Thursday, August 11, 2011
Alpe d’Huez For Idiots - More Fool On The Hill Than Man On the Silver Mountain
I belong to what Ned Boulting would recognise as the generation of British cycling fans who think UK television Tour De France coverage belongs on Channel4 , and for me Alpe d’Huez starts with Parra and Herrera, with Rooks and Theunisse. I even tried to make it there in the mid-90s while I was working in the region, purely to be able to see it and drive it, but just ran out of time on the day and had to turn back.
So when one of the people I was about to go on holiday with had it suggested by someone else that the Alpe was not just a possible thing but a must-do, I was delighted to get the email asking if anyone else fancied doing it. With just two weeks notice, any sort of meaningful training was out of the question and I hate climbing anyway, but I did go home from work the hilly way one day, climbing an extra 100m of altitude over the course of about a mile. That’ll be a great help, no worries, almost as much as having been camped at about 1000m of altitude for the week before.
Reasoning that an early start was a very good idea, breakfast before 7am meant we were parked in Bourg d’Oisans before 9, and started rolling up to the foot of the big hill almost on the stroke of 9. Even then there were cyclists on their way down – I can’t imagine why they’d have started that early, if indeed they had already ridden up that morning.
My full of training mate raced after some guy just in front of us, and I was rapidly left on my own, happy to settle into my own rhythm and take my time rather than get involved in some sort of race. My only concern was whether I could actually make it.
Turn 21, and the first sign announcing previous winners of the stage and a road full of paint markings, me and my thoughts and somewhere a kilometre above me was a notional finishing line that I might possibly see at some time rather later. The next couple of turns came in fairly quick succession, and as the clouds started to clear above, the towering nature of the landscape became apparent. A couple of bends further on provides a vantage point to see the road zigging and zagging back and forth across the hillside, just as my bike would later zigzag across the road, only in smaller (and ever more tired) legs.
After the odd numbered turns, the right lane drive meant that I could look down the road just below me and watch for who was catching me up as brief distraction from the shorter radius turn I was making. I watched one or two approaching and tried to guess the point at which they would inevitably pass me with a cheery ‘bonjour!’. We all know the game, show no signs of weakness as you pass with effortless grace, and then soar off into the distance. It’s par for the course when you’re passed by some gnarled road veteran with legs like seasoned oak and knotted cords for tendons, but being passed by what appears to be a twelve year old feels slightly less natural and comfortable for some reason.
On the even numbered turns, bearing back round to my left meant I could hug the very outside of the bend and enjoy the brief respite in the gradient levelling off a fraction, remembering to read the names on the signs and marshalling vague recollections of the rider(s) and rides in question. Every now and then I allowed myself to look right up, and see what I could see; it wasn’t pretty viewing.
The riders’ names painted on the road were already fading, in parts already gone even though the Tour riders had been on that same road only a week before. I smiled at every mention of both Thomases, Geraint and Voeckler, I mostly kept my counsel on Contador and the Schlecks and approved heartily of the Indurainish relentlessness with which Cadel Evans had finally claimed his yellow jersey in Paris.
And in the village of Huez (not to be confused with…) I was momentarily pleased to see the sign before registering what ‘Alpe d’Huez 10km’ really meant. Huez itself is on one of the longer legs between bends, and for the first time I started believing that making the top without stopping might just be possible. There were people there in GB triathlon club branded shirts, cheering on a mate of theirs, and we exchanged friendly words a few times as they drove on past us and stopped, then did the same again. Their mate was the last one of those that passed me, close to the top, and it was definitely a reassuringly early start that meant the number that passed me was only five. In turn I only passed three, numbers that would increase greatly for anyone starting the ride later in the day.
Getting into the single digit bends, the first glimpses of the village were revealed as the sun came out and the legs between bends seemed to be shorter and less steep, as if to encourage standing on the pedals in a final flourish of speed but there’s a definite catch. And as with any place of interest, there’s someone out to make a quid – the photographer on turn 5 being polite enough as I refused the business card to buy a ropey picture of myself suffering from his website, and the photographer on turn 2 being close to getting the rough edge of my tongue by standing right in the flaming way at a point where I was increasingly disinclined to indulge any sort of nonsense. Everyone’s got to make a living somehow, sure, but pissing off your potential clients isn’t a great business tactic, nor is it helpful to someone in the throes of just about keeping moving forwards , to say the least.
By these last couple of turns my legs were feeling the tortoise-like pace, and a number of Voeckler-style deviations into the first couple of metres of the odd driveway and turning meant I could have another brief rest from the gradient proper. Over latter stretches, the signs turn up for the Itineraire Tour de France, counting the visitor down in single kilometres from 5km out. This is a help of sorts, but it’s also a little misleading for anyone rounding turn 1 expecting to find the finish close at hand. Turn 1 is followed by the 2km to go sign, and on a friday this means 2km which include the negotiation of the disrupted road routing by the village street market. Not the sort of confusion my mind needed to guide my struggling legs through by that stage in the proceedings.
