Day 3: St Marie de Campan to Massat

View from Col d'Aspin

We had barely left the hotel before the climb of the Col d'Aspin started. We settled into our rhythm and pushed up this beautiful climb, the woodland breaking occasionally to allow framed views of the Pic du Midi, still covered in snow.

As we wound up through the trees Nick passed us in his van with a wave and a shout of encouragement. I sat in front of Bob and started spinning a steady metronome beat on my pedals. We crested the summit of the Col d’Aspin in 53 minutes. Nick was surprised to see us so quickly. A short stop at the summit to refill our bottles and we plunged down the other side. The road swept away like a ribbon of silver against the green pastures. This was a superb road, freshly re-laid for the Tour de France and as smooth as silk. I shot ahead of Bob, flying along at more than 60kph before hitting the brakes to get around the hairpin bends.

A long, undulating slog along the valley bottom brought us to the Col de Peyresourde (cafe at the top is pictured above). Shortly before the turnoff we were joined by a French cyclist. He chatted away in fast French while sitting right in my slipstream, getting an easy ride. I told him in French that I didn’t understand and that I was English. So he then spoke slower and louder in French!

At the bottom of the climb he raced off having benefitted from me pulling him along. He quickly built up a lead of several hundred metres. I grunted and snarled at my tired legs, and started to push hard. I wasn’t going to let Johnny Foreigner beat me. I drove on, sweat pouring in rivers down my face and arms. I began to draw him in. Bob asked if I was OK. I told him I was going to make the French man pay! I caught him after 5km, rode up to his wheel, reeled off a stream of English pleasantries and rode passed him with a wave. He hung grimly onto my back wheel, I pushed harder, he hung on. Suddenly he was gone, falling back off our tail like a drowning man attached to a stone.

The top came and went and the descent was stunning, hitting 80kph on smooth roads. It was possibly the best descent so far, certainly the fastest.

From the bottom we had to battle a headwind for more than 30kms but we kept pushing the pace. We went over the tedious but pretty Col des Ares and then the Col de Buret before getting to the Fabio Casartelli memorial, pictured below, at the foot of the Col de Portet d’Aspet. Casartelli died on the descent from this col in 1995. Fresh flowers mark the exact spot where he died. The beautiful memorial has tributes from many cyclists left on it.

This is a really tough climb with gradients hitting 16 per cent. It’s not long, just under 5kms, but boy do you have to work every single metre.

Bob had a good lead. I was really struggling and my gears and legs were not really enough, but I didn’t stop at all. As we got to the last 500m I stood up on the pedals and start a grotesque parody of a sprint. I caught Bob and he reacted, the two of us racing for the line at the summit, lungs heaving, legs like jelly. Bob got it by a nose!

From the top of the d’Aspet it’s a long descent into St Lary. It was here that we met Derek, a friend of Nick’s and a demon cyclist. He’s a veteran of five, yes five, raids. Derek sat in the front and put his head down – he road at 40-45kph all the way to St Girons. I pedalled furiously to stay on his wheel. Bob sat on my back wheel and we powered our way to the hotel. Derek didn’t let up at all. My front wheel occasionally rubbing the side of his back wheel or bumping it only made him ride faster. I’ve never sat on somebody’s wheel like that. As soon as I moved out of his slipstream my speed dropped like a stone. Derek just kept on at the front, and kept saying “take the tow, it’s fine”. So I did.

When we arrived in Massat, our destination for the night, we had averaged 42kph for the last 50kms, after riding 110!

I collapsed off the bike, every single part of me hurting, that is except the important man parts. They seemed to be totally numb.

DAY 3 STATISTICS

Distance 167km

Total Ascent 2900m

Max speed 80.6kph

Avg speed 24kph

Calories 4823

TIMINGS

Col d’Aspin 53 mins

Col de Peyresourde 58 mins

Col de Portet d’Aspet 27 mins

Day 2: Arudy to St Marie de Campan

The giant of the Pyrenees:The Col du Tourmalet

I didn't sleep well last night, my mind was racing with thoughts of mountains that had budgets and targets to meet before allowing cyclists to pass.

Bob bought me coffee in bed, not that we are close like that, he's just kind.

