Somewhere beyond the bitter end is where I want to be

What time is it in the world? Hah!

Sometime around now the clocks are going back an hour, yet Google blogspot-world measures time according to someplace in the USA. Whatever time it is I should really be asleep, but as is usual these days I'm finding that, well, problematic. Especially as I had a few hours in the land of nod after I came home from riding this afternoon. Yesterday afternoon.

It has been quite a week, for all sorts of reasons, trains, training sessions, bike rides and just pure unadulterated slog. I rode to work for the first time in a few weeks on Wednesday, played football enthusiastically on Monday, went to London on Thursday and went to see my Dad on Friday.

So despite my immense fatigue at 8AM Saturday, it was an official ACG ride, I was ride leader, and the sun was threatening to shine. Time to be out and at them, the hills that is. And of course it was cold, and windy, and wet and mulchy underneath, with hints of ice and more mud on the road than a seventies revival tour.

But you can't just sit about, after all the only things that are keeping me going right now are Patty Griffin, Paul Whitehouse and riding my bike. So we formed up in the Square, both of us (Dave and I) and headed off into the teeth of the north wind and up Shipham Hill. Then up Long Bottom (thank you!) and down Burrington Coombe. Now if you think you are slow going down hills, I think I have found a couple who are slower than you. Halfway between cattle grids I passed a couple who could have made faster progress by walking. Perhaps they were worried about the threat of ice, or the cavers that crossed the road in front of us.

Dave and I headed into the maze of little lanes around Butcombe and Nemnett Thrubwell. Most of them are steep, and all of them were muddy, but as far as we could tell, none had ice in or on them. With little traffic about it made for a very pleasant change from slogging into headwinds on flat level territory.

We decided to try the cafe by the east side of Chew Lake, and admire the views. I'm sorry there are no action shots, I haven't been on the course yet, so you will have to make do with still landscapes.

And here is the obligatory cake, in this case a nice fruit scone, which I ate, although most of the cream and jam was unconsumed.

I am also on something of a quest and a mission to ride lanes and byways that I have never done before. This is difficult locally but we managed it today. Some of the roads near Butcombe were new, as was the latest climb up the Mendips, Ridge Lane out of West Harptree. Sounds like a racehorse.

So here is our route as recorded by Charlie and loaded by Garmin and here is the route on ridewithGPS. About 40 miles all told, some inaccuracies in recording, but I think Garmin is more accurate. But GPS has gradients, peaking at around 18% today.

it would be so easy if there was no-one left to hurt but me

 “It's a bollocks, this race! You're working like an animal, you don't have time to piss, you wet your pants. You're riding in mud like this, you're slipping ... it’s a pile of shit......... it's the most beautiful race in the world!”

-Theo de Rooij on Paris Roubaix 

Kind of ironic given the events of 2007 and subsequently. But I remembered this quote today, well yesterday actually, amidst the Casheque mud and the blood and the beer, of a stinker of a day.

Thanks to my friends for getting me through.

It's still a good quote though.

It's not about the bike

Poor old Lance Armstrong. There, I've said his name now. Let that be an end to it. I really hope the story of him having a Google alert for his own name is true. He would need to have an army of people monitoring them, what with Twitter and all. If one of that army is reading, first let me tell you I'm not worth suing. Second, there is nothing about Lance Armstrong in this post that is defamatory, since it is either true or, actually, not about him.

I just wondered if Lance Armstrong has a therapist, a psychotherapist, or a psychology coach, that type of thing. In the absence of any of the said factual evidence, I can't speculate, but it would be interesting to know. I bet he could do with a friend at least right now. And as we all know, a friend is someone who lets you help.

Today, Steve, Jennifer and I went to Bath. Via the scenic route. It is the latest in the continuing theme to boldly go where we don't often go, before, or something like that. Last week we went south-west, this week it was north-east. So it doesn't take a genius to work out where we are going next. As with all my plans they are pretty flexible, but this week we stuck to most of the route, and certainly did the full planned distance, just over 100km in my case.

We did forgo Draycott Steep, the very, very steep hill up the Mendips, in  favour of Westbury Hill, the very steep hill. It was swirly-misty-early-sleepy Sunday morning, and after only 6-7 miles I was huffing and puffing up it. Unlike Steve, who was doing a fair impression of Joaquim Rodriguez today. As in, breezing up the hills while smoking both of us, never mind the cigar.

