The French Alps. With housemates and friends. 9 nights, with bikes, and
mountains, and lakes, and food. Probably beer. Hopefully sun. Sounds good to
me. Ironman Wales is hilly. The Alps are hilly. Ergo good for training. The
trip got off to an inauspicious start when I got back from work, opened the
front door and knocked over the roof-rack that I couldn’t see had been sitting
inside the front door. It fell into the mirror, which shattered. Glass went
everywhere. Including into my running shoes which live under the mirror when
they are not out running. The thought of bad luck didn’t even cross my mind
until Natalie got home from work and saw it: “But that’s bad luck…”
After a manic bit of evening packing, not enough sleep, and
an even more manic bit of morning packing, everything and everyone was
ensconced inside a car that had just passed its MOT. This car is such a beast
that it has been dubbed the “PanzerWagon”, after a German tank, and after
German cyclist Tony Martin, he of the same nickname. A “Panzerwagon” has become
something big and strong that can go like stink for hours on end.
“Panzer” has become a verb in the house I live in – watching
the Tour de France, marvelling at Chris Froome blowing the field away in the
first Pyreneean stage – he was absolutely panzering up those hills. When I did
my sub-4-hour 100 mile time trial, I panzered that bike as hard as I’d ever
done. Also in the car heading to France, among many other things, was a panzer
tent (a big massive brute of a thing, with room for about 30 people), and a
panzer fridge (a wheely contraption that was good at keeping milk, yoghurt and
vegetables cold. Did I mention beer?)
After about a mile of driving, a warning light came on in
the car. Brake fluid was leaking. We could drive no further. Hours later, the
car was towed to a garage. We missed the ferry. I went back to the house and
did a turbo bike training session and a run, and weights, and also the
single-leg-hopping-up-the-stairs drill that I’ve started doing, in an effort to
increase my explosive leg strength for Ironman Wales. Try it – stand at the
bottom of the stairs, on one leg, and hop up to the next stair. Then step down,
and repeat 50 times per leg. Tough?
Finally the car was fixed and we got a later ferry to France,
stopped over in Reims, and arrived at the camp site near Annecy a day late. It
was fireworks night when we arrived. Europe’s most extravagant fireworks show,
or near enough. Panzer fireworks. I was so tired I dozed during it, and got to
bed very late. I hoped for a long lie-in, but the moment the sun came up above
the mountains, the temperature in the tent went from
very-warm-but-not-too-horribly-hot-to-sleep-in to absolutely boiling hot in the
space of about 5 minutes. And that was how it was for the week, impossible to
sleep beyond 7:30am. But, even though it wasn’t helping my plan to be lazy and
sleep for 11 hours a night, at least it meant the weather was sunny and hot.
On the way to Annecy, I noticed that my right calf was a bit
sore. It gradually got worse and worse. It was bad. I could poke and prod my
left calf without any problem, but I could barely touch my right calf. And the
pain was moving around, hour by hour, from behind my right knee to the top of
my calf, to the bottom of my calf, and back up to the middle of my calf. I
couldn’t straighten my leg. I wanted to cycle 500 miles in the next week, with
plenty of running and swimming too. And I could barely walk. Curveball after
curveball after curveball. Ironman training and racing magnifies any curveball,
so everything needs to be as near perfect as possible.
I didn’t know why my calf should be sore. Maybe it was the
single-leg stair-hopping drills, although I had taken care to build these up
gradually. Maybe it was being cramped in the back seat of a tightly-packed car for
hours on end. Maybe it was a lack of salt and electrolytes. Maybe it was the
shock of getting back into training after Ironman UK. Whatever it was, it was
sore, and I wasn’t happy. As always, it’s a fine line and a tough judgement as
to whether to train through it or back off for a week. So the first part of the first bike ride out in France was
very tentative, and I seemed to get away with it. I left the running for a few
days, and was happy to be able to cycle without too much trouble. And
thankfully, as the week went on, the pain subsided and normal service was
resumed.
The first day was up the Semnoz climb, where the most awesome frites
were to be found. Like a combination of Quaver crisps, potato wedges, Pringles
and chips. Amazing. Just reward for 1200m of climbing. But I made Steve work
for it, as the restaurant is about half a kilometre from the top of the climb.
