chasing the tour (pt1)

chasing the tour (pt1)

18.10. A date as exciting as 25.12. Correction: More Exciting.  The day the 2017 Tour de France route was announced.  Like Christmas I was disappointed.

Why?  You can’t Chase It.

Previous years have been easy: Alps or Pyrenees?

A simple binary choice: What mountain range’s stages fall on a weekend?  Tour Chasing is only a weekend pastime (all be it long weekends) – Tour Chasers have day jobs after all.

The choice hasn’t been a choice we’ve had to make.  It’s always the Alps on the last weekend of July. The Pyrenees always seems to fall mid-week.  We’ve only made it there once in our 5 years of chasing (and having nearly died of hypothermia; we haven’t hurried back).

Thanks Monsieur Prudhomme.  3 Mountain ranges, 4 if you include the Massif Central – the Alps twice – in 3 weeks and I’m struggling to make the Bicycle Moaning Collective’s Chasing the Tour work.

Usually the Chase planning goes like this:  Wait for the official tour route to be released – although I’d been checking out the rumours online since before 2016’s Tour had finished – book lots of rooms.  I got a good idea that Briancon, the highest town in France, was going to feature.

Looking at Booking.com and the fully booked hotels throughout the Romanche Valley, from Le Bourg-d’Oisans through to Briancon and likewise in the Marianne valley confirmed it.  The Galibier was in for sure.  I just had to find the beds.  Easier said than done.

Obviously the ASO get in there first but these rumours must be sound as it seemed every other Tour Chaser in the World had already booked their hotel.  Even if you find a hotel that’s no guarantee. We were kicked out of our hotel by Skoda this year. The Tour entourage is huge and it needs to sleep somewhere.

– Not too despair.  We’ll have our bikes with us (that’s kind of the point of all this chasing) and can ride to wherever we need to be.

Grenoble and Lanslebourg-Mont-Cenis are the best I can do.  I doubled down, hedged my bets and booked beds in both, lots of beds.  We can ride in from the East or the West. There’s just the small matter of getting up and over some Monster Cols.

We’re travelling down on Wednesday.  We might just make it to the top of Telegraph, over the top and maybe to the foot of the Galibier before the Tour closes the roads.  It’s going to be tight and not how I dreamed conquering Galibier – a 6-hour drive in our legs, probably miss the Tour and not be able to climb against the traffic coming down the mountain, euphoric from chasing and catching the Tour.

On Thursday – it gets worse.  From Grenoble or Lanslebourg-Mont-Cenis to the top of Izoard is over 100km, with a sprinkling of Monster Cols and then there’s back again.  That’s not looking promising either!  Close, yet so far, the Tour within touching distance, slipping through our fingers.  

Just like Christmas, disappointment, this year’s Tour promised so much more than a pair of slippers and a sweater.

But True Tour Chasers don’t give up that easily!  After the disappointment of Christmas there is always Boxing Day.  If we miss the Tour there’s our lunch in a ski resort, probably Val D’Isere via Col d l’Iseran or maybe Alpe D’Huez.  We might still have a crack at Galibier of tick off some of the best climbs we’ve missed during the last tours, tick off some of legends.

The must do’s: Lacets de Montvernier, Col de la Madelaine, Col de la Croix de Fer or the corkscrew on Grand Colombier.

That doesn’t sound so bad.

Watch this space!

The Bicycle Moaning Collective Chasing the Tour 2016 (Edition 4)

The Bicycle Moaning Collective Chasing the Tour 2016 (Edition 4)

an article written for the bicycle moaning collective newsletter

The Bicycle Moaning Collective Chasing the Tour 2016 (Edition 4)

Stage 17 | Wednesday July 20 | 17km | Berne to Finhaut Emosson / the BMC: Chamonix

The hotel looked nice enough, attractive décor, pleasant staff, pool, sauna, Jacuzzi, spa – the usual.  None of that mattered as we hurriedly pushed through the Skoda girls mobbing reception to get to our bikes. We had a Tour de France to catch and like a very fast train it was heading our way. With only the relatively small, cute even, Col des Montets and the Swiss border between us it was very catchable.


Cut a long, hot story short – we missed it (again) but the Bicycle Moaning Collective were back, #Chasing the Tour, #Hunting down Cols – that rag bag bunch of cycling desperadoes (some who looked like they hadn’t seen their bike since the last time they were in the Alps). We had the old and the new, it’s always good to welcome newcomers (even if she was faster than most of us!)

