Day 1: Newbury to Andermatt: Oberalppass
I’ve come out of retirement. It was a limited lay off. Following our 2017 cycling tour in the French
Alps, I vowed never to cycle another mountain.
The physicality of the activity overwhelmed me and what should have been
a fun and pleasurable venture was, company aside, a thoroughly miserable experience.
On my final ride of that tour, up the 29.6 kilometres of the
Col du Petit Saint-Bernard, the continuous ascent over 1,220 metres caused me
to lose my breakfast at the top. I
reflected that I had paid to be there and, at the time, that seemed to be a remarkably
stupid thing to do.
I was categoric in my declaration, making it absolutely clear
that I would never subject myself to the ignominy of vomiting at the end of a
cycle ride again. There was no doubting
that this was the end of my alpine cycling career. It therefore came as a surprise, not least of
all to me, that I found myself boarding British Airways flight 710 to Zürich on
19 June 2019, with the intention of cycling in the Swiss Alps.
The flight from Heathrow was uneventful, although having
left it late to check-in, I ended up with seat 28F. There is nowhere further back, unless you’re
in need of the loo. This conjured
thoughts of delay and images of Paul Turton (aka Lord T), one of my cycling
companions, repeatedly asking ‘Where the f*^k is Brown?’ Happily, the airport authorities in Zürich
were considerably more competent than their counterparts in Geneva, from when
we last had the opportunity to travel together, and I was spared the accusatory
lances that followed on that occasion.
With customary efficiency, Sarah Roché was at the airport
waiting for us with a splendid Mercedes minivan that would provide transportation
to the resort town of Andermatt in the Swiss Alps. The journey there took us along the shores of
the mighty Lake Lucerne, its cobalt blue waters nestling at the feet of craggy
mountains that gave a hint of what was to come as we headed further south.
Andermatt appears to be a little slow in appreciating its
abundance of natural gifts. The old
juxtaposes the new, with the centre of town housing older Swiss-style resort
buildings, shops and restaurants. To its
northern edge is a flurry of development activity that reflects the awakening
to its potential and it was at the recently developed Andermatt Reuss apartment
and hotel complex that we landed, ready for our first taste of Swiss cuisine. Our assumption of universal Swiss efficiency
was misplaced. As the only guests, we
had an inordinate wait for ham and cheese paninis, although they exceeded our expectations;
the lettuce was exceptionally fresh – presumably growing the leaves accounted
for the delay.
After lunch we met with the astonishingly helpful Oliver,
the man from whom we would hire our bikes for the week, and who restored our
faith in Swiss competence. He was
waiting outside the Mammut Store with four Scott Addict SE Disc bikes in sizes
to suit and he scooted about adjusting saddles, attaching pedals and trying not
to look too alarmed at some of our more moronic questions. The bikes were brand spanking new, never
before used and, therefore, nerve wracking to climb aboard, knowing that if
there was any damage, it would be attributable to us.
It's amazing what sitting on a new bike can do to you. I felt like a six-year-old again, taking my
first tentative pedal strokes on a Raleigh Rodeo, wobbling around the cobbles
of the courtyard of the hotel complex, conscious of Oliver casting his eye over
me like a nervous father, although on this occasion his concern was more for
the bike than the rider. As well as a
new bike, I also had to adapt to the gears.
These were Shimano Ultegra Di2s, an electronic system that responds to
the faintest touch of the shifters and confirms each gear change with a
satisfying mechanical whirr and an effortless movement. Unless, as we were to discover, you’re Lord
T.
Mine functioned fully and, after a short pause to don our
cycling gear, we were off on our first ride of the trip, or in Philip Wright’s
case, his first ride of the year. It’s extraordinary
that he was on a bike at all, his training for the event was almost exclusively
on the Ouse and Cam, rivers in Cambridgeshire, on which he’s spent a lot of
time in a hollowed-out stick. As far as
I could tell, the only resemblance rowing has to cycling is that both sports involve
a fair degree of sitting. It should be added
that rivers are not particularly mountainous and that the closest Philip got to
training for a bike ride was to wear a pair of cycling shorts in the boat.
Despite his lack of preparation, he
performed admirably on our first climb from the apartment to Oberalppass, a
short ride of 11 kilometres, climbing 617 metres. At the top we paused for coffee, with Philip
choosing to remain at the café for a bit of beard grooming as Rob Bradburn,
Lord T and I chose to nip down the other side for a mile to give our climbing
legs a little more work to do on the way back.
