Hi everybody,
This is a bit of a travelogue about Stage 17 of the Tour de France.
Skip to the end if you're not interested in reading it all.
Well, after years of dreaming and scheming about it, the Col du
Tourmalet is now in the bag. I didn't think I would or could ever climb
this beast. We didn't know when we planned this trip but 2010 was the
100th year of cyclists climbing the Col du Tourmalet. How they did it a
century ago beggars believe as it was bloody difficult for us
to get up it even with today's super light bikes and beautiful tarmac
roads. The French Gendarmes added their own level of grief by putting
in roadblocks all over the place, stopping cars, cyclists and even
attempting to stop walkers from getting to the summit.
This idea started in October. As part of the plan, we got ahead of the
crowds and secured a very reasonable mountain gite in December that was
perfectly positioned at the foot of the Col - at a place called St.
Marie de Campan - 18 km from the top. This afforded us a starting point
to climb as well as see Stage 16 which went right through the village.
We're with our friends Vincent and Kulvinder and their kids. Vincent
cycles so Fiona, Vince and I were going to attempt to climb the
mountain during our stay. The idea was to pre-position a tent at the
summit of the Col and drive up the night before the hill top finish on
the 22nd with the kids and camp at the top, with Fiona and Kulvinder
coming up early the next morning with Callum and food. This idea was
scotched when a recce up the mountain had us stopped by the Gendarmes 4
km from the summit - blocked to all traffic except cyclists and walkers
from the 18th -22nd. End of plan. But I digress.
As part of our preparations we arrived on Saturday, 17th and climbed
the Col d'Aspin the day after we arrived, an 8km climb with amazing
views and lots of lovely hairpins to practice descending. Short and not
too steep which filled us with ill-placed confidence in our
abilities. In our ignorance we also discovered this was the
day of the Etape du Tour, where 10,000 amateur cyclists attempt to
climb the same stage, Stage 17, as the pros, with a hill top finish at
the Col du Tourmalet, but a week earlier. After descending Aspin we ran
smack into an army of cyclists coming from the opposite direction. I
have never seen so many cyclists on one set of road. From the look of
it there were some very weary cyclists coming off the Col.
For the day of Stage 16 on 20th July, we climbed up the Tourmalet about
a third up to test the gradient and see how packed it was, then quickly
descended back before the Gendarmes closed the roads for the tour
coming through. We positioned Vince's vehicle the night before at the
tight curve in the town to get a spot and Vincent had set up a viewing
platform on his truck where the kids could watch the riders coming
through the village on their way to Pau - all the greats and retiring
greats - Armstrong et al. Armstrong was in the a group near the front
but only working for a stage win as he was too far down the peloton to
be in contention. The kids got tons of freebies from the Caravan and
were happy with their take but getting away from the crowded roads
meant a long detour.
The weather turned that night. A tremendous thunder/lightening storm
came down the valley, delivering multiple concussion waves as the
thunder bounced from canyon wall to canyon wall. The gite shook like it
was coming apart but somehow the kids slept through it. It didn't bode
well for the next day as the rain was pelting down hard and the
temperature plummeted.
Next morning the rain was unrelenting but after putting off the
inevitable we finally put on our wet gear and were out of the house
around 11am and started climbing to St Marie de Campan and
the beginning of the Col start. There were few cyclists with
most probably making the right decision to give this stage a miss as
the weather was horrible. About an hour up the rain finally relented
but the gradients increased and we were soon drenched in sweat and into
our easiest gears as we disappeared into the fog cloud. I was feeling
good but was worried about Fiona who was having hot flashes and pulling
over to strip off layers to the approval of the few male cyclists
passing her.
Finally, about 7km from the summit, we hit the snow tunnels where the
gradient went up again and I was beginning to think this was too hard
and too far, when I saw the hazy outlines of the first buildings of La
Mongie, the ski station where the Gendarmes had set up a roadblock to
stop bikes and cars and where the team buses were positioned for a fast
departure. We were farther up than I thought, only 4km from the summit
so I pulled over to wait for Vince and Fiona. By now we were wet
through and shivering so we found a cafe, ordered some coffees and
changed into warm clothes and waterproofs we brought with us, stored
the bikes with a nice store owner and started walking the final 4km up
to the pass, just in time to get hit by a heavy downpour.
