God, there was so much racing through my mind - Would I complete the course? Would I be eliminated? (Note - a car with a big digital clock, known as the Broom Wagon, sets off around 20 minutes after everyone has left the start area. It drives at a constant speed of 23kph, and if the car catches up with you, they take the bike from you, put it on a truck, they put you on a bus, and dispatch you to the finish area.) What would the weather be like? We kinda knew it was going to rain - but how much, and for how long? What clothes to wear, and what to bring in the pockets - 6 sachets of energy gel, 1 banana, 3 muesli bars, 3 dried fruit bars, Gaviscon tablets, Solpadeine, sun cream, arm warmers, rain jacket...
At 2am there was an almighty crack of thunder, and soon, the rain followed, heavy at first, then lighter.
3.30am. My alarm went off. Time get up and get going. Lather myself with sun cream, chamois cream (for the nether bits), and it's downstairs for breakfast - warm bread straight from the bakery, jam, muesli, yoghurt, and 2 big coffees (not a great idea - I went to the toilet 5 times between 6.30 and around 8am, 25k into the race). We got on our bus, and left the hotel at 4.30 - destination: Pau.
What an amazing sight when we arrived - It was a grey, drizzly, cloudy dawn. Hundreds of cyclists filing past us as we made the final checks to our bikes - pumping the tyres, checking the brakes, filling the bottles with water, shoving a banana into me...
6.45am. We cycled together to our pens. There were around 8500 cyclists taking part, so we were all arranged into really large lanes, or pens, each containing 1000 participants.
7am. The first 200, elite racers were let loose, and then, one by one, each pen was opened. It took 20 minutes for me to get to the start line, being in the pen for numbers 6000 - 7000. And away we went. A small group of us decided to stick together. The plan was to get moving fast, keep an average speed as close as possible to 30kph. Miss the first feed station at Lourdes (66.5km), then keep going on our own food until La Mongie (116km), 4km from the summit of the Tourmalet. It was a good plan. Except for the fact that we lost Jim and Kyla almost immediately. Patrick volunteered to lead us as far as the start of the Tourmalet, and he would leave us to our own devices (exceptionally generous - he's a great guy). I just followed Patrick. The roads were wet. Dirt and grime splattered us immediately, making it virtually impossible to follow Patrick's wheel closely. We jumped from group to group, as the pace split the entire mass of cyclists - all the time I was being passed by files of riders, while I too was passing other groups myself. Patrick moved ahead, and I lost his wheel. We had been warned about a dangerous corner at around 25km, so, just before that, I took a toilet break, and happened to stumble across Patrick doing the same thing. We stayed together until that village (Rabenec) - wow, it was treacherous - it went from a wide dual carriageway into a tight left hand corner. Everyone ground to a halt immediately, as the bottleneck slowed us all, and then people struggled to change gears for the hill at the end of the village, while all the time, trying not to go down on the cobblestones! Despite the early hour on Sunday morning, the whole village was out to shout and cheer us on - even so, riders were already beginning to struggle with punctures caused by the wet and dirty roads, and crashes caused by nerves.
And then, at the end of the Rabenec, the first climb of the day. A 3rd category climb in Benejacq. The locals warned us to take it easy - it was a piège, a trap - a hill that looked easy, but that would tire us. I took it easy, and Patrick went on. The road undulated for a few kilometres before we got back out onto the main road again. It was a case of keping the head down, the speed up, and the fuel and water going into the mouth. I got to Lourdes at around 9.10am, I think around 45 minutes before the elimination car would come through. The route veered off the main road and into the town centre. Once again, a huge crowd was out, warning us to slow down (I heard later of a few serious injuries that took place in Lourdes, as people struggled to keep the bikes upright - once again, the nerves, and the wet roads didn't help). I cycled past the feed station (what a frenzy!), and just kept going. The road was starting to go up again, ever upwards toward the Tourmalet.
On Friday afternoon, a few of us drove the route over the Tourmalet. It was a gorgeous day, but as we neared the Tourmalet, we began to see it - snow still on the peak - a beast of a mountain! Today however, we couldn't see the peak, as we struggled to see more than a handful of metres ahead. Probably not a bad thing. I'd say the impending view of Tourmalet would have been enough to frighten some off their bikes.
After around 100km, we started going uphill for real, and when we reached the village of Sainte Marie de Campan, it was time for a quick stop to catch my sense and to get some water from a local fountain. Everyone was quiet. On the road, all you could hear was the breathing and the swish from the tyres. My jersey was great - green, white and orange - occasionally, people on the side of the road shouted in my direction of Allez Irlande (one frenchy did shout Allez l'Anglais, and I had just enough breath left to correct her!), and a few english cyclists also called me Paddy or Irish on the way up. It was nice. Back to the silence and the mountain. On the big mountains in France, the local authorities have placed signs every kilometre, to show how far you are from the summit, what altitude you're at, and the average gradient for the following kilometre. It's a really handy way of mentally and physically facing the gruelling climb. The Tourmalet starts relatively gently - 3.5% in the first kilometre, but it gets tough really quickly, with sections of 8%, 9.5%, 10% etc. The mountain has quite a steady gradient, which allows you to get a rhythm and a pace, but once or twice, you'll see a sign showing, for example, an average gradient of 8% for the next kilometre, and then, all of a sudden, the road takes a downward dip. That's when you know you're in for a seriously seep section ahead, as the the road ahead makes up the average with some serious 12-15% sections - Ouch! As we made our way ever upward, I noticed a few cyclists coming down. I still haven't worked out if this was because they had given up, or if they were injured, or if they were having problems with the bike, or even if they were dropping back to meet a friend. Still, it was not a good sight.
