Recently on Cyclingnews.com |
 Dauphiné Libéré Photo ©: Sirotti |
Tales from the Peloton
Team Lardbutt aren't the fastest team in the US, they aren't the best equipped team, and we aren't even sure if they really exist. But they are funny (usually) and have some great tales to tell about the races they compete in (if they make it).
Tall Tales, Taller Mountains, and Statistics Pt 2
By Greg Taylor
Part one of Tall Tales, Taller Mountains, and Statistics
Okay, I barely finished.
 |
Hey, I never said that my stunning victory over five-time Tour de France Champion Miguel Indurain was a thing of beauty. No, in fact it was quite the opposite. Two first category mountains, 12,000 feet of climbing, and a poor choice of gearing took care of that. Oh, it was an ugly and undignified affair, comprised of hauling 190 pounds of pure flatlander up grades that had even the pros in the Tour depositing small rabbit pellets in their bike shorts.
Sure, on paper the route profile (stage 16 between Pau and Bayonne) didn't look that bad. Take, for instance, the first Category 1 climb of the day, the Col du Soudet: a robust 14.1 kilometres at an average grade of 7.5 percent. I'd done climbs with nearly identical average numbers in the United States with little problem. Ditto the other Category 1 climb, the Col de Bagarguy (8.8 kilometres with an average grade of 9.2 percent). Hard, but not impossible. I was quietly confident that the mountains would hold no terrors for me.
Holy shit was I ever wrong. Seems like my friends at Velo magazine know a thing or two about the magic of statistics themselves.
With the benefit of hindsight, it is easy to say that I should have seen it coming from a mile off. A relatively benign-sounding "average" grade for a climb can, and often does, mask a complete horror show out on the road. Therefore, it was a total rookie mistake on my part not to recognize that although the evil geniuses at Velo magazine could truthfully say that statistically the Soudet averages a reasonable-sounding 7.5 percent grade, big chunks of it could be steeper than that. Way steeper.
As it turns out, the organizers of the Etape really were not fooling around as the route that they picked contained the two steepest climbs in the entire 2003 Tour, a fact masterfully hidden by the "average" grades shown on the course profile. However, by the time that the warning lights started going off indicating that I should reconsider the task at hand, it was way too late to do anything about it.
The first warning sign that I might be in for tough time came as I lined up for the start of the race at the Place d' Verdun in the city of Pau. It was a gorgeous morning, not quite 7:00 am, dewy and mild, and there were thousands of riders jammed into side streets around the square, waiting to start the Etape. From where I sat in the crowd, it seemed like just about every club racer in France showed up for the start in Pau to try their luck. Somewhere up front, rubbing elbows with the mayor of Pau, was the guest of honor, Miguel Indurain, a five-time winner of the Tour. As befitted his status, Big Mig was been given race number "1".
 |
Looking around the crowd, I began to notice that just about everyone was sitting on or tinkering with a bike that was equipped with a triple crankset and a big-ass mountain bike cassette out back. Everyone. And a lot of these bikes were sporting some seriously low, low gearing combos - sprockets out back with 32 teeth, tiny mountainbike chain rings, etc. Me? I was sitting astride what I considered to be my hill-climbing ace-in-the-hole: a titanium Dean decked out with a Campagnolo Chorus double chain ring set-up, a 39 x 25 granny gear, and a pair of big ol' hairy legs. And I'll admit that while I was I was fully occupied with the normal pre-race tasks of looking cool and exuding confidence, the contrast in equipment was simply too extreme for me not to notice.
Notice? Yes. Comprehend its significance? Not quite.
I mean, sure, it was pretty obvious that someone gotten it wrong here, it's just that, sitting at the start line in Pau, I was damn sure that it wasn't me. In fact, I remember the moment perfectly: I was sitting there in the middle of a sea of cyclists on the Place d' Verdun, shaking my head and wondering to myself how it was possible for all of these guys to be such complete and total pussies. I mean, c'mon now, how hard can these climbs be? Triple cranksets and all of that rubbish are for girls, and weak ones at that. How can seven thousand Frenchman be so wrong?
As it turns out, those seven thousand Frenchmen knew all too well what was coming. Me? Clueless. Heck, when the starting gun sounded and the pack took off down the road toward the first climb of the day I was actually eager to get into the mountains, a small bit of irony that, given the way that the day eventually played out, is particularly irritating.
Those first twenty miles or so passed quickly, effortlessly riding along in a huge pack of riders at a steady 25+ miles per hour. As we negotiated the innumerable small villages that were decorated to greet us and received the good wishes of the townspeople one got the sense that, yes, this is a taste of what the Tour must be like. Having the Etape pass through town was a big damn deal, and we were treated accordingly. This was just such a strange experience - totally different from the reception that you would get in the United States - that it seemed like we had been dropped into a totally bike-crazy alternate universe. People were not pissed off or complaining that the roads were closed to cars so that some amateur bicyclists in tight pants could race each other. No, they thought that it was totally cool that it was happening. Even on a Wednesday. Heck, they were cheering. This was proof positive that, at least in the month of July, the bicycle still rules in France.
Long live the Tour de France!
 |
I suppose that another reason why the crowds were cheering us so loudly as we approached the mountains were that they knew the size of the task that faced each rider. Warning sign number two that it was going to be a long day in the saddle was literally that: a road sign warning of the steep gradient ahead as we rolled up to the foot of the Col du Soudet. One look at the sign confirmed that, yes, I was soon to be a victim of my own hubris and Velo magazine statistics. Seven point five percent average grade my ass; try fifteen percent for the first couple of kilometers, leveling off to a ripping ten percent or so for the first half of the climb.