He intended to stop straight away, I wasn’t having that, we were going to crest
the summit first. I accelerated away to the sound of heavy breathing and “son
of a gun..." The views were almost as good as the frites, with the Mont
Blanc plateau rising over the hills behind Lake Annecy. After a descent down
into Annecy, I decided to do a bit more and climbed back up to the halfway
point – the Col du Leschaux – then did a loop around the back of the Semnoz.
Over 70 miles and 10,000 feet of climbing made for a good day.
Views and rewards on the Semnoz. I've perfected the art of taking photos while cycling:
Keep the phone in the frame bag at the front of the bike, see nice view, unzip bag,
take phone out, swipe and click, put phone away, zip bag up. All in about 3 seconds...
The next day saw a climb up the steep Col de l’Épine (Col
being the French word for “mountain pass”) and down the other side, then I
branched off and took in the Col du Marais, which wasn’t much of a mountain
road, more of a short false flat, then down the other side and up over the Col
de la Croix Fry. Parts of this were steep, and it was hot, hot, hot. I zoomed
down over the far side thinking I might head for the Col de la Colombiere
(please excuse the missing French accent marks throughout this text, as it is
difficult to insert them), but I decided that it was a bit too far away for one
day, so I turned back and did the Col des Aravis instead, at the top of which
there was a little chapel underneath the looming peaks. The inscription was
written “Pray for the travellers”. Particularly those on bikes I’d say, riding
in the Alps, at the mercy of the heat, the cold, the rain, the snow, the
traffic, the roads, the hairpins, the cows, the cliffs…
It was very quiet inside the chapel, with a contrasting
humdrum of people at the tacky souvenir shop at the top of the climb. They were
charging rip-off prices for water – I bought two bottles, handed over 20 euros,
and only got small change back. But I had no choice, I had to drink. After the
Aravis, I dropped back to the valley, passed through the town of Ugine, and
onto the cycle path running between Annecy and Albertville.
This cycle path was awesome, built on an old railway line.
It was set way back from any roads, flat, smooth, and well-used by all manner
of cyclists, runners and skaters. It was great to see so many people, young and
old, being active, testament to what good facilities can enable. I rolled back
to the campsite having completed 90 miles and almost 9000 feet of climbing. I
gave the running a miss again, still mindful of my right calf.
The next day was a bit cloudier, and Natalie and I went for
a run in the cooler temperatures. A long run. For me anyway. Natalie runs 24
hour races. I can hardly bear 2 hours. I was happy to run at a slower pace and
pay close attention to how my calf was feeling. We ran into Annecy along the
cycle path beside the lake. Pretty spectacular. Again people were out in force,
being active. I managed two-and-a-half hours and was pleased with that. But
even with running at a slower-than-normal pace for me, it still hurt my legs. I
have peculiar biomechanics which mean that my body doesn’t cope well with long
distances, and fatigues and pains rapidly after anything longer than around 70-80
minutes. Anyway, it was good to put in a good stint of time on my feet and get
a good long run banked. The rest of the day was spent in a giant Decathlon
outdoor pursuits store, fantasising about what I’d buy if I won the lottery.
The shop had everything. Kayaks? Mountain bikes? Snorkelling gear? A full-sized
mannequin of a horse, complete with “no climbing on the horse” sign, to enhance
any living room or back garden…?
We needed a few brake lever shims, as descending down Alpine
mountain roads requires good braking power and confidence on the brakes. The
brake lever shims would offset the brake lever, meaning that the rider didn’t
have to reach as far to grab the brake levers, putting less strain on the whole
physical act of heavy braking. This is of benefit to people with smaller hands.
I can speak reasonable French (although I sometimes have problems with
comprehending what people are saying), but I had no idea how to ask about these
shims. “Je cherche un truc pour les freins, mais je n’ai pas les mots…” was how
I opened the conversation with the guy in the bike department – “I’m looking
for a thingy for the brakes, but I don’t have the words…” After much gesturing and
improvisation and blustering in what must have been fairly incoherent French,
he finally twigged – “Ahhhhhh, un réducteur du garde….” That sounded about
right, a “réducteur” to “reduce” the distance of brake lever travel. Things
were looking up.
