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.
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