The Breakaway - Coffee Not Included

The Breakaway is available in paperback or ebook, has lots of mountains and you can buy it here. 

Coffee not included.

Cooked on the Casse Déserte

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.

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.

£0.00004 Per Metre

Me on the Stelvio's 'easy' side.

For me, stage 16 is where this year’s Giro properly begins (assuming the weather holds), and where many of the competitors will be sorely wishing it properly ended: the mountains — the really, really big mountains.

The 139km jaunt warms up with the Passo Gavia, ridden from Ponte di Legno. I’ve tackled the Gavia both ways, neither of which heroic acts featured in The Breakaway. Next is the mighty (as if the Gavia isn’t also mighty) Passo Stelvio, topping out at a mere 2758 metres. The Giro is racing up from the easier (in my humble opinion) Bormio side. Again I’ve ridden it both ways (go me!) but it was on the climb from Prato that I succumbed to Breakaway bonk paranoia and rode off ahead of my companion, Drew.

“Somewhere within the last ten switchbacks I snapped out of the fugue, looked round for Drew, the idea that I had been riding with someone else slowly gaining credence. I eased up and that other person came into view, far in the distance, an ant in my curious gaze. All the while I was watching him, the worrywart voice in my head persisted, nagging incessant, telling me to forget about my friend: hurry, hurry, hurry, before the bonk comes back! Forget about him, save yourself, save yourself! What if you hit the wall? Don't look back, don't look back!”

Things weren’t quite the same from then on.

Stage 16 of Doom ends atop the 2059 metre-high Val Martello, which, sadly, I haven’t ridden, from any direction.

And there’s more two days later: stage 18 features the Passo San Pellegrino, which Drew and I drove along during The Breakaway but sadly never rode, and climaxes with a cruise up to the Rif. Panarotta, which I’d never even heard of until the announcement of this year’s corsa rosa.

The dénouement is Stage 20 and the Monte Zoncolan, a monstrous ascent that cast a dark shadow over the initial days of The Breakaway, and which will haunt me until I get my skinny Scottish butt back over to Italy for a re-try (and will probably continue to haunt me, only in more gory detail, even after that).

The Bargain

To celebrate (or perhaps for the sprinters in the gruppetto, to commiserate) the last week of the Giro and all this uphill awesomeness, The Breakaway is reduced to only 99p, which works out at about £0.0000099 per word or £0.00004 per metre climbed — check it out here.

It’s a bargain in anyone’s book and might just inspire a bout of mountain madness all of your own.

As one reviewer on Amazon said:

“This personalised account gives you the flavour of how difficult, both physically and mentally, these climbs are, but gives you the urge to go out and try them for yourself.”

Very kind and, hopefully, true.

Not Been There, Not Done That

In the weeks and months after returning home from my Breakaway travels I exuded an air of ascender's arrogance. In a couple of weeks I’d climbed almost three times the height of Everest. I’d taken on and (just about) survived many of cycling’s biggest names: Ventoux, Galibier, Izoard, Stelvio ... .

None of the climbs that Scotland had to offer could perturb me. “Think this is bad?” I’d shout at my legs, “this is nothing compared to the [insert famous-name climb] and you survived that!”

I’d been there, done that — or so I thought.

With every grand tour comes a clutch of climbs, some big names, some I’d never heard of, whose tarmac my tyres have yet to touch. The routes of 2014’s big three prove no exception.

Not Just For Christmas

PERFECT FOR ANYONE — EVEN WEIRDOES

The Breakaway would make the perfect gift for any cyclist  — especially those who can read —  and non-cyclists (weirdoes that they are) would love it too.

Well I would say that, wouldn’t I?

Yes, I would, but it happens to be true. There is a lot of cycling in The Breakaway, and a lot of cycling up mountains (roughly equivalent to three ascents of Everest). There’s also a lot of humour — laughter inspired by heatstroke, oxygen debt and the likes of The Goonies, bicycle-eating Italian goats, Marmot smuggling, Goose from Top Gun, Minxy the mutant Playmate, and more.

Life’s not all giggles and energy jells though, and neither is The Breakaway. There are some serious issues in there too, such as my struggle to overcome grief whilst attempting to overcome hors category mountain passes, and dealing with a friendship that was balanced on a rocky precipice like the bus at the end of The Italian Job.

