DAY 11

Le Tourmalet

Woke to a 5am alarm after carousing with our friends the night before. It was still dark and starry when we loaded everything into our rental Peugeot and drove the 50 kilometers or so to the beginning of Le Tourmalet. The roads were windey as the sunrise turned the tips of the mountains pink, then peach, then gold. As we got close, we were driving the same road that The Tour would be cycling 2 days later. RVs and campers lined the route ahead making it look from a distance like it was strung with white Christmas lights. More clusters of RVs and tents as we got closer. Many with their national flag flying–France, Germany, Italy, etc. Some campers were up making coffee over their fires, but most were still asleep as we drove by. It was impossible not to feel the anticipation and excitement for the Tour, especially now that I have a whole new appreciation for the athleticism of those guys.

Our plan was to drive to the top first and set up Gabriel’s tent. He was bound and determined to spend the night on top of the mountain to watch the tour pass. (Despite the raised eyebrows from other cyclists: “You don’t have a sleeping bag? It’s gonna be cold.”). But no of course we couldn’t carry the extra weight of a sleeping bag with us on this whole journey. Gabriel just had a practically weightless single person tent. His down jacket would keep him warm enough, according to him. I would not be sleeping up there with him: no room in the tent even for a cozy married couple, I believe I’ve mentioned I hate the cold, and–I quickly accessed as we arrived–absolutely nowhere to go to the bathroom. All open green mountain. Not even a tree to squat behind. So we set up his tent, left a baguette, some cheese, a baggie of instant coffee (don’t know where he’s going to get hot water or even a cup, but if I know Gabriel he will make friends with some better-prepared campers within a few hours) inside, along with his down jacket and a few other provisions, and he asked a nearby camper to keep an eye his things. Although you’d really have to be king of the A-Holes to rip anything off from this pathetic set up. It would be like stealing from a homeless guy’s cart.

His scrawny little tent looked comical set between 2 giant white RV’s, and we had to navigate around the roaming llamas on the top of the mountain as we set it up. We got back in the car and drove to the bottom where we parked and pulled out the bikes. (Stopped on the way down at the one cafe that was open that early–thank God–for cafe au lait, orange juice, and warm baguettes slathered with butter and jam.) When we parked, we left the paneers locked in the car so we were free of the weight for the climb. It was just about 8:30 am when we started and already we had to strip off jackets and extra layers. It was going to be hot. Gabriel had warned me: “Don’t try to be a big shot at the beginning where it’s flatter and it feels easy. Set a slow, easy pace. Conserve your energy.” It did feel easy at first. But again the altitude took some adjusting to. I had to concentrate on breathing deep and regular. That took about 20 minutes til I could stop thinking about it. But the good news was I was so used to carrying the paneers and now it was just me and the bike. (And my money, my passport, my malodextrin, my pepper spray, my whistle, my sunscreen, my iPhone for pictures, my Swiss army knife, and 2 bottles of water).

There were signs all along the way for the percentages of incline: 7%, 9.5%, 8%. Hour one was hard but I was ok. Gabriel out of sight, other bikers passing sometimes, we all called greetings to each other. Some French guy tried to start a conversation. Leave it to the French to flirt under any circumstances. I passed herds of cattle, then sheep. I had seen a lone dishevelled donkey on the drive up and knew when I saw him again I’d be more than halfway there. Hour 1 and 1/2 I started talking to my ass. What I said was (in a low but out-loud voice): “Come on Glutes.” I was trying to isolate them because my knees were really starting to ache. Then out of nowhere I hear this cheery “Bonjour!” from directly behind me as a guy pulls around to pass. So he heard that. Ok.

I passed the donkey, some more cows, and now it was goats. And more people riding. Some going up, some coming down. But hardly any women and no Americans at all, at least that I saw. I got inspired, decided in my mind I was representing both. My knees were killing. My goal was to get at least halfway up, but after the donkey I knew I would go all the way. People were starting to emerge from their campers and wave or shout encouragement. I think I got alot of it cos there were so few women going up. (Gabriel said later he was totally ignored). I pulled over once to switch water bottles and the French guy passed me. (He was faster than me but had stopped a few times to take pictures and whatever. He probably does this ride all the time). “Don’t quit USA!”. He yelled in his French accent. Oh I ain’t quitting you French Muther Fu&#%*! I thought. I got my water and kept going. Gabriel had said the last few kilometers were the hardest. They were, they just wound up and up and up. Where we’re the llamas? Not there yet. My knees were screaming “Is it really worth possible permanent damage, Ranj? Really?”. I was getting truly worried but I was so close. I turned the gear up, created slightly more tension, and for some reason that helped. Maybe that was what my hamstrings needed to wake up and realize— oh we’re supposed to be helping too, oops, sorry! Something kicked in, I don’t know what, and my knees got relief. By the way, it would have been a really bright idea to have taken the time before I left to study up on proper cycling technique. Just a 5 minute YouTube video or something…but no.

I could see the llamas getting closer, and as I approached the top, more people lined the road. One French woman ran behind me and pushed my seat the way the trainers push off the Tour riders after they’ve changed their tire. “Merci!” I called out. I was beaming. I hit the top. I saw Gabriel raising his arms in the air and smiling. (One note here: at the beginning of our trip he had said “I’m so impressed with you baby, you’ve gotten really strong. But the Tourmalet…maybe not this year.” And then in the last day or two he had studied me and said: “I think you’re going to do it. You’re going to do the Tourmalet.”)

There were lots of other riders up there taking pictures next to the signs, all nationalities, bike tours and clubs, and now some women too. (Some had ridden up from the other side). The llamas had hightailed it cos it was getting crowded with bike geeks and bike enthusiasts. There was one small restaurant doing major business and a table of Aussie riders drinking beer. Gabriel was sick though. He’s really sensitive to altitude and said he was ok on the ride but now he kinda wanted to puke. He sat down for a while, I got him an orange juice and he recovered. “Are you sure you want to stay up here tonight?”. “Yes.” We moved his tent to a better spot. I spotted one other restaurant a quarter mile away that looked quieter and away from the cars and people. He hadn’t eaten much breakfast. We hiked to it. The llamas were back. We sat outside with a million dollar view and the food was atrocious. It was one of those “we know we’re the only game in town so we’ll serve absolute shit and you’ll pay up and eat it and thank us on your way out” deals. Although I had thought that could never happen in France. I was wrong.

We ate what we could. What we didn’t eat was a horrible stew that was supposed to be lamb but as we walked back to the tent I couldn’t help thinking “Llama…?”. We moved Gabriel’s tent to a better spot one more time, said goodbye and I took off back to the car. “Don’t get cocky on the way down!”. I didn’t, I was very careful. I got to the car, heaved my bike into the back, and drove to our little hotel in Bagneres-De-Bigorre…