We try and get more food for breakfast (a pile of toasted tartines suggested that our host is running low on du pain) and roll out. My clothes are still damp, despite drying all night (and nearly braking a leg putting them in the drying area).
A good ride along a valley, then up through the heat. The first climb is relatively minor, and I even get out of the saddle, then roll along at a good pace. It's like riding in Normandy, with stunning views. A long, sweeping descent, then a fast train, thanks to Will (who rode all the way from Saint Malo) into Aix-les-Thermes. It is hot, and we set off in ones and twos up Pailheres.
I ride with Sean for a bit, who goes ahead after 20 mins, and is almost hit by a car from behind.
I climb for an hour. It gets hard again, but I know I can do it. The worst are the ski stations, with wide, steep roads. I can't see the summit. It gets very hot. I worry about not enough block; later I get red lines below my shorts and sleeves as I'm wearing different tops, and on my ear despite revolving my condor hat to keep the heat off. I keep climbing. The trees have long gone. There are no springs to cool off in. Barham does wonderful work in the van, giving crisps, sports drink, and then a quick shove up the hill.
A final ski station - this is not the end, then a final 10% 2km climb. They are mostly all up. Lying around. Will has bonked. We eat, climb on the hut, take photos. Try and warm up, then descend.
I have to stop to take a photo. The sun picks up the rocks in the valley, and the road sweeps down in switchbacks. Team Bikes is spread along the road, heading down, faster and faster.
We assemble and ride though a long gorge. I even go with the break, and take a short turn at the front. Finally, the kind of riding I can do. We assemble, and ride the last 30km along the river in a long snake at 30-40kmh. The road is a fitting end. A points it is blown straight through the limestone cliffs, with overhangs, a rugged river and steep white walls. We really are in the Midi.
Finally, we arrive in Limoux. 374 miles. A small stumble by someone on a bollard, lots of traffic, and a slightly rundown town. The hotel is not friendly, and demands cash up front. We suddenly all see females for the first time in 5 days.
Then, beers, a great meal nearby, with local Mauzac wines, and into town. We find the Place de la Republique and the barmaids agree to stay open. Some of us want to go jock and do shots, others are more circumspect. We relax and chat and drink, and then it is 2 am. Carcassonne by taxi is suggested. Rejecting this madcap scheme, most of us turn in. We hear more about this in the morning.
Sunday 30 August 2009
Day 4 -
A long run along the valley and some good early climbs. Shorter, not too steep, and with some sad cycling history.
1 - Portillon - 1320m
2 - Mente - 1349m
3 - Porte D'Aspet - 1069m
4 - De La Core - 1395m
5 - Latrape - 1520m
6 - D'Agnes - 1570m
7 - Port de Lers - 1571m
Will's uncle joins us at Aspet, and we ride on in the early afternoon for de la Core. This starts okay, and I even race around a few corners, taking on Nick and PB. I soon start to flag, but PB is completely blown, and looks like he has some sort of bug. It takes a long time, but eventually reach the top. The climb is in two parts, and the second took a lot of effort in the heat. I couldn't find a rhythm. A descent with SB, and some food in the town. We press on. I know I can't blow energy on keeping up with the fast bunch and drop back, riding the final 15 km with Nick. We both worry about what is to come. It get colder. Nick sets off, I head off after him, but soon I am alone in the steep valley, in the cloud and the rain. After 45 mins I get passed, but am pleased to see humans. I think of the bears in the woods. At last, I reach the top. Tired, but not blown - but some way behind. It is getting cold, so I don't want to hold people up. I get into the van, and ascend the next 200 m Col, passing tired looking pairs of the team.
I wrap up to descend. The mountain looks like British peaks, with the remains of a glacier. Red rapha softshell and the liberty silk tie to keep out the wind. I settle behind a van on the way down, singing Oh My Sweet Carolina to the small town and charming, but tiny and old, hotel at the foot of the valley. I ride my bike into the courtyard under the vines, and order two demis.
A meal of pasta and cheese, porc and a glass of wine. Most of the rooms are doubles, and there are two showers in the hotel. Two old Audaxers arrive.
