Hubris I and II

A few days in the old stomping ground of Allos, and I take the opportunity to get my cycling legs back with a climb of the Col d'Allos, down to Barcelonette, and back. It's 12 km up to the col (which is the penultimate of the five that did for Eddy Merckx in the 1975 Tour). Then 25 km down to Barcelonette, then reverse the route for home.

Any sportsman, of any stripe, knows to beware of hubris. I know to beware of hubris. Nonetheless I expect to manage this beast of an afternoon, near 40 km of relentless climbing, without having ridden a road bike for 2 months. The idiocy of this is brought home about 2.5 km from the top of the col, coming back. Suddenly, I start to feel like Dorando Pietri, the Italian marathon runner who was so exhausted that it took him 10 minutes to cover the last 350 metres of the 1908 Olympic race. I push on the accelerator, but the vehicle doesn't really move much.

I eventually grind over the top too tired even to pedal one more stroke, and coast all the way back to Allos. Tomorrow is declared a rest day.

Two days later, more trouble. My friend Hammy and I decide to explore the woods around Allos on mountain bikes. We grind up out of Seignus, where in theory the Tour du Verdon bike route should take us all the way down to Colmars for a coupe. In practice the Tour du Verdon bike route only makes infrequent appearances, signposts even fewer, and we very quickly get lost.

Six hours later, we roll down through Seignus again, bloody, battered and weary. We've manhandled our bikes further than we rode them, at least it feels like it. Having rekindled my love of off-road riding in the first hour, I now never want to see a set of suspension forks again.

It'll wear off, though.

President Claude

“No no – you must stay another night and ride with Claude and his friends in the morning. He is the President!” Too good to miss: a club run with the Vaison la Romaine bike club in the morning, a bit of wandering around Roman ruins with my glamorous companion in the afternoon, a quick ascent of Mt Ventoux tomorrow, then home.

At 8.00 a.m. the next day I’m feeling self-conscious about my lowly Cannondale. It doesn’t even have a four-figure price tag, for God’s sake. On a quick tally up, the 30-odd bikes gathered in the car park have a total value of about €75,000.00.

Fortunately one or two of the riders aren’t, without wanting to be unkind, quite as lightweight as their machines. Isn’t it the way? Start to feel relieved – at which point, my overweight safety net saddles up and rolls off on the débutants ride. What’s left behind is me, Claude, and a bunch of wiry old roadies with hair-free, sinewy legs and a kind of lean looseness that spells trouble. “Allez!” And we’re off.

Actually, they’re very gentle. They still screw me, with just short of 100 km in three hours of classic puncheur territory – but at least they’re gentle about it. I even get to top out a couple of climbs ahead of the pack, and take a few good pulls on the front of the chain gang that rolls through the last 25 km in about half an hour.

Next morning, 10 km into the climb from Malaucéne to the summit of Mt Ventoux, those pulls don’t seem like they were such a good idea. My aim of roaring up here like a mountain lion is long forgotten. This lion has mange and a thorn in its paw. Possibly also toothache and a touch of cat flu. Canine dysentery, even. This is a hard climb, almost all of it spent on the triple’s 30-tooth inner ring. A couple of times I have to look around to make sure no one’s watching, then click it on to the 28 at the back. Not a soul here – the road's closed – but I'm embarrassing myself.

The snow that blocks the road and forces a Torvill-and-Dean ice dance in cleated shoes almost comes as a relief. 2 km of tippy-toes later I’m out of the trees and into the lunar landscape of the summit dome. Spooky-lonely, like an old Doctor Who set – the ones that were all filmed in a deserted quarry somewhere in Hertfordshire, and which had the 7-year-old me hiding behind the sofa. Keep looking behind to make sure nothing’s creeping up on me. Must be the altitude.

From the top, rather than skid down across the ice I carry on across the summit and down to Bédoin. Anyone who races down here without shouting Whooooooooo! Woo-hoo! Whaaaaa! at least once just doesn’t have any love in their heart. Think of my friend Tim, the demon descender, who must have loved this. Miss the Simpson memorial, but that’s easily done at 70 kph on a sun-dappled road surface. Concentrate.

Bédoin very pretty; the ride back to Malaucéne over the Col de Madeleine even more so. Back at Vaison there’s just time before we go for President Claude to sandbag me one more time. “We drink a good beer, yes?” It turns out to be a Belgian leg-wobbler that makes steam spout from my nostrils and my feet start tingling, and sets me up nicely for the drive home.

[Bonus photo of the Sky boys shepherding Wiggins, B. through Castellane, on the way to victory in Paris-Nice:]