              Steve

Once up the top we took it in turns to haul ourselves across the plateau, before Jennifer took off down towards Chewton Mendip. For once we carried right on, until a right at Farrington Gurney, and then a sharp left, took us into our first sandstone village (town?) of Paulton. For the next few miles the road ran along the top of the ridge, and as the mist slowly cleared, the views were tremendous.

Soon, we took a right, down into the valley that carries the Gem Brook to the Avon, and the lane passed through some delightfully-wooded sections, Warren Wood, Engine Wood, Godwin's Wood, and the gruesome Slittems Wood. The best name of the day was to come, as once through the village of Monkton, we turned left and hit the slopes of Brassknocker Hill.

The route then took us round the south side of urban Bath, before descending right down to river level, and out coffee stop, the Riverside Inn at Saltford. Pretty empty it was too, I would imaging it would be packed in Summer, but as we left the day was turning into a bright and mild one. There was much layering and de-layering but with the wind now behind us, it was definitely a case of being too warm more often than not.

It was also much muddier, and there were more horses, but the names continued unabated. Pretty villages, Compton Dando, Middlepiece Lane, Cocker's Hill (yes really), Publow Lane, and my personal favourite (I have no idea why), the village of Woollard, Something to do with the accent I think.

 

Rail enthusiasts will recognise Pensford viaduct, which we all went under for the first time today.  Pensford  is actually a fascinating place, as I found out from the link, but  if you can't be bothered to read the link, I can confirm there isn't a railway a-top it now. The village does however have this other Grade II listed farm house, also eponymously named!

 





I haven't mentioned bridges for a while. If you are a new reader, I have almost an obsession for a great bridge, and we went over loads today, mainly because we were dipping out of these small valleys, each with its own Avon tributary.

Modern bridges just don't seem the same somehow, more thought went into this, for example:

 

 

This one is in Stanton Drew, and I have still not stopped to look at the Stone circle there. Shortly after crossing this, we headed back onto more familiar ground through Chews Magna and Stoke, but instead of heading up a Harptree, we climbed the back road out of Compton Martin, known as the Wrangle. Pretty steep and a bit mucky. I was initially sitting down, until I inadvertently pulled a wheelie, forcing me out of the saddle till the road was less damp.

 

Once at the top we all decided that was enough and so we headed across the top and down the gorge. For once, on a Sunday, I got a clear run and took it at a fair pace, before hitting grockle city at the bottom.

 

It had been a great ride. Not lightning fast, but then mucky and wet roads put paid to that, along with some chunky climbing. And the best company there is, in the fresh air and the sunshine. Just for one day, a little bit of denial. So Lance, I understand, I really do. Sometimes the real world and the truth are hard to face. But when you do it, after it's all over, you will still have your friends, your family, your health and your bike. You can make a plan of how to sort things, get people to help and support you, people that really care, not the millions of "adoring fans".

 

Do you need anything else? Really?

 



Somethings that mean everything

Ever watched the Magnificent Seven? Sixties movie-making at its finest, and I know it was derived from a Japanese story, but Westerns are so much better really.

There is a great bit where some young kids are starting to hero-worship one of the gunslingers, decrying their own fathers as cowards. The hero defends them by saying he could never shoulder the burden of responsibility that parenthood brings, and that anyone can be a gun for hire.

So it was that it fell to me to assemble my son's new bed, from four, yes four, large (we are talking bigger than me) boxes yesterday. I had procrastinated long enough, about two weeks to be more precise, and could not delay it any longer. I'm not going to rant about it, but it did take me most of the late afternoon and evening of Saturday to get the thing assembled.

I say "bed", but it's more of a live-in bunk cum-desk-futon station. Don't ask, suffice to say it was a late and very grumpy me that finally got round to planning the route for today's ride with the ACG. I had planned an alternative Sunday, involving 92 miles in Worcestershire, taking in the Malvern Hills. One of my lifetime ambitions is to cycle there, it dates back to my time with Britannia.

Every time I drove up and down the M5 to and from Leek, I would see them poking out of the flatlands in the distance and think that would be a great place to go riding. So when I saw a CTC ride there I thought that might make a good place for a quiet ride to contemplate life, the universe and everything. But it would involve a very early start, early night and that was probably incompatible with the flat-pack bed situation.

