Day One

As per usual, my plan consisted of “get on the bike and go.” I held little regard to the fact that this was likely to be the most challenging ride I’d ever in my life undertaken. As I vaguely recalled from a quick glance at Google Maps weeks earlier, the pinnacle of the day’s trip lay somewhere around 25km from the town of Lourdes. Having not actually ceded any worth to a regional map, I pedaled ambiguously southeast from Lourdes towards what looked like some pretty seriously mountains. My destination? The infamous Col du Tourmalet.

The col, situated on the northern cusp of the middle Pyrenees, is famous for its consistently devastating effects on riders of the Tour de France. The climb is of about 19km in length, with elevation gain of about 1400m (an average grade of 7.4%). The first 14kms build a casket of between 5% and 8% grade, while the ultimate four hammer the nails in, averaging 9.5%.

A magnet to cyclists from around the world, the col was graced by an estimated 60 challengers that day. It was noontime when I finally began climbing so I encountered far more spandex-clad speedsters riding with the aide of gravity than in her opposition. Quite surprisingly, I found myself overtaking numerous others along the climb.  I settled into 12km/h pace over the lower 14km and despite the eerie sense of impending doom that comes with inexperience while passing other riders on a climb, I carried on at that pace.

Paint abundantly adorned the roadway during the home stretch, encouraging in the boldest of letters some of the more famous names in the 2010 Tour de France. I felt part of a bizarre new league, suffering in spirit along with Shleck, Contador, and the almighty Thor. I took a quick break to devour a banana and stretch my legs once more before the summit bid. I allowed was forced to drop the pace down to 9-10km/h for the more heavenwardly ultimate four kilometers, but I felt little in the way of inadequacy.

The immense heat I was surely radiating quite effectively masked the fact that the temperature had dropped significantly as I approached the top. The sunny day in the valley had faded into obscurity from the fog-consumed crest. My first reaction upon arriving at the top was simple amazement at how bloody cold it had become. Second, where’s the missing monument? And third, let’s get the hell out of here. En français pathetique, I persuaded another cyclist to take a quick snap of me before I donned my warmers and began hurtling towards Lourdes at straightaway speeds nearing 80km/h.

Perhaps it was adrenaline or the thrill of accomplishment, but I obviously failed to recognize just how draining the climb had been. After a solid half hour of rapid descent, I stopped for a stretch and a cheeseburger (with the most amazing mustard I’ve as yet known) then despite my legs' firey protests, I tediously pedaled the thirty flat kilometers back to Lourdes – I couldn’t bear the thought of being seen on a city bus for the home stretch.

My three-piece grocery store dinner (meat, cheese, bread) temporarily filled the insatiable cyclist’s void until I soundly passed the night under a trickle of rainfall, stretched out in the vacated back two-thirds of my rental minivan, dreaming of climbs to come.

Day Two

Waking up to rain is seldom inspiring, but I summoned the conviction to re-transplant the cargo from the driver and passenger seats back to its rightful place on my bed, before heading off to a three-piece grocery store breakfast.

On this, the 4^th of June, the aforementioned missing monument was atop the bed of a truck, waiting to be delivered to the crest of the col. In the ten years of this tradition, the delivery had become quite an event. As many cyclists as were willing could join the party, parading up the col to celebrate the grand re-opening of the cycling season in the Pyrenees.

The call to battle was preceded by the distribution of commemorative yellow scarves and surprisingly strong coffee with pastries. The overtly grey day didn’t seem to foster inhibitions here like it did at Falmouth in May; cyclists started turning up by the hundreds. A veritable sea of spandex, riders of all ages and inclinations turned up to celebrate. Marvelously, they had even hired the local brass band with whom I quickly made friends (let it be known that trombonism transcends all linguistic barriers).

The ride approached the col from the opposite side today. In the face of yesterday’s epic, today’s 17km ascent was comparatively tame with its net elevation gain of merely 1,260m. Thankfully, the bar was raised by the inclement weather. 15 minutes into the ride, a tolerable precipitant spit had turned into a healthy light rain and cyclists by the dozens were pulling over to don their impermeables.

On this day, I endured a much more encouraging mix of passing with being passed. There were visibly fit riders delighting in the treachery of the climb at a break-neck pace while alongside them rode their older and wiser counterparts from a different era, now well into their sluggish, but golden years of fitness.  Amongst the fittest of the group was the day’s celebrity guest, five time TdF winner, Miguel Indurain. He didn’t give the impression that he was there to impress. I fit somewhere in the depths of the spectrum: passed regularly, but more often passing.

Locals in the few villages en route came out (but not from beneath their umbrellas) to cheer everyone on. One farmer even brought out a large herd of clearly confused cattle just to rile things up.

Even at a slightly brisker pace over yesterday’s (+0.5km/h average), today’s ride felt much more manageable and relaxed. There’s tremendous encouragement in being surrounded by hundreds of like minds, even whilst attempting feats of positive ridicule. But perhaps the feed station (mandatory video) inspired the most confidence of all – seldom, if ever, has a wee toss of Bordeaux red been a hindrance to the ambitions of the cyclist.

Despite its fine luxuries, I made a very brief visit of the feed station, knowing that to get comfortable in its glorious warmth would be a terrible mistake. With only 5km from there to the crest, I pushed on. Remarkably, I found myself crossing the line amongst the first 50 finishers. Evidently, I still have yet to comprehend the finer points of casual cycling. The now steady rain and genuinely cold temperatures left me little reason to linger at the top. I stood awkwardly amongst a dozen chilled cyclists, squeezing wet legs into insulating garments then began hurtling downward.

After thirty seconds of descent, I had lost all distinct sensation in my unprotected fingers. With my hands on the drops, I wrapped all four quivering unopposed digits around the brake levers and prayed to the mountain king that I not lose the ability to hinder the pace of this terrifying, cold, wet downward spiral. Moaning like a frost-bitten baby, I made it back to the feed station and stuck around long enough for most of a meal, a second glass of wine, and sufficient time to come up with a plan to evade death over the remainder of the ride.

Re-inspired by the choir (yes, the choir) at the station, I yanked my arm warmers out from under my jacket sleeves and fashioned them into a pair of sock puppets to take the place of a real pair of gloves. With a pair of chilly elbows, I gradually felt the temperature rise as my vertical distance from the crest grew. The descent was much more solitary than the climb, passed only once or twice in my soggy hesitance and only a few times finding myself more hurried than another.

After a long cold voyage back down, an eerie hush loomed in the village, the real energy clearly dwelling somewhere well above me. Completely devoid of shame, I bore my pale posterior and razor sharp bike-short tan lines for all to see in the mostly vacant parking lot as I toweled off.

Under the delightful protection of dry clothes and a heated car, I concluded that I’d had just about enough of cold weather and mountains. All and all, 'twas a successful voyage, so I promptly made my way to the beach.