Later, we rolled away from Arudy towards the Col d'Aubisque. A flat road allowed us to spin away yesterday's aches and pains. There is a giant billboard at the bottom of the climb that leaves you in no doubt as to what you're taking on. It details the gradient and distance, helpfully colour coding them, too, Red means it's going to hurt: there was quite a bit of red.

Three riders from Trek tours, the cycling holiday company associated with the bike manufacturer, stopped for a chat. How is it that, wherever you are in the world, all Americans meet someone who went to their school, knows their best friend or lives next door.

Going up, anyone?: On the road to the Col d'Aubisque

The Trek riders set off ahead of us as we stalled our ascent with a stop for food and photos. In the end, the inevitable could be put off no longer, so we rode towards the summit. It's around 16km and rises up to 1709m. The gradient trickles you through the woods at a steady 5 per cent,it winds and curls and floats along. Numerous waterfalls plunge through the trees and so many wild flowers dance on the roadside that it makes for a joyous climb. We soon caught and passed the Trek group.

As the road nears the top it kicks up and flicks about a bit but this climb, when treated with respect, is totally wonderful. The closer we got to the summit the more the clouds rolled in, totally obliterating the view. The damp was clinging to our clothes and forming dew drops on our arms. My whole body was steaming, even my feet!

We came over the summit, took pictures and quickly downed hot chocolate before getting our cards stamped and making ready to head off. The owner of the cafe handed me a copy of a newspaper. "For the descent, monsieur" he said, smiling. Never have I been so proud to stuff a paper down my jersey. I felt totally pro! How sad am, I but it's the small things in life that make us smile, inside and out.

We made our exit and ran straight into the closed gates on our route. A sign in huge letters read Ferme - closed! We knew the road was closed to cars as Nick had had to do a 2 hour detour to where he planned to meet us. But bikes?!?! God, if we had to go back the way we came.....

At that moment a small car, complete with flashing orange lights, appeared. The man in overalls lifted the gate. "Ferme pour velo?" I asked. "Non," he said. Was that "no" it's open or "no" bikes can't go. I looked over my shoulder at Bob and rolled through the gate.

The road fell away through the thick fog of cloud, my bike seemed to catch flight and simply melted into the mist. All I could hear was the soft sound of cow bells ringing in the whiteout. I couldn't see Bob, I just put my head down and flew, the exhilaration bringing a smile to my face even though my body was chilled by the wind ripping through it.

The bends linked together and then through the fog the cow bells became loud, very loud. Out of the gloom a huge cow appeared, standing in the road. Brake, skid, steer, missed him .. then another. It was cow dodgems. I came to halt laughing at what might have been and waited for Bob to emerge from the clouds. We rode on together through the road works ahead of the Tour de France, an 18 inch strip of road open for cyclists, the rest a steaming mass of molten tar.

The d'Aubisque merges into the Col du Soulor after about 4kms then there was a short climb to the other gate barring the route. Nick was at the gate. I've never seen a man look more relieved to see his charges. Other cyclists gathered at the gate and after checking with us headed through the "route ferme" barrier.

A quick picnic lunch and we headed for the giant of the Pyrenees, the Col du Tourmalet.

We rode steadily through the lower slopes until we hit the main drag. Straightaway I knew this was going to be a different ride. With the sun beating down we made steady but slow progress. The section through the village of Bareges hit 13 per cent in places, with Bob and I exchanging the role leading our small group. There is one easy section on the climb, about two thirds of the way up, but the rest is a battle at 7, 8, 9 and 10 per cent. Nick providing a constant flow of water to keep us going.

The kilometre markers have been removed while the work to improve the surface goes on ahead of the Tour next month. The Tourmalet and the Pyrenees celebrate the 100th anniversary of their introduction to the greatest cycling race on earth and no expense has been spared making the road surface absolutely perfect. But nothing can hide the deserted ski lifts that litter the mountain. The ski stations, ugly and ghost-like in the summer, barely hint at their winter party clothes.

The clouds gathered as we neared the top and having shown the mountain respect, creeping up it, some how it let us pass by. It was hard, yes, very hard in places, but not unrideable. The fog was thick at the summit. Pictures, another stamp on our cards followed by coffee and we grabbed newspapers, donned arm warmers and rain jackets for the18km descent to the hotel.

