The Bcyclet Inferno: Redux

!! CONTENT WARNING from guest contributor, Hugh:

Andy wrote a shorter (i.e. better) article about this race - I suggest you read his instead - Mine is too long, like the Inferno itself.

So, having been warned, we suggest you ensure you have an extensive supply of refreshments to hand, then sit back and enjoy Hugh’s very amusing depiction of the 2023 Annecy-to-the-Med bike race that is “The Inferno”. And if you survive the article, and have by some miracle been inspired to sign up for the race’s next installment (22nd-25th August, 2024) then Backdrop salutes you and we are delighted to be able to offer you a discount code for 10% off the ticket price:

The Inferno race discount code: Inferno24backdrop

As we round the corner about 5km of climbing still from the top of the Col du Galibier, we find Kostas punching himself in the leg; hard. I was just feeling better from what would turn out to be my only energy wobble of the race but I am now at least slightly questioning my sanity and whether the searing heat has finally gotten to me. It has certainly gotten to Kostas’s legs though, which, though impressively massive, had just downed tools on him under these conditions.

It’s the 11th August, 2023, and we are about 8 hours into the Bcyclet Inferno, a 500km, 12,000m+ 2 day bike race from Annecy to Menton; “The Alps to The Ocean”; “The most beautiful race you have never heard of”; and other grand slogans. Right now, it was just as the name suggests: hot.

We had met Kostas the night before when Andy and I shared a room with him in Annecy, which we’d arrived at via a beautiful 50km 'shake down' ride from Bycylet bike store in Geneva, the organisers of the race. A nice gentle pace through gentle rolling hills to warm up for what is to come. Naturally enough, Andy and I had a kebab before starting off, due to there being an excellent purveyor of said items next to the bike shop.

Upon arrival in Annecy, at race registration, we are greeted with an absolutely amazing spread of food. Delicious and nutritious, our expectations of giant mounds of pasta with some nondescript sauce were shouldered out the way by a table laden with cold meats, hummus, vegetables, breads, roasted pepper in Philadelphia cream cheese, and piles of other treats. We tuck in, convinced we were carbo-loading or something vaguely sensible sounding like that. We are not finished with cycling though and have to bike over to our hotel, freshen up, then bike back to the registration hall for the pre-race briefing. And dinner. Now getting the expected pasta dishes, and suitably delicous sauce.

Though we are in France, the primary contingent of idiots who have signed up for this 'very enjoyable outing' are English-speakers, so the pre-race briefing is of course given in both English and French, by a German. Konstantin is one of the race organisers, and also participating. I’d lived with him for 3 years, which is how I come to be in this pickle. He is an organised man, Konstantin, likes clear rules, and is an absolute beast on the bike. We are plied with details, details, details of our coming jaunt through very hilly-looking countryside. Everyone seems to be taking this very seriously. Far more seriously than I am. There is a film crew, which seems well over the top. Thankfully Andy and I had agreed in advance that neither of us would be taking it very seriously, and that there should be raised eyebrows and solidly unimpressed scowls if the other got over excited and started riding at anything resembling a reasonable pace. Getting to the end is very much the goal. Survival.

Back at the hotel we start to think about the requirement to get up at 3am in the morning. After a short discussion and confirmation that we really are going to get up at 3am, we go to bed, with the thought of getting up at 3am naturally preventing any proper sleep. Finally, the alarms go off and we can all stop pretending we were sleeping and fight over bathroom visitation rights.

4am: Outside the hotel we find Basile, the cheerful owner of the Bcyclet shop who came up with this stupid idea. He looks like he had a good night’s sleep, the bastard. He’d originally come up with the idea for this race as a purely personal challenge and wanted to keep that element of DIY in it - i.e., if you were foolish enough to have entered as solo competitor, you aren’t allowed to draft anyone, while those slightly-less-foolish in teams of two can draft each other but no-one else. Like all people who go through a tough experience and then design an experience for others to emulate it, he wants everyone else to feel as miserable as he felt on that first ride of his, and now looks thoroughly excited by the prospect of seeing us suffer. Andy and I had relatively sensibly entered the men’s pairs category.