A strange night - my legs are tired but okay, but my chest and through feel as though they have been working. My heart races.
1 - Portillon - 1320m
2 - Mente - 1349m
3 - Porte D'Aspet - 1069m
4 - De La Core - 1395m
5 - Latrape - 1520m
6 - D'Agnes - 1570m
7 - Port de Lers - 1571m
Will's uncle joins us at Aspet, and we ride on in the early afternoon for de la Core. This starts okay, and I even race around a few corners, taking on Nick and PB. I soon start to flag, but PB is completely blown, and looks like he has some sort of bug. It takes a long time, but eventually reach the top. The climb is in two parts, and the second took a lot of effort in the heat. I couldn't find a rhythm. A descent with SB, and some food in the town. We press on. I know I can't blow energy on keeping up with the fast bunch and drop back, riding the final 15 km with Nick. We both worry about what is to come. It get colder. Nick sets off, I head off after him, but soon I am alone in the steep valley, in the cloud and the rain. After 45 mins I get passed, but am pleased to see humans. I think of the bears in the woods. At last, I reach the top. Tired, but not blown - but some way behind. It is getting cold, so I don't want to hold people up. I get into the van, and ascend the next 200 m Col, passing tired looking pairs of the team.
I wrap up to descend. The mountain looks like British peaks, with the remains of a glacier. Red rapha softshell and the liberty silk tie to keep out the wind. I settle behind a van on the way down, singing Oh My Sweet Carolina to the small town and charming, but tiny and old, hotel at the foot of the valley. I ride my bike into the courtyard under the vines, and order two demis.
A meal of pasta and cheese, porc and a glass of wine. Most of the rooms are doubles, and there are two showers in the hotel. Two old Audaxers arrive.
A strange night - my legs are tired but okay, but my chest and through feel as though they have been working. My heart races.
Day 3 - Tourmalet
Today is the day where I realise that I have long way to go. Despite thinking I'd put in a fair bit of training, the reality was that I'd barely scratched the surface. You can't start doing exercise at 35 and think in half a year you'll be as good or able to be in the same bunch as people who've been doing this for years, or can't remember Margaret Thatcher.
Tourmalet (2115 metres) gives a lot of time for thinking.
So, I start steady, with about 4 others. They soon go ahead, about 1-2 kmh faster than me, and I stop by the van to ride up with G. After a bit, I realise that this isn't going to work, and go ahead. The climb is long, but mostly steady after the first half. I even start to enjoy it, and keep getting higher. But I keep it steady. Then, after riding past the remains of Tour lettering, I'm at the top, among the paraphernalia of cycling past. I also get out my DSLR, and stupidly leave the ISO on 1250 for the rest of the trip.
The descent is less fun - no cows like the Aubisque, but a thick thick mist, and no-one has brought lights. A Frenchman in the next town points this out to us.
The the Aspet, which I decide to ride a bit faster. I begin to grind to a halt half way up. A long curving descent, that is quite windy into Arreau. The van is clipped on the wing mirror.
About 30 km to the Perysourde. A couple of trains are going. I can't keep up with the first, so get into a slower one. Along the way, I feel a bump on the back. I hadn't braked, but the guy in front slowed down so I dropped down a gear. A clipped wheel, and a man is down. I check that he's alright, but see that others are better placed, so go on, feeling bad.
Again, I'm in the bus. The climb begins. It looks like it might get a little cold. It takes forever. I begin to doubt. I keep going. The final 2 k stretch on, and then it looks like it heads to the right, but no, the crest is upon me, so I manage a little sprint to the top.
The last three arrive, singing Sloop John B. A heroic effort.
Then, down to Luchon. DDL has a bad knee, and stay with me and Tom while the others climb Superbagneres - known as Super-Bag. We get a bigger cassette for Tom's bike. Later, the van arrives, and the team get out, looking like ghosts of men. They didn't descend. It was cold and wet. A meal, and spirits are back.
Tourmalet (2115 metres) gives a lot of time for thinking.