In short order we returned to the café to re-join the hipster, or in his
case, the Pipster, whereupon we all descended to the Restaurant Monopol where
we concluded our ride with a few beers.
It was here that we learnt that Rob dislikes Weiss Bier; a primary
constituent of which, he explained, plays havoc with his guts.
Regrettably, our talent for German was mirrored by our
waiter’s talent for English and on the third time of ordering, the resultant
beers didn’t entirely reflect our preferred choices and as the cloudiness of
the proffered beer revealed, it had been brewed using a healthy dollop of
wheat. For three of us, this was not a
problem, content as we were to have a drink that had the word ‘Bier’ in its title. Rob, by contrast, was having no truck with
the offending beverage and sought our waiter to express his displeasure and
obtain a suitable alternative. When the
replacement arrived, it was evident that the waiter had fully understood Rob’s
request for a different drink and provided him with an equally cloudy, but much
darker, Weiss Bier. Early predictions were
suggesting that it might be a long week for Bradders and, as his roommate, an
even longer week for me.
With the early evening beckoning and the need to re-fuel
becoming increasingly important, we headed to our apartment to shower and
change. We also took stock of our new
bikes, with Lord T and I deciding that we would be better served by replacing
the bikes’ standard saddles with the ones that we had brought. It was at this moment that we learnt that
Lord T is not a man to which mechanical proficiency comes intuitively. He is a man who would change a light bulb by
grasping it and allowing the world to turn. His attempts to first remove, and then replace
his bike seat was an exercise in awkwardness that he attributed to the equipment
at his disposal. We did not demur, preferring
instead to enjoy the spectacle of him flipping the bike upside down and flail
about with his inadequate tool.
Our meal, at the Gasthaus zum Sternen, was a straightforward
affair with good food, a lovely Swiss red wine and, to Rob’s satisfaction, a
wheat free, if somewhat bland, lager. We
plodded wearily back to our accommodation where we retired for the
evening. In preparing for bed, Rob
forewarned me that he was a chronic snorer.
Rob added, providing evidence by way of an impromptu demonstration, that
he was also likely to be affected by the earlier consumption of the wheat beer. Having shared the indulgence, I was not
entirely convinced that he would be alone and I was proven correct. What I also ascertained, in the wee small
hours, was the corollary effect on Rob’s snoring of my noxious expulsions. I established, quite conveniently, that every
time he started snoring, I could deliver a timely fart that was the gaseous
equivalent of Mrs Bradburn’s elbow in his back, which promptly shut him
up. All in all, it made for a restful
night.
Day 2: Andermatt – Gotthard Pass – Nufenen Pass – Furka Pass - Andermatt
One of the nuances of cycling is that it
is a largely circular activity.
Sometimes the ‘circle’ comprises a line out and back, as demonstrated by
yesterday’s ride to the Oberalppass, but more often, the loop consists of a
common start and finish point with GPS tracking tools illustrating that you’ve had
a bit of an explore.
When undertaking this activity, one of the primary
considerations for any rider should be whether one can make it back. When cycling in and around West Berkshire,
this proves not to be too much of a challenge.
It’s mostly flat, the geography is well known to me and I’m usually
riding to a plan that, short of more punctures than spare inner tubes or other
mechanical failure, will allow me to get back to where I started. Day 2’s ride in the Alps was very much a
circular route with the plan consisting of a ride from our apartment in
Andermatt to the Gottard Pass, a continued schlep to the Nufenen Pass, before
tackling the Furka Pass on our way home.
The problem with passes is that they tend to be at altitude,
always nearer the top of the mountain than the bottom. Were the converse the case, cycling in the
Alps would be a considerably easier affair, but they are not, and the Gottard
Pass was a climb of some 680 metres over 11.7 kilometres. 2.5 kilometres from the summit, the road
splits giving options for the traveller up the new, paved route; which is
busier and favoured by motorists, or the older cobbled stretch that is a little
more meandering and much less busy. It
is a beautifully laid stretch of road, each hand-cut cobble has been
intricately placed to form an exquisite mosaic that must have taken the road
crew years to lay. They are
comparatively even, more so than the cobbles that feature on the pavé of
the iconic Paris to Roubaix road race, but nevertheless, they’re
unforgiving. The rattle of the bike and
the jarring of the suspension-free frame shake the arms and legs and is a
painful reminder that the bicycle saddle of a road bike has not been designed
with comfort in mind. The saving grace
of that ride is that the incline is mild, and the distance is covered quickly.
