Competitive Cycling - Goals and dreams and hard work!

Blog make-over

2012-12-08T20:49:00.005+10:00

It has been bugging me for months. If the header doesn't fit the content, it's "missed topic" and that's a "fail". That's why continuing to write a blog titled Competitive Cycling after the competitiveness is long gone is self-deception. That's how it feels for me.

There is no anger in this. I love cycling more than ever. Maybe, one day, training and racing and being competitive will be back on my agenda but for now I'm happy to just enjoy my fascination for bicycles and cycling. It has taken me a while to let go but now I'm ready.

Welcome to my old blog, new blog, now aptly named blog Fascination Bicycle. So expect exciting new content at the new address soon.

But wait! There are more changes to this whole blog makeover!

I also created a blog solely for my past and future bicycle travels. Check there for the remainder of my Europe adventure posts in the upcoming weeks. There is still exciting stuff in the pipeline, for example L'Angliru and cycling in the Basque heartland.

What will happen to here? I will clean up the content of "Competitive Cycling - Groover rides" over the next few days, move the travel posts over to my new "Bicycle Travels" blog and keep the true competitive cycling content here as resource and for the remote possibility that I will add training and racing reports again sometime in the future.

Underneath all the new image - you know - it'll still be me! :-)

So come and visit me at my new addresses.

That's again

www.bicycletravel.wordpress.com

and

www.fascinationbicycle.wordpress.com

La Covatilla

2012-11-25T21:17:00.001+10:00

I hadn't heard of La Covatilla prior to coming to Spain despite this climb featuring in the 2011 Vuelta a España.

Bejar and the Sierra de Bejar is only a short drive from Avíla and Piedrahíta, where we had ridden the previous day. We parked our motorhome in front of Aldi in Bejar, changed into cycling gear, and before we even knew it, we were climbing. It was a short dash up the mountain and back down, only a 33km ride.

We started climbing straight out of Bejar, even though the actual La Covatilla doesn't start for another 7.5 km pass the township. It was Vuelta a España time, and we had been following the previous few stages on TV. Watching Contador attack Rodriguez time after time again was impressive.

Think of Contador what you want but he is beautiful to watch riding uphill, out of the saddle, straight back, head held up high, shoulders and upper body snaking over his bike. And Purito, similar style but with a rounded back and just as beautiful in his responses, did not allow Contador to get away, at least not in these stages that we watched.

Inspired and in a playful mood, I had my fun with La Covatilla.

I was a marionette, suspended over my bike, with a string holding my head high and two strings lifting my shoulders up, dangling myself on top of my bike just like Contador when he climbs.

And then I attacked. Alberto was Purito. I was Contador. It was the Vuelta a España. Alberto laughed, and let me go, only to ride pass me a few seconds later again. It was so easy for him to catch me, he might as well have made the "smoking cigar" hand movement with which Rodriguez gained his nick name. Whenever the road kicked up to 11% or more, I attacked. And it steepened a lot. It was so much fun, I felt so good, so strong, so child-like.

I started experimenting even more. One minute I'd be trying to make myself as tall and light as possible, the next I would be all over the handlebar, stomping on the pedals - Cadel Evans' style. And then I would relax again whenever my Garmin showed a comfortable 7-9% gradient, allowing my body to ride it's own comfortable, less graceful, style.

Before I knew it, I rolled over the finish line, disappointed that the climb had been short. We had a quick look around the car park and weather station, rolled up to the few houses that are the ski resort, took a couple of photos and turned around. Everything was deserted in the midst of summer.

There was not much to see or do up there, except a Toro Bravo, and only later I realised that there hadn't been any fence between him and us. The descend was as much fun as the ascent. The clear views back down to Bejar with the viaduct stretching across the valley were stunning, and the only grudge I hold against this ride is that it was way too short.

Sierra del Gredos

2012-11-17T21:18:00.001+10:00

This amazing journey, on which AMR and I had been for seven months, has finally come to an end! Like all good things must!

Some, or most of you, will already know that we are back in Brisbane and it's good to be back after all. Of course, I do miss the European flair, the long climbs in the high mountains, the courtesy of drivers, the food and wine, the carefree long summer nights, my family and so much more. But I must admit that the company of our amazing, inspiring and passionate friends here in Oz more than compensate for that.

Even though we are back, I won't be able to jump right back into "daily life". There are still a few more Spanish rides and climbs that we did in September and that I want to mention, not only because they are worth doing if you ever find yourself in Spain with a bike at hand, but also to preserve our own memories, which are fading all too quickly.

***

West of the Sierra de Guadarrama and the Bola del Mundo is more wide open, burnt, arid Spanish "landscape". Sierras to the left, sierras to the right, there was this romantic notion of a long road trip.

Barcelona - Madrid - Lisbon

We drove right across the Iberian peninsula but not without stopping in a place we knew was worth exploring by bike: the Sierra del Gredos!

The walled town of Avíla was meant to be our base for an exploratory excursions into the mountain range but, like the old saying goes: "If you don't know where you are going, any road will take you there" we no longer could afford to loose ourselves in Europe like we had done so many times successfully. Time was running thin and I felt the pressing need to maximise our experience. We now had to decide what we wanted to see in the remaining three weeks of our trip and so we decided to stay the night and enjoy a Spanish dinner within the medieval walls of this fascinating town but drive a further few kilometers down to Piedrahíta in the morning to start our ride from there.

Piedrahíta turned out to be the perfect starting point. With the help of our 50 Rides Magazine and the nice lady in the Avíla tourist information, we had mapped out a 100km out and back route.

The route took us first up and over the hors category climb of Puerto de Peñanegra. This climb has featured in the Vuelta a Espana in the past and is 14.5 km long. At an average gradient of 5.8%, it wasn't as tough as many other Spanish climbs we encountered. The mountain side was very open with low vegetation, which allowed round sweeping views back down to the wide open plain. The summit had a take-off place for para gliders and hundreds of colourful dots in the sky added to the visual spectacle. The Puerto links the Corneja valley with the Sierra de Gredos range.

Down we flew the wide sweeping corners from just over 1900m into the valley. A left turn at the T intersection at the bottom of the descend got us on our way towards San Juan de Gredos and Hojos del Espino. There was some talk about stopping for lunch but we weren't quite hungry, yet, so we ignored the village just off the main road and kept attacking the little rollers. Ten kilometres later we found the turn off to the Plataforma. A statue of an ibex marked the intersection.

The landscape - scenic in the typical Spanish rugged way - continued to be very much the same, a road snaking up between burnt mountains. There were a handful of cars making their way up, otherwise the area seemed deserted.

The climb was 9 km long and the gradient only briefly tipped on ten percent towards the end. There were almost 2 km of downhill about half way, which pushed the average gradient down to 4% - barely more than a false flat. Knowing that it was a dead end road, we were curious what we would find up there.

Anticipation built with every turn, so when we rolled into a car park with an abandoned refuge and overflowing rubbish bins, piles and piles of previous picnicker's left-overs and wrappings, we didn't want to accept that this was indeed the end of the road, and it wasn't! But the road that continued right at the far end of the car park was not suitable for skinny tires.

Somewhat disappointed we turned around. It was mid-afternoon and, hungry now, we stopped in the first best bar of the first best village back down in the valley.

The bar was pretty much empty. Only three or four people, all starring at a TV above the entrance door, were inside the plain large room with stone tiles, mustard-coloured walls and a U-shaped bar in the middle. Delighted at the realisation that they were watching the Vuelta a Espana, we hang around the centre bar, sipping at our Cokes while waiting for our bocadillos with tortilla.

We couldn't help but notice the framed Yellow Jersey underneath the TV on the wall, and pictures of Carlos Sastre, autographed to his amigos del Restaurante JJ con afecto y simpatica. Yes, we had read that Sastre was from this area (El Barraco) and we figured that there was a chance we were riding on his training ground but to accidentally end up in a bar of his friends was a nice touch. We chatted with the girl behind the bar who confirmed that she knew Carlos well and that he had been there a couple of weeks earlier to hand out medals in a local club event. What a motivation for the young and upcoming cyclists of this area to be handed a medal by a former Tour de France champion, I thought to myself.

And not only were they into cycling, they also knew how to make a good lunch, even way pass lunch time. It didn't bother us at all that it took a long time. The cook possibly ran over to the bakery, where he chatted for a while because he probably had to wait for the bakery to re-open after siesta, and then chatted some more before returning with the still warm baguettes under his arm. I'm making this up and have no idea whether this happened because we happily watched the finish of the Vuelta stage in the meantime.

We had kept a piker option up our sleeves for the return trip in case the climbing would proof too much for a hot Spanish afternoon. But inspired by the Vuelta and fuelled with a freshly baked barra de pan and enormous amounts of potato and egg, there was no second thought wasted on looping around the Peñanegra.

Up and over the climb we returned, the same way we had come.

La Bola del Mundo - The impossible climb

2012-10-14T05:20:00.001+10:00

What happened to a cyclist who thinks 10% gradient is 'comfortably flat'?

a) She's gone stark raven mad.
b) She's been cycling in Spain.
c) All of the above.

If this climb had just been the Puerto de Navacerrada in the Sierra de Guadarrama north of Spain's capital, I'd say: Don't bother! Save your time and money! It's not worth the effort.

The M604 from Navacerrada seems to be the main arterial road over the mountain pass to Segovia. The traffic was annoying. The pine forest got monotonous after a while and covered any views that might have otherwise distracted. With 7.7km and an average gradient of 5.5%, it's neither a very long nor very challenging climb. Maybe the Segovia side is prettier?

But La Bola del Mundo, the 3.1 km climb from Puerto de Navacerrada to the TV antennas at the summit, was really our destination. Until 2009 this had been a hiking trial only. Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to pave this thing and include it in the Vuelta a Espana?

We first missed the turn and continued along the road towards Rascafria. This was a beautiful flat stretch at altitude, around the mountain, with views down to the wide, flat landscape of Castillo y Leon. Only when we asked some Spanish cyclists at a chalet for directions, we realised that we had ridden too far.

La Bola del Mundo - third sign from the top! I bet you would have missed that, too, if I hadn't told you!

Bola del Mundo starts right there, at the Puerto de Navacerrada car park next to the toilet block. The sign is tiny and easily missed, just like the road, which isn't exactly a road. One of the Spanish cyclists had warned us that we would have to jump a barrier and that it was a tough climb. Right! That was exactly the reason why we were there. Or better, that was the reason AMR was there. I was there to witness!

Or was I? I had come all this way, why sit in the car park for half an hour? Maybe I could at least try a little bit? No, no, no - I wasn't committed to ride all the way. I told Alberto to turn around at the top and collect me on his descent. Mortirolo was still fresh on my mind! Do not wait for me!

It started with a standing start behind the barrier. The road was so steep and gravelly that I couldn't take off without Alberto's help. Straight away it shot through my head: What an impossible climb! but once on my way I couldn't stop because - well - it had been nice of Alberto to get me on my way before taking off himself. I owed him a few hundred meters, at least.

And then my quads started burning. 'Out of the saddle' helped for a moment but there was gravel, and potholes in the concrete. The wheels started slipping. As if 18% gradient wasn't challenging enough! I sat down but there it was again, the burn in the legs. 5 km/h! 40 rpm in my 34/27. And I had ridden 500 m so far.

500 m!

No way I could continue all the way!

I started hearing voices - above me. Shit, the path was right underneath the ski lift. All ski lifts in Italy and France had been closed but this stupid thing was operating and carrying people up to where I wanted to go. No, I didn't want to go there. I wanted this burning to stop! Clearly, they were watching me, very excited about me cycling up Bola del Mundo, and shouting encouragement from up there. One more turn of the pedal. Another! Why is this ski lift moving these people so bloody slowly out of sight?

Gone! Great! I unclipped.

900 m!

I'll just wait here until Alberto returns.

...

Mmmmh!

...

Legs feel better now. Maybe I could go a little further, just another 100m or so. It's not actually looking quite as steep here. I can probably clip in and take off without help.

I heard the ski lift people cheer a couple of switchbacks above me. They cheered for Alberto and I smiled and wondered if he was also close to giving up. Probably not!

The next couple of hundred meters were not so bad. 8-10% gradient felt almost flat. But then it popped up again, the burn. A look at the Garmin confirmed that we were back at 20-30%, back to 5 km/h, back to lactic acid overload. I was hurting.

Then I made the biggest mistake. I looked up. I unclipped.

1750m!

Damn head! Why, oh why, did I look up?

...

Mmmmmh!

...

More than half way! Maybe I can ride a bit further, just until Alberto comes back down. He must be at the top already and should be back soon.

The next 500 m were tough, exactly 16.3% tough, and by now the legs weren't recovering as quickly as after the first rest stop. It felt like a third set on the leg press, muscles all wobbly and weak - baby giraffe legs. And again I looked up and all I saw was another switchback and even steeper road.

The TV antennas looked far away, further than they should have. I had ridden for over 20 minutes. People came walking down. You are an animal! an English girl shouted. Not as charming as the French Bon courage! but somehow it suited this climb with it's white concrete slaps, the gravel and potholes, the impossible gradient.

2220m!

This is it. I'm done! Nice view from here. I'll just take a few photos until Alberto comes back and I'll roll down with him. I had a good go and know what Bola del Mundo is all about! Who cares if I made it all the way.

Mmmmh!

A minute went pass, and then another. After three minutes I got bored and climbed back on my bike. Around the switchback was a flattish stretch. My legs coped well. I felt stupid for stopping. If I had known, I would have kept going. The TV antennas were now in straight view ahead of me. I spotted Alberto rolling down towards me. I wanted to climb all the way now, all the way to the TV antennas at the top.

Alberto was very proud to see me there. I could hear it in his voice. I felt very proud to be there, too. The last 300 m, the road kicked up again. My legs burnt. My muscles felt weak. But there was no stopping anymore, with Alberto right at my wheel talking me through it.

There were a few minutes of catching my breath and allowing my heart rate to drop. Then this amazing feeling of having done it exploded in me!

The magnificent views were enhanced by adrenalin. The descent was as nerve wracking as the ascent.

And then I wanted to do this climb again, without stopping... amazed by the speed the brain forgets pain!

Chapter Five: Our Vuelta a Espana! Four memorable rides in the Spanish Pyrenees

2012-10-11T09:42:00.001+10:00

We crossed the border into Spain from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port.

We landed on a different planet.

The French Pyrenees had been lovely with lush green fields and forests, villages with vegetable gardens, corn fields and vineyards, the air always fresh, even on warm summer days, a comfortable breeze, a fresh mountain stream alongside a shady road. I had this major crush on the Pyrenees.

Something already familiar happened. I felt homesick for the country we just left. Little Good byes, fore-bearers of the big Good Bye that loomed. Spain and Portugal - our last ports on our journey through Europe. I wanted to hang on to every second. I did not want to go to Spain because it meant 'The last chapter' began.

It didn't help that the first week in Spain was uncomfortable. The air was hot, muggy, unbearable. The landscape was arid, barren, forlorn. Not just cycling, but any movement, was an effort.

We also felt stranded. Our always reliable guide, the 50 Rides before you die magazine, had only one entry for the Spanish Pyrenees, the Quebrantahuesos Cyclosportif from Sabinanigo. The list of Spanish and Portuguese rides and climbs that we had collected from cycling friends along the way was scarce of Pyrenees' options. Sure, there was Arcalis in Andorra to our east and the famous climbs of Andalusia and the Basque country to our west but right there, between Pamplona and Andorra, it felt like there was a big dreary cycling desert. A glance into our map did not reveal many rideable roads. Spoilt by hundreds of Cols on the French side, Spanish Puertos seemed few and far between. I couldn't find many wiggly little lines in the map that promised cycling bliss.

Ah, roads! Spanish roads! They are amazing, brand new, four lane highways - empty of cars! And they run parallel to the mountains, so no good for climbing-fanatic cyclists like us.

I didn't like riding in Spain that first week in Spain.

Now, that the unfavourable first impressions have faded and the sweaty discomfort is forgotten, with the distance of time and after sorting through the many photos, I realise that we stumbled over beautiful pearls of rides and climbs along the Spanish Pyrenees after all.

Jaca Ride - 90 km through Aragon

One of the stages of this year's Vuelta a Espana finished in Jaca. The town has an enchanting medieval town centre with charming restaurants, lively at night. Kids played soccer near the old church, while we enjoyed raciones and a Rioja Crianza under crystal clear skies. It was after midnight, when we walked down narrow alley ways back to our motorhome. Spain is romantic at night.

But cycling in Spain has it's challenges, especially this time of year. People had warned us.

Just like in Australia, the best time to ride your bike is early in the morning, when the air still hangs onto a hint of freshness from the night and the humidity is bearable. Forget about cycling between midday and six in the afternoon.

But unlike Australia, life happens after dark. While in Oz you won't find an open kitchen after nine, in Spain you are hard pressed to find one open before nine. Late dinners mean late bed time mean late wake ups mean long siestas mean riding in 40 C...

By the time we woke up from our late night stroll over time-worn cobbles and headed out on that loop that the nice lady in the tourist information had marked in the map for us, it was past ten in the morning. The sun glared into our squinting eyes, and it was realistically too late for a 120km loop.

We headed up the N330 towards the Col de Somport, and I would have loved to keep going along that road, all the way back to my beloved France. It was hard to imagine that less than 50-60km from us, behind the peaks in the distance was Laruns, with the wonderful Marie Blanque, Solour and Aubisque.

Here, the landscape was so different. The grass was burnt, the trees looked thirsty, the air stood still. We turned off the National road to Borau.

The small road, in bad state of repair, wound over rolling hills. We climbed a few switchbacks, a 1.3 km climb here, a 3.7 km climb there. Thankfully, none of them were too steep because I struggled with the heat.

Every time we reached a crest and looked down into the next valley, I imagined the Kings of Aragon riding up and down those hills, hundreds of years ago, with pride looking at their kingdom, down to the villages across the river. Aisa, Jasa - the names sounded ancient and alien to me.

There was a creek. There wasn't much water, but the turquoise colour spoke of refreshing coolness. We were tempted to stop for a skinny dip.

In Hecho we found live in the local Tapas bar. The deep fried tuna balls and Coke tasted like the best meal ever. The bar owner had family in Perth.

It was after midday by the time we got going again, and we opted for the flat road back to Jaca instead riding further to Ansa like initially planned. Even without Ansa it was a 40km team time trial back - a suitable start to our very own Vuelta a Espana. Yes, I did take my turns and was quite happy and proud of myself by the time we got back to our motorhome, just on time to hold siesta while watching the Vuelta stage on TV.