So when Steve e-mailed a reminder about an ACG ride, it didn't take much to persuade me, although I did fancy something different, and he suggested the Quantocks. Missus. Open goal, sorry. The ride I suggested was this gem. I did say that it was a flexible plan and so it proved.

With all the seven pistoleros assembled in the Square at 9AM, it some pretty dense fog and significant chill, it was apparent that not everyone had time for 75 miles. By the time we had got over the levels, up over the Polden Hills and into, and then around, Bridgwater, and up the not inconsequential Enmore Hill, I knew I didn't have the legs or lungs, for Crowcombe either.

We all contented ourselves with the lovely views of the landscape, the slightly quirky proprietor, and the bacon sandwiches in the Pines Cafe at the top of the hill. Martyn, who I inadvertently called Bryan last time I was out with him, even met up with some other cyclists he knew.

Sorry there are no action shots, not too good on the iPhone camera on the go. But the views from the hills were great, and the colours of the trees are also just starting to come into their own.

I haven't been riding much since France and my Mum's death, and I have also had a nasty lurgy which refuses to totally leave my lungs. I went to see the Asthma nurse (this is not the start of a joke BTW) and she increased my steroid dose for a few weeks to see if we can kill it off.

All of this means I am short of cycling fitness and lung capacity. So by the time we had descended to North Petherton and starting bombing across the levels again, it was all I could do to just hold on. We headed along the road next to the river as far as Burrowbridge, during which time a few of the group seemed intent on turning the ride into a team time trial.

We eased off a bit after that, for the sake of me if no-one else (oh the privilege of being a ride leader!), and rode in a line all the way to Pedwell, where we fragmented a bit before coming together on the other side of the hill.

Martyn and Trevor peeled off at Westhay, leaving Steve and Figgy to lead us over Mudgley Hill and play rabbit-chasing through Clewer and wait for the three of us slow-coaches at Sharpham Road. And that was pretty much that, by the time I got home I'd done just over 64 miles, at an average of 16.1 mph. Charlie gave up the ghost after the Quantocks, but we broadly followed the route above.

I sure am tired, and it can't be from over-training. It was a lovely day today, after the mist cleared and the sun came out to play it was nigh on perfect cycling weather, Goldilocks and all that. And the company was great too. As you can see from the pictures we are all knocking on a bit, and have considerably less olive oil than we used to, and certainly less than him.

But the company was great, the riding good and the scenery a bit different. Let's do more of that over the next few rides. Chepstow anyone?

How bad can it get?

I am having a theoretical rest. Certainly it's a rest from cycling, not been on the bike for 7 days, when I joined our works outing, aka charity fund-raiser. We raised over £30K for Care International, and thanks to those that helped me do my bit and raise my contibution. The day was great, I met people from all the different international offices of our organisation, all brought together on two wheels and a bike. Lots of them, people and bikes.

The ride was OK. We did most of the Olympic road race route, except without the crowds or the closed roads. So whilst the London parks and a few bits of Surrey were rural and picturesque, especially Box Hill, the suburban stuff was full of traffic and never-ending parades of shops and houses. No wonder Team GB didn't win, I'd have been bored to death riding it too. To relive the real professional experience we got to cycle multiple circuits of the Box Hill loop.

After my first two, which as you know breaks my law of never going over old ground on a ride, I rebelled and rode the loop in the opposite direction. Then, instead of completing my 4th, and penultimate ride before the lunch stop, I saw the clouds coming over the hill, and headed for soup and a sandwich pronto. Unfortunately the rain continued all afternoon in a drizzly fashion, and seemed an appropriate metaphor to the way my cycling season has fizzled out of any enthusiasm.

So I decided to have time off the bike. That's the "rest" bit, the rest of the rest is as busy and frantic as ever.

It didn't help that I was already a week into what is now turning into the longest-running bout of manflu ever known to, well, man. Obviously I suffered on the bike, and riding 90 miles in the damp on a Friday in London was not conducive to total good health, but this pesky virus seems to have taken up residence in my respiratory system and is not leaving till it gets what it came for.

I can see everyone around me all buoyed up by the thought of next year, and I'm lacking a certain joie de velo. Still, times have been worse, particularly when it comes to the weather. One of the posts above relays Day 5 of this year's trip to the Pyrenees, and I have decided that gets in at number 6 in my all-time worst cycling weather moments.

