Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Mt. Ventoux / Etape du Tour Race Report - If you're feeling good, dial it back

Each year at the start, I ask myself why the heck I’m doing this. Each year at the finish I say to myself, I love this day on the bike.

Why? There’s nothing like it. Yes, you’re riding a real stage of the tour. Yes, the terrain is as challenging as it comes (significantly harder than B2B, Triple by Pass, etc.). Ventoux almost rivaled the pain of Leadville’s Powerline climb – it just went on forever.





But, where else are 20,000 people going to be cheering you on, singing, playing accordions (?), calling you a hero?

The bike rider is celebrated in France like nowhere else. Riding a stage of the tour in July is the tops.


A Detour…
Prep day was, er, ah interesting. We went out for a ~1 hour spin, just to keep things fresh, but save energy for the next day. Eric and I headed into town for lunch at the end of the ride. I spotted a vineyard that I’d read about (Parkers number one pick).

Note to self: riding in heat and then tasting Wine does NOT lead to good decision-making. Eric and I went in to buy a case each. We met one of the most effective winemaker / salesmen I’ve ever come across. He sang Sinatra to us, called Beth on the phone, let us taste a bottle that sells for 500 Euro at the GeorgeV in Paris.




You guessed it, we walked out with heads spinning and six cases purchased. They are on their way to the states. For years I’ve been trying to invest with Eric. I was not counting on the wine business being that investment.




Back to the Etape…
This edition of the l’Etape du Tour (translated, Stage of the Tour) was the most beautiful ride I’ve ever experienced. 10,000 riders at the start. Lineup at 6a, race starts at 7a.

We climbed through olive groves, fields of lavender (surrounded by the smell of it) and vineyards to be rewarded with vistas at the top of the climbs that included the Alps (Mont Blanc and Alpe d’Huez) and the rolling valleys of Provence.

Whenever the climbing started to hurt, you could just look left and have a stunning view to take your mind off of the pain.









That helped because there was a staircase of 5 climbs over 95 miles that would deposit us at the base of Ventoux for the final push.


Most years, I’m starting to die slowly after 75 miles or so. This year,the descents were so long that you could recover well and the first 95 miles flew by in just over 5 hours. Despite it being in the mid-nineties, I felt great.

A few years ago we were at the mandatory meeting for Leadville racers and were leaning against a wall with Dave Weins. Dave has won Leadville 6 times in a row, defeating all comers including Lance.

Steve leaned over and asked Dave what advice he had for a couple of first timers. Dave looked up and smiled. He said, “if you're feeling good, dial it back.”

That turned into the mantra for this day. Rather than going out of the blocks like a mad-man, on each climb, I’d try to pin the effort at 20 watts below my threshold (about 250 watts) and just spin. In prior years, I was the guy getting passed. This year, Eric and I were doing the passing.


On the third climb, something sounding like a gunshot rang out. I looked down and my tire had blown off the rim. Eric was great (yes Steve, the man can now change a tire). The two of us got it fixed and proceeded to re-pass all of the folks that had passed us while fixing the flat.


We kept saying to each other, ‘we shouldn’t feel this good.’ I’d respond, “alright then, let’s dial it back.”


That of course would work until Eric would be passed by a blond female rider and he’d take off like a sprinter on the attack. When that happened (every 15 minutes or so!), we’d yo-yo back and forth within 10 riders of each other.

On the fifth climb, I caught two great guys from New Jersey (Pete and Will). Their first question – “where’s Eric?”

"He’s probably 10 guys or so behind me, we’ve been doing that all day, back and forth.”

Little did I know, Eric had started cramping at the bottom of the climb (yes, there’s a lesson in there for us 40-somethings. It will go unsaid here…;). We’d gone 65 miles together and now he was no where in sight.

At the next water stop, I entered the scrum with about 2000 french guys claimoring for water. I managed to grab enough for Eric and I, hoarded it over to a fence along the course. As soon as I put the bottles down on the ground, I was swarmed with riders looking to raid my stash.

“No, no, I’m waiting on a friend.”

10 minutes of fighting off the French. No Eric. 15 minutes, no Eric. 20 minutes. No Eric. I must have missed him; maybe he was in front of me? So, I headed on (and passed the water onto some not so grateful French guys).


Climbed up the last pass and then descended before Ventoux fast enough to reconnect with Pete and Will on the descent.


As we plowed towards the base of Ventoux, Pete saw his wife and he and Will stopped.
I kept going to the next water stop. It was now about 98 degrees and it took me 64 ounces of water to make it 2/3 up the climb on Friday when we previewed it. Water was going to be at a premium today.


The climb rises out of a town called Bedoin and beautiful vineyards. This year’s Tour de France is saving this stage for the 2nd to last day. Trust me, there are going to be fireworks. Set up the Tivo for Saturday morning. It’s going to be amazing.

After rising through the vineyards, the climb heads into a forest of scraggy pine. The sign reads 20.5KM to the top. The grade is unrelenting – about 9-10.5%. Constant.


Pete and I headed up together. My goal – get to within 6K from the top without stopping. At 6K, there’s a restaurant and my prize was going to be a cold Orangina sugar kick for the last 6k push.


The world was about to go into slow motion though. Pete and I were climbing and it seemed to take 10 minutes per kilometer – just dragging.

The forest was like a sauna. Now nearly 100 degrees, no wind, sun burning down. Guys around us were so dehydrated the cramps set in and guys were literally falling into the ditches. The place became like an ER – dozens of cyclists lying by the side of the road waiting for ambulances.
On the way up about 500 people were being treated by medics and 4 were helicoptered off the mountain.

Pete and I kept grinding. But, the surroundings were getting to us. I thought we’d made it to 12K from the top and we’d round a corner and we were still 15K. Then we’d climb for what seemed like 30 minutes and I thought we’d be at 10K and we were at 12K. Mentally, it was tough, but climbing with Pete (he’s a stronger climber than I am) kept me going.

One guy started to swerve in front of us. He was cramping and couldn’t get his feet out of the pedals. Finally, he gave up and just fell over into the ditch. His friend behind him laughed and said, “at least you fell into a shady spot Rich!”

At 7K to go, I looked over and saw a guy I recognized -- former TdF rider and world hour record holder Chris Boardman. Chris was standing on the shoulder over his bike, trying to recover.
A Brit pulled up next to us and said, "Hey if nothing else, we can say we dropped Chris Boardman today!"

We finally rounded the corner to the restaurant. Over the prior hour and a half, I’d talked Pete into his first Orangina. He grabbed our bottles to refill them and I headed to the bar and ordered 3 Orangina. One for him, two for me. The first one lasted about 3.5 seconds.

While I was slamming the second one, Will came around the bend and challenged us to catch him on the way to the top.

Pete took off, I stayed and savored the first cold drink in hours. I hopped on the bike a few minutes later supercharged and climbed within about 500 meters of Pete and Will.
The last 6K are in the rocks above the tree line. It’s like the surface of the moon up here (check out the video of our preview ride).
The climb was proving to be a beast. It would take us 5 hours to go 95 miles and about 2.5 hours to climb the last 12 miles.

At 1.5K from the top is the Tom Simpson memorial. Tom was leading the stage in 1967 and keeled over at this spot. He was unconscious from exhaustion. When he came to, he yelled at the medics, “Put me back on my bike!” They did, he pedaled a short distance and died. Yikes.
Not today for anybody on the hill.

