Col Bagging 2015 - part five

Day Five:  1^st July 2015

Crest-Voland to Talloires

The final day of our tour saw us observing another of our customs - the donning of the tour shirt by all; we emerged from our rooms resplendent in our black Col Baggers attire, ready to tackle the final day.

The breakfast at Le Caprice des Neiges featured the standard French faire with the additional option of boiled eggs. The recommended six minutes in the boiling basket resulted in an egg that was best eaten with a soup spoon and which rendered the toast on which it sat somewhat soggy. Having been last at virtually every undertaking during the week, this was not the one in which to be first. Subsequent eggs spent a little more time in the water bath and those of my fellow riders who exercised a little more patience than I got to enjoy an altogether more solid experience.

One of the benefits of not having to ride to a timetable or a route that is governed by carnet stamping requirements, is that changes can be made to reflect the general mood and condition of the group. Whilst we were all still capable of riding the full route planned for the final day, we decided to alter the planned course; instead of riding the Col de la Colombière, we opted instead for the more nostalgically-named Col de la Croix Fry, in honour of 2012’s errant Andorran explorer.

Before re-routing took place, we still had the Col des Aravis to despatch, which was a 587m climb over 11 km from the town of Flumet. Although not many of our party knew it at the time, the Aravis was one of the first cols that Lord T scaled on the back of a bike and was therefore a landmark; it could be rightly considered the col that led to the germination of an idea that a tour of mountainous regions by a Lycra-clad party of middle-aged men was a wise and sensible thing to do. At the top Paul explained how difficult that first climb had been, how it had rendered him nauseous to the point of vomiting. Once again I had pause to reflect on why, after such an experience, he would want to tackle more of the same.

So thinking, I embarked on the second last descent of the day to I know not where, as we had by now departed from the planned route on our day cards. At the base of our final climb, rather than risk delaying the boys too greatly at the top, I set off a bit earlier than the others. Caroline and Sarah advised that the alternative route we were taking was a few short kilometres up a gentle four or five degree incline. They lied.

The road began to rise steadily; 8, 9 and 10% gradients becoming the norm. The sweat began to flow but the distance between me and the next rider began to lengthen. After five days on the road I was feeling strong and the rest of the group were struggling to maintain my pace. I looked over my shoulder and saw the desperation in first Paul’s, then Max’s, Rob’s, Stuart’s, Keelan’s, Diesel’s and Richard’s eyes as they realised that this final col was mine. Even Phil looked pained at the pace I was keeping, and he was in the van. I eased back to give them all half a chance, allowing them to recover their breathing, knowing that I was able to boss the mountain.

As the summit came into view, I could feel them jostling for position, all wanting to be the first man up the last col. First Max, then Keelan, followed closely by Paul and Rob went past me, setting off to claim victory with a final sprint.

It was a brave but pitiful effort – I eased past them all, reeling them in one by one with a demonstration of athletic prowess that left them stunned. It was exhibition cycling at its best; a display of power and poise at which they could only marvel. At least that’s how I remember it, some of the others might recount a slightly different version of events but one thing is for certain, the Col de la Croix Fry was mine!

For the remainder of the day we rode together, yet more generosity from my fellow riders making concessions to my more usual sluggish pace even though much of the final distance was downhill, save for a cheeky wee flat as we neared Talloires, our final destination. We arrived largely on schedule and completed the final acts of the tour before disrobing and donning our togs for a swim in Lac d’Annecy.

We entered the beautifully manicured Plage de Talloires where holidaying families were enjoying the sun and the cool mountain waters from the surrounding alps, their peaceful afternoon just moments away from destruction as I demonstrated the ‘Deffy’ to all who cared to witness. The Deffy is the antithesis of an elegant dive into the water; it is designed to deliver maximum displacement, and with my ample frame I duly achieved my goal, much to the fascination of some of the younger lads who attempted to emulate the splash but, lacking the requisite bulk, their efforts were somewhat lame.

We all paddled for a time, enjoying the cool of the water after suffering in the sun for the previous five days; it was a welcome alternative.

Swim complete, we decamped to a restaurant for lunch. There were nine varieties of pizza on the menu and we decided to have them all, and more than one of some options, sharing them by taking a piece and passing the plate on. The manoeuvre was vastly more successful than our rider circulation in the peloton, and accomplished with aplomb, without a morsel left at the end of the session.

It was washed down with beer, presentations and anecdotes, a disconcerting number of which involved Stuart’s man-parts and Keelan ‘exploding like a puffer fish’ in what I hope referred to the pizza rather than a reference to Stuart’s anatomy.

