l’Étape du Tour route – Act I
There are four categories to define the difficulty of hill climbing for cyclists, Category 4 being the easiest, and ergo Category 1 the toughest.
Then there are climbs that are so intense that they fall into ‘beyond classification’ territory, or, to use the French term (as it sound less intimidating) – “Hors catégorie“. I think the powers that be in the cycling world all sit down in matching lycra over an espresso with cleats tapping in synch, and get to decide if a mountain is worthy of the iconic ‘HC’ status; a bit like the Pope and his posse with his God-damn blessings.
So, recently, I discovered that the route I am to cycle possesses THREE of these Hors catégories, for Act I of l’Étape du Tour. I’ve only cycled up a Category 3 to date on the Downs (and it was a total bitch to do).
Starting in Albertville with a gentle gradient for 10/15km, the hellish ascent to Col de la Madeleine begins from the Northern side of the mountain (the Aigueblance side if you must know). And it goes on for 28.3km of climbing. 28.3km. That’s 28.3km UPHILL. With an average gradient of 5%, but frequently steeper. In fact the altitude is so much, that the road is closed from November to June as it’s insurpassable even for cars.
So from a start of 345m above sea level, the peak of Col de la Madeleine is reached at 2000m – a 1655m climb. I’ve genuinely never been this high above sea level on land before, why not do it on a bike? Apparently the Godly views on the way up will help deal with the pain barrier I’ve been told by riders who have conquered her.
Col de la Madeleine, I’m gonna be on you
From there, a surely breathtaking descent will take place down the southernside of that particular Alp to La Chambre, 19.3km of sheer freewheeling on a -8% gradient . This exhilarating and windy fall will hopefully make the entire trip worthwhile.
After that, there’s the small matter of two further HC climbs in Col de la Croix-de-Fer, popping off to see Col du Mollard, before finishing in the ski-resort of Les Sybelles. Four Alp peaks, easy.
The whole route is 152km long (that’s 94 miles to you), and features 5096m of climbing in total, or 16630 feet, which is more feet than a chiropodist will ever seen in their career I reckon.
From Brockley to Brighton (to see Boro)
I haven’t updated the blog recently, as the little spare time I do get is being taken up by training. Honest – Strava says I’ve done 724.6 miles since late March.
A few weeks back, I did my first London to Brighton trek of the year; having previously just done it the once last summer. I prepped the route the night before, scrawling down villages/roads I had to hit on a piece of paper; my phone has a habit of dying when I use Strava and didn’t want to get lost, and end up in Hastings or something. As NO-ONE should end up in Hastings.
The distance I calculated was to be almost exactly 60 miles door-to-door – so it was to be my biggest ride since training began. I also has the added challenge of having to complete the journey in a set time; in that I had to meet my dad at Brighton station “sometime between 1pm and 2pm”. Despite this being the year 2012, my dad, I should mention, has not thought to get a mobile phone. If I missed this window, I wouldn’t be able to get my ticket for Brighton vs Middlesbrough, who were playing at 3pm for a crucial Play-off crunch game.
I set off out of London town at 9:25, and am outside of the M25 by 10:30am – good progress. During tougher moments, the fact that I knew I couldn’t stop along the way (aside from the odd banana/map breaks) played into my favour, building momentum through-out the journey.
The hills were present but moderate for the most; however, I knew the journey was building to one final challenge: Ditchling Beacon. Now ‘The Beacon’ for the uninitiated is a steep, and relatively long climb with a gain of 504 feet; it’s also rather psychological I find for a few reasons. 1) You can actually see the beast for about 10 miles before you even start climbing, it’s impending nature a force of, well, nature. 2) It’s at the end of the journey, and thus legs will be tiring it 3) I had never done it before 4) Word of mouth and vicious rumours about what it can do to a man.
I clock it just after Haywards Heath and begin the mental battle. As I enter the village of Ditchling just prior, I stop for a banana at a shop with this outside:
I wouldn’t call myself a ‘Hero’, and I didn’t do it 36 times – but the recognition is nice all the same
That puts thing in context somewhat. It starts as a shallow climb, before becoming a twisty, turny son of a bitch – and that’s just the way I’m handling my bike. It’s tough, it’s long, but I do it; and you know what? It wasn’t too bad. The reward is a stupfying and long descent into Brighton – where I meet my dad to high fives at 1:20 – 3 hours 55 mins after setting off. The next reward is watching the match – and it was for the most as Boro played some very beautiful football, but lacked the firepower and came away with just a point in an entertaining 1-1 draw.
