Col du Tourmalet

Col du Tourmalet Part 1

As we approached the town of Luz-Saint-Sauveur the mountains are angry.  

They snarled at us. 
Conspiring with nature - Misty clouds appeared, surrounding us, and taking on a variety of ghoulish forms.
Their disapproval thundered down the valley as they raged and shouted. - showering us with their spittle.
Their imposing stature illuminated by bolts of lightening, sithing through the Pyrenean air.

'How dare these Yorkshire men try and tame us!' - they whispered to each other.

Le col de Tourmoulet has no friends - we as not welcome here.

The promise of warm sun kissed mountain meadows, of cow bells clanking in time with bovine mastication seem momentarily frozen within the pages of the cycling magazines. 

With further heavy rain forecast and 6 degrees being recorded at the summit there is genuine apprehension, even fear for want of a better word.

Fear is right 
Fear works.
Fear clarifies 
It cuts through and captures................. the essence ...............of the evolutionary spirit.
Fear in all its forms.
It aids preparation, provides resolve and ensures determination - especially for us Yorkshire Folk.

We rallied and reminded ourselves that we were not Celts but descendants of Viking invaders where the fight was as good as the victory.

"White rose..... white rose, White rose .......white rose...................Is that how it goes ?

Col du Tourmalet Part 2  

I could have been mistaken that our 'petit dejeuner' was being served in a library, although the absence of books reminded me otherwise. There was a morbid tranquility about the place with the only sound coming from the kissing of crockery. Although the rain had stopped the road was wet and the clouds low. Lower than the 2115 meters that would be the summit and shrouding our departure point. Defiantly we set off with each kilometre point signposted. These 'helpful' markers showed the altitude, distance to summit, and the average gradient - the third bit of information I struggled to digest, as it mostly hovered between 8 and 10%.

The first few kilometres were relatively easy, mentally assisted by my restricted view.
As I entered the village of Bareges the cloud and the gradient lifted in unison.
I was immediately forced into my bottom gear as the mountain threw off its cloak revealing its rugged majesty.

I was now caught in the moment. Riding the mighty Tourmalet used over 80 times in the Tour de France, the highest pass in the Pyrenees.

The names of Pinot, Bardot, Froome et al - were daubed in assorted colours across the tarmac reminding me that it was not just a road but a battlefield - A battlefield for two wheeled warriors - blood, sweat and tears in the Pyrenean amphitheater 

Some bathed in glory and others riddled in pain haunted by demons of past failures. 
At 13 km away the very top of the summit was out of sight, only providing me with a hint of my endeavours ahead .
The route  marked out by almost stationary vehicles tracing a seemingly impossible course through double digit switchbacks and then out of sight.

As I slowly moved up the Mountain, the longer ramps were replaced by shorter ones. 

Punctuated with tights bends, the outside line gave you some momentary relief from the constant tension.

You could breath deeply and look back in constrained admiration at your progress.

With 6 km to go I was in my own private world of pain with no exit doors in sight. 
Failure appeared through my emotional letterbox like an unexpected tax bill when I was already overdrawn. 
The desire to stop was agonisingly extreme.

As I was twisting my right foot to unclip  I was passed by two Spanish cyclists who shouted out  at me.
'Animal' 'Animal' they laughed.
I was in no mood to trade insults, but this was unnecessary.
Before a had found a suitable Anglo Saxon response and found enough oxygen to delver it I paused.
I the remembered that in Spain to call a fellow rider an 'Animal'  is a compliment.
 It infers that you ride on guts and instinct.

I puffed out my chest and enthusiastically shouted 'Hola'
I suspected that they must have been eminent physicists.
I reckoned that they would have looked at my 'waif' like physique and then, with great deliberation applied Newtons second law of motion.
Good for them I thought doing advanced mathematics on the Tourmalet is no mean feat.

For the first time in my life I liked being thought of as 'an animal'
I fancied that I would be a Bull.
I re-cleated and with new found gusto spiritually rejoined the arena.

Stomping on the pedals  kilometres slowly reduced and although the gradient increased, I knew at the 2 kilometre mark, that I would make it.

With Spanish intervention there was to be no 'Death in the afternoon' Mr Hemingway - today the bull would return.

Tired, emotionally drained - but all conquering
Toro....toro!!!!!!!