The alternative of the paved versus the cobbled is also an
option for the descent. On the route to
Airolo at the base of the hill, the cobbles exist for 6 kms and the speed one
generates in a descent is considerably greater than the pace of the climb. Consequently, the arse of your average garden-variety
cyclist, such as your correspondent, is considerably more ragged at the end of
the road than it was at the beginning.
For the poor old Pipster, whose lack of training meant his backside
wasn’t entirely ‘seasoned’, it was an exceptionally painful experience. I knew to keep my moans to myself.
We composed ourselves on the outskirts of Airolo at the base
of the mountain before heading south-west towards the Nufenen Pass and the
prospect of inclement weather. Almost
immediately it began to rain and although the temperature was 12˚C, it would
drop to 4˚ by the time we reached the summit.
That, however, was 23.6 kms and 1,327 metres of climbing away.
About a third of the way up we grabbed coffees at a roadside
café. The respite from the weather was
welcome, as too was the caffeine, and we harboured there for 20 minutes as we
warmed through, a pointless exercise as the next two hours would affirm. On leaving, the heavens opened, and the
incline increased. For the next 15-16
kms we fought a gradient that increased from the gentle range of 2 – 5% that we
faced from Airolo to the café, to a sustained 8 – 10%. When combined with the weather, it was brutal
and the respite at the top could not come soon enough. Soaked through, freezing cold and utterly
knackered, I collapsed in a small soggy heap and allowed myself to be served a
steaming plate of sausage, chips and gravy which rapidly disappeared.
From the tops of the mountains the clouds rolled in, bringing
with them a clinging moisture and a lowering temperature. Whilst we’d stopped for the best part of 40
minutes, I’d been unable to warm fully, and all my gear was wet. Ahead of us lay a further 55 kms and 1,085 metres
of climbing to complete our circuit.
I began the descent to Obergoms (there is also a place
called Goms I’m thrilled to say) but my return to the bike did not last
long. A look on Google Maps will reveal
a meandering road that is followed by a tight 180˚ corner which leads to
another long straight stretch of the descent.
By the time I had completed this second drag I was frozen through. I managed one more tight turn and another
straight, but on reaching the technical switchbacks, I could go no
further. I had broken the cardinal rule
of being able to complete a circuit and we were a long way, and a lot of
climbing, from home. Fortunately, we had
the wonderful and magnificent assistance of Sarah and Caroline McDowie by way
of support.
We had determined to do this ride ‘unsupported’. Sarah and Caroline had ‘planned’ to have a
relaxing week soaking up the alpine air and supping a few gin and tonics. Naturally, they knew us better than we did
and rightly covered every pedal stroke in the trusty Mercedes van, carrying our
spare gear and, as it transpired on this occasion, mine and the Pipster’s
bikes; Philip having decided he’d had enough ‘training’ earlier in the day.
Rob and Paul, being hardier souls, determined to ride
through the weather and brave the climb up the Furka Pass. It must be noted that Rob also felt a tad
chilled on the descent from Nufenen and took advantage of the paused van to don
every article of clothing he possessed.
In packing his day bag for the trip, he clearly hadn’t given thought to
stylistic considerations; once fully dressed he resembled a bin man off to the
gym in the jogging bottoms he uses for decorating. There would be no points for sartorial
elegance and a great reluctance to provide further support, as those of us in
the van sought to disassociate ourselves from him.
The route to the top of the pass started
along the valley floor with the road clinging to the side of the mountain for
several kilometres before it snaked its way to the summit. Once the weaving begins, there are few places
for a van to stop, so we had no option but to position ourselves about 4 kms
from the top.
According to Lord T, this was a great inconvenience, as we
had chosen to park on the steepest part of the climb. ‘A 15% slope is not a good place for you to
stop,’ shouted the ungrateful soul. He
is right of course, and in defence, we didn’t; the nastiest piece of that climb
only amounts to 9%, but in fairness to him, he had managed to bugger up the Di2
gearing, probably when he was changing his bike saddle, and had lost the lowest
gear available to him, so I suspect it felt a shade tougher. Manfully he and Rob struggled on, attaining the
2,436 metre summit with oxygen still in their lungs and completed the remaining
21.3 kms to the apartment without incident, or the arrest of Rob, who bore a passing
similarity to a bike-thieving itinerant.
Having now had two rides on the brand-new bikes and
experienced a teething problem with the Di2, we decided it might be prudent to
recharge the batteries on all four bikes.