Number 5 was also from 2012, step forward this year's Mad March Hare. Another terrible rainstorm, one that lasted all day and was joined by gale force winds, freezing temperatures and a lovely blizzard at the top of the day's main climb. My comfort levels were not helped by inadvertently leaving the vents of my rain jacket wide open. I only discovered this after buying an expensive replacement a couple of days later, an action that guaranteed us the next few weeks' dry weather.

Number 4 was also a day of unrelenting rain, the first day in the Pyrenees last year (see photo below of a rather disconsolate bike next to a soggy bus shelter and a rain-peppered road). The great thing about that day was how the sun came out and the wind died down at almost the exact moment we finished riding.

The third worst was the infamous Exmoor Beast 2009. It did rain most of the day, but the worst of it was the wind. People were blown over on a regular and frequent basis, the mist was swirling around like the dry ice at a Mission gig, and no-one could see a thing. Once or twice I found myself blown onto the wrong side of the road as I cycled past a westward-facing gap in the hedge, catching the full blast of the hurricane in the process.

The organisers cancelled the 100 mile route and defaulted thousands onto a truncated version, leading to crowded narrow lanes, and much accompanying cyclist ire. And a few more crashes on the slippery cattle grid and foaming ford. One to say that "I was there", and never go back. Which of course Stuart and I ignored by signing up and completing the full distance in slightly better weather in 2010, although the extra bits tagged on are a bit dull really.

It was a close call, but the second worst weather took place during 25 minutes of what was generally a tolerable to pleasant day. Day three of 2010 Raid Pyrenean, coming down the Aspin. Again rain was the culprit, but hard, driving, thunder-strewn mountain-bouncing-upwards rain. Climbing up from Campan had been a bit damp and misty, but generally OK. On reaching the col Stuart and I nearly had our legs ripped off by the storm, as torrential rain swept in from the east.

The descent to Arreau is about 12km, losing around 800m at an average of around 6.5%. On a dry day it's a sublime ride, long straightS with great hairpins and wonderful views. On that day it turned into hypothermia from hell, as slowly I lost contact with toes, then fingers, then nose and then reality. There was so much surface water I was reluctant to pedal to warm myself up, for fear of taking a tumble. This only prolonged the agony as I freewheeled down to the base of the mountain, to find the storm passing, and all my sopping wet clothes starting to steam in the heat.

But the prize, if there was one, for the worst weather on a bike, is also one of the most significant days I have had in my life, never mind a bike. Day 9 of Land's End to John O' Groats, April 2009. Connel (near Oban) to Inverness, a distance of just over 106 miles, in one direction. Up the Great Glen, largely on the flat, in the wind. The 30 mph headwind. The only respite was on the few climbs, when at least you expected to be slow. The wind was so fierce I had to pedal to gain momentum on the downhills.

Crying, raging, cursing my sore knee, thinking of giving up. At the end of that long, long day I knew that if I could get through that, I could get through, and more to the point, I could actually accomplish anything I set my mind to do.

So of course, how bad can it get? Possibly worse than all those days, possibly worse than yesterday when I raged about the idiocy of Norman Tebbit, the fatuousness of celebrity, the ineptitude of the Health Service, the pettiness of duvet covers and the uselessness of my lungs. But that's all normal for this stage, one month on. Early days.

This dream, I don't ever give up

Life is moving, turning and twisting on a-pace and I want to wrap up the Pyrenean blog and write about other stuff.

So this is the last tree days, nearly a month ago now, all in one bumper post. Day 4 was on paper a sort of transitional stage. For those of you who know the Tour, you will know that a transition stage is a relatively flat one which takes you form one set of mountains, the Pyrenees say, to another, like the Alpes.

On this trip there weren't really any flat bits, so the Col de Mente, Portet d'Aspet, Peguerre and Port will have to suffice in relative terms. First was Mente, a climb Stuart and I did last year on the first day of our mini-break cycling holiday. We had a nice rolling flat start of 10-15 km guided by Pyractif's resident helpers, as Chris was coming up with the fast group and Helen was busying preparing our picnic lunch for later, and they made pretty short work of it.

Mente is quite steep, averaging around 8% I think, but it has the obligatory views, as well as delightful hairpins and switchbacks on its upper slopes, which all help to break things up and keep it interesting. It also has history, as you can see from the photo I took last year.

A friend of mine has been complaining recently about the intricacies of the French language, but at least they know how to put up a good memorial. Can you imagine a similar inscription on Cheddar Gorge, it would be something like "Bob fell off and had to give up".