Handing off our bags, the three of us head off in the shadows of central Annecy to find the lake-front route to the cafe where we are to be served breakfast and coffee. Kostas, studying his GPS thingy, almost writes himself off straight away - our warning shouts just managing to stop him riding into a sturdy barrier across the cycle lane (!). Other than clearly dangerous GPS devices other challenges involve swerving smatterings of drunkards, though these seem to sober up fast at the sight of three strapping lads in lycra bearing down on them out of the dark. Emerging from the town, onto open road, the dangers graduate to drunk drivers and potholes, also Andy's front light is only slightly less bright than the sun - if you accidentally look into it that’s your vision done for a few seconds, so let him take the lead in the early morning traffic. Another group passes us off to our left, including race organiser Konstantin, who politely enquires why on earth we are on the road and not the perfectly good and safe cycle path they are on. We comply, and promptly get dropped. I have zero interest in making effort at 4:15am, with 265km to cycle, and definitely not before a coffee or three.

We make the breakfast cafe, Le Bon Wagon, are asked what type of coffee we want and Andy instantly pisses off the owner by asking for a hot chocolate. The cafe is adorned with jerseys of Tour de France winners, losers, and generally famous people in the cycling world. All apparently no bigger than 12-year-olds, judging from the shirt sizes. Breakfast was largely Tiramisu. This seemed odd, but everyone agreed it was an excellent Tiramisu. We all had at least seconds and a small fight almost broke out over the last piece. A brief briefing, telling us we were about to do a 'start fictif', and we roll out together at an unhelpfully fast pace along more cycle paths toward the actual start line, where the real 'fun' would begin. This was absolutely wonderful however, beaming along and chatting under gentle lamplight, backlit by Andy's artificial sun, with the first hints of actual sunrise peeking over the mountains.

In the small town of Faverge, we line up between flags indicating impending pain. Too slow though, a delivery van comes and we all have to move out of the way. Baguette deliveries take precedence even to cycle racing in France. Lining up again, a nervous quiet descends over the group, except for Andy and I, who are giggling and making stupid jokes like a couple of naughty school kids. Quiet at the back! Shawn, Race Director (soon to earn the prefix “long-suffering”), tries to be serious, goes a countdown, and… bang! I am happy, thrilled, delighted, pessimistic: we are away.

Three months before this, I’d sat on top of the Col du Faucille above Geneva and almost cried. With stunning views of Lac Leman, the Alps, and Mont Blanc in the distance I held my head in my hands and wondered how I could be this unfit. A 20km ride with about 950m of climbing, this was supposed to be the start of my training. Spring had been unusually wet, and had delayed the start of my training, because you would have to be mad to go out for a bike ride in the rain, but now the sun was out and I was thrilled to be out. Excited to start. To be ready for the test of a lifetime. An epic ride of 500km and 12,000m of climbing over 2 days. Or at least, that's how I had felt 2 hours before. I had just barely made it up a 950m hill without stopping. How was I ever going to make it through the Inferno? There was no way. It was impossible. I almost rolled down that hill and quit but it was only slightly further to go round the back of the hill to St Cergue, and the descent was nicer that way. So, I did a bit more and tried to pretend everything was OK. I couldn't get back on the bike for a couple of days. I couldn't face it. But eventually, I did, and it wasn't quite so bad the next time, nor the next, nor after that. Steadily longer and harder rides, always knowing it was never enough, that I could never be fit enough to not collapse at some point through the race. And then it was the day. I was on the start line, making stupid jokes because I didn't have a good enough excuse to get a refund. I guess we were doing it.

The official start - spot the one person facing the wrong way…. is it too late to change team members?