“Mais j’en ai pas.” Things stopped looking up. “But I don’t have
any.” He suggested a different bike shop, and so off we went. I went to the
front desk and made my statement: “Je cherche un réduteur du garde, s’il vous
plait…” This guy didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, and sent me to
the mechanic at the back of the shop. These “réducteurs du garde” were proving
a bit more difficult to get hold of than I thought. They are very specialised
components, maybe they had to be specially ordered? I talked to the mechanic –
“Je cherche un réducteur du garde…?” “Ah oui monsieur,” he smiled. He opened his
drawer and took out a few of the réducteurs du garde. Perfect. Now, how much
was he going to charge? It could easily have been ten euros per item. But no,
50 cents was his going rate. Brilliant.
The next day, my legs were still quite sore from my two-and-a-half
hour run, so it was only a short day on the bike, at 43 miles. We went back up
the Semnoz, driven by the need to eat more of those lovely frites. I did some
strength training, putting the bike in a high gear and churning the pedals at a
very slow cadence for 4-5 minutes, then easing off and dropping back down the
road to where the others were climbing up. I had enough left to absolutely
blitz the penultimate kilometre in just over 3 minutes, but this left me
hanging off the bike, gasping. This is the speed the pros do entire climbs,
maybe 4 or 5 climbs of 10-15km per day. Day after day. I’m not a bad bike
rider, but the output and speed of the pros is amazing.
I was looking forward to an easy final kilometre up to the
summit after my penultimate kilometer blitz, then freewheeling back half a kilometre to the restaurant and frites.
But some guy came past me with about 800m to go, looking like he wanted a race.
The competitive juices kicked in, I took his bait and hammered like mad,
thinking I’d drop him. But he had managed to tuck in behind into my slipstream,
where he sat until the final 50m, doing no work and getting a free tow to the
top. Wheelsucker! Then he came past me just before the summit, timed perfectly,
and I’m sure in his head he took both hands off the handlebars and celebrated
wildly, then climbed onto a podium as the King of the Mountains, with two
pretty podium girls either side. He can keep his daydreams, I was happy with my
frites again. I was content with a slow descent and ride back to the campsite.
Then it was time to go and swim in the lake. Everyone had
told me that the water was really warm. I hadn’t seen anyone in a wetsuit. But,
being the wimp that I am, I put on my wetsuit. Or rather, struggled
pathetically into it while the entire beach watched and laughed and wondered
what on earth the stupid foreigner was doing, wearing a wetsuit.
Good lake, good swimming
But the wetsuit was the right choice for me as I was warm in the
water, and I swam for an hour as the sun was setting. It was awesome. I wish
the Ironman swim in Wales was going to be like this – no worries about killer
jellyfish, rough seas, salt water puking and retching, poor visibility, and
cold temperatures. Then it was dinner time – pizza and beer. What a day of
eating – porridge for breakfast, chips and cola for lunch, pizza and beer for
dinner. Perfect Ironman food…
My legs felt a bit fresher the next day, and I decided I
wanted to go for a hundred mile ride. Ideally I'd have loved to do the Marmotte route - a mega ride over the 2000m Cols du Glandon and Croix de Fer, down the other side, over the Col du Telegraphe and Galibier at 2645m, down the Lautaret pass and finally up Alpe d'Huez at nearly 2000m. This route must have over 4000m of climbing. A big day. But a landslide had closed the Lautaret pass, so the Marmotte route wasn't possible. Next year...? I'd also love to ride in the Alps in spring time, when the mountain passes have to be cut through 6-10 feet of snow. You'd literally be riding between two ice walls. Would be awesome.
So I decided on an alternative long ride, towards the Cormet de Roselend and possibly Val d'Isere and the Col de l'Iseran. I got up early, ate as much porridge
as possible, got the bike ready, and despite the heat I chose to wear leggings
and arm warmers, to give my skin a break from direct sunlight. Probably the
entire Savoie region saw me on the bike that day and wondered what on earth the
stupid foreigner was doing, wearing long sleeves and leggings in 40 degree
heat. I didn’t mind though, my skin certainly wouldn’t mind, and I’m good in
the heat anyway.
