I tell ya folks, it’s harder than it looks
Wesbite of all the climbs I'll be riding
http://www.cycling-challenge.com/map-of-french-and-swiss-alps-cycling-climbs/
Days 10-12: Le Dénoument
What more is there to say after l'Alpe? For two days I slid down the foothills of the Alps towards Lyon, where I began. The weather was hotter and muggier than in the hills, of course, and I had no intention of going anywhere fast. I think I took three hours to do about thirty miles the day after my last climb. Finally I permitted myself to be nothing but a tourist.
There were a few grades to climb in the foothills along the way, some of which I had done on the way out. I barely noticed them. The only drama came from not finding a place to sleep for four towns in a row: from the look of the map, Rives, Saint-Etienne and towns in between looked large enoughto have lodging, but if it was there I could not find it. I ended up back in La Cote de St Andre, the lovely little town I rode through on the first day. That first hot,windy day seemed like years ago.
The next morning I rode lazily back to St Pierre de Chandieu, and summited my last col, which I happily was able to keep a picture of: about 2,000 feet or so of winding, green climb.
And along the way, had many hours to reflect on this adventure, its purpose, its meaning, its worth. It has been in the making for three years, so it must have meant something to me, but I couldn't explain exactly what. Had I been an economist and counted up the costs and benefits, I might not have made the trip at all, and still wouldn't know what motivated me to do it.
Michelangelo is credited with saying that the problem for most of us is not that we aim too high and miss it, but that we aim too low and reach it. But what of the aiming itself? What of the impossibility of knowing whether another choice would have brought greater satisfaction and meaning, or less? To aim is to have chosen a target already. And now that I have reached it, was the aim too low? Just right?
And all those times when I imagined that something would derail my plans. The length of time for the trip was so short, the runup so long. I could easily have fallen and broken a collar bone, or the bike could have shown up in Lyon in pieces, or I could have gotten sick. I fantasized every day about disaster.
This was more than fear, or more than one kind of fear. For reasons having nothing to do with the ride, I wanted to lay down this dream and simply lead a life. A week of training didn't go by when I didn't think of leading another kind of life, and in many ways it would have been a relief for circumstances to thwart me, because I wouldn't permit myself to do it. But lord, I wanted to. To aim is a burden.
And for what? I don't think I can say why I aimed at this, or whether the sacrifice - from every other part of my life, from all my loved ones and those who supported me - was worth whatever reward may come from it. I can only say that I was drawn to this and I followed, not knowing how things would work out or what would happen along the way. That everything did work out so well - such beautiful weather, not so much as a flat tire to hinder me - had for the most part nothing to do with my aim. My bus driver yesterday texted on his cell phone, fiddled with the radio, occasionally pocketed the fare riders presented for a bus ticket (I imagine him getting fired if he got caught, but if he was discovered without being 'caught,' would be seen as enterprising): all the while careening blithely down roads barely wide enough to accomodate the vehicle, whizzing past children standing on the roadside with inches to spare (and the children too seemed unconcerned). Somehow through the crazily unchoreographed, every-driver-for-himself (but not in a bloodthirsty way) traffic, everyone found their way. It was luck.
We were all lucky. Prepared, yes; intent, yes; lucky nonetheless. Whether this trip did me good or ill will never be known for sure because the only one who can really say - me - is also the most unreliable witness. We survey our landscapes and we aim: this - and not predestination - is what to me is meant by fate, the foundation of tragedy, and of love.
What can be said for sure is this: I have had my vision.
There were a few grades to climb in the foothills along the way, some of which I had done on the way out. I barely noticed them. The only drama came from not finding a place to sleep for four towns in a row: from the look of the map, Rives, Saint-Etienne and towns in between looked large enoughto have lodging, but if it was there I could not find it. I ended up back in La Cote de St Andre, the lovely little town I rode through on the first day. That first hot,windy day seemed like years ago.
The next morning I rode lazily back to St Pierre de Chandieu, and summited my last col, which I happily was able to keep a picture of: about 2,000 feet or so of winding, green climb.
And along the way, had many hours to reflect on this adventure, its purpose, its meaning, its worth. It has been in the making for three years, so it must have meant something to me, but I couldn't explain exactly what. Had I been an economist and counted up the costs and benefits, I might not have made the trip at all, and still wouldn't know what motivated me to do it.