Back over Col des Montets Tour catch or not Tour catch (as was the case) spirits were high after the first taste of an alpine descent followed by a quick beer detour into Chamonix before returning to relax around the pool with the Skoda girls and take in the magnificent views of Mont Blanc and its ailing glaciers. Any disappointment of missing Froome & Co race up to the stage finish at Emosson was long forgotten as we tried to concentrate on plans for the next day’s riding.


Stage 18 | Thursday July 21 | 17km | ITT Sallanches to Megeve / the BMC: lunch in Verbier 99 / 2424m ascent

Whilst The Tour riders had the uphill Individual Time Trial to worry about – and being only 17Km long it was a stage that we could realistically complete in full – the BMC headed in the opposite direction to Switzerland (in our vans) passing smoothly through the border (no passports required). Our heads were buzzing with Skoda girls (still) and the logistical conundrum of getting 14 riders, 1 minibus, a van and a car up, down and back up the Col de la Forclaz from Martigny, the apricot growing capital of Switzerland (and maybe of the EFTA).

Finally, it was agreed that everyone but Stevo would descend to Martigny on their bikes and he would drive the van down leaving the minibus and 1 car at the top and then on the way back…that’s as far as we got. In true BMC style we’d sort the getting back bit later.  After a nervous straight out of the van 1st proper warp-speed alpine descent and with the van parked (the 1 now the bottom of Forclaz if you’ve lost track) we started out for Verbier.  This being the Chasing the Tour tour and not a traditional BMC tour the peloton soon splintered – with a high tempo pace set at the front, no doubt to soften up any potential Verbier climb contenders.  A truce of sorts was called and we regrouped at the bottom of the climb, then promptly splintered again on the climb as Strava times were selfishly chased.

It’s not every day you can go to Verbier for lunch. We earned that lunch.  Scorching hot?  Yes. Brutally steep? Yes.  A baptism of fire for some, a nasty reminder for others but apparently easy for Mrs KHC. Luckily Verbier was the end of the road, with only a gravel road over the top (that only Kiero eyed wistfully), it was back the way we had come.  That brutally steep climb was now a devilish descent, awakening our senses – sharpening the eyes, gripping the brakes, tasting flies, smelling Hansford’s brakes and hearing his screams as he hurtled too close to the precipice.


Back on the road to Martigny we concocted an unofficial race, with riders attacking (foolishly) off the front at 60kmph only to be pulled back in by the collective will of the game peloton or more likely stopped in their over eager tracks by the damning headwind of truth and fading, retreating back to the shelter of the smirking peloton; until they were ready to go for the breakaway again. Being an unofficial BMC race – there were no official winner.

The reward for being first was to try again to solve our earlier conundrum of getting 14 riders and their bikes into a van with only 3 seats back to the top of Forclaz, eventually solved by a handful of the overly-keen tackling the penultimate climb of yesterday’s stage (and one of the worst climbs known to the Tour due to its dreary, unrelenting drags with few hairpins until near the summit, to add character or a much needed centrifugal kick). It was a hot, muggy, devoid of visual stimulus kind of climb.

The only interest in the dreary rain was watching the Tour debris clean up-parties removing the evidence that the immortals had climbed the same way the day before, promotional cr#p thrown by the caravan. Whether it was the thunder and lightning that cracked first or the rear half of the peloton but Mrs KHC soon burned the bunch off her back wheel, disappearing fast in the drizzle and low cloud with Stevo (that’s how rumours start…) – chased relentlessly by the Doog.

The sarcastically cheering welcome party at the top didn’t provide much comfort either. The other half of the equation had been solved by Hansford’s ingenuity.  Having foreseen a circumstance where he could avoid a 13km climb he’d ardently volunteered to be insured on the van.  Selflessly he drove the mechanical cheats to the top, blind and shaken around the hairpins in the back of a hot van – just punishment for their cheating.

Stage 19 | Friday July 22 | 146km | Albertville to Saint-Gervais Mont Blanc / the BMC: various 102km / 2053m ascent

Sensing that Tour was reaching its climax the Skoda girls in the hotel made their move, offering the more easily led members of the BMC, finish line hospitality passes for the day’s stage. There was a steely determination at breakfast that this was the day when we were all definitely catching the Tour, whether it be sipping champagne in hospitality, standing on the side of a wet mountain wearing a plastic bag or at the foot of the day’s final climb (when you’ve underestimated how long it takes to complete 2053m over 3 monster climbs and 100km).


