All Hills Were Not Created Equal

La Marmotte

Awoke on the Alpe on Saturday morning to leaden skies and wet, greasy roads. Apparently it had been raining all night and had only abated about half an hour before our 5am alarm. I had slept well, and I managed to put away a substantial breakfast before donning my kit - including stuffing a newspaper down my jersey and sticking a bin bag over the top for the cold descent down the Alpe to the start. It was nice to be joined by Rusty, my friend I met in Provence in May, who had come to the Alpe to watch and had been enticed by the option of a last-minute entry.

The descent down the Alpe in the early morning light was nervy and eerily quiet (apart from the whizz of a thousand freewheels) and we were soon at the bottom and eating last-minute flapjack. Soon enough the elite riders rolled out, then it was our turn.

We were quickly up to speed on the road out of Bourg d'Oisan and hammering along in big groups at 40km/h. I got boxed in at one point and that's where I lost Jon for the day. Everyone around me had obviously prepped their bikes to perfection, as a thousand silent drivetrains allowed only the hum of tyres on the road, and the occasional warning shout, to be heard.

In no time we were turning off the main road and heading for the first climb of the day, Col du Glandon. Before you start the climb proper, there is the shallow gradient of the road up to the dam of the Lac du Verney to negotiate, and as you approach you can see the long line of riders ahead ascending the switchbacks. They seemed to be going at an unreal pace and possibly big-ringing it, but I was determined to stick to my plan of riding well within my limits for the Glandon, the Telegraphe and at least the first half of the Galibier.

Col du Glandon

The Glandon is a good climb and I just took it easy, spinning in a low gear to preserve as much energy as possible. I was prepared for the 1km of 11% steepness halfway up the climb and again kept an easy rhythm, making sure my heartrate stayed around 160-165bpm.

Quintana-esque poker face

Shortly after that section I caught up with Rusty who was also pacing himself well, and we rode the rest of the climb together. Having someone to chat to all the way up made the climb that little bit easier, and in no time at all we were out in the open near the top of the pass - a short, sweeping downhill and the final ascent up to the Col.

I stopped at the top to fill my bidon and eat a banana. the feed station wasn't the scrum I'd been led to expect - perhaps the organisers have upped their game here a bit as there was lots of food and drink.

Back on the bike for the untimed descent of the Glandon. As mentioned before, this has been neutralised due to bad crashes in the past on the steep, technical road. I loved it. I took it easy at the top, but as the road opened out lower down, I was flying. The whiff of heated-up carbon rims was strong on the corners lower down, and I had to pass people just to clear my nostrils of the acrid stench and enjoy the clean alpine air once more.

That clean air quickly ran out when we reached the bottom of the descent, and turned onto the main road (next to a motorway!) along the Maurienne Valley. It was a bit disorganised to start with, but soon a group formed, which just kept getting bigger and bigger. By the midpoint along the valley, I was in a group of about 100 riders and we were making fine progress.

We came to a small rise on the road with 2 ambulances parked at the top. As we passed, I recognised a couple of the guys who were staying in our hotel standing at the side of the road. Obviously the presence of the ambulances meant bad news, and I figured there must've been a touch of wheels leading to a crash on this benign, but quick, section.

We continued to hurtle on towards the foot of the Telegraphe when all of a sudden there was a sharp 'BANG' and a grinding noise from my bike. I pulled over to the side of the road and dismounted, and it was then that my worst fears were realised. Another spoke nipple had sheared off, leaving the spoke flapping dangerously and the rear wheel out-of-true.

Initially, I was very pragmatic. I thought that if I could somehow secure the loose spoke to the others, I might be able to continue. Without a zip-tie to hand, I was going to have to bend the offending spoke between the others to secure it, but try as I might, it would immediately spring free and defiantly hang loose once more. I then looked into trying to remove the spoke completely, but it was on the drive-side, so I would've needed to remove the cassette to do it. I sat down on the roadside barrier and could feel the disappointment washing over me as hundreds of riders flashed by me on the desolate piece of road.

