'After the Goldrush'

Voilá, it has been done: both Il Boiaⁱ and Il Bruco are now the proud owners of a 'Brevet d'Or' for Les Trois Ballons. The golden geezers had to dig deeper than ever to obtain their diploma's, but the sense of fulfillment more than makes up for the (self-) inflicted damage upon their bodies. Mission accomplished!

Le Parcours:

The 205 km of Les Trois Ballons cover about 4300 altimetres. Inbetween the three balloons—Ballon de Servance, Le Grand Ballon, Ballon d'Alsace—there are some other hills to tackle, such as the Col du Ménil, the Col du Hundsruck and—last but not least—La Planche des Belles Filles. And the remainder of the route is not exactly flat either.

We did not really know what to expect. We knew that some serious Suffering was awaiting us, but in retrospect I am glad that I entered the race fairly optimistic and naïve. The Vosges may not have a fearsome reputation as the Alpes or the Pyrenees, but I have learned to respect (and love) them just the same. The climbs were invariably longer and steeper than I had expected. The landscapes also surpassed my expectations, reminding me of the lower sections of the Swiss Alpes.

With the exception of the Grand Ballon, which has a soft (but breathtakingly beautiful) finish (at 1325 metres, it is the 'ceiling' of Les Trois Ballons), the ascents tend to steepen up towards the end. Most of the climbs are have serious gradients, which squeeze all the juice out of your legs. What is good, though, is that most of the uphill labour is done in forests, which shelter you from the heat a bit, and also from 'eye contact' with a too remote summit. At the same time, this makes descending more difficult, since you cannot look ahead and scan the road for problematic turns (of which there were plenty) and upcoming traffic (of which there wasn't too much).

La Bataille:

A mass start, waiting in a pen amidst of hundreds of nervous cyclotouristes, a time chip on the ankle, a race number on your bike, the 'contre la montre' (against the clock) and diploma element—all of this adds enormously to the sensation of a real 'cyclosportif'. I just love it. The Opposition, many of whom are on sub-8 kg plastic and close to 'anorectic', is also more serious than what you encounter in, say, a Liège-Bastogne-Liège or a Ronde van Vlaanderen. And we did not even see the 'privileged' riders who take off from the very first start pen and contest the podium spots.

Il Boia and yours truly had decided beforehand not to stick together at all costs. Experience tells us that he would have likely to give too much in order to maintain early-ride Brucopace; blowing up before the going gets tough is not smart in a ride like this. Not too long after we left Champagney, he settled in his own rhythm. Il Boia will fill you in later on as to what happened to him between there and the finish on La Planche des Belles Filles. But you can rest assured that he fought an epic battle, especially considering the lost training due to his collarbone break/the theft of his Morati and the fact that he had to face the Vosges on his heavy Overdevest, with 40x28 as its smallest gear...

As soon as we were 'set loose', I started to rev my engine. Pressed for time and wanting to find myself a grupetto of sufficiently fast and safe Oppositionaries, I decided to make the most of my 'waakzaamheid' and the fairly easy first 10 km. Speed was okay, heart rate well in the comfort zone and the legs seemed to be armed and ready (regardless of a lack of 'definition' and a surplus of hair).

But once we hit the ramps of the Ballon de Servance, I was reminded of the fact that heavy poldermen (I brought about 78,5 kg to the start) are gravitationally challenged. As the ascent progressed, speed dropped and sweat was
pouring out of me—pressure cooking. Nevertheless, I could find a decent rhythm (39x27 @ 80 RPMⁱ: my ideal climbing 'flow'). That enabled me to stay well within the double-digit (i.e. above 10 km/h) zone and just below the anaerobic threshold (+/- 167 BMP). In relative terms, I was not doing too bad either. Of course there were people passing me by, but I also did my share of overtaking. At the summit, I briefly consulted my AVSⁱ and the clock and commenced the (very difficult; on-bike eating was out of the question) downhill 'on schedule'. Almost one hour had passed; 23 km in the bank.

