The Route

The Pyrenees
Before I begin with stories of travel and gear ratios, it is important to understand the setting of the Raid. The mountain range of the Pyrenees that concertinas between France and Spain, sandwiching Andorra in the process, is named from the Greek word “pyr” meaning “fire”. Legend has it that when Hercules walked the earth, a great fire took hold of the mountainous region entombing the local villagers under rivers of lava. In the ensuing chaos, Hercules found the King of Spain’s daughter, Princess Pirene, in – one can only presume - an appalling state of third degree burns.

In her delirium, she explained that a three-headed monster had forcibly removed her father from his throne, and chased her into the forest, driving her into hiding. The tyrant promptly set fire to the mountainside thereby accelerating her demise. Prior to her untimely death, attributable (we think) to serious burn wounds or smoke inhalation, she gave Hercules all her land before he covered her body with a wall of rocks running from the Bay of Biscay Sea to the Med. Hercules, being the demi-god that he was, never stayed around long enough to establish whether this unwritten disposal of property was ever binding. Or whether this tyrant did indeed have three heads.

Bizarrely enough, in another version of this legend, Princess Pirene was said to have been raped by Hercules. Pirene, thinking she had been raped by the son of the god Zeus, was terrified (as Princesses often are) that she would give birth to a serpent and promptly fled to the mountains. There she was either buried or eaten by wild animals. An entirely distorted, although more believable, version of the first legend.

Whatever the true story might be, what is important to remember is that a princess died up in them there mountains. The words ‘funeral pyre’ and ‘pyromaniac’ are current reminders of that tragic episode. All uncomfortably ominous.

Eventually when the Romans reached the Iberian Peninsula, their engineers sought the lowest lying crossings between the Pyrenees to build their troop transporting roads. So aside from a few animal tracks and trails for shepherds and smugglers etched into the spine of the mountains, no-one bothered going up there.

That is until the arrival of the first cyclists.

The Circle of Death
In 1910, a 45-year old French race director called Henri Desgranges was looking for ways to toughen up his young cycling race. After much persuasion that mountains of the Pyrenees be included in his race from his able bodied junior, Alphonse Steines, Desgranges dispatched Alphonse to investigate the Col du Tourmalet in the dead of winter. In January of 1910, undaunted by an innkeeper’s advice that the cart path was “barely passable in July”, Alphonse hired a car and proceeded to the passage over the mountain.

Despite getting stuck in snow and being hindered by the looming darkness, Steines proceeded on foot. At 3am, after barely surviving the crossing, a search party found him dazed and bewildered. They swiftly gave him some food and put him in a hot bath. The next morning Steines sent the famous message back to Paris:

Crossed Tourmalet...stop
Very Good Road......stop
Perfectly Passable..stop
Signed Steines

Six months later, the Tourmalet was included in a stage of the 7th annual Tour De France.

The newspapers pondered the severity of the new mountain routes and their susceptibility to being conquered. On 27 July of that year, a very hot day for southern France, the curly haired Octave Lapize aggressively broke away from the Peloton with another rider, Frans Lafourcade. That 289km riding day included the increasingly more difficult climbs of the Col du Peyresourde, Col d'Aspin, Col du Tourmalet and the Col d'Aubisque.

Lapize was the first man to the top of the Tourmalet and only Lafourcade followed him up the Aubisque. Nervous race officials watched to see if anyone could make the climb.

Lapize walked, ran, and pedalled his way up the climbs. But on the Aubisque he was passed by the local Lafourcade who went on to win the final climb. Fifteen minutes later, the distressed Lapize appeared at the summit pushing his bike. Upon reaching the top Lapize angrily shouted “ASSASSINS!” at the race officials as he passed. Once across, the enraged and adrenaline-fuelled Lapize (who would be the eventual winner of that year’s Tour de France) charged down the mountain and made up the 15-minute deficit on Lafourcade to win the 10th stage of the Tour.

Desgranges was pleased with the addition of the mountain passes and pointed out that the Giants of the Road demanded a Road of the Giants.

As History serves as witness, 1910 introduced:

• the Col du Tourmalet, a climb used in more Tours than any other climb in Tour history;
• the ‘Circle of Death’ which comprised the Cols of Peyresourde, Aspin, Tourmalet and Aubisque; and
• the Tour's first “Broom-Wagon”, sweeping up riders who abandoned the race on the route of the day's stage.

