At the end of the first Rocky film Apollo Creed said, “There ain’t gonna be no rematch.” After putting myself through the most grueling test of my cycling life at Sunday’s L’ Étape du Tour in the Alps of Southeastern France, I feel you, brother.
Last summer I described my experience in the L’ Étape California as having been tough. I looked it up, my actual words were “brutal cubed”. The memory of that pain has faded, but even in the sober light of the moment on Mt. Baldy, it doesn’t hold a candle to the pain in the Alps.
The French version of an Étape, a cycling event where mere mortals are given the opportunity to ride a stage of a major professional ride, chooses its course from the Tour de France.
The route this year is the 10th Stage of the Tour. It begins in Annecy, a beautiful little town at the edge of a brilliant, azure-colored lake, surrounded by the Alps. The race ends 167 kilometers (105 miles) and over 13,000 feet of climbing later, in Le Grand-Bornand.
I had been training for six months, gradually upping the intensity, peaking with one of my highest counts of climbing footage in a single month, in June. I don’t know about you, but I often feel that significant planned events will somehow not come to fruition. When I walked into the massive Expo at the starting line in the Annecy town center, suddenly it was very real. Thousands of cyclists, over 16,000 registered, had descended upon this Alpine village to get their bib numbers and goodie bags, and sample the wares of the exhibitors. The park at the edge of the lake was filled with tents and displays from cycling nutrition, apparel, equipment manufacturers, and on and on.
The most notable display was from Trek Bicycles, the largest sponsor of the event. I stopped by to drool over the new models and stunning new paint schemes, while Serene patiently nodded her head and repeated, “yes, that is a beautiful bike”, and to say hello to Nick Shaefer, Trek’s Country Manager based at their headquarters in Toulouse. Nick helped me last summer by arranging for a top of the line Émonda while I was in Paris, and helped facilitate my rental for L’Étape.
I had been texting over What’s App with my dear friend and art school mate John Breakey while on the grounds. John, a lifelong competitive cyclist made the trip, at my urging, with his spirited climber wife Laurie Grimmelsman. We met in the middle of the Expo and it was one of those weird/wonderful things that social media facilitates; meeting someone in person, Laurie, with whom I had shared comments, likes, and laughing emoticons for a couple of years. We also ran into Ryan Ung, cycling friend and organizer of the Tour of California Étapes.
Ryan had been in France for a while and did some reconnaissance on the route of the race. He said, “When you get to Col de Romme go as easily as you can, because Colombiere, at the end, is no joke.” It must be said that Ryan is a climber, a good one. A strong one. And he’s 31.
They’re so cute at that age.
With my official grey and Tour Yellow bag slung over my shoulder, all that was left to do was pick up my rental Trek Émonda SLR and take an easy roll around the lake the next day to quell the twitchiness in my legs from two days of travel and jet lag.
A fitful sleep (I was a bit concerned about this one) had me saying “Screw it.” at 4:30 am. We rented a house in nearby Sévrier so that I could get to the start without having to drive in. I rolled at 5:30, in anticipation of something going pear shaped. As I dropped into the main road, two cyclists spun by. I humped to catch them so I didn’t have to watch my bike computer navigation in the dark. It was extraordinarily beautiful and calm as the sun began to glow from behind the mountains surrounding the lake.
The 16,000 cyclists would be released in flights of 1,000. I was in the 6,000 group, scheduled for a 6:30 start. I ran into Ryan again. We chatted for a moment and he took my souvenir photographs. I found my corral and pushed to the front. I thought, this single group is the size of most fondos that I participate in, in the US. I don’t know the exact numbers, but Americans made up only about a hundred of the field. It was overwhelmingly French, and only 6% women. It seemed like forever, waiting for things to get going, then a bunch of French words started flying around and I figured, it’s on. The start was very well organized, with pairs of workers holding a ribbon across the front of groups, leading the competitors through a series of barriers.
It was kinda like the cattle-to-slaughter process. What’s that French word? …Apropos.
At the gate to the start it was a bit over-the-top, Carmina Burana and AC/DC blasting through huge speakers, and a woman’s voice, screaming to be heard over the music, shouting words of encouragement like, “Today is the day when you take the challenge and beat the challenge and prove to yourself that you are the greatest….”. It was cute. Didi Senft, El Diablo, the German guy in the devil costume from the Tour de France who runs next to the riders in the climbing stages, was there. Which was way cool.