The day’s best laid plans lasted all of 2 minutes when the keys to the unlocked minibus disappeared up the mountain (all be it slowly) in Big Carl’s jersey pockets and had to be retrieved. By the time the minibus was secured the BMC were spread out on various roads leading up to maybe Megève, or was it Saint Gervais or quite possibly neither? Maybe the presence of CheeseMap on the mountain had something to do with the directional dispersion. Of course it would all work out in the end – whatever happened we’d all meet in a bar in Saint-Gervais Les Bains, that didn’t even need to be planned for.

Whether it was planned or not, 3 of the BMC set off on a 3 Col super ride: up to Megève, over Col des Aravis – complete with chalets, cows with cow bells in alpine meadows, through half-recognised ski resorts – ticking all the boxes without shredding the legs, onwards and upwards over Col de la Colombière, the day’s biggie. Whilst the pace on the road was good for the moving average, the time taken to drink coffee, chew on baguettes and gorge on tarts in the col-top cafes was hurting the overall average.  As the storm clouds re-gathered and the Tour moved relentlessly towards St Gervais, from the summit top of Colombière the 3 had to lift their game, Miss Daisy Jones had to descend like stone not a feather.  The race was on.


The solution was obvious. The Doog was put to work on the front, his panting ignored as he dragged the chase group back to St Gervais.  Despite some shameless shirking (from this author) they made it to see a Romain Bardet and domestique race pass en-route to deliver a rare French stage victory, followed by battered, bruised and bloodied Chris Froome, jersey ripped but holding on to his third Tour win.  That wasn’t the highlight of the day though.  That belonged to the Quintana as he got to descend with the BMC back down the mountain to the tour buses (his was the one with the on-board shower but no stop for beers before the hotel).

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Stage 20 | Saturday July 23 | 146km | Megeve to Morzine / the BMC: Taninges to Les Gets 78km / 2361m ascent

Last day of the Tour proper and last day of Chasing the Tour. The split in the group was well established by now.  Roughly along the lines of those who wanted to enjoy themselves and those that wanted to enjoy themselves by hurting themselves a little bit more. There’s more people into this than you might think and the selection evened up into a 60:40 split.

For Team Leisurely Ride there was just the small matter of the notorious Col du Joux Plan before finding a bar to watch the final mountain showdown of the 2016 Tour. As it was the 2 groups had very similar days with the exception that Team Max Mosley had to haul itself up Col de la Ramaz, a nasty climb, steep and spiteful especially through the dark tunnel section but with a quite magnificent open bowl before the true summit providing a 2-mile-wide amphitheatre to watch the tour play out (if you were stopping to watch the Tour that is). Instead the BMC raced down off Col du Ramaz, a messy thin ribbon of tarmac, rutted, scarred with untidy bitumen repairs mixed in with gravel, greasy white lines and rollercoaster hairpins – steep and banked like a natural velodrome.  The race wasn’t a fair one, DrewVo had split, proving once and for all Dad’s descend slower.

Whereas Team Leisure got to have a jolly old time in a bar in Les Gets, Team Max rode back from Morzine in the rain (there’s a moral in there somewhere…I’m just not sure what it is). Both teams got to descend into Taninges, pace-line like hell to Samoen then crucify themselves painfully on CdJP.  Except Stevo who found some new skinny French bike friends to climb with. CdJP is tough, even tougher when the grim faced gendarmes make you cyclo-cross across a muddy ravine in cleats across the summit (wrecking Strava times in the process…the stewards inquiry rumbles on for this one).


With the 2016 Tour’s final climb bested there was still it’s final descent to look forward to…except if you were Team Max who were forced to descend in a sadistic thunderstorm at a pace so sensibly slow as to defy gravity, so slow that to date only Descending Miss Daisy Jones had been able to achieve on a consistent basis (whatever the weather). The road down becomes a river; we tip toed around the hairpins until we entered the barriers that marked the last 3km to the finish line. We almost certainly shouldn’t have been. You’re not allowed to drive your car around an F1 circuit before the race starts.  Under the gaze of the massed Tour spectators as the Tour closed up its mountain shop for the year, so did we.

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Crossing the same finish line, roared home by the same crowd (in our dreams). As Froome’s Team Sky steam rolled the opposition into the melting tarmac with a pre-ordained inevitability the BMC showed its always best to get out on your bikes and make your own fun.

empty head

empty head

My bike and I are on Cycle Super Highway 8.  My head is still in the Alps.  It’s the same when I’m sat at my desk at work.  It hasn’t been easy to fit back into my normal life.  Whilst 3 weeks on Froome & Co have moved on to Rio, I’m still looking at my col top photos, planning routes for future col conquering trips (I like the sound of the Circle of Death in the Pyrenees) and my head is still a whirl of cycling cliché ridden flashbacks, flickering like movie reel, playing over again and again.