I headed out solo along the cycle path, intending to climb
the Cormet de Roselend from Albertville. Then I thought I might drop down the
other side and up the valley to Val d’Isere, then on up to the Col de l’Iseran,
at nearly 3000m above sea level. Then I would drop down the other side, end up
in the town of Modane after something like 120-120 miles, and I’d catch a train
back. Or maybe I’d get to the top of the first climb (the Cormet de Roselend)
and see sense and head back to the campsite on my bike the same way I had come…
No more than 1 kilometre along the cycle path, a guy flew
past me on a time trial bike, tight in an aerodynamic tuck. I had thought that
I would cruise out the 25 or so miles to Albertville, use it as an extended
warm-up, and then hit the hills. I had a split-second decision to make. Did I
go with this guy, or forget it? Straight away I was panzering and I got onto
his tail. We were pushing 30mph, it was thrilling riding, overtaking everyone
else, slowing for the little barriered chicanes, getting back on full power,
getting back up to speed and zooming towards Albertville. He stopped after
about half an hour at one of the chicanes, reaching down to his front brake. “Ca
va?” I asked. “Oui, oui,” he replied, getting back on his bike. I booted on,
hard. He came up behind me and we continued beasting ourselves towards
Albertville.
We eased off for the final few miles, going only 24mph
rather than 30mph, and we had a chat. He was a young guy, training for Ironman
Vichy in France at the end of August. He wanted to qualify for Kona as well. He
seemed like a good cyclist, with a heck of a bike, much better than my
triathlon bike (and my triathlon bike certainly isn’t bad!), plus he was in the
18-24 age group, and he knew that stepping up in age groups doesn’t make things
easier. I got the feeling he was thinking “now or never”. We exchanged contact
details and wished each other luck for qualification. His Ironman would
probably feature a flat and smooth bike course, not a twisty, hilly, gritty
course like Bolton or Wales. But surely Vichy won’t be as epic as Tenby…
It had been a fast 25-odd miles out to Albertville, but sharing
the work with Monsieur-Super-Bike had meant the energy expenditure wasn’t too
bad. It’s not often you cruise at 30mph on the flat with a heart rate of only
115bpm. I took the road to the left out of Albertville and immediately passed a
sign saying “Cormet de Roselend 39km”. That’s a long way to climb! The first
19km were a series of false flats and gentle inclines up through the valley.
All of the climbs feature kilometre markers, and I started the climb proper
after passing a kilometre stone reading “Cormet de Roselend 20km”. I had no
idea of the profile of the climb, only that there was a lake towards the top
with good views. It was a fairly tedious and steep first 10km, and I passed a
few cyclists. One was a girl my age, with a fully laden bike – front and rear
panniers.
By this stage I had decided on my strategy for greeting
fellow cyclists. If they were climbing and I was also climbing (i.e. if I
overtook or was overtaken), I would say “Bonjour”, and batter on. If I was
descending, and the fellow cyclist was ascending, or vice-versa, I’d nod my
head. There’s no point in saying “Bonjour” when there’s a big speed
differential as the roar of the wind makes it impossible to hear. I said
“bonjour” to this girl, and battered on. She looked tired, and with all the
stuff she was carrying, I guessed she was following the Route Des Grandes
Alpes, from Geneva to Nice via lots of mountain roads. Fair play.
Then an old guy in a car coming down the hill stopped his
car and hung out the window. “Le sommet est pas loin” he said, with a
glint in his eye - "The top isn't far." “Mais non, mais non,” I said, knowing full well that he and I
were both well aware it was still 15km away. Then I passed the young girl’s
boyfriend who was also churning slowly up the hill with a fully laden bike.
“Bonjour”, I said, according to my strategy. Normally I didn’t get much more
than a “bonjour” back, but this guy shouted, in a bit of a panic, “Ou est ma
petite blonde?” I was climbing far faster than him but I managed to shout back
“Elle arrive, elle arrive, elle roule bien mais doucement!” “She’s coming,
she’s going OK but slowly!”