Cycling forums suggest that battery life is good for between 500 – 2,000
kms. With 128 kms under our belts, we
weren’t taking any chances. In
Switzerland, they recognise Corpus Christi as a public holiday, but bless him,
the ever-helpful Oliver was only too willing to provide us with four sets of USB
chargers for the evening. They arrived
with adapter plugs and cables, but sadly, no instructions. We discovered that our new bikes incorporated
Shimano’s latest adaptation of the Di2 system.
In fact, the latest iteration is so new that there were no online
tutorials that we could find that revealed how to charge them. Three of us poured over the bikes seeking to
find the illusive socket that would accept the cable plug. In despair, we dropped poor Oliver another message,
further troubling his holiday and no doubt disturbing him with our inadequacy. As luck would have it, I located the port
before Oliver had replied and we were able to stand him down with our
masculinity restored. For those that
might be interested, you’ll find the devilishly small socket in the end of the handlebar
drops, tucked behind a tiny door with the printed words ‘I’m here dumbass’.
We chose to remain in our digs for supper that evening and
our (non-)support crew kindly disappeared into town to obtain a variety of pizzas
which we joyfully despatched along with a grotesque quantity of alcohol. Lord T had suggested that we bring a couple
of bottles of wine with us each so that we had something to relax over during
our evenings. I’m not sure any of us
anticipated that we’d get through most of it in one sitting, but the
entertainment provided by a game of Cards Against Humanity, where we learnt
that ‘Firing a rifle into the air while balls-deep in a squealing hog’ is
really quite a versatile answer, was enough to encourage our excess.
Day 3: Andermatt to avalanche
There are multiple reasons why elite
cyclists don’t drink alcohol the night before an event, primary among them must
be that riding with a hangover is mind-numbingly stupid. Luckily for us, we’re considerably removed
from being elite, but wholly qualified to be stupid.
Before leaving the UK, Lord T devised a route that should
have seen us leaving Andermatt taking the Susten Pass through to Guttannen
about 60 kms to the west. Our plan was
to decamp to Guttannen for the night before returning the following day via the
Grimsel, Nufenen and Gotthard passes.
The plan, however, didn’t factor the impact that the previous day’s rain
would have on the snow that clung, not so tenaciously, to the mountainside.
At 4.00am, giving succour to his insomnia, Lord T discovered
that the road to Susten was closed.
Detail relating to its closure was somewhat scarce (unless you had a
fluency in German that we did not possess), so we were unaware of the extent to
which it might be closed. Did ‘closed’
mean only to vehicles or did it extend to cyclists as well? We decided to find out.
The haze caused from the previous night’s indulgence hadn’t
entirely left as we set off that morning.
We were, it is safe to say, not entirely tuning in to the discussion
that Lord T, Sarah and Caroline were having regarding the route for the
day. This was evident when we arrived at
the roundabout that adjoined the hotel complex.
I had rolled to the front and drew to a halt at some railings where the
other three joined me. ‘Happy to lead
Brown?’ chirped Lord T.
‘Yep,’ I replied.
‘Know where you’re
going?’
‘First exit towards
Furka.’
‘No Brown,’ sighed
Lord T. ‘That’s tomorrow.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you want to lead
Rob?’ asked Lord T, clearly aware that simple task was beyond me.
‘Sure, into town?’
asked Rob, town being reached by the second exit.
‘No,’ came the
response from a frustrated Turton. ‘It’s
through the tunnel, down the hill,’ he explained, aware he was dealing with
idiots.
‘I think we should
wait for the girls,’ chimed the Pipster.
‘They’ve got the maps.’
‘And I showed them
the route we were taking,’ explained Lord T in a tone that was designed to
settle the matter.
‘I’m with the
Pipster,’ I added, piqued that Lord T clearly had no idea what he was talking
about.
‘Me too,’ said Rob,
who shared my sentiment.
The girls duly pulled up in the van. ‘I thought we were going to meet you at the
bottom,’ said Caroline.
That statement eliminated mine and Rob’s options, though in
my mind, I wasn’t convinced there was a descent after the tunnel, I was sure we
were at the bottom of the valley.
‘No one’s sure which
way to go,’ said the Pipster, ‘so we thought we’d wait for you.’
‘I’m f*^king sure,’
said Lord T.
We ignored him.
I was wrong too about being in the bottom of the
valley. Over the next 9 kms we would
drop about 600 metres to Wassen where we would begin the climb toward the
Susten Pass. The cooler air and the
speed garnered from the drop made for a bracing start to the day which soon
blew away the alcohol-induced cobwebs.