So, I start steady, with about 4 others. They soon go ahead, about 1-2 kmh faster than me, and I stop by the van to ride up with G. After a bit, I realise that this isn't going to work, and go ahead. The climb is long, but mostly steady after the first half. I even start to enjoy it, and keep getting higher. But I keep it steady. Then, after riding past the remains of Tour lettering, I'm at the top, among the paraphernalia of cycling past. I also get out my DSLR, and stupidly leave the ISO on 1250 for the rest of the trip.
The descent is less fun - no cows like the Aubisque, but a thick thick mist, and no-one has brought lights. A Frenchman in the next town points this out to us.
The the Aspet, which I decide to ride a bit faster. I begin to grind to a halt half way up. A long curving descent, that is quite windy into Arreau. The van is clipped on the wing mirror.
About 30 km to the Perysourde. A couple of trains are going. I can't keep up with the first, so get into a slower one. Along the way, I feel a bump on the back. I hadn't braked, but the guy in front slowed down so I dropped down a gear. A clipped wheel, and a man is down. I check that he's alright, but see that others are better placed, so go on, feeling bad.
Again, I'm in the bus. The climb begins. It looks like it might get a little cold. It takes forever. I begin to doubt. I keep going. The final 2 k stretch on, and then it looks like it heads to the right, but no, the crest is upon me, so I manage a little sprint to the top.
The last three arrive, singing Sloop John B. A heroic effort.
Then, down to Luchon. DDL has a bad knee, and stay with me and Tom while the others climb Superbagneres - known as Super-Bag. We get a bigger cassette for Tom's bike. Later, the van arrives, and the team get out, looking like ghosts of men. They didn't descend. It was cold and wet. A meal, and spirits are back.
Day 2 - Cols
I get up and regain my bike from the washroom. My kit stinks. The friendly bar is shut, but I spot a man with a baguette under his arm, so head to find a little bar serving excellent coffee and pastries for breakfast. There is a wakening chill in the air, blue sky, and the streets are cobbled. The road must have only reached here in the last few decades.
Then it's time for the rendez-vous, and the van, with P & G is there. I buy them a coffee; the least I could do. We drop off the rubbish and chat about Spain and the ride the day before. Then, time to drive back. I realise my legs are glad of the lack of climbing.
The sky is a brilliant blue, and the mountains rise up to each side. I discover the route I should have gone - not through the village, but back up. It was a detour for a putative drink. We begin to climb a precarious rode. I realise what I have missed, and am rather grateful - and also grateful for the long drive P & G have done for me. A smoking worker tells me that the road is closed. We don't speak Spanish (although G. could), and say we will turn around. It is a 3 hour detour. We keep going and press on. I will pretend to have a damaged arm. At the top, about 1400m up, a van blocks the road, but we get past.
Then the long descent into the clouds and France. The sun doesn't appear again.
A quick breakfast, puzzled looks and smiles from the rest of the Team, who head off when we arrive. Then, back on the bike, and we ride down the valley.
Marie-Blanque is damp, and steep, and wooded. It is about 10-13% for 3k at the top, and I just stare down at the tarmac wishing it would stop. We wait for everyone at the top, then a lovely descent through a bucolic, almost Swiss valley. Lunch, then the climb of the Aubisque. I take is slow to the first town. Then realise that the pace is okay, and go up a gear. Finally, I pop out above the clouds by the last village, and stop to put on some sun cream. A final 30-40 minutes, and I'm at the top, watching P. climb up behind me.
The group is still ahead, and we take the cornice route, with a nasty little climb, before descending together down to the bike shop at the foot of the valley. I now realise this is close to where I walked and climbed in 2007. The final 15k? along the gorge to Luz Saint Saveur feels a bit of a slog. Luz reminds me of Cauterets.
We are remembered at the hotel. Some beers, and a good pasta meal nearby. I shower for the first time in days, and try and wash out some of my kit.
Then it's time for the rendez-vous, and the van, with P & G is there. I buy them a coffee; the least I could do. We drop off the rubbish and chat about Spain and the ride the day before. Then, time to drive back. I realise my legs are glad of the lack of climbing.