The stats (minus the end and beggining bits, thanks shitty iphone):
So enthused I was about the route, I did it again a fortnight later (in between another Dulwich ride). I managed to beat my time – in under 3 hours 40 mins, with an average speed of 16.5 mph as opposed to 15.7mph. And did it without any directions/map checking. With my eyes closed*. And beat my Ditchling climb time by 52 seconds! Yeah!
The view from the top, cycling away from the Beacon. Notice how my arm is so tired it no longer understands issues of latitude.
The reward on Brighton beach
Out with The Dulwich lot
Photo courtesy of Rhys Keepence
My northern friend Richard (acolyte readers will be aware that I’ll be attempting l’Etape du Tour with said friend) has been riding with the Dulwich Paragon for awhile now – a cycling club in South London – and has been persuading me to do the same.
So one Saturday morning I force myself out of my beautiful soft duvet at 7am. A few months back, this is the time I would have been getting in from the previous night. The thought of me passing my bleary-eyed sleep-deprived alternate-self, as I now set out for some serious exercise amused, and confused me.
The Saturday Club Ride sets off at the velodrome in Herne Hill, and the Lycra-clad riders are split into groups of around 15-20, depending on how many turn up. A lot are out today as it’s a gorgeous spring day (albeit chilly first thing), so we’re split into six groups – going out in order of pace. I choose the 4th out of 6, easing myself in gently. I’ll admit; I deliberately chose a group with a child of about 12 in, my thought process being that at least I wouldn’t be the slowest if a kid was there right? And if he was, well, I may as well fucking give up.
A literally healthy bunch of cyclists in terms of demographic are present; the hardcore looking, monster-limbed troupe who go out on the first pacey run, to dads with kids, and to those just wanting a social ride.
As we get to the far side of the set ‘loop’ 20 miles in, a huge plume of smoke becomes visible, and it’s the direction we’re heading towards. And sure enough, on the corner where we turn to head back is a car pouring out thick smoke. We stop to let other catch-up near by, and the car explodes once again, a fireball emanating from it.
We move a bit further away.
Out of site is the poor chap, on his phone confused as to why his Land Rover has turned into a fireball. Gripping stuff, it was like the bike ride was being directed by Michael Bay, without the casual racism.
It turns out that the pace is a bit too slow for me in this group – but no matter, it is fun to do and important to put the miles in around the Kent hillside. The route ends at the top of Crystal Palace, where we stop off for some coffee and cake at a cycling-mad cafe, and swap photos of the fireball.
The Dulwich lot are a friendly bunch it seems, so after this taster I sign-up for membership as soon as I get home.
The route via Strava: (nb, my pathetic iPhone died at 30 miles – was probably a 40 mile round-trip I’d say)
The background
I’m not Lance Armstrong. I’m not even Chris Armstrong. Hell, I’m not even former ‘Boro striker Alun Armstrong (some obscure 90′s footballers will be a recurring theme in this blog I reckon).
The indirect assumption I’m making with this micro-preface, is that, the majority of riders on l’Etape du Tour will no doubt have a good background in consistent cycling activity, and will have been training for some time. Whilst I am now taking training seriously, it’s perhaps late in the day stuff.
I bought my first bicycle as an adult last year – a Canondale. Alisa was her moniker – primarily as a vehicle to get to work, and occasionally back. The purchase was also linked to a certain amount of nostalgia probably – from the ages of around 6-12 I was a mad keen infant cyclist, before the Playstation apathy associated with my teenage years set in hard (I did become one of the best Tony Hawks players in the 16bit world to be fair). But fond memories I had in that earlier age, cycling around Ireland with my extended family; so extended that I don’t recall who who a lot of them even were. That’s Catholics for you.
Alisa and I had an adventure in Germany last year, traveling from Hamburg to Berlin (read all about that here); though she was cruelly taken away from me in that fine city in the East of Germany. The few days I was there was a great challenge though, and I had little cycling training prior to it – running on optimism, adrenaline and naivety. And lots of cheap German cheese and bread. For the most it was relatively flat too – much of the route running as it did along the river Elbe. I’m under no preconception that what I’m preparing for I cannot wing.
As mentioned in a previous post, I only started training in February of this year (I now ride a Specialized Allez for those interested). Ideally, I’d be preparing for the 2013 tour, but my impetuous nature and drunken promise has lead me down the 2012 path, a path lined with unforgiving and heinously protracted climbs.
I’m quite slight in build (9 1/2 stone, 5ft 10″) – which helps I *think* to a certain extent, but therefore I lack power. It’s something I’m working on; it’s great, I basically cram anything that I can in my mouth post-exercise. Oh hai calories.