They finally sounded the horn for our group, and we were off! I use the exclamation mark because the guys next to me acted like they had no intention of going all the way to the finish, 167 kilometers away. As we took the road along the lakeshore I had a couple choices; ride my own race, alone into a headwind, or hammer to catch the fast group. What the heck, join the fast guys. There were a couple tall men, really tall, like 6’8” tall, on the front. Soon we were approaching 30 miles per hour. All were disciplined riders with good form, except one bonehead bobbing up and down and side to side, like Kim Kardashian on Ray J, but he didn’t last.
It was a blast to be on a completely closed route were we could use the whole road. When you watch the Tour, one of the most beautiful rhythms to watch is those overhead shots of the peloton splitting at the roundabouts. It happened maybe five minutes into the run through Annecy toward Séviere. I thought, hey! We just did that thing!
I am slow to warm up and I was starting to feel the pressure of the speed in my hamstrings. Did I back off? No, because I’m stupid and shortsighted. The guys up front were happy to pull and we were all happy to stay on their wheels. We hit the first little bit of climbing, Col de Buffy, at 30 kilometers. We rolled through Alex and La Balme-de-Thuy on our way to the first nutrition stop at 40 kilometers. Because the Tour would come through these beautiful little mountain towns in nine days, the locals lined up to practice cheering on the riders. It was the sweetest experience seeing people with their kids shouting out “Allez! Allez! Allez! From the roadside. In the wider, pasture landscapes, families were on blankets picnicking in scenes reminiscent of Monet’s "Luncheon in the Grass”.
I thought I wanted to “put up a number” for my age category, maybe skip a stop or two and make brief pauses for water. But it was clear, after studying the profile of the race, that today was a climber’s day, and I cannot be described as this. So I hit all but one stop, fueled up on cake, bananas, prosciutto and stroop waffles, and topped up my water and electrolytes each time. ( J. Marvin Campbell, you would be saddened at the method for filling water bottles. Each worker has a mountain of two liter bottles. They fill the bidons, then toss the empties over their shoulders. There were piles of plastic everywhere. )
After leaving the rest stop, the first climbing test came at 54 kilometers. The climbing starts at Thônes. 876 meters over 14km to the top of the Col de la Croix Fry, an average slope of 6.2%. The first section moves up through suburban gardens, chalets and farms to the village of Manigod which is relatively gentle followed by a kilometer out of the village at 8%, two kilometers at 9% and then the last 3km at an average of 8%. Col de la Croix Fry is a category 1 climb. For non-cyclists, climbs are rated 4 through 1, easiest to hardest, with the added bonus of the designation “HC”. HC stands for “Hors Catégorie”. That’s French for “This shit’s so hard, we cant put a number on it”. Or, a finer definition, it’s a number 1 that comes at a bad time, like you just did something huge and your legs are on fire. Or, it’s 1 at the end of a race.
Col de la Croix Fry was a test. Since the road tipped up, my time of hanging with the kids came to a close. Rider, after young and teeny rider, rolled by me as I settled into a slow grinding pace. Save for later, I told myself, save for later. The descent into the ski village of La Clusaz, is 8km at an average of 5.3%. From La Clusaz we headed north, descending through Saint-Jean-de-Sixt, Entremont and Le Petit-Bornand-les-Gliéres before we headed into our first real pain.
Plateau des Gliéres, is a Hors Catégorie climb that belies its descriptor, and up until now has always been described as one of the greatest climbs in France never used by the Tour de France. Parts of the road are gravel (you’d love that section, Pablo). And it's really steep. The first couple of kilometers average 8% but the next 6km are hard. The average gradient for those last 6km is 11%, that’s right AVERAGE. One of the organizers of the race said, “Per kilometer, the average does not go below 10%, which is very rare". The road is also pretty narrow. As advertised, it averaged 11%, an uncompromising, punishing set of numbers that included stretches of 18 and 23% grades. 6 kilometers of that shit. The worst part of this climb was that there was virtually no relief. Flatter sections were impossibly brief. Since I am so long in the inseam, often the shortest person in the room sitting down, these steeper sections are best attacked out of the saddle. Which lasted only briefly. Up down, up down. I couldn’t quite get comfortable and I started to realize what I was in for. Again, the lighter, younger, smaller, fitter riders started to pass me. I did get small victories when I would pass another old guy or not so fit kid. The pace started to really slow toward the top. I was going so slowly that I could have had long conversations with the spectators. I was worried that one of the toddlers on a push bike might leave the onlookers and take me.
