The result of a day on the road- hot, tired, exhausted
Lying by the side of the road half way up the Col du Tourmalet was not how I had planned this event. My thighs were cramping up and the muscles stood like bow strings, my legs locked solid by the agonizing spasm. I sat up and lay back down as the spasm hit me again. The heat was intense - nearly 90 degrees away from the shade – and so far I had downed nearly 8 litres of liquid. The electrolyte fluid now made me gag, the sickly-sweet taste cloying my mouth and seemingly coating it with fur.
To get to this point I’d ridden well and hard, the climbs of the Col du Marie-Blanque and the Col du Solour were good. I’d sat in a strong group and worked well. The early climb of the Marie-Blanque was marred by a 20-minute queue as riders seemed want to walk up the first climb, but otherwise the start had gone well.
But this later agony seemed a long way from the start, where cold mist had hung in the air and a blue-velvet sky was illuminated by the soft pinks of the sunrise as 10,000 riders lined up in a pack for the 2010 L’etape du tour. I’d had no problems getting to this point, especially after a minor technical issue with my gears had been sorted by the yellow-clad knights of the road, the Mavic Neutral service bike. There had been plenty of crashes happening around me after the start, leaving riders to be bundled into ambulances or patched up and sent shakily in their way, but I had continued with the pack. The Tourmalet, the giant of the Pyrenees, had, however, bested me. The cramp kicked in, crippling my legs, as I tried to push passed a group near Bareges, a small tatty village part way up the climb. The section through the village has a gradient of around 10 per cent and as I stood in the pedals the searing pain had rendered my legs useless.
After nursing my muscles back to life I started moving again, one painful pedal stroke after another. Time stood still, the sun beat down, my arms sparkled in the light as the sun dried the sweat and salt crystals formed.
Nine kilometres to go, only nine, my thighs screamed in protest with every revolution. Silent tears escaped my stinging eyes, the smooth pedalling motion reduced to clumsy motion as I carried on, ever upwards.
Roadside supporters poured water over my head, the relief welcome but oh-so fleeting. Children, unable to reach up high enough, poured it on my legs and my shoes squelched. Loud music pumped from caravans and motor homes, flags of every nationality were on display and the new black road surface was daubed with the names of cycling gods. It all blurred into a loud, colourful swirl.
Then I could feel my legs being punched by someone: an elderly lady was holding my feet up and wobbling my legs as my bike lay beside me Where the hell was I and why was I staring at the sky? “You 'ave zee cramps" she stated. Wordlessly I mouthed “yes”. She continued her work as I yelped and winced. Her husband smiled at me and said: "She is good, yes? Her 'ands are like magic, non?". I laughed at the indignity and the surreal nature of my predicament. "You 'ave four kilometres to go" she said, holding up eight fingers ... no four ... no eight. I shook my head – it was definitely four fingers. “Go now, fly like the wind,” she urged. I sat on the bike, her husband held me upright and with the strength of a thousand men pushed me up the road to get me started.
I battled every pedal rev over the last 4km arguing with my feeble legs. Eventually I rounded the last hairpin to be greeted by the final insult that the Tourmalet saves for you - a 15 per cent ramp to the finish. My body rallied itself for the finish, summoning up reserves from a deep part me of me I’ve never tapped into before and I rolled over the line. This had been a battle royal. The mountain had won this one, I think, but at least I’d reached the top in almost one piece.
Of the 10,000 starters only 6500 finished. This was a brutal ride, the heat and height seeing many off. But those that finished, in whatever state or time, can be proud to have taken on the giant and, if not beaten it, at least to have gotten through it.
To get to this point I’d ridden well and hard, the climbs of the Col du Marie-Blanque and the Col du Solour were good. I’d sat in a strong group and worked well. The early climb of the Marie-Blanque was marred by a 20-minute queue as riders seemed want to walk up the first climb, but otherwise the start had gone well.
But this later agony seemed a long way from the start, where cold mist had hung in the air and a blue-velvet sky was illuminated by the soft pinks of the sunrise as 10,000 riders lined up in a pack for the 2010 L’etape du tour. I’d had no problems getting to this point, especially after a minor technical issue with my gears had been sorted by the yellow-clad knights of the road, the Mavic Neutral service bike. There had been plenty of crashes happening around me after the start, leaving riders to be bundled into ambulances or patched up and sent shakily in their way, but I had continued with the pack. The Tourmalet, the giant of the Pyrenees, had, however, bested me. The cramp kicked in, crippling my legs, as I tried to push passed a group near Bareges, a small tatty village part way up the climb. The section through the village has a gradient of around 10 per cent and as I stood in the pedals the searing pain had rendered my legs useless.
After nursing my muscles back to life I started moving again, one painful pedal stroke after another. Time stood still, the sun beat down, my arms sparkled in the light as the sun dried the sweat and salt crystals formed.
Nine kilometres to go, only nine, my thighs screamed in protest with every revolution. Silent tears escaped my stinging eyes, the smooth pedalling motion reduced to clumsy motion as I carried on, ever upwards.
Roadside supporters poured water over my head, the relief welcome but oh-so fleeting. Children, unable to reach up high enough, poured it on my legs and my shoes squelched. Loud music pumped from caravans and motor homes, flags of every nationality were on display and the new black road surface was daubed with the names of cycling gods. It all blurred into a loud, colourful swirl.
Then I could feel my legs being punched by someone: an elderly lady was holding my feet up and wobbling my legs as my bike lay beside me Where the hell was I and why was I staring at the sky? “You 'ave zee cramps" she stated. Wordlessly I mouthed “yes”. She continued her work as I yelped and winced. Her husband smiled at me and said: "She is good, yes? Her 'ands are like magic, non?". I laughed at the indignity and the surreal nature of my predicament. "You 'ave four kilometres to go" she said, holding up eight fingers ... no four ... no eight. I shook my head – it was definitely four fingers. “Go now, fly like the wind,” she urged. I sat on the bike, her husband held me upright and with the strength of a thousand men pushed me up the road to get me started.
I battled every pedal rev over the last 4km arguing with my feeble legs. Eventually I rounded the last hairpin to be greeted by the final insult that the Tourmalet saves for you - a 15 per cent ramp to the finish. My body rallied itself for the finish, summoning up reserves from a deep part me of me I’ve never tapped into before and I rolled over the line. This had been a battle royal. The mountain had won this one, I think, but at least I’d reached the top in almost one piece.
Of the 10,000 starters only 6500 finished. This was a brutal ride, the heat and height seeing many off. But those that finished, in whatever state or time, can be proud to have taken on the giant and, if not beaten it, at least to have gotten through it.
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