'Pain Is Weakness Leaving the Body'

Prologue:

Saturday 8 July 2006: La Marmotte. 175 km; 5000 altimetres. The A-priority in my 2006 training schedule (about 6500 km invested); the third (after a 'good effort' in Les Trois Ballons and a near miss in La Vaujany) cyclo to be ridden in Gold, i.e. under time pressure; the 'Alptraum' of approximately 7000 cyclists from all over the world; in short: the crown on the season.

05:30 to 07:15

Chalet Michelle vibrates with activity: seven riders (four Vingers plus three UK co-sufferers) simultaneously jumping out of their beds, slipping into their battle dress, running to the toilet, applying last-minute ladyshave/butt balm/sun tan lotion (or none of the above). The porridge, coffee and 'wellness flakes' are staring at us from the breakfast table. The stomach says 'No way!'; the brain dictates: 'Swallow.' So we eat. Once the necessary calories have been taken in, we pack our meticulously prepped bikes into the cars and head for the N91/Venosc junction parking spot. Seven times two 'clicks', and we pedal towards Bourg d'Oisans. It's not cold for this time of day...

In Bourg, we are being directed towards our start pens. Barriers and marshalls prevent a huge Horde of vélopedistes from turning into chaos. Our pen is the 'Numéro 500-1500', right behind the privileged riders (i.e. those who have done very well in previous cyclo's). Your Capitano has been mocked several times because of his manic attempts to secure an early registration in order to obtain this pole position, but it is well worth it. Not too crowded (even though you can see a snake of lycra as far as you can look), not too much nervous maneuvering when the peloton is set loose, and the prospect of having a bit of space on the first col.

A couple of more pisses, a quick scan of the Opposition and their machinery, some words of mutual encouragement and there we go. We make sure the time chip around the ankle passes the mat as closely as possible; at about 07:17 it's game on. 'Der Countdown läuft.'

07:15 to 09:15

The desire to warm up as quickly as possible, the Opposition flying past on both the left and right hand side, the need to avoid being 'boxed in', and (am I repeating myself?) the time pressure make that the first 10 km of 'false downhill' from Bourg d'Oisans to Allemont are ridden in a Swiftⁱ pace. I deliver Le Gitan and Il Boiaⁱ to the Allemont dam (Reno apparently opts for a slower start), and throw the chain onto the small ring. The first altimetres go well. Not wearing a heart rate monitor (which doesn't bother me; riding 'on feeling' is the thing to do in a serious cyclo anyhow), I can't tell 'where I am', but so far, so good. The bridge over the Barrage (reservoir) allows for brief recovery and some big ring mashing.

Then things get serious with the climb to the Col du Glandon (situated at 35,7 km into the race). Again, the first few km's against a respectable gradient punch hard into my stomach. Last night's dinner and this morning's breakfast (both having been on the heavy side) seem to be looking for a way out. I feel that I need to shite, but experience and the clock urge me to go for a distraction maneuver, taking a quick leak only. Back in the saddle, I continue lurking on my bidons and rotating the cranks. 'It's a long way/to the top/if you wanna rock 'n' roll.'

Apart from the urge to offload, I feel okay. Amidst the trees (the shade postponing the sweatfest a bit) and so many friendly Oppositionaries (but not as many as one would encounter starting at a later time), the x-km to the summit signs pass rather quickly. The col seems a to be lot shorter than last year, which is good for Morale. 'Goin' on up to the Spirit in the Sky.'

Near Le Rivier, I spot a Swift jersey. I recognise Siem, one of the most sympathetic Tuesday Terrorists. Unfortunately, just when I am about to pass him by, he drops a bidon and u-turns to recollect it (good decision, given the heat awaiting us). We will be in touch later. There are two abrupt 'knicks' in the Glandon's profile; short, steep descents followed by a Flanders-worthy wall. Just like last year, some of the Oppositionaries do not fail to drop off their chains, mess up their deraillers or even kiss the tarmac there. At the Barrage du Grand Maison, I meet Daniel (from the Wielertoerist.nl forum and our neighbour in Venosc). He is parked, but remounts the bike as I pass by. Daniel tells me that he had just thrown up his breakfast, after starting the race too zealously in order to obtain 'Super Gold'. Bad luck, and probably a DNFⁱ in the making... Later on, I share a couple of altimetres with Erwin (same forum). A brief chatter, some welcome words of encouragement ('If you continue riding like this, Gold shouldn't be an issue.') from his side, and a word of wisdom from me ('Just keep that chain tight, and you'll be allright.'), and off I go. 'On a roll.'

The PhotoBretons by the side of the road (the intro to Duran Duran's 'Girls on Film') keep me awake for the remainder of the climb (39x25 material) and I reach the summit at about 09:15. The stomach, it seems, has settled. I have my bidons refilled and intend to push on. But wait, what's that? The Gendarmerie are blocking the road down and a queue forms. People are being let through in groups of about fifteen. Fortunately, the delay is not too serious (but the traffic jam would become worse during the morning, as Le Gitan had to experience). The cause of this intervention by the 'Strong Arm', however, is. In the first curve of the descent, I see a rider lying unconscious (?) on a stretcher (the ambulance has yet to arrive), deprived of quite a lot of skin and blood... An awful sight. Every year La Marmotte sees such casualties; every year a couple of riders fall victim to bad luck; every year the wannabee Savoldelli's of the peloton push their luck on the Glandon (like I said before, it's one of the most tricky downhills available).