After a cafe stop at the top of Mente, it was down the other side, this time in the dry, which made for a fantastic this way-that way corner-sweeping fest of a comedown. Or something like that. And then it was up past another memorial, this time slightly more grandiose, to Fabio Casartelli, killed descending the Portet d'Aspet in 1995, and Olympic Champion three years earlier in Barcelona. This picture was taken last year as you can see from my profile (half a stone heavier than 2012) and the rain, fortunately absent this year.



The climb itself and short and steep, and after 4km we all re-grouped together at the top. For logistical reasons connected to the access for the support vehicles, Chris had decided to ditch the Col de Saraille, meaning we would have just two climbs left that day. On reflection I realised that the week would end quite quickly and I wanted to spend a bit of time in my own head, and stop and admire the scenery a bit.

So I eschewed company on the long descent to St. Girons, and stopped to reflect on just what a beautiful landscape I had been riding in, and how fortunate I was to have the opportunity of riding through it.

 

Eventually I rolled into St Girons, and Chris guided us through backstreets to a lovely spot by the river where we could enjoy Helen's picnic. I enjoyed the pizza particularly, plenty of calories and plenty of taste.

A special mention must be made for these two guys from the Middlesborough area. Both amazing cyclists, they rode the entire trip on standard 53/39 doubles with 12/25 cassettes. Which in view of the afternoon's exploits is absolutely amazing.

And as you can see from this photo, innately stylish as well as immensely strong.

The afternoon's ride was one of two halves. First was a gradual ascent up to Massat, through a gentle wooded gorge, and unfortunately a bit too much traffic. After a short spell riding with different groups I reverted to plan "Enjoy the scenery on my own". The day was turning into another warm one, so I got rid of base layer, helmet and prepared myself for the hardest climb of the entire trip. The Col de Port is a very easy climb, and also tranquil and beautiful. Possibly my favourite in the whole world.

But halfway up is a turning up to the Col de Peguerre, 3.5 kms at an average of around 12%. Sounds doable on paper, but when you think that is the average, it's like Draycott Steep but three times as long. And hot, although thankfully fairly shaded for much of it. Once again, many of the group passed it by on the way to the top of the Port, but I couldn't do that. Signed up for it, had to do it.

 



Once back down, it was about 6kms up to the top of the Port, before the descent to Tarascon and the hotel for the night.

Day 4's route

Overnight I was woken by the ominous sounds of rain, and true enough Day 5 dawned damp, drizzly and dark. This was the day when every inch of road was to be new to me, with some lesser-known climbs and isolated roads to be ridden.

In riding terms I think it turned into the nicest day of the whole trip, although it was harder and a lot longer than we all expected, mainly due to the weather. The Route des Corniches is a road that runs along the top edge of the valley between Tarascon and Ax-les-thermes. Some steep bits to begin with to get you up there, but mostly just meandering, undulating isolated tarmac, with spectacular views across the mountains and gorges, and ruined castles to point the way. What is not to like?

Well, I suppose the rain was one thing. What had started as drizzle, became proper rain, then all-enveloping mist and rain, then just a total immersion in dampness. And of course at altitude, that means cold. So by the time we reached the Col de Chioula, the temperature was hovering around 5-7C, and the group was fragmented and separated by a large distance and a couple of puncture stops. People were getting grumpy!

Quite rightly, Chris made the decision to take everyone down into Ax for a re-group and a re-think, pending some intelligence on the conditions at the top of the Port de Paillheres, the 2000m+ climb that was next on the itinerary. We descended, then invaded a slightly surprised cafe while Chris worked out what to do next. Everyone was thawing out, searching for dry clothes, and trying to get hot food and drink inside them, after a 10km descent in cold and wet conditions. Not as cold as Aspin 2010, but in the my top 10 worst cycling weather moments list.

It turned out to be near 1C at the top of the Paillheres, and with no shelter or changing facilities up there, and a 20km descent down the other side, Chris took the sensible decision to change the route for the day. And as it turned out, instead of a hard day's climbing, we ended up with a long loop around the northern side of the range, through some of the most stunning and fantastic scenery you can imagine.

This blog gets these superlatives all the time, but really, there were gorges, wooded valleys, tumbling streams, isolated villages of character and mystery, and also a lot of extra distance. We ended up doing over 160km in the end.

