My ride went very well, and according to plan. I had three objectives: (1) finishing the Full Montyⁱ in one piece; (2) avoiding unforced errors (stepdowns, unclicks, cramps and vomit); and (3) staying within the 'silver' time limit (10:35 for my age category). The tactics were simple: no crazy stuff before the Galibier col, keep well within myself, not too much time off the bike, while making sure to take in enough liquids and calories.

I am proud to report that the plan worked and all of these targets were met. I rode La Marmotte in 09:21: Brevet d'Argent! My actual riding time was 8:43, which is just within the gold limit. But I think it's only fair that stops are included in the tally. After all, you do recover a bit, while putting on and off your windstopper, taking a leak on the summits and chewing away on a baguette, banana or muesli bar.

The start was a bit of a nightmare. It involved waiting in a pen for about forty minutes (registering early is recommended!). When we finally crossed he 'chip mat', it soon became clear what it meant to ride with thousands of people. Reno and I were immediately separated. I decided to enjoy the stretch from Bourg d'Oisans to the start of the Col du Glandon not by hammering away like some of the Opposition, but rather by applying high RPMs which wouldn't be possible on most of the ride) to warm up properly. I lost between five to ten minutes before the Glandon, because I was forced to shed ome weight at a camping site (climing and shiting don't go well together).

The Glandon is a beauty, especially when it is packed with hundreds and hundreds of Oppositionaries. It was apparent that some of them were not particularly well-prepared, in terms of training, equipment and skills. Heavy breathing, squeeking chains, malfunctioning deraillers, zigzagging. About four riders actually did a salto 'hitting the wall' after a brief downhill section: they had failed to shift down, overestimating their ability to turn 53xsomething against 10%. The 'irregularity' of the climbs, by the way, is one of the differences between the Alpes and the Pyrennees: the former are generally steeper, but also offer some relief here and there. The latter just go on and on, but at a lesser gradient.

The descent from the Glandon is notoriously dangerous. I spotted at least three ambulances and some serious carnage. I'm not a Savoldelli-type of downhiller, but I tend to go faster than most (putting 80 kilograms to the scale helps; so does a bit of bravado). But with so many (unpredictable) people on a narrow, winding road, I played safe. I must have sacrificed half a year worth of brake pads in order to avoid nasty collisions.

Ditto in the infamous valley leading to the Telegraphe. After nearly being taken out by two (Dutch) crash artists, I decided to avoid 'pacelines' and D2-ed either at the front of the péloton, or by all by myself. Better to eat headwind and be exploited by wheelsuckers than to be caught be surprise. Those insane railway crossings (there were actually three of them) I saw coming...

Once the Telegraph climb started, some regrouping took place, even though the peloton as a whole was reduced a bit. I'd say that it's by far the easiest of the four Marmotte cols. It doesn't offer that much in terms of landscape, it's just there to squeeze some more juice out of your legs. Carefully checking the HRMⁱ (D1/D2 mostly), making sure that the tension in the legs was 'survivable', and estimating that I was still 'on schedule', I took it rather easy (which is of course relative): 39x27 all the way, 50 to 70 RPM, 'cruise' speed close to the 'double digit mark'.

By the time the descent of the Telegraphe was over, I was relieved to find out that the intimidating 'Galibier=34 km climb' actually includes the Telegraphe. In other words, I had already done half of it. Ignorance is bliss. From Valloire to Plan Lachat, the gradient picks up again (tricky climb), but it does not (relatively speaking) amputate your legs. That happens after Plan Lachat. The last 10km or so of the Galibier were among the most difficult of the entire Marmotte. Rewarding sights, though: rough, bare mountain walls and a long, colourful (to much US Postal, though) snake of cyclists in front and above you. Unclicking, tipping over, moaning, hyperventilating, cursing etc. became more frequent. Fortunately I kept on turning my beloved granny. It's just a bike ride, only at a slightly lower pace.

At the awe-inspiring Galibier summit, about 100 km into the ride, 5 hours had passed. Sensing that I had enough left in the legs (and the knees), I knew the Full Monty was in the cards, and the silver time limit of circa 10 hours (I had not bothered memorising the 'golden standard', for that seemed to be far too ambitious at the outset) was within reach. So with my jacket on again (this constant change of apparel were annoying, but necessary: it was bloody cold and dangerously windy on the—snow free!—Lautaret, and half a baguette in my mouth, I 'flew' down the col, making sure not to hit any camper vehicles or crazy Basques.

The N91, the dangerous road through the La Grave-Bourg d'Oisans valley, which we had explored both by car and (partially) by bike, was not as heavily trafficked as I had feared, which was good news. However, there were not too many marmotteurs either, which was slightly disappointing. Whatever opposition was there, was either riding even more conservative than I, or simply not prepared to cooperate (I guess farting all day long did not contribute to my popularity in the peloton). The exception being one dutchman with whom I kept a 10-rider paceline going at a modest, but constant 36 km/h. Not for long, though. To prevent overheating, I pulled over and ditched the windstopper at the junction leading to Les Deux Alpes. The remaining stretch to the foot of Alpe d'Huez was pure pleasure: one Italian and yours truly were pulling a forty-plus queue of riders, employing the same signs (obstacle ahead, going left, etc.) and taking brief, but powerful turns.

We parted ways at the feeding station before the Alpe. 'Thanks! Nice riding with you! See you at the summit!' The Italian was clearly in a hurry. As per Brian's instructions, however, I did stop there and used the ravitaillage and rest) options available. I could smell the finish line, but the Alpe separating me from it, I knew, had to be taken seriously. It was boiling hot, and my supplies were depleted (I carried all of my food in my jersey to start with and didn't bother with what the organisers had on offer here and there).

The climb up to Alpe d'Huez, even though the place is overrated in my opinion, is demanding, especially with three serious cols in the legs, knees, and back. I switched on the diesel on again, threw the chain onto the 39x27, and started grinding my way though the 21 'virages'. There were quite some climbers of my ability, and lots of spectators, but I decided to stick to the trusted rhythm and not 'race' (relatively speaking, of course) up. I was tired and committed to ride the Alpe in one go: no unforced errors. At about 7km to the finish, I overheard a conversation between a Flemish colleague and himself: 'I will drink this cup to the very last drop, dammit.' I replied: 'So will I, my friend, but we still have a long, long way to go.' 'Hell no, it's only five km, let's roll!' I pointed at the 7km sign; the Flandrien placed a demarrage anyhow. Uphill explosivity (read: power) is not (yet?) my thing. Plus I was really suffering from 'hoot feet' (feeling as if the pedal axle went right through my foot). So I wished him good luck and continued: sit and suffer. I lost no more than two minutes to the (literally) red-headed Belgian.

The last two km of the Marmotte are actually very easy. So while spinning between the barriers, bathing in the cheers of a very friendly crowd, I could fully enjoy the Moment of Truth: La Marmotte was done and dealt with! A great finish to an eventful and brilliant training camp in the Alpes. I cannot tell you how much I regret that Reno was denied his fair share of
Glory.

Grazie mille, to the home front! The reception and the campagne at Chateau Boiaⁱ was highly appreciated. And the polka dot jersey that my beloved one had fabricated and hung on the front door of Brucodome really made the day.