With the horror image firmly on my retina, and road marshalls flagging us to slow down at each curve, I continue the descent, keeping enough distance from those in front of me, hoping for a similarly responsible approach by those behind me, and applying the brakes more frequently than I would normally do (KoolStop pads rule). The policing helps: there are not too many riders in my virtual rearview mirror.

09:15 to 10:30

At Sainte Marie de Cuines, we hit the ugly N6 road leading to the Col du Télégraphe (km 58,5 to km 92,9). I commence this long stretch of 'vals plat' virtually on my own, but soon I hammer into a grupetto. Seeing that only one Frenchman does the towing, and not trusting the bike handling skills of those who are eagerly eating his plate, I make my way to the front. There is Wielertoerist JRacer, whom I met during La Vaujany. We quickly exchange 'how ya doings', but then it's time for BrucoPace. Approximately sixty Oppositionaries are in my wheel, but at least I get to cross those treacherous railway lines first (they caused Reno to DNF last year) and ride exactly in my own 'zone' (high D2?).

10:30 to 11:25

In St. Michel de Maurienne (81,4 km into the race) I take a quick piss stop (odd, given that so much liquid had already been sweat away), chew on a banana and a fruit bar, and check the mobile phone, which I had heard bleeping somewhere on the N6. SMS from Le Gitan about the long hold-up on the Glandon. I feel sorry for him, but what can I do?

Climb the Télégraphe, that's what I can do. But not too fast, since there are two more (definitely more demanding) cols ahead. So I take it relatively easy: 39x25, 27, and (invention of the year) 30; cadence between 60 and 80 RPMⁱ; double-digit readout on the speedo. I feel okay and sort of confident, even though the legs slowly but surely begin to hurt. That reminds me of my favourite Johnny Cash song: 'I hurt myself today/to see if I still feel/I focus on the pain/the only thing that's real.'

I figure that a lot of weakness is leaving my body. Here and there there's water up for grabs (it's so great to receive rehydration resources without having to leave the saddle), which alleviates the heatwave. The shower-yourself routine, however, can be improved upon: half a bottle misses me and splashes onto the road. ''way/goes trouble/down the drain.'

10:30 to 13:03

On the Télégraphe summit (92,9 km into the race), I quickly tank water, reminding myself of the fact that dehydration causes cramps (such as those which haunted me in La Vaujany; 'Aloha from Hell'). Cramps mean loss of torque, which in turn means loss of time. And that was not going to happen, dammit.

A 7 km downhill to Valloire (where I saw JRacer making a pit stop at his support car) is all the parcours has on offer in terms of de-tensioning the quads and calves. From there on, it's a long, long drag up to the Col du Galibier (114,9 km into the race).

The first 10 km or so are a real pain in the neck. The road does not look not that steep, but you constantly struggle to find a proper gear with which to take it. Of course, the view of a long ribbon of Marmotteurs behind and ahead of you is cool, and the landscape is marvellous, but I am in a hurry, here (the clock is ticking...). A further challenge to my piece of mind is the permanent beeping of one Ridley chap's heart rate monitor (he himself is attached to an iPod, so he doesn't have to put up with his noise pollution. I just can't manage to get rid of him and 'Enjoy the Silence', as Depeche Mode puts it ('beeps are very/unnecessary'). This while the Litespeed had been trimmed to 'silenzio totale' (not knowing Japanese, I cannot come up with the adequate expression) and was performing flawlessly.

Whatever. After Plan Lachat (105,4 km into the race), the Galibier shows what it's really made of ('For Those About to Rock'). I expect to be dealt a serious blow by the harsher gradient and the countless hairpins to the (visible, ouch) summit. But enter the sushi cutter, which makes the labour sustainable (last year I seriously struggled with the pedals in 39x27). Not that it is exactly easy, but patience (the key to climbing) and a half-decent cadence (up to very decent in those welcome hairpins) carry Bruco up the col. Again I meet Swift Siem, but my endurance base (yet another key to climbing) proves a bit more solid (or perhaps my gear is a bit faster on ascents such as this one).

Eventually, I cross le sommet du Col du Galibier. The clock says: '13:03'. Bruco thinks: 'Don't count your blessings yet, but you seem to be on schedule. Well done.' (Along the parcours there are plenty of spectators that cheer you up, but a little pat on the back from oneself cannot hurt, can it?) My target being to have a two-hour cushion for the Alpe d'Huez, I calculate that with a bit of hammering, and enough juice in the engine ('Votre coeur, c'est votre moteur' was the title of an article in one of the magazines in the Marmotte goodie bag), Gold is feasible. 'Time is on my side, yes it is.'

13:03 to 14:17

The temperature is such that I do not need to bother putting my rain/wind jacket on (the heat has it advantages), so I head for the descent straight away. I take it easy and don't dive into the many corners that I cannot see through. No 'Suicide Solution' for me.

