The messages I was sending weren’t good:
“Shit” – 5:04pm
“My charger is dead” – 5:04pm
“Shit” – 5:04pm
“There’s no way I’m getting there by Saturday” – 5:05pm
“I need to get to grenoblw now” – 5:05pm
“Fuck. Bolt dead.” – 5:07pm
Yes, you read that right. I really spelt Grenoble “grenoblw”. But just at that moment things were seeming pretty tough, so please, cut me some slack…
I woke up feeling rubbish. Specifically, I woke up feeling rubbish poking me in the ribs, and some rocks doing the same. Having had a succession of brilliant spots to bivy lately I was due for an ordinary one, and that is what I had settled for the previous night. With the benefit of the pre-dawn light it really seemed like a cross between a gravel quarry and a rubbish tip. Situated in such a beautiful part of the world I couldn’t help being a little disappointed in the people who had seen fit to dump their rubbish there, but I guess different people see things differently.
The up-side was that I felt no need to dawdle in bed, and instead jumped straight up. I shoved my bivy and overnight gear into my Tailfin (I love how quick it is to pack that thing), and was on the road within about 5 minutes, breakfasting as I rode. I had a few little undulations down in the valleys then was the dirt road climb to take me up the back of Alpe D’Huez.
It was a pretty grey looking morning and I was well aware that the forecast had been for rain, and as I hit the bottom I could see scattered showers about the place. A few short and light showers passed over me, but then they started to get heavier. The first heavy one happened as I was passing some shelter, so I stopped under it and waited for the shower to pass, which it did fairly quickly. For the next heavy shower I was just approaching a tree that formed a great umbrella, so I happily stopped under it as well, and got out something to eat. As I waited I saw another rider heading towards me – it was Herve (#TCRNo7Cap54), who I had lunch with just after CP3.
Herve pulled up next to me and we chatted for a few minutes, staying nice and dry despite the heavy rain. Pretty soon though it eased off, and Herve started riding. He is obviously made of sterner stuff than I am – I waited another minute until it had actually stopped. I could see him in front of me, but wanted to just ride at my own pace so I didn’t worry as he pulled further ahead.
The road had been sealed until that point, but now became a good dirt road with an easy gradient, and enough gravel for plenty of traction and to keep it dry despite the rain. That was a good thing, because it quickly started to rain some more, and this time is was obviously here for longer. Looking at the mountain tops around me I was really glad that I wasn’t at the top of Galibier!
The climb took a sharp U-turn to the left at one point, and there was a smaller road that climbed much more steeply to the right. As I approached I could see the bright colour of Herve’s rain jacket heading up that road to the right. Hoping that we didn’t have to climb that, I looked down at my Wahoo. My route showed me going left. This was a set parcours, so we should all have been going the same way. I got to the corner and checked how old the route I was following was, just to be sure it wasn’t one that had been updated after I created it. Nope, the route was created the day before we departed Burgas – left was correct. I looked again at Herve. He had stopped, and was looking back at me. I turned left, as he turned around and rode back down that steep climb he had just done for no reason I could see, so he could go back to climbing Alpe d’huez. Some people just can’t get enough climbing!
The road was fairly flat at that point, and with the rain coming down we were both taking things pretty easily, but he soon drew level with me again. I basically had time to ask him where he was going before we rounded a corner and came across one of the race vehicles. We stopped for a quick chat and they told us that the descent would be fun.
“As long as a steep descent around 21 hairpin bends on skinny tyres in the pouring rain is your idea of fun” added James (Was it James? I think it was James. My apologies if it wasn’t James).
“So how long have you two been riding together?” asked Anna, the race director. I couldn’t help a chuckle as we both pointed behind us and said about a hundred meters. It was a valid question though, and it was good that she asked. Riding together would have been cheating. I can’t think of a good reason why someone would cheat in a race like this, and really it doesn’t matter all that much if someone does, but it is nicer for the others if people don’t, so I appreciate her checking! Of course, it also worried me enough that I later asked my number one fan if it looked like we had been riding together on the tracker – I was doing the ride for myself and didn’t care what other people thought, except for the part of me that always cares and didn’t want to see a DSQ next to my name in the results!
It was time to go and we both prepared to head off. Together. Because we were following the same parcours at the same time. Before I started riding I paused to say thanks for organising a fun race (and to give Herve a visible start…).