I started shivering almost straight away, my teeth chattering as I tried to keep warm by pedalling hard. The first 5km of the descent was done in 7 minutes, the next in 5, the next in just under 5 and suddenly there was the hotel. I stopped, dismounted and waited over 15 minutes for Nick to arrive in the car. Five minutes later Bob arrived, quite blue with cold but relieved to have found the hotel.

Conquerers: The first rider up and over Col du Tourmalet (the guy at the top) and the latest (me) on the foggy summit. Some handy free papers for cyclists.

DAY 2 STATISTICS

Total time 6hr 8 mins

Distance 116 km

Col d'Aubisque climb 1 hour 30 mins

Col du Tourmalet 2 hour 15

Total climb 3184

Calories 2839

Day 1: Hendaye to Arudy

A beautiful roll out with Atlantic breakers crashing onto the beach, the surfers readying themselves for a day in the water as we whizzed past. The road wound its way along cliffs that were punctuated with small basque towns whose names were made unpronounceable by the number of X's in them.

Bob set an early pace of around 30kph, which on the rolling coast road felt fine especially after a great breakfast.

The first climb, the Col St Ignace, came and went, the descent spectacular, its twists and turns plunging us into the valley at over 60kph, so fast that Nick couldn't keep up through the bends. We lost him and then lost our way. There's not much time to work out how many syllables the next town has when you flash past at nearly 70kph!

Our detour was bought to halt by a call from Nick and we were only 8 km out so we quickly rejoined the right road.

Suddenly Bob decided to put the hammer down and for the best part of 40km we raced at 35-40kph on the flat, me grimly hanging on to his back wheel trying to hide in his slipstream. We shot through a group of 20-30 local cyclists who seemed amused to see a young(ish) man hanging on with gritted teeth and wild eyes, sweat pouring from every pore, flies splattered across his legs and face (yep, that was me).

We stopped for lunch at St Jean Pied de Port, a pretty place with street cafes, and shop windows decked with flowers. Nick produced a fine picnic served from the back of his car. Local cheese and meat never tasted so good.

Bob spied a bike shop and headed in to sort out a technical issue with his gears. I waited in the baking-hot sun, glugging water as Bob paced frustratedly outside the shop.

I suffered from the long stop at lunch, my legs felt like lead and I'd eaten too much. After a short while we hit the Col d'Osquich, which ground its way through woods and fields to open out at 500m with the most amazing views. The descent was superb, the road flowed and fell from the top with a sinuous beauty and required no breaking all the way through its banked corners.

Arriving in Tardets we grabbed a quick drink, had our cards stamped as a record of the route and headed in the direction of Arudy, our overnight stop. We were supposed to climb the Marie Blanque ( which isn't part of the Raid) but because of the stop at the bike shop we were running behind schedule.

The road to Arudy was a tedious drag through a forest with a surface that made a scabby horse look lovely. It bumped and ground its way over a series of climbs that wore the mind down before the body. There had been a recent, feeble attempt at resurfacing it which had left a covering of loose gravel that pinged off the frames and stuck to our sweating bodies.

Thankfully Arudy eventually appeared and although broken by the day's 200km, after a shower and a fantastic meal suddenly life didn't feel quite so bad. The Hotel de France is a most elegant, in a shabby chic way, French way family-run hotel, where, despite my schoolboy French, I was able to understand the owner taking the piss out of my weary arrival and the fact that several glasses of wine had straightened me out!

Tomorrow's itinerary includes the Col d'Aubisque and Col du Tourmalet, the giants of the Pyrenees.

TODAY'S STATISTICS

Distance 200km

Time 7hrs 35mins

Ascent 2377m

Calories 4000

Average cadence 90 rpm

Max cadence 166 rpm

Avg speed 26kph

Max speed 67kph

The night before

Arrived safely, even my kit arrived safely, so thank you Ryanair for taking care of it.

I was met by the guide, Nick Flanagan, a Raid Pyrenean veteran, and a tall bronzed American named Bob, from Wisconsin. Nick turned out to be as I expected: a man with an easy sense of humour and a natural at making strangers feel like friends.

