Kay Writes :-
To add to
the event reports flowing in over the last week I'm pleased to say that
the Etape du Tour was an amazing experience which I'd love to do
again! We were slightly luckier than the girls on
the
Pinarello ride with hot hot hot temperatures of around 30
degrees. Highlights for me included being one of only 200
female
cyclists in a field of 10,000 (only 6800 of whom finished), the support
from the locals lining the road (I felt like I was in the Tour de
France) was amazing, constantly pouring water over us as we rode up the
mountains, and as soon as they recognised you as a female cyclists
there were cheers of allez allez femme, bravo bravo.
I
started at the back end of the field (9755) and the first 45 minutes
was slightly frustrating as people rushed to get ahead of the time
vehicle and there were numerous bottlenecks, including having to walk
the last 3kms of the Marie Blanc as the road narrowed to much to let
all of the cyclists through, however the majority of the race was well
organised, the food stations were well equipped and the queues weren't
as bad as I expected.
I know Stephen Rush, Holly Seear and
Nick Dodds all finished and there may be others I don't know, Holly and
I chatted on our way up the Tourmalet and I saw Nick celebrating with
his SKY colleagues afterwards. The only donwnside was the 27
kms
I had to bike to our hotel at the end - 215kms in the saddle with over
4000m of climbing made for a long day!
There are some
great photos and hilarious videos (me bouncing around and waving at the
cameras) on the Etape du Tour website and you can also compare your
stats and individual Tourmalet times.
Also I did
the Etape with Andy Cook Cycling who were excellent and I would
thoroughly recommend doing any of this package tours if people are
interested.
So its back to the Saturday rides for me and any other challenges which
people can recommend?
Kay
Stephen's Day :-
Dear
all, after Kay's report, I thought I might
add my thoughts on this year's Etape.
I
can confirm that it wasn't pretty although I did get round in one
piece. The photos on the Etape website illustrate the transformation
from unjustifiably confident wannabe to sweat-drenched wreck.
Although
the event started from Pau, our tour company had us staying in Lourdes.
For the uninitiated, Lourdes has been a place of Catholic pilgrimage
since a local girl claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary appear to her
in a rock face in 1858. A number of subsequent claimed miracles have
resulted in it being a destination for people seeking miracle cures for
various medical conditions.
It's sad enough to see
throngs of
poor people in wheelchairs with terminal illnesses trying to find a
miracle cure with their last throw of the dice. But it's utterly
depressing to see huge numbers of vultures preying on them in the form
of shops selling everying from Pope soap-on-a-rope to empty holy water
bottles with a picture of the crucification tastefully depicted in pink
glitter. I promise you I am not making this up. The place is summed up
by the monument overlooking the town - a 50ft-high cross in blue neon.
It truly is Catholic Vegas.
Another reason the town
didn't
endear itself to me was the fact that as soon as the wheelchair users
go to bed, their carers go out on the tear. Every night, til about 4am.
Not ideal when you're trying to get some sleep before an early start.
But after putting the bike together in a grand-scale faff, it did feel
good to be riding the 25 miles to Pau as a warm-up on the Saturday. And
here was the first indication that we were in France - the drivers. Our
tour party was in a group of 250, and even with the best will in the
world and some judicious kerb-hugging single-filing, there were times
when we were impeding the traffic. And we did get a few horns. Except
instead of the expected 2-fingered gestures, the horns were accompanied
by waves and "Allez!"s. Cool.
So after a couple of
hours of
signing on, storing the bikes, eating, drinking coffee (Rapha
"Tourmalet" blend, obviously), browsing the trade stands and drinking
more coffee, we were on the coach back to Lourdes. Event day dawned and
after another night of trying to get some sleep despite the
wheelchair-pushing revellers, we were up for a 4am breakfast. It really
wasn't very pretty, but needs must, and by 4.45 we were in the coach,
in the pitch black, trying to avoid the wheelchair-pushers on the way
back from the bars. We picked up the bikes in Pau, did whatever
last-minute prep we had to do, and rode to the start area.
The
bike lock-up was 2 miles from the start area, so inevitably, yes, we
got lost. 15 minutes, lots of swearing, some futile map consultation
and some pidgin French later,we were in the pens ready to go. I was
shaking with nerves at this stage, but the early morning cloud looked
like it was burning off, and the glimpse of the mountains in the
distance helped to focus the mind. Apart from the tannoy giving us
last-minute instructions, there was silence. 10,000 people making no
noise at all is an eerie sound. And then it was 7am and we were off. I
say "we", I mean the lucky ones with low bib numbers. Us peasants up in
the 5,000s had to wait for 20 minutes or so (the 9,000s waited for
nearer 40), and then this was it, going over the start mat and there I
was, riding the Etape. Tres cool.