Michelangelo is credited with saying that the problem for most of us is not that we aim too high and miss it, but that we aim too low and reach it. But what of the aiming itself? What of the impossibility of knowing whether another choice would have brought greater satisfaction and meaning, or less? To aim is to have chosen a target already. And now that I have reached it, was the aim too low? Just right?
And all those times when I imagined that something would derail my plans. The length of time for the trip was so short, the runup so long. I could easily have fallen and broken a collar bone, or the bike could have shown up in Lyon in pieces, or I could have gotten sick. I fantasized every day about disaster.
This was more than fear, or more than one kind of fear. For reasons having nothing to do with the ride, I wanted to lay down this dream and simply lead a life. A week of training didn't go by when I didn't think of leading another kind of life, and in many ways it would have been a relief for circumstances to thwart me, because I wouldn't permit myself to do it. But lord, I wanted to. To aim is a burden.
And for what? I don't think I can say why I aimed at this, or whether the sacrifice - from every other part of my life, from all my loved ones and those who supported me - was worth whatever reward may come from it. I can only say that I was drawn to this and I followed, not knowing how things would work out or what would happen along the way. That everything did work out so well - such beautiful weather, not so much as a flat tire to hinder me - had for the most part nothing to do with my aim. My bus driver yesterday texted on his cell phone, fiddled with the radio, occasionally pocketed the fare riders presented for a bus ticket (I imagine him getting fired if he got caught, but if he was discovered without being 'caught,' would be seen as enterprising): all the while careening blithely down roads barely wide enough to accomodate the vehicle, whizzing past children standing on the roadside with inches to spare (and the children too seemed unconcerned). Somehow through the crazily unchoreographed, every-driver-for-himself (but not in a bloodthirsty way) traffic, everyone found their way. It was luck.
We were all lucky. Prepared, yes; intent, yes; lucky nonetheless. Whether this trip did me good or ill will never be known for sure because the only one who can really say - me - is also the most unreliable witness. We survey our landscapes and we aim: this - and not predestination - is what to me is meant by fate, the foundation of tragedy, and of love.
What can be said for sure is this: I have had my vision.
Day 9: l'Alpe d'Huez
By most cycling fans' reckoning, this is the most famous climb of all. Its eight miles and 21 numbered switchbacks are known all over the world, and those who win a stage on this mountain gain a special place in cycling history. Here, in 2008, Carlos Sastre exploded from the pack to win his only Tour de France (so far), after never even being mentioned as a favorite. The rule is that if l'Alpe is included in the Tour, whoever is ahead at the end of the day will win that year.
It's easy to see why; this climb is astonishing. After a pretty easy thirty mile trip out of Grenoble up a 1%-2% grade most of the way, l'Alpe kicks up to 11% almost immediately. All around me I could hear cyclists clicking into easier gears. The road swings back and forth like a piece of string pushed up against itself, and each one of the turns exacts a price. This is without question the hardest climb I've ever done in my life; it felt like I was scaling a wall.
The other riders around me would agree. I saw lots of cyclists on all the big climbs, but never had I seen so many resting on the side of the road, catching their breath and rolling their eyes like a cornered rabbit at the sight of the next switchback. Although I never paused, I was right with them. The other three HC climbs I've done were hard, but never once did I think I was going to have to stop. On l'Alpe I thought so several times, and a few times all I could do was slowly turn the pedals over as easily as the grade would allow me, waiting for my heart to slow down enough to establish a rhythm again. The trouble was that as soon as I got into a rhythm, here came about switchback at 15% or so to blow me up.
I did have a goal; though, and it is why I saved l'Alpe for last. The 2010 Dauphiné Liberé - a tuneup ride for the Tour de France - ended one stage here. I kept careful watch of the time of the last rider because I wanted to climb the ride at least as fast as one member of the peloton. That rider's time was one hour, eighteen minutes and thirty seconds, and it was my goal to beat that.