HOW TO SEND AN E-BOOK AS A GIFT

“Okay, I’m sold”, I hear you cry, “but how to gift the cyclist/reader in my life an e-book?”

Simple. If you're in the UK the easiest way is to send a gift card by email. Make it out for the amount of the book you wish to gift (mine, at £3.99, of course), add the lucky recipient's email address and then type a suitable message in the box before you click buy – something like: “The Breakaway – Cycling The Mountains of the Tour France sounds like it's right up your allez.”

And don't forget to include a link to the book of your choice – there's one for The Breakaway here:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Breakaway-Cycling-Mountains-France-ebook/dp/B00BO9LLG8

If you're in America and using Amazon.com then it’s even easier — just find the book you want to gift and click the Give as a Gift button (you Yanks don't know how easy you've got it!).

WHAT ABOUT ME?!

What if you don’t know a cyclist/person who can read? Then gift a copy to yourself, of course (and make finding some cyclist/more intelligent friends your top new year’s resolution).

You don’t even need  to own a Kindle. Download the Kindle reader app and you can Breakaway on a desktop, laptop, tablet, smartphone, and maybe even a teapot (or perhaps not).

You’ve had a tough year, you’ve been a very good boy/girl/hermaphrodite — you deserve a copy of The Breakaway.

But remember, this book is not just for Christmas. If you’re a slow reader it might well last through to the end of the Ardennes Classics.

High-Mountain Heroes

Erik & Rolf in hell

In 2004 I went to the cinema in Edinburgh to watch Hell on Wheels (Hollentour, in its native German). The movie is a documentary by French director Pepe Danquart's and tells the story of the 2003 Tour de France through the eyes of the T-Mobile team and two of their riders, sprinter Erik Zabel and his faithful domestique, Rolf Aldag.

I enjoyed the film, liked seeing cycling and the Tour on the big screen. I enjoyed little insights such as the fraternal relationship between team leader and domestique.

However much I enjoyed it though, I left the cinema feeling none the wiser (perhaps less the wiser). I wanted to know, to really know, what it took to ride the Tour, what was going on behind the curtain, or at the back of the bus. I liked seeing how Zabel's soigneur lathered the cream onto his rider's chamois, but what about the real secrets to the sprinter's success? What were the riders swallowing and injecting when the cameras weren't rolling. And if the riders on the screen weren't swallowing and injecting, then what did they think of their team-mates who were?

Ten years on and Zabel has finally offered a glimpse behind the curtain, given in to the inevitable pressure for truth and admitted to the use of EPO, cortisone and blood doping. Yes he suffered in the heat and on the climbs - him and all the rest - but he also re-transfused his own blood. That's the stuff I wanted to know about back in 2004, the stuff we all suspected but weren't about to be shown, especially not in Technicolour on the silver screen. (Had Pepe Danquart shown us the blood coming out and going back in then it really would have seemed like a glimpse into cycling hell.)

By the time I hit the mountains of Europe to ride The Breakaway I was already pretty disillusioned with pro-cycling. My desire to see behind the curtain had reached insatiable levels; I no longer believed in what I saw on the TV screen, what I read about in the monthly magazines. So it was away from the men who raced the bikes and to the mountains themselves that my admiration and awe were directed  (and, to a lesser degree, to myself, because I was riding climb after climb on nothing but bread and water - or, in my case, SIS Electrolyte energy drink, a whole load of dried apricots and apricot-jam-filled croissants).

I really hope the pro-peloton's current proclamations of a new era really are to be believed (this time, finally) but, to be honest, I don't care. My cycling heroes reach high into the clouds, their reputations incontrovertibly rock-solid. Names like Ventoux, Tourmalet and Izoard will never test positive, never let me down.

Remembering Marco

pic from cycling-passion.com

The late Marco Pantani was a cyclist I greatly admired, a climber whose exploits further fuelled my admiration of the cycling climber and stoked my ambition to go to Europe and try the mountains for myself. He was also the cycling inspiration of Drew, my companion during the travels that make up my book, The Breakaway - Cycling the Mountains of the Tour de France. Without Marco I might never have ridden Alpe d’Huez, the Stelvio, Mont Ventoux, et al.

Pantani was oft compared to an artist; Lance Armstrong called him the Salvador Dali of cycling. He rode with unbridled panache, making crazy decisions to attack based on gut feeling, eschewing modern training and racing aids such as the heart-rate monitor.