Within literally 50
metres of
the start I saw the first of many punctures, the victim desperately
trying to get the air in while we flew past and he dropped several
hundred places. You did something bad in a former life, didn't you
mate?
It was all a bit
nervous in the first few miles with a
lot of riders in close proximity and some tight corners but nothing too
untoward happened. The closest I saw to an international incident was a
French rider cutting up an Aussie, causing some rapid braking and a
Franco-Antipodean comparison of hand gestures. My suggestion to Oz that
he use the patented Renshaw cranial line creation technique was not
best received. The first climb of the day was the Cote De Renoir which
was rolling rather than steep, so a nice little leg-loosener really.
And yet already there were one or two walking - going to be a long day
for you I'm afraid.
My first minor
mechanical was on a flat
section after about 25 miles where a small section of the front tyre
bead popped off the rim for no appparent reason. Eh? Oh well, better
resign myself to getting off and fixing it while I drop several hundred
places. I must have done something bad in a former life. Hope I wasn't
Charles Manson. Or even worse, Wagner. Fix it, get back on it and
prepare to face the Marie Blanque.
Although the shortest
of the
three major climbs on the stage, it is the steepest and consequently
has a reputation for catching out those who underestimate the top
section in particular. Cast your mind back to O Level/GCSE maths.
Remember x=y squared? This should jog your memory:
http://www.climbbybike.com/profile.asp?Climbprofile=Col-de-Marie-Blanque&MountainID=6258
Quite
an eventful climb, this one. On the middle 7% section I saw the first
of the two heart attack victims on the day being carried off in the
"cardio" wagon. But I was feeling good. I was riding within myelf -
keeping the heart rate below 150bpm, spinning a low gear, and quietly
moving up a good few places despite the increasing heat. And then on
the top (11%) section it all went a bit wrong for an awful lot of
people. At this stage the road was maybe 6 riders wide, and forcing
10,000 riders up it was always going to cause trouble. Somewhere a few
rows up the hill, someone wobbled and fell off. The riders in close
proximity unclipped instinctively and put their feet down, the action
was replicated down the hill like a lycra-clad set of dominos, and
suddenly we were all walking. For the remaining 2km of the climb. Not
happy about that - it added about 30 mins to my time. But then there we
were, at the top, and at the feed station.
It did resemble
feeding time at the zoo, but a few judicious elbows got me what I
needed (including some devilish French almond energy bar concoction
that was basically marzipan in a wrapper - I got through quite a few of
those as it happens) and I was on my way again. The descent was
fantastic - closed roads allow you to apex the bends at daft speeds and
50mph looked possible until I approached a hairpin and saw someone
who'd obviously thought the same as me, overcooked it, and ridden
straight into a stone wall. The ambulance team was pumping him into a
kind of bubblewrap stretcher. Time to back it off a bit maybe. Then
into the lovely rural rolling section in the run up to the Soulor.
The
support up until this stage from the locals had been enthusiastic but
nothing too out of the ordinary. At this point though it all started to
get a bit Royston Vasey. We rounded a corner in a beautiful wooded
hamlet to the accompaniment of a man in a beret with an accordion. Not
sure if he was playing for us or his pigs. Best press on.
And
then the valley began to echo to the strains of what sounded like an
alpenhorn. I could hear it bouncing off the surrounding cliffs and its
siren call seemed to draw me further along the road. And the illusion
was shattered in an instant when I saw the source of the noise - a man
over the other side of the valley on his balcony "playing" a vuvuzela.
Blue, it was, with "France" written on the side of it. Most
incongruous. I'd been worrying a bit about the Soulor, not because it
was the longest (it wasn't) or the steepest (ditto), but because it was
the middle one. Like a three-lap Richmond Park session writ large, the
second lap's always the slowest - you haven't got the adrenalin of just
starting off, and you haven't got the comfort of knowing that the
pain's going to be soon over. All you've got is the knowledge that it's
going to hurt, and it's going to do so for the foreseeable.
Here's what it looks
like:
http://www.climbbybike.com/climb.asp?Col=Col-du-Soulor&qryMountainID=6705
So
10k of essentially false flat and then a lot of x=2y. To be honest it
dragged a bit, this one, and the increasing heat didn't help.