But by the last two miles - when the climb actually levels a bit, but you wouldn't know it from how your legs feel - it didn't look like I could maintain the pace, I just couldn't will myself to ride hard enough. I had already been red-lining my heart rate for nearly the entire ride. Then, at 1hr 14min, I passed a 2km to go sign. That was it, no way I could ride another mile in only four minutes. But then, crazily, I rounded a corner a bit later and there was the finish line! Turns out that sign was some kind of advertising and the 2km had nothing to do with how much climbing there was left. I crossed the Arrivé line at 1 hour, 16 minutes and 45 seconds; nearly two minutes faster than the slowest rider in the Daupiné. I nearly couldn't unclip from my pedals and make it to a bench without falling. Here is me, several minutes and a lot of water later:
It's easy to see why; this climb is astonishing. After a pretty easy thirty mile trip out of Grenoble up a 1%-2% grade most of the way, l'Alpe kicks up to 11% almost immediately. All around me I could hear cyclists clicking into easier gears. The road swings back and forth like a piece of string pushed up against itself, and each one of the turns exacts a price. This is without question the hardest climb I've ever done in my life; it felt like I was scaling a wall.
The other riders around me would agree. I saw lots of cyclists on all the big climbs, but never had I seen so many resting on the side of the road, catching their breath and rolling their eyes like a cornered rabbit at the sight of the next switchback. Although I never paused, I was right with them. The other three HC climbs I've done were hard, but never once did I think I was going to have to stop. On l'Alpe I thought so several times, and a few times all I could do was slowly turn the pedals over as easily as the grade would allow me, waiting for my heart to slow down enough to establish a rhythm again. The trouble was that as soon as I got into a rhythm, here came about switchback at 15% or so to blow me up.
I did have a goal; though, and it is why I saved l'Alpe for last. The 2010 Dauphiné Liberé - a tuneup ride for the Tour de France - ended one stage here. I kept careful watch of the time of the last rider because I wanted to climb the ride at least as fast as one member of the peloton. That rider's time was one hour, eighteen minutes and thirty seconds, and it was my goal to beat that.
But by the last two miles - when the climb actually levels a bit, but you wouldn't know it from how your legs feel - it didn't look like I could maintain the pace, I just couldn't will myself to ride hard enough. I had already been red-lining my heart rate for nearly the entire ride. Then, at 1hr 14min, I passed a 2km to go sign. That was it, no way I could ride another mile in only four minutes. But then, crazily, I rounded a corner a bit later and there was the finish line! Turns out that sign was some kind of advertising and the 2km had nothing to do with how much climbing there was left. I crossed the Arrivé line at 1 hour, 16 minutes and 45 seconds; nearly two minutes faster than the slowest rider in the Daupiné. I nearly couldn't unclip from my pedals and make it to a bench without falling. Here is me, several minutes and a lot of water later:
Day 8: Transfer/Rest Day
After nine straight days of riding, time for a day off. I've got three cycling days left, starting tomorrow with my final HC climb: l'Alpe d'Huez. I didn't feel like climbing the Col du Lauteret twice in two days, so instead took the train to Grenoble, which will make for a seventy or so mile round trip to the climb.
Grenoble itself is something of a disappointment. It's large and noisy and kind of dirty. But it's a big University town, and the place is crawling with college kids, which may explain a lot about the other conditions. But getting settled in for two nights, there are plenty of great places to eat, and it's a pretty friendly city for its size. I think maybe I've just been staying in a number of smaller, quieter, well-appointed towns so it is something of a shock to be back in a real city again. Tonight I walked the somewhat complicated bike route out of town, and tomorrow morning I will be very glad I did.
Grenoble itself is something of a disappointment. It's large and noisy and kind of dirty. But it's a big University town, and the place is crawling with college kids, which may explain a lot about the other conditions. But getting settled in for two nights, there are plenty of great places to eat, and it's a pretty friendly city for its size. I think maybe I've just been staying in a number of smaller, quieter, well-appointed towns so it is something of a shock to be back in a real city again. Tonight I walked the somewhat complicated bike route out of town, and tomorrow morning I will be very glad I did.
Day 7: Galibier
This is the big one, the highest road ever used in the Tour de France. At six or so miles at eight percent, the climb itself is unremarkable, except that it almost never varies from the average grade, so it's a real grind. It starts at 6500 feet, so oxygen is in demand. To get to it you have to finish another categorized climb; either the famous Telegraphe or the Col de Lauteret. I was hoping to do the Telegraphe side but don't have the time to get over there. The Telegraphe is steeper but the Lauteret is several miles longer. Pick your poison.
First photo is what the Lauteret crest looks like; fairly beautiful I'd say. The second is the view of the valley I came up, almost from the top of Galibier. The third is the monument to Henri Desrange, who conceived of the Tour and kept it going in its first years.
