Me and my big Mountain
TO an inexperienced cyclist, attempting some of the climbs in the Pyrenees feels a little like a first date. There’s the sense of trepidation that it could all go horribly wrong; the moments of struggle in the middle when you wonder if it will ever finish before you reach the end; and if you are happy with the ride, you might try it all over again.
My first experience of the Col du Tourmalet came on the back of virtually no training, when myself and my now wife had a few days to spare at the end of a holiday in San Sebastian and doing “a bit of cycling” seemed like a good idea.
We rented a car and drove to Saint Savin to stay with an Irish couple in the Pyrenees Cycling Lodge, complete with new cycling gear and, in my case, shiny white shoes that, like in most sports, you really have to be good to get away with.
“Have you been in the Pyrenees before?” asked Paddy, the host. Me: “No.”
“Do you do much cycling at home?”
“Only in and out to work sometimes.”
“So you haven’t done many hills then?” “No”. At this point Paddy stopped asking questions, although his facial expressions said plenty.
The following day, my wife and I set out towards Luz along a beautiful stretch of road between a river and ridge where nets prevent falling rocks from potentially crushing all below them.
It’s a 12km stretch at an average gradient of 3 per cent to Luz Saint Sauveur, which takes a little bit more effort than, as Paddy’s facial expression silently said, occasionally cycling in and out to work. And it’s only after this point where the Tourmalet officially starts.
From there it’s 19km of climbing at an average of 7.5 per cent which, even when cycling at home, is impossible to replicate. At a very early stage, my wife (a proper cyclist) heads off and leaves me, my bike and my thoughts to mark off each of the signs which greet the passing of every kilometre.
The advice given to inexperienced cyclist is not to set off too fast but at 6’3” and a best-case scenario weight of 90kg, that’s not likely to be a problem, particularly when hitting yet another hairpin bend where the road ramps up to 13 per cent.
Around halfway, there’s a vast area of ski station car park that offers both a spectacular view of where you’ve come from and a daunting one of what lies ahead, with 8km remaining and the summit visible but seemingly never any closer.
A few kilometres later and 1,800m of climbing completed, the gradient rises again and, as cyclists zoom by on the opposite side of the road, it’s tempting to U-turn, stuff newspaper under the jersey and enjoy a 15km speedy descent rather then endure the remaining 4km.
The bad news is there’s one climb of 13 per cent to come but the good news is that it’s only 300m from the finish and, like a pro, you fly up it in a jiffy with the spectre of coffee, a rest, a sandwich, a coffee, a chat and another coffee to come.
A couple of years later, I return for a second date as part of the Etape du Tour, a 201km ‘race’, which replicates a Tour de France stage and takes in the Tourmalet, after the nearby Aubisque, before attempting the Peyresourde and Aspin. In the end, it takes roughly 12 hours.
This time around, it’s not my wife but several thousand other cyclists ahead of me on a cold, foggy day that, mercifully, means the Tourmalet summit isn’t visible for large parts of the two hours it takes to get through the 19km climb.
The experience of having being there before doesn’t make things any easier, but confirms the suspicion from the first date that it’ll draw you in again at some stage in the future.