The village, while it does go on a bit, also levels out a bit and I even briefly revisited a larger chainring before pulling round the roundabout to the final uphill drag past the road marking declaring SKODA SKODA SKODA to herald the finish line, where a cluster of people waited for their mates or simply enjoyed their legs having a brief rest. I settled for rolling around the car park, a variety of trackstands and freewheeling down the slope, the odd bit of backpedalling and some other stuff just to keep my legs moving. Whatever, it worked as I felt no real after-effects in my muscles.
The 14km of the ascent took me 102 minutes, or about three times what the pros might expect to do it in on an especially good day. My trusty 30*25 gear kept me rolling nicely enough most of the way, barring occasional misguided bursts of optimism, and for all I’d had enough by the time I got towards the top, it wasn’t that horrific an experience for as long as I was happy to keep plodding. Indeed, I rather enjoyed turns 12 to 5 which was when I really started to believe I was going to make it without stopping.
And as to the difference a spring and summer of training makes? My mate beat me by about ten minutes, that’s all, so a five mile each way daily commute on a 40*16 singlespeed and general base fitness appears to be plenty, as long as you have a low enough gear you can keep spinning without actually grinding to a halt.
After a while at the top to rest a little, to nip over to the altiport to watch the helicopters take off over the cloud inversion in the valley below us and take in all the scenic sights, and it was time to go. Due to a combination of incompetence and indifference, I was riding without a computer on the bike, and while watching it struggle to show the high points of 5mph on the way up would have been potentially disheartening, it was undoubtedly good for my health and wellbeing that I was neither distracted by the numbers nor pushing my luck trying to hit an ever higher number on the way back down.
I know I was frequently well into the 30s mph, and I don’t really know I’d trust myself not to have tried to hit whatever I was actually doing plus a few more. I waved a couple of cars by and then chased them, preferring to have them where I could see them than wait for them to gamble on an overtake that might or might not be on. I followed a couple of cyclists round a couple of bends before pulling out to get past them where I felt it was safe to do so, and I made sure I got rid of most of my speed as I went into the bends, sometimes using the full width of the hairpin where it was clear.
And even with a relatively committed approach to the descent, I still took over twenty minutes to make it to the roundabout at the bottom of the hill, passing cyclist after cyclist on their own torturous rides up towards the summit. Twenty minutes of sheer delight, unmitigated pleasure and the joy of feeling the road dropping away under the bike. If a training-free idiot with a moderate sense of adventure and a healthy appreciation of Tour de France history can not just make it up Alpe d’Huez but enjoy the experience then I reckon almost anyone can. As for riding a hundred odd miles before it though, you can keep that, but given the chance I’d ride up it again any time and not just for the joy of the descent.
I really enjoyed the ride, but I’m in awe of people who can race up it, because I’m damn sure I couldn’t.
_
So when one of the people I was about to go on holiday with had it suggested by someone else that the Alpe was not just a possible thing but a must-do, I was delighted to get the email asking if anyone else fancied doing it. With just two weeks notice, any sort of meaningful training was out of the question and I hate climbing anyway, but I did go home from work the hilly way one day, climbing an extra 100m of altitude over the course of about a mile. That’ll be a great help, no worries, almost as much as having been camped at about 1000m of altitude for the week before.
Reasoning that an early start was a very good idea, breakfast before 7am meant we were parked in Bourg d’Oisans before 9, and started rolling up to the foot of the big hill almost on the stroke of 9. Even then there were cyclists on their way down – I can’t imagine why they’d have started that early, if indeed they had already ridden up that morning.
My full of training mate raced after some guy just in front of us, and I was rapidly left on my own, happy to settle into my own rhythm and take my time rather than get involved in some sort of race. My only concern was whether I could actually make it.
Turn 21, and the first sign announcing previous winners of the stage and a road full of paint markings, me and my thoughts and somewhere a kilometre above me was a notional finishing line that I might possibly see at some time rather later. The next couple of turns came in fairly quick succession, and as the clouds started to clear above, the towering nature of the landscape became apparent. A couple of bends further on provides a vantage point to see the road zigging and zagging back and forth across the hillside, just as my bike would later zigzag across the road, only in smaller (and ever more tired) legs.
After the odd numbered turns, the right lane drive meant that I could look down the road just below me and watch for who was catching me up as brief distraction from the shorter radius turn I was making. I watched one or two approaching and tried to guess the point at which they would inevitably pass me with a cheery ‘bonjour!’. We all know the game, show no signs of weakness as you pass with effortless grace, and then soar off into the distance. It’s par for the course when you’re passed by some gnarled road veteran with legs like seasoned oak and knotted cords for tendons, but being passed by what appears to be a twelve year old feels slightly less natural and comfortable for some reason.
On the even numbered turns, bearing back round to my left meant I could hug the very outside of the bend and enjoy the brief respite in the gradient levelling off a fraction, remembering to read the names on the signs and marshalling vague recollections of the rider(s) and rides in question. Every now and then I allowed myself to look right up, and see what I could see; it wasn’t pretty viewing.
