Robocop nudges me at breakfast. “I know. She’s damned sexy, isn’t she,” I whisper. Gail, our breakfast waitress flits from kitchen to table with jugs of juice and milk, then slippery omelettes. Every man in the room thinks it; none will say it.
Guiltily we wonder how old she is—sixteen, 23—there’s no guessing. The ponytail swings, two wisps of hair tickle her brow, flawless skin, and Buddy Holly glasses that add to the allure. I watch Robo’s head swivel silently as she moves about the room.
Saturday is beautiful; Sunday it rains all day; Monday we ascend the Alpe in perfect conditions; today we wake to more grey. Three set out on Rambo’s wilderness ride around the face of the mountain, through tunnels, and up a goat track to the Col de Sarenne at the back of Alpe d’Huez.
Five set out for the Croix de Fer. Some of us—older, wiser—bide our time. Rambo and Wingnut return within the hour, soaked. Robocop’s need to bag something takes him up to the ski station at Oz-en-Oisans. The Croix de Fer group return as well after only six kilometres, punctured, grizzling of failed brakes and cold.
The rain loosens its grip and departs just after lunch. Virgil returns from the Col de la Croix de Fer and says he’s never been colder in his life. This is my target for today.
I set off, solo, skirting the lake down to Allemont, then up through the old village on the hill and around the far side of the lake, joining the D526, the Route des Cols, a kilometre above our lodgings.
I walked down this from dinner two nights ago. It frightened me then. I battle up the six clicks to the village, having a yack with two young Germans before they motor steadily away. The threatening rain holds off. Through the village is a corkscrew descent into the Defile of Maupas.
The defile is a geological wonder, with steep screes on one side, and pillars of towering rock on the other. A cascade freefalls hundreds of metres, touching nothing, before hitting the rocks again. No sunlight penetrates here on bright days. The descent is scary; the climb out is at 12 and 14 per cent. Two submersible fords add to the danger.
Another German guy catches and passes me as I struggle on the steepest sections. When it eases off—to nine per cent!—I catch him and we ride side by side for over half an hour. The trees end and we weave our way up open slopes to the col. Without warning the rain hits us.
The grade increases and my German friend reaches the col two hundred metres ahead of me. He huddles behind a small stone shed with six Belgians in team colours while the horizontal rain lashes around us on all sides. My yellow slicker billows and threatens to blow away before I can get it over my head.
The Belgians head off the other way. I eat two cereal bars but the German says it’s too cold and he must go. My thermometer is at five degrees. The whipping rain and wind up the chill factor exponentially.
In less then five minutes my hands and feet freeze. I get the camera out to prove I was here but can barely press the buttons. On the bike I can’t change gears. My hands can’t manipulate the levers; they slide off. I can’t feel the shifters. I clamp my thumbs and forefingers around the brake hoods and start my descent, never taking my hands off the bars. Wet and fogged specs limit vision, but high-powered prescription lenses can’t be taken off.
The steeper sections of the descent are perilous and the chill bores deeper into me. My hands are frozen around the bars and when I take one off to push my glasses back up my nose I cannot get a grip on the bar again.
The 14 per cent drop into the defile is the scariest part. The German cowers on one of the hairpins. I stop beside him and he mutters something unintelligible in any language. I indicate that I’m pressing on and he follows.
I enjoy the 12 per cent climb out of the defile. It ‘warms’ me, makes my legs work at something other than simply wrapping themselves grimly around the frame. A short flat section is a huge reward. Through the village is the six-kilometre descent I have walked.
It’s scary fast, especially with little hand control. I let it go on some straighter sections, but always pull back well before any tightish curve. Two days ago two young bucks hit the wall here and smashed legs and bodies. My German companion sags back.
What relief to reach the bottom, yell “Auf wiedersehen!” and sink onto the deck in front of the chalet. Virgil and Wingnut are sitting out in the cold having a beer. I say FUCK six times, louder each time, and slump to my knees. I struggle like a chrysalis out of layers of sodden gear. Each foot is numb and feels like it has a piece of wood clamped under it.
I thaw quickly. Another adventure, raw and elemental, is over. Tomorrow we climb the Galibier.
[57.94kms @ 16.5kph. Montage 1769m, Max alt 2083m, max climb 14%]
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