This article first appeared in the Guardian Unlimited - June 28 2005. To see the original article please see travel.guardian.co.uk Stages fright Attempting the gruelling Pyrenean sections of the
Tour de France is daunting, finds Max Wooldridge, even if the views
are addictive. And then there are the descents ... It was early morning in Ste-Marie de Campan, a sleepy
village in the French Pyrenees. A storm kept me awake half the night
and now the church bells were pealing out. I could smell coffee
brewing downstairs but I lay in bed unable to move. Ahead of me
was the legendary Col de Tourmalet - at 2115m, the highest road
pass in the Pyrenees and a stalwart in Tour de France history. It's
even classed as an hors-catégorie (out-of-category) climb
because it's such a killer. This was a mountain that even professional
cyclists are wary of. It seemed decades ago that seven other cyclists and I met at Toulouse airport to take on the cols - or mountain passes - of the Tour de France. We tackled a couple each day, travelling through some of Europe's most gorgeous scenery. I'd been worried that the group would be super-lean obsessives, so it was heartening to see hairy legs and a few extra pounds on display at our first dinner. And we didn't hit the mountains right away. The first morning started gently; from Foix we rode along valley roads and the Areige river gorge before a gentle ascent of the second-category Col de Port and then down to Seix. The original plan was to save my lowest gear for the culmination of the trip - the Tourmalet - but I had to employ it as early as the first-category climb, the Col de la Core. It was the only way I could ascend these mammoths. Two-thirds of the way up, as we neared the high pastures surrounding the summit, another cyclist and I steadily lost the plot. No amount of soaking our bandannas in cool mountain streams lessened the savage gradients or the searing afternoon sun. The hills echoing to the sound of our panting breaths, our guide James Thompson appeared in the support vehicle with offers of water and chocolate. Still hobbling from a recent mountain biking accident, he had a uncanny habit of turning up at precisely the right time. Without this refuelling I wouldn't have made it to the top. Most of the climbs were long and steady but the pain was worth it for the views from the top. The cycling is challenging, but not beyond the capabilities of the average cyclist just as long as you go at your own pace. And the sense of achievement rockets with each mountain you climb. A delightful descent delivered us to Audressein, riding through sleepy towns to the clink-clink of old men playing boules. By late afternoon our shared hotel rooms resembled a Chinese laundry, with day-glo Lycra clothing hung on washing lines like prayer flags. That night I slept like a pauper on a U-shaped mattress but ate like a king with a hearty meal of pasta, confit de canard and foie gras. No nouvelle cuisine for us on this trip, thanks - cyclists require carbohydrates and protein, and lots of them. The next day there was a sobering reminder of the dangers we faced - and that even professionals get it wrong sometimes. Halfway down the impossibly steep Col de Portet d'Aspet - as severe as 17% in places - we stopped at a memorial stone in honour of the Italian former Olympic champion Fabio Casartelli, who died here after a gruesome downhill crash in the 1995 Tour. After three days in the saddle there was a free day in the lively spa town of Luchon. Along its single tree-lined boulevard, the Allée d'Etigny, the contrast between two worlds was immense. At breakfast two elderly French ladies asked me what I was doing in Luchon - although you might think being fully kitted-out in spray-on yellow lycra would have given them a hint. In stilted French I explained our ambition to cycle all the Tour de France climbs in the Pyrenees in a week. They looked at me as if I had robbed their state pensions, then sighed and said they were here pour les thermes - the thermal baths you can smell as far away as Toulouse. Then they pointed to various parts of their body and let out more lengthy sighs. Luchon was supposed to be a rest; but you don't get hills like these in the UK so most of us headed up the 1800m Superbagnères, a ski station sometimes used as a Tour finish. I was up for it because it would take my tally of climbs for the week to 12, a nice round number. We were col-baggers, unashamedly ticking off mountains. One cyclist even had a watch that functioned as a heart-rate monitor and calculated how many calories he burnt off each hour - to tell the time he actually had to press a button three times. We tackled Superbagneres in the early morning to avoid the heat of the day, but at the turn of every pedal stroke I regretted every chocolate bar I'd consumed last winter. Why hadn't I shifted the lard earlier, and, vitally, more of it? Like all these mountains, however, the agony of Superbagnères is worth it when you reach the summit, swelling with pride and an overwhelming sense of achievement - the pain and cursing a distant memory. And what goes up must come down: the exhilarating descents are more than ample reward. There's no feeling as exciting as hurtling down a Pyrenean mountainside at 50mph, with only tyres, brake blocks and your sharpened wits between you and certain death. After a glorious descent of the Col de Peyresourde the following day, I arrived in Arreau. It was market day and I stopped for lunch beside the river in front of a van selling horsemeat. Another blistering hot afternoon. I grovelled up the nearby Col d'Aspin and saw the names of Tour riders painted on the road. I kept at a steady six mph along its winding roads and hairpin bends. At one point a car waited at least five minutes behind me before there was a straight stretch of road in which to overtake. When he eventually passed, I waved thanks so enthusiastically that I lost my rhythm and nearly fell off my bike. The drivers, in fact, were great all week. As early as the first morning a motorist rushed out of his car to apologise for cutting across our path as he parked. Behaviour like this, needless to say, is unthinkable in the UK. All that was left now was the Tourmalet, the biggie; the eater of men. It was tough, but much easier than I expected after all that limbering up earlier in the week. And once you're past the eyesore ski resort of La Mongie, the Tourmalet holds superior views: bright blue skies and soaring Pyrenean peaks like broken teeth. And, as ever, all the legwork reaped huge rewards. The way down was the most wonderful descent of my life and an experience I will remember well into senility. It was 20 miles downhill all the way to our final hotel in Argeles-Gazost. En route I overtook several cars and weaved in between cow-pats, some fresh, others so old they had become part of the tarmac. My legs had shivered at the top but soon plunged into the warm valleys below. When I got back to London I had never felt so fit, but my euphoria evaporated amidst the city's congested roads. From a mountainous paradise where you're treated like a prince, back to drive-by hootings in a country where cyclists enjoy marginally more respect than child molesters. Bagging these classic cols had been one of the hardest weeks of my life, but easily one of the most rewarding things I've done. If there's an equivalent trip in the Alps on offer, I'll be the first in the queue - but the peanut butter abstinence will have to start a little earlier. Way to go There are two departures in 2005: July 24-31 and September 11-18, but more are planned for 2006. Additionally, Exodus can also offer the trip to private groups of eight or more on other dates as required, subject to availability. For more information contact Exodus (0870 240 5550). This Article was written by Max Wooldridge, who came on the Classic Cols of the Tour de France trip in September 2004. Marmot-Tours runs this trip for Exodus Travels |