I felt sorry for the Pros who had no choice but battle the oppressive afternoon heat on a different road, not far from us.

Details of the ride on Strava

El Portalet and Hoz de Jaca from Biescas

The very next day we headed for France. We were just North of Sabinanigo, the town that hosts the already mentioned yearly Quebrantahuesos cyclosportifs. It was unrealistic to ride the entire 205 km course; in fact, we weren't even riding the course in the classic direction.

But I was keen to check out the Puerto de Portalet after missing out less than a week earlier. Alberto had already climbed the Col du Pourtalet from Laruns. That day, after the tempo ride up the Col d'Aubisque, I was too fatigued to add another 60km to an already tough few days. I had called it a day and turned around after only 5km up this very long 30km climb.

From the Spanish side, the Portalet isn't quite as long. But first things first, we collected another little Puerto along the way: the short but steep Hoz de Jaca.

This climb may not sound like much with the short 2 km length each side but it's steepness and the scenic views down to the dam and across to the mountain peaks of the Pyrenees distract from the pain. Readily available Internet and a newly downloaded Strava app ensured that we knew what times we had to aim for and a little spark of competition ensured that this ride was already memorable before we started the ascent up to the border to Francia.

Details of this ride on Strava

La Pobla de Segur

We continued our journey eastwards along the Pyrenees. Another Spanish town, another 95 km ride, and this one stood out for the unexpected scenery.

Again, the local Tourist Office was our port of call for maps and ideas where to ride. I had finally spotted some wiggly roads with Colls, two of them, in the map, but they were along major arteries to Andorra and France, and not recommended for cycling. Instead, it was suggested, we should ride up to Capdella, a dead end road with a dam and a teleferico (cable car). There was hardly any traffic, the climb was pleasant enough, the road was good, but it was all a tad plain, I thought.

At least, it started drizzling and the oppressive heat of the previous days wasn't quite as oppressive up there. We sat down and enjoyed lunch at the lift station and I spotted a over-sized dimensional map of the area painted on the wall. Villages were drawn as cute lumps of tiny little houses and the road seemed to connect to the neighbouring valley, with another road back to our motorhome. The best thing was: the road was wiggly. I know a good cycling road when I see one in a map now.

The turn off was easily remembered and found, but we turned away from the cool river stream and, like I had observed many times now in Spain, we could draw a line between lush cool green and arid sandy hostile. There it was again, the Spanish heat.

But the road was just what it had promised to be - a quiet, curvy, uphill cycling heaven. And once we had worked our way up to the plateau, we were spoilt by spectacular sierra views and hill-top villages and a fast descend back into the other valley.

Once down in the valley, we expected a fast, flat, N(ational)-road ride back to La Pobla de Segur but the ride wasn't over, yet. It kept something else in store for us, and we had almost ridden pass it without ever knowing.

The N-road had tunnels. The tunnels were only for cars. We didn't immediately spot the old side road that bypassed the tunnel. Unsure at first, we took the small road alongside the mountain cliff but when a canyon opened up, with a whitewater river rushing next to the old road, we couldn't believe our eyes. I had never ridden a prettier road before.

Details of this ride on Strava

Ride from Solsona: Coll de Serra Sec and Coll de Jou

Another hot ride, this one, by now in the fascinating province of Catalunya. I wish photos could capture humidity and temperature but there is this one photo here, where I come up the Coll de Serra Sec that shows the agony!

Spain has its fair share of tough climbs. This is one of them and it's probably the reason why it featured in the Tour de France in 2009, when the Tour borrowed from the Vuelta with a stage from Barcelona to Andorra/Arcalis. A cyclist statue reminds of this event nowadays.

We started this ride from Solsona, another picturesque and age-old Spanish town, at four in the afternoon. Another late night upset our early morning riding plans, which led to an afternoon spent holding siesta in one of the beautiful bars. It's surprisingly cool at the cobbled plazas within the stone walls and the drinks are incredibly refreshing when served on ice.

Four o'clock was still way to early to head out but we didn't want to cut it too fine. 75km was just a rough guess how long the loop would be and we didn't want to get caught in the dark. Sure, the temperatures still felt like summer but the ripe, juicy blackberries everywhere along the roads told a different story. The long summer nights were not quite as long anymore. Autumn was just around the corner.

The loop, once again along quite roads, packed Spanish countryside in abundance. Another creek tempted for a refreshing swim but this time the locals had the same idea so a skinny dip was out of question.

I don't remember much of the Coll de Serra Sec except that for a long time I thought 'This must be it' only to find the road flatten out again and then ramp up again. And then it got really steep, out of nowhere. The next ramp appeared but it never seemed enough road left ahead of us for a Coll. Only later, from the other side of the valley, we saw that we had climbed along the ridge. This is why there hadn't been a mountain visible ahead of us.

The road along the other side of the valley wound along the cliff wall. It wasn't a climb, it wasn't downhill. It was just hanging there, clinging to the side of the Sierra. We knew there was the Coll de Jou but we weren't quite sure when and where and how long or steep it would be. Water was an issue and there was a village in our map, just 1.2 km off the road we were on. The brief detour revealed the village to be a church and a graveyard but luckily, there was a fountain with drinking water.

It was all very scenic and pretty and not even all that hot anymore but it was getting late and the road kept stretching and stretching. The Coll de Jou couldn't come quickly enough and when we reached the Coll sign, I was surprised because it hadn't felt like a climb at all. The sun was setting when we started the 18 km descend back into Solsona, only to hit 9% gradients again shortly afterwards.

It was a beautiful ride but - maybe the heat sapped my energy or I was in urgent need of a rest day - I was glad when we arrived back home that night.

Details of this ride on Strava

Col de Solour and Col d'Aubisque loop

2012-10-08T20:19:00.001+10:00

You have to be patient with this ride.

It started quietly through corn fields and quaint villages for many kilometres. The build up, ever so slowly, made me itchy and impatient at times. But, not unlike purposeful and deliberate foreplay, the tension and enjoyment increased rapidly toward the Solour and finished with a big crescendo on the Col d'Aubisque summit.

We could have taken the same busy road to Bielle that we had ridden the previous day, but my mud map showed a smaller and quieter road along the other side of the river. It seemed straight forward but somehow we managed to get lost several times before even reaching Bielle.

It wouldn't have been a big deal. The villages Beost, Louvie Soubiron, Aste-Beon etc. are very cute and worth a visit. But have you ever noticed that the smaller a lane, especially when lined with houses, the steeper it appears? Five kilometers into our ride, and I felt myself g etting increasingly cranky with the 15% dead-end roads, straight up the side of the valley.

It was all forgotten, once we were on our way, the correct one! If you like to warm up on brutally steep village lanes, go knock yourself out in these villages. Otherwise, just follow the signs to the municipal campground from Laruns and then stay close to the river. The D240 is actually flat.

There was a brief moment of confusion in Louvie, when we looked for the way to Pe de Hourat only to find Pedehourat on the street signs. Once, this was worked out, we followed the Route de Capbis, corn fields to our left, mountains looming to our right, all the way to Asson. Finally we turned right, towards the mountains.

We briefly stopped at a little hotel restaurant, because by now we had ridden over 40km and already eaten our last bars and bananas that we had still found in the motorhome. Grocery shopping hadn't been high on our priority list those days.

With all the climbing still ahead of us, no knowledge of food sources at the Col de Solour, and a group of cyclists sitting outside under the umbrellas on red wire chairs, we thought it was a good idea to stop for lunch. Bad move! We officially had the worst meal of our entire trip.

The place looked like a school cantine and the only vegetarian option (possibly the only thing on the menu at all), a soupe de legumes, turned out to be a packet soup! Maybe this was the reason for the rather sullen departure of the Dutch guys shortly after our arrival? Later we found two restaurants and a couple of food stalls with delicious regional produce (cheese and honey) at the Col de Solour.

We we sat off again, the road still only a mockery of a climb with a very low gradient through lush green forest along a creek. The Dutch guys had already raved about the running water providing for much wanted coolness. Yes, we were heading into the right direction but it was still not climbing, yet.

Not that the ride had been dull so far. Quite the opposite! But like on a slow burner of flat French roads, teased and tortured by meaty mountain views, I was ready for it. The easy rolling had me wanting more. Enough of this playing! Oh, I was aching to push my pedals up the mountains really badly.

I didn't have to wait long anymore to get what I wanted.

The nearby Cirques of Troumouse and Carvarnie might be more spectacular than the Cirque du Litor but what opened up to our eyes with every pedal stroke was breathtaking.

The long, flat approach along the valley and around the bottom of the mountain group was paying off. As a reward for being patient we enjoyed almost an hour of changing views over to the amphitheater-like wall of the Aubisque road. What a treat!

By the time we reached the Col de Solour it felt like we had been riding for hours.

The sheep cheeses from the cart at the car park of the Col de Solour was so delicious that Alberto couldn't help but buying a piece just small enough to fit the jersey pocket.

Col de Solour
Distance: 11.5 km
Average gradient: 7.7%
Altitude: 1474m
Elevation gain: 875m

I impatiently hurried Alberto to press on. There would always be another time for cheese tasting. As tempting as it was to descend the Solour to Argeles-Gazost just to add another climb, it was getting late and we had to turn right towards the Col d'Aubisque, a short 7.5km of only 4.7%! But what beautiful scenic kilometers they were! Looking down the steep mountain side, I could picture how Wim van Est overshoot a corner in the 1951 Tour and I was glad we were climbing and not descending.

There were cows on the road to photograph, and sheep and their shephards and all the distraction ensured that I beat Alberto to the line on the Aubisque. What a show down!

Col d'Aubisque from Col de Solour
Distance: 6 km
Average gradient: 5.2%
Altitude: 1709m
Elevation gain: 315m

The descend back to Laruns was so much fun that we raced the cars and for the first time in my life I knew how it feels to be held up by a slow driver. I was stoked. So this is how descending should feel?

The descend was also so scenic that I definitely had to climb the Col d'Aubisque from this side before we left so the very next morning Alberto and I hit the slopes straight out of Laruns. No warm-up, no foreplay, no teasing and aching and impatient waiting this time.

We didn't muck around. It was tempo riding for me all the way. My legs felt surprisingly good, considering the climbing we had done the previous two days.

Only at the already familiar summit did I allow myself some distance gazing and mountain scenery admiration. It was time to say Good Bye to the French Pyrenees and France for now. I felt sad. Who cares about Spain? Well, I revised my opinion about Spain's climbs soon enough.

Col d'Aubisque
Distance: 16.7 km
Average gradient: 6.9%
Altitude: 1709m
Elevation gain: 1150m

Col de Marie Blanque Ride - A Figure Eight loop via Col de Labays, Col de Lie and Col d'Ichere

2012-09-26T03:50:00.002+10:00

Marion and Hans had a wonderful book full of cycling routes in the French Pyrenees. The book was in Dutch and we didn't understand much of the text and descriptions but enough to copy two loops around Laruns, our next stop on the schedule and be at least somewhat excited about moving on from Arreau.

Our stay in Arreau had actually amounted to my biggest week of cycling ever: over 25 hours of saddle time and 410km of mostly uphill riding! I still hadn't enough!

One of the loops that I had copied from the book was 110km but it started and ended in Bielle, approximately 10km down the valley from Laruns. An additional 20km didn't worry us too much, especially when the kilometres are flat. So it was a 130km ride for us, and I was extremely excited about this one. If Hans hadn't lend us the book, we would have probably just ridden the Laruns side of each climb and missed out on some spectacularly scenic roads.

My hand-drawn map, copied from the book, was transferred onto a map from the tourist information, cut to size and stored in a plastic bag for the jersey pocket. Pockets were also filled with arm warmers, rain jacket (the sky looked grey and on a 130km ride into medium size mountains of the 1000-1500m range, you want to be prepared), bananas, bars and photo camera. I don't like carrying a rucksack.

So bulging out of rear pockets, we sat off towards Bielle along the fast and busy D934. I was hoping it wasn't going to be like this all the way. From Bielle it was easy to follow the road signs to Louvie Juzon. The turn into the D918 just after Arudy was a pleasant surprise because immediately we dipped into green forest. The road was just wide enough to accommodate oncoming traffic, which we didn't need to worry about. There was none.

It had been a while since we rode along roads that were neither an ascent nor a descent. This was a road that was just taking us from village to village, through countryside as pleasant as French countryside can be, over rolling hills and along corn fields and fenced veggie gardens, to Lurbe Saint Christau, pass a local bar and boulangerie in Asasp Arros, through Issor and over to Lourdios Ichère.

Here we reached the centre point of our figure eight, the point I had marked as a possibility for a short cut, should legs or minds be uncommitted to 130km. It was the Marie Blanque ride after all, the Marie Blanque pass featuring as the highlighted last climb. I remembered that there were supposed to be some warm-up Cols along the loop but I could neither remember how many there were, nor did I know, how high, long or steep they were. I had never heard of any of them before. But I had certainly been warned about the Marie Blanque. The last few kilometres were supposedly tough.

At this point we had encountered rolling hills but no Cols at all. It was the 45km mark. Skipping the smaller belly of our "Eight" would have reduced the ride to about 90km, nothing in comparison to The Ride that all other rides are measured on now. Sure, I could do this one!

Lourdios Ichère looked like people cared for the place. Everything looked neat and tidy but there was no soul to be seen. When we rolled into the village I spotted the road sign for Col de Lie, the Col from which we would descent later in order to complete the first loop. The houses were pretty but I had no idea who was tending to the front yards. There was a little rest area next to the creek but no one was using the benches. Maybe this wasn't the village centre? There was no post office, no bakery or butcher shop. Maybe all the action was happening further up the other road, the forth road that made up the Figure Eight's centre point, the last road and short cut temptation at our deserted intersection, the one up the Col d'Ichère and over to the Marie Blanque.

There was a big sign for Col de Labays with all the details to a cyclist's heart's content: Elevation profile with gradients, broken down in individual kilometres, total distance, total elevation gain, altitude, a map of the road and a short description of the climb. It looked like the weather was holding up and even though the unknown had me a little worried, I felt fresh and keen and wasn't going to shortcut the ride.

Col de Labays started with a beautiful ascent along a road up into the Vallée d'Aspe, running parallel to the mountain stream. From the sign at the start, I knew that the climb was 15 km long but the mountains around us somehow didn't look high enough for this length of climb. Where was the road going to take us?

Around the five kilometre mark, the road kicked up to over 10%. Even though the Col is not as well known as many others of the region, it was still extremely well signed. Every kilometer is marked by a little blue column that provides information on the gradient of the next kilometre. Sometimes the signs provided welcome relief that the next kilometre wasn't going to be as hard as the previous, sometimes it had me worried when a 10% section tapered along at 2% for the first 250m.

Then there was a downhill section, then an intersection, and more steep sections alternated with flat, fast-rolling road. Alberto got all worried that we may have taken the wrong turn at the intersection and missed the Col but another kilometre marker provided reassurance that we were still climbing the Col de Labays. At this point we had climbed for about 70 min but for me it felt like hours. We were only on our first Col of the day and already stuck in some enchanted forest, the Fôret de Issaux, half way through our ride with no end to this Col in sight and three more Cols to come.

Even though I enjoyed the climbing and the place, I started to feel more nervous. What if all climbs were this long?

Col de Labays

Distance: 15km
Average gradient: 5.9%
Altitude: 1354m
Elevation gain: 931m

Eventually we reached the summit but it was just another intersection in the forest. The sign congratulated us to our achievement but another sign advised us that the road to the right, down into Arette, was closed due to some motorcycle event. A detour was signed out to our left, up towards Col de Soudet and Col de la Pierre Saint Martin. No way we could add this long detour to an already long and challenging ride.

As we were discussing our options (ignore the road closure or turn around and descend the Col de Labays), a cyclist flew pass, coming down from the Soudet. He ignored the closure. Then another shot pass us. We went after them in pursuit. And what a descent it was! Fast wide sweeping bends, green valleys, sprinkled with cows, and more forest. Another two cyclists flew pass as we stopped to take photos. Then we overtook one before we all reunited. The announced road closure at last - not far from Arette!

No one seemed to know what was going on but no one seemed willing or inclined to turn around and climb all the way up to the intersection again. Cars were turned around. French explanations! The other cyclists were German. Waiting. Sure, something would happen. And what was the road closure all about anyway? Finally some movement. I understood that our little peloton was to follow the quad bike that would guide us through the closure. There were thousands of motorbikes. And the hillside was sprinkled with hundreds of colourful dots, people lining the steep slopes watching some kind of extreme moto cross. The impossible mountain!

Once we got through, the Germans sat a good pace. I jumped on, keen to start a conversation. But unfortunately, there was no time for small talk and we reached our turn off so suddenly that there was barely enough time for a hasty called out "Thanks for the lift" and we were on the D342 back towards Lourdios and on the Col de Lie.

Thankfully, this Col was a short affair of only 4km and even though it started out steep, the views across the lush valley with the little farm houses and stone walls and hedge fences was out of a picture book. Locals sat on a stone wall at one of the farm houses we passed. A friendly Bonjour was exchanged. They seemed rather unaccustomed to cyclists and curious about our presence in their little world. Or so it seemed.

Col de Lie

Distance: 4km
Average gradient: 5.6%
Altitude: 600m
Elevation gain: 240m

Back in already familiar Lourdious, now pass the 90km mark and at the beginning of the home stretch of our Figure Eight loop, we needed to refill our water bottles. An easy task with the readily available water fountains in all French villages… or so I thought.

The village indeed stretched further along the Ichere road but it was just one private farm house to the next lining both sides of the road. A museum of local produce at last. Sure, we would find water here. The large room had a long counter along the far side. Jam and honey jars were stacked on the tables. Artisan handcraft was nicely draped over shelves. Little hand-written signs informed of the price of each item. The little cottage windows didn't allow for much light insight. Voices came from a second room somewhere in the back. Everything was neat and tidy, as if someone had just straightened a sign here and readjusted a folded scarf there but just like the entire village, the room was deserted.

Quietly I peered into the other room. Two tourists sat in the dark with their backs to me, watching a film about the farming in the area. For a moment I considered asking them where I would find a museum or shop attended but instead I quietly left without disturbing them.

We continued on our ride and at last there was an old man and his dog and a half a dozen cows on the road and then we spotted the water. There is no such thing as a French village without a fountain to refill your bottles.

The Col d'Ichere was very similar to the Col de Lie, same pretty fields and trees and hedges and stone walls, and the descend down to Sarrance just as sketchy with narrow, off-cambered roads full of potholes and loose gravel that required concentration and even on the brakes I almost overshot one corner because the road fell away in a very awkward angle.