After a minute's despondency, my resolve returned and I tried once more to get the wheel serviceable again. Eventually I worked out that the spoke could be secured by bending it in a 'U' shape and twisting it amongst the spokes on the other side of the hub. It seemed to work, so I shoved the wheel back on to the bike and gave it a test spin. It ground to a quick stop. The wheel was so out-of-true that it would no longer fit properly in the frame, and I didn't have a spoke key to try and straighten it up again.

This time I knew that I was beaten. I realised that I was going to have to abandon the race, which would mean sitting on the bl**dy road barrier for hours watching riders hurtle past while I waited for the broom wagon. I was as far from the finish as it was possible to be - and I hadn't even broken down somewhere with a decent view. It felt like all the energy in me, all the high spirits from what had been a brilliant day up to that point, vanished in a second, leaving me absolutely devastated. I now know what Humphrey Bogart meant in the film Casablanca when he described himself as a man "with a comical look on his face because his insides have been kicked out"

Apparently it was this look of dejection which led to what happened next.

As I sat there staring at the offending wheel, cursing silently at my bad luck, another rider stopped about 10 yards further down the road, dismounted, took a drink from his bottle and looked over towards me. I told him I had broken a spoke, to which he replied with 6 words which at that moment were better than 'you have won the national lottery':

"Do you want my spoke key?"

I honestly couldn't believe it. In a second I had gone from game over to a chance to continue. Not for the first time that day I nearly cried.

The rider dug out his spoke key and handed it to me as he introduced himself as Phil from Northamptonshire. As I busied myself trying to get the wheel straight enough to fit in the chainstays, Phil told me that he had crashed on the descent of the Glandon, going wide on a corner and hitting a fencepost. My incredulity grew - he should've stopped at that point, but he'd kept on going as if he was destined to meet me further down the road. He went on to say that he'd stopped because I looked so dejected, leading me to well up again.

I managed to get the wheel straight enough so that it would spin freely (although I had to disconnect the rear brake) and gingerly I set off with Phil. The speed built up, and my very amateur repairs seemed to be holding. I was back in the race.

We reached the town of St Michel de Maurienne which signals the beginning of the climb up the Telegraph. It was in the crowds on the lower slopes that I lost Phil, and I never saw him again.

Phil - I doubt you'll ever read this, but should you come across it, know this - You are my hero. Not just because you helped me, but also because you bothered to stop at all. I didn't begrudge a single rider for passing me - like me, everyone has goals they want to achieve and I'm pretty sure I would've passed another rider sat on that barrier without much more than thinking they were unlucky. You rescued not only me, but all the hours of training and hard work I had put into this event. I am in no way a religious man, but you are certainly some kind of guardian angel. I hope you managed to complete the event and that you had at least a small inkling of how grateful I was for your help.

Col de Telegraphe

As you can see from the profile, the ascent of the Telegraphe is fairly constant, which was a blessing as I thought that pushing too much power through the rear wheel might pop the loose spoke out of it binding and catch on something. I stopped to check halfway up, but it appeared to be holding.

They're resurfacing the Telegraphe climb at the moment, leaving a very rough and abrasive surface that really sapped my willpower given that I was on go-slow. Again, I kept a good rhythm and found my way to the summit. All the way up, I was sure I'd seen on one of the official course maps that there was a Mavic service station somewhere around here. I wasn't 100% sure, but I distinctly remembered seeing it somewhere, and secretly I was hoping it was at the Col.

So I was pretty disappointed when I arrived at the Col to find just a water station - that meant I had to do the descent to Valloire on a wobbly wheel and no rear brake.

I bit my lip and plunged over the other side. I could feel the wheel wobble as I picked up speed, and I was a little worried that given that I'd had to slacken off the tension on quite a few spokes, the whole thing could collapse if I took a bend too quick. Therefore my descending off the Telegraphe could be best described as 'Driving Miss Daisy' as I gingerly made my way down, being passed by loads of riders. I was so happy to hit Valloire and the 2km climb up to the feed station at the bottom of the Galibier still on the bike. Given my tense descending off the Telegraphe, I was now praying that I was right about the service station here, otherwise I had the descent off the Galibier still to do before I could get to the Veloventoux feed station at the Col de Lauteret where there were tools and perhaps a spare rear wheel.

