L Etape du Tour

The 7,380 of us (500 or so women) that showed up to ride L’etape du Tour on July 22, 2002 were asked to be in our starting location by 7:00 a.m. We were assigned parts of the main road through town by our number and I was in the middle of town across from the train station and next to a cheese factory. There were 3,600 people ahead of me and 3,600 people behind me and, at any given time, 1,500 of them were taking a leak somewhere in the town. Diana found me in the start up line and said that she didn’t think there was any place in the town that hadn’t been peed on at least twice. The picture below (from the 2000 L’Etape) is typical of the day—note the 60-year old in the foreground, there were many semi-senior citizens in the ride who could climb like mountain goats.

Thanks to Chainreaction.com for the pee-pic

I spotted three guys in work clothes standing outside a big building to the right of the fenced off course and they were all wearing mid-calf white neoprene boots. At first I though they were smart to do this to avoid getting splashed by the riders, but it turned out they were cheese workers and this was their usual gear. The crowd was happy, the day was dry and relatively warm for this time of morning. I had on knee warmers and carried a gore-tex riding jacket but opted to leave the arm warmers in the car. I took off the knee warmers just before the start and the temperature never required more than what I had which was my Tri-Cyclists short sleeve jersey and semi-matching bibs.

The race organization was again flawless. Riders were well ordered by number (although you could jump the fence if you had to take a pee, they do have priorities, and get back in at a place up the road) and the public address system could be heard clearly along the nearly 5 kilometers of starting line-up. There were celebrities announced who were doing the ride; it seemed that most of the French Olympic ski champions were giving it a go and Jeannie Longo got a warm but muted reception. Perhaps losing the world championship title after about 20 years put a damper on French enthusiasm. Then we were off. I passed under the starting balloon (just like the Tour) 9 minutes after the starting gun and noted that it already read two kilometers on my computer. The pace was getting faster as the group headed out the N90, a main road that allowed the mass of riders some room. Groups whizzed past and I passed others but there was no rhythm among this many riders. Very aggressive riders were pressing to the front but this was criterium race pressure and I was interested more in safety and frankly afraid of letting adrenalin take over on a ride that featured four big mountain climbs. We were greeted with big, professionally printed signs that announced we had gone 2 kilometers (“Bravo”) and had only 140 to go. The signs also warned of dangerous turns and narrow bridges and that there were 130 kilometers to go. I could brush up on my French with as much reading as I was getting in.

The ride into Bourg Saint Maurice was mostly flat to downhill but crowded and as we went through town I hadn’t made much headway in getting anywhere farther forward than I was at the start and the inevitable “Bouchon” (cork) happened in the first switch back up to the Cormet de Roseland. I unclipped and pushed twice, both times in or around tight turns where everyone rushed up when the pace slowed and the inevitable stop occurred. A motorcycle that was carrying a photographer stalled and fell on its side in one turn and that stopped things pretty good for a moment, but if you pushed ahead and didn’t engage in the “zoot!-ing” that accompanied these delays, you could get through to the other side pretty quickly. The clipping in and starting on the hills wasn’t so easy and more than a few people pitched over when they couldn’t get going. The bouchons were a bother to many on the ride and lit up the chat room page for the ride afterward. Some folks complained about having to stop and push their bikes on foot three times in the early part of the climb.

