Col Bagging 2015 - part two

Day Two:  28^th June 2015

Lagrand to Le Bourg-d’Oisans

Having been unsuccessful in gaining chilled rosé the evening before, Lord T decided he would adopt a different approach and seek a warmer liquid at breakfast time. Détente cordiale had been restored, if not efficient service, and eventually Paul got his hot milk for his porridge oats.

Max’s appearance at breakfast, was quite literally, something to behold. His top of blue hued camouflage, black and blue cycling shorts, and grey and blue Fred Whitton cycling socks were all matching, unfortunately not to each other, but presumably to some other cycling kit that he had failed to bring with him. He had us pondering the environment in which blue combat fatigues might be useful. Regrettably we didn’t have Brigadier Strickland with us this year who may have been able to answer the question.

Early morning musings aside, we set off for our second day’s riding, this time a schlep of 137km and 2,994 metres of climbing, according to our day cards, from Lagrand to Bourg-d’Oisans at the foot of L’Alpe d’Huez, but that is for Day 3.

Day 2 featured two main climbs; the first the 50km jaunt to Col du Festre and the second, much later in the day, up Col d’Ornon. In between were a couple of blips on the day card, the Col de Rioupes and a peaky little unnamed number at 109km, which all-in-all made for a pleasant enough day’s cycling.

The Col du Festre was a rolling ride up the 1,442m col. We cycled through scented pine forests and witnessed fields gloriously scarlet, awash with blooming poppies. There aren’t many views for which we pause to take photos (although Keelan took many without said pause, all remarkably well composed despite his momentum), but the burst of colour amidst the towering landscape was one that drew many of us to a halt.

What wasn’t quite as pleasant was an alternative form of company.  Conscious that I could reduce the wait for the others at the top of the mountain if I set off early, I began the leg in splendid isolation at the front of the field.  In saying isolation, I am referring to the absence of fellow riders, what I wasn’t short of was fellow passengers.  The warm conditions provided the perfect environment for the proliferation of flies, thousands of them.  At 12-13mph and above, the speed is too great for the little blighters to cause too much trouble other than as the odd protein supplement when one is involuntarily ingested.  Below 12mph, down to 8mph, they happily buzz around one’s head and body, akin to the appearance of Peanut’s Pig Pen, a swirling cloud of nuisance.  Slower still, a feat I was now achieving, they alight on helmet, hands and bike, an experience with which I was becoming increasingly familiar.

I wasn’t alone in this experience, but I did seem to generate more than my fair share of the noisome beasts and because of my slower speeds, I wasn’t able to execute the strategy that Max did to be rid of them.  When passing another cyclist, a wave of the arm and a shake of the head could displace one’s supply of flies onto the unsuspecting pedaller about to be overtaken.  A number of poor victims suffered the experience when House sailed by and given the abundance of flies surrounding me, I may well have been one of his targets.

Having dispensed with the flies, we had lunch not far from the summit and could spy through the trees the glistening hints of a lake that promised yet more spectacular views and photo opportunities. Murmurings amongst the group broadly tilted at agreement and we paused at the base of the descent at an imposing dam that served to create the impressive lake. We stopped on the bridge above the dam briefly, mainly to recognise the traffic lights that governed some nearby road works, and retrieved iPhones and Galaxies to take a couple of pics, but they weren’t particularly representative of the scenery, showing but a fraction of the lake. We felt we would be better served a little further along the lakeside so we continued to cycle.

Diesel led off, taking us along the road that lined the lake past several promising vantage points, ever higher and to my growing consternation, further from the lake. Given that I ordinarily lose time on the group, to spend a moment on the roadside alone taking a photo would mean losing contact very early, never being able to recover it, so I chose to ride on. Diesel, it would seem, had had enough of the faffage and didn’t hold to the sentimentality of a pause to take a picture of the glorious Lac du Sautet. It must therefore remain but a memory. Climbing the Col d’Ornon, six riders managed to stay together, enjoying each other’s company. Leading from the back, Richard Day and I managed a degree of separation that would never quite lend to convivial conversation. In the evening we were quizzed to establish if there was an antipathy between us. The reality was far more simplistic; we could never manage to ride at a mutual pace, each of us having to find an independent rhythm.

The d’Ornon descent proved to be a healthily technical pursuit, with Stuart once again demonstrating a nerveless and faultless technique, guided by the occasional flamboyant gyrations from Phil giving direction. What remained then was a short flat stretch to our hotel at Bourg-d’Oisans and Keelan chose to race with Caroline in the van. It was a mightily impressive turn of speed he displayed, made all the more staggering in its athleticism by coming at the end of the day.

Our accommodation that evening was at the Hotel La Cascade at the very foot of Alpe d‘Huez, run by a Dutch couple who, when not providing room and lodgings, must have spent all their time cycling the mountainous region around them. There appeared not to be a kilometre of road our host had not travelled, and his knowledge of the routes and options we could take was encyclopaedic. His advice on what lay ahead and how we could adopt alternatives to the tortuous route we had planned was, on my part, greatly received.

More points scoring occurred in the evening. Rob, who once more had led the field to the top of each col had the dubious position at the top of the leader board for some spurious indiscretions that Caroline and Sarah conjured up over the course of the day. Many copybooks, including mine, were blotted due to carb-influenced flatulence. Remarkably, Turton managed to keep his record largely clean, which is all the more extraordinary when one considers that throughout the course of the evening he managed to insult the majority of the EU membership through some imaginary slur or another.  His non-PC statements addressed the Frogs, the Bosch, the Wops, the Dagos and a great deal more beside, most of which were within earshot. As a member of one of the convict classes, I too took a good-natured hammering. It is wonderful to know that the British Empire is alive and well in at least one far-flung corner of Teddington.