And now that I'm in cycling country, I'm getting a lot of encouragement from the locals. In other places in France, however, I'm considered just as crazy as I am at home; it's just a form of insanity they are more familiar with, so it comes across as disinterested sympathy and not incredulity. But what I am putting myself through is no better understood here except by other cyclists.
First photo is what the Lauteret crest looks like; fairly beautiful I'd say. The second is the view of the valley I came up, almost from the top of Galibier. The third is the monument to Henri Desrange, who conceived of the Tour and kept it going in its first years.
And now that I'm in cycling country, I'm getting a lot of encouragement from the locals. In other places in France, however, I'm considered just as crazy as I am at home; it's just a form of insanity they are more familiar with, so it comes across as disinterested sympathy and not incredulity. But what I am putting myself through is no better understood here except by other cyclists.
Day 6: Izoard
I took a tip from Rob in England and the Pro tour and took the train down to Briancon for this leg of the trip. The number of days I have to ride are dwindling and I have to get to the things I came here to do. Watching the scenery pass on the train, it would have been nice to roll by but I would have been exhausted by the time I reached Briancon and in no shape to climb Izoard.
Izoard - the Lizard - is not talked about as much as the other climbs, but is listed seventh in the Alpes tour of the great climbs. Like all the big climbs, it goes on forever at a grade of seven percent or so. After Ventoux, howeve, it did not seem as tough, and if I were to decide to do a climb again based on sheer beauty, this would be the one.
With the handful of setbacks I have had, there have been many blessings as well. The weather has been just pefect: mid-sixties and not a cloud in the sky. And the other day I pulled an inch-long thorn out of my rear tire, but it had just knicked the rubber and had not punctured the tube. It was stuck there like a sewing needle. That is as close to a mechanical mishap as I have had so far.
Another note on being a cyclist in France: it is no big deal. I am given my right to the road and as fast as the cars whiz around here sometimes, I have never felt in danger. On the other hand, there is no deference given either. If I dawdle in an intersection I will hear someone's horn. If I'm taking up too much room I'll get crowded back. The approach is mature in that way, without the polarizing experiences of danger or near-obsequious deference as in Portland. As our city moves along, I expect we'll be more like over here in time.
Izoard - the Lizard - is not talked about as much as the other climbs, but is listed seventh in the Alpes tour of the great climbs. Like all the big climbs, it goes on forever at a grade of seven percent or so. After Ventoux, howeve, it did not seem as tough, and if I were to decide to do a climb again based on sheer beauty, this would be the one.
With the handful of setbacks I have had, there have been many blessings as well. The weather has been just pefect: mid-sixties and not a cloud in the sky. And the other day I pulled an inch-long thorn out of my rear tire, but it had just knicked the rubber and had not punctured the tube. It was stuck there like a sewing needle. That is as close to a mechanical mishap as I have had so far.
Another note on being a cyclist in France: it is no big deal. I am given my right to the road and as fast as the cars whiz around here sometimes, I have never felt in danger. On the other hand, there is no deference given either. If I dawdle in an intersection I will hear someone's horn. If I'm taking up too much room I'll get crowded back. The approach is mature in that way, without the polarizing experiences of danger or near-obsequious deference as in Portland. As our city moves along, I expect we'll be more like over here in time.
Day 5: From Vaissons la Romaine to Gap
Gap is famous in Tour de France lore, a town that is frequently featured in Alps portions of the race. After fighting the wind back up to Nyons, I turned west and was once again blown along, this time through the astounding Gorge of St. May.
But then came the high Alps and the party was over. Rolling hills of five or six percent for about twenty miles, then the wind turned against me with a vengeance. Outside the town of Serres, I rounded a corner and came to a near-standstill due to a standing 70 mph wind from the passes. Another fifteen or twenty miles and then I finally descended into Gap and a well-deserved rest after nearly six hours in the saddle.
The sunflowers are well past full bloom, but still lovely to look at:
But then came the high Alps and the party was over. Rolling hills of five or six percent for about twenty miles, then the wind turned against me with a vengeance. Outside the town of Serres, I rounded a corner and came to a near-standstill due to a standing 70 mph wind from the passes. Another fifteen or twenty miles and then I finally descended into Gap and a well-deserved rest after nearly six hours in the saddle.
The sunflowers are well past full bloom, but still lovely to look at:
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