By the time we started really climbing the flats and the failures started happening. One guy stood on his pedals to get up the inside of a turn and his big ring and crank popped off. Another guy’s fork busted (carbon and new). The way up Roseland was crowded for the first three kilometers with people fixing bikes and people getting out of the way and this was already 14 kilometers into the ride. The following picture gives a sense of how crowded (thanks to Ron Cutler—see http://www.etape.org.uk/). Then is was up, up, up. I settled into a survival pace and realized that I, too, should have been peeing in the streets of Aime. When we rushed away fro the Ventoux stage we forgot to get a proper dinner and I didn’t drink all that much in the morning. I was probably under-hydrated and wasn’t going to get too much out of my legs unless I started to drink seriously and that was going to be at the first feed station on the top of the Cormet de Roseland. I emptied both bottles on the way up the 19 kilometer climb, “bad planning, I muttered.” The route went along a small road the entire time and as it rose we moved into splendid alpine vistas. Mont Blanc—and not the pen—was clearly and spectacularly visible along the route in several places. A few kilometers into the first climb I started hearing a strange tinkling that became a ort of pleasant clanking as we rode past scattered herds of huge brown alpine cows with great bells attached to their necks by broad leather collars; the sound seemed to be the signature noise for the ride at that time, there wasn’t much happy banter among the struggling riders. The mountain tops in the not too distant scenery were snow covered and there was a nice fresh nip in the air that was countered by the steady effort that clouded up my riding glasses for 30 minutes or so. All along the route people were stopping and either drinking or, you got it, peeing. I doubt there was a 100 meter space along the first climb where there wasn’t someone pointing themselves at a tree or rock or some anonymous blade of grass in a field. The road was getting littered as well with energy goo tubes from the faster riders who must be addicted to the stuff. In France it comes in little squeeze tubes that look more like suntan lotion dispensers than something to consume. These Frenchmen and women weren’t a particularly ecologic bunch The rule seemed to be if you can throw it in a place where no one has a chance of getting to it but it is obviously visible, do it. Guys pitched empty bottle over cliff and into ravines rather than aside the road to be cleaned up. The goo stuff, on the other hand, got put on the road in front of other riders. My front tire picked up a bit of sticky plastic that rapidly got wedged in my front brake and causes a loud zizzing noise that seemed to irritate my fellow riders who “zut” and “alor-ed” me into a quick stop to clear it out. There were rules after all, litter was OK but loud noises were out.

And still we climbed, my minimum speed of 10 kph was a challenge to maintain as I figured I was going to probably have a bonk without some big water infusions. My mantra became “quality time at the feed station” if it would ever come. The organizers had put mile markers along every climb and the slow pace of progress was very apparent as I inched up to the Cormet for a projected 2 hour climb. That would not win me the coveted silver medal for a 7:48 finish but I didn’t care now, survival was the name of the game.

The last kilometers up to Roseland were slow as we wound our way across and up open alpine meadows. There were people here encouraging us along—there would be more and more people as the ride went along as we began to run into the Tour early bird campers. This helped me get up the hill as I thought it too embarrassing to pitch over at a dead stop in front of some elderly woman on her ancient city bike who had pedaled up the mountain just to encourage us over the hill. There were indeed some folks on the ride with “plain old” bikes and a mountain bike or two and then the old guy with the full-fenders, lights, horn and carrier who chugged on by. “Nice helmet” I thought as I caught a rear view of the home made attire topping his gray and thinning hair—it was made of aluminum foil and cardboard, I’ll swear to it.

The organizers were pretty adamant about everyone having to have a helmet but that was squarely against the belief systems of some in the crowd. At the start I was amazed at some guys who seemed to be wearing their little kids’ helmets, little white plastic jobs that perched high on their heads strapped down with extended chin straps made of what looked like shoe-laces. These accommodations to the rules began to appear on the side of the road as we started up the hilly part and by the end of the ride, perhaps 10 percent of the riders were without helmets.

The feed station on the Cormet de Roseland was a jungle of people slipping around on banana and orange peels. Everyone seemed to have rushed to the first food stand and if you pushed through a bit you could wheel over to an open spot and choose from relatively dry fruit cake, orange quarters, banana halves, or ham sandwiches. I ate four oranges faster than I ever have and drank lots of water and filled up both water bottles and drank them and filled them again and slipped and slithered around for 15 minutes or more. I’ve got to learn how to manage these stops,” I told myself, they can eat up time and energy. They key was to go to the last part of the feed station, there’s fewer people and less confusion.