Plateau des Gliéres hurt me. Further, it took some future fitness from me. That’s what the “good” mountains do, they take muscle and sinew, oxygen and soul from your future. “FUCK.” Is what I texted The New Yorker from the nutrition stop at the top. “Tough, long climb, but I feel okay.” And then I added, “Now…get out of the way, bitches!”
See, here’s the part that I live for. The descent.
F=MA, baby. The big American is bringing 190 lbs (down from 204 I might add) down the mountain with furious anger, and no fear. It was a closed course so I could carve a nice racing line across the whole roadway. I passed the kids, studs, freaks, climbers, their friends, enemies, and families. Virtually everyone who had humiliated me on the climb looked like they were standing still. I was actually very surprised at how timidly most of the field were proceeding. I called them pussies in a text, but that came from the guy who was hurt and embarrassed by their climbing prowess. One of the things I kept thinking about, on this, and subsequent descents, was how much I would have loved having Pablo “The Argentinian Hummingbird” Maida, with me. We would have been howling, flying through these sylvan Alpine surrounds.
I made up at about a hundred places on a single descent.
Along the way we saw a nasty scene where a cyclist had overcooked the turn, struck the guardrail and went over into the brush and down the mountain. There was a helicopter overhead with a sling and stretcher. Helicopter rides home from a cycling event are not good.
When I arrived at the water station at the 82 kilometer mark, I was nearly halfway to the finish. Ordinarily, given the pain of the earlier climb, that would weigh heavily. But the experience of the descent masked that dread. I was a new man!
There was a veritable parade of beautiful towns and absolutely stunning landscapes that followed from kilometer 82 to 134. It’s really a blur except the memory of the fans roadside. I was motivated to push a little harder through the towns where folks had made the effort to come out and cheer us on. A few times I steered close and slapped hands with kids as I pedaled by. Fun.
Monte at Helen's Cycles was right. “Once you ride in those mountains, you will be spoiled. It will never be the same when you get back home.” The scale and breathtaking beauty can’t be exaggerated. At one point we were traveling along a ridge that bisected two ranges of mountains. It felt like we were in a dream. And no photograph will ever do it justice.
I spoke to a few folks while on the ride, but one guy in particular stands out. He was a 59 year old Frenchman on a white Pinarello. Everyone had their first names on their number plates and bib numbers. A fact I had forgotten about when he rolled up alongside and said, “How’s it going, Ray?” He probably saw that it could be better, and may have been trying to give me a lift. Whatever his intention, we had a really nice talk. He said he was rolling through to the finish, so we bid adieu as I headed into the food zone.
I fueled up for what I was told would be the hardest test. As Ryan Ung said, we should go as easily and slowly as possible up Col de Romme, so that we had something left for Colombiere. Col de Romme is another category 1 climb. Another one. As much as the HC Gliéres hurt, Romme hurt more. All I can really remember is that it just wouldn’t stop taking. Never a break, never a breath. It’s roughly 13km of relentless punishment up the Col de Romme, which is officially an average of 5.3% but the stats don't really show how tough it is. After 2km there is a 4km section at an average of 7.5%, followed by 3km at 3.5%, then 4km at 8%. There are 10 hairpin bends. Locals say it’s one of the toughest climbs in the region.
My friends John and Laurie agree.
The oxygen and muscle fiber performance I needed for this climb was taken on Gliéres. That was the future thing I mentioned. So I slowed down even more. Things started to really hurt. Because I wasn’t on my bike, with my Nate Loyal fit, I was reaching too far for the bars. Which is not a problem if you are pedaling down to the strand to see the sunset. But over 134 kilometers and many thousands of feet of climbing into a gran fondo, all measurements that are even slightly off cause pain. I had weird shoulder spasms and forget the back. My neck felt like it did after a long rugby tournament lifting big fucks with my head in the second row of a scrum.
Everywhere you looked along the route, people were off their bikes walking. A couple times guys fell over in mid pedal stroke, unable to maintain enough pace to stay up.
Ryan was the angel on my shoulder, “Go as easily as you can on Romme.” When I hit that climb and felt the sting of the grade and pace I thought, I can go one speed, very slowly, and it ain’t easy. Somewhere near the three quarter mark of the ascent, there was a small sign pointing to a water station. Which turned out to be a hose on a church-like building. I’ll take it, I thought. Any excuse to take a break that wasn’t simply stepping off the bike. As I silently shared the hose with another rider, a guy rolled up on a red Pinarello Dogma 10. He was an Adonis. 6’3”, mahogany tan, square jaw, and quads for days. You could easily mistake him for a world tour sprinter. He rolled to a stop, winced heavily and swung his leg over the saddle. Then he did the muscle spasm dance, balancing on his left leg (the good one), while limping on tip toe, on his right. You could see the spasm in his right quadriceps, it looked really painful. He collapsed in a heap under a tree. Of course I thought, THAT guy went down?!”