Bob and I are the only ones riding the Raid in Nick's team this time. Eek, if ever a man was meant to cycle it was Bob. Ok, he's a little older than me but my god he looks fit (not in a sexy way, no!). He watched me build my bike, asking pertinent questions such as: "Are you sure those bottle cages load from the bottom?". I quickly put them on properly and hid my embarassment.

This hotel is filled with cyclists, many doing the Raid with other guides, and the car park is littered with more bike racks than Halfords and very pro-looking team cars. Over the din of the international language barrier being broken down by cycling bravado we ate. Dinner was a buffet of as much salmon and salad as you could get on your plate before the other cyclists ate it all. This was followed by a huge portion of Moroccan chicken and rice, three desserts and a glass or three of wine. Bob drank just water, he is so pure, and he even wanted brown rice. When the waitress told him it was just white rice he opted for pasta. He did sneak a chocolate dessert though.

The official route on Day 1 doesn't, or didn't have, any major climbs, but Bob has asked Nick to include the off-piste Col de Marie Blanque, which is, ooh, just 1035m and on this year's Tour de France. So, keen not to be seen as lily-livered, I laughed in the face of this challenge to my manhood and gingerly, in a voice only dogs could hear, said "I'm game".

We ride at 9am tomorrow and 100 hours after that I'll either be dead or swimming in the Med.

How to pack a bike

So the day arrives. I've culled my clothing to fit into the biggest bag Ryanair will allow, something about the size of a small sandwich box. Everytime I try and close the lid the clothes concertina out like some demented jack-in-the-box, causing curses and frustration and beads of sweat to form on my furrowed brow. Eventually it's done, closed and hermetically sealed for freshness.

And so to the garage.

My bike box, unzipped, lies on the floor. I feel confident I can do the stripping down of a bike. How hard can it be? Wheels off, bubble wrapped, bolted in place. I stand back proudly admiring what I have to conquer. Bars loosened, ummm not quite fitting, ah the saddle, of course. Allen Key in hand I tackle the bolt, it loosens, I smile. A twist and nothing: the seat won't budge. I wrench, clasp, grip, twist and wrestle. A tangle of carbon and flesh heave around the garage. Out into the sunshine and the fight goes on, back against the wall, feet on cranks, twisting. Squealing, the protesting frame won't give up it's grip. Neighbours come and stare, sweat drips from my reddened face, blood oozes from grazes on my knuckles. Amid more screams of protest from the bike, the seat suddenly moves. With a grim snarl of success and spittle my lips break into a smile. Drenched in sweat, my heart racing, I collapse by the bike, probably in a similar state to how I'll look later this week.

I lovingly caress the frame into insulation tubes, more bubble wrap and eventually do up the zip. Then a shining light catches my eye, ah pedals! I'll need those. Unzip, more bubble wrap, find space, close zip. As I step back my foot sends something spinning across the garage, my helmet, unzip again. You get the picture. An hour later, the floor checked and double checked for spare or missing parts, I drew the zip closed for the last time. Let's hope it goes back together without the same fight!

Father's Day

We've all had the socks and dodgy aftershave coupled with a homemade card, but last Sunday Noah gave me a special gift beyond my wildest dreams.

In true father and son style we chucked his bike in the back of the car and headed to the train station car park.

With his helmet strapped firmly in place and stabilisers removed I held the back of of his saddle and explained to him the principles of balance.

"Yes, but dad, on the telly the cycle riders lean to one side," he said, of course using childhood logic. Patiently I explained that when you're going really fast round a corner, yes, you do lean to one side. But when you're going very slowly in a straight line leaning to one side would lead to a fall.

We

went up and down the car park, me sweating profusely, bent double over the back of his Raleigh Dragon Slayer complete with go-faster flames. Eventually I was so knackered that I let go and slumped in a red-faced heap behind his bike. He wobbled left, then right and suddenly he was away. The bike took flight beneath his spinning pedals and I shouted encouragement like a dad ranting on the touchline of his son's football match. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and said, "I did it dad, I really did it".

To say my heart swelled with pride and my eyes with tears is an understatement. I had actually helped my son learn to ride his bike - a major moment in both our lives.