Col d'Ichere

Distance: 3km
Average gradient: 6.8%
Altitude: 600m
Elevation gain: 200m

The short section along the main Oloron road was fast. We briefly stopped in Escot for a Coke before turning right into the D294 that would take us back across the mountain into the Vallée de Ossau, over the mountain pass that was the reason for this entire ride: the Col de Marie Blanque.

Once we passed the last few houses and the cycling sign that marks the start of the climb, we took it easy because I knew or thought to remember that Marion had mention this to be a tough finish. The road continued along a gorge, and I already started to wonder (worry?) whether this was actually the "tough side" or whether we ended up approaching the Col from the easier side.

But I didn't need to worry. Those last four kilometres were relentless at above 11% average gradient and so slow going that the much anticipated kilometre signs seemed oh so much further apart. And while there were anticipated, they were dreaded at the same time because they announced another tough kilometre with their average gradients. Alberto went ahead with each sign and then waited, camera in hand, at the next to capture my agony.

There is no easing off until you reach the top. Each kilometre took me about seven minutes to climb.

We had over 100 km in the legs, but there was only downhill and the flat road back to Laruns to finish off a magic day in the French Pyrenees so it had to take as long as it had to take to climb the four kilometres.

Col de Marie Blanque

Distance: 9.3km
Average gradient: 7.5%
Altitude: 1035m
Elevation gain: 660m

More cycling in the Midi Pyrenees

2012-09-18T08:24:00.001+10:00

It was supposed to be our day of departure from Arreau but, like so many times before, it was hard to say Good Bye. We get attached to places easily. But this time it was also the friendship that had developed with Hans and Marion and their two wonderful sons that made it harder to move on.

Two days and nights parked next to each other, two mornings and evenings of conversations about Rose and Canyon and bikes in general, and life in Holland and Australia (and in a Campervan somewhere in Europe) had helped bonding. So when the suggestion - hesitant because Marion and Hans considered us unsuitable riding partners for their less fit selves - was brought forward to go for a ride together, we jumped at it. Hans and Marion are both (ex) triathletes of the iron kind, so there was no need to make us promise to be easy on them on a social ride. Unfortunately, Yoran and Leander didn't join us on this ride. Leander chose to repeat the Col d'Aspin (and who could blame him? It's such a beautiful climb.) while Yoran was in need of a rest day and stayed in camp. I was amazed by the independence of the boys and the freedom of choice their parents gave them. Very different to the helicopter parenting styles that I have observed in the past few years!

Hans mapped out a wonderful 75km course with 2200 m of climbing over smaller and lesser known Cols that had featured in the Tour de France at some stage: the Col de Val Louron-Azet, the Hourquette d'Ancizan and the Western side of the Col d'Aspin.

It turned out to be one of the most memorable rides of our trip.

The first few kilometers of the ride lead us South along the river through the valley towards the Lac de Génos-Loudenvielle. The road rose ever so gently so we didn't even notice that we were already gaining altitude. The smooth rollers made for a perfect warm up and there was a lot of chatting going on. I'm not saying, two people get necessarily sick of each other's company after weeks of travelling but it is nice to ride in a group once in a while.

Marion and Hans both had ridden the Col d'Azet two days earlier and I understood why they didn't mind doing it again. I had been very excited when this climb was included in our ride because the sheer number of tight switchbacks had already caught my attention when I had studied the map for suitable routes earlier. It looked like a children's ziggy zaggy drawn impression of a road up a mountain.

Col de Val Louron-Azet

Distance: 7.7 km

Average gradient: 8.0%

Altitude: 1560 m

Elevation gain: 620 m

So the moment we turned off the D25 in Génos, straight from the valley floor, the road lead up the side of the mountain. One moment the lake and valley was to our left, the next moment to your right. I don't think the "boys" noticed. I could hear Alberto's and Hans' voices right behind us. Soon they seemed to drift down the road and I could no longer follow their conversation. Marion and I weren't setting a blistering pace but the legs were fresh and every turn opened up better views over the valley.

Marion on her beautiful Rose bike

The Parapentes (What's the English term for this sport?) made me duck a couple of times, as the shadow of their colourful parachutes flew pass our heads. Across the lake on the other side of the valley clearly visible was the road over the Peyresourde and then disappeared behind the ridge towards Bagneres-de-Luchon.

And then Alberto flew pass us with two or three kilometers to the summit. I had half expected that Hans would eventually tell him to go, just like I always do. I also half expected him to miss a little right turn and end up in a little ski resort just off to the left because of the speed he came pass us but Hans had warned him to look out for the intersection just about one kilometre before the summit.

Reunited at the summit, we grabbed a bite to eat, chatted with local cyclists, fought for a spot under the Col sign, and eventually threw ourselves down the other side of the Col into the neighbouring valley.

Seriously, with all the climbing we have been doing, naturally we have done an equal amount of descending, and with that my confidence increased. Even Alberto commented on my improved descending skills lately, but I still found it hard to keep up with the others.

Looking down the Western side of the Col d'Azet

It's a fast and easy descend with wide sweeping bends

The roads seemed extra steep through the villages. I stopped to take my windbreaker off and fill my water bottle at one of the public water fountains and thankfully, Marion and Hans waited at the next turn and warned in time to change gears.

Hourquette d'Ancizan

The beginning of the Hourquette is brutal and steep and starts right in the village of Ancizan. This climb was new to all of us and everybody gasped for air. Apart from a few breathless comments on the unexpected steepness, this time there wasn't much chatting going on. Used to riding hard at steep sections, I attacked the climb out of the saddle. Suddenly the silence was not just caused by the steepness of the climb. I was on my own. Beautiful forest surrounded me. I slowed and enjoyed the birds and sounds of the forest, and then I heard the voices drawing closer again.

Distance: 11.6 km

Average gradient: 6.6%

Altitude: 1535m

Elevation gain: 770m

Everybody was glad that the climb did not stay above 11% all the way, but the shade from the forest trees was welcome and remained almost all the way. This climb was scenic within the lush, enclosed greeness of itself. It does not spoil with many valley views. Only at the very end it opens up, and the glances back over the shoulder are the most impressive.

Towering mountains all around us

Not the highest Col but tough enough to make standing at the Col sign very satisfying

Resident donkey

Enjoying the views

The descend from the Hourquette down towards Payolle is one of the most scenic in the area, I dare say. We got to a little valley where the French enjoyed a pique nique along a stoney creek. They do it in style and this valley was just made for it... Kids played in the shallow water, adults lounged on red and white checkered blackets, and all this nature was there for everybody to enjoy it on a warm summer's day.

There is a tiny little ascent within the descent.

In Payolle we once again refilled our water bottles and started the last climb of the day.

Col d'Aspin (Only the last six kilometers from Payolle)

Distance: 6km

Average gradient: 6.5%

Altitude: 1490m

Elevation gain: 380m

Alberto and I already knew this part of the ride from our Tourmalet ride the previous day but it was new to Marion and Hans. Hans, by now a little weary from the heat, was glad to hear that it was a short affair. He urged us all to not wait for him on the climb but rather at the top. There were lots of cyclists on the road and everybody went their own speed. We all pushed hard. I saw it on the satisfied faces at the top.

Only 12 km away from Arreau and a big plate of pasta, we managed a few new speed records on this descent. It is one of the best suitable roads for that, if you don't have to brake for slower cars!

This ride certainly didn't help make the inevitable Good Bye any easier. We eventually had to move on but before we took the Hymer up to the Col du Tourmalet, we couldn't help but join the French in the Hourquette valley for an extended lunch picnic the next day.

What's so special about the Col du Tourmalet?

2012-09-16T21:09:00.001+10:00

After our little taste of the Pyrenees in the Ariége region, we finally moved to the real stuff.

Col du Tourmalet was one of THE highlights I had been looking forward to climb throughout the trip and with our move to Arreau, this mountain got into reachable distance. We initially had planned to base ourselves in Bagneres-de-Luchon but after a look in the map we realised that Arreau gave us the all directions riding option without having to move our home. This is always a bonus when you are able to retire in the shade of your awning after a few hours of intensive climbing, cold beer in hand, and not having to drive 100km for the next day's start of the ride!

By bypassing Luchon we missed out on a couple of "smaller" Tour de France climbs such as the Col des Ares and Col de Portet d'Aspet but Arreau turned out an almost ideal base for three nights and three memorable rides and uncountable, unforgettable moments in the company of an equally cycling-fanatic Dutch family. How is it that with some people you just click from the moment you say Hi?

Col de Peyresourde and Peyregudes

Our first ride from Arreau - no, it was still not the Tourmalet - took us to Bagneres-de-Luchon over the Col de Peyresourde. The Col du Tourmalet ride from Arreau was going to be a long ride with approximately 90 km over the Col d'Aspin, down to Campan and then the ascent from the Eastern side, effectively making it a three Col ride.

It had drizzled throughout the night and morning so we decided that a shorter 60km ride to Luchon was the better option for our first afternoon. Plus, the weather forecast for the following day promised clear blue skies, something we desired for the famous and spectacular Tourmalet views.

The "Luchon" side

Col de Peyresourde featured in this year's Tour de France and there was plenty of chalk and paint evidence on the roads. I noticed an increase of Basque names now that we were in the pyrenees, and a certain The Boss Eddie should be proud of the strong support he receives from his Norwegians fans.

We basically rode the final climb of the Queen stage that saw the Pros start in Pau, climb the Col d'Aubisque, Col de Tourmalet, Col d'Aspin and finish the day with the climb up the Col de Peyresourde to finish in Luchon. This was also the over 190 km long course of L'Etape du Tour - Acte 2 and having ridden pretty much the entire stage in parts spread over several days, one or two mountains at a time, I think this L'Etape would have been a huge challenge.

Hot chocolate in Luchon

Peyregudes

But not only did we trace the Pros on their final climb of that day, we also rode the final kilometres of the next day's stage when we turned around in Luchon and rode up the Peyresourde from the Luchon side. Over the top and down a couple of kilometers, there is the turn-off for the bonus climb up to the ski resort of Peyregudes, too.

Col d'Aspin and Col du Tourmalet

Col d'Aspin starts just outside Arreau, allowing for a three minute warm up if you start at the Motorhome car park. But luckily, the Aspin starts gently. Gentle on the legs and gentle on the eyes! I loved this climb.

The views back down towards Arreau and the valley are stunning. It's a popular climb, too, and there were plenty of other cyclists on the road. Lots of Bonjour and Bon courage were cheerfully exchanged between overtaking and overtaken cyclists of all abilities and I even meant to hear one of the stylish ladies call out Quel beau rhythme!

Knowing what lay ahead, I just enjoyed the climb without pushing too hard. It's such a pretty climb, I didn't want to spoil it with heavy breathing. However, Sebastian, a French cyclist that I had met early on the climb and who had stayed close to my wheel for most of the time, was keen to turn the last two kilometers into a race. He won and I got the big cheers from Alberto and the two teenage boys of our Dutch neighbours, Leander and Yoran, who had left our camp site a few 30 minutes before us and were already waiting for us at the top, enjoying the escapades of the free-roaming cows.

Leander pointed out the peaks at the horizon, the Pic du Midi de Bigorre, the top of Col du Tourmalet.

It looked like a long way away. An exciting long way! It was an inviting spot to linger and soak up the views and maybe have a pique nique but there would be another, better, time for that.

We had work to do and kept our stay at the Col d'Aspin short. The boys turned around and descended back to Arreau. We continued on, over the top of the Col d'Aspin and down through the valley to Sainte Marie de Campan and the left turn into the start of the Col du Tourmalet.

Pic du Midi close(r) up from the Eastern ascent

So what's the big deal with the Tourmalet?

The last couple of kilometers on the Eastern ascent from Sainte Marie de Campan

Well, I can't put my finger on it. Believe me when I say, I have looked at it from several different perspectives. I can only confirm that it is a place where magic happens.

It's getting harder and harder for me to describe climbs because I repeat myself. A climb is a climb! You pedal your bike uphill. Nothing more to it! Or is there? Sure, gradients and landscapes make each climb unique and weather and form make the experience individual and special.

But photos rarely do the landscape any justice and words are hard to find. It's impossible to capture the beauty and majesty of these mountains, and even less the emotions when I stand with my bike in front of that Col sign. It may say 1500m or 2000m or 2115m, but it will never tell the story of sweat and joy to get there with only the help of my bike, legs and lungs.

Let me just say that we were awed enough to dare and take the Motorhome up to the top a couple of days after our first ascent. We wanted to wake up at the Col and it was one of the most amazing experiences of our entire journey. Sitting at the ridge of the mountain and watching the sun set over Luz to the bell sounds of free roaming cows, sheep, goats and llamas is a memory I will cherish forever.

So it's not just the cycling that makes Tourmalet special for me. Alberto decided to repeat the Eastern ascent the next morning. I considered joining him but I'm not a huge fan of repeating something when new experiences are waiting. He is the "in depth" person while I'm the "short attention span" butterfly, off to new colourful flowers. And this one was called Pic du Midi de Bigorre.

The Western ascent to the Cold du Tourmalet - the road we would cycle up later that day

The easy part of the track with the peak towering in the background

The walking track that I had come up and way down below in the distance the road

Our new Dutch friends had told us about this semi-tough climb up to the highest peak of the area, towering another 700m above the Col du Tourmalet. So while Alberto descended back down to Campan, I tightened my trekking shoes, pocketed my Garmin and set off on my own. The first three to four kilometers could be done easily in Havaianas but allowed incredible views down the other side of the Tourmalet, down to the road that we hadn't cycled up, yet. It got me all excited about the afternoon of cycling.

Pic du Midi de Bigorre - On top of the world. Views out of this world!

The last two to three kilometers are tough and my runners were on the limit of suitable for the rocky and steep path. Proper trekking boots would have been safer. But standing on top of the Pyrenees and looking down to the Col du Tourmalet is incredible. All of the sudden, high mountains are not so scary and intimidating anymore.

Three hours later I was back down at the motorhome, where Alberto was already preparing lunch. My poor cycling legs were sore from this unusual activity but I could wait to get on the bike.

The track - hiking boots recommended!

To round up the Tourmalet experience, later that afternoon, after a good lunch and some rest, when the worst of the midday heat was gone, we descended the Luz-Saint-Saveur to climb the Western side of the Tourmalet, back up to our motorhome for a second night of blissful silence and a dark sky only brightened by the few lights of the ski resort La Mongie four kilometers below the summit and stars and milky way.

This climb was actually my preferred side, even though the initial going was tough. My legs were heavy from the morning hike, but after six kilometers I started feeling better and better and by the time we reached the big car park for the last nine or so kilometres, the really pretty part of the climb, I wasn't wishing for anything else but for the climb to last forever. That's the fascination of the Tourmalet, my very personal and individual experience, made special by the company of Alberto and the weather that was so good that I don't know how we deserved it!

The Western side

Aríege - The Eastern French Pyrenees South of Foix

2012-09-02T20:04:00.002+10:00

Chapter Five - Spain already began two weeks ago and I still need to tell you all about the amazing time we had in the French Pyrenees.

You will have to forgive me for the lateness of my posts and the time delay but the Spanish lifestyle does not lend itself very well to blogging. Internet connection is not a problem. You find free wifi in almost every bar in Spain and at public squares. And now that we have finally invested into an inverter (we should have done this five months ago), empty laptop batteries are a thing of the past, too. It's really only "quiet time to write" that is lacking.

Pamplona and the start of the Vuelta was our first day in Spain. It was 40C. We left the Tapas bar after lunch and everybody had disappeared. The narrow streets with barriers for the evening team time trial - empty. The buzz of people - gone! The entire following week we observed the same phenomenon. People enjoyed the cool morning air but with twelve noon would come the oppressive, unbearable heat. No breeze in the air and life would stop.

No point planning a ride or sightseeing or anything for the hours between one and six. We started doing as the locals do and held siesta, preferably in a shady spot or bar, or by a lake or river.

When in France or Italy I would always find a quiet night to draft a post, we are now out partying till late at night, just like the Spanish do. And sometimes life just happens. There are evenings with best intentions to write and it looks like it's going to be a quiet night until we meet that Dutch couple and end up drinking Sangria on the pool terrace till late at night. Or there is the serene evening by the lake, until that German couple shows up, camping as well and from the same town where I studied. The bottle of red came out... and we didn't see our beds until 2am.

I had no false hopes of getting a blog post out while visiting my best childhood friend in Barcelona.

Alberto, Daniela and I living it up in Barcelona

We did ride our bikes as well and I can't wait to tell you all about it. North of Madrid now, we rode the Bola del Mundo yesterday. The Vuelta a Espana will be here next Sunday. We would love to hang around to see the Pros tackle this impossible climb but we are running out of time and must press on.

But before I can tell you about the Bola, let's wind back time to August and France.

The area of Ariege is beautiful. We did lots of riding during our time there, and no partying or sightseeing, even though there are plenty of castles in the area.

Plan at least a week for the area because there are so many climbs and nice loops here. We first parked our motorhome half way up the climb to Ax 3 Domaines.

Col de Pailheres was our first col on the menu but I didn't like this one very much. It was a very hot day, and after six days off the bike my legs and lungs were complaining. After Mt Ventoux I needed a rest. We were traveling from Marseille along the coast so the beach was my best friend for a few days. Arles and Carcassonne are amazing places to visit, by the way!

The last kilometer of the Col de Pailheres

At the top of the Pailheres we met a Dutch cycling tour and started chatting. They were nice guys, offered water and advise and we could have made this ride a loop, returning to Ax les Thermes via the Col du Chioula but opted for the safe option and descended the same way rather than getting lost in the maze of roads on the other side of the Pailheres. I think the loop would have been magic but I just didn't feel up for a very long ride that day.

We still climbed the Chioula from the Ax les Thermes side, and again, the climb didn't exactly excite me.

Later that day, after returning to the motorhome to have some lunch and a little siesta, we added Ax 3 Domaines to the day. By now my legs and body seemed to have warmed to the idea of climbing again and I was much much happier. Strangely, the climb also seemed prettier and more pleasant.

Ax les Thermes

This blog is about cycling but I have to mention the hot springs because we had a most incredible experience the next day. Talking to the waiter the night before (Alberto drew all the attention by having two desserts!), we received a hand-drawn route instruction for a walk up into the mountains to a hot spring. We had planned to head straight to Les Cabannes in the morning and ride the famous Plateau des Beilles but - what the heck - we decided not to care about time and schedule and check out the springs first. If you are ever in the area, get in touch. I'm happy to share the instructions how to find this pearl of a natural pool, 37C water temperature, in the middle of the forest up in the Pyrenees mountains. It's worth the 45 minute hike and a perfect recovery for aching legs.

