The World on Two Wheels

In Which a Ghostrider Conquers Alpe D'Huez (and then gets lost in the Alps)

Every year when I sit up late and watch those captivating mountain stages of the Tour de France, I wonder just what it would be really like to summit one of those famous mountains such as The Tourmalet or The Galibier or, perhaps the most notorious of them all, the feared Alpe d'Huez.

When Maggie and I made our plans to spend a few weeks exploring France, there was one item that I made sure I slipped into our itinerary. After spending a couple of days in the beautiful alpine region known as the Vercors, it was time to confront my mountaintop challenge and head through Grenoble and up into the very heart of the alps. Once leaving Grenoble, the road quickly climbs and we passed a succession of road signs pointing to some of those places that Phil Liggot had made so famous in his Tour commentaries.

It was worth noting that, while the countryside in this region is indeed beautiful, it is actually sullied by many derelict and ugly concrete factories and storehouses. We started to see why the Tour broadcasts are so often interrupted by helicopter travelogues - I suspect that these are carefully choreographed to be inserted whenever the peloton passes through one of these not so glamorous places.

As we climbed, I started to see the first signs pointing us to the Alpe d'Huez and my pulse rate started to quicken a little. Once you start the final climb up the mountain there is a series of at least 21 sharp hairpin bends which have to be navigated. Each of these bends has a small sign indicating its elevation and also the number of bends remaining to be climbed.

Along the way we passed quite a few cyclists trying to defy gravity and common sense by riding their bikes to the summit. While some of these looked to be doing it comfortably (if anyone can actually be comfortable fighting a bike up a mongrel 10% or more gradient), others looked like they were about to suffer a stroke at any moment. Wobbling all over the road at a pace something approaching that of a glacier, some of these grey haired old battlers looked like the climb would probably be the last thing they ever did.

When you watch the TV coverage it is impossible to appreciate just how steep this mountain is and how much the slope increases on each turn. The road itself is scarred with huge cracks in the bitumen and with hundreds of painted signs extolling the virtues of a cavalcade of past cycling greats. With each turn the numbers of the signs decreases 16, 15, 14....and the view down to the valley floor become more and more breathtaking. The weather at these elevations can be very unpredictable but on the day that we made the climb it was perfect. Not only was there no wind but the sky was clear allowing the sunshine to raise the temperature considerably.

About half way to the summit we stopped to take a few photos and I took the opportunity to encourage a few of the struggling riders on their way. I walked alongside one rider who was old enough to know better and shouted in his left ear "Allez, Allez". He managed a brief smile in my direction before almost coming to a complete stop. I was a little worried that my words of encouragement might have been the cause of his premature retirement but somehow, he barely managed to remain upright and continue his excruciating way up the mountain. I climbed back in my car and resumed the climb in a more intelligent fashion.

When we rounded the final corner and noticed that it was labelled "0" we knew that the summit must be near. It is here that we entered a sizeable city of ski lodges, hotels, chair lifts, shops and restaurants - all of them closed. It was like a large ghost town. We soon discovered the actual finish line of the Tour de France stage and I did what any intelligent cheat would do. Donning my bike helmet and yellow Ghostrider jersey I stood on the top of the podium while Maggie took my picture. While it might have been with the aid of the internal combustion engine, at least my achievement had been achieved without the aid of performance enhancing drugs.

After spending an hour or so at the summit it was time to leave the Alps and continue on our way to Sisteron. Allowing the GPS to select the shortest route we soon found ourselves heading along a tiny death-defying ledge with a sheer drop on the side. Obviously, the GPS did not know the difference between which roads were for mountain goats and which were for cars. My finger nails started to imbed themselves into the steering wheel as we crawled around one blind corner after another, however I needn't have worried about having a collision as I don't think any other cars had used the road for years. It was just a little terrifying for both of us but somehow we eventually found our way onto a bigger road and slowly made our way back into civilization. What a day it had been !Okumaya devam et