Tour de Bedfordshire (Same as it ever was)
Whilst back in my old home town, I did a spot of training around the Bedfordshire countryside – there are the odd hills around, but nothing series by any means. Just the 436 feet climbed over the course of 36.32 miles.
As a nipper, I used to go out with my dad in the around Bedfordshire - normally to Bedford I think (often ending up in the Bedford Oasis, with it’s mad water slides and peculiar architecture). Being the sucker for nostalgia that I am, it was quiet enjoyable going down these roads again, like meeting an old friend that you haven’t seen in awhile – and surprising how much of the route there I remembered from all those years back. Same as it ever was.
I’ve touched upon the thought-processes that transpire whilst cycling; the mind does wonder frequently, in between spells of utter concentration. For those that don’t know me, I work for glorious music and culture entity The 405 in my spare time, thus am somewhat of a music fanatic geek and wannabe music journalist.
Consequently, music tends to feed into these thought processes; I often have a track, or series of tracks, on a loop throughout a journey. Not literally – too distracting – but sort of looping in my mind. It’s all quite arbitrary, they seem to just pop in there, and sometimes refuse to budge.
Today, Talking Heads decide to soundtrack much of the ride. This is all very well and good when it’s ‘Once in a Lifetime‘ – a fine slice of post-punk funk, always helpful to have something sharp and upbeat as an accompaniment to the journey, with discernible lyrics.
Though when ‘Right Start (Unfinished Outtake)’ enter the fray… not so good. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a wonderful track (which I discovered via a James Murphy mix), it’s just not right for cycling. Essentially, the same angular riff repeats over and over, with no lyrics; if you joined the tune at any point during the four minutes, you’d have no idea if you had four minutes left or four seconds. It’s just a loop, with no evolution. Whilst cycling this is incredibly frustrating, a feedback loop with no end, no closure to a section, and it just keeps going and going. In many ways, it should mirror the experience of cycling; an open-ended repetition that never seems to stop. However, it just feels like brain rot after while, the claustrophobia making you go all crazy.
It doesn’t help that the Brian Eno-produced ‘Right Start’ is a blueprint for signature tune ‘Once in a Lifetime’ – thus when ‘Once in a Lifetime’ does get an airing, it is often closely followed by ‘Right Start’. What a vicious circle, from the great mind of David Byrne.
An ode to Strava
Strava has made training a lot more fun, well, if you’re a numbers geek like myself.
The app tracks your rides and measures stats such as average speed, how much you’ve climbed, maps your route etc. – a statistician’s wet dream. You can time yourself on set-routes, and then attempt to beat your own time.
A bit like time-trailing in Mario Kart where you ghost race yourself. Instead of big red shells, watch out for those big red buses that will spin you out. I always imagine bus drivers as Bowser-types.
A fancy ace that it holds up it’s sleeve is however, and what propels it above over such apps, is the ‘Segment’ feature. You can create a segment at any point in a ride you go on – though most worthwhile segments are already covered by other users who have previously uploaded them. That’s the other great thing about it by the way – the social and interactive element of it.
For example, I cycle to work most days, and there a few segments along my route. So when I know they’re coming up, I pick up my pace and try to beat a time I’ve already set, and try to get as high as I can on the leaderboard from all the other people who have done that particular segment.
It’s all pretty competitive as it’s a popular app – but, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear, I finally got my first ‘King of the Mountain’ the other day! (the nom-de-pule for holding the fastest in a segment). Hooray.
Over Waterloo Bridge, heading southbound on my way home, I got a moving start thanks to some good luck with a green light and aggressive manoeuvrings to outwit other cyclists, received a bit of a tail wind, and tanked the fuck out of my bike. An average of 31.3mph apparently:
…and the Leaderboard (technically I’m sharing the KOM title with Dominic Heaney. I’ll getchya Dom. Dom being Bowser to my Yoshi of course)
It’s something that I now use every-time I go out – so expect future cycling training updates to be fully Strava-fied. Though; my iPhone battery is so frustratingly poor, the battery runs our after 3 1/2 hours of cycling. Sponsor me for a new phone yeah Apple?
Sometimes the app does gets it wrong, especially for shorter distances due to GPS black-spots I assume. One chap named Vlad has done the Waterloo Road Sprint in one second, averaging 472.8mph. Perhaps Vlad commutes to work via a F-18.
Follow me on Strava
Home to home
Where is home?
Many have asked this. Probably. I reside in SE London, a place I now consider my home having been in these parts for awhile; though I spent a good 23 years of my life in a pretty, but dull, leafy suburb in North Hertfordshire known as Letchworth Garden City.