Almost immediately, our strategy works out perfectly, Andy and I are passed by almost everyone. Our competitors are being VERY serious. Our strategy was to absolutely not be serious. Getting to the end is the only goal. That and not getting swept in the broom wagon. So onwards and upwards we potter up the beautiful Col du Tamie. The sun gently rising, the birds starting to chirp, and us starting to warm up. Layers had to come off and Andy promptly manages to drop the disgustingly expensive pure-white gilet I’d lent him into this cassette and rear derailleur. A brief stop to untangle the now white & oil-black camo gilet and we gently potter on again, making absolutely sure not to try and make up time from that stoppage. There is a long way to go and any extra effort now will only come back to hurt us later.

The film crew await us at the top of the col, we do some very unserious on-bike-dancing before the first descent of the day. Downhill on a bike is usually amazing but I had forgotten how much fun it is to ride with Andy. We are well matched for speed but we each gain and lose speed in different types of corners. He absolutely crushes hairpins (as the true gent that he is, he puts this entirely down to his bike frame), whereas I am quicker on the faster sections carrying more speed through the flowing corners. This makes for absolutely epic descents with screams of joy, laughter and the total lack of seriousness we feel one should bring to an event like this.

But fear not dear reader, our spirits are swiftly damped by a “valley road”. Boring never-ending false-flat kilometres that are unfortunately required to get to the next torture device for the day: The col du Madelaine. On its initial slopes, in low-angle morning sun and still, cool air, cruising uphill feels like a dream. There is a long, long way to go but we are moving up (hill) and most definitely getting left behind. This one is a beast, but if we get this beast behind us there is one less to go. We steadily plod our way up, chatting, joking, and gently chastising each other for going too fast. Andy, more than me, seems rather too speedy up this one. I berate him appropriately. The joys of pedalling give way to the monotony of pedalling, which gives way to the calm meditation of doing the same thing over and over and over again, while I try and take silly photos of Andy's ponytail in his shadow, and occasionally, the absolutely stunning views.

Near the start of the Col de la Madeleine. That looks a long way up….

Food is provided at the col, and we eat. A lot. I force down as much meat, cheese and dark bread as I can, because that seems like what we should do, while Basile helpfully refills our water bottles. He seems thoroughly delighted with his torture device. What goes up, must go down though, and soon we descend from the col at quite frankly unsafe speeds, but it doesn't matter, for I have a polystyrene helmet and lycra, so nothing can harm me. We do stop though, because the road at one point is blocked by a quite horrific car crash. Something has gone badly wrong for multiple cars, the worst of which looks like they have been rather lucky to hit a tree which has stopped their car dropping off the side of the road. There are people sitting around with bleeding heads and other assorted injuries. We worry that we might have to sit and wait it out, but after a short chat with a policeman, we carry our bikes past the victims and over broken glass and restart 50 meters down the road. Having just seen up close just how serious mountain accidents can be, we proceed down like a pair of absolute lunatics.

Our reward at the bottom is easily the worst section of the whole ride: an utterly disgusting valley road. Sweltering heat, a hair-dryer headwind, trucks passing at 100km/h, and occasionally a hint of a derelict-looking cycle lane. In later discussions with Konstantin, apparently the only way to avoid this road is another 1000m of climbing. Honestly, I would prefer the extra hill.

At the end of this 'delight' is the combo of the Cols du Telegraph & Galibier, which is less two separate hills and more one giant hill with a sneaky breather a bit less than half way up, to trick you into thinking it's not one giant hill. The first kilometre of the telegraph starts like a wall, a good sharp kick in the nuts that wakes us up, but it isn't the valley road so spirits are high and we plug away, reminding each other not to go too fast. The Telegraph really is a delightful, windy road, but more than on any other this race it seems regularly punctuated by angry drivers honking their horns or shouting at us. I'm really not sure why, but on this stretch we seem to be offending a lot of people somehow. Smiling and waving at them as they pass doesn’t seem to help, either. We meet a wonderful lady cyclist near the top and chat a bit. She is 76, is not electrified, and is crushing it, I am most impressed. She asks where we came from, looked confused at the answer, then asks where we are going. Then she repeats all the questions in English because it must be that my French is too rubbish to be understood. But no, it turns out that I am very well understood, it's just that she couldn't imagine someone would be that stupid. Which turns into the theme for pretty much everyone we meet along the way.