As the road went up, and the gradient increased, I just got more and more tired. I stopped at the side of the road to take a break, and wait to get my heart rate down. Unfortunately, this became a habit, and I struggled to keep going for more than a kilometre or so at each go. At one point, Jim (I started with Jim back in Pau) went past and shouted over if I was ok. I was heartened to see Jim, but frustrated to know that if only I had kept going on the bike... La Mongie got nearer. We went under two tunnels that protect the road from the frequent avalanches of rock and snow. The mist and drizzle were all enveloping, and I saw steam rising from my body. Finally, La Mongie came into sight. La Mongie is a winter ski resort, with a kind of James Bond 1970s look to it - all glazed hotels and sheer drops. Today, it was too misty to see the place - it was too misty. The feed station was an absolute feeding frenzy. I stopped, put my bike up against a tractor, and I stumbled towards the trough. Unbelievable - shoving for bananas, sweets, water, and ham sandwiches. At one point, a guy beside me grabbed second ham sandwich from one of the volunteer's hand. I glared at him. He gave a look of sheepish realisation - we were close to a Lord of the Flies moment. He gave me the sandwich. I grabbed a few jellies, and went back to my bike. I really didn't want to delay more than 10 minutes. I set off again, the panic underlined by a few people crashing as they set off again to the summit of the Tourmalet, 4km ahead. I can't remember, how long it too me to complete those 4km, but I was travelling at around 7-8kph. There were a few steep hairpins, and some really tough, steep sections of 12%. People began to line the sides of the road again, appearing out of caravans - Allez, Courage! Le sommet n'est pas trop loin! And true enough, they were right. I crossed the Tourmalet at 12.53pm, just over an hour before the cut off time. It was time get going again.. I knew I'd struggle up the steep slopes of the Hautacam, so I had to descend as fast as possible. It was 2 degrees at the top of the Tourmalet, so apart from the rocks scattered on the road, the poor visibility, the damp road, the occasional sheep, it was cold too. We were warned about the first 4km of the descent being particularly tricky, so I took it easy, and as the roads straightened out, I let go of the brakes little by little, until I got to a top speed of 72kph. It was sobering to pass a guy flat out on his back, being attended to by medical staff. I left a bit of a distance between me and whoever was in front. That way, he did all the navigating for met, and I could match my steering and breaking to his.
The descent was 23km long, and after a while, the downward gradient eased up enough for me to eat some food, and to take my rain jacket off. I kept the speed up, and tried to latch onto a group for some shelter, and to gain some more speed. Unfortunately, it took too long for me to find the right group, and it was close to the base of the Hautacam when I found the right one, with some French and Spanish guys in it. As the base of the Hautacam approached, I took on some more food and energy gels. I was absolutely astonished with the reception we got in Beaucens, the village at the bottom of the 15km final climb of the Hautacam. It brought a lump in my throat to see the thronged village, filled with spectators. It was like a real bike race. They were all shouting for us. Once again, the Irish jersey came in handy - Allez Irlande! At this stage the road really kicked up. Already, prople had got off their bikes, and had started walking. The road was divided in two, so that those who had finished could come back down the mountain. They all looked freezing and miserable. I spotted a few from our group - Brendan (a vet from Sligo) shouted encouragement at me. Patrick shouted to Keep Going. Jason didn't know who I was until I had passed by! I took a few breaks along the ascent, but I preferred not to walk. Finally, finally, the 1km kite came into view, three hairpins up to my right. The ramps looked enormous, but as we got closer to the summit, the gradient eased off slightly. The finish line was visible from the 1km kite, and I kept going - to the end. 169km. ( hours and 30 minutes. Coming back down the mountain, I saw the Broom Wagon making its ascent, Sure enough, there were a few riders after that car, with their numbers removed. Eliminated on the final hill, but determined to finish the route. It took me nearly 30 minutes to get back down the mountain to our meeting point in the village below, greeted by high fives, handshakes, and a glass of champagne.
The pride in my, and our achievement is huge. It took me two days to wash the dirt and grime from my legs, but the memories of the day will remain for a long time to come. The two beers that I drank that evening were sweet, and when I got back to my bed, I listened to the music that I played in my head all day long, and I savoured the moment.
More pictures to follow - when I get them!
Click here to see what these guys thought of the day.
