Monday morning and I felt sleazy. I was desperate. I had left Belgium just as the race ended and arrived in St Quentin late in the evening. After breakfast I slunk back to my room. I turned the key in the door and drew the curtins.  A quick search using the usual reliable search terms drew a blank and I was forced to draw a route blindly using Strava explorer. I felt dirty and out of my depth. It was like using Tinder for the first time after a long term relationship has broken down.

Two hours later I was 40km from St Quentin surrounded by beautiful rolling hills punctuated with small clusters of trees. The sun was warm and I stopped at a field that commanded beautifully views of the countryside. I came accross a fellow Irish man, J McClurry. I sat and  told him about the race…

Cycling had brought me and hundreds of  Brits, French and Belgians with a scaterring of Candians, Australians, Yanks and a handful of Germans to an unremarkable but strategically significant field in Flanders. We  all chatted, drank, sang and cheered as the Tour of Flanders unfolded before us.

‘Gilbert!’ a voice cries behind me.  I turn. A man-machine darts  from the woods on the Oude-Kwaremont  like a missle. In profile  Phillippe Gilbert’s Belgian jersy shines bright as a ray of seemingly divine sunlight pierces the clouds and lights him like a floodlight as he plumpets down the shaded country lane. There was no hesitstion, no pause in his peddaling as he distances the motorcycle that is shadowing him. 

He disappears behind a house and emerges on the Patterberg to the roar of the fans. Head up, face grimacing , his eyes are fix on the horizon, his bike points skyward, the hill at 12 percent. Heart,lungs, legs, cranks, chain and wheels all one.. Man-machine  drive up the hill. Pure phlogiston.The Dancer inseperable from the Dance.

He passes, the Belgian champions Jersy fixed forever in my mind.

Then I hear the hounds. Van Avermaet at the head. Nostrils flaring, salivating at the scent. 53 seconds Tally ho!  More hounds pass. Sagan head bowed and determined. A bloodied Luke Rowe seemingly unaware that he had left a piece of  his jersy, half his bibsorts and some of his ass somewhere on the Flandrian cobbles.

Then the rest.  Their minds already on the next race. They are urged on by the inpatient brightly dressed masters of the hounds.  Horns blaring and engines reving. A car stalls unable to deal with the gradient. Retired hounds dash out of team cars and swarm on the stricken vehicle. Each shouts a different instruction as to how best the others might push start the car.  The drivers lean and shout through open windows. They seem the most confident that the solution is easy and that no delay is necessary. It stuck me as terrible ill luck that all the best car pushers had been designated to drive team cars for the day. 

Something else brought J Mc Clurry, hundreds of  Brits, French, Belgians, a scaterring of Candians, Australians, Yanks and a handful of Germans (1379 in total) to this  other unremarkable but apparently strategically significant Flandrian field 100 years ago and they have remained here ever since.

And so it is with the great gratitude and respect and no sense of sarcasam that I say

Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria cycle

Bravo Gilbert! Meci Mc Clurry!

Back in the early 1960s my parents went on their Honeymoon to the Benelux. Neither of them left Ireland again until a trip to France forty years later. Having spent a week coming and going from their hotel their taciturn conseierge finally spoke with them over breakfast on their last day ‘You English?’he enquired. ‘No’ my father replied ‘Irish’

The conseierge paused thoughtfully, he starred into the distance, he made a pistol with his fingers ‘I been Ireland. DeValera Bang Bang!’.

Well 50+ years later I’m going to travel in springtime to take on two of the classics. The tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix.

Last year I watched Mathew Hayman surprise everyone in the Velodrome  (including himself) as I kept vigil over my father in his final days. This year I hope to spend time in Belgium, I’ll happily explain to anyone who asks that I’m Irish not British and I’ll tell people my father’s favourite annecdote about the Belgian Black and Tan even though they won’t understand it (I’m not sure I do)

After 8 hours in the saddle I pass the Flange rouge. 1km to go. I switch to the big ring. 52-20 90rpm and 400 watts. I swallow up the last 200m. Ahead of me a rider who has been ahead of me all day meanders from side to side, his bike making little progress toward the line.  I glide past him. His distressed and disorientated head is tilted as it turns drunkenly towards me.

“I love you bendy bike”

He sighs at my Helix frame.

I cross the timing mat and look down at the town of Cortina d’Ampezzo.

In 1982 my uncle Maurice arrived at my home in his brand new Ford Cortina- I was filled with awe at its high tech luxury. The highlight was the in car coffee maker. Fresh luke warm tea or coffe in less than 47 minutes! 

Today I arrive in triumph at the town named after that car. My finest day on a bike. I am in ecstacy. 
My achievement matched only by the 212 riders who finished ahead of me.

That man is a ‘grimpeur’, Dr Watson.

‘I have questioned your deductions a hundred times before Holmes’ declares the amiable Doctor. ‘I will not waste my breathe and your time by stating my disbelief. I simply ask that you explain your astonishing deduction’

‘I am surprised Watson that you yourself did not grasp the fact that he is a cyclist with some expertise at ascending the Haute Alps’ Holmes replies and then proceeds to explain. 