Again,
peg the heart rate below 150 and spin. Look at the drop-dead gorgeous
scenery and don't get offended when the locals cheer the French riders
louder than they cheer you. I have to say though, the support from here
on in was fantastic - they don't know you from Adam so they key off
your jersey - "Allez Twicken'am", "Allez Tay Say Say". Brilliant. The
few Brits supporting made a bit more noise when they saw one of their
own and they all got an RAF-style goggle salute in return. There were a
few of the usual suspects present - Paragons, Dynamos and Wheelers, and
one lone Phoenix who inexpicably responded to my " Go Sarf London!"
with "There's no need for insults - I'm from Norwich". Huh?
Minor
mechanical number two happened around halfway up the Soulor - my
headset began to develop a nasty creak that developed into an even more
nasty cracking noise. Hmmm - better sort that out at the top. Don't
fancy the front wheel leaving the rest of the bike at 45mph. So more
places lost but equal parts Allen key waggling and swearing and I was
back on the horse. Suspect I might well have been Wagner after all. The
descent of the Soulor was one of the highlights for me - brakes off,
aero tuck on, 47mph on the straights, try not to paste yourself into
the walls on the bends, apex tight. Top drawer.
At this stage
the knees were giving me a lot of grief. I'd stupidly bought new shoes
and pedal cleats a month before the event and I clearly hadn't set them
up properly beacuse my knees were grumbling from the first ride.
Throughout the day the grumble developed into a shout and then a roar
that no amount of Ibuprofen seemed to have much effect on. The video
clips on the Etape website show someone who seems to have developed a
unique ability to limp while pedalling. Not so much turning circles as
squares with one leg and rhombuses with the other. Horrible, horrible,
horrible.
There was a bit of a
headwind at this point, and I
managed to get myself into a group of 7 or so. I have to say we worked
pretty well together, encouraging each other and generally contributing
to the entente cordiale. And then we rounded a bend on the flat to see
a rider on the side of the road, covered in blood. He was standing up,
swearing, but seemed to be more angry than hurt. Surprised that someone
had crashed on an innocuous stretch of road, we all looked at him and
in doing so I managed to lock handlebars with someone. By the time we'd
extricated ourselves from that little mess, we were too far down the
road to stop. Hope the bloody rider's OK. If not, I'm sure we'll be
making Zombieland 2 shortly. We'll be looking for extras.
At
this point I bumped into the only other TCC member I saw all day - Nick
Dodds - although he was incognito in his Sky kit. He looked pretty
sprightly at this stage but to be honest if I had access to Brad's
masseur, leg-waxer and nutritionist on the Sky bus, I'd look pretty
bloody sprightly as well (actually, you can keep the nutritionist -
have you seen Brad recently? Give him a pie, someone). Sky, it must be
said, were loooking after their riders - I think they had 3 feed stops
en route and they all looked very well-stocked. But it strikes me that
this is exactly what they should be spending some of that subscription
money on so fair play. By comparison, our tour company had set up a
much less glamorous feed station at about 95 miles but it was no less
welcome for all that - ham baguettes and cold Coke has never tasted so
good - man cannot live by marzipan alone. The run up to the final climb
was very pretty indeed - a steep gorge filled with a tumbling glacial
river with the road going through tunnels in the rock.
My
roommate passed through here a little later and told me that he'd seen
a bizarre sight - rows and rows of riders lying down alongside their
bikes, desperately trying to cool down in the shade, trying to escape
the heat. It must have looked like some sort of two-wheeled suicide
cult.
I looked down at my
computer and it ticked over to 100 miles.
Quick
status check - all good, feeling fine. Bit tired and knee hurting but
nothing a quick marzipan bar and more Ibuprofen wouldn't sort out. And
then I saw the sign - 18km to the Tourmalet, and I passed over the
timing mat at the start of the climb in 7 hours 25 mins. 18km - that's
less than my commute. No traffic lights so I should be done in around
40 mins, right? Might even sneak a sub-8 if I get a shove on.
1
hour and 55 minutes later I crossed the finish line, having been given
a damn good humbling by the Tourmalet. It is two hours that I will
carry with me to my grave. It's not so much the gradient - 8s, 9s, a
cheeky 10 in the last km - it's the fact that it's just relentless.
Nowhere to hide from the gradient or the sun. A few bends, but
basically a straight road that just goes up, and up, and up.