In the short downhill between the Telegraph to where the long drag up the Galibier starts we got some mercifully cold water from a fountain in the stupendously busy village of Valloire. It is seriously hot now, and sensible people are seeking shade. Also, many hours into our ride and the endless stream of energy gels, bars and fluids are taking a toll on my stomach. But you have to keep eating. Eating, eating, eating. I have an alarm on my GPS that goes off every thirty minutes. Whenever that alarm goes off, I eat, whether I want to or not. The alarm is a curse, a terror, but a sound that must be obeyed. I end up hoping there is more time before it goes off, dreading the moment it does and I have to force down another something that I don't want to eat. But I have failed at this eating game before, and that is much worse than the eating, so I eat, and feel sick, but then there is a glorious moment after I’ve eaten when I know it is the longest moment before I have to eat again, and I am happy.

On other levels, my mind is starting to find the day difficult. Whilst I can happily pedal without distraction for 6 hours, we are now pushing 8 in the saddle and my brain is starting to be a dick and remind me of such things as 'this isn't necessary you know' and 'you could actually just stop if you wanted to'. I put some music on (Disco Billy, an epicly underrated album), chat about music with Andy, and look around at the beautiful scenery we are riding through. On a slightly windier section, Andy has the strength of character to admit that he is starting to feel a little tired. Feeling rather sprightly at the time, I offered to take the wind and pace up the hill. It sometimes feels good just to be 'helpful' and there was a definite improvement in mental state. About 30 minutes later I, myself, start to feel a dip coming on, but being the petulant child I am, won’t admit it, so just carry on pretending everything was fine. And so this was it, riding up the Galibier as the energy is sinking, with over 100km to go. Shit. I remembered the Faucille a few months before. I remembered not starting training earlier. I remembered the rides I didn't go on when I could have done. Fuck. I start to think it might be over. Thankfully, I am still too childish to admit to Andy that I was feeling bad, so I plod on for a while and soon everything starts to get better. I feel myself coming back to life and my legs stop complaining. See? Shut up legs.

I mentioned it was hot? Pretty damn hot. My GPS thingy shows 43C here, on the upper reaches of the Galibier. I had already drunk five litres of water, had stolen some of Andy's on the Telegraph and was running low, again. In the raging heat of a day like today, if you want to keep riding all you can do is drink as much water as possible. But it turns out that other competitors apparently, hadn’t, and it’s near the top that we re-join Kostas, punching his thighs. Kostas has fucking ginormous thighs. He is lean, fit, generally looked WAY better prepared than us, and has a magnificent beard to go with it. A better man in every way. His thighs now though, were taking an absolute pounding. We rather sheepishly ask him, 'Hey Kostas, what’s up?'. We receive a look that suggests he thinks this question is even stupider than being in the race in the first place. “They don't work!'. We deduce cramps and I politely suggest that punching one’s thighs might not be optimal, but again, the same pained look, so I just shut up. Andy then produces a little baggie of 'special pills' that are apparently 'electrolyte replacements', uh huh, and gives him a couple to wash down with some water. As the absolute gents that we are, we offer to ride to the top in a mini-grupetto, clear in the knowledge that this was out of the kindness of our hearts, not just another excuse to cycle slower, and secure in the knowledge that it’s not possible to break the drafting rules at 10kph. For forms sake, and just in case Shawn finds some fine print, we drop him in the final 500m anyway and roll into the aid station with beaming smiles, feeling like absolute heroes.