In reviewing our itinerary, I took note that we would ride the Circle of Death on days 2 and 3 of the Raid.

Robby Ricc looks enthused

The Raiders
Sally and Austin Roe, together with the indefatigable Nick Flanagan (read “French Revolutions” by Tim Moore; “Tour de France” by Graham Fife) and his wonderful family, were the hosts and support crew for the Raiders. Sally aka Mummy would call the shots and keep everyone pointed in the same direction.

Together with a Canadian couple, Matt and Andrea, who were celebrating their 10th wedding anniversary, and a scurry of ardent Englishmen, the 7 South African Raiders (with Barloworld) accoutrements, boasted the following riders and their credentials:

The camaraderie that germinated from all the testosterone, oil lube and Lycra was tantamount to fighting spirit in the trenches. Starting off as a unit, the conversation usually quietened into a blur of wheels and flexing muscles. Concentrations were fixed firmly on the road ahead or the distance between bicycles and the lifeline of the wheel ahead of you.

From Hendaye, just outside Biarritz, the road bordered the coastline for a few kilometres before heading towards a gap penetrating the Basque portion of the Pyrenees. The swift and steady paced group held a solid speed as the 180k route for the day unfurled its way through small French towns filled with Sunday pastries, closed shops and wafting smells of coffee.

Our first spectacular incident occurred about 5 minutes after missing our first lunch stop. What sounded like a gunshot, causing a shudder through the group, was actually the exploding wheel rim of Nick’s rear wheel. Not the tube exploding, but the actual steel rim of the wheel. A steel strand had separated from the rim. It was amazing that Nick was able to keep control of his bike without bringing down the Peloton. It was a valuable reminder that the repeated braking on rims wears down not only the brake pads but the wheel rim. One of the guys sagely noted that it’s a good idea to replace your wheels when the rims feel like the concave portion of a tea spoon.

Lunch (consisting of water, energy drink, baguettes, sliced ham, peppered salami, chorizo, cheese, crisps and bananas) gave us enough time to refuel for the push to St Christau and for Nick to find a new rear wheel. If this was a Sunday ride, it would have been prematurely abandoned. We were thankful that our support crew were at hand to provide us with the food, tools, directions and a replacement rear wheel.

After lunch the first col of the Raid, the Col d'Osquich (which we chose to call the Col d’Ostrich) beckoned. The French word ‘col’ has been absorbed into the English language to describe a pass between mountain peaks. This, as we were later to find out, is not entirely correct as a col is often the peak of the mountain.

The categories of climbs indicate their severity. It’s best to remember them as the gear of a car that you’d require to get up them. So a cat-1 climb, for which a car would require its first gear, is much harder than a cat-3 climb which you could ascend in 3rd gear. Of course the hardest possible climb, harder than a cat-1, is a “hors categorie” or “without category” climb. For this you would need large amounts of pain, temperance, strength and courage.

Despite being a cat-3 climb, the Ostrich was a good tester to remind us that our lactic acid and oxygen depletion body signals were still in good working order.

The Mountains
Day 1 ended at the feet of the mountains. Our raw energy had been tempered by a day in the saddle, but the thought of the steep climbs and twisting roads drifted in and out of our thoughts.

The French and Spanish claim it as their own but in reality the Pyrenees are owned by wild shepherds and resourceful mountain people. This is confirmed by the different Spanish, French, Catalan, Occitan, Aragonese and Basque names it has been given by the locals who live in its folds and who consider the mountain range their own.

It would not be unusual for us to see, from time to time, wandering along remote parts of the route mountain hobos and wanderers. Bergies, as we affectionately liked to call them, softening the ‘g’ to make them sound rather tame, quaint and European. They were strong, tanned people with dark features, pungent odours and tough bones. Their hair was knotted and sometimes slightly shorn as though inebriated friends had administered salutary mullet hair cuts to conform to their mountain status.

Tough mountains require a tough people.

The Profile

Day two started with a 30k ride to the base of the mountains. As we pressed on in the miserable weather, the foreboding mountains grew around us shrouded by mist, clouds and apprehension. The day would include 2 major climbs, the Aubisque and the Tourmalet, both ‘without category’ climbs. The Aubisque swiftly spread the riders out along its flanks as we began our ascent.

And from about here to the Mediterranean, is when the suffering began.