The last 500 meters seriously kicks up and then really kicks up the last 100 meters. Pete’s wife had told me to hold up 7 fingers over the line (this is my 7th Etape stage). Luckily the early Alzheimers hadn’t completely kicked in and I remembered. Best I’ve ever felt on one of these stages.

Meanwhile, Eric had cramped at mile 65. I can’t imagine how he finished. Most of us could barely make it up the climbs with two good legs. Eric wins the hardman award for going 40 miles, mostly uphill while fighting off legs that were locking up. 20% of the starters didn’t make it. Eric did. Amazing.

Amazing day on the bike. 108 miles, 11,180 feet of climbing, 6990 calories burned.

Join us next year?








Sunday, July 19, 2009

Etape du Tour Day 5 & 6 -- combo post

Combo post today -- internet access has been spotty.

Saturday -- quick spin out to Tavel (Rose capital of the world). Great 1.5 hr. spin.
Great group of people.


Riding out through the limestone canyons:




Kent and his castle / estate.














Pete and Jonathan crusing through the vineyards.
Joan setting the pace through Tavel.

















Her husband Neil right behind (perma-smiles all around).





Then to Montelimar to pick up the race numbers. On start village trip-- note to self: don't walk into self-cleaning public restroom with "friends" standing outside with change in their hands. Jay found out the hard way -- free 'shower'. ;)
Today -- quick cruise (yes, more vineyards). Wine tasting (is this how the pros prep?).
Eric in heaven -- chocolate and wine tasting (Eric and I are now in the wine business together -- more on that later).
Going to bed now. Up at 4a for the bus to the start...say a prayer for me. 105 miles, 11,500 feet of climbing. Mont Ventoux.


Friday, July 17, 2009

Etape du Tour - Day 4 - Climbing the Ventoux

OK, the ONE thing that brought me back to do the Etape du Tour (the amatuer stage of the tour de France that races on the course of the hardest mountain stage) was Ventoux. The climb is legendary. Before we "race" up it on Monday, we went over today to do a recon and see first hand how big a beast this climb really is.



Parked at the soccer stadium in Bedoin and headed up.
















The first couple of K's are gentle climbs through the vineyards -- sunny and 80 in the valley (that was about to change).








Entering the forest...













Posted by PicasaHere's the recon video...(coming tomorrow)





Big lunch after summitting. Food never tasted so good.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Etape du Tour 2009 - Day Three

Mike, here's the face of a man melting in 97 degree heat (miss this now?).


A bit of an adventure today -- we set out on a 2-hour ride, which became a 3-hour ride in the heat. Why 3 hours? Well, the map didn't exactly agree with the roads. We climbed high into wine country, up a pass that was supposed to have gone up and over to our hotel.
Kent and Jay climbing up the "col du vin."

We stopped and asked at the town at the base if the road was good to the other side. Yes, no problem was the answer. 30 minutes (and some awesome views later) we were faced with a stone and dirt road. We turned around and headed back. Where do we go?


Chateauneuf du Pape on the return (what's left of the home of the early popes, now surrounded by vineyards).






















This afternoon, we ventured to Avignon. The city is divided by the Rhone river. On the south side 700 years ago, the Romans were in control. On the north side was the southern edge of Kingdom of France. We climbed up to a castle fortress that defended the French side.


















From there, we could see the Roman fortress and the "Palace du Papes" -- or Vatican City during the exile of the Popes to Avignon.
















Amazing lunch at a friend of David's restaurant.















Big day tomorrow, climbing Ventoux in prep for our stage race.



Growing overhead in the terrace....this is wine / grape country!




Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Etape du Tour - Day 2




Posted by Picasa

Etape du Tour 2009 - Day Two





It turns out that the Romans ruled this area (the word Provence actually traces back to the Roman empire where this area was just that – a provence of Rome). The Romans were here building and engineering at the time of Christ.




Today, we saw some of that. First, breakfast, then assembling bikes, then off to a ride through the vineyards of the Rhone Valley (crossing the Rhone to the left).








In 1300AD, Rome wasn’t safe for the Popes, so they moved to Avignon and oversaw the church from here. We are staying in Cheateauneuf de Papes (new home of the Popes). When they came, they brought vines from Italy for winemaking and Olive trees for oil production. As such they transformed this area into one of the premier wine producers in the world.

The riding today was unbelievable – visiting a Roman aqueduct at Pont du Gard that was built by 1,000 men during the time of Christ (AD30) to bring water from the mountains to the seat of government. That was followed by the medieval village of Uzes.

The ride wasn’t shabby either. Kent and David don’t mess around. We cruised through vineyards and by castles at 22mph for two hours. That helped get the airplane out of the legs.



Jay and Jean arrived tonight from the Midwest (Jay, thanks for being gracious enough with my tired brain trying to re-name you as Jeff several times during dinner). Repeat on the same 5 course meal. Two glasses of Rose (I started drinking Rose during the summer a couple of years back and this is the world headquarters of the stuff) and I’m off to bed after 5 wonderful courses. Means a long ride tomorrow, but I ride to eat, so all good.

Etape du Tour 2009 - Day One

Day One – Travel + Bastille = ?:
Faster planes mean shorter trip – a good thing most of the time. However, given that flying to Europe involves an overnight flight from the east coast, shorter trips mean less sleep. That meant about 2.5 hours of net sleep on Monday night.

Note to self: Landing on Bastille Day in France (Independence Day), not recommended. No one is there to work. The luggage took forever and when it finally arrived in baggage claim, the bike box wasn’t appearing.

Psyched to dust off what little French I know, I walked up to the baggage service rep and asked in French where the oversize baggage was delivered. I was actually a little proud of myself stringing something like that together on the first shot.

He answered, “the over-sized baggage will come out right over there buddy.” Perfect English. Pride was short-lived. It turns out, British Airways flew two guys in on our flight to handle bags on Bastille day. The local help “isn’t reliable” on holidays (he said with a smile).

After meeting my cousin Kent outside of baggage, we proceeded to get an encore performance at Avis (2 people working, 10 people in line, 2 employees out back on a smoke break). Ah, joie d’vivre!

After getting to the hotel in Provence, a whole new page turned on this first day though. Eating at a decent hotel in France trumps any restaurant in the US (I mean any). This hotel has a chef that is well-known in the region – and for good reason. A five-course dinner with Kent and our guide David was a very cool way to end the day.

The specialty of this region is chocolate and wine. I could live here. And weigh 300 pounds. Vive le France!

Ski Racing in Weston, MA?

More Fun than I knew you could Legally have in Weston

Two weekends ago, Jeff and I talked about the Tuesday night race series as we made laps around the course in Weston.

“You ought to try it.”

“No, I’d get killed.”

I mean, dressing up in lycra in the summer is one thing, but in the middle of the winter? A guy must really have issues doing that. I want no part of it. Er, ah, maybe? Nah.

This past Saturday, the nudges continued. “Hey, I think you’re ready for racing.” Hmmm, maybe if I set the bar high enough (don’t finish in an ambulance, don’t finish dead last)?

So during the commute home from work last night I decided to take the plunge and try my first race. For all of you guys who were wondering what this is like, here goes…

First, a couple of warm up laps. I was surprised – about 80 people turn up each week to race this series. And they are fast. And fit. Yikes. With each hill I went up, I’d get passed by a high school kid or two. Hmmm – this might be a humbling 25 minutes?

