A riddle: On a narrow and deserted road, two cars are travelling towards each other at 100km/hr. Regardless of how far apart they start, where will they meet? See bottom of page for answer.
We last left off having just climbed the Galibier and since then we've continued a harrowing journey through the Alps. The Col d'Izoard was next to be knocked off our wish list, although it didn't go down without a fight and deployed several battalions of flies with orders to harangue the intruders and try to lay maggots in their ears. We reached the top a little fly blown, and were careful to keep our mouths clamped shut on the descent.
Then it was a two day trek to Digne-les-Bains to watch our first stage of the Tour live. To get a decent spot we had to turn up at the finish line before the race had even started 200km away. After all, what better way to recover your legs than standing still in the heat for 6 hours? It turns out that going to the Tour is not so much about the biking as the free stuff. The finishing staight was piled by advertisers the whole time we were there, competing to have their brand the most visible. The weapon of choice was caps - first would come a wave of yellow ones, then the green ones would cover them, only to be replaced by yellow in an endless cycle. Some people ended up with 5 or 6 stacked on their head, while others surreptitiously deposited them in their (free) bags to ensure not to miss out on the next round. Quite why you would want 5 yellow caps advertising a bank, 6 green ones advertising a betting agency, and a spotty one lauding a supermarket is beyond us. But it amused us and passed the time until.... THE RIDERS CAME!!! But the bastards were too fast and we had to check on the internet later what actually happened. Turns out the flash of black and white was New Zealand's only rider in the Tour, and he came 4th!
That whet our appetite and we charged north for another 2 days to meet the Tour at l'Alp d'Huez. If one mountain can claim to be THE Tour mountain, this is it. The course changes every year but this hill climb has been included 26 times since its introduction in 1952 (and for those that are wondering, yes, these facts do actually reside inside Damien's head). It's a dead-end road up to a ski-field and as an 1100m climb with 21 hairpins, always ensures a good end to a stage.
But we weren't going to let them have all the fun - the day before the race we joined tens of thousands of other cyclists in pilgramage to the top. It wasn't until we pitted ourselves against others that we realised how fit we were. D in particular took great pleasure in looking very unracy with billowing shirt sleeves on a mountain bike with pannier rack, while overtaking cyclists with shaved legs whose outfits were precisely coordinated with their expensive bikes, helmets, and shoes.
You know you're at a massive sporting event (the biggest in the world actually) when the road turns into a stadium. We'd been warned about the Dutch who come a week early to claim their spots, and sure enough they were there in their thousands, probably reducing the population of the Netherlands by a third. Orange is their colour and partying is their game. Kilometres of roadside were given over to tents, campervans, tables and chairs, sounds systems, flags, banners, balloons and all things orange. We were squirted by water pistols, offered beers, and sung at. Another favourite pastime was road painting. People were out with brushes and rollers, adorning the road with their favourites names (and in some cases, large penises), and not a metre of road was spared.
Come race day, we made our way to hairpin #13 with a view of the twisting road back down the hill. In place by 9am; race expected 5.30pm. However, getting in early is essential - in 2004 over 1 million people crammed themselves into this 13km of road. When the riders arrive they are preceded by 20 motobikes to cut through the throngs. The imminent arrival was indicated by 5 low-flying helicopters and we spent a few tense minutes staring down the road for our first glimpse. A lone rider, Carlos Sastre, had attacked at the bottom of the hill and was charging his way solo towards the top. Flanked by motorbikes, he was grimacing in pain and dripping sweat as he rode past a minute ahead of his chasers. Julian Dean (the NZ rider) was in the large group at the back and got a very manic and slightly terrifying 'GO KIWI' for his troubles. We'd been waiting for 8 hours after all and we weren't going to miss our chance.
The spectators here were much more focused on the race and huddled around their radios awaiting news of who had won. Again, the Alp d'Huez provided some drama, with Sastre coming in from 5th place to win the stage and lead the Tour by over a minute [and eventually winning the Tour de France in Paris 3 days later - ed.].
That was it for the mountains for the Tour, but not for us. Three Cols later we're in Annecy with broken thighs and in need of a proper holiday. In the two weeks we've been in the French Alps we've ridden 20 Cols, six of them over 2000m, and done over 13,000m of climbing - that's from sea level to the top of Everest one and a half times! Next stop Geneva, and there'll be less about biking in the next one, we promise.