Welcome to the Pyrenees, sucker. Somewhere, off in the distance, I could faintly hear those seven thousand Frenchmen snickering.
Not that they were exactly having an easy time of it either. Even with a triple chain ring, there was no getting around the fact that this bad boy was steep. I quickly crunched down into my lowest cog and, finding myself out of gears and out of options, there was nothing else left for me to do but try and grunt my way up the mountain with brute strength.
Well, actually there was one, less dignified option that I was trying to avoid.
Okay, I'll get this out of the way right now. Yes, I got off and pushed my bike for a short distance up the Col du Soudet. Ditto the Col du Bargaguy, if one is to be scrupulously, tediously honest with the dear reader. And the whole point of this exercise, if you recall, is to be honest when relating one's cycling exploits.
Still, if asked, I can honestly say that I made over the Col du Soudet and the Col du Bargaguy under my own power. Miguel Indurain cannot say that, and he has won the Tour five times. Indeed, if you were to check, you would find that Indurain abandoned the 2003 Etape in the tiny mountain village of Larrau, which is in the shadow of the Bargaguy.
In the days after the Etape, there were those who said that the great Spanish champion chose to stop at the foot of the mountain upon hearing the excited chatter that was rippling through the race about a big American rider who, while having had some difficulty on the Soudet, was now poised to turn in a record-breaking performance on the remaining climbs.
All right, it was mostly me who was saying that. And as for the potential "record-breaking" performance by the "big American" on the Col du Bargaguy, that involved me setting a mark for the slowest climb up the mountain while managing to avoid actual elimination from the race. Because if the climb up the Soudet was a rather undignified interlude in my personal cycling career, my ascent of the Bargaguy involved brute animal suffering.
Again, I had lots of company. Everybody struggled up the Bargaguy. Perhaps the most disheartening moment of the entire ride occurred when the road emerged from the tree line to reveal the extent of the remaining climb. Neck craned skyward, I saw what appeared to be a slow-moving caterpillar of cyclists strung out over an endless series of switchbacks all the way up to the Col. We inched our way up the mountain, kilometer markers passing like kidney stones. The switchbacks were the worst: crawling along, you would see riders trying to negotiate the turns who, overcome by the grade and unable to unclip from their pedals, would simply flop over onto the asphalt or into the ditch.
Well, at least the view from the ditch was pretty. Lost here in this recitation of my personal travails is the fact that the Pyrenees are just stunningly beautiful and the weather on the mountain on the day of the race was crisp and clear. Not that anyone noticed, however. Saying that it was a nice day on the mountain during the Etape is somewhat akin to making the observation that it was a rather lovely evening on the Atlantic the night that the Titanic went down, or that Hitler was kind to animals.
All of the suffering was worth it, I suppose, as there was a good-sized crowd to cheer us over the last Col as we began the run into the finish at Bayonne. Descending was, of course, a complete hoot. The Soudet was a winding downhill challenge, while coming off the Bargaguy was a bit different: fast (50 mph) with switchbacks. Miss a corner at speed and you could go windmilling out into space, just like the Coyote in a Roadrunner cartoon. The prospect of finding the short, hard way down the mountain certainly held my attention while I was carving the curves.
Once off the mountain the last third of the race consisted of terrain that is my meat and potatoes: rolling hills. Determined to try to salvage a little pride and glory, I was on a search-and-destroy mission to try and pick off as many riders as I could, especially those with green trim on their numbers. Green trim indicated that the riders were in my age classification and, thus, my direct competition. By now, I was going like the clappers, and every time that I would overtake a rider, I would get an appreciative "Allez!" from the crowd.
How cool is that? A cheering crowd for a 42-year-old guy on a bike. It just makes you feel ten feet tall. It really does. And it makes you pedal even harder.
Indeed, as we approached the finish the crowd became more festive and I got faster. And while everyone standing by the roadside clapped and cheered as we passed by, there were a few real stand-outs in the crowd; like the guy with the bottle of champagne offering the riders swigs, or the dude handing out cups of beer about five miles from the finish.
Heading into the city of Bayonne I was still riding pretty strong. There were a few guys stuck to my wheel as I passed underneath the "1 Kilometer To Go" sign. I decided that the only appropriate way to end the ride was to sprint to the finish. Oh sure, I realized that I was probably sprinting for 5,000th place or something like that, but it did not matter a whit. I was going to attack right up to the end and, more importantly, I was not going to get passed by anyone in the last kilometer. Especially anyone with the name Miguel Indurain. Because, for all I knew, Indurain just might be one of the riders sucking my wheel into Bayonne. Yes! There was a chance that the five-time Tour de France champion was setting me up for a sprint to the line!
Or at least it seemed to be a distinct possibility at the time. Because after 123 miles and 12,000 feet of climbing, I was willing to believe that the entire Spanish Inquisition was drafting behind me on the way into Bayonne.
So up and out of the saddle I went, pushing for all I was worth. I dropped my "friends" and passed a surprised group of racers ahead of me…and then over the line! Finished! We were then funneled into a chute where volunteers were stationed to hand you a medal and point you in the direction of the food tent. A cold ham sandwich and bottle of water never tasted so good.
We eventually did find out the reason why Big Mig stepped off the bike in Larrau. It was because his family and friends were throwing a birthday party for him in the village, which is near the Spanish border. Indurain turned 39 on July 16, the day of the Etape. In other words, I beat a five-time winner of the Tour de France because he stopped to eat birthday cake.
And that's how it all went down.
You can look it up. Statistics do not lie.