As I pulled into the start chute, guys were peeling off layers. Under the jackets and baggy pants were lycra ski suits. One guy’s said “R-U-S-S-I-A” down the side – as in former national team member. Another from Sweden. A few more from Harvard. Northeastern. Tufts. Dartmouth. Belmont Hill.

Hey, who’s the geek in the jacket and baggy pants? The guy who’d be a little bit leery of a full lycra approach at this time in the winter, that’s who.

We were instructed to line up according to “seeding” which is apparently Nordic ski race talk for “new guys, get out of the way and get in the back.” So to the back I went in my Amish outfit.

We stood four rows across in classic tracks (the two grooves in the snow for the old fashioned kind of Nordic skiing) about 75 yards long. We’d pole in these classic tracks hard and then hop out into the skate lanes. Apparently, this is a better solution for a mass start skate race with about 80 people. Less eyes getting poked out by flailing poles?

As the two-minute countdown started, the guy next to me leaned over and asked, “is this your first time?” “Yeah,” I said. “You?”

“Well, I haven’t raced in awhile, but I raced in college for McGill.” No baggy pants on this guy and he’s in back. Maybe time to reset those goals? Last might be a real accomplishment in this crowd. Yeah, last, but first non-Olympian, non-college racer… I just might be able to live with that.

“Five”- “Four” -“Three”- “Two” – “One” and with that, 80 bodies surge forward and start poling furiously. I can see McGill out of the corner of my eye and he’s already gapping me. I’m redlined and we’re only 5 seconds in! (according to my Polar, my heart rate went from 60 to 190 in a mere 8 seconds)

The next minute was like a roller derby on snow. Elbows, skis and poles flying around and lots of contact. I was gasping for air, but could only think, “I should have glasses on. These poles are coming up about an inch from my eye and I’m going to be lucky to have two functioning eyeballs at the end of this thing.”

I was holding my own in the middle of the pack and in the first turn a guy fell and came tumbling through the pack. Shouts of “Racer down! Racer down!” as people jumped, slid and hopped to avoid running him over and/or impaling him with their poles.

We were going faster on skis than I have ever gone. About 20 bodies hit the next turn at the same time and it was my turn. In a big way. The guy next to me planted his pole right inside of my ankle. I was airborne – for a minute doing the superman through the air. I looked at him, he looked at me, then I looked at the ground – bam, hit the ground and went tumbling head over heels out of the turn and into an embankment of fresh snow.

To add insult to injury, I was directly under the snow gun and it was now raining fresh and frozen Charles River water down on me. Whosh, Whosh, Whosh. About 30 people passed me as I dug myself up and scrambled back into the race.

I was now in the tail of the pack and ticked. Knowing that my son was waiting back at the start finish line, and I would subsequently hear, “Uh, dad, you’re like, last” as we came through our lap, I decided to dig deep and pretend I was trying to follow Lebo and MikeM behind one of their signature “I’m going to rip your legs off” summer time pulls.

It worked, I started to pass people. Not many, but a few geriatric types. Mostly women about 70 years old, but, I was passing people darn it!

This was the hardest effort I’ve done in a long time. I could feel my lunch surfacing a few times. The race settled into small packs, much like a bike race. And we were pushing each other hard and taking turns at the front. Around one turn, a woman crashed a broke a carbon race pole (about $250). Yikes.

It was wild and really sort of fun (as long as poles and eyeballs stay intact).

After 6K, I managed to pull myself up about 12 spots. “Hey Dad -- wow, you’re not last! Nice job! That was crazy sick.” Even a 13 year-old liked it.

Mission accomplished. No hospital visit. No last place finish. Lunch stayed down (just barely). 22 minutes of shear redlined thrill. 186 average heart rate.

So who’s up for next Tuesday night? Come on! I need some baggy pant company. I mean, who wears lycra?

Leadville 100 -- All it's cracked up to be and more...

Guts n’ Glory ~ New England Flatlander’s Leadville 100 Race Report:
10 Years worth of Mechanicals in One Day

Not many east coast races start at 10,200 feet. You’re right – none. Even fewer have 14,000 feet of climbing over a 100 mile course. There are no cash prizes, but the handcrafted silver belt buckle bestowed upon all who finish under 12 hours is one of the holy grail mementos of mountain bike racing. Even finishing the race before the cut-offs is something to aspire to.

I’ve been hooked on bike racing since 1997 and finally decided to turn my dream of riding this “Race across the Sky” into reality. Each year, our riding group (dads who sneak out at dawn to sneak rides into our day) tries to tackle an epic race. In January, we decided to target Leadville. It wasn’t as easy as just wanting to do it – we’d have to make our way through the application process. We pulled our race resumes together and essentially begged the organizers in writing. In March, thick envelopes arrived – we were in!

On August 9th, five flatlanders headed to Colorado. Kent, a former pro; Brad, a budding expert racer; Steve, Alan and I – desk jockeys and sometime racers.

At first blush, the race seems pretty straight forward – 50 miles out, 50 miles back. The turnaround point is at the top of that middle peak (Columbine) and so you get to see the course before you turn around and lap back (and see the pros as they fly by on their return). On second blush, however, this race is as difficult mentally as it is physically. You need to dig deep … as deep as you can go.

Friday was spent in medical checks, race check-in and a mandatory racer meeting. With one former Tour de France champion (Floyd Landis) and another rumored to be a last-minute arrival (Lance Armstrong), the small mining town was buzzing with excited riders and support crews. The pre-race festivities are held in an 1880’s era gym in the heart of Leadville. You are made to feel a part of “the Leadville family” (a phrase that’s used many times) – and it’s really true. This town has seen some hard times, is very different than its neighbor Aspen to the west and Vail to the east. The racers, the volunteers and the town form a community of folks who do this over and over again each year.

The race meeting was focused on the family feel – racers introduced by their tenure (stand if you’ve done this 10 times, 11 times, etc.). Armstrong’s coach Chris Charmichael was introduced, then Floyd (place went nuts). During of all of the melee, reining champion Dave Weins was sitting in a corner by himself. He’s a humble and approachable guy, and one of the guys in our group trains with him during the spring. So, we gave Dave some company – his advice, “the race is really tough, especially the 4.8 miles of 10%-30% Powerlines at the end. If you are feeling OK, trust me, dial it back.”

Medical checks and pre-meeting out of the way, it was time to get all of the gear ready for the race.

We stayed in two houses in Leadville (one with an interesting lavatory option – indoors or an outdoor option – see picture) and had a support crew to man the 2 critical feed zones – this meant that we could carry less food / drink mix / tubes / extra clothes, etc. The night before we met and set up all of the logistics. One of our support guys has an adventurous spirit and wanted to shuttle back and forth between feed stations – we thought we’d talked him out of that as he was manning the critical aid station. We got all of our supplies loaded into two cars for the support teams and headed to bed.

Kent and Brad’s goal was to place high. Steve, Alan and I had a goal of making it in before the 12 hour cutoff. Everybody in by then gets a shiny silver belt buckle.

Race Day! Steve and I left the house at 6a to get down to the start (just 3 blocks from our house) – looked to be a beautiful day as the sun rose over the mountains behind us. It was about 40 degrees, so we were pretty bundled up at the start in prep for the downhill section for the first 5 miles.