We still made it to Les Cabannes, just 30km up the valley, that day and even rode Plateau des Beilles. It's perfectly fine to leave at 6pm. The Motorhome parking area is right at the bottom of the climb and it took us just over two hours return so we were back before the sun set. Unfortunately, it was a bit foggy so we didn't see much of valley views but we had to concentrate on the life stock on the road anyway. It's a great climb that Alberto and I both enjoyed very much.

Last but not least we moved to Vicdessos, another charming little village some 30km down another valley. From here we explored a part of this year's Tour de France route, the Port de Lers, which was hiding in the clouds.

While we had a great time in the Ariege region, the cycling here wasn't the best I have seen or done! It's certainly worth a visit but for the real WOW factor, we had to move on to Arreau and the big Cols: Col d'Aspin, Col du Tourmalet and the Aubisque and Soulor. More about that in my next post.

It's siesta time in Spain now!

Mt Ventoux

2012-08-19T02:58:00.001+10:00

Well, we wouldn't have come all this way for that, would we? Gary probed.

The ride from Orange to Bedoin had been rather unpleasant, maybe not per sé but in comparison to all these amazing landscapes we had seen over the past few months. The roads lead through commercial and semi industrial areas, with high truck and car traffic, and the flat wide open roads didn't offer much shade or protection from the already hot morning sun. I had never so much looked forward to the start of a climb and breathed a sigh of relief when we arrived in Bedoin. The lack of coffee might have also influenced my perception of the area. Yes, we had once again ran out of gas for cooking the previous day. The instant coffee, courtesy of nice German fellow campers at the car park near the Roman arch in Orange that morning, was enough to keep the caffeine withdrawals at bay but a poor replacement for my usual strong black brew that gets me going.

Only the first glimpses of Mt Ventoux cheered me up.

Bedoin, with it's charming little cafes along the tree-lined and shady route enticed us for a short break before hitting the climb. Two proper coffees later we were on our way and my casually thrown-in comment It would be nice if the gradient stayed 3% all the way. prompted Gary's retort. He was so right. We were not here for mole hills!

I had done my home work and studied the profile the night before and so I knew that the first 5km would be easy with an average gradient of 4.4%. But not long after I had thrown in my silly little comment, the road got steep and stayed this way just like they had described in the magazine, 9km with an average gradient of 9.4% to the Chalet Reynolds. From there it's another 6 km with an average gradient of 8.1% to the top. That's how I broke up the climb, into biteable chunks. But I was glad I had prepared mentally because this one is not called The Giant of Provençe for nothing. It is a tough climb.

Alberto decided to hang around. Gary decided to take photographs and hang back. I decided to just get on with climbing Mt Ventoux. I enjoyed it. It hurt but it was a satisfying hurt. Satisfying because the kilometres ticked away. Satisfying because my bike wasn't moving embarrassingly slow. Eight kilometres to go to the chalet, seven, five… it was possible to keep up the rhythm, the speed, the enjoyment with every turn. Later I discovered that my 1h12' for the first 14km to the chalet gave me a third place on Strava.

At the Chalet we regrouped with Gary, drank a Coke, and I bought myself a nice little Mt Ventoux jersey. Sure, I hadn't been to the top, yet, but we planned to descend to Malaucene and therefore I wouldn't get a chance to go back to the chalet for some souvenir shopping. I had no doubt I'd manage the last 6km to the top.

When we left the chalet, it was way pass noon and the sun sat high in the deep blue sky. There was not one cloud. The bitumen and white rocks radiated the heat and the white tower of Mt Ventoux in the flimmering air looked exactly how I had imagined. Everybody experiences the climb differently, and the conditions of the day will influence the ride. Cyclists have complained about the wind that can be an icy hit in the face or gusty as hell, throwing people off their bikes and making the battle to the top into a head wind so much harder. We had almost ideal conditions. Yes, the intense heat made the sweat drip down our faces and body, and the brightness of the whiteness hurt the eyes under sunglasses. But the feared Mt Ventoux wind was a welcome relief for us. Without the wind it would have been unbearable.

Like I've come to expect now, the summit was packed with day-trippers, hikers, cyclists, families, cars and motorbikes. Young and old had gathered to enjoy the magnificent views and the festival atmosphere. It makes perfectly sense to have a candy stall at such a seemingly remote spot and Alberto treated Gary and me to some local cookies before we started our long descend to Malaucene.

Time was flying and we were pushing four in the afternoon when we rolled into Malaucene. The main road was lined with cafes and restaurants where holiday-makers enjoyed an afternoon aperitif in the shade. We picked a place for lunch and were surprised when the Portuguese waitress informed us that the kitchen was closed. Too late for lunch but starving, she allowed us to enjoy the hospitality of a table in the shade and a drink, while eating brought-in sandwiches from the local mini marché.

The ride home back to Orange was much more enjoyable than the morning ride to Ventoux had been. A moment of confusion and wrong directional advise from a local turned into a longer but more scenic route through the vineyards of the Ventoux domaines. Instead of the planned 107km ride we ended up with close to 130km but there was no harm in that. We had plenty of water, plenty of food and the sunset was still hours away. There was nothing but a nice dinner at one of Orange's restaurants waiting for us, and the medieval villages along the way inspired us for a second ride the very next day.

We had plans to also try the ascent from Malaucene but our gas situation, or lack thereof, made us press on to Marseille in the hope to find someone who could re-fill our German gas bottles. It proofed a bigger problem than expected and we deeply regretted not having dipped into Switzerland to refill the gas when we had been close to Geneva a few days earlier.

L'Ardechoise

2012-08-16T04:28:00.002+10:00

The Ardeche is an area in France where stringing together three or more Cols in one single ride does not leave you buggered for days. We decided to visit the area because of the promise of almost car-free riding. Not that sharing the roads is an issue in France but a few days without motorbikes swooshing pass sounded appealing.

Well, that the region is well known for good wine might have also had something to do with our stop-over. It was kinda on our way from the Alps to Mont Ventoux and we had a couple of days up our sleeves before meeting Gary, a friend from our Brisbane cycling club, in Orange.

We picked St Felicien as our base town simply because it is the town that hosts the L'Ardechoise cyclosportif and I saw hundreds of colourful purple and yellow L'Ardechoise jerseys during L'Etape. A town and area with such a rich cycling tradition surely must have some good cycling routes.

During our 100km ride we meandered in wide circles around St Felicien and sampled the region. Roads are tiny, tinier and tiniest. Church towers poke out of valleys or tower on top of lush green hills, some of them dating as far back as the 4th century.

A local cyclist passed us on one of the descends that ended in a dead end. He had dismounted at the little square in front of the church and looked at us curiously. We started chatting. He had been to St Felicien to run errands… on his old beautiful steel racer. The village? Yes, there are three people and a lot of cats living here in winter, he answered our curious question. He invited us in for a drink but we kindly refused. Our ride had just started and we were keen to keep going, only later regretting having refused such a kind offer and an opportunity to learn more about life in the Ardeche (and maybe make friends).

But this journey is full of opportunities, some grabbed and some missed.

There were lanes lined with apricot trees and we sampled the local produce. We listened to a choir singing in front of a church in one of the villages. We briefly sat down for a bite to eat in a patisserie and then continued to climb so many Cols that I don't remember their names. We descended through a forest tunnel and only turned the wheels for (motor)home because it was 4pm and it was the last day of the Tour de France. We didn't want to miss watching the final sprint to the line on the Champs d'Elysees.

If we saw 30 cars on our 100km ride, then we did well. There were probably fewer than that.

The cyclosportif offers a wide range of distances and various levels of difficulty, and the longest and toughest includes as many as 16 Cols. Alberto and I both agreed that it would be a very nice cyclosportif to enter and marked next June in our calendars. (Wishful thinking!)

And have you counted the number of Cols we packed into our ride? By the way, they may or may not be in the order we rode them. I would have to dig out the detailed route instructions we got from the local information centre. Most of the Cols are not in our normal road map, just like some of the lanes are not much wider than a bike path and also don't show in any of our maps. They are rarely sign-posted and if they do have a road sign then it is often a wooden sign with hand-written village names. They are easy to miss but the best finds...

Three Cols in the Aravis Massif: Col de la Croix Fry, Col des Aravis and Col de la Colombière

2012-08-12T02:36:00.004+10:00

Col de la Colombiere

When I excitedly told my parents about the Col du Tourmalet on the phone the other day, my Dad asked me in wonderment whether I’ll never tire of riding in the high mountains.

I’m certainly not sick of climbing Cols and I do not know whether I ever will. But what I do know is that the mountains get less and less daunting and threatening the more of them I climb and with the improved fitness and strength I can actually enjoy climbing even the highest and steepest of them. With every mountain I climb, I learn more about myself.

I doubt I’ll ever get tired of this amazing journey we are currently on. It's not just about the cycling!

But this post is not about the high and steep mountains of the Pyrenees. You will have to wait for the Tourmalet report a little while. I'm still way behind with my blog updates. This one is about the Aravis Massif in the French Alps where we spent a few wonderful days in July.

We went to Thônes near Annecy solely with the intention to climb two well known climbs of the Tour de France (of recent years but not the 2012 edition): the Col de la Croix Fry and the Col de la Colombière.

Leading up to our days in the Aravis Massif just South of Geneve, we allowed ourselves a couple of days of sightseeing in Chambery (the ride up the Col de Granier counts as sightseeing because we took it that easy) and sun baking at Lake Annecy.

The Tourist Information in Thônes was an ideal start for our ride. We had a general idea of the loop we wanted to do but with our track record of getting lost (it always looks so straight forward on the map before the ride...), we thought we pick up a more detailed map of the area. The girl there suggested adding Col des Aravis to our loop because it was easy and very scenic. Easy and scenic? Alberto was easily talked into adding another Col!

She didn't promise too much.

We took the little road on our right just before the church as instructed, and as soon as we passed the last few houses of Thônes, no sooner did the sign indicate the left turn and the start of the first climb of the day: Col de la Croix Fry ("Cro:ah Free" as I was corrected by the same girl in the Tourist Office with a slight indignant expression earlier). The sun was up, the day was pleasant, there were other cyclists on the road and I loved the scenery.

Alberto had gone up the climb because there was company for me. A Swiss ski school made their way up the Col during their summer cross training and so I chatted with a nice Swiss guy for the most of the way. The last few kilometers kicked up a bit with it's 9% gradients but these climbs of the Aravis invite to leisurely pace while enjoying the scenery. It's an incredible beautiful area, with green pastures, rocky outcrops and peaks and villages as cute as French Alpine villages can be. Farmers were busy bringing the hay in. The sun was shining and I felt sorry for a few of the farm kids raking on the fields when I caught their longing gazes at my bike. School holidays for these guys are different and I just hoped they'd get to ride their bikes later after the chores were done!

The Col des Aravis was a short and pretty affair and we were grateful for the tip. I lit a candle in the little chapel at the Col for Saint Anne. She's done a great job for us over the past few months. I usually don't believe in the workings of saints but I didn't want to take the risk and keep her on our side.

From there we headed straight up the Col de la Colombiere, which again was pleasant to climb and didn't feel too hard at all.

Don't get me wrong, a climb is always as hard as you make it and I certainly took my time on that ride but there is still a difference between having to work hard and struggling to make it to the top or being able to cruise. These climbs have featured in the Tour de France and I'm sure none of the Professionals thought of these Cols as lovely and scenic little Cols at the time. But after climbing the Galibier and Madeleine and all the other 2000plus meter climbs, the 1500m range felt like a breeze.

Back in Thônes with just under 80km on the odometer, I felt like riding more. I love rides that make me feel like this. Satisfied with a big smile on my face and hungry for more...

A few famous climbs of the French Alpes: Col d'Izoard, L'Alpe d'Huez, Col du Telegraph and Galibier

2012-08-05T03:27:00.005+10:00

One of the blog-writing challenges during this trip has been and continues to be the overwhelming choice and amount of topics. The posts are long and getting longer and still leave out so much. Having to be selective is frustrating but in order to catch up with the events of the past four weeks, I will try and follow Alberto's advice and write shorter posts. And I will bunch a few of the famous climbs together into one post.

These four climbs are actually also a little muddled up in my mind the same way the Col de Madeleine, Col de Glandon and Croix de Fer of L'Etape all merged somewhat into one. I'm lying! Each and every climb stands out as fresh in my memory as if I rode it today. But the towns and villages get confused. Did we stay in Briançon when we rode the Col d'Izoard or was that Bourg d'Oisans? And were did we stay when we rode L'Alpe d'Huez? This kind of thing!

From Barcelonnette we drove to Briançon. The anticipation grew as we were slowly making our way towards Albertville, the village depàrt of L'Etape. But we couldn't just drive pass some of the most famous and fearsome climbs along the way. It was the week before L'Etape, and therefore rest time for L'Etape but how was I supposed to sit in the motorhome and rest? The Col d'Izoard starts just outside Briançon. It was the second time that a local cycling event - this time an individual time trial - gave us the opportunity to climb on closed roads. Alberto was super keen to do the time trial, and it was open to everybody, but after a chat to the guys at the local bike shop, we worked out that the time trial started from Guillestre, the other side of the Izoard. Logistically not impossible, the 80 km drive around the mountain was too much of an effort that evening and the decision was made for Alberto to climb up from Briançon and descend the other side and return over the Col again, while I, wanting to start L'Etape at least somewhat fresh, had to turn around at the top. I would have loved to do both sides, too.

The Izoard is a pretty climb, slowly winding it's way along the river. There is a village, a church tower and there was a barricade with race officials who stopped all motorists. They clapped and cheered as I manoeuvred through the opening in the barrier just like on La Bonette. Again there were other riders on the road, it was a warm sunny day and I tried to take it easy. But easy was the climbing.

A French couple had told us about the chalet from Napoleon's times just before the summit that apparently serves the best tarts in the world. Only later that afternoon, when we were driving to Bourg d'Oisans and I asked Alberto whether he had seen the chalet, we regretted not having stopped to confirm the claim. Alas, one more thing to add to the List for next time.

Bourg d'Oisans was packed with cyclists and the camping prices were exorbitant (40 Euros for a night in a camp ground inclusive of Wifi). Fortuntalely, Leon and Martine had given us the insider tip to stay in Allemont, just 11 km further, at the foot of the other side of Col de Glandon. There is a municipal camp ground behind a dam wall and next to a river for a quarter of the prices in Bourg d'Oisans. This camp ground was also packed with cyclists, mainly Dutch, and it didn't take us long to find out why they where all in the area: La Marmotte - probably one of the toughest cyclosportifs in Europe. The course takes riders over the Col de Glandon and Croix de Fer, then through the Maurienne valley over to the Col de Telegraph and Galibier, down the Lautaret side and it finishes on top of L'Alpe d'Huez. With 175km it is not only longer than L'Etape but with the amount of climbing and calibre of climbs, this is a really tough challenge, maybe one I will also add to the sometime in the future list. Maybe!

If you know this part of France then you probably guessed already that L'Alpe d'Huez was next on our list. It felt rushed, not because we didn't have the time but because we talked about coming back after L'Etape and do it again. And so we climbed L'Alpe d'Huez on a Wednesday night, quickly before dinner. It was only a short 40km ride from Allemont and I joked how cool it would be to do L'Alpe d'Huez Tuesday mornings as part of your regular training, instead Brisbane's McAfees. My big ride, the one for which I wanted to be fresh, was going to be that Sunday - plenty of time to recover. The 11km to the bottom gave us an opportunity to warm up and, as agreed, Alberto took off right from the start. I had promised him to take it easy and meet him at the top. But taking it easy was said easier than done!

The climb urges and teases to go fast, to test your legs, to time trial like many others have done before. And that has nothing to do with the plagues at each switchback, which I didn't have time to read. There is really not much more to say about L'Alpe d'Huez. It is a climb like many others, less scenic maybe. It's not the highest nor the longest of all climbs but it's tough(ish) all the way. My legs were fresh from the "resting" I had been doing and for once I hit threshold and stayed there. And then I backed off because I had promised Alberto to take it easy. With L'Alpe d'Huez it's a funny thing. People ask your L'Alpe d'Huez time as if there is a secret code to judge what level cyclist you are. Everybody knows that Pantani holds the record around 38 minutes and that under an hour puts you up there in the "serious cyclist category". 1h15' was the time I had in mind. Don't ask me why? 1h10' was a dream to beat. It just sounded like a good time for a 12.5km climb with an average gradient of 8.5%.

36min for the first 6km gave me hope and encouragement that I wasn't aiming for a ridiculous time but it also made me ponder that Pantani was just about to cross the finishing line. It was really hot and humid. The rain that started with three switchbacks to go came as a welcome relief.

So I didn't exactly take it easy like I had promised! But I also didn't go all out like I was planning to do after L'Etape. I didn't get the opportunity to better my time because our trip took us other exciting ways but I was happy with my time of 1h4'25", which - at the time - put me in the Strava top ten women. Got to be proud of that!

And with that I was content to seriously recover for L'Etape for the rest of the week.

We tackled Col du Telegraph and Col du Galibier the Saturday after L'Etape. To my great surprise it didn't take weeks to recover from the heat exhaustion and effort. In fact, by Wednesday we tried a short and easy climb up Col de Mollard from the other side, which was very green with lots and lots of switchbacks and short stretches. My legs were willing companions. By Thursday I was mentally ready to face La Toussuire a second time and even pushed the pace so when Saturday came around, I felt ready for another of the legendary climbs.

The ride from St Jean de Maurienne to St Michel de Maurienne is a flat and short 14km warm up and Col du Telegraph is a great little climb in his own right. Shame it lives in the shadow of the mighty Galibier.

After the very tasty Telegraph entree, we bombed down into Valloire and I regretted not having put my wind jacket on. Despite the warm temperatures, the short 5km downhill stretch was chilly. Valloire was a buzzing ants' nest in party mood. Life music was playing from a big tent, people in their colourful hiking gear sat at tables outside of cafes and restaurants and the many bike shops offered their rental bikes, mainly mountain bikes, at their shop fronts. But as soon as we had found our way towards the main course Galibier, the serene quietness surrounded us again.

Again, the road climbed gently along the grassy valley in long, straight stretches. Majestic rocky peaks towered above us. Around every bend more straight road further into the valley became visible. It almost looked as if the valley was surrounded by mountains and the road ended by the chalet at the end of the valley. Hikers sat at tables outside the chalet and then I spotted the road taking a sharp right.