At Wassen we paused; the girls had drawn into a layby and we faffed accordingly. On stopping, I leaned over to rest a hand on
the van. In so doing, the handlebars of
my bike turned, but the wheel stayed straight – my bike’s headset was loose. I had a momentary flash of horror; a few
minutes before I had been cycling at 70 kms per hour on a busy main road. It didn’t bear thinking about the malfunction
occurring on one of the corners. I’d
been lucky.
There is little that is noteworthy about the road up to the
pass. It doesn’t weave or paint
gradations on the mountainside, it just unfolds, rolling on and on up the
valley. A significant proportion of the
road is visible and far off in the distance, is a towering height that is NOT
the end. The climb is a disheartening
sight, seemingly endless; my progress was glacially slow. The valley, which would have been formed by a
glacier, possibly moving a little quicker than me, is spectacular and the shear
magnificence of the scenery serves to improve the ride. The trick is to take in the view without
glancing at the road far ahead. From
where we were, it was impossible to discern why there was a road closure. We, along with the girls in the van, continued
our route.
After a couple of hours, we came to one of the few curves in
the road and encountered a barrier. The
van could go no further. Two road signs
were displayed, both red rimmed circles with white backgrounds. One of the backgrounds was clear with nothing
on it, the other had the image of a pedestrian.
In the absence of the image of a cyclist, we decided it was completely
reasonable to ignore the barrier. We
scootched past, despite the wiser counsel of the ladies, and carried on.
As we rode, the road became increasingly littered with
debris; snow and rockfall appearing in scattered patches as we climbed, but no
notable cause for a road closure that we could discern. After 20 minutes we rounded a bend to find a
utility van drawing towards us. As
leader on the road they stopped at Lord T and explained to him, in German, what
lay ahead. Rob joined him and exercising
his talent for delegation, Lord T told them, in English, to speak to Bradders –
which they did, at length, outlining the perils ahead. At least, we believe that’s what they were
saying. If they were serving a warning,
it went ignored – we ploughed on.
It didn’t take us much longer to fathom what they might have
been saying. About 500 metres further on
we came to a short tunnel, beyond which, the road was impassable. A mini avalanche had shifted a not
insignificant pile of snow onto the road leaving no route through. ‘Through’ however, did not prevent ‘over’. Rob hoisted his bike on his shoulder and
began to scale the fallen mound. Lord T
remonstrated with him, using adjectives beginning with ‘F’ and suggesting he
suffered a mental deficiency. Bradders
was determined, he kept climbing, we kept pleading, hoping that our views that
we had come far enough would prevail. I
for one had already had a surfeit of luck for the day, I wasn’t going to test
it further.
We prevailed and, avoiding the debris in the road, returned to
where the girls were parked and paused for lunch at a café conveniently located
at the same corner. The woman who ran
the café met us at the door, eyeing us warily.
In a manner that was suitably Swiss-German in its directness, she
outlined that we were cerebrally challenged.
She also informed us that the signs were there for a reason and that the
mountain was unstable and could have wiped us out at any moment. Dressing down complete, she determined that,
despite our obvious retardation, we could be trusted in her establishment and
would happily relieve us of some hard-earned Swiss Francs in exchange for egg
and bacon served on potato rosti. A mountain
of food was placed before us and the meal was divine. I don’t think any of us have appreciated a
better meal on a cycling stop, it was superb.
If my bike speed went anywhere close to the pace of consumption, I’d
have been up that hill in half the time.
I eyed the plates of Sarah and Caroline eagerly, hoping the huge
quantity of food would defeat them – I was disappointed, there were no scraps
to purloin.
Having been defeated by shifting snow, we decided to go back
to the hotel and have a day in front of the TV watching the Tour de Suisse
cycling up the Gottard Pass across the cobbles that we had covered the day
before. It was notable, more so for the
caution that we exercised and the exceptional athletes that the tour riders
are, that their time to climb the cobbles wasn’t too dissimilar to our time for
descending them. Back at the hotel
complex, the advance crews of the Tour had arrived. The Team Ineos (formerly Team Sky), Bora
Hansgrohe and FDJ coaches and crew boxes were all parked in the courtyard and
there was a flurry of activity as the teams prepared for the riders’ return.
We had a relaxed afternoon in the apartment variously napping
or wandering the town. I chose to
explore where the Tour de Suisse teams had set up camp on the off chance that I
might spot the riders as they left their team buses. I missed them but did get an opportunity to
witness the mechanics of Team Ineos set to work cleaning and maintaining the
astonishing number of bikes that are required to get a team of seven around the
course. I counted 15 in the courtyard,
and those were just the ones I could see.