The gun went off and we kept things moving as we were warned that that first climb was pretty narrow and if you didn’t hit the first climb towards the front of the pack, you’d be walking as 1,000 people tried to squeeze into the narrowing trail. Alan, Steve and I picked our way up the sides and I managed to make it up the first climb without having to put a foot down.

As we came over the top, a woman crashed right in front of Alan, without any chance for him to react. He couldn’t avoid her and rode right over her rear wheel. Steve and I swerved and stayed up. Alan caught back on and we descended to the base of the second climb. As we climbed were talking about the woman that had crashed, hoping she was OK. A voice from behind said, “I’m fine – it was me.” We rode up most of that climb four wide on the road – with Laura from Aspen who’s husband was also in the race.

Steve, Alan and I rode together to the top of the 2nd climb and then started the infamous section of the trail known as the Powerlines. This is a steep, 4.8 mile, rutted-out, and sharp loose rocks to boot -- a nasty descent. I hadn’t thought there was much technical about Leadville, until then. This was a real mountain bike descent. We’d have to come back up this at the end of the race.

It was pretty much single-file traffic as the ruts were at least a foot deep and crossing one to pass meant risking your health (and your bike). I was three guys back from Alan and we were making good time.

About half-way down the climb the guy in front of me slipped into a rut and went head over heals. I swerved to avoid him and slipped into a foot deep rut and my bike went sideways. My rear tire right off the rim. Worse, in the process of untangling bikes and bodies, I lost my rear derailleur cable. As I stood beside the trail fixing my flat, I figured I’d get to the next feed station (which was mostly downhill) and try to rig a fix.

The only cog left in the rear was the 11 (hardest, but also fastest). I pushed it pretty hard down the descent – trying to minimize the gap to Alan and Steve – hoping to catch back up to them at the feed station.

The feed zone was filled with crews – hundreds of people. Finding your crew turned out to be a pretty tough challenge. Luckily Steve had a pretty bright jersey on and I could see him pulling away from Tom, our crew in this stop. I wanted to catch Alan and Steve, so I grabbed a bottle from Tom, gave him my empty and he insisted I take a bar for food. I had most of my food at the next feed, but reluctantly took it and put it in my jersey pocket (thank God). As I pedaled out of the feed zone, I looked for anyone with a bike stand and tools that might be able to help with my cable problem. No luck.

The trail was pretty flat and wide open leaving the station and I could see Steve and Alan ahead about a half-mile, so I pushed it pretty hard to try to catch them. I was gaining ground, but then the trail pitched up and my legs started to protest the lack of gears. I’ve never understood the allure of single-speed mountain bikes and now I was on a heavily over-geared one. Folks rode by, looked at my chain in the small cog and gave me strange looks.

Unfortunately, the next 15 miles had a good bit of up – nothing too steep, but enough to hurt, especially with the altitude. About half-way to the next feed zone, there were two guys waiving flags at the top of a steep (really steep) short downhill section. They told us to slow as a guy had a severe leg break at the bottom and couldn’t be moved and was still in the trail. I hit the brakes and started to slide down. My rear wheel hit a sharp rock and pssst – 2nd flat of the day. Got the flat fixed and was now down to one tube left.

I continued down the descent and got to the bottom just as a helicopter was landing to evacuate the guy with the broken leg. No one could pass until the helicopter was out of the way. Once he landed, we were able to pass.

Reality started to set in – rather than trying to make 12 hours, I was going to suffer to make the cutoffs along the course. And I was having to really push it just to do that.
After a couple mile climb up a ridge, we hit pavement and a guy yelled that it was a mile to the feed zone. I’d taped a piece of paper with the cut off times and my targeted split to my handlebar. The cutoff time for this feed zone was 4 hours.

We’d planned on hitting this feed in about 3 hours, but it was already almost 4 hours due to the flats and helicopter delay. Time for a shift in objectives. About a half-mile down the hill, I came into a corner way too fast. I hadn’t gotten enough air pressure into the tire and I rolled it and flatted again!

Stopping to fix it meant risking the cut-off, so I rode down on the flat (not recommended unless you enjoy fishtailing) and ran my bike through the feed zone so I could get to the middle of it and check in to make the cut off. A guy grabbed me as I was running and said he could help with my flat. “I can’t miss the cut-off.” He said that there was no cutoff here, it was at 8 hours. I looked and he had a full mechanic set-up. Bike stand, tools, etc. He fixed the cable and the flat.

While he worked on the bike I scouted around for our crew at this stop. Our man at this stop (the adventurer) was no where to be found. When the mechanic completed the repair, he said, “You really need to hustle, you’ve got about 3.5 hours to get to the top of the Columbine climb and descend back here to make the cut off.”

I pedaled through the rest of the feed zone and didn’t see our guy. As I left the feed zone I made a crucial misjudgment. Panicked about the time cut, I didn’t go back to the neutral station and at least get water. It was about a half-mile back and I figured I didn’t have the time. Bad decision.

The beast of the race is the Columbine climb and this was the foot of it. We’d top off at 12,600 feet after 2.5 hours of climbing. I started the climb with an empty Camelbak and a half bottle of water. There were some folks who’d hiked up about a half mile and they were kind enough to fill my water bottle to the top.

I was hot, the sun was baking and after about a hour, I was out of water again. The course is an out and back – make it to the top of the Columbine and you turn around and come back. This meant that the pros were descending while the rest of the mortals were climbing. We stayed right as they buzzed by on the descent. Floyd came by in hot pursuit of reining champ Dave Weins.

The descent was rough – wash board, loose sharp rocks and some ruts. I was so rough that as guys descended, some of their water bottles flew out. Keeping yourself fed with calories and liquids is crucial and I’d only eaten one bar and some gel in 4.5 hours. Desperate (and really thirsty), I went into scavenger mode. I grabbed the next full bottle I saw lying on the trail and filled mine with it. I was a pink liquid that after a few sips it turned out to be Red Bull – caffeine is a bad option when dehydrated so had to dump that and find another bottle.

My shifter was working well enough that I could most of the climb and I passed about a hundred people, many walking. This climb provided a lot of time to think and with 3 flats, 30 miles of no shifting and no food from the feedzones, I started to think about how nice it would be to maybe not make the cutoff. This started to sound especially good when a section of really steep loose rock meant everyone had to get off the bike and push. Steve and Alan came by (my split to them at this point was now almost an hour). Finally, we were way above the treeline at 12,600 feet, and the top was in site (really beautiful and above tree line – here’s a shot of it):



I grabbed a handful of pretzels while the guys at a neutral feed filled my Camelbak and bottle. Good – now I’d have enough liquid to make it down to the feed with something to drink! They told me if I hustled, I could make the cut-off at the base with ease. About half way down the descent, you, guessed it, flat #4! This time the front wheel flatted. This was now my last tube. I kicked the dirt, fixed the flat and started descending again. About 5 minutes later, I hit a rut on a corner hard and pssst! Flat #5 and no tube! Can you make this stuff up? No food, no water, no tubes, no shifting -- bad, bad karma!

It was going to be a long walk down. Two people passed me and pretended not to hear me begging for a tube. Then a third stopped and offered a tube. By this time, my arm was beginning to ache from all of the air pumping. I put 200 pump strokes into this tube so that it wouldn’t pinch flat on the way down.