Our unofficial race from Verbier to Martigny (the centre of the apricot growing universe) with riders attacking off the front at 60kmph only to be pulled back in by the collective will of the rag bag peloton or more likely stopped in their over eager tracks by the damning headwind of truth and fading, retreating back to the safety of that same rag bag peloton; until they’re ready to go for the breakaway again.

The world has an infinite ability to move on.  Look at the news.  The bloodless coup that saw Cameron’s clique ousted not by the coup leaders but by Teresa May’s puritan posse. Forgotten.  Labour leadership battle, hardly newsworthy, not even the intriguing undercurrent of plotting Trotskyists lurking in the shadows.  Syria and its refugees a footnote.  All overshadowed by the Rio Olympics.

Stevo pulling a neat line of us up Col du Forclaz, Wout Poels like, until the elastic snaps and I fall off the back, legs pounding out squares rather than spinning effortlessly like Christine’s as she floats past.  My stomach is cramping with hunger pains, a sure sign of hitting the wall.  I’m blowing up, with a low rumble of thunder the skies open bringing refreshing rain, part washing off the ingrained grime and sweat.  Forclaz was so bad it was almost good, the climb itself wasn’t too tough but the long grinding road lacks visual drama, making it a mental rather than physical haul to the top. The top is a relief, bathed in sunshine, the storm has passed over in the time it’s taken me to ascend.

The Olympics brings us wall to wall joy, hope and over achievement.  A rainbow of colourful drama to banish the recent darkness from our lives.  It’s almost as if it planned.  The economic fallout from BREXIT, conveniently unreported, what we don’t see can’t hurt us.  The American car crash Presidential Election.  Actually that’s still receiving of column inches because it’s entertainment: Presidential Election Reality TV.

Descending off Col du Ramaz, a messy thin ribbon of tarmac, rutted, scarred with untidy bitumen repairs mixed in with gravel, greasy white lines and rollercoaster hairpins – steep and banked like a natural velodrome.  I’ve no idea how to ride them properly, maybe like a mountain bike berm, that’ll do, not too much speed scrubbed off.   Stevo and DrewBear have gone, disappeared down the road, its’s still worth chasing them, attacking out of the hairpins for the hell of it, to do the brutal climb justice, to pay back the legends who inspired in memorial posters on every hairpin on the way up – Coppi, Anquetil, Merckx, Hinault, LeMond, Indurain (no poster for Armstrong, he’s been erased).  It’s a good one, with the road as good as closed we can confidently-ish use its whole width, not as good as the descent of Colombier the day before but we’re in the alpine descent sweet shop so no need to compare.

Olympic flavoured Dopamine for the masses.  The Developed World masses – investment in Olympic glory does little to alleviate the pain and suffering outsides of the medal table top 20.  Even in the top 10 countries what do all these medals achieve?  A satisfied population?  Unedifying glory on the world stage?  It beats going to war.  It beats being miserable.  State sponsored escapism can be good.  Our sportsmen are our modern day warriors, adventurers, heroes.  They don’t need to defeat an armada to earn a knighthood. Which is progress of sorts.

On the road between Taninges and Samoens we’re at Tour peloton pace, or close enough.  A disciplined pace line hauling 45kph, racing in the suppressive heat of the valley floor, taking our turns on the front, sun burnt noses in the wind, team time trialling to the foot of Col du Joux Plan before it gets closed.  That and hunting down coffee and pastries (plural). It’s a brutal pace, we’re being made to work hard in the chain gang.  I let them go as we arrive at the outskirts of Samoens, saving myself for the climb, besides I know where the best café in town is.  They’ll have to wait for me.

 The media decides the news that we see.  Have they decided it’s time for us to be happy?  Or what are they trying to hide?  We should be suspicious of the 4th estate as any of the other 3.  What news will shoulder its way back into the limelight when the Olympics has ended.  The old stuff or new news?