I imagine Howard Carter's excitement at discovering Tutankhamun's tomb paled into insignificance when compared to my utter joy at spotting the bright yellow Mavic awning as I approached the feed station.

I whipped the wheel off the bike just as another mechanic arrived so he came straight to me. I managed to communicate what had happened to the spoke as he took a bite from his cheese and salami baguette and chewed thoughtfully with a blank look on his face.

Then he licked his teeth, looked at me and said "ten minutes" with a smile on his face.

I nearly cried again.

Tyre off in 2 seconds, bent spoke straightened and a new nipple on it. On to the jig and he merrily trued it whilst chatting with his mate. Tyre and inner tube on (at the same time) in another 2 seconds and he handed it back to me and pointed at the track pump nearby to reinflate the tyre. I nearly kissed him.

Wheel back on, and my bike was good as new. Unbelievable. I had lost about 35-40 minutes with the breakage, repairs and go-slow, but now it was game on again.

I got my bottle filled and another banana, then swung my leg over my bike and pointed it in the direction of the mighty Galibier.

Col du Galibier

Galibier was my favourite climb, no question. The scenery is stunning, particularly as you climb out of the valley after Plan Lachet, and it's hard not to think about all the great cyclists that have battled it out on this road (although I failed to notice Pantani's memorial as I was too busy staring at the road ahead). I followed my plan to take it easy to Plan Lachet, where you climb up a cliff face through a series of switchbacks, but when I got to the second half of the climb, I couldn't raise myself to up the pace. I was feeling fine, and was eating and drinking well, but the emotional turmoil I had been through had had a massive effect on my enthusiasm to push my limits - I was so, so happy to still be riding that I just wanted to savour it all and enjoy it. I didn't care about my time now, as long as I finished.

So I kept the heart rate in check and kept my head up to look at the scenery. People advise you not to look up when climbing Galibier, but I don't mind seeing where I have to go, so it was great to see the long line of riders zig-zagging up out of sight.

After climbing out of the valley, you get on to a sort of plateau (still climbing though) and round a corner to be presented with a view of the summit. Which looks about 3 miles up in the air. Slowly you make your way towards a cliff face on which it sits, with the road snaking up in another series of switchbacks.

At this point I felt a strong cramp in my right quad and quickly stopped to stretch it and drink some electrolytes as it was beginning to get very warm.

Off I went again and wound my way up to crest the summit, which was an amazing feeling. 'Just' Alpe d'Huez to go and the legs felt fine. Armwarmers up and jacket on, and I bombed down the mountain. After the initial few hairpins, this is a super-quick and fun descent and I had a smile on my face all the way down, kissing the apex on the sweeping bends and letting go of the brakes for frighteningly long periods. In under 10 minutes I got to the Col de Lauteret and checked in with Craig at the Veloventoux feed station for a last top up of water and food.

The descent continued down the valley, and my speed continued to be high as the beautiful scenery whizzed past. The infamous tunnels turned out to be no problem at all - I just pushed my sunglasses down my nose and I could see fine.

One short climb on this road near the lake dam, then it was full pelt towards Bourg d'Oisans in a good group.

As we got to the town, I had a sort of epiphany: I was racing towards Alpe d'Huez. Just like I've seen so many times on the Tour de France.

Alpe d'Huez

We hammered round the roundabout and as the Alpe reared up in front of us, we were greeted by a huge crowd, all of them cheering, shouting and clapping, which was a wonderful experience.

The speed nosedived as we hit the initial steep slopes, and everyone retired to their quiet little worlds of personal pain. I felt OK, but the heat was beginning to become a factor and was 33 degrees at some points on the south-facing slopes. I just concentrated on turning the pedals in a good rhythm and drinking regularly. After the first 3 hairpins, the gradient eases a bit and I could've picked up some speed (especially on the flat hairpins), but I still just wanted to somehow enjoy it and take in what I was doing, so I plodded away, counting down the corners.