I got to the feed zone, looking for our crew. Once again, Mr. Adventurer was no where to be found. I made the cut off with 12 minutes to spare, even with the flats and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But digging deep to stay in the race meant I really needed some food and the guy wasn’t there.

As I headed out of the feed, I begged a tube off of a little girl who’s dad had just passed through and started the 15 mile journey to the next feed. Hopefully, Tom would be there with another insurance tube.

That next 15 miles was long. I passed a couple of folks but mostly didn’t see a soul. Riding through this section with a group allows you to draft and stay out of the wind. No such help at the back of the pack.

The last feed was at mile 75, just before heading up the Powerlines climb. At this point, doing the Leadville 75 was starting to sound pretty good. I’ve never had a DNF in a race – a streak that’d promised to try and make a lifetime one. I preach to our kids all the time that, “McNeills don’t quit”, but quitting sounded pretty darn good.

Hey, I’d made it up the Columbine, survived all of the mechanicals and lack of food. Packing it in, didn’t sound so bad. To boot, there was a 9 hour cut off at the next feed zone and the sweep cars would be ready. Heck, Tom might even give me a ride back! I could shower, rest up and walk down to the finish to meet the guys. That sounded like a pretty good option.

When I came in to the feed zone the official said, “8:59 – congrats, you’re the last one through.” Dang it! What? You’re kidding, right? Are you sure the race clock is really that accurate?

Tom was still there (what a guy). He didn’t have a tube, but did have a cold bottle and the neutral feed folks filled my now dry Camelbak. I tried to duck out, “Tom, I don’t think I’ve got another 3-4 hours in these legs. It’s been a tough day.”

It was pretty clear by the look on his face that Tom wasn’t going to offer up a lift in the car.

Tom said, “Jon your bike has thrown you a ton of curves, why don’t you just hang in until your body collapses? If you do, they will get you out. The sweepers are now following on ATVs. You’ve come all the way out here, you don’t want to have to do this again do you?”

That was all I needed to hear. Off to the Powerlines climb with Tom riding beside me on the road until my turnoff onto the dirt. This climb really hurt. It’s very steep and loose. I could ride it about 3-4 miles an hour or walk it 1.5 miles an hour. I didn’t want to be on the thing for two hours (we still had another climb to go), so I rode as much of it as I could. The 30% grade sections were soul-busters.



The guys on ATVs passed me several times. They asked me to give them a thumbs up if I was OK, a thumbs down if I needed to get swept. I managed to pass a number of people on that climb. After about an hour, I saw the ATV guys standing in the trail near the top and thought to myself, this is it, I’m finally getting swept. Instead, when I reached them they said, “keep going, we won’t sweep you for another 2 hours and you’re going to make it.”

Once you open up the scavenger instinct, it’s hard to stop it. I barreled down the descent and hit the brakes hard when I saw a tube lying on the trail that had fallen out of someone’s jersey – insurance tube!

Half way down the climb, some road marshals were still there blocking traffic. A racer from Kentucky whom I’d met on the 2nd climb of the day was sitting on the pavement beside their car, waiting for a ride back. “Come on Kentucky!,” I shouted, “Let’s finish this out together – it’s downhill for another couple of miles!”

“Yeah, and then it’s uphill for 5 miles, no thanks,” he replied.

The last climb was mostly on pavement – once again the Camelbak and bottle ran dry. Just about a mile from the top, Kentucky passed me. “I’m back in, let’s go.” Finally, some company. Then, he dropped me! Off he pedaled.

After about 5 minutes I could hear music and voices. Was I hallucinating or were they chanting my name? What the heck?

“Come on Jon-boy!” “Get up here Jonny” “Let’s go Boston, come on!”

I pulled in to a neutral feed that I hadn’t even noticed on the way out and asked if they had water – next thing I knew, my Camelbak was off and getting filled, I was handed a cup of cold Sprite and the chief official walked up and said, “We’ve been waiting for you Jon, you’re our Guts and Glory guy this year.”

“What, you mean I’m in last place?”

“Oh, no, about a 100 people have dropped out already behind you and there are a few more still on the course behind you. However, you’re the only guy that we think is going to make it in by dark. We hear you’ve had some bike problems. Hang in there, overcome it. You look strong. You’ve got a mile to the top and then a 3 mile descent and then about 8 miles up to the finish. GO!”

That last mile went for a long time and then the descent. It was getting dark, I didn’t want to flat, so took it easy. It wasn’t so much the time – it seemed pretty likely that if I stopped to change a flat something could pop out of the woods and eat me.

When I cleared the descent it became clear that the darkness wasn’t because the sun was fading behind the mountains, but because clouds were moving in. It was starting to rain. I started praying pretty hard, “please God, I’m just one insignificant guy in an insignificant bike race, but if you could hold off on a downpour for an hour or so, I’d be really, really grateful.”

About 3 miles on sand and dirt and then finally pavement. At each road crossing, the volunteers shouted “Guts and Glory – keep going!” There’s not much to be said for last place, but gosh, I could get used to the first name service.

After a 4 mile detour around Leadville on a dry stream bed (where do all of the loose rocks come from in this state?), I hit finally the finishing straight just before dark. The rain had held off (thanks).

A team of volunteers were lining the streets and cheering. One of the officials who’d seen me at 3 stops ran up and slapped me so hard on the back I thought I was going to fall off the bike. “You made it you mother-[beep]!”

These folks were screaming so hard it made me feel like I’d won the darn race. No belt buckle, but it was almost as satisfying. Heck, the newspaper took a photo of the last finisher – I’d share the pages of the paper with Weins and Landis!

13 hours and 15 minutes after starting, I was finally done. Blind stubbornness – it pays ;)

Steve and Alan earned a belt buckle coming in around ~11:30 (way to go guys!). Kent was on pace to finish in the top 20, but couldn’t find our man in the feed zone either for a much needed tube and had to wait 35 minutes at the top of Columbine for some help with his flat. He still finished in around eight hours. Brad was just behind him. All five of us covered the 100 miles. Let’s hear it for the Flatlanders!

PS -- I still don’t know what happened to our local feed zone guy. I’ll be sure to forward his intensive care room number once one of us tracks him down ;)

Etape du Tour - round 2

Due to the history of Alzheimer’s in my family, I’ve taken to journaling significant events, so that, if nothing else, family members can have something to entertain me with in my “sunset” years (“That’s a nice story, could I have another popsicle?”). After several requests, (and admitted shock over people having actually read last years summary), this 2003 edition of the Etape du Tour summary is as close to prime time as its probably going to get..

Saturday, July 12 –

Our flights over to France and then down to southwestern France (an area known as the Midi-Pyrenees) went off pretty much without a hitch. We landed in Pau at an airport adorned with the uniforms of local cycling heroes (this country loves it’s cycling). World champion mountain bikers Cedric Gracia and Chrisophe Dipouy had their uniforms on display as did several current and former Tour de France riders, including Bernard Hinault – a member of the exclusive five Tour winners club – a mark Lance Armstrong was striving to equal this year.

Minutes after landing, we were on our way to our first stop, Lourdes. At our hotel, the manager on duty asked if we were there to do the Etape du Tour. We replied that indeed we were, and he responded, “Oh difficult, the course is very difficult.” Hmmm.