The crowd are closing in on top of brutal col du Joux Plan, the gap in road no wider than a meter.  I’m in the crazy footage you see when the pro riders climb Alpe D’Huez, Ventoux, Galibier and the spectators, close in, over step the mark.  I’m not about to hit anyone.  This is too exciting and I haven’t even started the descent.  Then I do and so does the rain.  Lots of rain starts.  Thunder too.  The road down becomes a river; I tip toe around the hairpins to scared to regret the lost opportunity to push max speed.  I can’t see much other than huddled spectators waiting for me to slip/slide off the road.  They don’t mean me ill; they’ve just had a long roadside wait of nothing much too see.  Satisfied that I’d cashed in a month’s worth of risk cheques in 1 sodden descent I was in the barriers.  The barriers that mark the last 3km to the finish line.  I almost certainly shouldn’t have been. You’re not allowed to drive your car around an F1 circuit before the race starts.  Under the gaze of the massed Tour spectators I don’t know whether to look serious, grin like an idiot or concentrate on not losing it on the still wet corners until crossing the finish line where my grin is unstoppable.

That’s better.  My memories have been backed up to the hard drive.  Time to sit back and enjoy the Olympics.

another way

another way

I’ve learnt a new word. It was repeated multiple times on the mountain roads I cycled during this year’s Tour de France (when France welcomes the World). It was strangely familiar, I’d heard and spoken a similar sounding word myself before.

Normally it’s French words that are anglicised to effect a certain Je ne sais quoi. This time the French have adapted the English word: FREXIT. Maybe in Germany (DEUXIT), Italy (ITXIT) and Spain (ESPANXIT) similar words are daubed large in heavy set white letters on their mountain roads for cyclists to read. Why are they telling cyclists that they wish to free from the supranational shackles of the EU? Is it because as cyclists we’re continually seeking a freedom of sorts too? More probably because the eyes of the World through the lens of TV cameras suspended from multiple hovering helicopters, will be focused on the mountain roads too. 

Against the mesmerising mountains it looked alien, ugly and in your face: FREXIT (Libre Savoie was much less so, cute even). Out of place in the context of the inherent internationalism of the Tour de France. Riders from America, Russia, Columbia, Scandinavia, France, Italy, Spain & Great Britain (the Great somehow seeming incongruous and out dated) in the same peloton even in the same team working to achieve a collective goal. How often does the Breakaway get away? How many GC contenders solo to victory without their team? Not impossible but not often.

Spectators from all over the world flock to France, supporting riders from countries other than their own, looking past nationality to the heart of their chosen rider, backing them because of their riding style, swagger, temperament, their feats in the face of pain, even just the bike they ride or their record (Palmares (exotic French word)). We’re free to choose, not restricted to just supporting our fellow country men.

So why, when a nation becomes discontent does it turn inward and dismiss the outside world? Nationalism is portrayed as the answer to but it has all so often turned ugly. Whilst technology is pushing aside national boundaries, breaking down barriers, racing towards globalisation, deep down human nature leans towards tribalism. When disenchanted, seemingly threatened we seek identity and safety within our own pack.

Politicians know this. They are skilled in creating fear of ‘the other’. During the EU Referendum, our ‘other’ were the ‘job stealing immigrants’. Trump is championing Muslims as his ‘convenient other’ threatening the American way of life. To be honest we’ve got history in Europe, we’ve written the book on the politics of fear, using fear to gain popularity. We’ve readily walked that thin line that leads towards ethnic cleansing and genocide before.

Don’t worry, we’re sophisticated, developed nations. We won’t fall in to that trap again. We learn from our mistakes, history doesn’t repeat itself, does it? The true success of the maligned EU project has been its success in preventing (another) catastrophic war between ever squabbling nations. I am not sure why that is not more widely acknowledged.

Tormented by the hard climb, tormented by Dom and The Doog disappearing up the road above me, tormented by FREXIT, my mood has turned black as I finally crest the summit where I celebrate with a drink (stale, warm electrolyte), take my summit photos (monumental), another drink (chocolat chaud avec expresso – I’m introducing Café Mocha to France a Col at a time), eat an energy bar (soggy). No time left for a baguette jambon et fromage as the others have scoffed in the time it has taken me to catch back up to them. Clip in and descend.

This is true freedom. Pure excitement, earned and paid for. Nothing else matters other than staying away from the precipitous drop, the slippery white lines, the cracks in the road surface, gravel in the corners and soft, melting asphalt. Nothing other than enjoying the controlled exhilarating madness of descending a hair-pinned, switchbacked, off camber, mountain roller coaster from mountain top to valley floor.