I was running low on water so with 10k to go, when I rounded
a corner and broke through the trees and saw a restaurant, it was a bit of an
alleluia moment. Even more of an alleluia moment when I saw the lake,
glistening blue, behind the restaurant, and saw that I was up on the plateau of
the Cormet de Roselend. I could see there were a couple of kilometres of flat
road beside the lake before it reared up again through a craggy mountain pass,
with the summit somewhere beyond. The view was beautiful. I’ve never seen such
a dazzling blue lake, maybe minerals are washed off the hills and into the
water to give it a unique blue shade. Mountains towered above the lake, flanked
with pine trees and pink-coloured plants on the lower slopes, giving way to
rocky peaks. What a spot to ride a bike.
The pictures don't really do it justice
The short stop for water, photograph-taking and the
subsequent couple of flat kilometres meant my legs had recovered a bit for the
final 7 or 8km up to the top. There were cows everywhere, with massive cowbells
round their necks. Really huge church-bell-sized cowbells. The poor cows. Imagine
the noise of hundreds of these bells drifting down the mountain. I was able to
take a few photos as I rode. I kicked on up to the top, where I met an older
Dutch rider. We had a bit of a chat. My phone had run out of memory, so he took
a picture of me on the summit of the climb and promised to email it to me. We
chatted a bit, and he recommended that I didn’t try for the almost-3000m Col de
l’Iseran. I agreed, it was too far away. I could drop back down the same side
of the Cormet de Roselend and take in some smaller climbs on the way back.
I started the descent and the kilometre markers whizzed by
as I flew down the descent on the wide, open road. From the restaurant at the
lake, I veered left, up over the Col du Pré, and then down a torturous, narrow
descent to the valley floor. There wasn’t much fun on this descent, just
concentration, anticipation and plenty of heavy braking. Following a food stop
to eat four Toblerones and a banana, I got back to Albertville. I still felt I
had plenty in my legs, so decided that rather than going back on the flat cycle
path I would go over the Col du Tamié. I was surprised how good I felt on this
climb, and I felt like I was rocketing up. I was pleased with the strength in
my legs. I didn’t linger too long at the top as by now I was seeing huge pizzas
and Yop yogurt milkshakes flying across my vision. I was getting hungry.
Fuelled by "pan y agua", and pizza, beer, energy gels,
energy bars, energy drinks, porridge, etc etc...
It was a quick descent back down to the cycle path, and a
few more big efforts on the cycle path, getting up to 30pmh. Then, after 104
miles, I got back to the campsite, and decided to hallucinate a bit more with a
4-mile run, before the pizza and Yop finally became reality for a very short
time before I demolished them…
The next day was road-trip day, down to the Maurienne
valley, to St-Jean-de-Maurienne. At the Tour de France this year, there was a
literally unbelievable climb featured: Les Lacets du Montvernier (the “laces”
of Montvernier). This is a short, 3.4km, multi-hairpinned ribbon of road,
winding its way up a cliff face, with a tiny chapel perched on one side of the
top of the cliff, and a cross on the other side. Beyond these, the tiny town of
Montvernier, and beyond this, the Col du Chaussy. The Lacets is surely one of
the most incredible, ridiculous, mad, crazy, scenic roads in the world. It had
looked amazing in the Tour de France. The road is so narrow that spectators
were not allowed on it during the Tour. We were going to ride it. And then
carry on up the Col du Chaussy, down the other side, and up the Col du Glandon
and the Col de le Croix de Fer on the other side of the valley. A cycling
magazine told us that this was 100km (in reality I think it was a lot more)
with 3000m of climbing. The magazine also had some incredible photos of what
the ride would be like.
A must-ride
A bit warm
In the supermarket car park in St-Jean-de-Maurienne, as we
were getting ready, my bike computer showed 45 degrees C. Unreal. It was
boiling. Like opening an oven and getting a blast of heat, but for hours on
end. My legs felt tired too, I had done loads of miles and climbed tens of
thousands of feet. We headed for the Lacets. I should have cruised up, knowing
that it was going to be a long day. But I couldn’t help myself. It was a
thrilling climb, blasting skywards and banking round the hairpins, daring to
look down over my shoulder to see the precipitous drops and the tarmac squiggle
I had just come up, and looking upwards to see the hairpin overhangs above,
still to come. 11 minutes later I was at the top, then I cruised back down to
the others, taking a few photos as I went. By the time everyone had got up to
Montvernier, it was obvious that it was going to be a long, hot day as we set off,
slogging rather than cycling, to the top of the Col de Chaussy.