It wasn’t much further to the top of d’Huez, and the checkpoint was at the bottom of the descent. I admit that at that time a steep descent around 21 hairpin bends on skinny tyres in the pouring rain wasn’t really my idea of fun, and I was pretty happy to arrive, dripping wet, at the Hotel de Milan. It is hard to describe this place adequately. Looking at Trip Adviser I see that it gets a 3.5 out of 5, and I know that isn’t adequate. I never saw the rooms, which have apparently all been recently refurbished, but from what I saw downstairs it was clear that the place had at one time been magnificent. It was now a bit older – some of the paint was a bit faded, some of the floor was a bit worn, some of the tiles were cracked or chipped – and somehow that made it all the more magnificent. As I tried to figure out where I was going to put my bike and how I would get in without leaving trails of mud across the parquetry floor I was greeted by a guy with an accent that I just could not place, who quickly showed me where to put my bike and then over to the checkpoint desk. Of course, the guy was the manager of the place, and he never even paused as I did in fact leave a trail of mud across the floor.
After stamping my brevet card he was quick to ask what I would like – Was I going to go straight away and if so did I want a hot drink to take with me? Was I tired and did I need a room? Was I hungry, the breakfast buffet was still up and he could leave it up a while longer?
That last one sounded good, so I tried to contain my mud as he showed me through and started offering to dry things for me. I just started eating. The food was great and I think I was just preparing for my fifth helping when he came back in and said “now you make sure you eat all that you need”. I looked, but really couldn’t see a trace of irony in his face. I went for that next helping, and then another one.
In total, I was at that checkpoint for over two hours. Now if I had been smart what I would have done as soon as I arrived was take my back wheel to the bike shop over the road, and get them to fix up my hub. I hadn’t been smart. The rain stopped, I dragged myself away from the feast and out onto the verandah, saw the bike shop, and started thinking about getting my wheel fixed. Now, though, there was a queue there, plus I had a feeling that the rain was going to come back, and I wanted to get over the next mountain before it did. As I rode away I looked back at the Hotel de Milan. It is hard to describe it adequately, but I really can’t imagine ever staying in any other hotel if I was going to that region.
Of course it’s entirely possible that I will go back. I’ve been there a few times before, and have climbed Alpe d’Huez several times, but I had never ridden the climb I was now approaching. Obviously some people had, as there were signs describing it as a TT course to Villard Notre Dame, and giving updates on the gradient. If I go back I will certainly ride it again, because it is beautiful, winding up the mountain and through tunnels carved by hand through the rock. Leaving Villard Notre Dame the road turned to dirt, but it was still a pretty good surface so I wasn’t unduly worried, and given the beauty of the climb I can see exactly why it was worth having this one in the course.
By this time the rain was back as a steady drizzle, but nothing too bad. I reached Villard Reymond where the road was sealed again, and started making my way back down the hill. Just out of the village there was a shepherd moving his flock across the road, with a dog called Cassie who wasn’t doing very well. I admit I was a bit amused as I watched and listened to him trying to get Cassie to do what she was supposed to do, while explaining to the girl who was with him that Cassie was still learning and all his other dogs had been great. I paused in the rain so I didn’t upset the sheep, but as the rain got heavier he sort of gestured that I should just go through them (I think he felt like with Cassie it was going to take a long time) so I started slowly scooting through. The sheep were huge grey things, with their wool wet from the rain, and I was about a quarter of the way through when one of them suddenly turned into a wolf.
I was looking forward when suddenly from my right came a huge barking and I looked to realise that amongst the sheep there was a big grey dog with very big teeth that were snapping at me. I pushed forward to get some sheep between me and it, and looked at the shepherd to see how he would call it off. The shepherd didn’t even react. Thankfully, as I went forward the dog stopped barking. Then it disappeared. It was the same size and colour as the sheep, and it blended in perfectly. I just couldn’t see it in the flock, so I kept going. Ten seconds later it exploded at me from the left. Again, I just pushed away from it and again it disappeared. The bloody thing must have leapt out at me three more times before I was through that flock, and each time it scared the daylights out of me. It was clearly that style of sheepdog that lives with the sheep as their guard, and it was clearly good at it. It never bit me but it sure had me far too scared to even think about touching one of the sheep!