The number also excluded the bikes belonging to Geraint Thomas, the team
leader who had crashed out earlier in the event.
At £5,000 for the frame and an estimated
£12,000 for a fully kitted bike, I contemplated that the value of the bikes was
nearly three times the asking price of the first flat I bought in London
(granted, that was in 1994, but still).
I also noted the absence of security and the lack of attention that was
being paid to me. Kenny Elissonde is the
littlest member of the Ineos team, if only one of his bikes was handily placed
…
That evening, without the addition of a Pinarello Dogma F12
to the apartment, we had an excellent Spaghetti Bolognaise with garlic bread
that Sarah, Caroline and Philip had prepared.
We also had a great deal less to drink with the meal and another game of
Cards Against Humanity where we learnt that the ‘Jimmy Saville’ card is not
only versatile, but impossible to play without being highly offensive.
The forecast for the following day did not look good. Sarah’s trusty radar app proved to be an
accurate indicator of what to expect and it transpired that we had a dry
opening between 10am and midday. As a
result, we determined we’d stay in bed a little longer and try to avoid the
rain.
Day 4: Andermatt to Furka Pass and back
Given
the previous day’s disruption in the form of a family friendly avalanche, and
with the impending hostile weather, we found ourselves with the luxury of
choice with respect to the route that we could cycle today. On the basis that the Pipster, Rob and I had
demonstrated an inability to navigate the nearest roundabout, our opinion on
route selection was not solicited and the decision-making fell to Lord T, in
consultation with Sarah and Caroline.
The weather radar was once more suggesting heavy showers
from midday, so a plan was devised that would see us heading up the Furka Pass
from the Andermatt side (or right at the roundabout as I’d suggested
yesterday). If actual weather conditions
were to prove contrary to the forecast, an extension to the day’s riding would
see us cycle up the Grimsel Pass from Gletsche, where the road laces up the side
of the mountain with long sweeping switchbacks, before retracing our
steps. The weather conspired against us;
it was a Furka of a day.
We set off in the ‘dry’ window. Our wet weather jackets went on early and
proved to be useful during the spots of rain we faced on the way up. At a roundabout, sign posted to Gottard Pass
in one direction and the Furka Pass in the other, a marshal, bright in
fluorescent yellow, stood at the base controlling the traffic. A line of cars formed before us that we slid
alongside to the front. As we
approached, it became clear what he was doing – allowing the occasional cyclist
descending from the Gottard Pass to have the right of way as they turned
towards Furka.
It transpired that we had stumbled upon the SWISSMAN (www.suixtri.com) point-to-point race, an
ultra-triathlon that begins with a 3.8 km swim in the Isle of Brissago at
Ascona. It’s an alpine lake, fed by
snowmelt, which suggests to me that it’d be a tad chilly. If I were fit enough to be competing, I
suspect that after 3.8 kms I’d be looking for a silver foil blanket, a cup of
cocoa and a blazing fire to curl in front of once I was done. The last thing I’d have contemplated after
such a feat would be a 180 km cycle ride through the Swiss Alps that included
3,399 metres of climbing as the event passes through the Gotthard, Furka and
Grimsell passes.
As we joined the Furkapassstrasse, the road that leads to
the top, we inadvertently joined the event.
The foothills are moderately flat, and we formed an echelon at a
reasonably brisk pace, though not quick enough, it would seem, for Kristián,
who breezed past us. Each rider in the
event wears an event number on their back which usefully included their
name. I was able to wish each competitor
well by name as they passed me in their pursuit of triathlon glory. Rob, however, was not so collegiate. Rather than wish Kristián well, he decided to
beat him to the top. It signalled the
end of our echelon at the start of the mountain proper – away he went.
My cheery ‘Keep going’s’ were delivered to Matthias, Martin,
Sergey, Tobias, Renato, Chantal, Christian and a host of others, all quicker
than me and all disappearing up the hill into the distance. At one point, Chantal passed me again. It provided me with a little fillip to think
that at some point she had stopped for a break on the mountain and I had passed
her, leading me to believe that I wasn’t being completely bested by everyone on
the ascent. It wasn’t until I reviewed
the results later that I discovered there were two Chantals competing, one that
finished 40 minutes in front of the other.
My perspective is restored.