The sky is a brilliant blue, and the mountains rise up to each side. I discover the route I should have gone - not through the village, but back up. It was a detour for a putative drink. We begin to climb a precarious rode. I realise what I have missed, and am rather grateful - and also grateful for the long drive P & G have done for me. A smoking worker tells me that the road is closed. We don't speak Spanish (although G. could), and say we will turn around. It is a 3 hour detour. We keep going and press on. I will pretend to have a damaged arm. At the top, about 1400m up, a van blocks the road, but we get past.
Then the long descent into the clouds and France. The sun doesn't appear again.
A quick breakfast, puzzled looks and smiles from the rest of the Team, who head off when we arrive. Then, back on the bike, and we ride down the valley.
Marie-Blanque is damp, and steep, and wooded. It is about 10-13% for 3k at the top, and I just stare down at the tarmac wishing it would stop. We wait for everyone at the top, then a lovely descent through a bucolic, almost Swiss valley. Lunch, then the climb of the Aubisque. I take is slow to the first town. Then realise that the pace is okay, and go up a gear. Finally, I pop out above the clouds by the last village, and stop to put on some sun cream. A final 30-40 minutes, and I'm at the top, watching P. climb up behind me.
The group is still ahead, and we take the cornice route, with a nasty little climb, before descending together down to the bike shop at the foot of the valley. I now realise this is close to where I walked and climbed in 2007. The final 15k? along the gorge to Luz Saint Saveur feels a bit of a slog. Luz reminds me of Cauterets.
We are remembered at the hotel. Some beers, and a good pasta meal nearby. I shower for the first time in days, and try and wash out some of my kit.
Day 1 - Into Spain
Another descent. A 4x4 decides to pull out in front of me; the Centaur brakes cope admirably, and I use my best 'tut tut' shake of the head. Other cyclists at the small bar opposite look and laugh.
A long, sweeping descent, into the heat of the wooded valley. Some short climbs, and a series of villages. I'm feeling pretty good, despite the heat. We pass a town, by the river Belaqua. The water is green and good, and most of us strip down and dive in. The locals watch, smile, and offer us refills of our bottles. We talk about the route a little and head on at a quick pace - there is still some 30 miles to go, having done 60 miles, and three real climbs.
Then we stop at a town. A puncture. We settle in the small square, and decide not to have a drink at the bar. I go to the van to get a track pump and a powder for my water. 'Are you going in the van?', one of the three ask; 'no', I say; 'well, you should catch up with the others'. I wheel my bike up off the square and head along the road in the direction we were going.
Suddenly, the laps around the parks kick in, and I get up some speed down the valley gorge. I must catch up with them soon, surely? 10 minutes pass. No sign. The van doesn't pass. I get to another village, then a town. Roncal. It is hot. There is a cafe, a river, a bridge. People sit out and look at me. I decide to play it safe and wait for the puncture group. The town clock reads 3:15. No sign. I decide to wait for 3:45.
Nothing. Perhaps they turned off earlier? There weren't any real turns, though. Are they still fixing the puncture? If I've gone the wrong way, then the sensible thing is to meet at where I was last sighted. I sprint back. No sign of them. The young people in the village stare. I wait around.
Perhaps I missed a turning? After 20 mins, I head back to Roncal, then wait. Press on, along the road. Signs to Pampalona. A few turnings left, over the mountains, which I assume we must be crossing. Where were we heading? Luchon, I think. Or was it Luz?
Earlier that morning, I ask if I should take a mobile. No need, I was told. I stick my debit card in the saddle bag anyway.
Back to Isaba, as I now know it is called. I ask the people in the square. The English left about an hour ago. They pointed the way I went. Now I can't remember- did I do the trip to Roncal twice, or three times? I remember asking a family if they saw some cyclists. They brought their young son out, as he spoke English. No, he said. I went to a bar to ask for the internet; he suggested the hotel back in Isaba, with a mixture of basic Spanish and sign langauge. Another man showed me where there was a bank - it let me take out 100 euros. Time for a coffee, some change and a call to my mobile phone - the only number I could remember. Perhaps they would find it in my luggage. Work out a plan.
Back to Isaba. By now I am sweating, hot. I walk into the hotel. The young people from the square are there. They say hello and laugh. A young woman says there is no internet; I try and explain my predicament, and she takes pity. I use the machine behind the desk, and get a collection of numbers.
