Bealach-na-Ba - Tour of NW Scotland Day 2

I have a good friend that I cycle with called Manuel. He is a GP and originally from Barcelona. 

Like his Faulty Towers namesake, Manuel sometimes struggles with certain English words. 

He actually speaks and understands English far better than most people I know, but is linguistically ambitious, always looking to enhance his vocabulary. 

One day we were out cycling when I became detached from the main group. We were climbing some lung busting accent that I had never encountered before. Manuel, sensing I was in trouble dropped back to join me and asked if I was ok. 

I told him not to worry that I was 'pacing' myself because I did not know what lay ahead of us.

'Peeeeeeecing' he said 'I like that idea'.

A few weeks later we were out again climbing out of one of the valleys in the East Yorkshire wolds. I had adopted my usual 'Lantern Rouge' position now joined by my new able domestique from Barcelona. As we rode, we were caught up by two female cyclists with whom we passed the time of day with.

Manuel urged them to pass, exclaiming that he and I, were currently engaged in the art of 'Peeeeeeecing'. Scornfully they accepted Manuel invitation and rode on - not daring to look back. Before they got out of sight I shouted 'Don't worry....he's from Barcelona'.

Whenever I encounter a new vertical challenge 'Peeeeecing' is always my default position, which was something that I had in mind when I looked at the second day of our Scottish Tour.

Starting from sea level at Tornapress, we headed along the northern shore of Loch Kishorn. The single track road ascended steadily, like a strand of Spaghetti randomly dropped from the plate of some Celtic deity - Epona perhaps who liked to protect her equine creatures.....especially Mules.

 Not unlike the previous day, the weather was perfect with warm spring sunshine and little wind. 

The visibility was clear.......Horribly so!

There was nothing hidden or masked in anyway, no subtlety at all - you could see everything.

To the south west over the shimmering waters of Loch Carron and into the inners seas. There was Scalpay, Raasay and the mountains on the Isle of Skye.

To the north west there was Bealach-na-Ba.

I have to point out that I am always a bit suspicious about the use of hypons.

People sometimes use them in their surnames to create an image of someone greater, more important or of a different class. 

Bealach-Na-Ba had two hypons, but needs no introduction. It's identity has been confirmed by many  a distressed cyclists over the years.

Everything around us was dwarfed by this huge cliff face.
I decided that this was definitely a climb for 'Peeeeecing'!!!!!!

Simon Warren who put together Britains 100 greatest climbs described it as:- 'The Holy Grail, the toughest and wildest climb in Britain'

He goes on to say 'Anything you have read or been told about this amazing road is likely to be true. For once you can believe the hype'.

Being in this isolated, barren landscape it is intimidating enough before you even  turn your pedals.
The nearest emergency Hospital is hours away and if the weather turns, the same could be said about the nearest shelter.

Unlike any other British climb that I have encountered the scale of this beast is in a different league.
It is the third highest road in Scotland, and its 9.27 km takes you way out of your comfort zone for what seems an eternity.
Although shorter than your average Alpine climbs, what is given up in length, is made up for in gradient. Climbing 626 meters (2,054ft) in one go, it has an average of 9.9% which tops out at 24.7%.

The narrow, twisty road is uncompromising. There is little room for cars to overtake and you have to negotiate the use the infrequent passing places to ensure progress. If you don't judge it right and have to unclip - you have got problems.

The road is far too narrow to traverse and mostly too steep to re-engage your pedals.
I thought that SPD cleats might be a good option for greater flexibility. I'll try and remember  for next time.

At one point I had three cars behind me. I felt anxious at their proximity, intimidated by their impatience and nauseous at their burning clutches.

Unable to slip in and out the short piece of tarmac before they had passed, I was forced to unclip.  The only way I got going again was to descend to the previous passing place, and execute a U turn.
With a rock face on one side and a 30 foot drop the other, it was a bit perilous.
A much better option than going back to the bottom, I recklessly thought.

The further up the climb, it became more demanding. 

The road narrowed, its surface became more weathered, and it ramped up. 

An unholy trinity of challenges, conspiring to maximise my suffering. 

Whoever I cycle with must be reassured to know they will always be able to get a rest at the top of every climb. I am always last up and have perfected the art of 'Peeeeecing' so much, that I no longer think - 'I won't make it' 

Usually I am more concerned about things like 'will all the cake have been eaten at the cafe' or 'will the pub be closed' - Things that I consider to be equally important on all cycling adventures. 

On this particular day I was rest assured that there was no pub or cafe at the summit so I was more concerned that my companions might have fallen asleep or got bored waiting.