From there it crossed over to the other side of the valley and into the mountains up to our right. The views from up there back down into the valley and back towards the road that we had come up minutes earlier are very scenic and gave immediate feedback on how high we actually were. But the roads kept going up higher and higher and the grassy slopes made way for rocky outcrops. There was a chill in the air and before I reached the top I started worrying about the descend with only my windbreaker jacket to protect my sweaty body from the cold air.

We finally reached the tunnel and the pass was visible above us. But it took my brain a few minutes to digest that the couple of steep ramps alongside the bare rock was the road I was meant to ride up. It was one kilometre to the top and I attacked the ramp, only to get almost blown over by the headwind when I came around the last switchback. As if 10% gradient at the end of a long, long climb wasn't challenge enough, I battled into the wind. I was wondering how important it was to actually ride the last 300m and if I could still claim that I had ridden the Galibier without a Col sign to proof it. Well, I do have the Col photo to proof that I made it and, yes, it was important to ride all the way, even though there is only a little car park at the pass. The views back down to both sides are right up there with those of the Stelvio and the Marmolada.

The descend was as cold and uncomfortable as anticipated. The Hot Chocolate at the chalet certainly helped getting the shivering under control and once my handlebars weren't in danger of shiver-induced speed wobbles anymore, I loved flying down those straight fast roads towards Valloire and then back down the Telegraph and home.

The Southern French Alps - Barcelonnette

2012-07-26T19:05:00.001+10:00

We started our Tour de France with a holiday at the Côte d'Azur. The weather couldn't have been any better, the colour of the sea made the name of this coastline proud.

Riding along the Mediterranean is as versatile as you could wish. If you feel like an easy day than just stay parallel to the coastline and enjoy the view. Or head inland and find proper climbs. No wonder we spotted so many Pros along the roads between San Remo in Italy, Monaco and Nice in France.

And I opted for the easiest option of them all - the beach - while Alberto tested his legs on a few climbs, like for example the Madonne climb just outside Menton, Armstrong's climb apparently!

So after a few days of smoothing out cycling tan lines and resting legs, we were ready for the highest pass in Europe - the Col de Restefond - La Bonette. We based ourselves in Barcelonnette in the Southern French Alps, which also has a very pretty and convenient Aire de Service Camping Car, free Motorhome parking on a grassy area amongst trees and in walking distance to town. It's unbeatable to sit under your awning until late in the summer evenings, chatting with other campers who happen to be mainly cyclists also, and enjoy a glass of red or white after a day of amazing cycling on scenic roads.

The first morning we headed for La Bonette, only to find the road because of road works! It was going to be a couple of hours before it would have re-opened and the hike along the side of the mountain, bike shouldered, didn't sound appealing. Thankfully, this region has more than just one Col to offer. In fact, Barcelonnette is the base for a yearly Fondo which includes as many as seven Cols in one day. The Crazy of L'Ubaye!

Coincidently, this Fondo happened the very next day we were there, which also explained the number of cyclists in town.

During the short ten kilometres back to Barcelonnette, we discussed our options and agreed on Col d'Allos, just out of Barcelonette in the other direction. It was a very pretty 18km climb and Alberto didn't feel like turning around.

We had read and heard about this loop, about 125km long, over two more climbs, the Col des Champs and the Col de la Cayolle. The reverse direction is apparently the more popular route but when we spoke with an English cyclist at the top of d'Allos, he assured us that this way was just as tough but in his opinion the better and more scenic way around. He lived in the area for some time and runs a bed and breakfast and cycling tours so we trusted his judgement and descended the other side of d'Allos for Col des Champs.

The fortress in Colmars was a good hint from him because otherwise I would have surely missed the sharp left turn into the Col des Champs. But first we rolled into the heavily fortified medieval village of Colmars (well worth a visit) for a snack. It was past lunch time and we hadn't catered for this length of ride.

Col des Champs is a shorter 12 km climb through forest initially and the later part through bare rocks. It was as stunning as people had told us.

We didn't linger much at the top and descended the other side, but not without stopping for photos several times because the views during the downhill were just as scenic as the climb had been.

Last but not least, now at the 100km mark and with a few meters of climbing in the legs, we tackled Col de Cayolle. There was a village at the bottom and grabbing another bite to eat would have been wise, but it was going to be another 14.5km up and 30km down - easy! Or so I thought!

The last 4km from the top I struggled. There was a point were I seriously thought, I might not make it and lack of fuel was the reason. Thankfully, there was a chalet and I didn't care that they charged us three Euros for a little can of Coke because this Coke got me going again and I learnt the lesson.

The descend again was fast and stunning views opened up. Climbing the Cayolle from the Barcelonnette side must be beautiful and Alberto got to do this climb with a few cyclists we met at the camp ground but in view of L'Etape (it was nine days away at the time), I restricted myself to the Col de la Bonette the next day instead doing another 100km ride over two very long Cols.

Leon

We headed out early (8 am) because it was going to be a hot day. Leon, a Belgian cyclist and at 70 years of age a great inspiration, joined us (or maybe we joined Leon?). The already familiar 10km to the base of La Bonette flew pass. The "boys" pushed the pace and I cruised in their draft, conscious not to burn my matches too early.

The first two kilometres up the climb I stuck to their wheels, well aware that I was climbing above threshold, a pace and effort I wouldn't be able to sustain. There were lots of cyclosportif cyclists on the climb, all with at least two other Cols in their legs already. They had started at five that morning.

No, these were not the Fondo riders!

Early slopes

When Leon jumped on the wheel of a young and competitive sportif rider who came flying pass, the band snapped and I was free to start enjoying the ride. Alberto showed up briefly, making sure that I was OK before taking off again. I would only see him again an hour later at the top.

Lots of flies!

Switchbacks higher up

Inspirational

The huge amphitheatre of rocks that opens up once you get to 2000m. It's stunning!

I had enjoyed pushing a higher pace for a bit because all our riding had been rather slow and steady. Maybe a little late, but in preparation of L'Etape I figured a bit of training wouldn't do harm! Once I was on my own and my heart rate had settled to a more sustainable rate, I really started appreciating this climb. And what a stunner of a Col this one is: beautiful wide green pastures that open to a rocky amphitheater higher up. Switchbacks and a road that loops around the bald bare rock at the summit!

It's one of my favourite climbs so far and a must if you are in the area!

French rider from Nice who said: "Amazing what we do in order to die in good shape!"

The last kilometre around the Bonette is tough but the views are very rewarding!

Closing Chapter Three with Bormio

2012-07-16T22:15:00.000+10:00

Firstly, apologies for the lack of visuals on my L'Etape report. Internet was so painfully slow at McDonalds in St Jean de Maurienne that I gave up after ten minutes of half-loading the first photo! Feel free to re-visit the post below because I was now able to add them along with some stats on my result, and the photos from Lake Garda, too.

So the wash up after L'Etape: Apart from some ongoing saddle sore issues, I recovered surprisingly quickly. By Wednesday I was back on the bike and enjoyed climbing Col du Mollard from the other side with Alberto and a new acquaintance Martin. Thursday, just before the Tour de France came through and Gendarmerie closed all the road - yeah, I cut it fine and they made me walk the last few hundred meters back to our motorhome where Alberto was waiting for me - I did a recon ride on La Toussuire. Seriously, I was surprised how little recollection I had of that last climb. With fresh(er) legs my time was only a margin of the eternity it took on Sunday.

My body still shows occasional weird reaction, such as restless sleep and strange dreams and sudden ravenous hunger only shortly after having eaten, which tell me that I'm still recovering. But otherwise I feel ready for more. How Pros go on and do this day after day for three weeks becomes more and more an impossibility to understand. My appreciation for their job has grown exponentially since having raced or rather ridden only one stage.

But now back in time and our last few days in Italy. If you follow our adventures then you may remember that we didn't make it to Bormio and, instead, went to Lake Garda. That was about three to four weeks ago.

Our trip to Bormio proofed postponed rather than cancelled after all. My whining and whinging might have helped. The fork in the road in Brescia - a decision had to be made. Alberto was ready to at least consider my alternative route suggestion via Lago d'Iseo, Edolo and over Passo di Aprica. Under one condition! The weather up in the mountains had to be perfect. While talking to the German cyclist at Lake Garda, he put it in his head that Stelvio and Gavia should only ever be ridden when there were no less then 30 degrees Celsius down in the valley. It would be still freezing cold at the summit, he said.

This is when the weather gods came to my rescue. And my Dad, who, in absence of freely available wifi, provided us with a prompt and accurate weather forecast via text message: pristine blue skies and 28 degrees Celsius as of Thursday continuing all through to Saturday with fog predicted to move in on Sunday. Good enough!

Bormio it was and we never looked back, never regretted our decision to detour, yet, again. We had the best time of our lives and who cares that our Giro d'Italia turned into seven weeks instead the initially planned three to four weeks?

Passo dello Stelvio

I'd be bold enough to say that every cyclist has pondered over photos of the hairpins of Passo dello Stelvio and dreamt of riding up. I have certainly done it hundreds of times over the past years, daydreaming. And here we were, sitting at the foot of the fabled climb, only one sleep away from making this dream come true. I again looked at photos in the magazines we had brought and tried to work out whether we were looking at photos of the Western Bormio side or the Eastern Trafeo side. Not that it really mattered because we were planning to ride both sides the next day anyway.

Western side from Bormio

Eastern side from Trafeo

Alberto seemed disappointed because he somehow thought he could see the switchbacks from Bormio but we first had to ride a long steady straight up along the side of the valley and through a few tunnels before the wall at the end of the valley became visible, the wall with the zig zag road leading up to the ridge. It looked exactly like in the magazine photos. And the rest of the day went very much like expected. The initial excitement of climbing the Stelvio after all the delay overshadowed any pain.

From the lower slopes it looked like the pass was right there where the switchbacks ended. But to my surprise a wide valley opened up instead, and the road continued climbing along the grassy slope into the distance. Higher peaks became visible. The gradient was easy. Alberto and I chatted, enjoying the views. It looked like the pass was somewhere at the end of the road. I spotted a couple of buildings, which I thought would be the pass, but the house turned an old cow farm, fading signs offering fresh cheesy produce for sale, and there was a memorial instead of the much anticipated pass. More road became visible further up. Hoping that this time it would be indeed the pass, Alberto took off just after we overtook the two Spanish riders, the only other riders we had encountered up to that point. The next couple of kilometres were steep and hard and it was now all white around me. Snow in June - who would have thought?

My diaphragm started hurting during those last few kilometres. First I thought breathing the chilly air caused it. It felt almost like stitches but higher up in the chest, and breathing became noticeably labouring in the thin air at 2700m. Not used to this high altitude, the gradient of the last two or three kilometres was a real torture. But that was forgotten as soon as I stopped at the top and enjoyed the marvellous views down the other side. Looking at the "famous" hairpins from above brought tears to my eyes.

There was a party atmosphere at the pass. The smell of German sausages hang in the air and there were souvenir stalls offering cycling jerseys and soft toy marmots in all shapes and sizes. There were motorbike riders and their motorbikes everywhere and some of them quite rude, pushed and shoved and claimed the spot just as they had taken the switchbacks on the way up.

It was freezing cold and I suffered on the downhill despite the leg warmers, beanie, gillett, arm warmers etc. but the descend was extremely enjoyable nonetheless.

We arrived in Trafeo on the other side of the mountain after 1pm and we were starving. There was this gorgeous little restaurant, tables on a terrace amongst flower pots, and we stopped. I peeled off piece after piece of my clothing as I warmed up and by the time lunch was served, I was back to bib and jersey. The waitress spoke only German and no Italian, and it felt we had not just crossed a mountain but crossed borders so distinct was the difference between Bormio and Trafeo.

After a plate of pasta and a Coke (I would've preferred wine but... alas), it was time to face the return trip. Once again 20km uphill, once again hairpins, some over 40 of them. I lost count but the hardest part was the earlier slopes of the climb, where the road up and into the higher valley looks like any other mountain road. It's always hard to get going again after a break but there was no way out. The motorhome was parked on the other side of the mountain, some 45km away. Church towers poked out between trees and a background of higher snow covered peaks. But there was no sign of what's to come if you didn't know. Except, we knew! If I hadn't just descended the exact road an hour earlier, I could have sworn there was no Stelvio.

The pass was still a market place when we arrived up there the second time around. Now late afternoon it was warm and this descend back to Bormio was warm and fast (apart from the tunnels, which are dark and scary).

People claim that the Eastern Trafeo side is the tougher ascent but for me personally, even though it was the first ascent and my legs were fresh, the ascent from the Bormio side was by far harder. The problem with the Bormio ascent is that it fooled me at least twice about the summit while on the return trip I had no false hopes of how far up I had to climb.

The double Stelvio in a day, with about 90km and just short of 3400m of climbing, was a tough ride but much needed preparation for L'Etape. It helped built my confidence that I can actually climb high mountains, and more than just one in a day.

Mortirolo

The Mortirolo comes in four versions. Three ascents start along the same Valtellina valley road, only a few kilometers from each other in the different villages of Tovo S. Agata, Mazzo and Grosio, about 20-30km South of Bormio (depending on which ascent you choose). The turn off for each climb is easy to find. The Mortirolo from Mazzo is the one the Giro used most frequently and is regarded the second toughest. That's the one Alberto picked to attempt. It was the day after the double Stelvio. I was keen for a ride. I went along. But I had no false hope about the difficulty of the climb, rather naive curiosity whether it would compare to any climb that I knew. Of course it didn't. Mortirolo is not regarded the first of the Überclimbs for nothing. I told Alberto that I didn't think I'd be able to make it to the top, but I was determined to give it serious go. The plan was for me to turn around when I couldn't keep going and meet Alberto on the Grosio ascent, the easier side and the one that Alberto planned to descent, just like the Giro course had done.

One kilometer into the climb I thought it was doable. Two kilometres in, and Alberto's face showed doubt and surprise. He later told me that he felt sorry for me when he realised that he was using the same compact 27 gear that I had available. That's how steep it was. I wondered what he Pros are using on this climb nowadays. Three kilometres into this 12km climb, and my legs were burning from lactic acid. I had to stop in a bend with some kind of gravel side road that was a little flatter for an easier take off after my rest. Alberto actually ended up holding my bike like a time trial start so I could clip back in and keep going.

It was tough and I knew I wouldn't be able to continue all the way to the top if it stayed this steep. It was 14-15% with no respite. One kilometre at the time. To make it half way became my goal. Around the next bend and the road looked even steeper. It was just as much a mental thing. Another 500m and Alberto again waited for me in a bend. The motorbikes that had overtaken us earlier, came back down. Then a mountain biker came down and stopped. With his limited English and our limited Italian we finally understood what he was trying to tell us. The road was blocked. Bicycles could get pass but there had been an accident, a fatal one, about another 2km up.

We looked at each other, looked at the steep steep road, and our appetite for the climb had vanished. We turned around, feeling sad and sorry for the unknown Vespa rider and his family.

However, the 30km return ride up the valley back to Bormio still held some surprise for us in form of 4km of 11-14% gradient in store. I was glad I had something left in the tank for that.

With 75km and some seriously steep climbing, I arrived back at the Motorhome with a distinct soreness in my legs, just like after a tough gym session. I also confirmed that Mortirolo compares with nothing I had encountered before.

Passo Gavia

And on Day Three we climbed the Gavia. How many mountain passes does it take to get sick and tired of climbing? The first few kilometres I was glad we had left Gavia for last. It was easy. The road followed the valley.

The silence and prettiness was only disturbed by the many motorbikes going up and down the mountain. It was Sunday. I watched an old woman in the front yard of her pretty Alpine house that was built from wooden logs and had flower baskets hanging off the balcony. The woman and the house looked like they had seen this hidden, secluded valley change over the decades, and I wondered how much her peaceful summer Sundays had changed since the invention of motorbikes.

The road got smaller, one lane wide. The surface was damaged. At least not many cars and Motorhomes made their way up there.

Information about the length of the Passo Gavia had been conflicting. We were high up, had climbed maybe 15km and, still climbing in pine forest, there was not even a glimpse of summit in sight. It could be another 6km, or another 9km, depending which source I wanted to believe. The road took a left turn and it started getting steep. Why wasn't I prepared for that?

Alberto disappeared up the road. He usually goes with three kilometres to go. So not far to go then…?

I struggled. My legs now seriously fatigued from three days of climbing, coped badly with sudden 10-11% gradients. So did my mind! It was bare and rocky up there, hostile, and there was still no end in sight. My No Whinging Nor Whining rule kicked in. I wanted this. I had begged to come here and climb mountains, so no word of complain would pass my lips. But, boy, did I want to dismount and cry! Thankfully, there were three guys at the roadside who saved me. How so? Well, I couldn't humiliate myself by stopping right in front of them? So I swallowed hard and kept pedalling through the hurt.

Suddenly there was another cyclist right in front of me, pedalling slowly. Overtaking gave me a boost. Then another, and a rider closed in from behind and stayed on my wheel. I could hear his laboured breathing. Where did all these other cyclists come from? I had no idea but I was grateful because it helped focussing. Another guy overtook me. The road suddenly levelled to a mere false flat. I jumped on his wheel. Our little group started riding together. A chalet, an incredibly fit-looking women, stripped down to her underwear, stood in a puddle squealing and splashing water that must have been near freezing. There were cars and motorbikes and a colourful sea of people. Even skiers packed their roof racks… but Alberto was nowhere to be seen. My riding buddies called something out to me when I slowed. A refugio and not the Gavia pass, yet? Another two kilometres to go?

That was a blow!

When I finally saw Alberto rolling towards me with his camera, all the fatigue and struggling moments were forgotten. I had plenty of punch left in those legs to push to the line and take the K(Q)OM points to the cheers and high fives of my riding companions of the last four kilometres. We took the mandatory summit photo and sat there in the sun for a while and admired the incredible beauty of this remote place. All the effort was worthwhile.

Needless to mention that, after a rest day in a magic camp ground in Sondalo, I did attempt the Mortirolo again. Just like Alberto, who of course climbed the Mazzo side successfully on my rest day (He doesn't do "rest days" very well though!), I couldn't let this one go! Sure, I chose the easiest Grosio ascent this time around, and admittedly, it was easier than the Mazzo side, but it's still a tough 14km slog with 15-17% sections. I took the praise from the Belgian guys at the top when I arrived.