This year’s trip included some new friends – parents of children in our son's school class. Eric arrived first, and our plan was to conquer two climbs relatively close to our ‘base camp’ in Lourdes. About an hour after arriving, we were busy assembling our bikes and headed off for the Hautacam with a group of about six riders.

After a ten mile ride and a few missed turns, we arrived at the base of the Hautacam. The Hautacam carries with it some tour nostalgia as it’s the site where Armstrong captured the yellow jersey for the first time in the 2000 tour in a pouring cold rain.

As we contemplated the mountain in front of us, Carol Ryan (a very strong rider who has been under the tutelage of Lance Armstrong’s personal coaching organization for the past year -- Charmichael Training Systems), announced that climbing the 8K to the summit with an average grade of 10% might not be the best idea a couple of days before the Etape. Given the pedigree of her coach, it caused us pause. Carol’s husband Leo, Eric, Dave Currie and I decided that we’d climb the first 3-4K’s just to experience the climb. Carol and Dave’s wife Jackie agreed to wait at the bottom and we headed up.

After about a ½ mile, we entered a lovely village and the grade began to crank up – to 10%. The French love their cycling and seem to hold climbing on a bike in very high regard. Every kilometer of a climb is marked with a road sign telling you how many kilometers are left to the top and the grade of the next kilometer. This is one of the most advanced forms of mental torture invented.

The grade started at 10% and then cranked up to 12%. I cannot do a 12% grade justice, other than to point out that the Army Corps of Engineers has decided that no major road in the US should be constructed with a grade of over 6%. Anything above that is deemed unsafe for trucks. At any rate, if you’d like to experience the feeling of climbing at 12%, find a building locally of 10 stories or more and bicycle up the side of it. This will recreate the feeling of climbing in France and save you loads on plane fare.

Leo took off up the climb like a man on EPO with Dave and I in tow. Usually, I experience the site of Dave only rarely on our climbing training rides, and typically as a small blip on the horizon. For some reason today, Dave was hovering off of my back wheel. “Wow, all this training must really be paying off,” I thought to myself. All delusions of grandeur were to quickly evaporate as Dave wizzed by at the 3K mark in pursuit of Leo. “I was trying to keep my heart rate at a low level at the start,” he smiled and said. I looked down and my heart rate monitor read 176.



After a fast descent and a 22 mph “race” back to the hotel, we retired for a quick shower and dinner. At dinner, Eric announced that he’d found a great local bike shop. Eric’s flights had put him in Lourdes a day early and he’d taken the time to explore options for renting bikes in case ours didn’t show up. The shop was owned by a former Renault teammate of the aforementioned Bernard Hinault.

After Eric told him of his plans to race the Etape, the shopowner and former Tour pro said, “Are you sure American? Those climbs are very steep and the route this year is extremely difficult.” Hmmm.

Eric insisted that we come see the holy site in Lourdes that night – my Jewish friend said that he had been converted the night before ;). We stepped out of our hotel into a stream of hospital beds and wheelchairs making their way up the street – dozens of sick people being pushed by nurses.

When we turned a corner and a massive cathedral was on the top of a bluff to our left. I’d never seen anything like what I saw surrounding the side of the church. Thousands of people, hundreds in hospital beds were lining up for a procession. The crowd was respectfully quiet in anticipation of what was to come.

“You’ve got to get some holy water,” Eric said as we made our way through the crowd. On the West side of the cliff at the base of the cathedral, a large sidewalk flanked the river Pau. The river was to our right and the cathedral to our left. At the far end of the walk was an open cave, or a grotto.

In the 1850’s a shepherd girl name Bernadette watered her sheep in a spring-fed pool at the opening of the grotto. One day, she had a surprise visitor – a woman dressed in glowing white with a halo hovered over the spring. “Tell the sinners to repent. Build a church,” were her only words. Several more days and the same thing happened.

Bernadette went to her priest and explained what was happening. He requested the Bernadette ask the apparition her name. The next day, Bernadette did just that. The woman smiled, said nothing and would disappear. On the 18th visit, Bernadette asked her question. The woman replied, “I am the Immaculate Conception [translated, Virgin Mary]” and ordered Bernadette to drink from the water that came from the rock, telling her that the water had healing powers. Bernadette obeyed and was further ordered to hold a nightly healing procession for the sick.

Today, Bernadette is a saint and Lourdes is a pilgrimage site for Catholics. In the procession line, it seemed like every country of the world was represented with their flag. The pure faith of the people in the line strikes you as you pass through. They’ve brought sick, crippled, infirmed relatives half-way around the world for the hope of healing. Each night the procession circles the plaza and returns to the base of the cathedral for a healing mass.
Along to stone wall leading up to the grotto are spickets from which the holy water flows. Eric led the charge and we applied the water to our legs, hoping to overcome the “Charmicheal effect” of the ride up the Hautacam.

Sunday, July 13

The next day, we had our hearts set on conquering the Tourmalet, a legendary climb about 20 miles from the hotel. Despite Carol’s warnings, we couldn’t stand the thought of being so close to an HC climb and not giving it a go. The organization that puts on the Tour de France rates each climb along the route with a category 5 climb being the easiest and a category 1 climb the hardest. The monsters are rated HC, h’ors categorie, or “beyond categorization.”

The Tourmalet is one of those climbs. It’s legendary in the Tour. When climbed from the West, it rises to 6300 feet over 18 kilometers – the highest pass in the Pyrennees. It’s a tad easier (6K shorter with less elevation gain) when climbed from the East, but we were West and had no choice. A group of six or seven of us left the hotel and rode 15 miles or so into a valley where the mountains began to rise dramatically up around us. We stopped to snap a few pictures and Dave, who was feeling sick decided to turn around. Citing Carol’s warning, the others decided that wisdom meant turning back and Eric and I decided to soldier on.
“How could we not do this? We’re so close!,” Eric said. He was right. We were here for more than just the Etape.

We turned to the East and started towards the town at the western base of the Tourmalet – Luz St. Saveur. Little did we know, reaching the ‘base’ meant an 8K climb. Clearly the holy water had worked for Eric as he set a steady pace up the first half. Finally the village of Luz was in sight, but it was so far up on the horizon, I began to wonder if the map had it wrong and that Luz was at the top of the climb, not at the bottom.

Reaching Luz, looking up to the right was the climb from the village up to the ski resort of Luz Ardiden – the site of Lance’s now famous crash with a spectator. It looked like a headwall of switchbacks it was so steep.

Looking left revealed the towering slopes of the Tourmalet – clearly the highest peak in the area. We decided to fill our water bottles and ran into two Americans at the base. We ran into two Americans from the Quad cities – a cardiologist named Mike and an experience racer named Rick.

Starting a conversation with a cardiologist about health is taking a risk. As we heading up the first kilometer, I kiddingly asked Mike if I should be doing this climb after a bout with an irregular heartbeat had landed me in the emergency room a few months earlier. After a few pointed questions of increasing seriousness, Mike asked if I’d brought my EKG’s along – “I’d like to have a look.” Eric looked back in amusement and I suddenly let myself get dropped, wondering if this was such a good idea, Charmichael aside.

About 10 minutes later, I ran into the group along the side of the road. They were clearly debating whether to go on. Mike said, “Look, it’s 95 degrees and this is not a good idea two days before the Etape.”

“Two more kilometers and we’ll be 10K from the summit,” I cajoled. Two more kilometers and it was down to Eric and I.