We did a few more laps, his joyful laughter at his new found independence filling my ears. Then he stopped and looked at me again and said, "Do you think we should be leaning over going round corners now?".

We decided that ice cream to celebrate was better. It meant we finished on a high, rather than in casualty!

Calm is the virtue of the strong

You'll all know the feeling the day after a long hard ride, legs, back and arms ache, generally feeling a bit broken. I've always had the same routine afterwards to try and allieviate some of the post ride effects: recovery drink - Rego by choice, bath or shower and stretching.

I've tried a few massage oils but never really got on with them, that is until now.

Having been asked to be a guinea pig for the past few months for the new Rosso oil (it has a long and fancy Italian name in reality) but this oil is special, so I thought it was about time I shared this little gem with you.

Like other oils you rub it in after your ride and it goes on smoothly, is absorbed by your skin quickly and easily without leaving you feeling greasy or staining clothing. Nothing new there you might say, but allow a few minutes, sit quietly and you will feel what I call the Rosso effect sweeping over you.

The oil has a lovely lemony aroma, with a hint of spice, the warmth seeps into your legs slowly but seems to work through your whole body. The mix of essential oils is so finely balanced that it works to relax not only your muscles but also your mind, bringing a feeling of calm and wellbeing to you.

This overall relaxation means that I have slept better since using Rosso too, bear in mind I have a pretty stressful job and average 4 hours sleep a night. I have recently tested the effects of Rosso after not riding and believe me I get an extra 2 hours sleep a night after massaging Rosso into my neck and shoulders, it also helps if are feeling a little stuffy - although it cant cure the common cold or man-flu!

I've suffered with fidgety legs often after rides and since using Rosso my legs have stopped being as twicthy which is really nice and the next morning your muscles dont feel as stiff or bruised.

For those of you who don't like self massage try putting a capful in a warm bath, this is total luxury and is in my opinion a wonderful alternative application of the oil.

Overall I'd have to recommend this oil as totally outstanding and a must have for any cyclist or even for someone who just leads a stressfull life and needs a little bit of TLC.

Rosso can be purchased at http://www.lagazzettadellabici.blogspot.com/

Getting high

In just over two weeks and I'll be standing with my lovely Sidi shoes(in my hand) dipping my feet and the back wheel of my Cervelo in the Atlantic Ocean before starting on one of the epic cycle challenges in Europe, The Raid Pyrenean.
To get to the point where I still feel I'm not ready with only a short amount of time left stikes fear into my slowly beating heart.

On every ride I've become a hill addict, I dont count my rides in distance travelled it's in meters gained vertically that count. The longer and steeper the better, and there in lies the problem. Kent isn't the Pyrenees, or the Alps to be fair to it, it's not even the Dales or Pennines. It's the garden of England and yes on every ride you are blessed with the sights, smells and sounds of our beautiful country there aren't many climbs that go over 300 meters.

Last week I started out on a usual ride, 100 -120 km, when after 20km I realised I'd only gone up 97 metres, panic set in. Diving off to my right I battled up the 22% of Sundridge Hill, feeling better I looked at the height gained on my very clever bike computer - 213m - it flashed. What, how can this be, my eyeballs were bleeding with the effort of trying to get up it. I snarled at the computer - right that's what youre going to be like then is it - short changed by a computer, I'll show you! Left at the top left again and down the parallel hill, eyes watering at the speed of the descent, flies splattering against my face and legs. Left at the bottom and back up again. Ha easy I hissed through my white lips, looking down the computer soulessly flashed 329m. I was heartbroken, it was going to be along day.
A few hours later I sat on my home computer and did a flythrough of my route on google earth, the Downs sure looked like the Alps on the 3d effect.
I huffed and puffed and stressed as I read even more of the "Great Road Climbs of the Pyrenees" I must ask Graeme Fife to do a "Great Road Climbs of Kent". Even more stressed that I wasn't getting high often enough I started going through "100 Climbs" a new pocket sized book.
Oh and Ah! This was it, the secret to soaring like an eagle. I found a few climbs near enough to home and close enough together to get excited.
My first foray into a few unknown hills was interesting, 80km and 1700m height gained - yes I did some twice but oh boy, the next day, inspite of the best efforts of Simon Lamb's oils, my legs were stiffer than they had ever been, the muscles of my backside screamed as I thought about stairs. So time to do it again, and again.