Last summer I discovered a network of canals that exist in London, well, even further afield really. Thanks Victorians! Your canal network almost makes up for the draconian rigid social conservative values that still influence a nation. It turns out one of these such routes runs from near Canary Wharf, to Hertford. To me, this seemed unfathomable; a direct route from the epicentre of capitalism, a symbol, of London – to the ‘capital’ of my quaint little county where I grew up? Believe it.
I calculated the route from current home to old home – roughly 47 miles, and thought it to be a good challenge and equally as interesting a journey. Some people will do anything to avoid paying a train fare. So off I set on a beautiful Spring-sun-soaked Monday morning, having acquired a week off from work to use some holiday I had to burn before it expired. Here’s the canal part of the route:
I delve under the Thames via the Greenwich tunnel and into the canal section through London Fields, and thought that it was infinitely better riding through these historic routes on a Monday morn than being at work in front of a static desk. What kind of people are around walking around the canals in Hackney at 11am on a Monday morning? It turns out, the unemployed, and lots of people who look like Gary Mcallister (told you the 90′s footballer thing would stick). So I thought, the mind plays tricks as one becomes fatigued. Anyway, one of those choices of life where I thought “yeah, could NOT imagine doing anything else right now, well done me for booking time off.”
The journey from near Canary Wharf, through Victoria Park via the Olympic site, to Walthamstow grasslands and the subsequent post-industrial NE London landscape, to quaint villages in Hertfordshire, was all very fascinating. Just watching the landscape subtly evolve was a treat.
Thoughts started to envelope my frontal lobe whilst cycling along. The narrow paths and claustrophobically low bridges with blindside corners along the canal-side alarmed me somewhat, as canal folk enjoyed a spring walk. Negative but pragmatic thoughts such as ‘Do bicycles actually float in water?’ plagued me. The thought of me scrambling in the murky H20 was horrible enough, without the added pressure of scrambling for my bike (the White Whale) whilst trying to work out if I had a broken leg from whatever accident had made me fall in the drink in the first place.
Of course none of this happened. It was classic negative over-thinking mentality of being an tired bicyclist – added with the fact that I had ran over a deaf-man the previous week*.
Not a route for the cycling purist – a bit stop/start along the canal, with not always a smooth surface underneath. The good thing for me was that it was all pretty flat of course – I also had quite a bit of stuff with me, thus was weighed down by my pannier bag.
One day I will partake in a proper photographic project from ‘home to home’ – at least 95% my life I realised having been lived between these pretty short distances. 95% of my life in 47 miles??! How sad. But for now a series of disposable shots will have to suffice.
I come alive, outside the M25
I started enthusiastically taking photos and stopping off everywhere, but after while all I saw was the below – I got off the canal a few miles before Hertford, at picturesque Broxboune (above), and was back on the main roads.
It’s not often that I’ve been thrilled to see a sign for Stevenage – only a few miles from home
The ‘Roaring Meg’ estate in Stevenage. A regular humdrum UK exercise in consumerism. For years I thought this handle of an out of town shopping estate to be a normal name – two words that I had grown up with and never questioned. One day is struck me at how fucking odd it sounded; “Roaring”, and “Meg”?? Was it named after a totalitarian dinosaur?
It felt especially strange passing it having just ridden from the parks of London to see somewhere I associated with my ‘home’ world.
HOME.
This Chicken pie I destroyed – thanks to the mother for delivering this
*This is true, the short story is I did indeed run over a deaf person near Oxford Street at quite a pace. A pedestrian stepped out in front of me as I was picking up speed and I had zero time to react. I tumble over my handlebars, and as I writhe around in the gutter in a lot of discomfort, and slowly get to my feet, I ponder that I have every right to be pretty angry with this person. He comes over to me to help me up, and soon realise that he is deaf. I chose not to get angry with this deaf guy in public. I’m not Larry David.
Video: Vive le tour!
Even if you have no interest in cycling, this is some pretty awesome viewing of the vintage variety – an 18 minute French mini-doc about the 1962 Tour de France directed by Louis Malle.
There’s some epic scenes – riders cycling side-by-side eating choc ices, and nicking some champagne and beers mid-race. With some added doping allegations… Fantastique!
Wiki link: Vive le Tour
To tell the truth // This may be the last time
“I love you mate. I mean, really.”
I said just prior I headed to the exit at Fabric, and then once again. This was at roughly 5am – but who knows, time becomes somewhat of an irrelevance in Fabric, sucking you in until you’re all dried out. I announced this statement wholly earnestly – though paradoxically well aware of the state of intoxicated mind I was swimming in. I could have said anything “I’m a mango, Steve”, and it would have felt equally as earnest.