Eric and I decided to climb another 2K and make the final call there. Two more kilometers came and went and without a word, we both carried on until we reached a café 6K from the top. From here, you could see the switchbacks snake up the mountain as we were now above the treeline. We’d been climbing for 90 minutes and had been through six water bottles after the break at the café. Eric was stiffening up and needed to go on. I needed to drain a couple of more cold orange juices. “Order me a double cheeseburger when you get to the top,” I joked.
Every descender we saw was wearing a jacket. I began to wonder if my sleeveless jersey was going to cut it on the descent or whether I was going to have to join the healing parade that night in Lourdes.

Those last 6K averaged 10% and I cramped at 4K when the grade reached 13%. Walking seemed to take away the pain and at 3K, I climbed on the bike again. At 1K to go, I was weaving in and out of mountain goat herds and the drop offs were scary as the cars went by. Half riding, half walking, I finally reached the summit and spotted Eric’s bike parked against the restaurant at the top. To the left, I spotted the famous statue that’s shown when the Tour summits the Tourmalet – a statue dedicated to cyclists who make the climb.
Inside was a shrine to the Tour de France. Bikes from the first race in 1903, 1910, 1925, 1935, etc. were hung from the ceiling and the tour was on the TV in the corner. Eric had a French burger (a steak) waiting for me along with some macaroni and cheese. We finished up and got up to leave and spotted something out the window that we didn’t expect. Pouring rain and the temperature had dropped to 60 degrees.

No fan of descending in the first place, Eric was not excited to descend the Tourmalet in a thunderstorm. Frankly, the thought of tumbling down a 1500 foot shear drop-off didn’t excite me either.

I ran across the street to the gift store in search of jackets. A reminder of how remote the summit was greeted me in the parking lot – a herd of wild donkeys came through begging for food (yes, you read that right). Inside the gift shop, I was striking out.

Eric, however, was far more enterprising (while I’m taking donkey pics, Eric is in the background negotiating with the bus driver in the photo). He’d been outside using his best French to talk our way onto a tour bus from Belgium. “Jon! Jon!, I’ve gotten us a ride, hurry up!”

Outside, I met Marga, a tour guide for 50 or so Belgians who were touring the Lourdes area. They had no seats, but had graciously offered us the steps on their bus and a ride to Lourdes. With our bikes safely in the luggage compartment of the coach, we might as well have been on the Concorde. Marga asked the Belgians to welcome Lance Armstrong and Eddy Merckx aboard. We laughed and agreed to feign injury if the police pulled us over.

On the way down, Marga told us of her friend that races bikes and trains regularly on the Tourmalet. “She’s decided not to do the Etape this year – much too hard a course.” Hmmm.

Monday, July 14

The next day brought a 30 mile ride to Pau to pick up our race numbers. The 30-mile downhill jaunt was a welcome relief – especially when followed by a train ride home. The conductor, a cyclist himself, let us (and our bikes) ride back to Lourdes in first class while he regailed us of stories about his two $5000 bikes. A Colnago carbon and a Pinarello Prince.

“You look a little bit large to do the Etape,” he said to me. “It’s a very difficult course.”
Hmmm.

Upon return, we had dinner and immediately headed to the grotto for a booster shot of the holy water and took in the Bastille day fireworks.

Tuesday, July 15
In a couple of hours, the rest of the group arrived from the US and the following morning, we headed out to repeat our partial Hautacam climb as a final prep. After climbing the Hautacam, we jumped into a 55 degree river (“good for the legs” I was told).

By the time we left Lourdes, Eric was about to be elected mayor. The guy is amazing – he’s got a great ability to befriend almost anyone he meets. The owner of the café next to the hotel, the bike shop owner, the convenience store owner and others are still missing him in Lourdes.

Wednesday, July 16

The next day (finally as you read this ;), brought the Etape. A 5:00 a.m. departure on the coach to the starting line in Pau. It’s hard to describe the thrill of lining up with 8800 racers. Our numbers put us in the top third of the pack. Famous racers were announced at the start line, including Miguel Indurain, the last 5x winner of the Tour. Over 8,000 riders lined up at the start – only 112 were from the US!

My cousin Kent and I said a prayer and headed down the start chute together and the first 25 miles were a hammer fest for me – clearly the holy water was working -- I felt like I’d inherited Indurain’s legs.


At the 10 mile mark, we started a category 3, 7% climb. It didn’t hurt so much climbing in the pack and the descent was fantastic as the crowd started to break up a bit. Around the 25 mile mark, we entered a village called Oleron St. Marie, moving at about a 22 mph pace (for non-cyclists, that’s a pretty fast pace). The village street narrowed and the pack of 100 or so riders I was with began to compress. Suddenly a guy appeared in my peripheral vision, his hand on my shoulder and he was shouting French in a panic. I glanced down to see that he had hooked my bars from behind and in a nano-second, I was flying through the air. I landed on my hip first, then my back with a thud and slid down the road on my back, helmet bouncing off of the cobblestones. A guy behind ran over my leg, another over my hand and I flipped up on the sidewalk, gasping for breath.

My fingers moved, my legs and toes were still attached, but blood was already coming through my shorts and I could feel the Roadrunner/Wile E. Coyote bruise rising from my back. Across the street, things weren’t going so well for the guy who hit me as he was writhing in pain with what looked like a broken collar bone.

A frantic search for my bike ensued as hundreds of racers whizzed by. Two spectators had grabbed it and pulled it out of harms way. They were looking at it, shaking their heads. The impact had blown the tire off of the rim, bent the wheel, bent a shifter, torn the seat and bent the rear derailleur hanger (the derailleur controls your ability to shift – a rather important feature in the mountains). I’d never crashed on the road. Adrenaline took over and trembling fingers resulted in the longest tire change of my life.

Mountain biking requires racers to fix their own bikes as no outside assistance is allowed. Thank God for that experience. One of the first things you learn is that a swift kick in the right spot can often return a wheel close to its ‘true’. A new tube, tire back on, a swift kick and the front wheel was somewhat back in commission. A few yanks and pulls later and the shifter and derailleur were in close to working order. One of the spectators gave me a push and I was off again in a mad rush to regain the 30 minutes or so I’d ‘lost’.

In retrospect I was blessed to have not been more seriously hurt. The other guy’s race ended 25 miles in and mine could have easily ended there too. The first thing I noticed once back on the bike was that I couldn’t grip the bars without my right hand throbbing – it had quite a bruise forming from the impact.

Unfortunately, the adrenaline tire change didn’t go perfectly either and a couple of miles later I started to hear a ‘ker-thump, ker-thump, ker-thump’. I hadn’t seated the tire and the tube was beginning to stick out of the rim like an angioplasty gone bad. I loosened my brakes to help with clearance and hoped the tube would make it 10 more miles to the rest area.

Needless to say, it didn’t and I ended up in the ditch, changing another tire – the second longest tire change of my life. Luckily, one of the guys from Nebraska stopped to offer encouragement and got me going again. The rest area seemed to come in an instant and there was Eric, filling his water bottles. We agreed to meet at the end of the rest area and ride up the first mountain climb together. I wandered over to the Mavic support truck for some wheel help, while Eric made friend after friend in the rest area. After 15 or 20 minutes, Steve, John and Robert showed up and we yelled for Eric (a pattern that would repeat itself throughout the day) and the ‘Weston Posse’ headed up the first climb.