The Col d'Oderen and the Col du Ménil (40 km) did not impress me too much, but on the Col du Herrenberg (87 km) I had to grind the shite out of me (both speed and heart rate went down, both indicators of 'decline'). The 'field' was
thinning and the 'freshness' had gone: from there on, I knew that it would be me against myself and I. The stretch between the Herrenberg and the Grand Ballon (sort of a ridge) offered some spectacular views and—more importantly—some relief to the legs and some welcome wind into the face. It was not steep, so I could surge forward again from group to group, together with one not particularly sociable Frenchman. Once I made it up the Grand Ballon (99 km), I decided I had enough time for some carbo- and hydroloading. The supplies were excellent (fruits, cakes, and—especially welcome inbetween banana's and muesli bars—bread!).

Further recovery was done on the long descent to Whiller Thur. Although I took it with more confidence and speed, I did not gain much time. Especially not in comparison to the daredevils that insist on riding on the 'ideal line', even if it means passing you very closely and risking an encounter with upcoming traffic. And how these people manage to hit (and survive) a hairpin at well over 30 km/h is also beyond me.

Anyhow, most of the time spent (and lost, in my case) is going uphill. And the Hundsruck (123 km) again made it clear that I do not have any other option than to sit and suffer. Even with the sushi cutter (39x30) applied, my cadence dropped to the 60's. While remaining focused all the way, I found some time to contemplate gearing and realised that a triple would actually not matter much: in order to produce the same 'speed', one would have to 'spin' the granny quite swiftly. And that is about as hard as 'raking' a slightly bigger (but also faster) gear.

The Ballon d'Alsace was an outright assassin. About 17 km of struggling with the pedals, without relief. Yet, I somehow managed to get into a rhythm that I would be able to maintain for a long, long time. The engine was being put to the test, but I felt that endurance-wise, I was still doing okay. The only thing that nagged me (apart from the lengthy intervals between the x- and y-km to the summit signs), was that my feet were burning. It was as if the pedal
axles were cutting right into my feet, a very unpleasant sensation that I had also in last year's La Marmotte. But eventually I dealt with this bastard as well (158 km).

What followed was first a steep descent to Giromagny (165 km) and then an Ardennes-like parcours to Champagney, some of it going up, some of it winding down. This being the type of riding that suits me, I planted myself in front of a
grupetto of about thirty and engaged in some tempo riding (a welcome change after all these sluggish climbs). Only one Oppositionist was willing to share the work, but I could not care. The mind and body were still good to go. And the clock was ticking...

Back in Champagney (185 km), I indulged in some more refuelling, feeling that I could use a couple of minutes out of the saddle and knowing that I had still some time to spare. Before it got too comfortable, I remounted the Arenberg and solo'd over the +/- 15 km of 'vals plat' to the foot of La Planche des Belles Filles ('board of the pretty girls'; 198 km), the final climb of Les Trois Ballons. The +/- 5 km separating you from the Finish are anything but pretty. In fact, the Belles Filles is easily the toughest thing I have ever had to do on a bicycle. Especially when you are no longer fresh, anything above, say, 8% hurts. And this bastard of a planche is well over 10% all the way. It has 'Unforced Error' written all over it. (In fact, most of the people were walking.)

But even on the bike, this Finale was no longer about cycling. This was sheer hell, a Sufferfest all the way: a single-digit figure on the speedo; all kinds of very negative thoughts under the boiling helmet. I could barely turn the 39x30. Feverish shivers were running through my body; coordination was fading; yes, I was very close to cracking. In fact, I was cracking, but somehow squeezed the last drop of juice out of my legs and employed the little reservoir of
Honour and made it. Not in style, but at least in one go.

Passing the finish line and the all-important time-control-mat (205 km), I felt goosepimps popping up everywhere. This was truly one of the best rides of my life... Not much later (one little pasta and two beers), Il Boia rejoined me. He was as knackered, but also as satisfied as his Capitano.

Les Stats:

'Diploma time': 08:44:20, 'moyenne': 23,45 km/h

Compu:
DST 205,2 km, TM 08:28:54, AVS 24,1 km/h, MAX 68,5 km/h, AVGCAD 76. HRMⁱ
(approximately): AVGHR 143, 04:20<D2, 02:30=D2, 01:30>D2.