port de balès

vendredi 29 juillet

My final ride in France, this trip, maybe forever. The ascent of the Port de Balès reminds me—as if I didn’t need it—that big boys shouldn’t climb hills. They can, slowly, but mountains are for skinny young men. My legs are knackered after weeks of clambering up incredibly steep slopes.

The Iceman and I saunter down the main road from Luchon, first along the valley of le Pique, the valley of la Garonne. At Salanche-Siridan we hang a left up the valley of the Ourse to Mauléon-Barousse. We have 19.7kms to climb: the sign says so.

I have no computer today—it’s on my bed, left behind in my haste to be on the road. I am naked without it: no gradients (maybe a good thing), no distance to the top (ditto), no temperature changes as we hit the clouds (ditto, ditto).

The beauty of this climb eases its agony. From Mauléon-Barousse we sidle up the Ferrère valley, idyllic scenery and a glorious river burbling right beside the bitumen. The gradient is benign enough for me to enjoy every second.

After six point five kilometres of three and four percent, the road crosses the river, the valley narrows to gorge, and the real stuff begins, the river further and further below in deep shade. No village, no house, no wayside shelter relieves the solitude and the final bleakness of this climb that tops out at 1755 metres.

The perilous descent south into the Oueil valley is goat-track narrow with the tightest chicanes. The final 5.88kms to the top was only sealed in 2005 so le Tour could come over here for the first time. Only way down in the lower reaches dare I release the brakes and flash through the corners.

 And then it’s done. I open the iron gate at Le Poujastou, our chambres d’hôtes, and lean the Cervélo against a wooden garden table. I remove my wrap-arounds with prescription inserts, my blood-red helmet, a dripping bandana, and unpeel two sticky mitts.

After trudging up four flights and stripping off my Alpe d’Huez jersey, my best bib-nicks and new socks on honour of the occasion, I lie down for a few minutes. My next task is to wheel the pod from the garage, unfurl my multi-tool’s Allen keys, and disassemble my machine.

There it lies, in pieces in a black box—wheels, seat-post, handlebars, derailleur—at strange angles, incapable, Alpe d’Huez, the Croix de Fer, the Glandon, the Télégraphe, the Galibier, the Izoard, the Portillon, Superbagnères, and the Balès behind it. Before them, the Tourmalet, the Peyresourde, the Aspin, the Agnes and the Aubisque.

There are a million mountains to climb: they’re everywhere, every day. In France only one remains for me: the Ventoux. It stands alone in a place I have not been.