Love C&D
Answer: Next to the cyclists!
We last left off having just climbed the Galibier and since then we've continued a harrowing journey through the Alps. The Col d'Izoard was next to be knocked off our wish list, although it didn't go down without a fight and deployed several battalions of flies with orders to harangue the intruders and try to lay maggots in their ears. We reached the top a little fly blown, and were careful to keep our mouths clamped shut on the descent.
Then it was a two day trek to Digne-les-Bains to watch our first stage of the Tour live. To get a decent spot we had to turn up at the finish line before the race had even started 200km away. After all, what better way to recover your legs than standing still in the heat for 6 hours? It turns out that going to the Tour is not so much about the biking as the free stuff. The finishing staight was piled by advertisers the whole time we were there, competing to have their brand the most visible. The weapon of choice was caps - first would come a wave of yellow ones, then the green ones would cover them, only to be replaced by yellow in an endless cycle. Some people ended up with 5 or 6 stacked on their head, while others surreptitiously deposited them in their (free) bags to ensure not to miss out on the next round. Quite why you would want 5 yellow caps advertising a bank, 6 green ones advertising a betting agency, and a spotty one lauding a supermarket is beyond us. But it amused us and passed the time until.... THE RIDERS CAME!!! But the bastards were too fast and we had to check on the internet later what actually happened. Turns out the flash of black and white was New Zealand's only rider in the Tour, and he came 4th!
That whet our appetite and we charged north for another 2 days to meet the Tour at l'Alp d'Huez. If one mountain can claim to be THE Tour mountain, this is it. The course changes every year but this hill climb has been included 26 times since its introduction in 1952 (and for those that are wondering, yes, these facts do actually reside inside Damien's head). It's a dead-end road up to a ski-field and as an 1100m climb with 21 hairpins, always ensures a good end to a stage.
But we weren't going to let them have all the fun - the day before the race we joined tens of thousands of other cyclists in pilgramage to the top. It wasn't until we pitted ourselves against others that we realised how fit we were. D in particular took great pleasure in looking very unracy with billowing shirt sleeves on a mountain bike with pannier rack, while overtaking cyclists with shaved legs whose outfits were precisely coordinated with their expensive bikes, helmets, and shoes.
You know you're at a massive sporting event (the biggest in the world actually) when the road turns into a stadium. We'd been warned about the Dutch who come a week early to claim their spots, and sure enough they were there in their thousands, probably reducing the population of the Netherlands by a third. Orange is their colour and partying is their game. Kilometres of roadside were given over to tents, campervans, tables and chairs, sounds systems, flags, banners, balloons and all things orange. We were squirted by water pistols, offered beers, and sung at. Another favourite pastime was road painting. People were out with brushes and rollers, adorning the road with their favourites names (and in some cases, large penises), and not a metre of road was spared.
Come race day, we made our way to hairpin #13 with a view of the twisting road back down the hill. In place by 9am; race expected 5.30pm. However, getting in early is essential - in 2004 over 1 million people crammed themselves into this 13km of road. When the riders arrive they are preceded by 20 motobikes to cut through the throngs. The imminent arrival was indicated by 5 low-flying helicopters and we spent a few tense minutes staring down the road for our first glimpse. A lone rider, Carlos Sastre, had attacked at the bottom of the hill and was charging his way solo towards the top. Flanked by motorbikes, he was grimacing in pain and dripping sweat as he rode past a minute ahead of his chasers. Julian Dean (the NZ rider) was in the large group at the back and got a very manic and slightly terrifying 'GO KIWI' for his troubles. We'd been waiting for 8 hours after all and we weren't going to miss our chance.
The spectators here were much more focused on the race and huddled around their radios awaiting news of who had won. Again, the Alp d'Huez provided some drama, with Sastre coming in from 5th place to win the stage and lead the Tour by over a minute [and eventually winning the Tour de France in Paris 3 days later - ed.].
That was it for the mountains for the Tour, but not for us. Three Cols later we're in Annecy with broken thighs and in need of a proper holiday. In the two weeks we've been in the French Alps we've ridden 20 Cols, six of them over 2000m, and done over 13,000m of climbing - that's from sea level to the top of Everest one and a half times! Next stop Geneva, and there'll be less about biking in the next one, we promise.
Love C&D
Answer: Next to the cyclists!