The ride across the Cormet was very beautiful, two large alpine lakes hove into view and the initial parts of the descent were open and not too steep. Then it was onto the winding roads and the first series of “Virages Dangereuse” signs.

The turns were tricky in and out of the bright sun and not all that well marked. The race organizers put the signs up at seemingly random spots somewhere before a not too dangerous turn that preceded the really tough switchback with a bonus water puddle. The “ narrow road” and narrow bridge “pont étroit” signs were a little confusing because what they referred to was section of road or a bridge that had some form of low wall or restraining barrier rather than an open verge with a thousand-foot drop off. I guess it would make a difference if you hit the wall before flying into the ravine rather than just riding straight off.

The descents were fast, 70-80 kph on the open parts and not too crowded, the riders had experience with this kind of riding and there was only one crash that I saw but more were reported. Overall, the ride was fairly injury free although a few people had to be helicoptered off the mountains due to exhaustion or dehydration.

At this point in my tale, to simulate the mindless gap in my life that comprised the long slogging that ensued, I figure I’ll just break and describe the culture of cyclosportives and cycoltouring in France. These are big time affairs and happen all over the country almost all the year. You can learn about the cyclosportive through the magazine Cyclo Passion which covers these in exquisite detail—to the extent of listing every finisher in the Ardechoise, all 12,000 of them, along with their places and times. In the July issue of the magazine, for the weekend of July 6-7, they listed no fewer than 16 timed rides including the difficult Marmotte, (174 or 161 km with 5,000 or 4,000 meters of climbing rated four stars and features a start in Bourg d'Oisans at the foot of Alpe d'Huez, then goes over the Col de la Croix de Fer, the Col de Telegraph, the Col de Galibier and finishes with the climb to Alpe d'Huez <www.sportcommunication.com> and the La Hubert-Arbes <www.la-hubert-arbes.fr.fm> and les Copains <www.perso.wanadoo.fr/cyclo-les.copains> and other cycosportives in Italy, the Fausto Coppi, 234 or 90 km with 4,400 meters of climbing, “survival blanket is compulsory”! <www.cuneo.net/faustocoppi> and Germany, with the frighteningly named Grossglockner Felbertauern Radmarathon near Salzburg. The cyclosportives are well organized, usually with a thousand or more participants. The largest, the Ardechoise, registers up to 12,000, but most are in the 2,000 range. L’etape du Tour was in the top five for numbers of riders. The big names in cycling seem to sponsor one of these and there is a new one, the Jalabert, this fall along with rides that hearken back to older riders, La Stephen Roche in September or La Miguel Indurain in Spain in the fall. These events are timed and carry awards for finishers under certain times. A good reference web site for these is www.gastrobiking.com/hell.html, that group organizes tours from the UK for folks wanting to take some of these on. In this description of l’ etape du Tour, I have used posted pictures from a web site maintained by Ron Cutler that is dedicated to the ride. It includes descriptions of l’etape routes and past rides and is an indispensable resource for anyone thinking about doing the ride. Check it out at http://www.etape.org.uk/.

Cyclotouring is a bit more sedate and involves “concentrations” and “randonées” where there are no times taken and riders leave during a open period of one to three hours and arrive at a given place for socializing and usually a meal. I tried to ride the “route du vins” tour out of Vacqueyras which featured a bottle of wine for each finisher but it was rained out (What did they do with all that wine?). There are regional federations of cyclotouring groups with regular rides and special rides collected in master schedules that are distributed by the regional groups but which can also be found in local papers. La Provence, both the Aix and Avignon editions, carried announcements of these on their sports pages practically every day (look under “Bloc Notes”). The Fédération française de cyclotourisme has a web site that lists their rides and contacts at www.ffct.org/index.asp, this includes their randonées permanente, or routes that are set and marked and which you can ride on your own. They are the ridiculous ones like: all three approaches to Ventoux in one day, or one hundred steep hills in the Pyrenees. Gutsy stuff.

