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.

Never Meet Your Heroes - Redux

Back in June last year I wrote this short blog about 'meeting' the polka dot jersey won and worn by one of my cycling heroes, Robert Millar, at the 1984 Tour de France. 

I'd encountered it after stumbling into Billy Bilsland Cycles on the way home from an afternoon watching the British Road Race Championships at Glasgow Green.

Well it seems as if another trip west (surely a pilgrimage?) is on the cards. Billy Bilsland Cycles have this week unveiled an addition to their Millar tribute. Alongside the signed and framed spotty jersey you can now see the actual Peugeot bike upon which Millar rode to that famous victory.

Apparently the bike hadn't been seen in public for 30 years, having been in the ownership of a private collector. Well now (but unlike it's ilusive original owner) the bike is very much back in the public eye — and in one of Scotland's best bike shops too. Definitely worth a trip to Glasgow, if only to marvel at the size of the inner chainring — what, no compact?!

There's more info and a full gallery at Billy Bilsland's Facebook page.

(Still reckon retro Peugeots look better in fluro pink, like my old steed.)

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.

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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.

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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?"

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No Holiday on Ventoux

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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

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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.

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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.

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

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).