With no crowds of supporters handing out sheets of of L'Equipe to shove down my Jersey, I elected for a Gilet on the cool descent down into Applecross. There we found an oasis within a walled garden and some fine fare on offer.

Believing I had completed most of the hard work, I allowed myself a much larger than normal lunch, washed down with some local Skye Gold. The sun was now reaching its Zenith and providing some extra warmth within this enclosure. 

All was right with the world I thought as I tugged on my bottle of straw coloured ale.

On leaving the lunch stop we spied an old rickshaw discarded in the grass. 

I would have been happy to do the same if I had been allowed. 

Instead we pressed on staying close to the sea around the peninsular. 

It usually takes me about half an hour to get going again after a cafe/lunch stop but after 50 minutes I was somewhat perplexed. It suddenly dawned on me that my listless legs were not 'Cafe legs' but ones engaged in real industrial action. 

Our nominated navigator Tony reassured me that there was only 3 more climbs left at Camas-an-Eillean, Applecross Forrest and Loch Shielding.

I did not particularly enjoy the previous climb with the 'double hyphened' name, so I doubted that the next one would fill me with joy. 

By now I was struggling to keep up with my fellow adventurers who had not yet acquainted themselves with the joys of 'Peeeeeecing'. 

Although the surrounding countryside and coast were spectacular in every sense, my head was dropping and my focus was becoming increasingly one dimensional  - upon the road ahead.

Thankfully with my wits about me, I was still able to keep track of our progress.

After about another 10 weary miles, I worked out that I must have been summiting the final climb at Loch Shielding.

 I only spotted one of our group yawning as I stopped at the top to congratulate myself, at closing the ride out. I smiled and reached out my hand to the others.

Tony looked at me quizzically asking what I meant.

When he explained that we had not even done the first of the remaining climbs I was close to tears.....really I was. 

I was also way past any extreme form of turrets, with a tirade of expletives erupting from me

'What the xxxx have we been cycling on then for the past ten miles! They are hardly xxxxxxx speed bumps. If they are not xxxxxxx significant climbs what the xxxx are they going to be like when we xxxxxxx get to them.'

Tony tried to reassure me that the first climb was at the bottom of this next descent and that they pretty much followed one after another. 

'For  xxxx sake'  the turrets continued 

Suddenly I was no longer in the Scottish wilderness but with my head on a block during the French revolution. The executioner was telling me that I should not worry as they had just changed the blade  on the guillotine.

 'At least the pain will all come together' I thought.

The next hour was probably the hardest time I have ever had on a bike. I was in an acute state of melancholia. I kept on telling the guys to ride on and leave me, that I would either see them at the finish or that they could visit me in the morgue.

I asked them to each choose one of my bikes for themselves and to consider arranging a commemorative Sportive for over weight cyclists after my passing.
They laughed, not realising that I was being serious.

When the final summit did come there was a long shallow descent and a wind assisted flat for about 8 miles back to Tornapress. By the time we hit the flat, I was re-engaging with the surroundings again and smiling. It wasn't so bad after all. Is it ever?

That night we spoke of the days ride and of the following day on the Isle of Skye. We smiled heartily  and made various toasts as the Scotch ignited  our own spirits.

I raised my glass in special toast 'Let the Peeeeecers of the world unite'

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!!!!!!!

Ventoux

Part 1

As the bridge of Avignon disappeared through the rear view window words from my childhood came to my lips.......  sur le Pont d'Avignon

On y danse, On y danse

Sur le Pont d'Avignon

On y danse tous en rond

I have never been keen on dancing but do love 'strictly'. I also like the way great cyclists dance on their pedals, effortlessly guiding up slopes like a Lycra clad Nuryev. 

I am not climber and can only 'dad dance' the pedals in my overstretched Lycra. 

With Avignon behind us my attention was drawn to the sky in front 

At first I thought it was a gull angled in such a way to catch the sun but soon realised that it was seemingly attached to a larger stationary form

It was the mast at the top of Ventoux 

So far up it looked ridiculously out of proportion to its surroundings. like a sand dune next to an over exuberant sandcastle.

I giggled to myself - an awkward nervous impulsive emotion with little relevance

We all dance there, we all dance 

The words came back in English 

 When we arrived at our gitte we found ourselves situated on a vineyard under the shadow of the seagull Monster. 

I was informed that Roman Bardet had once stayed there - he can dance 

But he only drank water

Cheers Roman 

I'll look for your name on the road tomorrow 

Part 2

In the circus world it's traditional for the lion tamer to visit the cage just prior to the performance.