Sarah and Caroline provided their summary of the trip and broadly speaking we were generally well behaved, with the best behaved being yours truly, earning a particularly fine bottle of fizz for my saintly endeavours.

With the exception of our marvellous support crew, who would continue toiling on the French roads for a further day and a half, we were all returning to the UK on an evening flight from Geneva. The chattering in the van that had been the hallmark of previous journeys yielded to the snuffles of weary men taking the opportunity for 40 winks, as the equally weary support team once more ferried us along French and Swiss roads. Happily the border guards didn’t challenge us for passports as we entered the neutral territory of the Swiss; there may have ensued a degree of unpacking that would have delayed many a car behind us had that eventuality unfolded.

At the airport we said our farewells to Caroline, Sarah and Phil and entered the terminal to discover, in what is becoming a recurring theme bordering on conspiracy, that ours was the only flight experiencing a delay. It afforded us a little more time for duty free shopping and the ubiquitous Toblerone and gin found their way into my hand luggage.

When we eventually took off for home, we encountered an uneventful flight and set down at LHR for the last rights. Evidently no emotional farewells were required; Lord T and Rob had cleared customs and security, and were probably tucking into the butler’s cucumber sandwiches before Stu, Keelan, Richard, Max and I had returned to the Office Depot carpark to retrieve our cars for the drive home. Diesel at least managed a cheery wave.

On the drive home I had time to reflect upon this year’s ride. At many times throughout the build-up I bemoaned my increasing age and waistline, arguing with myself that this would be the last grand tour I’d do, my commitment to training waning as other priorities emerged. Much of the training I put in was of a solitary nature too, and my propensity to cycle in the garage rather than on the road if the elements were not entirely favourable (as they weren’t for much of the year) removed much of the enjoyment from the sport for me. As I pulled into the driveway though and saw the sign flying from the eaves that Alex and the children had once more made for me to reflect this year’s achievements, I idly considered that there may yet be a little more pedalling remaining in my legs, and a shade more weight that I can reduce.

Perhaps next year will be the last…

Craig’s trip statistics

Day 1          27/06/2015          6hrs, 25mins, 39secs        73.09 miles         9,542 feet

Day 2          28/06/2015          6hrs, 31mins, 25secs        83.12 miles         7,448 feet

Day 3[1]      29/06/2015          2hrs, 57mins, 17secs        24.02 miles         4,298 feet

Day 4          30/06/2015          6hrs, 50mins, 47secs        62.90 miles         9,951 feet

Day 5          01/07/2015          3hrs, 01mins, 44secs        36.07 miles         3,504 feet

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[1] Abridged day

Col Bagging 2015 - part four

Day Four:  30^th June 2015

Montaimont to Crest-Voland

With a fond farewell from the lovely Isabelle, we departed the Hôtel Le Beauséjour by van to the town of La Chambre, 600 metres below us. Max must have been sartorially subdued, for my notes do not record his attire for the day’s ride. We assembled in the car park at the corner of Grande Rue and Route de Saint-Martin, the road that would lead us up to the Col de la Madeleine.

The drop to the foot of the mountain would mean that a climb of nearly 1,500 metres over 20km would be ahead of us and the heat of the day, already rising steadily, implied a challenging morning.

Mercifully, however, our ascent lay up the north-west (ish) face of the mountain and we climbed largely in the morning shade. The Madeleine, an Haut Category climb, has an average gradient of 9% and was a suitably challenging start to the day. Rob and Paul once more led the field, with Max, Keelan and Stuart close behind.  Diesel, Richard and I completing the touring party.

The ride was largely unremarkable; sheep grazed the hillside, the occasional clang of a cowbell and a relentless climb are all that I recall. Notably my notes for the ascent are sparse, save for the view from the top, where in the distance we could see Mont Blanc, the peak sparkling white with the thick coat of snow that clung to its face vindicating its name. We paused to refuel, savouring not only the culinary delights that Sarah and Caroline laid before us, but also the view.