And though we missed out on the big climb, it was a not a flat day by any description. We still had to go back up the Chioula that we had just come down, up the minor Clo de Sept Freres, and then up the Col de Jau, with its first three km averaging 10%,  followed by a further 10km of staedy gradient - not for the feeble-legged.

 

We had a brief stop and re-group for a hot drink in a small village, and occasionally I would catch up with or be overtaken by some of our group. But for most of the afternoon I was deep in myself, my thoughts and my feelings. It was one of the most intense days I have had on my bike, if not my life. As I started up the lower slopes of the Col de Jau, knowing that I was one of the last on the road, I was overcome with emotion about my Mum.

I had no idea that her health was taking a huge turn for the worse at just about that very moment, and looking back now I am wondering about this, it sounds crazy but are there bigger forces at work in the world? Was there some kind of connection being made across all that space and time?

I stopped by the side of the road, and thought to myself that I when I got home I would tell her all about this wonderful and magical place, how I was thinking of her at that very moment and took this picture that encapsulates everything about the trip. I was tired, quite hungry, a bit teary but, as ever, utterly determined to carry on. This was the picture I took.

As it turned out I never got to tell her about the trip, and a lot of me feels guilty for having gone. But my logical side tells me that she was clear with me that I should go, and that it would have changed nothing had I stayed. I must hold on to the good things as I continue that journey.

After that it was just about slogging on up the hill to the top of the last Col, the Jau. A 20KM descent followed as the weather slowly brightened. I overtook a couple of groups on my way down, through picturesque villages, and the land began to take on more of a Mediterranean feel. The penultimate hotel was a motel on the outskirts of Prades.

It had been a tough day, and with the back of the mountains pretty much broken I looked forward to a last hurrah down to the seaside the next day.

Day 5 route

Day 6 dawned hot and dry, and we all tagged along in a big group down the road towards the Mediterranean. With only around 80kms to do, we were there before you knew it, there was one small climb up to the Col de Fourtou, through a hot and arid gorge, past a tiny village with its traditional war memorial. Odd to think that a place with little more than a few houses and a surrounding farms had nonetheless lost around 20 men in the First World War. It seemed a world away from the tranquillity of the mountain and the heat of the that gorge.

Unfortunately one of the Canadians, a nice chap currently living in the French Alps, had an accident whilst taking off his jacket and riding at the same time, takining a nasty tumble in the process. The search for appropriate medical intervention fragmented the final morning somewhat. But with the last climb done, we all headed for the final blast down across the plains to the sea at Argeles sur Mer. Once again I saw in some of the final miles on my own. Before the final festivities and celebrations, with people jumping in the sea, knocking back the wine or eating normal-sized food again, I paused to look back, reflect and take one last picture.

The final day's route

Of course this blog post has been written a month after the events it describes and so much has happened in the intervening period. I'm currently winding down for the winter, doing a few rides here and there, riding to work, and coming to terms with what has happened.

Like all these things, I have to do it my own way. Just like the ride in fact, I did it, did it quite well be my standards and loved most of it. If that didn't show enough to the people I was with, I am sorry. Few of them will read this in any case, but I had other things on my mind. Helen and Chris were wonderful guides and hosts, ably supported by Pete. If you are thinking of cycling in Europe, check them out before anyone else, definitely A* for the experience.

And as is also my way, I tend to look forward more than back, and I'm mulling over various things for next year although I have a lot to work through before I get that far. But it is ironic that most of the photos I took were of the views of where I had come from, like this one. Whilst I work out some of that stuff, this blog will be off the air for a while. I hope the few readers I have will still be there when I come back.

Don't ever give up

I made it through the wilderness

The morning of Tuesday 28th August dawned misty and damp. The night before had seen, and more impressively heard, a mighty thunderstorm cracking and rolling around the surrounding peaks and valleys, and dump a huge volume of rain outside the hotel. As it turned out, it was just what my poor lungs needed as it cleared the air of a lot of its humidity.

I dosed the lungs up from both my inhalers and set off up the road.

Even so, I still spluttered and wheezed my way up the moderate inclines of the gorge that separated our starting point from the Luz St. Saveur, and the start of our first proper climb of the day. That morning I was all on my own, as the mixed nationalities convoy displayed their team time-trialling prowess up towards Luz. A couple of them worked, or are connected to the Virgin group, one at as senior level as you can get without having a beard and a jumper. As soon as the climb proper started, their larger engines started to catch up with some of them, and I overtook some of them, including the Virgin duo, as their group splintered.