The category 1, 14K Col de Soudet starts with a bang – a 15% grade greets you at the bottom of the climb. My shifting went crazy and I had to pull over and take a couple of more attempts at pulling my derailleur back into place. Having to stand and grind this early in a climb was a bit disconcerting. Eric agreed to wait at the top. The Soudet was supposed to be a bear, but the climb of the Tourmalet helped in retrospect. Comparing the two on the way up made the Soudet much more bearable than earlier reports had made it. At the top, Steve and I waited for Eric and Robert. Posse partially complete, we donned our jackets and headed over the top and down a fantastic 45-minute descent.

The descent had been described as twisty and tight by both Tyler Hamilton and Lance Armstrong. Tyler had previewed the course by bike and predicted that if a group got away on the Soudet, they’d be hard to catch as the descents were so tricky. His prediction turned out to be prophetic – he did just that and won the stage a couple of days later.

For us, the descent included a surprise that surely wouldn’t be faced by the tour riders. Lurking around the second turn were free-range long-horn steers (yes, you read that right) – standing in the middle of the road! This wouldn’t be a huge concern if we weren’t doing 45 mph at the time. Weaving in between these big boys combined the worst and best of OLN’s programming – cycling and rodeo meet in an unlikely combo.

The descent of the Soudet ended with another categorized climb – the category 3 cote de Larreau – averaging a punishing 10.5%, but ‘only’ for 2.5 K. At the top of this little beast, a village was full of excitement. We’d learn later that Miguel Indurain had abandoned just a few minutes earlier and was celebrating his birthday with the villagers. He apparently was intimated at the progress of the Weston Posse.

Up and over the Larreau and we looked up to see a towering mountain right in front of us. The top 1/2 of the mountain was above the treeline and you could see the sun reflecting off of tiny specs at the top. As we got closer, we figured out that those specs were cars. That mountain was the big boy of the day – the Bagargui – 9K at 9.2%.

Robert stopped at the bottom and pulled a box of mystery potion out of his back pocket. After downing it, he started climbing like a man possessed. The first kilometer had a 6% grade, the second ‘only’ 6.5%. After a few days of experience with the road sign/torture instruments, this was not good news. If the entire climb was going to average 9.2%, these 6% sections were going to be made up for in a big way.

We rounded a corner and headed into a 10% grade and the numbers just kept increasing until we were above the treeline – then the fun began. The sign read – 4K to the summit, next kilometer 13.5% grade. The sign was accompanied by an angel of torture and he spoke English. He appeared in the form of an American with an altimeter on his handlebars.

“Hey the sign says 13.5%, but this says we’re only doing 7%.” We rounded the corner and the non-stop commentary continued, “Uh-oh, this reads 14%.” Thirty seconds pass. “We’re now at 16%”. Thirty more seconds. “We’re at 17%.”

After two more kilometers, I was beginning to understand what Armstrong means by suffering. If this wasn’t suffering, I don’t know what is. Everything hurt – back, hip, hands, quads and especially the knees. The world was beginning to spin. I looked down at my heart rate monitor – 190. Not good.

I looked up. Shouldn’t have done that. We were above the treeline and the entire balance of the climb was in view. Switchbacks seemed to go on for miles and the peak seemed impossibly high. At this point, about 75% of the people were walking their bikes. Finally, I succumbed to my hip’s cries for mercy and stopped and rubbed it out. I walked while rubbing it. My walking speed: 3.1 mph. My riding speed: 4.0 mph. Hmmm. Not a bad tradeoff.

The walking lasted only a couple of hundred yards and then it was back on the bike. Somehow, the walking didn’t seem to shake the angel of death. “Wow, this is an 18% section.” I was now making strange promises to God – “please, just get me over this thing and Heidi will never have to wash a dish again.” The world was reduced to one pedal stroke at a time.

The crowd in the last kilometer was lined the entire road and were cheering each of the riders on. They were wearing hats and parkas – it was freezing at the top. Steve and I waited for Robert and Eric at the top, donned our jackets and we headed over the top for the final 60 miles. On the profile the last 60 miles was basically downhill.

It turns out the angel of death must have developed the profile. After a 30 minute descent we were climbing again for 3K over a category 3 climb. It started to sprinkle a bit and the next descent was the trickiest of the day. The first s-turn came up as a surprise and you could see that missing this turn looked like a sure trip off of a cliff – no guard rail, just space – about 1500 vertical feet of it off of the side. I grabbed all of the brake I could muster.

The Weston Posse stayed together and we moved from pack to pack at a pretty good pace. At this point, we’d been out on the road for about 7 hours and my stomach was a swirling mix of Accelerade and Power Bars. The feed station at 30 miles to the finish had the best ham and cheese sandwich I’d ever tasted (stale bread aside). Eric disappeared into a hotel and took a 30-minute break. Steve, Robert and I waited outside and watched people we’d passed hours before wiz by. Apparently Eric was reading the entire paper cover to cover.

We were off again, straight into a headwind off of the Atlantic and large hills that just kept coming. The conversation amongst the riders went like this for the balance of the race:

“I thought the profile was flat!”

“This is not flat – those dirty rotten liars.”

“Wait that sign says were going up another categorized climb - -am I hallucinating?”

“No, and I don’t think I can get over another one of these things – do you think we can hitch a ride from some of these spectators?”

Steve, Eric, a judge from Vermont, and I took turns pulling. At one point we looked back and about 50 frenchmen were sitting on our wheels. We’d pull to the side to signal that they needed to pull. They’d just slow down and pull right back behind us. This snaking continued down the road. I turned and asked them to pull, everyone feigned an inability to understand my pig French. Finally, we resorted to gestures, pointing them to the front. A French guy (finally admitting to have the ability to speak) used his own gesture – pointed to his brow and muttered “We caahn’t.” It was up to the Americans to continue doing the work, pulling into the headwind. The French were just going to sit on. This was WWII all over again ;).

Eric and Steve would pull up the hills, nearly dropping me on every one. I’d barrel down the other side and pull on the flats. At 15K to the finish, kids were begging for our water bottles as a souvenir. Figuring I could get through 9 miles on one water bottle, I tossed a kid mine and got a great smile in return.

At the 10K from the finish sign, Steve and I hit the base of the last climb – switchbacks up a ridge – somehow we had lost Eric and Robert. The other side of the ridge was the finish line. Steve could tell I was on the ropes (maybe begging him not to drop me was a sign), but the former Stanford swimmer was strong and powered up the switchbacks.

I dropped back a few guys, hoping that if he couldn’t see me, maybe he would figure he’d dropped me and slow down a bit. It didn’t work. He stood up like Armstrong and danced on his pedals up the climb. It was everything I had left to get up to the summit. I had no water left and was hallucinating again.

The next descent was sketchy – over speedbumps and drain covers, but we were now winding to the finish line. I stayed 3-4 guys behind Steve, hoping against hope that he’d slow down – he kept hammering. We turned into the finishing straight and at about 250 meters, I came around Steve and the guys on the inside like a freight train, hoping to surprise them with a sprint finish. They responded perfectly, by squeezing me into the barriers. After barely avoiding the second crash of the day, we crossed the line together, hands in the air at 9:58 and almost crashed again!


We staggered to our hotel in Biarritz – a beautiful seaside resort.