After a monumentally heinous, long and lone queue for the cloakroom – made all the longer by my refusing to use my phone to save battery so I could indulge in some music on the way home – I hastily escape to the streets of Farringdon, purely focussed on the thought of being on a glowing and warm grinning nightbus. After more slow time passes I get on a series of nightbuses to deep South London – pleased with myself that I had saved some battery for some listening.
The natural thing to do is to pop on LCD Soundsystem – something comfortable and upbeat. ‘All My Friends’ comes on. Nostalgia central, of course. Any young adult can relate to the lyrics in someway, you don’t need me to tell you of this. Though on this nightbus, on this Saturday morning, with my hazy etiolated face staring out the streets – once I heard this… it’s all I could think about
‘To tell the truth, this may be the last time”.
It feels contrite, and somewhat cringe-worthy to relate overtly to your favourite lyrics I’m aware – but my Christ, at this point in time this couplet summed up everything at this stage in my life. Normally you right-off these post-drink post-club farouche thoughts as exactly that – but it all surprisingly rang true in the savage light of next day.
For me, it had to be the last time; this being early February and training on the horizon having to start imminently – no more denial, no more blocking out the fact that I had committed myself to cycle this l’Étape du Tour. I’d had too many of these nights over the years, and so it was with a heavy sense of fond nostalgia – though also with a relief – that I could part ways with all this. The next stage of my life is set.
The point is: this was always going to be one of the most difficult things of the challenge – giving up a large portion of one’s life in terms of training. Making sacrifices as I wave goodbye to the mid-twenties. But it’s good to have a focus innit? Right?
So, less of this (from the night in question):
And the occasional one of these (one rewarding pint after a 40 miles ride):
PS. It was a album launch for The 2 Bears for those interested.
That’s how it starts…
Many of these initial posts are going to be retrospective in nature, written ‘after the fact’ if you will – but thought it may be interesting to go back, and start from the near-beginning of the whole experience. If only for self-indulgent purposes to show myself how far I’ve progressed. A self-indulgent blog, well, I’ll be.
And for people that know me personally, it’s all an explanation/apology as to why you haven’t seen much of me recently. Lucky you.
I negated to train much at all during the winter – being that: A) I don’t do rain. and B) I don’t do cold. I also don’t do stairs, but in road bike terms that’s not too much of an issue (my bmx halcyon days are well behind me – my lack of stairs-doing may have been a problem for that). In fact I rarely cycled into work – which is half-decent base training in itself – which I had been doing all last summer/autumn (a 16 mile round-trip). Hence the scene from the above photograph I became all too familiar with.
This act of cowardliness is not exactly an ideal preparation for one of the toughest cycling sportif’s in the world.
So one weekend in mid-February, I decide to partake in my first ‘proper’ ride of 2012. Five months before the race – five months of hard training will be enough right? One of my bff’s, in Richard Johnson, takes me out on a mild-route to get me into the habit. Whilst it may be mild to a more seasoned rider, I find myself struggling, panting like a rapid dog in a hot car going up anything with even an easy gradient. I insist in stopping at a place named Beaver Water World in the Kent countryside; partly because the name is highly amusing, but partly to break-up the journey with some tea and cake.
I’m getting the shakes, feel weak and I’m only 20 miles in – it’s all a shock to the system for me. The unassuming lady worker busying around seems unsure of us at first, stationed in the tiny log-cabin by the aviary ”We don’t liyke ya lycra-clad righteous types ’round ‘ere” I half expect her to snap at us. Except that I’m wearing skinny jeans. But by the end of the demolition job of the massive slab of pure sugar in a sponge labelled as ‘cake’, her heart is won over as she peeps rather enthusiastically ”you come again”. Oh, I will.
There’s also an iguana on a lead. Reptiles, everywhere! as Hunter S. would say.
The ride back (this being a circular route) feels easier – until the monster that is the Crystal Palace climb, at the doors of South London, is met. It’s bloody awful. A myriad of wildly negative thoughts ping around at pace across my mind. I’m not even able to dwell or absorb each strand on an individual basis they’re that sharp and chaotic; however the aggressive tapestry of them all together I indubitably can comprehend; that is, how will I ever survive 20 miles of this, climbing 2,000 metres, for hours on end, if I can only barely manage a measly hill in London for 10 minutes?
But I manage to do it, which is what I set out to do today. The first ride is out the way, sweet relief – totalling almost exactly 40 miles including that lengthy break.
The following weekend, I force myself out again with a top-up trip to Dartford and back – nothing too gruelling, putting in around 27 miles. Important to keep up the habit. I discover a ‘world of mirrors‘ along the way.