However, as the French Senate confirmed on Wednesday Pantani also doped, in this case with EPO, during the 1998 edition of the Tour de France, which he won. Pantani wasn’t alone in his indiscretions: second-placed rider that year, Jan Ulrich, also retroactively tested positive for EPO, as did the American, Bobby Julich, who finished third. It was just those three, and all the rest – the ’98 Tour will forever be synonymous with the Festina affair. Watchmaker Festina was the title sponsor of the team whose soigneur was caught with performance enhancing drugs prior to the race start. The arrest lifted the lid on the sport’s pharmaceutical underbelly and triggered the greatest scandal cycling would see for, well, until the next scandal.

Lightning Quick

The thunder and lightning currently blasting my neighbourhood of Edinburgh into submission is pretty scary, but none will ever be as scary (I hope!) as that which nearly welded me onto the tarmac of the Col d'Aubisque:

Whilst I clung onto Drew’s back wheel and chuckled at what I saw as an irrational fear, the lightning caught up and cracked directly overhead. That explosion of noise was the loudest thing I have ever heard, hopefully the loudest thing I will ever hear. The air turned bright blue as its water content sizzled to the boil. The hairs on our necks stood on end as if we’d stuck our fingers into a electric socket; those power lines I had so recently joked about hissed, buzzed and visibly jerked on their pylon mounts like a sack full of body-popping snakes — the danger I had dismissed suddenly all too real. I shifted up a gear and raced passed Drew, no longer as brave nor as forthcoming with suggestions as to what the lightning might do next. It was all too bloody obvious: we were about to be cooked alive!

To read more click here and pick up a copy of The Breakaway for just £3.99/$4.99.

Best of Times, Worst of Times

One of the great things about having ridden a load of Tour climbs is pretending to know how the peloton feels as the Tour cruises and crawls over the same roads. Stage 19 takes in the Col du Glandon and the Col de la Madeliene, both of which I tackled during The Breakaway. For me the Madeleine was a total and utter nightmare. I suffered like a dog (trapped inside a hot car) the whole way up. The Glandon was that day's second ascent and, surprisingly, I recovered enough to find it, dare I say, enjoyable.

Click to enlarge profile

Who knows how the pros will be feeling as they roll off one Col and on to the next (sore, I'd expect, what with two and a half weeks of racing and yesterday's Alpe D double in their legs). Hopefully more like I felt on the Glandon and not as bad as I felt on the Madeleine.

The worst of times upon the Madeleine:

Cooked atop Madeleine

I was battling with every available ounce of willpower but truly going nowhere; even butterflies were overtaking me. Drew, on the other hand, was feeling (at least relatively) great and refusing to hold anything in reserve for the Glandon. He was also refusing to wait for me, cruised off up the climb and was soon a distant blue dot upon my far horizon — surely a revenge of sorts for my dismissive attitude on La Plagne the previous day. I at once hated and admired my friend, jealousy at his strength countered only by wonder. I felt utterly pathetic as he danced delicately on the pedals, pulling the tarmac down and beneath his tyres. The sun that had become my bête noire was his best friend. Sleeves rolled up and smiling, to him the Madeleine was nothing more than an opportunity to top up the tan whilst taking in a bit of a hill. And with each glimpse of his prowess, the circling vultures of negativity closed in.

A couple of particularly steep corners later and I was audibly cursing Drew, spitting my disdain as if his contrasting condition and velocity were all at my expense. He was purposely taunting me, riding me into the ground as revenge for my actions upon the Stelvio, for having ignored his concerns on the Izoard and La Plagne, for having forced him to come on this trip with its evil Folder of Doom. Was he really so stupid, really so spiteful? I would have spat in disgust had my saliva not already dried up and disappeared.

The best of times upon the Glandon:

The air cooled considerably the higher we climbed, an arrestingly fresh mountain atmosphere that proved a stark contrast to the day's earlier, stifling extremes. Whereas on the Madeleine it had felt like I'd been inhaling hot sand, this new breeze was like an elixir, each intake of breath verging upon a quasi-religious experience. No doubt thanks to that climatic change, the remainder of the energy I had sorely lacked that morning returned, and then some. Drew was either fatigued or had grown accustomed to the idea of my continued existence, no longer expressing the desire to be a bike-length ahead at all times. Just as well too; given half the chance I would have been down in the drops, out the saddle, doing my best Pantani impression. It was inconceivable that the climb on which I had almost thrown my bike into the valley could be part of the same day. My earlier miseries were a lifetime away, part of some distant nightmare or a horror story overheard.