We passed through several tiny villages, no more than a
cluster of houses in each. The whole road and each of the small villages were
like one continuous community. It was only recently that the road had been
completed from the Lacets up to Montvernier and on through the other smaller
villages up to the Col du Chaussy. So, a few weeks previously was the first
time that the Tour de France had ever passed on this route. And how proud the
locals were to have had the Tour passing through. How evident it was. Every
single house was decked out. Not in yellow, in homage to the Tour de France
leader’s yellow jersey, but in white with red polka dots, in homage to the maillot a pois – the polka-dot jersey –
worn by the best climber in the race. We were very much in climbing country
here in the Montvernier commune, and the locals had really embraced it.
Old bikes, spray-painted white with red polka dots were
hanging from the street lights, sitting at gate posts, and placed on balconies.
Red and white bunting fluttered everywhere. Polka-dotted images of bikes were
on every building and lamp-post. We even went past a statue of Santa Claus on a
red and white bike. I didn’t know he was a climber… It was brilliant, and I’m
sure it won’t be long before the Tour passes along these roads again.
The grind of the climb, and the heat, were taking their
toll. The view of the road cutting along the mountain, many kilometres ahead,
didn’t help matters. We were moving very slowly, stopping in the shade to take
on water. We went past a MAMIL and MAWIL (Middle-Aged Man/Woman In Lycra) who
had stopped to rest in the shade of a tree. “Allez allez” they said.
“Ahhhhhhhh” I replied. With a long way to go to the top, it was inevitable that
we’d meet again on the road. They were able to spin quite easily (but slowly)
up the hill, as they had huge rear cassettes and thus very low gears. It turned
out that they were from Northern Ireland. We chatted a bit, and got talking
about Alpe d’Huez. They had done the ascent in 70-something minutes, and were
astounded that two very fit and lean Canadian cyclists whom they had met had
done it in 57 minutes. Steve and I were dying to say that we had done it in 50
minutes flat, but we let it go. We knew. That was all that mattered.
We continued labouring up to the Chaussy summit, and my legs
somehow found a new lease of life towards the top, and I was able to blitz the
last few kilometres. I turned back round to the others and could see Natalie
labouring away, several hairpins below. I gave a massive shout down the
mountain, “ALLEZ ALLEZ”, and it echoed all around the slopes, setting off dogs
barking madly and cows mooing fearfully in the distance. We finally got to the
top. It had been a tough climb. Well worth a few frites and Cokes and
croque-monsieur sandwiches.
Then we dropped down the far side and hit the slopes of the
descent of the Col de la Madeleine. I got to the very bottom, turned around and
beasted 4 or 5km back up, then back down, then back to St-Jean-de-Maurienne. We
decided not to do the Cols du Glandon and Croix de Fer, as it was getting late
in the day, but I couldn’t resist one last blast up the Lacets and was pleased
that I was no slower than before. I passed a family riding up, with two kids
that couldn’t have been older than about 5 and 7. I gave them a fist pump and a
“bravo”. It had still been a 44-mile day in searing heat, with over 6000 feet
of climbing. I did a 25-minute run back at the campsite, then it was dinner
time. Probably pizza. And beer.
The final full day saw a climb over the Col du Forclaz on
the far side of Lake Annecy, up to where the paragliders took off. The climb
was “only” about 700 vertical metres and 8 or 9km, but it was a steep, steep
road, with sections hitting 15-16%. I rode it pretty hard, and also pretty
blind (literally), as the suncream on my face was running into my eyes with the
sweat and exertion. It was really bad, and I spent more time with my eyes
closed than open on the way up. More Coke was consumed at the top, then a rapid
descent, followed by a good long flat open road to the town of Thones.
Top of the Forclaz
Perhaps surprisingly, I still had good legs and was able to
get some good speed going on this flat section. Steve was hanging on for dear
life, finding the going a bit tougher. We got to Thones, passed a boulangerie,
had a sniff, and it would have been rude to decline Steve’s suggestion that we
stop and call in for a pain au chocolat.