After the monumental effort of the cycle, the SWISSMAN
competitors are then faced with a full marathon. Forty-two kilometres over flat terrain is
more than enough for most runners, but the mighty athletes in the Swiss Alps
that day had to complete their run over a course that included a rise of 1,594
metres to Kleine Scheidegg with a precipitous final 1,000 metres over eight
kilometres. In a quirk of the event,
their support person (each competitor must have one, and only one) must
accompany them on foot for this final section to cross the finish line
together. If you want to have a decent
time scuppered, I’m your man. I
calculated that if I was competing, I could complete the event in about 26
hours. The men’s event winner, Mathias
Nüesch, finished the event in 11 hours and 15 minutes, with Flora Colledge
clocking 12 hours and 34 minutes to take the women’s title. I later read that because of the poor weather
conditions on the day, they shortened the swimming leg from 3.8 kms to just 1
kilometre. On reflection, I might have
been a contender.
Idle speculation aside, when we reached the top of the pass
at 2,436 metres, the rain poured and we determined that would be the turning
point for our day. At some point in the
preceding three days I had managed to pick up a mild chest infection, so
allowing prudence to get the better of me, I climbed, along with the Pipster,
into the van. Lord T and Rob, being
hardier souls, descended in what had now become heavy rain and failed to
appreciate the sign on the Furka Pass that marked James Bond Strasse, the
segment of the road that the eponymous chap drove during the 1964 film,
Goldfinger, shredding the tyres of Tilly Masterson as he went. Happily, the boys’ tyres remained intact and
they returned safely to the hotel having negotiated a mountain pass that more
closely resembled Oxford Street during the week before Christmas. Shortly after getting back, the weather
cleared, though we were disinclined to resume our pedalling. The only thing I had in mind was a nap, which
I took as the others ventured out for an afternoon stroll to Hospental.
By the early evening, despite the foreshortened day, our
appetites were up, and we retired to the town where we settled on the Hotel
Restaurant 3 Könige & Post. When we arrived,
we decided it was just a little too cool for al fresco dining, so asked
for a table inside, whereupon Lord T immediately started complaining of the
heat. Windows were opened, which
necessitated the rearranging of the pot plants that adorned the sills. The gentle breeze of a slightly ajar window
was deemed insufficient to cool his furrowed brow, the Ground Force team
was called upon for a re-landscaping of the interior so the windows could be
flung wide. For the moment, Lord T was
happy.
We all chose the house speciality for
supper; lightly seared steaks served on stones that had been heated to 300˚. When the food arrived, prime beef cuts
sizzling away on the heated slabs, the temperature rose. It felt as though they used the stones to
heat the restaurant; Lord T began complaining of hot flushes once more.
The premise behind the stones is that one immediately
removes the steak to a side plate to carve slivers for cooking to preference on
the hotplate. Fortunately for Lord T,
his preference was for ‘rare’, as the heat from the slab before him was more
than he could bear, and he had it returned to Hades.
At the conclusion of the meal, Lord T decided to exercise
his linguistic abilities and call for the bill; the translation for which is ‘die
Rechnung’. The inadequacy of our German
was once more demonstrated as Lord T summoned our waitress, resplendent in her
Dirndl, and said ‘Darf ich haben die Rektum?’ whereupon the temperature in the
room cooled dramatically and the waitress blanched – there are some words in
both languages that share the same Latin root.
By reverting to universal sign language, Lord T was able to avoid a
diplomatic incident and we quickly evacuated the building before he could do
further damage. At our lodgings we had
more drinks and spent the rest of a very fine evening finding inappropriate phrases
to fire at Google Translate such as ‘Möchtest du meinen Hintern verprügeln?’
Day 5: Andermatt to Göscheneralp to Newbury
Our final day of the tour dawned
brightest and once more called for an improvised route plan. We settled on third exit off the roundabout,
which happily was negotiated with handlebars firmly in place.
At Göschenen we turned west and began ascending to Göscheneralp,
the top of which is marked by a reservoir that sits in a spectacular
landscape. On such a beautiful day, the
9.9 kms up 679 metres of climbing was a great finale to our week. The road was relatively free of traffic
(though nothing compares to the diminished traffic flows that an avalanche can
cause) and the steady pace that such a gentle gradient allows saw us arrive at
the reservoir comparatively fresh and able to soak in the scenery. Warmed by the sun, we paused to recover and
decided that ice cream and coffee would be required to fuel our descent.
The Berggasthaus Dammagletscher has an extensive balcony
that surrounds two sides of the building and, on a day such as today, provided
a picture-perfect setting in which to spend a relaxing half-hour. Our waitress’s mastery of English matched our
proven excellence in German, and we established that it is entirely possible to
place an order for food and drink with neither party fully understanding the
other. When it arrived, it was
self-evident that our respective language skills left a great deal to the
imagination. It transpired that our
delightful host had imagined we wanted something completely different to that
which we thought we’d ordered.