‘You will note his stick thin arms and legs.Also you will note the compression socks and his narrow hips. All vital attributes in a grimpeur.’

He goes on. ‘Notice the healing scab on his right elbow , doubtless received in a fall on Tarmacadam from a two wheeled vehicle.’

 ‘He approaches a collection of tents surrounded by a ring of unisex Portaloos, in a metropolitan area that is brimming with lavatories- a sure indication of an impending mass participation sports event. Lastly he carries no bag and there, 15m metres in his wake is a petite lady with a gold wedding band. She is slowly making her way in the same direction burdened by a rucksack, a 60l wheely bag and a large bike box. A bicycle helmet (2 sizes too large for her) is perched upon her head and is slipping down to occlude her vision. This lady is clearly his wife who carries is luggage to persevere his legs for the challenge ahead. 

‘Astounding Holmes! The man is a grimpeur and like you he is rooted in the 19th century ‘ cries Watson 

I wish Jaclyn were here.

Any  cycle where you gotta pack your passport, two currencies and no rain jacket is a good cycle. Headed in to France to visit a town called Thorens that was calling out to me on the map.

Did a route on my Garmin over breakfast and 2 hours later I was up in the mountains surrounded by grazing cattle, gliding buzzards and the smell of wild flowers.

I paused at the col des fleuries to enjoy the moment when my phone beeped a message. Eir texted to inform me I was ‘now roaming’. Eir was not wrong. 

Descending into Switzerland I expected to see Donald Pleasant and Mannix emerging from the wreckage of a light aircraft. I was tired and anxious to make it to Switzerland. Unlike Steve McQueen I made it across the border on two wheels without any failed bunny hops, barbed wire or drama.

It takes a lot to shut me up for one minute.  It takes awful lot to shut me up for one million, forty six thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes.  The Haute Route Pyenennes achieved that. 

I am 32,000 feet above the white cliffs of Dover heading to Geneva to start the haute route Dolomites 2016.

Beside me on the flight is Lucinda Creighton. 

‘You have a great carrer behind you’. ‘You had great potential but you aimed too high and you weren’t as great as you thought. You are just not cut out to compete with the big boys. You need to find something else to do with yourself that you might be a success at. ‘
‘That’s a bit harsh Lucinda’, I reply. ‘I did finish the last Haute Route and there were 10 people slower than me’.

Lots of training done but 8Kg over weight. I hope she isn’t right. I hope I’m not travelling to Switzerland on a suicide mission

Stage 5 Luz Saint Sauveur to Col du Tormalet 18.2km Time Trial.

Patisserie and Pain pretty much sums it up.

My main challenge today was to try and navigate the time trial starting ramp safely. After am embarrassing wobble I headed out the road to begin the long climb to the top. The climb from LSS is more or less a constant 7% and on a climb like this there are no tactics apart from lose weight before you start.

I was overtaken by the rider who started behind me after about 5 km.  I over took him after a further 1 km and then he overtook once more and immediately opened a gap of 200m. I made a conscious effort to show down (not hard to do on a 7% gradient.) With 6 km to go I increased by effort slightly aiming to arrive at 3km to go feeling strong. I know the last 4km of the Tourmalet well and so knew where it eased off and knew that the last 2 km are tough. I met my American friend once again with 3 km to go. I heard him increase his effort as he realised that the guy he had passed and dropped 40 minutes ago was back. I responded and pulled away. He was at a steep pitch when I got into the big ring and powered away. As I braced myself for the last big push I knew he would be confused when he rounded the bend. He would at first discount that the guy 300m ahead was me,  then he would scan the side of the road for signs of me or my bike abandoned. Then he would look up one more and confirm it was me. By that time the gap would be even wider. I just had to make sure that I recovered enough for the last big push.

I suffered the last 2km but kept enough to sprint the final 50m to the line. I had finished very strongly passing plenty of riders in the last 3 km but in reality my time was poor and my position in the field was similar to what it had been on other days.

Stage 2 Font-Romeu to Ax 3 Domaines
119.8km Total Climbing 2845m Avg Speed 20.2 Avg Heart rate 144bpm

General Classament: Don’t know- in a hotel 5km from anywhere with no WiFi and little mobile coverage

My alarm rang at 05:30 and I made my way through the darkened streets of Font-Romeu like one of those dogs you meet on your way home from a late night party.  I was first to arrive at the breakfast tent and I ate in silence. I finished breakfast with a hot chocolate and I have to say my mood lifted.

Today had two very difficult climbs Col du Port de Pailères rose at 8.1% for 14.9km  to 2001m comparable to the Tourmalet. The day ended at Ax 3 Domaines after 8.4km at 8.1% Merde!

I finished with > 1 hour to spare on the Lanterne Rouge but the amount of suffering I did in the last 3km took some of the shine off the day.