Once I was through the sheep I was back to rolling down the hill, but by now the rain was serious. It got heavier and heavier and I was quickly soaked through. Water was pouring off the rocks of the hillside and flowing down the road like a river. There was no point stopping because there was no shelter around, and anyway I was already soaked through, so I didn’t think anything would be made worse. At this point I got a low battery warning from my Bolt (my GPS computer, that showed me my route). I didn’t want to plug it in while the rain was pouring down (the computer is rated as waterproof but they say not to charge in the rain as water will get in through the charging port) so I swapped over to my Garmin, which I expected to be fully charged. Disappointingly, it wasn’t. Having been sitting unused in my bags for over 12 days it was now telling me it had about 20% charge.
That should still be a couple of hours, so I kept rolling along, and it was only a few minutes before the rain eased and then, as I reached the bottom of the hill, stopped. The Garmin still hadn’t managed to load my route by that time and was now giving low battery warnings, so I decided to swap back to the Bolt, but to plug the Garmin in just to be sure it would be ready the next time I used it. The road soon became flat and straight, letting me cruise at a good pace, and hopefully charging up the Garmin very quickly.
Imagine my disappointment when I looked down to see that the charge state had actually gone down, not up. Far from ideal, but possibly why the charge level had been so low when I turned it on. I swapped the charge cable over to the Bolt. I also decided that I had better empty out my food basket. Last year I had decided that what I really needed was a food basket that sat under my aerobars so I could eat as I rode. Previously I had a bag there, but it didn’t work quite as well as I’d hoped, so for this race I had designed and built a magnificent creation out of Kevlar and carbon fibre. It was nicely aerodynamic, because I used a boat design software package to work out the shape. That meant that it actually had quite a lot in common with a boat, including being waterproof.
Early concepts included a lid for protection from rain (and things bouncing out) and even the very last concept included multiple drainage points. Time constraints during production (and the kevlar being way harder to cut than I anticipated) meant no lid and only one drainage hole, which served double duty as a point to mount my headlight. Right now, that one drainage hole was well and truly overwhelmed, and the sandwich that was in the bottom of the basket was looking very unpleasant. Not to mention those caramels…
Once that was done I started riding again, with only a low level of concern regarding the Garmin. The Bolt had been great until now, and I fully expected it to get me all the way to Brest. With some good fast roads coming up it would be fully charged in a couple of hours.
A couple of hours later though, I realised that the Bolt wasn’t charged. It was, in fact, all but empty. I had a big problem.
“Shit” – 5:04pm
The one form of outside assistance that isn’t banned in these races is emotional support, and right then I needed to share my emotions.
“My charger is dead” – 5:04pm
By that moment the charging system was also in pieces, as I had frantically torn apart all of my carefully soldered joints looking for a broken one. I hadn’t found one.
“Shit” – 5:04pm
“There’s no way I’m getting there by Saturday” – 5:05pm
If I couldn’t charge on the road I would need to be stopping to charge, and it would slow me down a lot.
“I need to get to grenoblw now” – 5:05pm
I’d asked some passing cyclists if there was a shop that might stock a USB charger to run off my dynamo, and they said there was a place in Grenoble that might have one, but it closed at 5:30. I should be just able to make it, but I had no time to worry about spelling mistakes.
“Fuck. Bolt dead.” – 5:07pm
I had no GPS, and not even a paper map. My choices were to stop and get out my phone or to just follow road signs. It wasn’t ideal. But then…
“Wait it’s charging” – 5:27pm
The Bolt had beeped. I had come to a roundabout that in a wonderfully helpful way had signs pointing to Grenoble in two different directions, pulled my phone from my pocket, and out of nowhere the Bolt had beeped and the charge indicator came up, saying 0%. It was still plugged into the charging system, which now included several bare joints, and somehow it seemed to be working again. I started riding, watching and hoping. When it seemed to continue charging I was very happy!
I rode straight through Grenoble as the indicator still showed it was charging, but I wasn’t yet game to turn it on in case that was all too much for it. I knew I had to follow the river for a while and then turn away from it to head for Lyon. There was a great path beside the river with signs pointing to Lyon, so I clearly didn’t need to be looking at the GPS. Besides, my route until then had not been the best, so maybe just following the signs was a better idea.