Then it was up over the Col du Marais (really just a steady false flat), still
I felt good, panzering away at reasonable speed, with Steve hanging on behind.
I was having trouble seeing as my eyes were really sore and bloodshot by now,
with sweat and suncream still flowing freely into them. I was squinting and
grimacing like a madman. This had made me very snotty as well, and my nose kept
leaking and leaking. I kept having to blast the snot out, spraying my bike, my
jersey, and the road. No stopping and using a tissue! It wasn’t pretty.
A really good, fast, open descent followed down to the
valley floor on the other side, and we got onto the cycle path, taking turns to
lead and slipstream on the ride back to the campsite. I still had legs left, so
while Steve peeled off to jump in the pool, eat pizza and drink beer, I set off
up the Semnoz again. I got halfway up, to the Col de Leschaux, and could see
that the forecast thunderstorms weren’t too far off. The wind was getting up.
But still I wanted more miles and more feet climbed, so I dropped down to the
village of Bellecombe. At the start of this descent, a rider came past me
slowly and looked back, I got the impression he was looking for someone to ride
the 10km or so down to Bellecombe with, and most likely the other side of the
loop back up to the Col de Leschaux.
I was quite tired and hungry at this stage and just as he
passed me and looked hopefully towards me, I was busy blowing snot out of my
nose and onto the road/my bike/my jersey, while trying to wipe a mess of sweat
and suncream off my face, eat an energy gel and take a drink, all while
grunting and squinting and probably looking like I needed some serious and
urgent help. So, the other cyclist didn’t linger too long and he took off down
the road.
Having tended to my food, drink, snot, sweat and eye issues,
I set off down the road. I needed to be quick before the thunderstorms properly
rolled in. It was such a quiet road, with no-one else about. No cars. Just a
small road, leading to a small village and nowhere else. I soon flew past the guy
who I had previously probably frightened to death, and got down through
Bellecombe and on to the junction with the bigger road leading more directly
back to the Col de Leschaux. I had ridden this road earlier in the week, it was
basically a 10km blast up a false flat with gradient of between 3-5%. Something
that you could just chew up with a bike, and panzer the whole way up.
Starting this road back up to the Leschaux, I started to
feel like it was one road too far. My legs were struggling. But I stuck at it,
and they came good again. And I saw a couple of cyclists up ahead. One was
going faster than the other. Then I came up behind the first one. A girl. At
just the moment I passed her, I could see the other one, a guy, look back to
check how far back she was. He saw me alongside her, and realised I was moving
fairly rapidly. The competitive instinct kicked in and I set off in pursuit.
After a couple of kilometres I had reeled him in. I went straight by him, and
he tucked in tight behind my back wheel, taking the slipstream, getting all the
speed for much less effort, for a much lower heart rate, for much less power
output, and for less energy used.
I kept battering away, keeping low down in an aero crouch,
keeping the legs turning. Body, mind and bike were working well together, and I
thought I might drop him before the top, but he kept on my wheel. Slipstreaming
makes things very easy. It’s against the rules in Ironman, but people still do
it. It’s really not policed well enough. With just a few hundred metres to go
before the top, he tried to come past me to take the summit first. I wasn’t
having this, and thankfully my legs complied and provided the extra that I
needed to keep alongside. We summited together, shook hands, he did a U-turn
back to his companion, and I carried on back down to the campsite. Another 75
miles done, another 7000 feet climbed. To really earn my pizza and beer, I
tagged on a 25 minute run. Then with perfect timing, just as I had finished, it
started to rain.
Campsite pool
I worked out that in a week, I had cycled 427 miles and
climbed nearly 50,000 feet. I felt good on the bike, and I was happy that my
calf seemed to calm down and get better. I “only” managed to run 24 miles, and
even worse, to swim only 3km. But the bike training was really good, and I got
a long run under my belt, which was good, and one swim was enough to keep the
arms ticking over.
It had been a really good holiday. The next morning was
lashing rain. Taking the tent down, packing up everything and loading the car
wasn’t fun, but it was a case of “needs must”, and these needs included the
need to drive back to where I earn money to fund all this madness. Not long
until Ironman Wales…