Like
this:
http://www.climbbybike.com/profile.asp?Climbprofile=Col-du-Tourmalet&MountainID=26
It's
rare that the Etape and the Tour proper are so close to each other in
the calendar, so since the pro riders were hitting this stage the
Thursday after, every available parking space and vaguely flat piece of
land was already filled with camper vans full of Tour spectators. They
were well-prepared with solar generators, TVs linked to video cameras
so you could see yourself suffering as you approached them, tables,
chairs, barbeques. They got us as bonus entertainment, but they made us
feel like we really were in the Tour. We were all suffering in the
heat, but endless bottles of ice-cold stream water poured over the head
by enthusiastic supporters helped enormously.
Personally I think
the guy who got his garden hose out was taking it too far but I wasn't
in a position to argue. And the mobile entertainer belting out French
rock'n'roll needed a good punching (I assume he was a mobile
entertainer but maybe, this being France, his band had gone on strike
in a dispute over working hours and pension terms). He'd managed to
inflict pain on the only part of my body that so far hadn't been
hurting - my ears. Take that Jonny 'alliday. Or at least you would if I
only had the strength to lift my right arm off the bars. I had wondered
why the organisers had put a water stop with only 8k to go but now it
all made sense - the (by now 36C) heat had meant that I'd got through
my two bottles in the last 10k so a refill was not just welcome but a
necessity. Resist the temptation to have a breather and crack on.
Carnage at this point - riders walking, puking, lying down, sticking
heads in streams to cool down, crying.
The Norwegian fans,
however, were out in force on the upper mountain for Hushovd and
Boasson Hagen, covering entire hillsides with Norwegian flags and
generally taking over the place. And God love'em, they'd built a bar.
Not just a trestle table and a few cans of lager, but a proper one with
wood, nails, a keg and even a pub sign - The Little Viking it was
called.
They were offering free
beer to riders but to be
honest I suspect once you're in that little vortex you're not going to
get out in a hurry, so I pressed on. This was probably the low point
for me. Not just passing up free beer (although that hurt, obviously),
but seeing the summit for the first time and wondering how the hell I
was going to get up to it. I was struggling to get my heart rate above
135, a sure sign that I was cooking up, so I had to rein it in and try
to keep spinning. I have never seen km markers pass so slowly.
With
nothing left to give, the temptation to step off the bike was enormous,
and in fact many did just that. But I tried to remember that I was here
by choice, had spent a lot of time, money and effort on the way, and
when it was about to get too much I tried to look over the side at the
stunning scenery. That helped a little, but the final km was a bit of a
blur. The spectators were trying to help, but clearly didn't have much
of a collective sense of distance - I got "seulement cinquante
metres!", "a hundred meters to go!" and "deux cent metres!" in short
order. Either I'm going backwards (which, to be fair, I kind of was) or
you lot don't know a tape measure from a hole in the ground. So a final
effort and there I was, over the line. Done.
Someone had
helpfully puked right on the line, and in my borderline delirious state
I remember thinking "Apple chunks. You see, it just goes to show,
always wash your fruit in mineral water when abroad". I got off the
bike and out of the way and then thought it would be a good idea to get
a photo of me with the Tourmalet sign. The only problem was that it was
on top of a wall, and after two attempts it was clear I didn't have the
strength to climb up it. A French guy, who was 70 if he was a day,
reached down, grabbed my arm and pulled me up as if I was a small
child. I was about to give him a hug but realised I was drenched so
reverted to a handshake and profuse thanks. So I got my photo, dropped
down the wall, tried to keep the wobbly lower lip in check and set off
down the hill to the finish village. The rest is a blur of carbohydrate.
As
the official website rather archly puts it: "6888 riders finished this
legendary stage before the time limit. A lot of participants were
eliminated during the Tourmalet climbing, most of them were not enough
prepared and trained". Miaow. Luckily I wasn't one of them. And neither
were any of the rest of the TCC contingent - Nick Dodds, Clem Halpin,
Holly Seear and Kay Thomson. I'm sure they will share their memories of
the day in due course (you'll have seen Kay's report already). I got
round in 9 hours,19 minutes, 3436th of 10,000 starters. And I had been
feeling fairly satisfied with that, until I saw Andy Schleck do it on
Thursday in 5 hours 3 minutes (shakes head).
So that's that.
Obviously I'll be doing it or something similar again next year
(Marmotte?) - just need to pick my moment (like in about 6 months time,
after having made multiple large deposits in the relationship bank) to
discuss with mission control.
After I got back I was
sent the
following link, an amazing short film about the 1962 Tour. In
particular the "drinking raids" section at about 4.50 is worth checking
out - the riders piling into cafes, robbing beer, wine and champagne,
"even water", says the narrator, "if there's nothing better".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3EHJjHP6yc
Steve