Get yourself a copy of The Breakaway for just £3.99.

Ride the Helter Skelter

For stage 18 the Tour de France will tackle Alpe d'Huez twice. The GC contenders will surely be

Double-ouch stage profile

nervous about this stage. The sprinters and rest of the autobus regulars will be absolutely bloody dreading it. Alpe D once in a Tour stage must hurt enough. Twice will purgatory, for them. For us voyeuristic public it will be an unmissable spectacle.

I've ridden Alpe d'Huez four times (ooh, get me) but never more than once in a day, and never as part of a 172.5km Tour stage. My fourth jaunt to the top was when I rode if as part of The Breakaway (buy a copy here for just £3.99 and read a short extract from my Alpe_D day below). It was easily one of the most enjoyable climbs of the whole trip. Whilst other ascents had actively tried to end my life, Alpe d'Huez seemed to wrap her road around me in a warming embrace, the colourful (if, admittedly, painful) 21 hairpins filling me with excitement and enthusiasm. I'd go back and ride it again in a heartbeat. Even four times up the Alpe isn't enough.

"Alpe d’Huez is around an hour (nearing the three-quarter-hour mark for the best) of all-out effort. In order to maintain morale for the duration you have to concentrate on something other than the pain. Vast swathes of the road were (probably always will be) daubed with a mess of cycling-fans' graffiti. It turns a stretch of grey tarmac into something that more resembles a fun-park helter skelter. Not only are there riders' names and nicknames to discern, there are a host of languages to test and confuse an already addled mind. (Scattered incongruously amongst the sporting scribbles were an array of rather graphic depictions of genitalia, some standing proudly alone, others coupled together, usually captioned by Spanish text that I was happily unable to translate.) On my first ascent I had also attempted to sideline the pain by thinking as much as I could about each of the riders name-checked on the hairpins' signs. That technique had proved inspiring and also a little depressing, especially when huffing and puffing past the name of a pure climber like Luis Herrera (on bend 12; winner in 1984).

There are a few other distractions but none really loud enough to be heard through the pain. La Garde comes after hairpin number 16, where you might struggle to avoid the small water fountain and restaurant, its customers staring idly as you haul yourself passed their tables. You might feel like screaming when the diners neglect to applaud, but don't forget that the locals are probably sick of seeing cyclists, thousands of them, every year, groups of all sizes, individual adventurers, one and all “taming” the Alpe. The road does ease off a touch there (if you can call a 7% gradient easy), as it does a few kilometres (or 10 hairpins) later near the hamlet of Huez. If you are suffering on the climb, those are the points where you might want to resist the temptation of riding faster, when you should relax as much as possible, recover a little before the next gruelling section to come. The last part of the climb is steep (8 to 9% all the way to the summit) and only admonished by the knowledge that the pain will soon end. The road then splits in two and you should take the left fork (the road the Tour uses — remember, doing it like the pros) and come up in the front of the town. On race day this option can often be closed, forcing you to go round the back road, which is tougher and without the knowledge that you are riding on the Tour finale. That finish line is usually placed a short ride into the village, the point at which to check your jersey is zipped up, your shades are down, arms aloft as you coast in to the appreciation of the crowd — you know, the one in your head. Or is that just me?"

To buy a copy of The Breakaway for only £3.99 click here.

The Breakaway Reviewed

I'm not one to blow my own trumpet (tuba, trombone or cornet) so I'll let the rather excellent blog inthegc.com do it for me. Here's an extract from their recent review of The Breakaway:

Rae-Hansen seamlessly manages to combine a real knowledge of the climbs, the facts and figures, their place in history, both in and away from the Tour, whilst tackling some difficult, altogether more serious issues like the passing of his Father and the frailty of emotion that comes with such a huge undertaking. The trivia that Rae-Hansen plucks from an obvious deep understanding of cycling, the legend and terrain of the Tour de France is wonderfully dispersed amongst the wider narrative, providing plenty for the pure cycling enthusiast, whilst the book could just as easily reach out to a non-cycling audience as a story of (mis)adventure, longing, relationships and loss.