Nearly 20km of descent led to a further 23km of gentle flats where we demonstrated further faltering form as a peloton, our dance on the pétanque terrain of Day 1 evidently not manifesting in discernible competence riding as a group. The heat had continued to increase throughout the day and we lunched on a riverbank in the shade of trees on the outskirts of Albertville, lying back on blankets that the girls had laid out for us. In such temperatures it was difficult to imagine that the town had once hosted the 1992 Winter Olympics, in which, it should be added, Annelise Coberger won a silver medal in the slalom, becoming the first athlete from the southern hemisphere to win a medal at the Winter Olympics. Naturally enough she was from New Zealand. Sadly, it did not see the return of the perennial trier, Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards, who had trailed the field at the 1988 Calgary Olympics for Britain in the ski jump. Following his epic failure in those games, where he finished dead last with 57.5 points from a 55m jump (compared with the Finnish winner, Matti Nykänen, who recorded 224 points from a jump of 120m), the miserable bastards at the IOC introduced a rule that meant one could only compete at an Olympics if one featured in the top 30% of athletes, or the top 50, whichever was a fewer. The rule, unsurprisingly, is known as the Eddie the Eagle rule. One other interesting fact is that Todd Gilman of Canada, who finished second to last with 110.8 points, actually fell on his second jump which provides further evidence of the spectacular mediocrity of Eddie Edwards’ performance.

As I retrieved my bike from the side of the van where is had been resting in the afternoon sun, I spotted that the Garmin was recoding a temperature of 46.5°C. The heightened reading was clearly a combination of the black frame of the bike and sun reflecting off the white side of the vehicle and not, thankfully, the actual temperature. It was, nevertheless, going to be a very warm afternoon as we set off in peloton once more for the foot of the Col des Saisies.

I nestled near the front of the group, regularly calling out to whoever was leading to ease up on the gas. Despite my urging, I thought we were progressing at a reasonable pace, whereupon a mountain biker blitzed past us and suggested that the speed I was requesting was a lot closer to Eddie the Eagle’s standards than Nykänen’s. Philip, who had opted for support crew duties for the day, mocked us mercilessly that evening and would have none of my assertion that although bested by a rock-hopper, the thick-wheeled one did have, nestling beneath his frame, a battery pack similar to Sister Maria’s from Mont Ventoux, which must have substantially contributed to the 25mph he exhibited as he flew past.

Shortly after this embarrassing episode the road began to rise again, gently at first, and I tried to cling to the front of the group. At some point, two or three of our group had paused for a mechanical adjustment which meant that Richard and I rode with Rob, James and Stuart for a time. As the surface inclined, the distances between us lengthened as I fell back.

Ordinarily in France, the density of traffic is worst at the end of July and beginning of August on any given Saturday, as the masses depart for their annual holidays to all corners of the country. On this Tuesday, on the final day of June 2015, an altogether different form of traffic jam was occurring. Caused, it would transpire, by Richard and me sluggishly making our way up the Col des Saisies, creating a 15 vehicle tailback that was so slow that Paul, Keelan and Max managed to pass some of those vehicles as they went uphill. It was a warm old ride, and although the snowy peaks of Mont Blanc kept us company throughout, the chill of those lofty heights were far from us. At the summit of the col, another ski resort nestled and when I eventually joined the group, it was to a party of men sitting outside a café enjoying ice-cold cokes and strong coffees.

After our pause, we mounted bikes for the final descent of the day; 9 fairly bumpy kilometres along some of the worst paved roads we’ve experienced in France to Hôtel Le Caprice des Neiges in Crest Voland, a reassuringly Swiss-looking hotel that was well appointed and welcoming. As is customary on our final night, we indulged in a few more beers and wines than was typical on earlier nights and did our level best to exceed tour budget for food and drinks by downing an elegant sufficiency of the splendid local wine, the name of which I have sadly lost.

Col Bagging 2015 - part three

Day Three:  29^th June 2015

Le Bourg-d’Oisans to Montaimont

We had a very bright start to Day 3 which refers not to the weather, but to the latest sartorial offering from Maxwell House. Ahead of us that day was Alpe d’Huez, legendary in the Tour de France for its swarming orange clad supporters at ‘Dutch Corner’. In homage to the Nederlanders, Max was adorned in his Boldmere Bullets shirt and matching orange trimmed shorts. Maintaining the theme of not quite matching ensembles from the previous day, he wore some socks that we suspect he’d borrowed from his grandfather. The designer in Keelan was most perturbed by the clashing Pantone colours and dug in his day bag for a colour wheel to provide some elementary instruction to Max in how best to avoid catastrophic couture faux pas.
 

It was notable too that, despite offending the entire United Nations the evening before, Lord T had succeeded in delivering an elementary lesson in the mechanics of thermos dynamics; his warm milk was dutifully presented to him by the charming Irish waitress who so patiently looked after our breakfast needs.