On paper this was a big day, with the climbs of Tourmalet, Aspin and Peyresourde ahead of us, followed by a run down to the Pyractif base in Bertren, a shallow descent but likely to be into a hot headwind later in the day. Though all are tough climbs, I had ridden every inch of the road at least once before, and some sections of it twice, so I knew what I was up against. Which lessened the apprehension.

I was also on postman duty, returning a small purse (a long story) to the  Hotel du Tourmalet in the town of Bareges, about halfway up. My friend Kara works there and runs associated businesses in the area so it was a shame not to be able to hook up with her for logistical reasons. I wouldn't have made good company anyway, so I'm looking forward to her visit to the UK soon.

You can just see the Hotel in the background (on the right) of Chris's picture here, I decided to represent Devon for the iconic climb, and by the time this photo was taken I was starting to enjoy myself as I got my breathing under control.

 Slowly I emerged into the upper reaches of the climb, the tree cover fell away, the sun came out, it was still cool, and I got into a steady rhythmic cadence. If Chris ever wants to embark on an alternative career I think he would make an excellent sports photographer, as he gave me instructions on where to ride so he could frame these two shots on the Tourmalet.

  
I particularly loved this next one, as I have said before, it almost makes me look like a real cyclist.

 

Eventually after 20km I reached the final 12% ramp that leads to the col, the cafe, the statues and the chaos of the continental grockles. During the climb I had felt comfortable. Slow, yes, but I had enjoyed it and completed it about 25 minutes faster than in 2010. But once off the bike and into the cafe I began to feel very cold and started to shiver, despite the warmth of the surroundings and my gilet. I rapidly took on board some more fuel, put on my arm warmers and headed for the descent.

I had put new brake blocks on the bike before I left the UK, along with new tyres, and they certainly proved their worth. But for some reason the brakes decided to start screeching and juddering on the Tourmalet, a bit disquieting and detracted a little from the enjoyment of the descent.

Not that there was too much time to think about it as we rolled straight onto the moderate early slopes of the Aspin as we headed for our early lunch stop at Payolle. Learning from the previous two days I stuck mainly to fluids and sugary sweets, and that certainly paid off as I had a good afternoon on the hills.

This was the third time I had climbed the Aspin, and I really loved it. Although by now it was quite warm, most of the steep slopes are through woodland or partially shaded pasture, and the views at the top were once again quite outstanding. Regular puffs of salbutamol also helped, as was the thought of the descent of the other side. In 2010 it had been pouring with rain, leading to one of the coldest 20 minutes I have ever experienced on a bike as I slowly lost touch with my fingers and toes.

No problems today though. The road was bone dry, there were few cars, and as I knew the road I was able to come down the long straights and sweeping hairpins at a reasonable speed. The brakes still screeched though. A fair-sized group formed as we got to Arreau, only to split apart again as we rolled up to the early slopes of the Peyresourde.

The climb itself is a steady 7-8% for most of the time, and eventually leads out into a V-shaped valley a couple of km below the summit. Where you find the best crepe cafe in the Pyrenees, and its ebullient host. There was quite a collection of cyclists outside, and I had to wait my turn to get my summit photos. As well as the standard one by the col sign, I took one of the mile marker, you see these dotted alongside all the roads, much nicer than our old rusty things, and remind me of the old-fashioned milestones we used to have in the UK.

The descent of the Peyresourde into Luchon was also one I had done before, and, after the first big hairpins at the top, is long, straight and fast. I was nearly caught out by the new roundabout they have put in half-way down and for some reason I found myself as the first of the group down into Luchon.

Luchon is a spa town, which I suspect explains this picture.

Unless they are providing some luxurious waiting facilities for public transport in the Pyrenees.

I was now faced with a 25km straight rode, with an average 1% downhill gradient to Bertren and the Pyractif base. I started slowly as I quite fancied hiding in a big group and taking it easy at the end of a hard day. But no-one was about and I didn't really want to hang on forever, so I put my head down into the wind and went as hard as I could. I kept expecting to be passed by the multi-national express, but it never came and I arrived into Bertren just before their train swung into the courtyard. With all that weight they still couldn't catch a little puffer from Bristol, hope they don't lose their franchise.

Here is the day's route.