Ode du Tourmalet

An epic jaunt up both sides of the legendary geant of the Pyrenees

by Vance Russell

 

One thing that strikes you about riding in the Pyrenees, particularly coming from drought stricken California, is the running water everywhere. It's in the drains, the rivers, it's raining during the day and night, sometimes epic showers with thunder, lightning and hail. On a side note, hail particularly sucks when you're up on a col and trying to escape the rain by descending on the bike. Le Bastan river was running particularly high and was only noticeable by its sound as I set off from Bareges to climb the Col du Tourmalet.

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My wife and I had driven from the Ariege, where we had stayed with our family for the past two weeks on summer vacation. We were now in cycling and ski country in the Haute Pyrenees, home to many of the classic Pyrenean climbs such as Tourmalet, Hautacam and Aspin. The Tourmalet was legendary for it's sheer size but also as one of the original climbs in the Tour de France, when riders woke up at 3 am to cover 100's of kilometers, multiple passes and had to carry all their supplies and perform any mechanical bike fixes on their own. The story of Eugene Christophe losing the tour when he had to forge a broken fork and was penalized for allowing a boy to pump the bellows at a local blacksmith is indicative of the toughness and harsh world of the early Tour days.

Out of habit, I made a little offering to Achachila, the Aymaran god of the mountains, at the beginning of the ride, asking him to take care of me and maybe offer some views later on. In Bolivia Achachila rules the mountains and must have coca and alcohol offerings. Pachamama rules the earth and the harvest and the Devil underground and the mines. The latter kinda likes coca and alcohol too. Interesting Aymaran gender issues for their gods, but I digress.

The first few kilometers of the climbs were fairly gentle, usually 5-7% and the clouds began to break. The total climb on this side is 16 kilometers and 2,000 meters, give or take. I passed the voie Fignon, the old road to the col in homage to the great cyclist of the 80's Laurent Fignon, who had recently died of cancer. I pictured him cycling up the pass, always making the right move and crushing his competition. Cow bells clanged in the distance and my wife drove up in the car, snapping a few shots and offering a few words of encouragement. She drove on to meet me at the pass and warm cafe, probably the smarter of us two.

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The road started increasing grade as I road on but the valley opened up and all I could think of was the immensity of the place. I reached for my shifter for an easier gear, but got the dreaded no click. No more gears! The road zigzagged up and some of the next few kilometers averaged 8-10%. It didn't seem particularly hard but I was only a few miles in. Imagine coming here after riding 100 miles, the pavement is melting and Movistar is setting some infernal pace of the slopes. That just seemed impossible.

The last 2 k's kicked up even more averaging 10% but with sections of 14-15%. Compounding the grade was an immense amount of cow and sheep poo covering the road, almost slippery. I stood up to make it through the last wall and then was at the col.

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The stylized statue at the col and the sticker festooned summit sign along with a line for king of the mountain points decorated the still wet road. The fog, sudden silence and empty cafes added to a feeling of something I can only describe as monumental. I briefly spoke to my wife, who didn't think it was funny I was calling her my soigneur!, then heading downhill in the fog.

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It was cold now and the roads just as wet and full of poo as I headed for the ski station at La Mongie. I passed under a couple of snow sheds and almost decided to bail. The start of the climb on the other side was almost 17 kilometers away and I wasn't sure it was worth doing and I couldn't ride quickly due to the slick s*&t on the road. I eventually came to the turnoff for the Col d'Aspin and turned back around in St. Mare-de-Campan where there is a tribute to Eugene Christophe where the old forge once stood and then began counting of the kilometers and thankful to be going up again and getting a little warmer.

The west side was longer but not as steep so the early portions went quickly and I began to get into a rhythm, passing multiple riders, or maybe we should call them pilgrims, along the way. With about 6 km to go, however, as I passed under a tunnel, I started to get tired. It was almost as if the snowshed sapped my final waning strength. The next few kilometers back into La Mongie and the final 4 to the col were tough. This side had not been repaved so there were signs on the road for the Schlecks, Contador, Riblon, some new some faded from this and past years. I was dying in the last kilometer but someone had thoughtfully marked the meters from 500 to zero along with "allez" and "just a few to go" encouragements. I got to the col and the car and could not have ridden another meter with about 7,000' of climbing in just 29 miles of riding.

It was indeed epic and although I swore to never do it again at that moment, I'll likely be back to the "geant", as it's called. Climbs are always easier the second time you do them anyway, well mostly easier.

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