Even my commute to work has three times the climbing it used to 758m in 45km!

By the end of the week I was so tired that I decided to give up drinking wine at home all together. I have spent most evenings cleaning red wine from my carpet having fallen asleep from exhaustion and dropping my half full (notice the positivity) glass all over me.

Am I ready? No, not at all. What will happen in the Pyrenees, I'll get excited by riding in agroup, go off to fast in a show of macho bike riding, blow up after about 50km and get blow out the back on the first climb and suffer the indignity of having the whole group wait for me at the bar at closing time.

But I make this vow to you now, that I will not get off or push or stop on any mountain climbs in the Pyrenees*.

* I will have to take pictures at some point but I won't do it going uphill I promise.

http://www.justgiving.com/cyclingdisorder

Polka Dot Challenge

Sunday morning and the sound of rain on the windows is pretty depressing, especially when you know you are set to ride a tough hilly sportive in the north. Driving through thick fog and driving rain to the start did littel to raise my spirits.
A quick text to Simon (of the Lamb love oils and most famous cycling blogger in the entire world) established that the Gazzetta team was primed and ready to ride.
We stood in the club house of a local sports club, legs shaved, oils with the new Rosso - the aroma of cinnamon emanating from our glowing thighs. After much chatter and bravado we eventually stepped out to brave the elements. Cold rain lashed at our faces, the waterproof qualities of lycra are not something to write home about.
Time card stamped, a briefing on the line about how this was not a race BUT a challenging bike ride and we were off.
We rode as a four some for while but a mechanical problem held back Marcelle, who bravely battled on in singlespeed mode. Simon, as director sportive of Gazzetta stayed back with her to help through the climbs.
The signal was given to Nick and me to ride ahead, so off we raced - in the not racing or being competitive way that cyclists ride with each other.
We took turns on the front of two man break away and chatted through the miles. The climbs were steep, some long and all clearly marked so you knew how much it was going to hurt. We passed numerous riders along the way, chasing down groups as soon as they appeared on the horizon. Nick giving a running commentary of every event on and off the road. His shouts of "Car Up!" startled many a small creature and quite a few cyclists throughout the day.
Through the highest village in England - Flash at a little over 1500 feet. Barrellling down the wet slippy descents made more dangerous by the gravel and mud to arrive at the foot of the climb to the feed station. Nick danced away up the hill, his voiceover getting gradually fainter as he bounced on tiptoes through the other cyclists.
Time cards stamped, we paused for food. Nick then started chatting to a lovely lady about the quality of her flapjacks. I waited, patiently. Then Nick announced that "we cant stand around talking all day, there's riding to be done!" Off we went up hill and down dale and into thick fog on a 20% descent, and to say think, I mean a real pea souper, brakes squealed as we slowed from 50mph to a very nervous 15mph as we approached every bend blind.
With about ten miles to go we decided to give full gas and burned the remaining watts of energy from our bodies arriving at the finish laughing in that delirous way that only exhaustion can explain.
Greeted by the finest cup of tea in the country, served by a lovely couple who smiled in at our madness and faces covered with the grime of three counties we recounted our personal takes on trip to each other and agreed to do it again next year.
A phone call to Simon and Marcelle to check they were ok, and they were Marcey battling around the course in one gear, Simon taking the earfuls of expletives that Lady M filled the air with but they both finished well.
It was lovely to meet and ride with the Gazzetta team and equally lovely to meet Nick's partner Gabby who had just got back from a stunning ride up Alpe d'Huez so missed the PDC because of her recovery program.

The PDC is a wonderful event, only marred by the weather this year. The organisers are friendly and helpful, the sign out is so efficient it would amaze the Germans. The whole route is well signposted and the all climbs are numbered and clearly marked. At the feedzones the staff who volunteered tp stand in the rain for eight hours were cheerful and full of encouragement, and the food supplied was excellent. I will eb back next year hopefully with the other Gazzetta team members. Thanks for a great day albeit a soggy one!
Check out http://www.polkadotchallenge.co.uk/ for details of next year's ride.