outskirts of the village. We rode through the souvenir shops that are clustered around the false finish, Jerard less than 50 metres ahead of me. I had followed him all the way up the hill but had ignored the temptation to catch him for a number of reasons, not the least being the likelihood that I would blow up if I tried. We were on a relaxing holiday, a cycling tour, not a race. My aim was to maintain my tempo, my own pace until the finish.

But we were on the upper slopes of Alpe D’Huez.

And there was a Dome boy, looking slightly vulnerable, just ahead.

Not long after the final switchback I bridged and we rode together under the tunnel. The actual TDF finish line is surprisingly difficult to find. Predictably, Dome-boy missed the right hander shortly after the tunnel. I was really tempted to hit him then but chivalry got the better of me so I waited while Steve guided him back casino onto the course. Due to some administrative blunder this section of the road was still open to the public, so, ushered by Steve, we took the first roundabout on the straight section slowly. The second and final roundabout beckoned, the finishing line 250 m up a gradual slope to the left.

It was almost time to attack. Dome-boy isn’t renowned for his bravery around difficult turns and the previous morning I had a master-class in cornering from Steve, a guy who has mixed it with the best in the sport.

Time to go.

I smashed the corner (after first checking for on-coming traffic, Robyn) and charged up the hill, the finishing line on Alpe D’Huez in my sights.

The crowds were going wild, the noise was deafening. I had 2 bike lengths on Dome-boy when the 100 metre sign flashed by. He isn’t a strong sprinter. The stage was mine!

My head became giddy – the podium, the champagne, the fame. Would they rename one of the switchbacks after me? Years on the circuit have ensured that I am fluent in French & Italian of course, but my Spanish, Dutch & German are rudimentary at best – would they provide an interpreter when I faced the international press??

There was one small, technical hitch.

On a scale of sprinting prowess that scores Jerard as ‘not strong’, I would be classified as ‘not even pathetic’. There was a whoosh – he was gone. Game over.

I limped across the line. No kisses from the podium girls for me.

We regrouped and had lunch. ½ the tour group headed back down the hill, the rest of us rode on up to the Col du Sarenne. For me, this was the most enjoyable part of the day. The road past the resort was relatively free of cyclists (unlike the lower slopes) and the higher reaches offered amazing views in all directions. Sarenne means ‘serene’ and it is aptly named.

The road was narrow but in good condition up to the Col. Unfortunately, the descent was a bit like riding on a goat track. The tarmac was pot-holed and we had as a bonus recently laid tar (still sticky) with loose gravel around it. I think our descent times were similar to our climbing times – Mark Schneider, not known as the most fearless of descenders, was actually first to the bottom. It wasn’t much fun at all.

 

Back on good road and it was a long slow haul back up the valley, through Grave and up the Col du Lautaret (a route that will be ridden on stage 14 of this year”s tour). From here it was only eight kilometres to Galibier. We had originally planned to ride the pass via the classic route that incorporates the Col du Telegraph but weather conditions the previous day meant that the program had to be rearranged and we were thus on the less travelled but equally challenging southern approach.

Eight kilometres isn’t far – I ride further than that to work each day.

I gulped when I was shown a tiny speck, impossibly high, and was told it was a car just about to reach the Col. There was no thought of turning back, though, having come this far. We all refuelled and headed up the mountain.

My legs were getting tired but all I knew I had to do was tap out a steady rhythm and I would get there. I was really appreciative of the 29 tooth cassette that I had bought after suffering on the Col D’Agnel. However, despite maintaining what I felt was a constant effort, I noticed my power output slowly falling. I tapped the headset a few times, hoping it might have been due a sticky dial, but no difference. I think the altitude, the long day, the long week, finally caught up with me.

Jerard and I were together till 3 kilometres from the pass. He sat in front for a while and then gradually started pulling away. When he saw me off the back he kindly offered to wait so we could finish the climb together but I waved him on – it would have been great way to end the ride but I couldn’t lift my speed and I was worried he would seize up if he sat up – 3 kilometres was still a long way on that road at that altitude.

We both made it to the top of Galibier, tired but happy, a real sense of achievement. Our reward, again, was magnificent views. It was bitterly cold up at the top so I was grateful to be able to hop in the van and put on my warm clothes before posing for a picture.

The descent was challenging. Despite wearing two pairs of gloves, within a couple of minutes my fingers were numb and gripping the brakes was quite difficult. It was late in the day but the skies were clear and the breeze was slight, conditions infinitely better than encountered by the pros coming off Stelvio at the Giro this year – I have no idea how they managed to stay on their bikes in such freezing weather, I couldn’t have done it.

As I got lower in the valley I started to get some circulation back and the last few kilometres back to Grave were memorable – clear views, smooth roads, 5% gradient and home not too far away.

Kudos again to Steve, Michelle and the team at procyclingtours for facilitating the ride. Tasked with shepherding a very disparate group of cyclists, they managed to get all riders up Alpe D’Huez and, with the judicious usage of a van shuffle or two, all but two of the group up the Galibier. A very impressive effort.

Numbers-wise, the six of us who rode the full route managed 128 km with about 3,280 m of climbing. Alpe D’Huez took me 1:03, Jerry a bit less. We were a long, long way off the pros’ times but still pretty happy with our efforts.

Another fantastic day of cycling.

The beer tasted good that night.