I'm so glad we got to ride these three legendary climbs of the Valtellina valley but there are many more passes in the area. Once again, we could have easily stayed another week and not repeated a climb.

With this I'm closing Chapter Three and our very own "Giro d'Italia" even though Bormio was not the last stop. San Remo and the Cipressa and Poggio still deserve a mention but I may smuggle this one in with one of my future posts. Italy has been an absolute revelation as a cycling destination and with it's culture and culinary treats it has now a very special place in my heart and memory. I hope to return one day for more.

L'Etape du Tour 2012 - Acte 1: Albertville - La Toussuire-Les Sybelles

2012-07-13T21:10:00.000+10:00

When I signed up for L'Etape du Tour in November last year, it seemed unreal and very far away and almost like a game. Back then it wasn't certain, yet, whether we would pull off this whole European adventure. Signing up was merely a matter of keeping the option open and for an extra ten Euros, there was the cancellation insurance. Without John signing up for it and telling me about it during one of our Fixie Riverloops, it would have never crossed my mind to endeavour something this big.

It was going to be my toughest ride ever, and a huge physical and mental challenge.
I still can't believe I finished. After seeing the Pros suffering on La Toussuire today, I have a completely new appreciation of professional cycling and what those guys do. Without the last two months of climbing high mountains in the Italian Dolomites, and the French and Italian Alps, I wouldn't have pulled it off. I haven't told you all and everything about my L'Etape preparation over the past weeks and some of it will have to wait till later. I'm sure you will be able to put the pieces together. This report had to be moved up and out of the chronological order. Some of the ride is already a blur in my memory so if I don't write about it now, I will have forgotten.

After meeting up with John and Narelle on Friday afternoon at the registration in Albertville, we went for a little leg stretcher ride. There was lots of catching up to be done. John and Narelle had been touring in a Motorhome through Europe prior to coming to Albertville. There were holiday stories, news from Australia, and the every-day happenings of the past three months. It was kinda cool, the Hey, pinch me! Is this real? way of riding with good friends, so familiar cycling buddies, on so unfamiliar roads.

On Sunday morning we woke up to the sound of rain on the Motorhome roof. Glimpsing out between the curtains, it looked wet and grey and, frankly, miserable. The beautiful mountains were hidden in a haze of dark clouds. The previous day had been beautiful, so this came as a shock, maybe not just to me. Maybe it was the reason the local newspapers would report in their Monday morning issue that out of over 9000 registered cyclists, only a mere 5688 started. Neither for John nor for me there was a question of not starting. There was just a quick wardrobe re-think!

By the time we found our start area, the skies looked already clearer. It was hard to contain my excitement. The wait was probably one of the worst moments of the entire day. The first riders rolled out at 7am but with my bib number 9139 it took another 45min before I was finally rolling, 45 min of stressing about the chaos of a mass start. But worries were completely unfounded. The start was very relaxed and safe. The entire organisation, in fact, was faultless and one of the best I have seen. Already at registration there were never any long cues, there were armies of helpful people pointing people in the right direction in all thinkable languages and assisting with the most outlandish of requests, like for example printing my doctor certificate, which I had only as pdf on my laptop.

People had their bikes checked and prepared at the Mavic tent, all completely free, and I had my brake pads changed. We watched the Tour de France stage at the big screen and their was entertainment at the departure village all day. The many exhibitors of marvellous bike stuff posed a great danger to my holiday budget.

But all this was forgotten, once we were on our way. The skies cleared more and more and before we hit the bottom of the first climb of the day, the 25km long Col de la Madeleine, the roads had dried and there were glimpses of blue sky. My last hard ride had been L'Alpe d'Huez on the Wednesday and after three days of rest and only very short, easy spins, my legs were fresh. Straight away I found this sweet rhythm, which was only interrupted occasionally when riders swerved or bunched up ahead of me. My heart rate was sitting pretty at ten beats below threshold, and soon I found a wheel that I followed. Number 9764 was setting a tempo that suited me to the ground. It didn't take him long for him to notice me on his wheel. He smiled, introduced himself and we became a team for the entire length of the first climb. Matthew was French, spoke English, and it was his first L'Etape as well. Trés bien!

Just before the top of La Madeleine I spotted John. It was great to see him riding so strongly and being in such good spirits. He was having a ball with this climb.

The descend of the Madeleine was a lot less scary than anticipated. I had read all this hair rising reports of tight switchbacks, narrow roads and, combined with thousands of other riders, I assumed it would spell disaster. But apart from loosing John, the descend was actually great fun.

John and I re-united at the feed station at the bottom of the next climb, the Col de Glandon and Col de la Croix de Fer, as we had agreed. Water bottles were filled with friendly cheerful smiles, bananas and bars were handed out freely and in large numbers, and despite hundreds of cyclists scrambling for supplies, things went smoothly.

I was nervous about the next climb. The last few kilometers were said to be tough but there was a little surprise waiting for us before we hit the climb. Alberto and Narelle had somehow managed to park the Motorhomes and cheered us from the sidelines. It was awesome to see them so excited. A quick kiss and off we were again. The next few kilometres, it was very much the same routine. I settled into my rhythm, conserved energy and climbed slowly and steady. I could have sworn, John was sitting pretty on my wheel and I pointed out potholes and other dangers to him until I realised that I had lost him. There were cyclists all over the road, a constant stream that never broke up and whenever I got glimpses of the road above, I would see the colony of colourful ants snaking up the mountain.

The higher I got, the prettier the landscape became. Meadows, high peaks, a little lake and more rocky peaks. The sheer beauty of three sharp, grey rocks, sticking out behind the summit, almost took my breath away. And the prettier it got, the tougher it got. Col de la Croix de Fer comes in a double pack. Two for the effort of one - almost. I rolled over the timing mat at the Col de Glandon knowing that there were still a few more kilometres to go to the summit of Croix de Fer. But thankfully, these three kilometres felt almost flat. I resisted the temptation to whack it in the big ring and hammer. The euphoria of having completed 96km of the 152km course was inappropriate. 56km might sound easy on the flat but there were still two Cols to climb.

Another long descend and Col du Mollard with it's 6km was refreshingly short and easy. The 17km descend from Mollard were beautiful but the fatigue started to set in. My back was aching, my hands started tingling, my shoulders hurt and I got really pissed off with my lack of descending skills. I thought I wasn't too bad… for a girl, but once again being caught and passed by all the guys who I had overtaken on the previous two climbs was frustrating. The experience was shared by a French guy who - in passing on the last climb - complaint to me that he was fed up with seeing me coming pass on every previous climb. We both laughed when I mentioned my frustrations with the downhill parts.

So all was going well. I had spotted Narelle and Alberto briefly on the bottom of the last climb. He had called out to me that I was looking strong and given me the little push. Again too unexpected and by now too fatigued to think quickly, I had missed the opportunity to throw out my overshoes, arm warmers, wind jacket etc. I kicked myself for having to carry all the by now useless luggage with me for the last 18km to the ski resort of La Toussuire- Les Sybelles.

Only 18 km - about one and half hour of climbing and this would be all over. That's what I calculated in my head. I was still feeling good. I was once again in my rhythm, once again recognising guys as I passed them.

And then, with only ten kilometres to go, the lights went out so suddenly and unexpectedly that it took me a while to realise in how much trouble I actually was. At first I felt slightly unwell. Cold shivers ran down my arms but I knew this feeling from the Marmolada climb when I overheated. A quick rest would fix this, I thought, and decided to stop under a tree in a shady spot for a moment.

It was hot by now, 35 degrees Celsius. I poured half of the water of one of my bottles over my head, ate another bar, drank half of my other bottle, still full with some rehydration formula that I had scooped out of a bucket at the last water stop. I assured the roving assistance guy that I was ok. The concerned look on his face was a bit unnerving so I accepted the extra bottle of water he passed to me from his motorbike. There were white streaks on my bib and jersey. Nothing new to me. Soon I felt better and got back on my bike.

Three kilometres later the cramps started. Debilitating and painfull like never before, I was stuck on the side of the road. Seven kilometres to go. I tried not to panic. My mind was set on finishing. Back on I got, only to stop in agony 500 m later. Someone walked passed me, pushing his bike. I started walking, too. This became my routine for the next four kilometres, walking until the cramps subsided and gingerly nursing the legs to turn the pedals. Riding was better than walking but walking was better than giving up. It couldn't be helped now.

There were four feed stations and a number more water stations along the route and according to my pre-ride plan, I had stopped at each and every one of them except the first one. I had refilled my water bottles, drank and ate as much as I could. I didn't care how long it would take me to cross the finish line.

Two hours and seven minutes it took me to climb this last mountain of the day but I made it and when I rode through the red kite that indicated one kilometre to go, I welt up. I swallowed hard. I didn't way to cry. I felt so emotional and I begged my legs to bear with me and not make me walk across the finishing line but even that I would have done!

There was still the ride back down to St Jean de Maurienne, falling into Alberto's arms and walking to the Motorhome. A shower, food - lots of it, wine, too, and the joy of hearing that my friend John had made it, too... most of the afternoon is a bit of a blur but what I will remember for the rest of my life is the cheers, the support, the generosity of people with their time and enthusiasm for the sport of cycling. I couldn't have done t without the support, especially from Alberto. Thanks!

Even though the result is not important to me because finishing this challenge was my goal, here are the stats for those interested:

Starters: 5688
Finishers: 4422

Total distance: 152km (With the descend from La Toussuire I ended up riding over 170km - my longest ride ever!)
Total meters of ascending: 4750m

Time to climb Col de la Madeleine (25km): 1h55'59"
Time to climb Col de Glandon (20km): 1h56'45"
Time to climb Col du Mollard (6km): 0h31'27"
Time to climb La Toussuire - LesSybelles (18km): 2h07'20" (I climbed La Toussuire again a few days later with fresh legs and it took me about 1h24')

Total time climbing: 6h31'31"
Total time from start to finish: 9h35'08" (This includes stops at feed stations etc. My total moving time according to my Garmin was 9h10')

Age group: 33rd out of 93
Overall: 2277th out of 4422 finishers

Lago di Garda

2012-07-05T23:03:00.002+10:00

When we left Arabba and the Dolomites, I was half excited and half sad. Sad because I felt we had barely scratched the surface of this incredibly beautiful region and there was so much more riding to be done: Passo di Pellegrino, Passo Giau, Passo di Falzarego - you name them! But I was also excited because our next destination was Bormio in the Italian Alps, a town high up on my list of places to visit because it meant even bigger climbs, the infamous passes Stelvio, Gavia and Mortirolo. Not only are these passes at a higher altitude, the climbs are also longer with higher elevation gains.

The GPS navigation system was set, we were on course, and while Alberto was driving, I perused the actual road atlas (navigation systems are a great tool and I don't know how we would find our way around Europe without one but I still like to follow the road with my finger on a map, the old-fashion way) when I realised that to get to Bormio from the Bolzano/Merano side, we actually had to take the Hymer over the Passo dello Stelvio/Stilfserjoch. Now, that's not a problem because she loves climbing as much as we do and she climbs like me, slow and steady in second gear, but unlike me, she is an old lady and the descend had me worried.

We stopped at a service station and the jolly attendant cheerfully assured me that the weather down at Lago di Garda would be better. It was still raining and with our German number plates he just assumed we joined the hordes of Germans flocking to Gardasee for holidays every year. I protested and when he learnt of our destination, his friendly face showed concern. It was snowing up there, he had heard in the weather report.

As we continued our journey, we discussed our options. The weather looked miserable, to say the least. The forecast spoke of weather improvements as of Thursday, three days away. Taking the Motorhome over a high pass is one thing, but to do it in bad weather and without snow chains is yet another story. And to spend one day locked up in a motorhome may be ok but to sit out three days in pouring cold rain may be a strain on any relationship.

We stopped in Parcines, a little tourist villages along the route, to get a more accurate picture of the road conditions at the information centre. It didn't click that even though Südtirol belongs to Italy, they speak mainly German, so it took us a while to get the info we were after but when the girl behind the counter finally understood our Italian/English mix and exclaimed Haben Sie mal aus dem Fenster geschaut? Über's Stilfserjoch brauchen Sie Schneeketten! (Have you looked out the window? You need snow chains over the Stelvio pass!) our minds were made up. We turned around and joined the Germans. New destination: Riva del Garda. I was heartbroken! Especially, since it meant we wouldn't get to Bormio at all. At least not now, maybe later, in September, upon our return from Spain… if we had any time left. And what fat chance of spare time is there at the end?

Lake Garda hadn't been on our itinerary at all. It felt like we left Italy. Unfortunate for Alberto, German continued to be the prevailing language. But the lake was pretty and, indeed, the sky looked friendlier and the rain cleared the closer we got. We even managed a little flat recovery ride that evening, nothing fancy, just a couple of hours, and then parked in Malcesine right down by the lake. Over dinner, Alberto spotted some roads and villages high up on the mountains on the other side of the lake. I wanted to climb Monte Baldo, the 2000m high Hausberg of Lake Garda but didn't put a fight up over it. I'm glad I didn't.

After a not completely uneventful night - we were woken at 11pm by a friendly policeman advising Alberto, also in German!, that it was forbidden to park by the lake after 11pm but we could park and sleep in the car park by the cable car station 800m away - the next morning we sat off to explore those roads and villages on the other side of the lake.

Flat all the way till Riva del Garda, we soon found local company, two guys who were happy to ride hard and swap turns. They unfortunately stopped at a bike shop in Torbole, while we kept going, along the busy road with galleries and tunnels after Riva and then up towards Limone sul Garda. The road kicked up and Alberto soon disappeared and left me to fend for my own. 14-15% gradient, I went along with it for a while but then had to stop for a breather. Thankfully, there was a little driveway that gave me enough momentum to get me going again. Alberto waited for me around the next bend, smiling. He was in heaven. The little roads were even more to his liking then he had anticipated, looking at them the night before from the opposite shore.

Off he sat again, with me snailing after the grimpeur. The road continued steep for a total of 4km and when I eventually reached the little church in the little village on the top, too, I found Alberto excitedly chatting away with another cyclist, German of course. All three of us big smiles on our faces. What a challenging climb! The German knew the area well, of course, having spent 15 or more holidays here. He insisted, rather than turning around, we should continue on to Pieve, only another eight or ten kilometres. The road was amazing, spiralling through narrow gorges all the way down to the lake, he described. And I swear, he wasn't exaggerating. The climb back out was so scenic, I hardly put my camera away.

By the time we hit the flat road back towards Malcesine, we had close to 90km on the Garmin. I was feeling so fit and strong and elated that I spontaneously turned at the sign to Passo Campiano, a little 5km climb full of switchbacks that helped to crack the 100km for the day and to make peace with the unexpected Lake Garda detour. We would have snubbed this pearl of a lake in Northern Italy and it would have been a shame if we had missed out on one of the most scenic and memorable rides in Italy.

Sella Ronda - Giro dei quattro passi

2012-07-02T19:32:00.000+10:00

The previous post and this one were meant to come all under one header: Arabba! But an unexpected Internet connection and a half finished post meant that Part Two of our Dolomites adventure had to wait. Mind you, I'm about two to three weeks behind with my posts anyway but I have best intentions to catch up this week. It's rest week for L'Etape du Tour on the 8th July. But more about my preparation for L'Etape in the next few days.

Here it is our ride over four passes in the Dolomites: The Sella Ronda!

After a breakfast with marvellous views of the World Heritage Dolomites, we prepared the bikes and got ready to explore some more climbs. Right at that moment it started drizzling. No worries! Let's make another coffee and sit out the few drops. We had all day to ride and surely it would clear. The drizzle increased to a light rain around lunch time, the light rain turned into proper rain when we had afternoon tea, and the rain settled into the valley like we had settled into our motorhome. Lulled into lazy sleepiness by the sound of rain on the Hymer roof, by late afternoon we accepted the fact that there was always another day to ride. And a forced rest day might have been a blessing in disguise. 24 hours in confined space and we still liked each other; in fact, we had the most relaxing day lounging, reading, writing, editing photos, napping, eating, drinking wine and starting all over again. It was Sunday after all… a perfect Sunday!

It kept raining all night and when it still looked grey and wet the next morning, we sadly decided to move on. It was Monday morning and the weather forecast promised improvement as of Thursday, too long to hang around and wait. A few errands and the morning was gone. Lunch somewhere on the side of a mountain road, it was Passo Gardena, just after Corvara, a little siesta and all of the sudden I spotted a patch of blue in the sky.

Excited I talked Alberto into a ride, a short one, maybe 45-50km, the Sella loop around the Sella group of mountains, the Tour of the Four Passes! I had read about this famous loop, being a popular cyclosportif, which goes over Passo Campolongo, where we had spent two nights, Passo Podoi, which we had ascended from the other side when we returned from the Marmolada, Passo Sella and Passo Gardena, or better known by it's German name Grödnerjoch, the pass we were parked half way up right at that moment. All four passes are over 2000m.

I didn't need to beg too much. By the time we were dressed and the bikes were ready, the roads were almost dry. Once we rolled, I couldn't believe our luck to get to ride one more time in the Dolomites before saying Good Bye to these amazingly beautiful mountains.

My legs felt fresh after being put up all Sunday, I was so keen to ride. Passo Campolongo was our first of the four passes as we decided to do the loop clockwise. The cyclosportif goes around the opposite way but we wanted to climb Passo Pordoi from the Arabba side rather then the same side we had done already.

We passed our camp spot from two nights earlier, down into Arabba - the descend we knew so well from driving down in the mornings - and straight up the Pordoi, which starts pretty much at the roundabout in Arabba.

There were a few Marmottes looking at us, and a herd of cows laying in the grass near the first switchback, regurgitating, but otherwise the roads were quite. For once we didn't have to share the road with motorbikes.

Four or five kilometers from the Podoi summit, it started drizzling. I didn't care. I was so happy to be on my bike, feeling so strong and fit and in love with these mountains. It was cold on the Podoi. We hid behind a house wall, out of the wind, and piled on the clothes. It wasn't just a drizzle now. It was pouring rain. And it was 6C. My rain jacket and over shoes came in handy but still, half way down the descend I started shivering and it was hard to hold onto the handlebars. Fortunately, the Mavic rims are awesome and braking in the wet was not a worry.

My hope was that the Pordoi held the rain and that it would be clear again on the other side of the pass but as we descended it looked like the rain had settled in again. I couldn't wait to start climbing the Sella Pass because at least the body warmed up when pedalling. At the lowest point, which was also the furthest point from the motorhome, I worried that I had gotten ourselves into a bit of a mess. We were so cold and wet that I feared we would get sick.

