Stage 14 of the this year's Tour de France takes in a wee hill called the Col d'Izoard. Here's an extra from The Breakaway on the day that very climb very nearly claimed us:
Our bodies weren't the only casualties of the heat; the road had
succumbed too. Our tyres tacked to patches of molten tar, a palpable
sense that the mountain would rather consume us than allow for
another pedal-powered human to reach its peak. We were the victims of
a conspiracy, the gradient, the weather and the road all combining to
ensure defeat. The Izoard would glue us in place, hold us still
whilst the sun cooked, until the ashes of our bikes and bodies could
be scattered by the winds, adding sand to the Casse Déserte.
Where the road hadn't melted we'd often see yet more fans' graffiti
left over from recent races. There were a few “Go Lance”
and a countering couple of “Vai Pantani”, but the most
common on this climb was “Udo & Jan”. There was a
half-mile stretch where the couple's tribute had been painted in
almost unbroken succession, as if that part of the road had been
created in their honour, or that Udo & Jan was the brand
name of the manufacturer. The Udo & Jan in question were of
course the Germans, Udo Bölts and Jan Ullrich. I'd never before
thought of those two as a couple, Jan was the team leader, the
undoubted star of cycling, Udo was just his trusty domestique who did
the work but rarely took the limelight. However, to this paint-happy
fan or fans Bölts & Ullrich were obviously inseparable, made to
go together like horse and carriage or love and marriage. And from
there I began to imagine Udo and Jan as a proper, married couple, as
if they were the glamour pairing of the peloton, like a German,
cycling version of Posh and Becks — oh, those thoughts, those
ridiculous thoughts and the ridiculous heat were killing me! (And
killing Drew too because I felt compelled to share.)
In an attempt to distract from my delirium and worries about our
imminent expiration, Drew began to recite the lyrics of the folk
song, Flower O' Scotland. For some unknown reason, that
unofficial Caledonian national anthem had popped up and then stuck
inside his head, playing over and over on a hellish (if patriotic)
loop. My attention was focussed on the less melodic sound of creaking
that came from my battered and worn left pedal cleat. That noise,
normally as welcome as the screech of fingernails on blackboard, was
strangely comforting, aural evidence that I remained in motion and
was therefore still alive. I settled in to the frequency of the
creak, the rhythm of the consequent sound and action: the cleat's
creak, the lungs' wheeze, the push on the pedals. Creak-wheeze-push.
I was the bagpipe backing to Drew's anthem. Creak-wheeze-push.
Creak-wheeze-push. Just as with the metallic clink of swinging
pendant striking jersey zip, it was another mind-clearing mantra to
which I succumbed. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Everything
else dissolved from the scene. Gone were the sticky tar and the
baking sun. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Gone were my thirst
and the sting of salty sweat. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push.
Gone was Drew, his bike, my bike, even the mountain up which
we struggled. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. No pain in legs
or lungs, no me, no mountain. Just the creak-wheeze-push.
Creak-wheeze-push.
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Somewhere around there I experienced what I can only describe as an
epiphany. There was no vision, no figure of Christ or the Virgin
Mary, just a moment where everything made perfect, joyous sense. An
ice-cool breeze blew out of nowhere, rushed up the hill and clean
through me. A subsequent shiver shot up my spine, rattled from the
inside out, shaking me up before shooting its way on and into my
brain. Although my pace hadn't quickened, it suddenly felt like I was
flying, the bike but a featherweight beneath me, legs uncommonly
supple and smooth. My gargoyle-on-the-toilet expression cracked with
a giant smile, the man who had so recently hovered upon the edge of
despair now buzzing with a blast of positive energy. In that brief
moment I knew why: why I was riding the Izoard that
day, why my life had followed a path I had no recollection of
choosing. Like a drugged-up hippie staring at a Goan sunset, I was
overwhelmed by understanding, unshakeably certain of my own
existence, deliriously glad to be alive. I was also aware of just how
privileged I was to be there, on that bike, on that road at that very
moment. I could have been stuck behind a desk, staring out the window
at the dogs and students who frequented the park adjacent to my
office; instead I was free as a bird, soaring (albeit very slowly)
toward the summit of a majestic mountain, challenging myself and
responding accordingly.
Thoughts turned to my late father, to his life, his achievements and
the love he had shown for all his family. Of course I missed him, did
so incredibly and always would, but there on the Izoard I felt that
he was riding shotgun, proving a more faithful wingman than Heras,
Hamilton and Hincapie all rolled into one. He was with me, inside me,
all around me, sharing the moment and proudly patting my back.
Thoughts shifted to my girlfriend, to my love for her, a desire to
have children of our own, so one day my son or daughter might ride
the mountain with me, shoulder to shoulder, sharing in the love and
wonder, the ardour and ecstasy. This, I thought, looking down
at the spinning pedals, up at the road ahead, this is my
church, out on a bike instead of sitting in a pew. This is where I
feel close to whatever god might be. Churches are buildings designed
to draw one's focus heavenward, architecture intended to inspire, and
wasn't that what those great mountains had been doing? They drew our
eyes, our bodies and minds upward. They lifted us from the daily
grind, from the fog of our troubles and worries. Physically we
climbed so that our spirits might soar.