I head to the square. No sign, and call every 15 - 30 mins, leaving a few messages. The phone box eats money.
I decide to have a beer. A coffee. The woman in the bar looks at me suspiciously at first, then in the end teaches me a few words. I hear some English voices. I sit outside for a couple of hours. The square fills. People say good evening. Ladies sit and gossip. I think about what has happened. The front group must think I am in the back, and vice versa. When will it be noticed that I'm not there? And getting everyone up over the final cols and down before nightfall would have to take priority.
Back to the bar; I introduce myself to the English voice. His friend is also English. I explain my predicament, and wonder if I could borrow their mobile. One looks suspicious, but Chris goes back to the hostel to get his phone. They are doing the GR11. They suggest a game of cards, and that I might stay at the hostel. Then, at 9:30, I get through to PT. The Team sound exhausted. It's suggested I bed down for the night and meet around 8:30. I agree. Relief all round.
Chris shows me the small, basic hostel. The cook takes great time and trouble going through the menu. A beer, tomato salad, salted cod, a tart, and then to bed. 21 Euros - plus some snoring Spanish, and the sound of the church bell ringing. The hostess is the spit of MJH. I wonder what to do about my contacts - one stays in, the other in a glass of salt water. I peel off my stinking clothes and try and sleep under the rough blanket.
A long, sweeping descent, into the heat of the wooded valley. Some short climbs, and a series of villages. I'm feeling pretty good, despite the heat. We pass a town, by the river Belaqua. The water is green and good, and most of us strip down and dive in. The locals watch, smile, and offer us refills of our bottles. We talk about the route a little and head on at a quick pace - there is still some 30 miles to go, having done 60 miles, and three real climbs.
Then we stop at a town. A puncture. We settle in the small square, and decide not to have a drink at the bar. I go to the van to get a track pump and a powder for my water. 'Are you going in the van?', one of the three ask; 'no', I say; 'well, you should catch up with the others'. I wheel my bike up off the square and head along the road in the direction we were going.
Suddenly, the laps around the parks kick in, and I get up some speed down the valley gorge. I must catch up with them soon, surely? 10 minutes pass. No sign. The van doesn't pass. I get to another village, then a town. Roncal. It is hot. There is a cafe, a river, a bridge. People sit out and look at me. I decide to play it safe and wait for the puncture group. The town clock reads 3:15. No sign. I decide to wait for 3:45.
Nothing. Perhaps they turned off earlier? There weren't any real turns, though. Are they still fixing the puncture? If I've gone the wrong way, then the sensible thing is to meet at where I was last sighted. I sprint back. No sign of them. The young people in the village stare. I wait around.
Perhaps I missed a turning? After 20 mins, I head back to Roncal, then wait. Press on, along the road. Signs to Pampalona. A few turnings left, over the mountains, which I assume we must be crossing. Where were we heading? Luchon, I think. Or was it Luz?
Earlier that morning, I ask if I should take a mobile. No need, I was told. I stick my debit card in the saddle bag anyway.
Back to Isaba, as I now know it is called. I ask the people in the square. The English left about an hour ago. They pointed the way I went. Now I can't remember- did I do the trip to Roncal twice, or three times? I remember asking a family if they saw some cyclists. They brought their young son out, as he spoke English. No, he said. I went to a bar to ask for the internet; he suggested the hotel back in Isaba, with a mixture of basic Spanish and sign langauge. Another man showed me where there was a bank - it let me take out 100 euros. Time for a coffee, some change and a call to my mobile phone - the only number I could remember. Perhaps they would find it in my luggage. Work out a plan.
Back to Isaba. By now I am sweating, hot. I walk into the hotel. The young people from the square are there. They say hello and laugh. A young woman says there is no internet; I try and explain my predicament, and she takes pity. I use the machine behind the desk, and get a collection of numbers.
I head to the square. No sign, and call every 15 - 30 mins, leaving a few messages. The phone box eats money.