After a while a guy came up beside me, and started talking. I was pretty tired at the time, and my French is always bad, and I think his accent wasn’t one I was used to, and I really had no idea what he was saying. I got that he was talking about women, and then I thought he was talking about breasts. All well and good I thought, but not what I wanted to be chatting about with some random stranger at that moment. Then it dawned on me – he wasn’t talking about women, he was talking about a woman, and he wasn’t talking about breasts, he was talking about Brest. Specifically, he was talking about how impressive it was that Fiona Kolbinger was already in Brest. Gotcha.
Silvere turned out to be a nice guy, although neither of us really understood everything the other was saying. We understood enough to have a good chat though, right up until I asked how far the path followed the river. A very long way, he told me, you can follow the river for nearly 200km until you get to Lyon. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
I was headed for Lyon, but I thought it was less than 100km away. I realised that the signs I had been following were going to take me the scenic route. I needed to stop and look at a map.
I was well off my planned route by this stage, and Silvere suggested that I just bypass Lyon entirely because there was a flatter way around anyway. He was probably right, but I decided I would be happier sticking closer to my planned route, so we headed away from the river, towards what he warned me was a steep climb. He was right, it was steep, but we got there and from the top I had a pretty clear idea in my head of which roads I needed to take, so we said our goodbyes and I struck out along the D1085.
It had a few extra little climbs along it but in general was a quiet road through a very quiet area. Now that I had my navigation system charging again I started to think about other issues, and realised that it was pretty late and I wasn’t seeing anywhere that was open for food. Riding through La Frette I couldn’t see a soul around and everything appeared to be closed except for one little place advertising itself as an epicerie, with an entry down a 20m walkway full of nothing but potatoes. I was a bit bemused as I walked in and found one of the strangest little shops I can remember being in. I think my feelings were echoed by the elderly couple running it as I purchased their entire stock of tomatoes (five, of three different varieties), an entirely unlabeled salami of some sort, two of their three apples (the other one was very clearly mostly rotten), their only pear, some yoghurt, and not a single potato – despite there being several tonnes of them in the shop. It wasn’t really the ideal dinner but it would tide me over for a while at least. Even so, coming into the little town of Champier I was happy to spot a pizzeria where I had a great chat with the couple running it as they made their dinner and mine. They laughed when I said I was headed for Brest and asked if I knew how far that was, but I think for them the conversation just kept getting stranger from that point onwards.
Right after that I got back onto my planned route, but actually that wasn’t a good thing. When I planned the route my thoughts had been that I would take the bike routes across France because it would be easier and lower stress, but what it actually meant in a lot of cases was taking a much longer way that often involved stairs, instead of roads with hardly any cars on them anyway.
As I approached Lyon it was clear that I was in the big city again. It was dark and late and I was tired, and I was thinking I should have stopped before getting there because I didn’t feel up to riding all the way through the city before sleeping.
I spotted a little convenience store and went to go and get some food, but as I walked in the guy said I had to leave my bike outside. I looked outside, and decided I wasn’t leaving my bike there, so I started to leave. He stopped me and said he would watch it. I said no, but if I could leave it behind the counter that would work. He said no but I could leave it behind the trolleys just inside the door, and he would watch it. It was the longest I have ever bargained about where to leave a bike.
Basically though I was never going to leave the bike outside on that street. Everything about it just made me jumpy, and everything about the other people who came into the shop while I was there added to that feeling. I really think that guy must have had one of the worst jobs around, and he was clearly pretty jumpy and nervous about some of his customers.
I stocked up on food, and as I rolled away I was resigning myself to having to ride for several hours until I found somewhere I would feel safe to sleep. Just at that moment I spotted a Formula1 hotel, right beside the road. These have an electronic check-in at the door and the rooms are basic but functional, and it just seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. I hit the brakes and 3 minutes later I was in my room.
The room had a shower, a bed, and a lots of USB outlets. It was perfect.
As I lay down I reflected that it hadn’t been the easy day that I expected. In fact, what with the rain, the navigation issues, the charging issues, and the very long stop at the checkpoint, I had only managed to cover around 230km. I was now over all of the big mountains though, and other than the cold and then the rain and then the heat (I know) I hadn’t really felt bad through the day, and from here on it would just be a fast and flat trip across France. I went to sleep with an exhausted smile.
Another nutritionally hilarious day 🙂
Hahaha! You’ve got to love them dogs 🙂