Apparently to say a few words to their maned beast, and look him directly in the eye.

Although lacking the knowledge i can imagine that they would say something  like 'I want no blood spilled today please'

The evening before tackling my own beast, I visited the FBR (French bike  Rental) shop opposite the starting point. 

To my delight the shop owner said I could take my bike that evening at no extra cost........

Great I thought

But 'Monsieur byciclette' had not finished speaking.

'Unfortunately the bike you wanted with disc brakes is broken so we have upgraded you to one with Di2,  it's only got standard brakes but is slightly lighter.

I was not happy

Having Di2 on Ventoux is similar to having a Rolex watch that is broken.

It might look good but will only be of any use  twice a day.

In my case climbing up in your lowest gear and then descending in your biggest one.

As for being 'slightly lighter' if I carried one less inner tube it would have had the same effect. In the grand scheme of things it makes no difference when your of a similar weight to a 'deux chevaux'

Although I thanked him, he had read my mind and smiled wryly.

I set off at 8:30 giving enough chance for the September sun to illuminate the Rhone valley and to take away the morning chill. 

Although the season was drawing to its close I was staggered by the assortment of masochists that accompanied me. Some were notably heavier than me, most much lighter, all ages, gender and nationalities each sharing the same goal and a slightly nervous disposition

 The first few km are benign where you can ride with your head up and admire the views. The mountain top to the distant north needed no introduction, It appeared to glow under the rays of the morning sun announcing its presence as one of natures heavyweights. 

Purple grapes tugged at their supporting foliage within the adjoining vineyards. Their ripeness indicating that they were close to commencing their own journey. Like me having their very life being squeezed out of them in order to achieve something seemingly greater.

On arriving at St Esteve my comfort zone evaporated with the 12% hairpin of the ‘Virage du Bois’ which took me into ‘The Forest’. The sort of forest I associated with Little red riding hood’, moody and menacing where things were not quite how they seemed. As a child it would have been great to hide amongst those vast vertical timbers, but for me now I was totally naked, with nowhere to hide. 

The attritional ramps were not punctuated with cosy soft bends but stretched out so far in front, that they caused you to look away.

About two thirds of the way up there was a break in the canopy and for the first time you could see the Summit. 

Its proximity was contradictory. 

Whilst is seemed significantly closer than from the valley bottom, the angle between my chin and my neck was at its absolute limit.

Clouds were now dancing across its form enforcing my view that this destination was somewhere way up in the sky.

My heart rate was already past threshold and had now jumped into the red through a combination of endeavour and fear. My legs ragged with revolution -not the motional one, but the angry kind. 

I stopped. 

There was a parking area next to this point which guaranteed that I would be able to clip back into my cleats and I used my age-old excuse that I needed to capture the view in a picture. I have lots of pictures.

After greedily sucking on the contents of my Bidon I continued plunging back into the forest with its linear purgatory.

The remaining kilometres to Chalet Raynard were counted down as symbolically as a captive awaiting his release. On my arrival I treated myself to another photo session and an unusual Cappuccino.   

This consisted of an espresso with and aerosol derived topping. 

Clearly the trauma of the climb had put me in a state of submission as I did not even flinch as the spray can was crudely rotated around the top of my cup. 

The last section of the climb from Chalet Raynard to the top of Ventoux is spectacular. Its famed lunar type landscape lasts a total of 6km averaging at about 7.5%. The road reads like a reference library of cycling royalty marking many Tour de France stages that I have viewed in the past. I had seen this part dozens of times I felt elated by its unknown familiarity. 

 This feeling was temporary. The route to the top stretched out in front of me like a meandering river with a procession of different coloured heads bobbing up and down in agonised symmetry.

Although I was now approaching 6,000 feet the air felt thiner and my legs laboured with the pedals. I passed other cyclists pedalling squares and some had stopped pedalling completely. 

One poor soul lay motionless surrounded by paramedics and a bottle of oxygen. 

He was close to the Tom Simpson memorial and I was reminded that the challenge of this mountain has been the last for more than a few.

As I rounded the last bend the clouds retreated in applause at my arrival.

I was elated and relieved in good measure and ready for another photo break.

The time of close to three hours climbing was meant to represent another monument climb completed another tick off my bucket list. That would be doing it an injustice.

The giant of Provence is just that, a giant.

Something to be measured against, a yardstick for physical and mental adversity

As I descended I smiled at the thought of the new addition to my vocabulary 

Its not like ‘Ventoux’