I decide to have a beer. A coffee. The woman in the bar looks at me suspiciously at first, then in the end teaches me a few words. I hear some English voices. I sit outside for a couple of hours. The square fills. People say good evening. Ladies sit and gossip. I think about what has happened. The front group must think I am in the back, and vice versa. When will it be noticed that I'm not there? And getting everyone up over the final cols and down before nightfall would have to take priority.
Back to the bar; I introduce myself to the English voice. His friend is also English. I explain my predicament, and wonder if I could borrow their mobile. One looks suspicious, but Chris goes back to the hostel to get his phone. They are doing the GR11. They suggest a game of cards, and that I might stay at the hostel. Then, at 9:30, I get through to PT. The Team sound exhausted. It's suggested I bed down for the night and meet around 8:30. I agree. Relief all round.
Chris shows me the small, basic hostel. The cook takes great time and trouble going through the menu. A beer, tomato salad, salted cod, a tart, and then to bed. 21 Euros - plus some snoring Spanish, and the sound of the church bell ringing. The hostess is the spit of MJH. I wonder what to do about my contacts - one stays in, the other in a glass of salt water. I peel off my stinking clothes and try and sleep under the rough blanket.
Day 1
I doubt I will remember this aright.
We start early, and immediately I see that this won't necessarily be the usual type of group riding. Unlike the Dunwich Dynamo, where I got sucked along by an impromptu train of Fireflies and some pretty fit fixed gear types, or small training rides that were often more social than in a group, Team Bike's method seemed to be honed over long experience and allowed all sorts of styles of riding at once - a steady bus at the back, plenty of jostling at the front, and a lot of moving around, with people taking turns when they felt like it. Good stuff. But fast.
I stopped to take a couple of pictures; the mist was hanging low, the sun cutting across the valleys, and sheep, cows and birds of prey seemed to have more residence there than us. It was a Sunday, and as we rode through pretty villages and small towns people shouted 'bonjour' as they walked or leaned out of windows. Beautiful riding, with gentle rolls, and then up and through a valley very much like the Yorkshire Dales.
The first climb hit. Haltza (782m) I took it a bit too fast, even though I knew I shouldn't; and spent some time working out how to use my gears for the best. I was riding a compact, with a 29 at the back. This may have been a mistake, being used to a 25 back there, and it was too tempting to settle into a slow speed, without even spinning much. I made it up with a few behind me. It must have taken over an hour.
Then the first descent, which I took very gingerly. The bike proved to be excellent at this, with perfect braking, and firmly planted. Still, arms aching, about 30 mins later I was at the back for cake stop at the van. By the time I'd stuffed down a banana, and refilled my bottles, everyone else had gone, except what became known as the 'Yeep Squad', after their greeting (and were at the older end of the scale). I began to climb. Bagargui. This became tough very soon. A kind of terror took over - this was only day one. Writing this now, the sense of exhaustion and pain has already faded, but I remember the sense of being stuck in your own head, just breathing, feeling the strength in your legs go, and the hill and the road still ahead. It was getting hotter, too.
About a third of the way up, the van passed me. Perhaps I should get in. I did. At the top, we waited for the final two to come up. Then I joined for the final climb of the Col. Larrau. This was the sort of distance I could do, not easily, but adequately.
We all assembled at the top, admired the long views, watched other riders, felt the heat, ate lunch, drank out the water, and tried to listen to the cricket news. Then it was time to ride into Spain.
We start early, and immediately I see that this won't necessarily be the usual type of group riding. Unlike the Dunwich Dynamo, where I got sucked along by an impromptu train of Fireflies and some pretty fit fixed gear types, or small training rides that were often more social than in a group, Team Bike's method seemed to be honed over long experience and allowed all sorts of styles of riding at once - a steady bus at the back, plenty of jostling at the front, and a lot of moving around, with people taking turns when they felt like it. Good stuff. But fast.
I stopped to take a couple of pictures; the mist was hanging low, the sun cutting across the valleys, and sheep, cows and birds of prey seemed to have more residence there than us. It was a Sunday, and as we rode through pretty villages and small towns people shouted 'bonjour' as they walked or leaned out of windows. Beautiful riding, with gentle rolls, and then up and through a valley very much like the Yorkshire Dales.