I didn't want to carry heavy sandles so I brought flip-flops - not a
good idea 8,000ft up a flooded mountain road but we commenced to follow
the steady stream of walkers that snaked up to the pass far above. The
flip-flops didn't really work on the gradient so I walked up to the
pass in bare feet. Thankfully it wasn't cold. There was a contingent of
gayly dressed Spaniards who looked like they just walked out of a
Mickey Mouse cartoon followed by poor Vince, with two metal pins and a
plate in his ankle, leaning drunkenly on his good ankle and looking
like he had a peg leg. Thankfully the fog cleared on our side
of the pass and after an hour we neared the summit, a tiny cut in the
spine of the pass, the narrow road crowded with TV trailers, support
vehicles, an army of overly officious and pushy Gendarmes and thousands
of hungry and tired tour followers, trudging in the narrow mud ditch
left to them. Silhouettes on the ridge let us know there were thousands
of people above us and on the other side.
We downed a quick soggy sandwich and a welcome beer bought in a muddy
beer tent and found a spot above the road about 25m from the finish
line to view the riders coming up the road far below. Great idea but
the fog was so thick and fast you could barely see to the road 40 ft in
front of you. The clouds cleared momentarily to show the mountains
outlined in the distance and a ribbon of road flanked by motorhomes and
people, dropping thousands of feet below, I was following
race commentary on the iPhone and sending updates to the Norweigan guys
next to us, their legs dangling over the cliff face. Vince laid the
Welsh flag on the precipice. The atmosphere was electric and the
changing fog and light made the whole scene surreal.
Directly across from us was the mobile blockhouse where the race
commentator was rapid-firing French updates through the tannoy system,
which can be unusually irritating to those not accustomed to loud
rapid-fire French or any French, for that matter. My iPhone stopped
giving updates so we gave up and waited to hear the crowds exploding as
the riders went past. You could hear the struggle between the two
contenders in the rising voice of the race commentator - 4km, Schleck,
3km, Contador indecipherable, 1.7km, ContadorSchleck some French
words, 500m unintelligible French voices screaming at pitch
level...
Fiona had used her powers of French and feminine guile to work her body
between two guys so that Vince and I could lean over at the last
minute, basically pinning the unwitting guys to the parapet, and get a
view. With the helicopters grounded due to fog it was only the
motorcycles offering video but we didn't have that either. Finally,
about 5:20pm, the crowds erupted, professional lenses were aimed and
everyone else pointed their cameras in a hopeful direction as Contador
and Schleck flew out of the fog at an insane pace and over
the line and gone.
Somehow I got them going by with the camera, Contador trailing Schleck
by half a bike length, his arms in the air. The rest is a blur as
crowds began moving in a sea of bodies. We followed the riders down to
the area where the soigneurs gave them dry clothes so they could ride
down the 4km to the team buses, saw all the favourites, Cavindish,
Sastre, Cancellara, Casar, pulling over and donning dry kit. They
looked haggard and grey, and old. After an interminable crush pinned to
the barriers, we started walking down the hill with everyone else. Thor
Husvold (sp?) went by us, held back by having to don the sprinters
green jersey, amazingly, calmly balancing his bike between thousands of
people walking down the hill.
Finally, about 7:30pm, we got back on our bikes and started the
treacherous descent down the mountain, with screaming TdeF
organization, media and team cars using their sirens to bully their way
down the narrow, winding road. It was raining again, wet, misty and
thoroughly frightening as the cars went by so close. It was also cold.
We got our own back lower in the valley as the cars backed up in the
right lane. I opened up full throttle and charged down the open left
lane mentally flipping off drivers that had driven to close to me.
Within half an hour we were at St. Campan and riding up the lane to the
gite where Kulvinder had prepared a wonderful Thai feast.
The next day I went to get croissants at the bakery in Campan. Waiting
for my change I looked down at the local paper and spied Schleck on the
cover, arms raised in victory, the crowds around him in mid scream as
he crossed the line. Near his left helmet was a big headed boy in full
face. Next to him was a guy with a grey goatee. It was me, camera
raised, mouth open, screaming along with the rest of them.
All the best,
Briand