Click here to read the rest of the review.

No Holiday on Ventoux

Click to enlarge stage profile

Sunday July 14th July sees stage 15 of the Tour de France, the longest in this year's race. As if the distance of 242.5 kilometres wasn't enough, the organisers have lumped the climb of Mont Ventoux on at the end – just to make sure no one gets the idea that July 14th is some kind of French holiday and an excuse for a day off work.

By the time The Breakaway reached Carpentras for the the Giant of Provence the mood in our travelling camp was like the weather around it: oppressively hot, shocked and scarred by rumbling thunder and bolts of lightening.

The Semi-Circle of Death

Click to enlarge stage profile

Saturday sees the 100th Tour's first foray into the mountains (about bloody time too, I say). This year La Boucle is running clockwise and so the Pyrenees come first. On Sunday, stage 9 heads from Saint-Girons to Bagnères-de-Bigorre over quite a few Pyrenean passes, including the Col de Peyresourde.

For me the Peyresourde will forever remain a part of Robert Millar Day, an unofficial, never to be repeated event about which you can read more here.

Click to enlarge climb profile

The climb of the Peyresourde from Bagnères de Luchon (the direction I rode it and the direction the Tour will tackle) is a tad over 15 kilometres long, takes in 939 metres of ascent and has an average gradient of 6.1%. Not an absolute monster in isolation (not for the pro peloton, anyhow) but in combination with another three first-category climbs, and a second-cat, in a 168.5 kilometre stage, it will be a sore part of a much harder whole.

Stage 10 of the 1926 Tour was an inhumane 326-kilometre-long brute from Bayonne to Luchon, crossing the Aubisque, the Tourmalet, the Aspin and the Peyresourde, and was nicknamed The Circle of Death. During The Breakaway we rode the Peyresourde and its neighbour, the ascent to Superbagnères, in the same morning and joked that we had ridden the Semi-Circle of Death. I can look back and laugh now but it was no joke at the time — sweltering heat, rough Pyrenean roads and a hefty dose of the holiday splats saw to that:

The temperature had rocketed in the hour since Super-B, further hampering my slog with a heat that

Laurent Brochard

fast approached Rolf Roasting Point. As we passed through a wee village called Garin, the gradient eased to about 4%, sufficient respite to allow my mind a moment or two of contemplation: I was going to empty both bottles of water over my head; I was going to turn around and freewheel back down to Luchon, throw myself into the fountain and cry for my mummy until she arrived to pick me up. My Laurent-Brochard-style bandanna/sweatband had filled to overflowing, was drip-dripping salty sweat into my eyes, into a headset top-cap bolt now rusted and ruined by days of perspiration. I dreamt of a cold sponge on the back of my neck, the way boxing trainers revive weary fighters. In fact, forget sponges, I needed an injection of something performance-enhancing, preferably deep-frozen and highly, improbably illegal. With that thought I rode over a slogan daubed onto the road: dopé salut.

To read more or buy a copy of The Breakaway - Cycling the Mountains of the Tour de France click here.

Never Meet Your Heroes - Their Jerseys Will Do

The main inspiration behind The Breakaway was a desire to ride my bike up the high-mountain passes made famous by the Tour de France. The art of climbing by bike has always held me in its thrall. I was (still am) a skinny chap, and so riding uphill was my forte, or at least I was better at it than most of my cycling peers. There was also a rather famous compatriot over in France providing inspiration (to me and many others).

Millar in Polka Dots

Robert Millar is the only British rider ever to have won the Tour’s King of the Mountains polka-dot jersey, a feat he achieved in 1984. In 1989, I was a sixteen-year-old riding my bike at every available opportunity. Millar was by then a 30-year-old, highly successful pro on the Z-Peugeot team. That year he won the summit-finish-stage from Cauterets to Superbagnères (which also included the climbs of the Tourmalet, Aspin, and Peyresourde), and finished the race in tenth place overall. I was a new convert to the joys of Le Tour and watched events unfold through Channel 4’s half-hour highlights programme, gazing wide-eyed at an exotic, exciting world, where men did battle on high-mountains passes with names like D’Huez and Marie Blanque. And in amongst all that exoticism was a Scot, a man from my own country — entertaining, awesome to watch and utterly inspiring.