The Lautaret water trough (122,4 km into the race) provides an excellent opportunity to refill the bottles (never in my life have I so religiously stuck to a drinking scheme) and therefore is worth a quick stop. As I hit the road again (Canned Heat is the name of the band, right?), which turns out to be already in a much better condition that it was on Tuesday, JRacer flies past, inviting me to join the party. It takes me until La Grave (133,4 km into the race) to get in touch with his grupetto of about ten. Cooperation among us is fairly good, although yours truly eventually is more on the receiving (i.e. towing) end than others, especially as we get closer to the final obstacle, the Alpe d'Huez. Neither the infamous tunnels ('Allumez vos feux'), nor the two uphills ('Toute a gauche') are problematic. The legs do what I tell them to: crank on.

14:17 to 15:32

Before taking on the final, lenghty, climb to Alpe d'Huez, I reload water and indulge in a couple of Cokes and some fruit at the N91/D211 junction (161,4 km into the race). After all, you don't want to run out of fuel (and risk losing the Gold, so obsessively occupying my mind) with the Finish Line in sight. Before getting too comfortable, I hit the Alpe, making very sure not to cross the time mat for the Marmotton (i.e. La Marmotte without the Alpe). I rev my engine, but not as frantically as I did two days before; if you're not fresh, the Alpe d'Huez is not a picnic and commands Rispetto (plenty of unforced errors to be seen there).

The first familiar target appearing on my radar screen is Siem. He must have passed me while I was reloading on the Lautaret (a.k.a. Col d'Ohno). His target is a sub-8 hour Full Montyⁱ and he correctly estimates that it will prove beyond him. Therefore, he lacks the motivation to join Operation Sushi Cutter. Next comes JRacer, whom I overtake, while exchanging mathematics regarding the Gold (I succeed to avoid the Spandau Ballet link, opting for 'Golden Brown' instead). But JRacer will eventually finish ahead of me, since he ignores the feed station in La Grave. I don't, because the massive salt dome on my Giordana shorts reminds me of the fact that you don't ride hard races on water alone (didn't we spot a veterinarian near the foot of the Alpe?). In fact, 'science' has it, too much water intake may wash away vital salts and minerals. So I play it safe and stop for some Isofart.

Wrestling my way through the 21 hairpins (again, this col seems to me much shorter than last year) and suffering up the steeper sections, I approach the ski resort. I check the clock and like what I see: I am going to make it ('and it too so long to bake it'). A couple altimetres more and there are the crush barriers. Spectators are cheering us Marmotteurs through the last km's of misery. My sprintⁱ finish does not exactly take off, partly because the legs are blocking, and partly because the 'Arce de Triomphe' where the time mat is situated is too narrow for doing an Abduzhaparov.

Is that a lump in my throat? Is that Isofart dripping down my cheeks? 'Un emozione per sempre...'

Epilogue:

So there it was, the third Brevet d'Or. Mission accomplished; season succesful. All these polder-, roller- and Swift-km's had paid off, and the eager anticipation and tactics-of-the-day (quite a strong word for 'Sit and Suffer All Day Long') had proven sound and solid. A great Finale of a nice week with 'me mates' in the Alpes.

After the finish, I allowed myself to give in to the weakness (still plenty of it left, in my case) and sunk into a chair at the Shimano stand. The bastards told me to go and take my misery elsewhere (I think they are about to lose a very loyal customer). The pasta joint was a much more pleasant venue. The more so because soon Il Boia popped up, having claimed his Gold too. Helmets off!!! After our Cobblecruncher-turned-Colkiller had his free meal and beverage as well, we descended the Alpe together, on the look-out for our Vinger Vrienden (and the annoying cars and their constantly flashing brake lights). Not too far down, we spotted the Brooklyn/Campagnolo jersey, heroically being defended by Le Gitan. I u-turned and managed a short escorte in the big ring. Le Gitan was doing fine; we would meet him at the car. Somewhere near hairpin 20 (?), Il Boia's eye caught a determined Reno, setting straight last year's mishap in La Marmotte. Bravo!

Data:

Brevet d'Or; 08:13:32 [2005: Brevet d'Argent; 09:21:08]

DST 177,48 km; TM 08:07:30; AVSⁱ 21,8 km/h; MAX 69,5 km/h; AVGCAD 73.

Results:

1 NEGRINI EMANUELE D Homme de 30 a 39 ans 05 h 50 mn 30 ss
2 SALA STEFANO D Homme de 30 a 39 ans 05 h 53 mn 27 ss
3 DEKKER BERT D Homme de 30 a 39 ans 06 h 12 mn 38 ss ...
649 BRUCO IL D Homme de 30 a 39 ans 08 h 16 mn 40 ss ...
832 BOIA IL D Homme de 30 a 39 ans 08 h 33 mn 27 ss ...
1986 GITAN LE D Homme de 30 a 39 ans 10 h 24 mn 35 ss ...
[Haven't been able to locate Reno on the results list at http://www.sportcommunication.com]