Swiss roll - the full loaf

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