This station is manned by Florian and Ana, my mate Luca's wife. Luca, also participating, has kindly roped Ana in to help feed us and she excels at this task. Florian I know from our weekly Geneva rides and we now have a bit of a chat in between scoffing probably too much race fodder: 'You guys look so much better than everyone else' he says, and 'I really like it that you don't give a shit, you are actually having fun!'. He says some other things too but I am paying far too much attention to my calorie count. Kostas, ever the competitor, decides to start off down the hill and we wish him well, while we recline in the comfy chairs on offer, in the shade. Something odd though - there’s a lot of food on that table, and if we are last, these guys don’t seem to be in any hurry to pack up the station. The team of Joe & Luca should be behind us, but that’s it. We should be the back markers but one (team-wise, anyway). But it appears not - other teams now start arriving... Eh? How could so many be behind us? Clearly the heatstroke is getting to me. People start rolling in looking to be in various stages between fucked and absolutely fucked. It pretty quickly comes out that while we were slowly rolling through the scorching Valloire, they had all apparently been sensibly seeking shade, had seen us go past, and eventually, with no hope of clouds or rain, had had to eventually follow us up. We hear odd questions like, “Does ibuprofen stop cramps?", and are generally amazed at the redness of many of them. We help passing out food, cold cokes, the aforesaid ibuprofen, Andy’s pills, some encouraging words, and set off downhill.

The Galibier descent is epic, so much fun. It is then followed by another sweltering hairdryer valley, and now we find ourselves at the foot of the Izoard. 10 hours in. The Izoard is a wonderful and stunning hill, the scenery seems to vary around every corner. With each new view our excitement steadily grows, we near the end of day one and are more or less in one piece. But then Andy helpfully observes that it’s a been very steady and even gradient so far, hasn’t it? I groan, and of course, around the very next corner it kicks up to 10%. Fuck you, Andy. One can see the col, our finish line for the day, from quite a long way away but the road winds a lot and it’s way further than it looks. But, we can see it. We are going to make it and there will be a glorious buffet waiting for us at the top. In the last kilometre we catch and pass Kostas again and roll over the line with more silly jokes and a round of applause from race director Shawn, who looks bored out of his mind because the leaders passed through several hours ago. Never mind: 235km and over 6000m+ climbed, in one day, which we feel pretty epic about and thus encouraged to offer more silly comments and jokes. Shawn though, has the last laugh - he reminds us of one tiny technicality, being that we still have 30 km ride to get to our bed for the night. This section isn’t timed to prevent downhill race accidents at the end of a long tiring day. But you still have to ride it.

The descent of the Izoard is stunning, you should do it. I recommend that you cycle less than 200km before-hand though, for maximum enjoyment.

One of the interesting asides of living with the person organising the race is that you get to see how the sausage is made. I had watched Konstantin stressing over the race for months. He has a genuine love for this event and wants everything to be perfect and for everyone to have an amazing time. So, it was interesting when the hotels all cancelled the reservations a week before the event. As you can imagine, finding accommodation for 50 incredibly smelly people in August, at the last minute, is a tricky proposition. A lesser man (i.e. me) would have used a wide range of colourful swear words. Konstantin just pulled a series of all-nighters. Got it done. Found accommodation for everyone. Made it work.

With this in mind, I am curious to see where we’ll be staying. Turns out, it’s a hostel. Looks big and spacious. However, there are burgers, so we tuck into those first. Sated for now and keen on freshening up, we are told there were no towels. Luckily, MSC cruises, one of the sponsors for the event, has provided us a towel as part of our welcome pack for the race. I’d made silly jokes at the time about this but I’m rather glad of it of a sudden. It's actually a rather plush towel. With egg on my face, we book a slot for our massages and I go and jump in the shower. There is also no soap. Odd. Apparently, you have to ask for it at reception. Oh well, too late now, I just have to hope that water alone will have some cleansing effect.

Regarding massages: I absolutely hate getting a massage. I find it weird, and it hurts. The only time I will have one is when the pain of not having one is greater than the pain of having one. Probably worth it after today though. I am a giant wuss when it comes to massages but Brenda is fantastic. She makes it just about as painful as I can bare and manages to keep most of her amusement at my squirming professionally hidden. I don't often make good decisions, but this time I think I get one right.

Dinner is Lasagne, or to call it by its proper name apparently, ‘pasta cake’. As we had become accustomed to with this race’s caterers, it’s delicious and there’s a about a metric-tonne of it. We all eat anything we can see. Vast amounts. Ninou the caterer has worked wonders. I always worry about getting enough to eat when riding, no such worries need be entertained in this event it seems.

