Welcome. I never intended to write a blog about this trip, but enough people suggested it, and their interest in my fanciful adventure is heart-warming. So I’ll do my best. But bear in mind that I’m going to France to ride, not write; it will be the last thing I do after a long day in the saddle, following eating, finding a hotel, cleaning myself up and doing laundry, sleeping, eating, and maybe sleeping some more. Also, along with a reputation for rudeness (which isn’t deserved), the French are known for terrible public internet access (which is). And I’m not exactly riding around metropolises, finding a place to sleep will be a challenge in many of the spots I land, let alone an internet café.
And finally, I often may not know what to say (and for those who know me, a loss of words may come as a surprise). Anything you do long enough and often enough is bound to get at least a little routine; riding your bike every day is about as mundane an activity most of the time as there is. So why would anyone but very close family and friends – people required to by law to care – take much interest? It’s not like I’m on some noble humanitarian mission. If boredom and neglect set in on your part, I’ll understand completely; I’ll probably be right there with you.
Next Monday, I fly to Lyon, France, from where I’ll head south into the French Alps to ride between 600 and 700 miles in two weeks, and climb as many of the categorized Tour de France climbs as I can. After the second night in France, I have no reservations for lodging anywhere. My French is marginal and I have only my interpretation of maps to get me from point A to point B. If a bridge is out that will lead to a fifty-mile detour, I won’t know about it until I’m at one end of the bridge. If I show up in a town in the afternoon, exhausted, and find there are no accommodations, I’ll have to keep riding until I find some. If I get lost because I didn’t understand the directions some friendly local gave me, I’ll have to find my own way. In every respect, I’ll be on my own with those mountains in front of me, and nothing more than a change of clothes, a few toiletries and rain gear as luggage. How is this a ‘vacation?’
My first long bike ride was at age fourteen. It was organized by the YMCA and I rode 42 miles over steeply rolling hills in the humid southern Pennsylvania summer on a chrome Raleigh English Racer three-speed with a leather saddle hard enough to stop bullets. I have no idea why I did well at it or why I liked it, it seems to me that an affinity for a given sport has almost a genetic quality to it. But I’ve been a cyclist ever since. I also spent many years in the bike industry as a youth, and loved it in ways I’ve loved no other occupation. And I’ve read about the Tour de France and those legendary climbs for decades. So this trip is the confluence of many streams than have run through my life, something of a lifetime achievement award I’m giving to myself.
However there’s no real way around Portland to prepare for those climbs. Talk to anyone who’s ridden up those mountains, there’s nothing here that comes even close. Larch Mountain, at 18 miles long and an elevation gain of about 4,000 feet? An approach to a real climb at best. The climb to Timberline on West Leg road? Not bad, a veteran of the Alps would say, a nice, comfortable ride. When I see the real climbs for the first time – Ventoux, Izoard, Galibier, l’Alpe d’Huez – I fully expect to be in shock and awe.
Not that I haven’t done my best to prepare. I’ve ridden more this year than I ever have: since mid-February I’ve put in over 250 hours of cycling – over ten hours a week, on average – and that doesn’t count commuting, errands or cruising around with my girlfriend. I’ve put in over 4,200 training miles. If you remember the miserable, wet and cold 2010 Portland Spring, I rode through it. No way was I showing up to the Alps wishing I’d prepared better. I’m in as good cycling shape as I have ever been, and I got so much help getting ready for this that it hardly feels like a singular journey:
* Michael Sylvester, a close friend, fit me on my bike and fixed every cycling-related physical problem I could come up with. In addition, he’s ridden the hills I’ll ride and has kept saying ‘you’ll be fine’ often enough that I believe him. For the most part.
* Dr. Ralph Yates kept body together while I worked on soul.
* Rock Reid, physical therapist extraordinaire, figured out a years-old knee problem no one else had, and finally convinced me to stop working out in ways that made me feel good about myself, but didn't make me feel good.
* Beth Paxson, massage therapist and Iyengar yoga instructor, kept my legs fresh and found things wrong with me I didn’t know were wrong, and then helped me fix them.
* Jeff Tedder, local cycling coach, got me out on the road and putting miles under my belt, and gave me my first taste of the team environment.
* Scott Saifer of Wenzel Coaching, fine-tuned my training and guided me to the end, putting me in the best position I could be in to have success in this venture. (And by the way, he knows exactly how to prep for the Alps in Portland, in case you're interested.)
* Steve Parke, another close friend and bike biz insider, kept pushing the vision (and cutting me deals on cool stuff), and would not let me settle for less than he knew I wanted to get out of this
* Dennis Funk kept my bicycle in superior condition; I’ll land in Lyon with a mount that would rival that of any TDF rider
* A new friend, Rob Newton, whom I've never met, but is riding the same territory a week or so after me, starting from his home in England. He made me feel sane in the way only someone else doing the same thing can.
* And my girlfriend Sue, who actually had to live with me. Of all the help I got, none mattered more or meant more; she embraced this quest in every way imaginable. Thank you, baby.
A word about my theme music. I’ve been humming that AC/DC tune for months now; it’s the near-perfect anthem. It’s energetic and the rhythm is just right for my hill-climbing tempo. And check out the outfit Bon Scott is wearing: it’s far too infrequent these days that we see guys strutting their stuff in a horizontal black- and red-striped cropped t-shirt and a white tuxedo jacket-and-tails with the sleeves torn off. And yet he pulls it off. Perhaps I’m hoping for something just as improbable from myself.