The suffering was not in a bad way. Rather in a way that allows you to appreciate the strength and resolve of the human body and the unwavering majesty and power of our planet’s peaks. On some days, some of us would suffer less than others. On some days, we’d suffer more. But on those days of beaucoup suffering, it was the others who would come to our rescue and stay with you on the big climbs when you couldn’t cope with the pace. It was on those days, when the legs and heart would leave you (with a sharp exhale) as your wheel detached from the group, that you’d get a shove from someone’s palm and an encouraging word, which would reattach you to the Peloton. Renewed energy and salvation from one gesture which allowed you stay on with the group.

We ate when we were hungry and drank when we were thirsty. And in between the punctures and the loo-breaks, we cycled.

In the evenings, after the bikes had been cleaned and prepped for the next day (when we had the strength, which was rare), we’d recharge our spirits and bodies with varying quantities of bon vin rouge and local cuisine. The wine would heal the body and put courage in the heart so that we’d be able to endure whatever the next day had to offer.

Brandy, coffee and the newspaper tucked beneath my vest may have saved my life on the downhill of the Tourmalet. My sapped reserves and shaking front wheel nearly sent me over the edge of the road which had no barriers or warning signs. Our knuckles, in their wet gloves, turned white holding on to handlebars, brakes, and dear life. Cold like that penetrates your veins. Riding down, out of the cold and fog of the Tourmalet, past the cemeteries of the local town, the warm embrace of the pop-up postcard valley draws you close to its bosom. The legs come back to you when you smell the stables and you know that someone will be waiting for you at the inn with food and hot water. It makes the discomfort almost bearable.

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A welcome respite

Massat & The End
Should I ever be lucky enough to locate the End of the World, I am certain it would be in a town like Massat. This was where we’d spend our 3rd and our final night of the Raid. France’s version of Bolivia, sits in the centre of the Pyrenees at the base of Col De Port, an evil and devious climb. The chairs of the local bar face the centre of the one-piazza town and this is where the people of Massat and the People from the Mountain (they were ‘Bergies’ to us) congregate. The locals drink dark wine while perching cigarettes from their thin lips, whistling at anyone looking remotely feminine. Their laughter would be interrupted with the occasional firecracker thrown between the tables. Their husky voices gurgled their patois before spilling out incomprehensibly onto the uneven plastic tables.

The People from the Mountain, with their faces hewn out of wood, drift in and out of the village shopping market like ghosts. With scruffy sentinel dogs leading the way, the people of the Mountain bundle themselves up with supplies before heading up the hills. Some say they go there to grow marijuana, but I think they go there because they’ve found their escape from civilisation and their own social Nirvana. Massat is an interesting place.

On our last night
After we had reached the Mediterranean through the vineyards from Prades; after young Dominic Flanagan had courageously swum to the bottom of the ocean from the floating platform in the centre of the bay; after the bottles of Champagne and paella; after Q did the topless Hakka in the restaurant; after the brave Canadians showed us how to drink like a Newfie; after the French hikers had kicked us out of our own hotel room for making too much noise; after Sunday’s 165k bike race through the region of l’Ariège; and after we had bundled our tired bicycles into their bags for our imminent departure, we found ourselves at our farewell dinner (and once again) in Massat.

Thumping music from the far side of the village interrupted our post-dinner vin rouge congregation. Some of us chose to investigate what these People of the Mountain were getting up to. On the far side of the local school, before you reach the base of the hills, on what was made to look like an abandoned shipwreck was a group of six musicians thumping away at their loud instruments. The lead singer of Space Yoghurt, who had since lost his shirt, was standing barefoot at the back of the stage preaching and barking to the bright moon. The town folk were out with their flowing hair and brightest garments. Children ran twisting and weaving between the swaying crowds. Bergies stumbled about, swaying in rhythm with their dreadlocks and inebriation. A mother held her little baby close to her breast.

I could feel the ride in my legs and my heart. Like lead which had attached itself to my bones. Somewhere, in the heart of the Pyrenees, on the road that was set out before us, a group of riders had solidified their fortitude and persevered through whatever road was put before them. I could taste the satisfaction in every swig from my beer bottle. We listened until the music was over, before we turned our backs to the mountains.

I thought of my small family back in London. And I thought of all the riders who ride these insane adventures from one side of the country to the other on thin wheeled bicycles. These oddly tanned cyclists, living life on tough leather, were somehow quite perfectly suited to riding through this world of the People of the Mountain.

It’s a tough world, with strange people, but would you want it any other way?

Bon Courage.
~RobbyRicc