The Big Climb

[This post describes Saturday afternoon.]

After a swim in the river, a snooze in the sun and a picnic lunch, I got going at around 5pm.

The road wound along the valley floor between steep, wooded mountain sides for 9 kms, rising slowly. Ahead of me, I saw a scar cut across the mountain side about two-thirds of the way up ahead of me. That must be my climb. It wasn't steep but it was already high up.

The road climbing gently along the valley floor. You can see the climb cutting qcross the mountside in the distance.

My gears had started to skip so I did some fine tuning before the road got too steep and I wouldn't have the chance.

With 16 kms to go, the road crossed a river and abruptly hit the mountain side. I filled up with water and crossed the river at exactly 6pm.

The road took a long, straight tack up and to the left, cutting across the steep, wooded mountain side. The surface was very poor but I made a good start, sitting down, still in my middle chain ring and pushing hard with my legs. After less than five minutes I was standing on the pedals, heaving the bike up the steep road. A wire of a man cruised past me and gave a greeting. I said something in return and kept on heaving at the handlebars and pushing the pedals. Less than ten minutes into the 16km climb, I had changed down to the smallest chain ring. My body temperature shot up and when there was no shade, the heat of the six-o'clock sun was unbearable. Sweat was now pouring off me and had formed patches on my clothes. I was already thirsty but parts of the climb were to steep to grab a water bottle. A cycle tourist coming down the hill must have seen my sweat-drenched grimace and gave an enthusiastic shout of encouragement. He had felt the same pain coming up the French side and the companionship of this stranger gave me a boost.

At the end of the long tack left, the road went through a series of hairpins. I was, by now, alternating between sitting and standing. At first I would change up a gear to stand and change back down to sit, unweighting the drive train by taking my weight off the pedals and turning one slow revolution to avoid a slow, graunching gear change which could put me off balance. After a time I even gave that up: I was at the limit of my ability to keep going. Any steeper and I would just grind to a halt. I had no momentum.

Where the direction of the bend and traffic allowed, I picked a line round the very outer edge of the hairpins where the camber of the road makes the incline less steep. Just before the top of the bend I would turn back into the road, down the camber, to snatch a rest. Just enough time to take a drink.

The traffic came in batches but was not heavy. The way each of the drivers passed became irrationally personal. One man, a cool dude in sunglasses driving a citroen jeep in the opposite direction, made a face at me and wagged his finger, which made me inexplicably angry. Another, waited patiently behind me as I rounded another hairpin. Seeing the road was clear, and thankful for his patience, I waived him past. He tooted his horn in encouragement as he passed and I gave him a thumbs up and my legs felt momentarily stronger.

The road climbed higher until eventually I was on the long scar across the hillside that I had seen from the valley floor.

There was an impressive view down to the lilliputian houses in the valley below but I had promised myself to complete the climb without resting so couldn't stop to take a photo.

The gradient eased a little and I changed up a gear. I had a chance to look at the mountain scenery around me: isolated peaks, stripped bare of vegetation by altitude and weather.

It felt like I was near the top but a kilometre marker told me I was precisely half way. It had taken an hour to do 8kms.

I could see a bank of cloud coming over the ridge from the French side. I remembered that the French side of the Pyrenees were much wetter than the Spanish and wondered if it would be raining. As the road climbed higher, I entered the cloud.

I had a dilemma. With poor visibility I should stop to put my lights on but I had wanted to do the whole climb without stopping. I had done the hardest part and it was now just a question of staying the distance. I told myself the visibility wasn't that bad after all; that I was going so slowly that a car might just as well drive into a wall as drive into me.

The road slipped over the other side of the ridge and I wondered if I was near the top but it kept on ascending. I was now deep in cloud and having second thoughts about my plan to sleep out in the open, under the stars, on the border between France and Spain. There would be no stars, that was for sure.

I saw a km marker and my heart jumped and I punched the air. I had celebrated too early: another 4km to go.

I was now soaked to the skin with sweat and cloud water. As I climbed further, the cloud seemed to get thinner; I missed fantastic photo of a weak sun shining through thin cloud behind the leafless branches of a weather beaten tree. I was now absolutely committed to reaching the top without stopping.

I rounded a bend and saw the road wind round to the left and then up and over a crest. There were people at the top taking photos. This must be the top; I stood on the pedals and pushed up the last few metres. Anticipation had chased the pain from my legs and my pace picked up.

I reached the top and saw no marker, no trig point, no border maker. I had called the top early twice already on the climb and I didn't want to dismount only to find I had another hundred metres to go.

I rolled down the hill a short way and saw the road drop down to France. I turned round and rode back up to the top and met a majestic view, in my dogged pursuit of the top I had missed on my way up.


My bike in front of a majestic view

I had ridden through the clouds and as I looked back to Spain I saw Pyreneen peaks emerge from a cloudy quilt.

I dismounted, walked my bike, with shaky legs, to the edge of the hillside, to the exact point where Spain meets France, and looked out, open-mouthed.

BC