A quick glance at our day cards for Day 3 reveals a rather vertiginous start to the day. Just 500 metres from the door of the hotel was the base of Alpe d’Huez, a climb I believe we were all looking forward to tackling. The Alpe has 21 hairpin bends, numbered in descending numerical order from the bottom and each of them carries the name of a former conqueror of the mountain from Tour de France history.

Unlike most other roads up which we traverse, the Alpe is not a col; it leads instead to an alpine village which plays host to some of Europe’s finest ski fields. In the winter, those that reach its lofty heights do so in a coach, the engine whining as it crawls its way up the steep gradient, often for prolonged stretches of 10% to 12%, particularly near the bottom. It is little wonder when one considers the terrain that it is a mountain up which the Tour de France has often been won and lost.

The 15km from the base at 715m to its final elevation of 1,815m leads to an average climb of 7.3%. Blessedly, we began early in the day, before the blistering heat of the afternoon would have an opportunity to affect our ride, but the climb was no less challenging for the cooler temperature.

I settled in to my customary spot at the back of the pack and allowed my breakfast of eggs, croissant, baguette, ham and cheese, with an added bowl of muesli and yoghurt to remind me that I am an idiot, and lumbered up the hill.

The countdown of the corners was a tortuous affair, 21 slowly eked into 20, 20 to 19. At each corner my speed, or lack thereof, was sufficiently sluggish to grant me enough time to read each sign, noting that in some instances, more than one rider’s name appeared; mine is never likely to join theirs, unless perchance a namesake should astound the Tour with his exploits in the future.

As the corner numbers whittled down, I whittled up, ever conscious of the fatigue I was feeling. My preparations for this year’s trip left a little to be desired and it was beginning to tell on me in the early part of Day 3.

Passing through the sprawling lower reaches of the ski resort, I spotted the rest of our party already tucking into coffee and cake, their morning’s effort complete. Gentle encouragement from the touring party was offered, I satisfied myself that I was near the last of the hairpins, although to my annoyance I discovered that the numbering began at 0 rather than 1; I momentarily joined Turton in a spot of French bashing.

Caroline very kindly escorted me to the ‘summit’ of Alpe d’Huez, a somewhat innocuous

sign proclaiming ‘Arrivée’. Notably, the road continues up for another few hundred metres to a higher plane but not the finish point for this ride, a fact that was lost on Max and Keelan who, in taking a slightly different route through the town, managed to scale to a loftier height but, alas, did not reach the ‘Summit’. It is a sad fact which must be recorded, that despite cycling 90 minutes up an iconic mountain, that they failed to complete the ride, a circumstance that they will vigorously deny, but which equally, Lord Turton of Teddington, will remind them of for the rest of the trip, and I am quite certain, in future years. I too shall remind them that, although it took me 2 hours, I did finish the route, which is rather more than can be said for the rest of the day.

From Alpe d’Huez we descended towards Allemond and a lunch stop. Our route saw us clinging to the mountainside as we meandered gently down the valley through yet more inspiring topography. Man’s contribution to nature was again on display with yet another lake formed from damming of the river by EDF. We paused beneath the road bridge that ran on one side of the dam for lunch in one of the few places offering respite from the sun.
 

Many people argue that cycling is as much a state of mind as it is of physical fitness. I’m inclined to agree, because what lay before us was a 27km ascent of the Col de la Croix de Fer and, at 2,067m, the highest point we would reach this year. For much of lunch I was telling myself that I probably wouldn’t be able to make it. The heat of the day, the weariness from the preceding two and a half days’ riding and a stomach that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to contain its lunch, were all weighing heavily on my thoughts.

As lunch concluded I decided that I would keep going for as long as I could, doing my level best to reach the summit, but knowing in my heart that I wouldn’t make it. Wearily I set off, the first three kilometres from our lunch break providing a steady, yet gentle climb. We passed the power generation plant at the end of the lake and as the road curled around it, the steady incline dramatically pitched, to an extent that my Garmin responded with an ‘autopause’ moment - seemingly it believed I had stopped. Normally at this juncture, for it has occurred on more than one occasion, I utter a string of profanity aimed at the inanimate object on my handle bars, imploring it to recognise that, whilst I might be proceeding at an unutterably slow pace, I am still nevertheless moving; there is momentum, it is forward and not, as Garmin would lead me to believe, sideways, falling into the road.