Back to the struggle. After a quick downhill run through Beaufort (famous for its cow-milk cheeses) I’m struggling up the col des Saises, another category 1 climb. The same struggle up the last five kilometers, a cute 10% slog in the last kilometer, and the same rolling scrum of a feedzone. But, this time, the col had lots of spectators and the number of people along the route was picking up and there were more and more people to cheer you along. It really was a taste of the tour. People would be in the yards of their mountain houses having an early (or late, on the subsequent climbs) lunch and would toast you with a glass of wine and shout “courage!” and “bravo!” Passing through the little towns and clusters of houses brought out partying folks who enjoyed watching others suffer on bicycles. There were cheerleaders in one little, steep spot, actually, guys dressed up as cheerleaders. There were groups that organized cheers and chants to keep us at a sufficiently high pitch of pain to make their days more enjoyable.

The little resort villages at the mountain top feed stations were also more populated and there were things that might distract the alpine tourist but only made me want to get on with it—like a go-kart track. My planning for more efficiency at the feed stations was working out more or less until I tried a rolling change into my wind jacket which promptly found a spot jammed in the rear brake. Quality time also meant cautious time I reminded myself. The roll through Flumet was pleasant and there were lots of people on the streets and the local police were keeping the route open to us slower types—even doing that “stand in the middle of the road and wave a little yellow flag” thing they do for the real Tour.

The col des Aravis is rated Cat 2 but was a steady slog at the same incline as the other three. It’s at this point that I am seeing a regular bunch around me and getting to recognize jerseys and bikes. There’s the London Fire Brigade trio and there’s the Scottish gentleman offering depressing advice, “you’ll really suffer up this next one, lad.” There’s pairs of American riders, some with US Postal uniforms and a huge range of French clubs and “formations” and “federations” and several jerseys dedicated to one or another “appellation d’origine controlee” (AOC) wine. Then there’s the bikes, all kinds of bike names I’ve never heard of nor seen and lots that seem to have been pulled out of the shed for this event. The most popular bike brand seemed to be the mass-sporting goods chain Decathlon (AG2R), there were lots of odd British bikes and of the Italian bikes, more than a few Pinarellos and Williers. Not a lot of Looks, I counted four Litespeeds and a goodly number of Cannondales, with the odd Trek Postal design thrown in and a lot of bikes with names that seemed Dutch or Pig-Latin. One thing was sure, 80% had triple gearing up front. The number of people walking bikes picked up on the second climb and there seemed to be a person sitting in every available shady spot from here on out. The strategy for some seems to be “rest when you’re tired, walk when you feel like it, and have a nice day.” Mine is “never stop, always suffer.”

There are a series of signs every 500 meters that congratulate a particular guy—Albert; either he or his wife own a sign company. There’s a lot of hand made signs encouraging Roger, or Guy or Johnny! Go Johnny Go! One says There’s a series of Burma-Shave type signs that lead Edouard up the hill and round the bend to a nicely set lunch table and there he sits with wife and kids enjoying a pleasant alpine meal before carrying on for the final 60 km. There are several riders who have taken up spots in local road side cafés, the tradition of a two-hour luncheon will not deter these true Frenchmen and women. They race past me on later downhills, sped on by the weight of a nice lunch, or use the extra nourishment to tickle the pedals and float past me on the coming cols. Nice way to bike.

The lead in to the final climb goes through a big town with really irritating speed bumps but by this time I’ve eaten and drunk enough to pick up the pace on the final category 1 climb, the col de Colombiére. This is a serious hill and the caravan crowd has already started to populate the route in anticipation of the coming Tour. The locals have decorated houses and fields with creative arrangements of hay bales and as we go along there are dedications to former Tour greats who went first over the col or were “vainquers” of the Tour. There’s a sign for Greg Lemond, then for Lance, cool.