Whilst eating someone else’s ice cream and drinking another
person’s coffee we discussed plans for our return to the apartment. I confess to egregiously lying to Philip
about the ascent to the hotel to convince him it was an easy ride which he
should undertake. He’d planned on
luxuriating in the back of the van for the final part of the ride and I was
having none of it. The small (and it was
really short) part of the climb that rose at 12 – 14% was flattened to
7% in my telling of the route and the Pipster allowed himself to be
conned. With Philip on his bike, the
girls were left to retrieve the van alone, which they had left in the mountain
top car park. Without a man to assist
them, Lord T was concerned about their ability to raise the barrier at the exit.
‘But how are you
going to get out?’ he asked.
‘We’ll pay,’
answered Caroline.
‘But where?’ he
persisted.
‘At the ticket
machine,’ said Sarah.
‘You can do that?’
said Lord T, with not a hint of condescension.
‘Honestly,’ said
Sarah, ‘being with you is like being in an episode of Mork and Mindy.’
She had a point.
Unusually for the Swiss, the Fangfluh road surface wasn’t terribly
smooth, which was a shame because the descent has brilliant sight lines and a
constant gradient that should have allowed for rapid descending, but which
constrained us to not much above 60 kph.
Nevertheless, it was an exhilarating finale, save for the final climb
back to the Andermatt Reuss, which may have engendered a mild complaint from
the Pipster regarding the veracity of my claims. Once back, we finished the last of our food
supplies and returned our bikes to Oliver, who demonstrated considerably more
proficiency in changing bike saddles than we’d witnessed earlier in the week
and managed to replace them without inverting the bikes.
We weren’t done with our attempts at ‘engineering’,
however, as we still had the ever-reliable Mercedes van to take us back to
Zürich airport. Throughout the week the
van had been configured to allow us to sit with ample leg room, whilst allowing
enough space for mine and Philip’s bikes when we decided to wimp out. For our final journey though, we needed to
accommodate all our luggage, which meant sliding two rows of seats forward.
It is possible for one woman (Sarah) to easily slide the
back row of seats forward to provide enough space for six suitcases and cyclists’
day bags to be stored. It is equally
impossible for three men (Rob, Philip and I) to move the middle row of seats
forward to allow adequate leg room for the smallest rider on the tour. Fifteen minutes of effort saw us completely
remove the single split seat from the middle row and slide the double seat
forward. Regrettably, a further fifteen
minutes passed with us trying to restore the lone seat to its runners, which we
eventually managed, but only after sliding the double seats back to their
original position which afforded me zero leg room in the back row. By this time, Lord T’s legendary patience was
exhausted (in reality it was exhausted considerably earlier than the thirty
minutes of seat wrangling would suggest, but we weren’t going to let that
bother us), so we abandoned our efforts lest we miss our flight. It made for an uncomfortable journey back to
the airport for me, stretched out as I was across the seats, but the view of
Lake Lucerne, which had sprung to life with weekend windsurfers, yachties, jet-
and water-skiers, compensated for the discomfort.
At the airport, much to Lord T’s distress, we found the
hottest, least air-conditioned spot to sit for a final meal together, drawn by
posters for a cheeseburger meal-deal. At
just CHF 26 (GBP 21) it was neither a deal, nor a meal, as we discovered that
drinks and fries were not included. I’d
have cut mine in half to make it last longer, but regrettably, there was little
benefit to be gained from reducing something so small to a lesser example of
itself.
Our return flight was as equally uneventful as the flight
out. The plane left on time, duly
arrived, and the ground crew delivered our bags to the designated carousel in a
timely fashion. The hordes of non-EU chattering
tourists, who might otherwise have got in our way at the baggage claim, were
detained by immigration officials who are, no doubt, relishing the prospect of
massive overtime payments in a post-Brexit Europe as they’ll have to process
the multitudes of purple passport carriers that will pass through their customs
hall.
We said our goodbyes as we prepared to go our separate ways;
me to the leafy confines of Newbury; Paul and Rob to their respective Towers in
Teddington and the Pipster, Sarah and Caroline to the flatlands of
Cambridgeshire, where I promise you Philip, you won’t find a hill over 7%.
Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019
23 June – 12 July 2019
At
the merest hint of trouble, Private Frazer was wont to wail, “We’re doomed!” If John Laurie, the actor that portrayed him
in ‘Dad’s Army’, was alive today, I would imagine those words would be getting a
fresh airing.
