ESSENTIALS

Oliver Smith was a guest of Bike Basque (0033 6 95 94 82 37; bikebasque. co.uk) which offers Raid Pyrenees tours from £1,530 per person including all meals, accommodation and transfers but excluding flights. Riders can bring their own bike or pay an extra £205 to hire one. Oliver rode an Orbea (orbea.com). Departures from June to September. angry drivers, and the absolute certainty of rain, hardly make it the most enticing route. Wouldn’t Mum, who loved nothing more than sunning herself in the Med while cradling a glass of rosé, have really preferred a two-wheeled adventure in warmer climes? You see where I’m going...

My research led me to Bike Basque, a tour operator based in Biarritz. Its one-week Raid Pyrenees itinerary takes cyclists from France’s Atlantic coast to its Mediterranean shores, tackling one of Europe’s great mountain ranges on the way. What it lacked in length (around 450 miles, compared with 874 for Land’s End to John O’Groats) it made up with steep slopes (16 major ascents and 40,000ft of climbing). A reasonable substitute, I concluded.

Bike Basque arranges transfers from the airport, bike hire and accommodation. Guides ride with the group while owner Xavier Lopez

– a French former racing cyclist – follows in a minibus with luggage and much-needed refreshments. Our group numbered eight – four Englishmen, a Canadian couple and a Polish couple – and we were kept in line by another Briton: Nigel Hale-Hunter, who coaches young racers when he’s not fixing tourists’ punctures.

Our start was inauspicious, with the first few miles taking the best part of half an hour as we inched past traffic lights and escaped Biarritz. But alluring landscapes quickly enveloped us as we pedalled south into the heart of France’s green and pleasant Basque country. Day one, a mere “mise en jambe” (warm-up) according to Xavier, took us over three relatively short and shallow climbs, including – after a brief foray into Spain – the Col d’Ispeguy. Reached via a sinuous ascent, it is a contender for Europe’s finest border crossing; we ate lunch at the pass surrounded by lush mountain pastures and ambling horses.

Eighty miles stretched the definition of “warm-up”, but having benefited from fresh legs and forgiving terrain I was feeling confident about the task in hand as we entered the sleepy village of Barcus for our first overnight stop. That faith took a hammering the following morning when I stretched my stiff muscles and took a peek at the second day’s route and weather forecast: another 70 miles, with two proper ascents – one devilishly steep and one interminably long – to be tackled in temperatures of 30C (86F). The Col de Marie Blanque, a one-hour slog with maximum gradients of 15 per cent, looked the harder climb on paper but it was the Aubisque that really hurt. At 5,607ft it is one of the great cols of the Tour de France, having featured 45 times since 1947. In one legendary incident, in 1951, the Dutch rider Wim van Est, while leading the race, tumbled over the edge but miraculously survived the 230ft fall after landing on a grassy ledge. His team manager tied 40 tyres together to haul up the badly injured cyclist, and a monument there reads: “He survived but lost the yellow jersey.” My plight paled in comparison. But it was thoughts of my mother’s suffering before she died – while maintaining the optimism evident in her ultimate to-do list – that put my hardship into context. If she could keep her sense of humour with a terminal illness, surely I could reach this mountain pass under my own steam. With memories of her for motivation, I did.

Our next major obstacle – confronted on day three – was the 6,939ft Col du Tourmalet, another Tour de France climb cocooned in myth. In 1913, luckless Frenchman Eugène Christophe suffered a broken bike fork on the mountain and, with all outside assistance banned under the early Tour’s archaic rules, was forced to repair it himself at a forge in the village of Sainte-Mariede-Campan. His handiwork kept him in the race – though jobsworth officials penalised him for allowing a seven-year-old boy to work the bellows. A statue celebrates the story.

The whole trip offered a unique opportunity for contemplation. Like many people, I’ve always tended to avoid dwelling on difficult feelings, and the (welcome) distractions of the previous seven years – a busy office job, a wedding, home ownership – meant I’d never taken the time to really consider the loss of my mother. A solo holiday, albeit with other cyclists, removed these distractions. Yes, uncorking the bottle of emotions tinged my trip with sadness (I would have given anything to soak up the bewitching mountain views in her company – on a tandem, perhaps?), but surely it was good for the soul.

With the most famous climbs behind us we moved into the Ariège, a wonderfully uncrowded but beautiful bit of the world that offers a liberal dose of “La France profonde”. The village of Massat, with its creaking antiques shops, looked like something from the 19th century, and I met a friendly farmer with a pet crow. It was the best day of the week. Inspired by the gorgeous landscapes, and buffeted by a generous tailwind, I flew up the Col de Port, and was rewarded with a stunning view of cow-filled fields and forested

‘If she could keep her sense of humour with a terminal illness, I could reach this mountain pass’

peaks. Even better was to follow. The rolling Route des Corniches, an utterly beguiling stretch of road, took us, grinning with delight, from the Ariège river to the spa town of Ax-les-Thermes – where hot springs and massages awaited.

Suddenly the end was in sight. Our last leg included one monster ascent, the Port de Pailhères, and a couple of lumps, before a mad dash for Perpignan. We covered the mostly downhill final 50 miles, with a helping hand from the prevailing breeze, in under two hours. Our rapid progress made the change in climate – from chilly alpine to humid Mediterranean – all the more remarkable; ski resorts for lunch and palm trees for dinner. My Raid Pyrenees complete, I plotted one last assault – of the hotel bar. I hadn’t quite cycled from Land’s End to

John O’Groats, as my mother had ambitiously put on her bucket list, but my 450-mile odyssey still felt like an achievement of which to be proud.

As I soaked up the evening sun with a large glass of rosé in hand, I was pretty sure she would have approved.