A briefing is given in which Andy and I find that we are not actually last in our category. Our plan has gone awry due to our previously unrecognised mastery of heat-stroke avoidance. We are now leading the mens pairs category. How the fuck did this happen? What happens now? Are we supposed to try hard or something? Are people going to chase us? This is a disaster. I decide I am too tired to care for long and we hobble off to bed. It’s depressingly late and alarms are being set for depressingly early, again. I am already wishing violence on my alarm clock for when it eventually goes off. Sleeping yesterday evening had been difficult because, although we were fresh, we were nervous about the race start. Now we are knackered, have no idea how we might feel tomorrow morning, and so are still nervous about the next race start. Will my legs even work in the morning? Kostas' snoring indicates he doesn’t have the same problem.

When my alarm does go off, I’m actually thankful. Incredibly, I seem both able to move and be ready for eating ... again, despite my stomach telling me it’s not happy with all the sugary bike-food yesterday. I’m pretty much first in the breakfast hall as I want to eat as much as possible as early as possible, to give it all time to rest in my belly before we start. No warm-ups today - it’s a 15km uphill right from hotel door.

As people trickle in for breakfast, most look tired but generally ok. Then Konstantin appears. He looks absolutely shattered and red as a beet. A week of all-nighters preparing the race, then yesterday’s scorching heat, dehydration, cramps, and insufficient sun-cream has all taken its toll. And he’s been up half the night, again, making sure everything will be OK for day two. We watch him attempt half a coffee, sniff a croissant. decide that his best move is to quit, and wobble to the stairs heading for bed. It’s only 6 or so steps up those stairs but he can barely make it, leaning on the bannisters and pulling himself up with his arms. I feel a huge amount of admiration for the man who has pushed himself so hard to make sure everything is perfect for us, and tried to do the race himself. It’s inspiring. So, no pressure there then, Konstantin. Thanks a fucking bunch.

Day two’s start line is a more muted affair. Along with Konstantin, a couple of others have dropped out. In the pitch black, we can’t see the hill we are about to ride up, but we know it’s there. I decide this is all too serious and start making silly jokes as we wait for the off. Long-suffering race director, Shawn, gives some final quick rule reminders, makes sure everyone is ready and starts a countdown. We cross the start line for another day of madness. Steady though, warm up, not too fast. Are we going too fast, Andy? He reckons we are (the answer to this question is always yes) and we back off a bit, winding our way up the Col de Vars with just our bike lights, and Andy's floodlight, to show us the way. The twinkling of red rear lights winding up the hill is a beautiful sight that I didn't want to see again for a long time. My stomach is seriously unhappy with me though. I’ve not had a poo since leaving Geneva and this is becoming uncomfortable. I have the strange feeling that I’m about to shit my pants whilst at the same time weirdly disappointed knowing it’s not going to happen. This was going to be a long day.

I distract myself by soaking up the beautiful landscape of ski villages and lakes, revealed by the advancing dawn. At the col, no need for lights anymore and we pull up at the feed station. My guts feel about to explode but nothing is moving and I force down a little more meat and cheese. It’s chilly, so on goes a jacket and we set off down the other side. The southerly descent of Col de Vars is wonderful. Wide sweeping curves and open hairpins where you can see the entry and exit clearly, know if there are cars coming to cut the corners, hit the apexes, and generally send it as hard as you can. In short, an absolutely perfect descent for Andy and I struggle to keep up. Whilst I like riding really fast downhill, I rarely push past 80% of my max, but here, I’m feeling like I do have to push it to keep up. My body position feels tense and jerky. I’m over-gripping the handlebars and actually starting to get a bit stressed. I decide that this is in general a poor strategy and a fuckup is near. I need a new plan. I take a couple of seconds to sit up out of a full tuck, check the landscape, check the coming corners, take some deep breaths and gather my wits. There are a few more hairpins and what looks like a fast, sweeping section coming up. Instead of trying to hold on to Andy through those fast open hairpins, I’ll let him go through those but then use my faster speed on the straights between them and outbreak him to win back the metres. My discs vs his callipers too. In the first hairpin I over-brake, lose too much speed and have to over-pedal on the exit. The second goes better and the third I’m happy with. I’m gaining back on the straights most of what I lose on the hairpins. More relaxed now, I’m barely holding the handle bars and allowing myself to flow with barely more than gentle head movements, it seems. As I roll up to Andy's rear wheel at 85kph, I allow myself a little smile. Slamming a bunch of adrenalin through your body at 6am is a pretty good wakeup and right now we are both felt pretty good, grinning like the pair of idiots we are. On we roll toward our next challenge: La Cimes de Bonnette, Europe's highest pass. Great.