About a third of the way up, there were people handing out cups of water to the weary riders, and I gratefully took one and dumped it over my head for the most rejuvenating shower I've ever had. My powderpuff throw to try and get the empty cup into the bin afterwards elicited a loud laugh from the rider behind me as it flew no more than a foot, about 5 short of the target!

The corners came pretty quick and the teens were reached quickly, and then into single-figures to go. After the town of Huez, the mountain opens out a bit into alpine meadows and you can see your target of the ski station above. My pace stayed constant as I winched up the slopes and suddenly it was 5 hairpins to go.

Then 4.

Then 3. I'd done this part of the climb yesterday - I can do it one more time!

2 Hairpins to go. No getting out of the saddle for the photographer today!

I look up towards hairpin 1. People are on every corner, cheering you on, beckoning you upwards.

Halfway to hairpin 1. I pass the welcome to Alpe d'Huez sign. Some Dutch fans on the left with music blaring. It's Pharrell's 'Happy'. I love that song twice as much as I did before now!

Hairpin 1. Big crowd cheering and clapping, I turn towards the town. It's there in front of me.

Past the first hotels and onto the short plateau of the shopping street. People in the bars cheering you on. The beer looks cold.

Through the short 'tunnel' and climbing again, the legs begin to go.

Get to the top - no more climbing to do.

Onto the slope down to the finish line. Onto the big ring like a hero (in my mind)

Emily spots me and gives me a massive cheer.

Round the roundabout and zip up the jersey (not a pro wannabe - just don't want my pasty white chest in the finishers photo!)

FINISH LINE

I've done it, and I can't quite believe it.

I stopped the clock at 10hrs 18mins. That's an official time of 9hrs 33mins with the descent of the Glandon removed, which is good enough for a silver medal.

The first beer didn't even touch the sides. Caught up with Jon soon afterwards to find he'd monstered the course in 7hrs 39mins - a stunning effort.

My stats:

Distance: 175km
Time: 10hrs 18mins
Official time: 9hrs 33mins
Position: 4,275 (of ~8,000 starters)
Moving time: 9hrs 13mins
Average speed: 19.1km/h
Total climbing: 4,992m
Top speed 73km/h
Avg heartrate: 143bpm
Max heartrate: 176bpm (95% of maximum)
Total calories: 5,414

A few more beers followed then an early night to try to recuperate and collect my thoughts.

My initial thoughts were tinged with disappointment about the time cost by the broken spoke, and the time I failed to get back by not pushing myself harder (I pushed myself much harder on the Etape last year). But with more reflection these thoughts slowly disappeared and were replaced by more positive realisations.

Firstly, I have to remember that I was staring abandonment in the face, and now I have a silver medal. More soberingly, it turned out that the guy that I saw being put into the ambulance just before my mechanical had broken 3 vertebrae, having been sent flying by a crash ahead of him. Nothing he could do, on a straightforward part of the course, and he ended up in hospital and will be lucky if he can ride a bike again.

And secondly, I enjoyed the race. Every moment of it. I wanted to get off the bike by the end, but I didn't want the experience to end. I'm not a professional, I'm not paid to do this, so surely enjoying it is what it's all about. Without mishap, and pushing myself to the absolute limit, I may have just crept into a gold medal time, but it's probably more likely that I would've blown up completely and joined those lying down in the tiny bits of shade on the road up Alpe d'Huez.

So with that in mind, this Marmotte was a big success.

I have to finish this blog with two big thank-yous:

First, my wife Emily who has had to put up with me waking her up early on weekend mornings as I go out training rides, my bike constantly sat on the turbo trainer in the middle of the kitchen, and pretty much gave up booze in June because I had. In return I've had unconditional and loving support (well, almost unconditional!) and I couldn't have done it without her.

And second: Phil from Northamptonshire - an actual, real, good samaritan.

All Hills Were Not Created Equal

Friday 15 April 2016

Wednesday 9 July 2014

Monday 7 July 2014

Friday 4 July 2014

Wednesday 2 July 2014

Monday 30 June 2014

Sunday 29 June 2014