We finally crested Col de Romme at 143.5 kilometers. I stopped at the last rest/nutrition stop to fuel up for the final ascent, our version of the Everest climb’s Hillary Step. Almost everyone in the area were wandering slowly and staring into the distance, it had been a very hard day. I texted the New Yorker: “Feed station before the final climb. I have nothing left to give. And now I must climb Col de la Colombiere. I am actually frightened that I may not make it on the bike.”
I finished my last Coca-Cola and started to swing my leg over when I heard an Irish accent. “Excuse me?” I turned to find a thin young man, about 30, in a white kit with no bike. “Yes?” The young man said, “Can you help me?” I thought he needed translation, which would be a no go with me, unless his question started with, “What’s American for…” But no, he had a simple request: “Can you pick up my bike? I can’t bend over.” I said, “Do you need help getting somewhere?” He said, “No thanks. If I can get my leg over this thing, I’m going to ride.”
You gotta love cyclists.
The final climb, fabled Col de la Colombiere, started at the 150 kilometer mark. The last climb of the day. 7+ kilometers, 633 meters of climbing at an average of 9%. It is relentless. It starts with a few hairpins, the first 4 kilometers lull you with a steady climb and fall of 6, 7, 8% grades. Painful, at this stage, but manageable. Each kilometer is announced with a small road sign, Letting you know how much there is to go. It’s hard to judge when the mountain blocks the view ahead, but it also gives you false hope. The mental game, at this point in the game, is a huge part of survival. So what exactly would it take to knock your ass down? Colombiere opens up.
Now I could see the long line of riders, stretching out into the distance. It underlined that we had a long way to go. It was demoralizing. When would it end? Then, while the mental game is breaking down, Colombiere turns it up. The last three kilometers are 9, then 10, then 11% inclines. I was moving at 7 kilometers per hour. I passed at least 20 cyclists walking their bikes and a dozen or so sitting, with gaunt eyes. After seeing the 1 kilometer sign pass, and seeing only twenty or so riders ahead of me, I was ready to finish.
Then then the mountain opened up further, revealing more of the distant riders. The line of cyclists went on forever. It crushed me. I slowed, and slowed some more. I decided, with 500 meters to go, to get off the bike and take a break. I stood astride my rental Trek, forearms resting on the bars, and looked off into the cruel distance. I pulled a heathy slug off my water bottle, looked up ahead and said out loud, “Fuck you mountain. You ain’t gonna win.” I would like to say that I went two gears up and sprinted to the finish, but I didn’t. I merely continued the grind that got me this far. When the road finally flattened out, we were in yet another pretty village with locals rattling cow bells and other noisemakers. I sprinted across the line of the climb with three other guys. We rolled slowly through town getting ready for the final 12 kilometers of the entire event.
The descent was wide open, and fast. You could clearly see the first four kilometers snaking down the mountain ahead. I was in such pain through my shoulders that I was shifting around on the saddle to change angles. It didn’t help. It hit speeds of 75 kilometers per hour (46 mph) without pedaling. Had I been able to use most of my body, in, you know… the right way, I think I could have hit the national speed limit.
The approach to the finish line was amazing. A long Tour de France yellow carpet lead through a tunnel of spectators who were leaning across the meter high barrier wall drumming on the wooden siding. Others were rattling cowbells while canons fired gold foil confetti. I had visions of throwing my arms out and pointing to “California” on my kit, but I didn’t want to fall over in front of all those people. “Click here for photos of your event”.
Ryan, the climber, finished the race in 5 hours, 53 minutes. I finished in 9 hours, 24 minutes, middle of the pack in my age group, which seems shorter than it felt. I’ve got to train harder next year, not to necessarily “put up a number” but to feel better while doing it.
What’s that you say? Thought there would be no rematch? Apollo Creed made his decision from a hospital bed, I made mine on Alpe d’Huez, the iconic site of Lance’s “look” at Jan Ulrich. It wasn’t that bad. How bad could it be next year?
Thank you to Helen’s Cycles, the best darned bike shop you ever saw, for all the great rides they support and keeping me rolling through bike troubles. To my number one training partner, Ann McCamey for getting out there on a moment’s notice, and pushing it, any old time. And to The New Yorker for schlepping to France for a bike race.