Within the safety of the gorge, a tumbling meltwater fuelled river to my right I’d forgotten about FREXIT/BREXIT. On the mountain I’ve found the answer. When life becomes a cruel, endless grind, misery and resentment builds. When life is exciting, exhilarating, challenging it dissipates. Politicians don’t need to stoop to stoking the flames of fear to create unity. There is another way: energise and excite, create that elusive feel good factor that can unite a nation. Of course politicians know this too. It’s a space race or other vanity endeavour (like hosting the Olympics).

Conveniently we already have our national project: BREXIT. Rather than use it to curl up into an isolated little ball, closing out the outside world, it could be the vehicle to re-tool, re-focus, re-build, re-energise our curmudgeonly, insular, stuck in the past, clinging to former Imperial-glories nation. Make it current, on trend, world leading, prosperous even. BREXIT is a legitimate ‘once in a generation’ unifying challenge, adventure even, more legitimate than going to Mars or bagging a fistful of gold medals.

Our BREXIT project should have our children’s futures at its core, it can be exciting, collective, deliver national pride. What about a British-devised solution to climate change, cost effective supersonic travel, mass water purification in the Developing World, a new sustainable fuel source etc etc? That’s just the stuff I came up with at 60kmh on the down side of the Col de la Colombiere. There’s no limit to the potential, only our ambition.

the why

the why

Why? Four days in soaked, stinking Lycra, sweat pouring in torrents, stinging my eyes with a nasty mix of sun screen and salt, tasting of stale tartiflette as it runs relentlessly down my face, into my mouth, dripping off my chin, wiped away futilely by already soaked cycling gloves.  Why? Because it doesn’t get any better than this.

This is the French Alps and this is the Tour de France.  These grand, spectacular mountains are painted – with a lot of yellow and a fair deployment of red polka dots – but mostly with all things cycling for four intense, gigantic, dramatic days each year.  Like a fierce storm the Tour de France rolls through, up, over, down and out the other side of the alpine cols, sweeping me and my bike along with it. For those four days I’m in the Tour, or as close as I’m ever going to be.

Four days happen fast, an intense whirlwind of vibrant colour, people, vistas distilled into a potent emotional concentrate.  Except on the climbs.  Where it slows.  Pedals rotating slowly not spinning fast. Time falters and extends the opportunity to dissect and process individual moments, snapshots of memory from within the whirlwind and fully answer the: Why?

It’s butterflies basking on the warm road, escaping death by front wheel and disappearing amongst the mesmerising alpine flowers in the meadows that lie sandwiched between hairpins.  Camper vans, lots of camper vans with occupants spilling out dressed, half dressed, half cut, half bored, very bored or very excited.  How did that ancient VW camper get up here? Families camped on precarious precipices. Kids, lots of expectant kids reaching out for a high-five in return for a pain relieving allez-allez or even a precious song.  Some other songs are rude, I think.  Sung raucously in drunken European accents by uber-excited 18-30s, they’re maybe older, maybe younger – it’s a vast array of humanity swarming on the mountain sides.  Being overtaken by an E-bike (lots of them this year) but easily catching a Brompton folding bike set on conquering mountains too.  Distracted on the brutal Ramaz by official posters of past winners.  Where’s Armstrong? (The other drug cheats are all here).  Picture postcard perfect chalets perched on the mountain, promising idyllic alpine living, adorned in Tour decorations, like Christmas but celebrating cycling.  Wet paint on the road, splashing my bike with neon green and pink tattoos, daubed by supporters marking out their support for Bardet, Sagan, Froome – they’re all coming through later.  Mixing the Bicycle Moaning Collective club kit with club kits from all over the world.  Spotting club mates racing on hairpins high above or even better – below.  Appreciating admiring looks at my bike or were they admiring my socks?  Euro-pop-beats that help pick up the pace momentarily until fading out of earshot and fading with it my momentarily lifted pace.  The breath-taking, awe inspiring views from the high mountains – don’t forget to look down.  The cooling air as I climb higher, not too cold but cold enough to help.  Swirling mountain mists, riding through and above the clouds, entering another world.  Moving aside for Gendarmes on their motor bikes, roaring past in aggressive groups of threes.  Moving aside for Tour Team cars racing up behind, with deafening horns.  Get out of the way.  Is that for me?  Or the crowds pressing in from each side at the top of Col du Joux Plane? Narrowing the road – like they do on the television – no more than a meter wide.  I’m in the Tour.

That’s Why.  There’s one more: starting out on an epic climb and not knowing or believing that you can do it: climb that high, that steep, for that long and that hard. But you do.  You make it to the top.  You can, you did.