Two down, two to go… it didn't matter which way, it was two passes to overcome each way so we kept going. "No complaints and no whining!" was my mantra, because I wanted this ride.

And then the Sella Pass, my legs carried me up the passes without hesitation. I enjoyed the climbing in the rain and then I spotted some blue amongst the grey sky.

Three passes down, one to go and between the Sella and the Gardena Pass the skies cleared and the Dolomites said Good Bye to us with most spectacular and beautiful views of the mountains. The light and clouds made it all look more dramatic.

The climb up Grödnerjoch was regrettably short and the descend back to our Motorhome was one of the best ever, being able to take the bends and switchbacks wide because there was no other traffic, like racing on closed roads.

Once back "home", we quickly got dry and warm and took an extra dose of Vitamins and never ever even sneezed. But the memories of this ride will stay with me forever. It wasn't a very long ride and it may not have been the hardest - four passes sounds more impressive than it is because the entire loop stays above 1500m and each climb is only between 5-10km long with maybe 500-600m of climbing - but the challenging weather and the rugged beauty of the Dolomites made this ride stand out as one to remember forever.

Arabba and the Marmolada

2012-07-01T06:12:00.001+10:00

At an altitude of about 1500m, it was a bit of drive to get to Arabba. The navigation system's calculation of almost two hours' travel time for the mere 88km from Feltre, an average speed of just over 40km/h, had made me suspicious already. The Hymer took switchback after switchback, higher and higher into the rugged Dolomites, in a strike. It was one of the most scenic drives to date.

The first night we parked under the ski lift of Passo Campolongo, at about 1800m. If I knew anything about high altitude training at all, I could have maximised the training impact but it was enough to know that just sleeping high up in the mountains would count towards improved performance somehow. Why else would people spend loads of money on altitude tents?

The next morning we drove the 5km down to the township of Arabba and stopped at the information centre for a good chat with the friendly lady there who was all too happy to provide valuable information and good maps. On her recommendation we parked the Hymer near the closed and partly dismantled ski lift that had signs for "No Parking for Motorhomes", and got ready for a ride that would become one of the best rides ever: The Marmolada! Marmolada is not actually the name of the pass but rather the name of the mountain group with the highest peak the Punta Penįa at 3343m.

The pass from the Eastern village of Caprile is called Fedaia and goes only up to 2056m. That's the route we took, which meant the ride started with lots and lots of most beautiful and scenic descending along wide valley. We had to loose some altitude to Caprile at 1071m. A right turn at the beginning of the township, a sign pointing out the direction, there was no danger of missing it or getting lost.

The climb started gently. We picked up another cyclist from Germany. It wasn't his Focus bike, nor the Gore apparel. I'm not sure why I recognise German cyclists but a friendly reply to my cheerful Guten Tag confirmed my hunch.

There was a bridge up high between steep rock walls that built a narrow canyon, and the creek rushed over rocks deep below. We stopped for photos. The German cyclist caught up.

Through the tunnel we rode and through another little mountain village. There were ski lifts and billboards inviting to stay in a hotel here or at a camp ground there, somewhere near by, and then there were more cyclists up the road behind a long bend.

When we closed in and overtook the tail end of the group, I told Alberto to go and wait for me at the top. It was about 6km to go and there was plenty of company for me on the road. He set off and I watched him picking up one after the next white dot along the climb.

That's when it got steeper. Tom Danielson apparently said about Passo Fedaia that it was like they had rolled asphalt straight down the mountain. A great description! There were indeed no switchbacks. My legs felt fresh, and I had a rhythm, something rare for this kind of gradient. To my surprise I also started closing in on other riders in white bib and jersey. Italians from the same team or club, older cyclists, smiling knowingly as I passed, Bravo! shouts of encouragement from some.

Sweat started dripping off my nose. Beanie and gloves came off earlier. I regretted wearing my warm cycling jacket and three quarter bibs rather than arm and knee warmers and a gillett. Short of stripping down to my skin, there was nothing else I could take off to make my climb more comfortable.

The number of times I thought I was overdressed during this ride? Twice! The number of times I thought I was underdressed during this ride? At least four times. There was only one time I was convinced I was dressed right and that was right at the beginning of the ride in Arabba when I was freezing cold and shivering and thought I'd never feel warm again in my life.

Oh well, I'm still learning and on the Passo Fedaia I learnt that I not only looked like an inexperienced tourist. It's usually cold or at least cool up at 2000m and most experienced riders carry a lightweight wind breaker in their pocket for the descend. A gillett and arm warmers plus beanie work well, too, and later I even started taking an undershirt with me in the pocket, which I can then put on under my sweaty jersey so my upper body is nice and dry for the descend.

Even without being overdressed the body usually heats up on the ascent. My legs fatigued. My cadence dropped to 50rpm. There was no rhythm anymore, just slow grinding and even that hurt. The gradient didn't ease. The road went straight up the mountain, no switchback in sight. Sweat dripped. My jacket, now completely unzipped, felt heavy on my shoulders like a wet blanket. I spotted more white dots up the road but I wasn't closing in on them anymore, their cadence as low as mine.

45rpm, my head willing my legs to turn over. 11%, 12% - I hadn't seen any lower numbers for I couldn't remember how long. My fingers jerked the gear lever in wane hope that a 28 tooth cog had miraculously appeared on my cassette. My head started spinning, cold shivers ran down my arms, the heat was unbearable. The symptoms were clear, I had to stop and cool down my overheated body.

A refugio, a ski lift and a house at the end of the straight, only 200m up the road, a bench in the shade of a closed cafe, that's were I aimed. I felt defeated. The pass seemed still so far away. I had no idea how far it was to the top. The jacket came off and I sat there gazing down the road, the cool breeze drying my undershirt. Alberto would come back down and pick me up and we would have to descend back down to Caprile and return to Arabba the way we came, tail between legs. That's what I thought in those moments.

But then I spotted some of the Italians I had overtaken earlier, coming up the steep part, one by one, some in pairs, some zig zagging and all going the same slow speed and labouring cadence that I had climbed. A little chill ran through my body. The crisp mountain air cooled me down quickly. They were doing it tougher than I had done. One of the older guys rolled up to my bench, upper body hunched over handlebars, unable to get a word out. Troppo caldo I said, pointing at my wet jacket on the bench. He bobbed his head in agreement.

The German cyclist pushed pass in determination. Inspired I shoved my arms back into my clammy jacket. It was time to go. Andiamos I said to my tired Italian buddy, hoping it meant "Let's go!" and was Italian and not Spanish or Portuguese. He didn't move.

The German cyclist became my target, my motivator, my focus. All I needed to do was copy him! Follow! Grind! Persevere! Time didn't matter. I wanted to make it to the top. And then all of the sudden I spotted Alberto's lime green jacket flying down the road towards me. He slowed, camera in hand, yelled something that sounded like "Almost there!" How? Where? The German cyclist now next to me, then on my wheel and then the Col sign indeed. I couldn't believe that this was it, that I had made it, that I had been so close to the top when I stopped.

Later I looked at the graph from the Garmin. I blew up after 10.2km of climbing and at a point where the road had been a constant 11.1% average gradient for 2.8km. There were only 2.4km at 10.7% average gradient to go at that point but the pass is behind a bend so it was hard to judge from that point, which probably played a role in me stopping. The entire climb is 12.9km at an average gradient of 7.6% but the toughest stretch is the last 5.7km at approximately 10.9%. It's a tough tough climb, the toughest I had done to that day.

The views were incredible, out of this world. We chatted with the German cyclist for a while, then the Italian group that was still waiting for their last few battlers to reach the top, all piling on clothes and stuffing bars into their mouths. I started feeling cold in my wet jacket.

We stopped for lunch half way down the other side of the Fedaia at a little quiet Inn with views of the Gran Vernel, one of the peaks of the Marmolada group, before climbing up the Passo Podoi and descend back into Arabba for the finish of our 57km loop, the best ever. Until the Sella Ronda two days later...

Monte Grappa two and a half times

2012-06-21T00:37:00.003+10:00

Siestas are great. Unless, of course, you require fresh bread with your lunch and it's past one and you discover that shops only re-open after four. Siestas are not helpful for any such situation, or for the unorganised like us. Siestas are perfect in-between two rides. Or after a glass of Valpolicella with your lunch instead of ciabatta.

We are not having as many siestas as we should, or could, but we had a long one that day in Bassano del Grappa, after the somewhat boring drive through the flat Veneto from Chioggia. Bassano hadn't actually been on our radar. Instead, our plan was to drive straight to Feltre and climb Monte Grappa and Croce d'Aune from there but then there was that Facebook message from Brisbane friend Kim "Come to Bassano and climb Monte Grappa with us."

Little did I know that Monte Grappa has several ways to the summit (apparently over 20 but this includes goat tracks that only mountain bikes can master). Here are the stats of the two main ones, because we went to Feltre and climbed the other side as well. Of course!

Monte Grappa from Bassano
Distance: 27.1km
Elevation gain: 1587m
Average gradient: 5.8%
Altitude: 1750m

Monte Grappa from Feltre
Distance: 28.2km
Elevation gain: 1523m
Average gradient: 4.9%
Altitude: 1750m (obviously!)

So that makes two! The half Monte Grappa has something to do with that long siesta that day we arrived in Bassano, when we only got on our bikes after 6pm, just for a little spin.
Sure enough we found our way to Romano d'Ezzelino and before we knew it we were climbing.

My legs felt fresh after a couple of days of sightseeing in Venice. In fact, I had just come off an entire rest week on the back of the Gran Sasso and Blockhaus training camp so I felt like my wheels were floating two millimetres above the asphalt.

On an orbit, pass Australia, the villages shrunk below us with every switchback. I was flying. Then Houston called. We had a problem! The climbing speed was not fast enough to make it to the summit and back before daylight went.

European summers are great. Now in June, you can get on your bike at 6pm and still get a good two and a half to three hours of riding in before you need to worry about finding your way back home in the dark. Come July/August, it will still be daylight at ten. But I think Alberto was more worried about the cold than the dark, and rightly so. We were approaching seven and I begged him to let us ride for another 1/2 h, 20 min, 10 min…

We were at kilometre 13, just about half way and turning around really hurt. But it was the right decision. There is always another day.

The next day it rained all morning and when it cleared later in the afternoon we rode the 35km from Marostica to Asiago and back, which essentially resembled a climb if you look at the profile.

While we didn't manage to catch up with Kim and Karl - they had probably ridden up Monte Grappa one too many times already - we finally, the next morning, went all the way. My legs were not quite as fresh anymore by now. Especially the first few kilometres seemed harder than I had in memory from our late afternoon exploration but what really surprised me was the landscape that opened up after we passed the turn around point from two days' earlier.

While the first half of the climb is largely covered by forest with occasional glimpses down into the valley, the second half, once you leave the trees and you are lucky enough to catch a clear day, you can see the road winding to the summit from far away.

We were semi-lucky that day and climbed into the clouds. Two days later it was not quite as clear.

And don't ask me, which side is easier. The stats are deceiving (as stats always are). Don't be fooled by the lower gradient of the Feltre side. This side packs a few 15-16% gradient sections that are offset by short downhill spurts. I found the changing gradient of the Feltre side harder to deal with because I couldn't settle into a rhythm.

The day was also overcast with very low hanging clouds that hardly allowed for any valley views. Climbing for climbing's sake into the clouds has it's own charm, especially when you already know the summit, but one of the rewards for climbing mountains is the view, you must admit. Both climbs are worth doing and if you have the legs, do both in one day. We didn't have the legs.

But we had the legs for a quick hit out to Croce d'Aune before our lunch time departure, a perfect finish to a very enjoyable stay in Feltre.

Croce d'Aune
Distance: 8.5 km
Elevation gain: 655m
Average gradient: 7.8%
Altitude: 1007m

We were about to head deep into the Dolomites to look for even bigger mountains. Marmolada and the Sella passes (Passo Pordoi, Passo Fedaia etc) were waiting for us and I was ready!

Stay tuned!

Climbing Campo Imperiale, Passo Lanciano and Blockhaus - Parco Nazionale del Gran Sasso and della Maiella

2012-06-11T20:15:00.002+10:00

It's two week now since we spent time in the National Parks of Abruzzo but the memories of those climbs are still fresh and will be vivid for a long time to come. Passo Lanciano has seen Cunego battle it out with Basso in past Giro d'Italia editions but I had never heard of the Parco Nazionale del Gran Sasso nor the Parco Nazionale della Maiella before. And why this part of Italy is not a cycling Mecca like Bormio or Lake Como, I don't understand.

Once again we could have easily stayed a week or two and not repeat one climb, so many riding options are there. We sampled the highest peaks of the two parks. Our initial intention was to take up temporary residence in L'Aquila, the capital of the Abruzzo province. But then I read that L'Aquila was still being rebuild after the earthquake in 2009 and the inner city was yet to open to tourism again. Therefore we went straight to the autostrada exit of Assergi.

Late Sunday afternoon and there was no soul to be seen when we drove in. The navigation system dropped us in a tight residential street with fairly new family homes. This was supposed to be the town centre. The little tourist information was hidden away and closed. There was no church, no pasticceria, no gelateria - oh gosh!

Down the narrow valley road to Paganica we went and up again to Assergi, in search for a suitable parking option. We had the car park of the cable car in mind that takes people to the Campo Imperiale ski resort, but it seemed too far up the mountain, too much climbing lost. How did we get so greedy for uphill road? Eventually we settled for the night in an equally quiet but pretty old village somewhere in-between Assergi and Paganica. Earthquake damage was still apparent everywhere but the road looked gorgeous, slightly uphill, merely a false flat in fact, perfect to serve as a warm up for the climb the next day.

The peaks in the clouds and the temperatures way down, I felt terribly underdressed after the first few kilometres of warm up the next morning. It was good that we could return to the motorhome for some late wardrobe changes. Because I knew the climb was 30km long and reached over 2000m of altitude, the three-quarter knicks and the new red winter riding jacket, which I had already stored away in some hard reachable corner of the motorhome, came out. I hadn't thought I'd need them again this side of summer. Also my neckie, an extremely versatile piece of cycling apparel that I knew nothing about until I came to Europe, and beanie went into the jersey pockets. The two featured heavily during the long descends later that day but first we had to get up the mountain.

And how beautiful was this climb? A gentle gradient of 5-7% never made me gasp for air and allowed for plenty of energy to enjoy the views. Sure, a climb is always as hard as you make it, but we were planning a long day in the saddle so I kept my heart rates in the Tempo zone. Alberto was happy to hang around. He always is, no matter how much I urge him to ride ahead and wait for me at the top, or come back to fetch me.

The road was teasing us. We would spot glimpses of it high up on the bold slopes and then it would look deceivingly tame ahead of us, as though there were no 2000m high mountains waiting in the background. The real action lay in our backs as we rode out of the valley, facing the lower ridges. Every switchback opened up new views of grassy hills. Higher and higher the road wound, now and then allowing glimpses of the Corno Grande, the rocky pinnacle and highest peak of the National Park. I tried guessing, which direction the road would take us but I kept getting surprised when high mountain meadows appeared from nowhere. We were kinda in a high mountain pot, surrounded by higher ridges, yet on a plain.

Two hours had passed, two hours of constant steady climbing. We were high up amongst those mountains and it felt very remote. Then there was an intersection, a colourful map, up on a wooden frame, and Alberto's begging eyes Can we go up the road to Campo Imperiale, just a little bit, just to see what's behind that bend? The map showed a dead end, about eight kilometres to the ski resort. Of course we had to go, no point coming all this way and then turn around before the summit.

The place was eerily quiet, apart from the parked car with the two older Italian men calling out "Bravo!" as we flew pass. The road was slightly downhill there, it was easy to get carried away. It was magic! And then I saw the bunch of motorbike riders descending down the switchbacks high above us. Or did I hear them first? I spotted the ski lifts on the side of the valley. There were tiny buildings up there on the sharp ridge, below the now very close Corno Grande. There was no more guessing where the road was heading. Immediately after my realisation, the gradient kicked up to 10-11% and one of the motorbike riders gave us a big "Thumbs Up" with his thick-gloved hand when he thundered pass us, down towards the high plain. Then it was quiet again, only my laboured breathing echoed off the limestone cliffs.

There was not much of a Col sign at the top, not much life either, just a near empty car park, a couple of red and grey stone buildings, an observatory, TV towers and ski lifts. The hotel restaurant had "aperto" written on a chalk board in front of the entrance but it looked deserted and dark from the outside. A German couple also admired the views back down towards Assergi and we contemplated having a coffee with them. They had taken the comfortable ride up there in a Sports-BMW and just when I wondered whether their experience matched ours in any way, Willi told us that he had ridden all these passes of the Abruzzo National Parks in many cycling holidays in the past.

It was chilly up at 2100m so we decided to keep moving. Spontaneously, after studying the map and discovering a loop option (They always look better on Strava than the out and back rides), we decided to descend a different way and add a few more kilometres. After a fast downhill into the high meadows and fields, immediately followed by some more climbing up the other side out of the "pot", we started the actual long descend down the white band of a road that gently meandered through round grassy hills towards the lower valleys. Cows raced us alongside the road. Then a few switchbacks, before the road dropped us gently, gently down to Santo Stefano di Sessanio, a village perched on top of a rocky outcrop in the middle of a green valley, like an eagle's nest.

From there it was a short ride to Barisciano and back to Camardy and our Motorhome.

Campo Imperiale from Assergi: 33.5km
Elevation gain: 1945 m
Average gradient: 4.1%
Altitude: 2100 m

With just under 100km (The Strava version only shows 91km because I missed a few kilometres after forgetting to switch the Garmin back on after our stop at the top) and over 2000m of total ascending I was quite pleased that I had plenty of energy left for the rest of the day. I took it as an early indicator that training might be right on track for L'Etape du Tour in July. Could I have ridden another 40km and climbed another 2000m? That I couldn't answer but if heavy legs on the Blockhaus the next day were an indicator, too, then I may just need a bit more training after all. But then again, Passo Lanciano and Blockhaus are completely different climbs altogether.

The 80km scenic drive along the National Park borders to Lettomanopello in the Maiella NP the same afternoon took us just under two hours. We settled in for the night with a beautiful view.

The next morning we first descended four kilometres because Lettomanopello overlooks the valley from above. Those four kilometres were easy to climb back up but no sooner had we passed our Camper and followed the Passo Lanciano signs through the streets of the village, no sooner it got steep. My legs complained, not only because of the distinct sore feeling that the previous day had left behind but also because of the ten, eleven, twelve percent gradient. It didn't drop below nine for the next three or so kilometres.

