I got up before seven and packed my things away, hoping to catch the sunrise on the other side of the mountain.
I missed the sunrise but had a fine view into France, nevertheless. With such an early start, I had plenty of time to stop off and see what this hillclimbing was all about.
The Americans' "hillclimbing" was uncharacteristically understated next to this hyperbole, which sounded like the name of a children's toy advertised on Saturday morning television with a breathless, usually American, voice over.
A car with English plates parked nearby. I heard the husband - in his fifties wearing glasses and a shaggy, greying beard - say in answer to a question which I missed, "Some cycling thing."
The mountain was still relatively sparse up here: grass and bare rock.
I quickly passed the tree line and was now dropping through fast, straight sections of road linking slow, steep switchbacks. I felt occasional pockets of colder air and the atmosphere was damp, much damper than the Spanish side. I noticed dew on the grass and remembered that I hadn't seen morning dew in Spain for a long time. It is simply too dry.
I was enjoying the fast descent, working the brakes hard before the turns and pointing my inside knee into the corner to pull the bike round. Even fully loaded, the bike felt very steady in the corners.
Soon I came to a road block - the entrance to Montee Impossible! - where I was told it would cost 12 euros to watch the hillclimbing. I hesitated at this dent in my budget but I could not pass without paying and the only alternative was to climb nearly to the top and take another road down. Besides, by now I wanted to see the show.
I confirmed, redundantly, that my 12 euros would give me access to the event all day. I would have to leave after a couple of hours anyway but wanted to feel like I was driving some kind of bargain.
The steward remarked that I was carrying a lot of equipment and I explained I had come from Madrid. His face lit up and he asked if I had come all that way just for this event. I disappointed him and later regretted my honesty: it would have been a fun fiction. Word might have got around and I imagined myself being called up on stage and interviewed about my dedication to this sport which I knew nothing about.
The objective of hillclimbing, or montee impossible, is to ride a motorbike as far up an appallingly steep and treacherous hill as you can before the engine cuts out. He who reaches highest wins. (It usually is a he, although one woman did compete. After a big build-up, she didn't acquit her sex well.)
The grassy slope was close to three hundred metres high and very steep. It would have been very heavy going to walk up and the French name was probably the more accurate. During the few hours I watched, no-one made it to the top.
To climb this slope, the riders use machines which look like a child's drawing of a motorbike. Longer than standard bikes, with large engines and huge rear tires with an exaggerated tread which, in some cases, looked more like the business end of a paddle steamer than anything you'd find on a motorbike. Some of the bikes had car tires with long metal studs to give extra grip.
A child's approximation of a motorcycle, except real
The owner of this bike took the rear tire from a 4x4, added studs to it and fitted it to a home-made wheel.
A rider sat at the bottom revving his engine. Most of the bikes had over 1,000cc engines, the largest were 1,250 and all had nitrous injections - used by drag racers and tuning enthusiasts to squeeze and extra dollop of power from an already mighty engine.
The bikes had huge engines
As a master of ceremonies wound up the smallish, early morning crowd, rock music played over a PA system.
The rider started slower than I'd expected and navigated an early obstacle cautiously before taking off up the slope leaving a trail of blue smoke and flying earth behind him. He made it to about 150m before his engine gave out and the master of ceremonies hollered, "Im-pecc-able!" excitedly over the PA.
Another rider, from Norway, revved his engine much more aggressively before taking off up the slope much more quickly. He flew over the first obstacle, jumping a distance of five or six metres up the slope and ploughed on up scattering earth in a large, high arc behind him. He eventually made it to over 200 metres and the crowd gave up a loud cheer for his achievement and showmanship.
The riders carried on like this for much of the morning and despite the seemingly repetitive entertainment, I never got bored.
A rider makes a bold start up the Impossible Climb
The crowd enjoys the show
I decided to look for the Americans. There was a row of flags along what passed for the "pits", where teams tuned their bikes. I thought I might find the Americans near their flag and walked along the line of English, German, Norwegian, French. The American flagpole held two flags: the Stars and Stripes and The Republic of California flag. This odd recognition of an independence which doesn't officially exist must have been a request from my friends from the previous evening.
One of the Americans noticed me and shouted over and waved. He called the rest over and we chatted. They were behind a makeshift wire fence tinkering with their bikes. While we were talking a Frenchman came over and asked to borrow some nitrous. the eldest of the Americans took a white can and passed it the Frenchman saying, "Sure, that's the last we've got it's only about a litre but you can take it."
The one who had taken my photo a day earlier, he was young, still in his teens I guessed, was Brett Peterson of Team Peterson and was apparently something of a celebrity in this small circle. A crowd had formed about him and earlier he had been interview by the MC.
He was wearing his arm in a sling which, he explained, was from a previous injury. His doctor had told him it would heal better out of the sling but he didn't want people to wonder why he wasn't riding today.
One of his team mates had already ridden the hill. I had seen him make it a decent way up until his bike pirouetted sideways in the middle of a jump, which was the end of his run. The bike was too long and the team mechanics were going to shorten it before having another go.
Brett gave me a signed poster of himself and I explained I had to go. It was now 11.30 and I would have to ride through the heat of the afternoon if I was to arrive at my guest house in good time.
My signed poster of Brett Peterson, a big name in these parts
The rest of the day was gruelling. Very hot, oppressively humid and with a number of surprisingly tough climbs.
I stopped for a rest in the town of Nay, which has a lovely view up a river towards the Pyrenees and seemed to be enjoying a village fete.
I finally made it to the hamlet of Aast where my guest house was booked. It was a rural idyll set in farmland.
When I pushed my bike into the small courtyard in front of the house a dalmatian ("Ramses") lifted his head but didn't bark and an old lady on a zimmer frame got up to meet me. I shook her hand gently and explained who I was and that I had a reservation.
Ramses, a docile Dalmatian
She moved to do something; my French wasn't good enough to tell her not to put herself out so I fussed dumbly by the door, not sure what to do. Eventually the old lady shouted through an open door, "Jaqueline!" who appeared some minutes later.
After I had settled in, Jaqueline gave me some dinner and sat with me and we talked while I ate. It took me no more than thirty minutes to eat a tomato and boiled egg salad, half a baguette, 1/4 pound of pork pate, two duck legs, green beans, a litre-and-a-half of water, an ice cream and a glass of wine.
All except the last three items had been prepared and / or grown on the small-holding owned and managed by Jaqueline, as had the delicious jam I would have for breakfast the next morning.
"It's a lot of work," I told Jaqueline, impressed.
"Yes but it's better that way, more natural."
I nodded agreement as I hoovered up the fruits of her toil.
BC
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