In this instance, however, no such outburst occurred, instead I thought to myself, “You know what Garmin, you have a point.” I decided then, just one ninth into the afternoon’s journey, that I need not do any more. I quickly reasoned that it was unlikely I would finish and that I would therefore not have a Croix de la Fer shaped notch in the bedpost. If I wasn’t going to be able to bag the mountain, what was the need to prolong the agony? In the time I had to think this through, I drew nearer to the van and the waiting Caroline. I drew a hand across my neck. “I’m done”, I said, and with that my day got infinitely better.

Further proving my point that a lot of cycling is in the mind, my fatigue lifted, my stomach ailment vanished and my spirits soared – not so much that I contemplated, even for a moment, getting back on the bike, but I was a considerably happier chap. Departing from the ranks of a cyclist, I joined those of the support crew and took to my duties with aplomb.

Although I’ve been in the van before, this was the first occasion on which I had done so on a calculated, voluntary basis. Last year the cold on the Iseran and the lateness of the hour on Izoard conspired against me, and my misery that first time left me incapable of feeling supportive to my fellow riders. This time was altogether different and I bounded about the van filling water buckets, dousing riders, providing sustenance and enthusiastic encouragement. My joy may have given Richard pause to think a day spent in the comfort of the van, rather than on the saddle of a bike, was an alternative worth considering. To his great credit, his resolve and stoicism shone through and he ploughed on up the mountain.
 

The view from the van provided me with a curious insight into this sport of ours. Universally, the party looked weary, all seemingly tired, pained and suffering. Yet still they powered on, grinding up mountains, fiercely determined to complete the day’s challenge. People have often asked me why I do it; I’ve often enough asked myself the same question, and never been able to satisfactorily answer it, but as I witnessed one rider after another inching ever higher up the mountain, I realised why I do it. Standing at the top of each col, having photos taken beneath summit markers, looking back down the mountain at the wending road up which one has just ridden; powered only by the legs, the lungs and the mind. I recognise that for me at least, it’s the sense of achievement.  What we do is hard, we may all go at different paces, but as Greg Lemond said, “It never gets easier, you just go faster.” For each of us it’s painful, but at the end of the day, when one looks back at what has been accomplished, it is deeply satisfying – or it would have been if I wasn’t sponging down seven blokes from the back of the van.

Prior to our trip, Max had circulated a YouTube clip of a wiry young cyclist making an ascent up the Col de la Croix de Fer with barely a pause to draw breath. He narrated the climb as though sitting in an armchair rather than on the back of a bike up a brutal 27km long incline. He made it look ridiculously easy, a lesson in cycling that I could only marvel at. He was as fresh at the top as he’d been at the bottom, showing no notable fatigue at what he’d just done. By contrast, our party looked a little jaded and indeed, possibly addled; no one more so than Stuart who, ever keen to evidence his prowess in descending, set off to enjoy the spoils of his labour. Happily for Stuart, due to my somewhat more relaxed afternoon, I was a little sharper than I might otherwise have been as I noticed him head off in the wrong direction.

I spent considerable time as an errant youth mastering the art of whistling and as I watched him disappear, I put my fingers to my mouth and blew. The ear piercing screech that followed registered with Stuart and he turned back to see me waving violently in his direction. Cue taken, he returned to us, to his undeniable shame. Stuart is a master when heading downhill and had he gone, even though we’d spied him, there would have been no way of catching him until the bottom of the mountain. Suffice to say, Stuart topped the points table that evening for his near miss and tales of an unscheduled visit to Andorra once more prevailed.

It had been a tough day and having ridden two massive mountains, it was determined that the day, if not the overall journey, be foreshortened.  Our hotel, the fabulously sited Hôtel Le Beauséjour, was a further 600 metres up the Col de la Madeleine, the first of tomorrow’s climbs.  Had the group climbed that 600 metres, the following day’s ride would have begun halfway up the col.  It was agreed that by beginning at elevation, the climb would not be completed in a single attempt and we would therefore be ‘cheating’.  Instead of making the final climb of the day as planned, the group dismounted and bikes were put into the van for a drive to the hotel, a prudent enough decision, but one that  Max and Keelan thought was a bit soft. After all, they were still fresh from not having completed Alpe d’Huez.

Cycling aside, the day was made by the team at the hotel. The welcome from Isabelle, our maître d’, was generous and the service superb, all delivered with a healthy bon viveur, flowing beer and delicious food. The dog on reception, as Lord T declared in what we thought was yet another of his slurs, proved to be just that; a terrier whose preferred resting spot was on the top of the reception desk, adding to a very quirky air, and the setting, on the side of a mountain with majestic views, was unparalleled and for once I wasn’t too knackered to enjoy it.