The Breakaway - A Personal Piece of Tour History

One notion that I took away from the travels behind the story of The Breakaway was a sense that the climbs we had tackled were essentially the exact same roads the Tour peloton had been riding since the race first tackled the high mountains over one hundred years ago. The road surfaces had improved (tarmac laid onto the mud tracks of those pioneering days) but in essence the Col du Tourmalet I huffed and puffed my way up was the same that created the legend of Eugène Christophe in 1913, the same over which my hero Robert Millar led the race in 1989 (en route to stage victory at Superbagnères). Many of the climbs that the race will tackle this July will be the same sweet and savage roads I was lucky enough to ride during my own tour of France.

On Saturday 29th of June the peloton will roll out of Porto-Vecchio on the island of Corsica for the start of the 100th Tour de France. Whilst a sprinter, such as Mark Cavendish or Peter Sagan, is likely to don the first yellow jersey, it will be in the mainland’s high mountains that the race overall is decided.


With Bradley Wiggins apparently all but wiped from the public’s consciousness (how fickle the British sporting fan), Chris Froome has stepped up to the plate (or kicked Wiggins clean from it) to become pre-race favourite and undisputed Team Sky leader. Whereas Wiggins’ forte is the time trial, Froome will be looking up-slope to make his winning moves. He is a far better climber than Wiggins, perhaps the best in the world right now. On the high passes of the Alps and Pyrenees he and Team Sky will most likely put on a dominant display or, you never know, he will falter, allowing a rival to steal a march and make their mark on Tour history.

Each year the riders (with a little help from the mountains) create another instalment of Tour history to add to the archive, another layer of reference for the fans (those of us around now and those of us who will be around to see the 200th Tour). No two editions of the race are the same (although the Armstrong and Indurain eras were often predictably dull). No matter what kind of cycling, or cyclist you are into, there’s always something to look forward to.

This year, like Chris Froome, but for different reasons, I'll particularly be looking forward to the Ventoux summit finish (stage 15) and the Alpe D'Huez double (stage 18). There's a real sense of satisfaction to be gained from watching the peloton race up climbs you have tackled (albeit at comparably inferior speed) — pride (perhaps a little shame too) and a deal of (in my case, unashamedly) childish excitement. That’s one of the great joys of cycling, the fact that you can ride out your own fantasies, create your own personal sporting legends upon the exact same stage that your heroes (and a few villains) once strutted their stuff.

Click here to buy or preview a copy of The Breakaway. It might just inspire you to create some Tour history of your own.

It's a Stelvio No-Go

Stage 19 of the 2013 Giro d'Italia is scheduled to tackle The Stelvio but it appears that Madre Natura has other plans. With the pass blocked by snow, and more forecast to fall, (at the time of writing this blog) race organisers look set to remove the climb from the day's route. You can check out the current summit conditions for yourself by viewing the Stelvio webcam here.

This Giro has been dominated by the weather, with rain and snow almost as prevalent as the blazing sun and azure skies we expect to see in Italy at this time of year. As for snow at the top of the Stelvio? It's a mountain pass that tops out at 2757 metres, so a little inclement weather is to be expected.

Stelvio 'easy' side in the sun

I've tackled the Stelvio from both the Bormio side (which this Giro was scheduled to ride) and the more famous (surely infamous?) ascent from Prato. The latter is definitely the harder of the two, one of the hardest, if not the hardest of the many climbs I tackled during The Breakaway. If you can only ever ride one Grand Tour climb I'd suggest aiming for this one. It's an absolute brute, a bona fide legend. Reach the summit (weather and legs permitting) and you'll have lifelong bragging rights.

So, here goes with a bit of bragging and a short extract from my Stelvio ascent for The Breakaway (don't say I'm not good to you!):

How many hairpins?

I could feel the energy evaporating from within, certain my fate was but a matter of timing, unrelated to the effort I expended, sand slowly draining from the hourglass. Then the cold shakes set in. 

"I told you to hurry!" The fear shouted its final warning and once again I succumbed, made a dash toward the summit to counter the risk of never reaching it. 

At hairpin 5 I changed up a gear and heaved round the pedals in a manner that suggested I had excess energy to give — head down, the alarm ringing in my ears, teeth gritted against the pain. At 4 my quads were in agony; at 3 I felt twinges of cramp; 2 and my lungs burned from the effort; by hairpin 1 I didn’t care that the summit lay just ahead at the end of the long, steep, straight ramp. Managing the next pedal stroke was my only concern.