While I remember the beautiful green pastures, white limestone rocks and yellow mountain flowers of the Gran Sasso, the Passo Lanciano I remember by the colours and textures of the asphalt. Dark grey with white sprinkles at the earlier part, more whitish grey with a few dark pebbles further up. And cracks, where the water had frozen, expanded and cracked the surface in mini explosions in past winters. The maple shaped shadows dancing in front of my eyes, mirroring the leaves above my head, moving in the welcome breeze. It was hot and I didn't dare looking up. I was concentrating on pedalling rather than admiring the views, meanwhile hoping that the climb wouldn't be this steep all the way.

And my wishes were heard. No sooner did we reach the open plain, views of the Blockhaus summit opened up and the gradient settled to a 7-8% before the forest covered the views again but offered shade in return. At the pass we refilled bottles with cool water from a pump, had a quick chat with a couple of Italian cyclists who had come up from the other side and weren't continuing on to the Blockhaus but descended straight back down. Another older cyclist, who had just come down from the Blockhaus made the motion of arms clasping around the body, indicating that it was cold up there. Being still hot and sweaty from the climb so far, I couldn't quite imagine to be cold. Having wisely stuffed arm warmers and gillet in my back pockets, the thought of cooler temperatures didn't worry me.

The Blockhaus is basically a "second part" to the Passo Lanciano climb that continues initially through forest before hitting the tree line at 1200m and becoming bare with low vegetation offering stunning views all the way to the Adriatic sea. Some sources quoted an additional 10km from P. Lanciano to the Blockhaus summit, others spoke of 6-7km.

Not exactly knowing added to the thrill but before we knew it we hit snow that covered the narrow bitumen strip. Cars were no longer allowed this far up. Alberto was determined to press on and hiked along the mountain edge, bike shouldered. Despite 19 C there was a chill in the air and I didn't want to wait around so I resistantly followed his lead. The road was clear again and we continued the ride… only to encounter another hiking section soon after. The third time, this time there was no road in sight behind the snow, we called it a ride and turned around. We had ridden as far as we could and apparently as close as 500m to the summit.

Passo Lanciano from Lettomanopello: 14.5 km
Elevation gain: 1140 m
Average gradient: 7.7%
Altitude: 1300 m

Blockhaus from P. Lanciano: 7.6 km
Elevation gain: 520 m
Average gradient: 6.9%
Altitude: 1930 m

By the way: I have added a another paragraph about the rides and some more photos on the previous post about the Amalfi Coast - in case you are interested!

Two rides along the Amalfi Coast

2012-06-03T19:13:00.001+10:00

Alberto objects when I say that South of Rome starts Africa. Napoli, Salerno and Pompeii made the chaos in civilised Northern Italy look rather tame in comparison. Napoli is an exciting and vibrant city and Salerno is more sophisticated than I had hoped after Napoli. I would have loved to spend a few more days in Italy's Campania province but we have been saying this almost daily now for the past two months.

One could spend an entire year in Italy alone. Seven months in Europe won't be enough to see everything. Unfortunately!

According to our original rough and not set in stone schedule we should be well and truly on our way to Spain. Alas! Plan B has taken effect. Spain will have to wait till August, till after the Tour de France. But we may now be able to also see the Tour of Switzerland and the Criterium International. And the Vuelta a Espana starts already in mid to late August, so it all works out even better now. And we can relax and enjoy all the mountains that Italy has to offer. Oh, and have I mentioned that I increased my Gelato budget?

What else has been happening?

Last week we stayed in Pozzuoli - the town where Sophia Loren was born. The Solfatara camp ground there is located in the volcano crater, steam, hot springs and sulphur smells inclusive. It's a short train ride into Napoli from there. Don't even try driving! Or riding! Leave that for the Amalfi coast that starts just South of Napoli. After four days of sightseeing in Rome and Napoli… topping up after Genova and Florence… we had reached our art, history and ruins threshold. We needed a rest day from culture so we drove straight down to Sorrento and left Pompeii for later.

Up until that day I thought California's Big Sur was the most beautiful coastline in the world.

A few kilometres before Positano, where the Amalfi Coast starts, the road hits the coast high above the deep blue Mediterranean Sea and incredible views opened up. It was lunch time and we stopped right there by the cliff and cooked a simple pasta dish, just garlic and olive oil, fresh basil and pomodorini (sweet little tomatoes) that we had bought at a fruit stall by the road side a couple of kilometres earlier. Mediterranean style and so delicious, especially when enjoyed right on that little stone wall high above the sea. The goat bells jingled somewhere below us and the jet-set from Napoli left white foam lines in the deep blue water on their way to Capri.

Cyclists came pass in numbers. We were bursting in anticipation of this cycling heaven. Amongst the cyclists was an Austrian guy with whom we got to chat. On his way from Genova to Salerno by bike, he was on his last "tappa" of his ten day cycling holiday. Travelling light, he carried just a little rucksack and stayed in hotels along the way. Nothing pre booked, he said, because he didn't know how far he would get each day. He confirmed that riding through Napoli had been a nightmare but the ride up Vesuvius had been special. People had blocked the road in demonstration for stopping traffic to go up there. They had allowed him to go through because bicycles are alright, so he had the entire road to himself. We hadn't planned to ride up Vesuvius but a mental note was made to add this to the "To Do" list.

The road was perfect, the weather was perfect, and we were dying to get on our bikes. Yet, we didn't get to ride that day. Why? Well, instead of leaving the motorhome right there where in was, we thought it wiser to continue driving a little further. Only, we didn't see the signs about a day time driving restriction for Motorhomes along the Amalfi Coast Road. Motorhomes are only allowed to drive on that road between midnight and 6:30am. The road is narrow and navigating it proved tiresome and slow. There were no parking spots anywhere along this stretch, let alone places to just stop. When we finally, two hours later, reached Minori and a little fishing harbour with an empty car park, you could hear the sighs of relief.

Late afternoon by now, we hurried to get the bikes off the rack, only to be addressed by a friendly policeman making us aware of the driving restriction. He didn't fine us but instead allowed us to continue on to Salerno. Thoughts of getting on the bike that afternoon were abandoned.

We made up for this lost riding opportunity because Salerno turned out a great base for rides along the Amalfi Coast. If you head North out of town, the road climbs up to the Autostrada and the Amalfi Coast road, which also makes for stunning descents back into Salerno on your return trip. Not only is the scenery stunning, numerous picturesque villages (or should I say chic seaside resorts?) with bars and pasticcerias invite for a quick stop and a cafe and cornetto (very strong short black and a plain croissant) for as little as 1.20 Euros or 1.50 Euro if you prefer an Americano (a kind of long black or double shot espresso with extra hot water on the side).

The first ride, straight after breakfast the next morning, was a 90km out and back affair along the coastal road with a little detour up to Ravello and Scala. Ravello, high up above the coast, was highly recommended as a quiet escape from the hustle and bustle of the coastal towns but we found it to be touristy and busy that morning so we stayed just long enough to cast our eyes back down. Scala on the other side of the valley was much quieter and the views across to Ravello made this village the more attractive place in my book. With the five kilometre climb up to Scala and Ravello and the up and down along the coast, the ride packed 1400m of climbing.

But if this amount of climbing is not enough then there are the higher mountains just behind the coast. During our little detour to Salerno we found this beautiful climb through quiet hinterland villages, through vineyards, lemon and olive tree groves and churches. Till today I'm not sure how we found our way back to the bottom of this climb through the maze of highly populated Cava de Tirreni but it was worth looking for it. Head towards Pagani and Corbara. The climb is 9.6km long with an average gradient of 6% and the lookout at the top offers wide views over the Amalfi Coast hinterland and across to Vesuvius. We went over and down the other side back towards Ravello and the coastal road, which made for a perfect loop.

Cycling in Cinque Terre and Tuscany

2012-05-23T07:17:00.002+10:00

Just when we thought it couldn't get any better, it did.

Everyone who visits Cinque Terre always mentions the walks high up along the cliffs and the beautiful villages and the train but no one ever raves about the cycling. I'm happy to change the perception of Cinque Terre not being suitable for cycling. Or maybe I will just confirm this prejudice. It may depend on your fondness of steep hills. Judge for yourself!

After a quick chat with a friendly German bus driver at one of the lookouts high above Riomaggiore, the first of the five villages that together are known as the UNESCO world heritage protected Cinque Terre, we followed his advice and went down towards Manarola. The villages are car-free and even locals have to leave their cars outside the village on specially reserved car parks. Under no circumstances should you park there without the special permit. Nosy as we are, we checked the ticket on a french car - 119 Euro! Not known to many, there are a few parking spaces for motorhomes - not more than eight to ten - just before the gate that stops public traffic from driving into the village. It's ok to disregard the Do not enter! sign for motorhomes and trucks at the roundabout on the road at the top.

On Day Two at Cinque Terre we went for a ride.

Alberto had actually checked out the cycling on Day One already after we had done the tourist thing; taking the train to Monterosso, later walking down the Via Del'Amore from Riomaggiore back to Manarola and having a drink at the Bar Del'Amore up on the cliffs in the setting sun. He had helped broken down fellow campers at our secret camp spot to get back on the road. In return they offered much valued advise on good camp spots in Rome and Napoli, road maps and... their unused train tickets. I don't think we would have otherwise taken the train but it was well worth it.

The first kilometre of our ride, straight up and out of the valley, packed a whopping 100m of vertical climbing. Being a rest week, my hopes for an easy ride were squashed before I had warmed up properly.

Way up on the road that would normally take you all the way to Levante, the northern gateway to the Cinque Terre, we enjoyed panoramic views down to Manarola. The views over vineyards, olive groves, farm terraces with trees bearing yellow, sweet lemons and the deep blue Mediterranean Sea made up for every centimetre of climbing. Limoncello was on my mind…

Once up on the ridge, the riding was spectacular. We followed the road until we hit the landslide closure. The landslide in October last year must have been a big one because it still seemed very fresh in the conscience of the locals. I had heard it mentioned several times the previous day but the severity of the damage we would only see and understand later in Vernazza, one of the five villages of Cinque Terre.

Corniglio looked inviting from up the top and it was lunch time, so we dove, switch back after switch back, down to sea level (almost). It should have downed on me that what comes down must come up again.

The village was just as pretty and picturesque as Manarola; the same colourful houses, narrow lanes and bars and restaurants. The only thing I missed were the boats that are parked in front of the houses in Manarola's streets like cars are parked at people's door steps in other towns and villages.

Undecided, or spoilt for choice of touristy eateries, we pressed on to Vernazza without stopping for lunch. It said 4.5 km on the sign - easy enough! But hopping over to the next village involved some two or three kilometres of climbing back up to the fork in the road before once again flying down narrow switchbacks, this time shadowed by forrest. It was even prettier than the open road with wide ocean views that lead to Corniglia.

Then the asphalt turned to gravel. I hit the brakes hard because the road dipped even steeper into the narrow crevice. It felt like we were entering the village through the back door, a way not normally open to tourist's preying eyes. There were road works and ruins and it took me a while to realise that we were looking at the devastation and damage that the landslide had left behind a few months earlier.

The village was an ant's nest of hard working people trying to clean up and rebuild and get back to normality. It reminded me of Brisbane after the flood, except that the devastation was still palpable. There were tourists, lost in front and behind fenced off buildings and lanes and black holes where once must have been colourful shop fronts. We felt like intruders, voyeurs.

But lunch time was long past and I needed food for the long climb back out of the village. Surprised that people had mentioned the closed road to us but not the damage to Vernazza, I realised that locals would want tourists to come to this part of the Cinque Terre. Tourist Euros would help this battered community to get back on it's feet, so we found a little Taverna and enjoyed much needed carbohydrates.

The climb out of Vernazza was harder than I had realised during the descend. The ramps hit 19-20% and after a few switch backs, 13% became a perfectly acceptable gradient. But the forest was still as pretty and the yellow helicopter still flew tirelessly up and down the valley with bundles of rubble so the road high up on the ridge could open again sometime in the future to bring more tourists back to Vernazza.

This ride, though only a touch over 30km, will be one of the most memorable rides of my time in Italy.

A couple of days later, watching Cavendish fight up the climb to Montecatini Alto during the last few kilometres of Stage 11 (?) of the Giro d'Italia, we reached Tuscany. It had been hard to say Good bye to Cinque Terre.

Now, while Cinque Terre is not on the map of Must Do cycling destinations, Tuscany certainly is. Gentle, sun drenched hills; fortresses and villages; Chianti growing on both sides of the road… the pictures spring to mind and people's eyes glaze over in romantic longing. Tuscany is exactly how you imagine it to be from paintings and photos and TV programs, just prettier. And the cycling is spectacular.

Who doesn't know about L'Eroica? Who hasn't heard of Strada Bianchis?

Greve in Chianti, about 30km south of Florence (Firenze), has a great free motorhome park, similar to the one's in France. It has all service facilities to dump and refill, and the motorhomes are nicely parked in a circle. The bus was an easy and enjoyable way of getting to Florence and we were glad we took this option instead of riding. Firstly, it gave us the chance to admire a few Botticellis, Tizianos and Michelangelos without having to worry about the bikes getting stolen outside the Palazzos in the meantime, and secondly, we avoided getting lost in Italian traffic of big cities.

Instead, the next day we cycled on quiet Tuscan country roads from Greve to Radda and Gaiole, along a short section of L'Eroica, on Strada Bianchi, up and down the hills. During that ride I made peace with cycling on Italian roads. Have you ever experienced days where you could have just kept pedalling forever?

It was a day like that!

And the Chianti for lunch had absolutely nothing to do with it...

Learning style from Italians

2012-05-15T07:18:00.001+10:00

I have yet to decide whether I like cycling on Italian roads. Don't get me wrong. I love Italy!

Never before I ate so much ice cream; even twice a day and sometimes at eleven at night, every single scoop delicious. The gluten of the daily pasta, grissini and panini slowly clogs up my system in a very pleasurable way. How could one feel guilty about carbo-loading?

Our living arrangements changed on arrival in Italy. Our bikes no longer live on the bike rack outside but moved into our lounge room. With already limited space, it got quite crammed in our Castello di Hymer. I don't want to offend any Italians but sound sleep is a good pay off for this temporary nuisance. I started fantasising about a one bedroom apartment, which will feel like a palazzo by the time we return to Brisbane. The Italians themselves thought it was crazy to leave the bikes outside, even when secured with two locks and a cover. Then again, we haven't felt unsafe at any stage, yet, and a German traveller assured us that the times of theft and robbery are over and Italy is now one of the safest countries in Europe.

Safe or not, Italy is incredibly beautiful. Lake Como was just stunning with it's narrow roads, lake views from far up the mountains, flowers and colourful villas, and the snow capped Alps in the distance.

A few weeks ago, whenever Alberto asked whether I was happy, I started replying with "If I was any happier, I'd have to scream!" because that's exactly how I felt. In Como and Bellagio and then again in Genova and Nervi and Sestri Levante and now the Cinque Terre I don't even need to finish the sentence anymore. The beauty around us is almost unbearable. Maybe this is why Italians are yelling and screaming all day? The frequent outcries for "Tranquillo, tranquillo!" are necessary to offsets all the prettiness around here? Any happier… you know?! Adding a couple of words to my vocabulary daily, I just wished I learnt the language a little quicker.

And what should I say about the riding? The best I've ever done? From Como to Bellagio, just a tick over 30km, the narrow road, clinging to the rocky cliff, takes you along the lake's edge. Every few kilometres, you coast through a tiny village with a church tower and a bell as old as Italy itself. A few blind corners, a tunnel, and your heart rate goes up, if it isn't up already by the sheer incredibility of the road. When then a bus or sporty Italian driver eliminates the already limited road space even further, getting off appears to be a good life-saving option. But you mustn't be afraid. Italians respect other road users and watch out for cyclists. As long as the traffic flows… that's all there is to the chaos. No one is out to be nasty or hit you. And they are attentive and good drivers… in general. Like the guy who almost lost control over his car around a narrow bend on top of the Muro di Sormano. I don't know how he managed to gain control again but if he hadn't, I mightn't be sitting here writing this. Accidents happen.

And once you leave the busy lake road and start any of the climbs, and particularly the one up to the Madonna di Ghisallo, riding becomes as tranquil as any Italian could call for. At the Madonna di Ghisallo chapel Alberto asked me whether they were wearing underpants when a group of older Italians arrived. I preferred not to look too closely. For Italians, white is the preferred colour of riding apparel and in particular bibs. There are the occasional celeste green knicks or some other undefinable colour variety but black knicks seem as rare to find as a straight Aussie bloke wearing white. Now, it is debatable whether white bibs are a sign of style.

But unquestionable style is when the white bibbed Italian cyclist manoeuvers hands-free the inbound traffic on the Genovese equivalent of Beach Road on a busy Saturday afternoon, while having an animated conversation on his mobile phone. I was too scared to even grab my water bottle in fear of missing that crazy Italian driver pulling out in front of me. Twenty kilometres later, when my body slowed down the production of adrenalin and cortisol because it simply couldn't keep up with the stress response, I got the hang of it. A few rides later and it feels reasonably natural to float in and out of Italian traffic, but relaxed I will never be.

Oh, and then there was the ride from Sestri Levante to Camogli. If this all sounds to weird and wonderful to you - and that's exactly what it is to me - no problem. Just save your riding for Sunday lunch time. The roads are almost eerily quiet.

And what about the Giro d'Italia, you may ask? Well, we have been watching most stages on TV and there is a distinct advantage, watching it in real time, and not one o'clock in the morning. The Italian commentary on RAI Sport certainly adds a certain authenticity. As for watching the peloton from the road side… we spent a bit more time at Lake Como, and who could blame us, and then had a long hard look at the map of Italy and the course of the Giro. And we decided, rather than chasing behind the peloton and missing out on a lot of places we want to enjoy, we drive around Italy anti-clockwise towards the peloton and meet them in Assisi. Maybe watch the finish of one stage and then the start of the next before making up our own Giro d'Italia on the other side of the boot and our high altitude training camp in Bormio.

But then again, this plan may just fall to pieces tomorrow. Cinque Terre has a lot more to offer than anticipated and we may as well just stay another day or two. It's a perfect spot for long walks. For the past week or so I wondered why I felt fatigued, until I realised that I did 12-14h weeks on the bike, more than my body is used to handle. Therefore I forced myself into a rest week this week. It's tough to leave la bici in the motorhome when all this amazing roads are right at your feet. Another pistachio gelato may have to console me…