Weekend warrior hits wall of pain
If you’ve ever wanted to suffer like a Tour de France rider, this is the event for you.
Chris Froome pulled up for a photo beside a sign which said, “even Chris Froome’s legs are hurting”.
He later tweeted it was true but it was only small consolation for those of us who later passed the message which was supposed to be encouraging. He probably wasn’t hurting as much as the guy who fell off his bike because he couldn’t get his cleats out of his pedals in time as his body cramped up, or the multitude of riders who walked up a 3km climb nicknamed The Wall because of its steep incline (it’s as much as 19 per cent in places), and certainly not as sore as the guy beside me who crashed heavily into a bridge barrier because he took the turn too quickly or the one who apparently sliced off an ear early in the race after a nasty crash.
The entire 157.4km of the inaugural L’etape Australia bike race was a world of hurt for many, but it was also amazing and immensely rewarding. It was 70km further than I had ever ridden and what made it more challenging was the 2753m of climbing, which included a final ascent of 22km up to the Perisha skifield.
“It looks really challenging,” Froome said on the eve of the race. It was. But that was the point. L’etape Australia is part of a swathe of L’etape events around the world which aim to give riders a taste of a mountain stage of the Tour de France. The Snowy Mountains event even adopted names like the Col de Beloka (AKA The Wall) and Col de Kosciuszko, although it didn’t sound quite as exotic as the French can make it seem when pronounced by Aussies, and handed out yellow, green and polka dot jerseys for the winners. Locals came out in force, ringing cow bells and yelling encouragement and people decorated their towns or farms in Tour de France colours.
It was the first Tour de France event to be held in Australia, the first Australian amateur event with fully closed roads (this was glorious for anyone who has tried to battle the Auckland traffic), the first Australian amateur event to be run under fully professional Tour de France race conditions and the largest L’etape event ever held outside of France, with 3500 riders.
Froome was essentially the ambassador for the event. He smiled for the endless stream of selfies, spoke eloquently about some of his experiences on and off the bike (he revealed he spent a night in hospital fearing he had fractured a vertebra when he crashed into the back of a motorbike and started running during the climb to Mount Ventoux in this year’s Tour), dished out a handful of tips for the weekend warrior and was on hand to send the first riders on their way.
He started in the third wave of 1000 riders (my group) and worked his way through the field, chatting with riders as he moved from bunch to bunch resplendent in a yellow jersey earned from a Tour de France victory. He made it all look so easy. Others described it as “brutal”. Many went out too quickly,
enjoying the fast-paced riding in the first half of the race over the rolling hills around Jindabyne, but suffered badly on the final climb.
Some lay prone on the side of the road trying to steel themselves for another effort, others had their head in their hands or were bent over their bikes trying to work out the cramp. It was both hard to witness and strangely reassuring.
“There better be beer and dancing girls at the finishing line,” one said dryly as pain etched his weathered face. Luckily, there was one of those things.
The camaraderie among the riders during and after the race was one of the highlights. Everyone had a story to tell, everyone could appreciate how demanding it was and everyone could swear about how cruel it was to have a strong headwind for the last 70km, which sapped even more energy from weary bodies and minds.
I was lucky. I’m training for the Pioneer, a seven-day mountain bike race from Christchurch to Queenstown in February, so got through OK. I ended up spending more than 61⁄2 hours in the saddle (the winner rolled in two hours earlier) but what was a little disconcerting was the fact this was a one-day event only and I would need to replicate that effort seven times for the Pioneer.
It made me appreciate even more what the riders do during the Tour de France, an event Froome won for a third time this year that lasts 21 days and covers upwards of 3500km. That’s extraordinarily difficult to comprehend for ordinary cyclists (I try not to think about the spectre of drug use in the peloton).
A date has already been set for next year’s L’etape Australia (December 2) and organisers are aiming for it to be an annual event with longevity on the calendar. There is a shorter, eminently more achievable, 126km race which finishes in Jindabyne and cuts out the punishing final climb to Perisha.
For Froome, it was “a good chance for me to rub shoulders with real hard-core riders”. For us, it was an opportunity to get a taste of what the world’s best road cyclist does, albeit at an entirely slower pace and on only one day.
As he wandered off the day before the race from yet-another selfie, I asked him rather hopefully if I could ride on his wheel. I figured he could be a domestique and do the work for others for a change.
“Yeah, sure, jump on,” he said. “It should be fun.”
It was fun, most of the time. But as I grovelled my way to Perisha skifield and saw the carnage along the way, fun is not a word that sprang to mind. My legs were hurting way more than Chris Froome’s.