I’m feeling better and able to pick up my pace from time to time and taking more note of the “regulars” at this pace. I begin notice the guy with the squeaky saddle who’s been around me for the past 10 kilometers and can see why these noises grate on you while you’re trying to concentrate on keeping your legs moving. He’s followed by the fellow with the uncontrollable, irregular and very loud hiccups. Kilometers 115 to 120 are punctuated by a “squeak, hyuk, squeak, hyuk-hyuk-gulp, squeak” that has no rhythm and is driving me and several others in the group a little crazy. It serves as inspiration to me to push a little harder and, magically, I find I can lift the pace. This drops the squeaker but challenges the hiccupper who follows as I find I can even change up a gear. I can see others in front of us looking back with a sort of minor panic as they stand on their pedals and try to move away at an incrementally faster pace. “Hwuk, hwalp” the hiccupper eructates even more loudly. After a few minutes of my pace-making he even tries to pass, his Gallic honor apparently challenged by the yank in the Tri-cyclists red jersey (Blue Cross of North Carolina, Cane Creek, and Flounder Juice proudly emblazoned across chest and back). But, mirabile dictu, he breaks and the whalping and hukking fades back as I seem to actually feel a bit stronger and climb on.

The approach up to the final col is a reprise of the camper madness I saw the week before on Mont Ventoux, but these people are really on the edge of the mountain pass at times. An ambulance whoo-waahs past and I’m certain that some rider has expired trying his last col (probably at 82 years of age and after his third by-pass) but am surprised to see that it is one of the camper people who appears to have take a dive off the back of his perched “AeroRoutier” down a rather inconveniently located drop-off. The “middle aged” bike riders are helping carry him up before they ride on.

The col is really alive with people cheering the strugglers on. I get a bottle of cold spring water handed up to me and I pour it over my head—just like the real racers. Lots of cheering and “koo-rahdge-es” and, voila, I’m there on the col. It’s all down hill from here to the finish and I’m going to make it in, what? 8 hours! The final run down to Cluses is punctuated by some of the worst turns and drops of the day. One fellow is laid up on the side of the road in a survival blanket and tended to by a doctor or someone who looks more or less professional. He made it OK with just a concussion. By the time we get into Cluses through the back way the group I am descending with (about five guys who look like they’ve been members of the VFW for, say, 40-odd years) decide that we’re going to have a race to the finish. I mean a real line up and lead out and jockey and false break kind of sprint finish that starts at the 2.5 kilometer mark. I sucker into it and start pulling and drafting and lurching across the road. This distracts me from the sight of a couple thousand people lining the barricaded streets more or less cheering us on and the big balloon cross with the “flamme rouge” marking the final kilometer. My lack of concentration gets me in a bad spot and when the final 100 meters comes I can only pass two of the five and roll across a bit dazed but really, really happy.

We get funneled through gates and there’s no delay as you get greeted, give up your transponder and get handed a meal ticket and a medal. I look quizzically at the pretty lady who pressed the medal in my hand because I hadn’t made my target 7:48 time for the silver. She just smiles and pushes me along.

The arrival village is a repeat of the departure village, they’ve moved the whole kit and kaboodle across the alps and set it up in a sports complex in Cluses. But, this time, there’s a Savoie-theme fair and market on the grounds and lots of music and hot sausages grilling behind the beer stand and, goodness, a real bicycle–theme party. If I could only walk or stand straight or sit down.

Diana arrives and takes my picture with the medal and we manage to find a shady spot for a post ride meal of hot sausage on a baguette and whatever fluids I can find in my meal bag or get from the “buvette” (peach flavored Ice Tea, water and a beer). The village has showers and a “lieu de repos” and massages and lots of displays and the promise of dancing in the street but the desire to get back to a bed is too great and we head off for the return to Aubignan along the route the tour will take the next day. They’re going to be hot and tired.

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