To read more or to purchase a copy of the The Breakaway click here or visit Amazon.

The Breakaway costs less than an inner tube and you don't even need a Kindle to read it. Just download the free Kindle app and read it on your laptop, desktop, tablet or teapot. (I made that last one up.)

The Giro d'Francia?

On Sunday 19th of May, stage 15 of the 2013 Giro d'Italia will make a foray into the French Alps. The race was scheduled to tackle two climbs up which I soared (or was it suffered?) as part of my adventures in The Breakaway: Mont Cenis and the Col du Galibier. However, as of Saturday the 18th it appeared that heavy summit-snow and a risk of avalanches had resulted in both these climbs being withdrawn from the day's itinerary.

Had these climbs still been included then hopefully none of the riders in the Giro would have been as confused as I was by Cenis, nor as challenged by the Galibier.

The Breakaway ... and the Giro d'Italia too.

... and the Giro too

Okay, okay, so the title says it's all about the mountains of the Tour de France. Well, truth is, the travels (and travails) of The Breakaway actually kicked off in Italy.


Our first five days took in the Dolomites and Italian Alps, climbs that were breathtaking to look at and ride, passes infused by decades' of myth and tifosi passion. My first experience of riding in Italy was unforgettable, but so tough that it nearly ended out trip before it had properly begun.

Lake Garda Goonie

We were turned to Goonies by the darkness of Lake Garda's unlit tunnels, almost eaten alive by Dolomiti billy goats, truly humbled by the Stelvio, its innumerable switchbacks and silver-haired Shaolin monks.

Stelvio Switchbacks

The Tour is indisputably the biggest race but the Giro d'Italia is every bit as inspiring. Could it be the fans' passion, the Italian flair for style and drama, the azure seas and skies? It's all that and a whole load of truly immense mountains that make the Giro what it is. Unmissable.

To preview the book or buy a copy for only £3.99 click here or visit Amazon.

Strava Sucker

For the uninitiated, Strava is an app used by cyclists (and runners) to log their activity. Whilst you pedal it creates a map of your route, and compiles data on distance, time, average speed, altitude gained, etc.

Whether you like it or not, Strava also takes your time taken to ride “segments” (specific sections of road or their website, from there you can, “see where you rank and start moving up the leaderboards.”

A Strava Sucker in Action

trail) and then compares your results against other cyclists who’ve ridden that same segment. As they say on

I added Strava to my phone's apps late last year, mainly too see what all the fuss was about. A few uses and, although I liked that it generated a share-able map of my ride, the skeptic in me erred toward seeing it as little more than a way for show-offs to do a bit more showing off, the chance to turn every mundane rise in the road into a virtual race. The pessimist in me also began to worry about my lack of fitness.

The Breakaway

The Breakaway

Publishing The Breakaway was a case of wresting victory from the jaws of defeat. One of the book’s sub-plots is the breakdown in my relationship with fellow traveler, “Drew” (as he’s known in the book). The trip wasn't entirely to blame for the friendship’s failure but it certainly exacerbated, and opened my eyes to, differences that existed between us.

Drew was my best friend and the end of the friendship was pretty depressing. It over-shadowed my opinion of our trip, and it took me a while (and a good deal of nagging from my girlfriend, Gaby) to come back around to the idea of publishing the diary as a book.

As I say in the introduction, the mountains of the Tour de France and Giro d’Italia truly left their mark. They changed me, mentally, physically and emotionally (helping me to see through the grief I was suffering as a result of my father’s death from cancer). I’d watch Tours and Giros on TV and recognise (even indistinct sections of) the roads up which Drew and I had suffered and soared. 

Eventually time passed,the summer sunshine burnt away the cloud and I could more clearly see the positives. I took Gaby’s advice and returned to the trip diary. A read-through left me buzzing with pride, often laughing out loud, shedding a tear or two, amazed at what we’d achieved and pining to be back on the high roads of Europe. This, I realised, really is a story worth telling.

And hopefully others will find that it’s a story worth reading.

Click here to preview or purchase The Breakaway on Amazon (you can read it on a Kindle, or on a laptop, iPad, etc using the Kindle app).