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.