The riders’ names painted on the road were already fading, in parts already gone even though the Tour riders had been on that same road only a week before. I smiled at every mention of both Thomases, Geraint and Voeckler, I mostly kept my counsel on Contador and the Schlecks and approved heartily of the Indurainish relentlessness with which Cadel Evans had finally claimed his yellow jersey in Paris.
And in the village of Huez (not to be confused with…) I was momentarily pleased to see the sign before registering what ‘Alpe d’Huez 10km’ really meant. Huez itself is on one of the longer legs between bends, and for the first time I started believing that making the top without stopping might just be possible. There were people there in GB triathlon club branded shirts, cheering on a mate of theirs, and we exchanged friendly words a few times as they drove on past us and stopped, then did the same again. Their mate was the last one of those that passed me, close to the top, and it was definitely a reassuringly early start that meant the number that passed me was only five. In turn I only passed three, numbers that would increase greatly for anyone starting the ride later in the day.
Getting into the single digit bends, the first glimpses of the village were revealed as the sun came out and the legs between bends seemed to be shorter and less steep, as if to encourage standing on the pedals in a final flourish of speed but there’s a definite catch. And as with any place of interest, there’s someone out to make a quid – the photographer on turn 5 being polite enough as I refused the business card to buy a ropey picture of myself suffering from his website, and the photographer on turn 2 being close to getting the rough edge of my tongue by standing right in the flaming way at a point where I was increasingly disinclined to indulge any sort of nonsense. Everyone’s got to make a living somehow, sure, but pissing off your potential clients isn’t a great business tactic, nor is it helpful to someone in the throes of just about keeping moving forwards , to say the least.
By these last couple of turns my legs were feeling the tortoise-like pace, and a number of Voeckler-style deviations into the first couple of metres of the odd driveway and turning meant I could have another brief rest from the gradient proper. Over latter stretches, the signs turn up for the Itineraire Tour de France, counting the visitor down in single kilometres from 5km out. This is a help of sorts, but it’s also a little misleading for anyone rounding turn 1 expecting to find the finish close at hand. Turn 1 is followed by the 2km to go sign, and on a friday this means 2km which include the negotiation of the disrupted road routing by the village street market. Not the sort of confusion my mind needed to guide my struggling legs through by that stage in the proceedings.
The village, while it does go on a bit, also levels out a bit and I even briefly revisited a larger chainring before pulling round the roundabout to the final uphill drag past the road marking declaring SKODA SKODA SKODA to herald the finish line, where a cluster of people waited for their mates or simply enjoyed their legs having a brief rest. I settled for rolling around the car park, a variety of trackstands and freewheeling down the slope, the odd bit of backpedalling and some other stuff just to keep my legs moving. Whatever, it worked as I felt no real after-effects in my muscles.
The 14km of the ascent took me 102 minutes, or about three times what the pros might expect to do it in on an especially good day. My trusty 30*25 gear kept me rolling nicely enough most of the way, barring occasional misguided bursts of optimism, and for all I’d had enough by the time I got towards the top, it wasn’t that horrific an experience for as long as I was happy to keep plodding. Indeed, I rather enjoyed turns 12 to 5 which was when I really started to believe I was going to make it without stopping.
And as to the difference a spring and summer of training makes? My mate beat me by about ten minutes, that’s all, so a five mile each way daily commute on a 40*16 singlespeed and general base fitness appears to be plenty, as long as you have a low enough gear you can keep spinning without actually grinding to a halt.
After a while at the top to rest a little, to nip over to the altiport to watch the helicopters take off over the cloud inversion in the valley below us and take in all the scenic sights, and it was time to go. Due to a combination of incompetence and indifference, I was riding without a computer on the bike, and while watching it struggle to show the high points of 5mph on the way up would have been potentially disheartening, it was undoubtedly good for my health and wellbeing that I was neither distracted by the numbers nor pushing my luck trying to hit an ever higher number on the way back down.
I know I was frequently well into the 30s mph, and I don’t really know I’d trust myself not to have tried to hit whatever I was actually doing plus a few more. I waved a couple of cars by and then chased them, preferring to have them where I could see them than wait for them to gamble on an overtake that might or might not be on. I followed a couple of cyclists round a couple of bends before pulling out to get past them where I felt it was safe to do so, and I made sure I got rid of most of my speed as I went into the bends, sometimes using the full width of the hairpin where it was clear.
And even with a relatively committed approach to the descent, I still took over twenty minutes to make it to the roundabout at the bottom of the hill, passing cyclist after cyclist on their own torturous rides up towards the summit. Twenty minutes of sheer delight, unmitigated pleasure and the joy of feeling the road dropping away under the bike. If a training-free idiot with a moderate sense of adventure and a healthy appreciation of Tour de France history can not just make it up Alpe d’Huez but enjoy the experience then I reckon almost anyone can. As for riding a hundred odd miles before it though, you can keep that, but given the chance I’d ride up it again any time and not just for the joy of the descent.
I really enjoyed the ride, but I’m in awe of people who can race up it, because I’m damn sure I couldn’t.