The first climb hit. Haltza (782m) I took it a bit too fast, even though I knew I shouldn't; and spent some time working out how to use my gears for the best. I was riding a compact, with a 29 at the back. This may have been a mistake, being used to a 25 back there, and it was too tempting to settle into a slow speed, without even spinning much. I made it up with a few behind me. It must have taken over an hour.
Then the first descent, which I took very gingerly. The bike proved to be excellent at this, with perfect braking, and firmly planted. Still, arms aching, about 30 mins later I was at the back for cake stop at the van. By the time I'd stuffed down a banana, and refilled my bottles, everyone else had gone, except what became known as the 'Yeep Squad', after their greeting (and were at the older end of the scale). I began to climb. Bagargui. This became tough very soon. A kind of terror took over - this was only day one. Writing this now, the sense of exhaustion and pain has already faded, but I remember the sense of being stuck in your own head, just breathing, feeling the strength in your legs go, and the hill and the road still ahead. It was getting hotter, too.
About a third of the way up, the van passed me. Perhaps I should get in. I did. At the top, we waited for the final two to come up. Then I joined for the final climb of the Col. Larrau. This was the sort of distance I could do, not easily, but adequately.
We all assembled at the top, admired the long views, watched other riders, felt the heat, ate lunch, drank out the water, and tried to listen to the cricket news. Then it was time to ride into Spain.
Day 0, London, Stanstead, RyanAir, Saint Jean Pied de Port
I was nervous. This accounted for the amount of messing about working out how to get to the airport before I settled on Golder's Green and National Express. As it happened, it worked like a dream. Arrived early, bag 500g under the weight limit, and time for a posh bacon sandwich in Pret. Picked up the Penguin Classic edition of William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, And The Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks, which sounded like the right title.
A text from PT, and I rendez-vous with him and another newbie - Tom, who revealed that he was 21 and had just got a First. Those were the days. Grabbed a seat for three thanks to £3 spent on priority boarding and settle down for the flight. Tom notices the book and asked if I'd read 'On The Road'. Answering 'no', was meet with a 'fail' type noise. Almost went into my policy on On The Road (mostly, if you haven't read it by 16 then it's too late, plus have flicked through it, exploding candles and all that), including not going to the special viewing of the Scroll, but decided against it.
Biarritz Airport is everything Stanstead is not. Meet some others at the bag collection and wait for the van to arrive. We pile in the back, and ride for about 45 mins, feeling queasy and imagining what marines - or other unlucky sods in the back of some windowless vehicle - feel like.
Then, the doors open, and we are at the most beautiful hostel, with a blue, evening sky, set against deep green hills and in the clear air. It is stunning, and the cols look both wonderful and terrifying.
Meet the rest of the Team - a sea of similar faces, old friends meeting up, nicknames, guessing of ages, probing of abilities and talking the talk. Everyone spends a bit too long tinkering with their bikes. We have decent meal under the vines, and head to bed. I can't sleep.
A text from PT, and I rendez-vous with him and another newbie - Tom, who revealed that he was 21 and had just got a First. Those were the days. Grabbed a seat for three thanks to £3 spent on priority boarding and settle down for the flight. Tom notices the book and asked if I'd read 'On The Road'. Answering 'no', was meet with a 'fail' type noise. Almost went into my policy on On The Road (mostly, if you haven't read it by 16 then it's too late, plus have flicked through it, exploding candles and all that), including not going to the special viewing of the Scroll, but decided against it.
Biarritz Airport is everything Stanstead is not. Meet some others at the bag collection and wait for the van to arrive. We pile in the back, and ride for about 45 mins, feeling queasy and imagining what marines - or other unlucky sods in the back of some windowless vehicle - feel like.
Then, the doors open, and we are at the most beautiful hostel, with a blue, evening sky, set against deep green hills and in the clear air. It is stunning, and the cols look both wonderful and terrifying.
Meet the rest of the Team - a sea of similar faces, old friends meeting up, nicknames, guessing of ages, probing of abilities and talking the talk. Everyone spends a bit too long tinkering with their bikes. We have decent meal under the vines, and head to bed. I can't sleep.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