My GPS has some sort of wobble at the start of the climb, a lot of furious beeping at something. Even the computer seems to think that this is a bad idea. My stomach agrees and is telling me that 25km and around 1300m of climbing is sub-optimal. My legs are heavy and I can’t seem to push hard on the pedals so resign myself to spinning, with less load each pedal-push. The landscape on the Bonnette is incredible. You start through a farmed and forested valley, negotiate a rocky gorge, and exit that into a stunning mountain-ringed bowl above. Plenty to keep ones’ mind distracted from continually feeling like one is going to shit ones’ pants. Earlier on though, as if mocking my pain, Andy declares that he needs a shit. We pull over, and as he disappears into a field, I contemplate my fate. I eat another energy gel because however bad my stomach is, I reckon it’ll be worse to hit the wall. Andy emerges, it didn’t happen for him either. Back in the saddle, cruising our way up the hairpins before the gorge, behind us we can see a Swiss team slowly gaining on us. Other than us, they are the last intact team left in the men’s category. We’d passed them in the heat of the Galibier yesterday and had about a 30 minute lead on them, apparently. The leaders had finished about 4 hours before us yesterday, so it was entirely possible we could lose 30 minutes today. Did I care? Not sure, but I found worrying about it to be another welcome distraction from my stomach, as I eat another bar. That militant chime of my GPS that beeps and tells me I must eat or there will be disaster. So I eat, and try to remind myself that this is fun.

That massage though, it had worked really well. My legs feel heavy, yes, which I attribute to non-pooing, but no pain, no stiffness and no real hint that we’d cycled 265km the day before. This probably means we should have tried harder, but that would have meant taking it seriously. The Bonnette feed station is actually a couple of kilometres before the summit. We stop, peruse the food on offer, and hello, my tummy starts sending me what could be encouraging signals. Looking out over the mountain vista I decide this will make a perfect place for a poo with a view. Tottering across a rocky slope in my stupid cycling shoes, until out of sight, I assume the position and pray to the poo gods. Who don’t seem to be listening. I’d trained my legs but not my stomach, and this is my punishment. I stand, resigned to the climb back up and get another encouraging signal. Ah, changing positions is the cue. I try rocking side to side, up and down, then wonder what this might look like to a passing marmot - a weird human doing a poo dance whist trying to hold his bib shorts out of the way. And… thank the lord, sweet relief, two and a half days of relief! I’d been joking with Shawn about my constipation situation and he’d (jokingly) said I should send him a selfie if I managed to poo. So, I do. I now genuinely feel about 45kg lighter. A wave of utter happiness flows over me and I make sure to tell everyone at the station just what an epic experience it was. Basile also seems satisfied - his long-distance torture device doing its job as well.

The Swiss team arrive at the station as we depart, but a few curves on we see they’ve very competitively taken a much shorter break than us, so are now only maybe a couple of minutes behind us as we come to the crux. The Cimes du Bonnette is not the highest pass in Europe, that honour belongs to somewhere else that I can't be bothered to look up. The actual road passes through perfectly good col and quite rightly goes down the other side. What some utter bell-end has done is dig out an extra bit of road that splits off from the col, around a big lump beside it, going up quite steeply, the back down to the col, that no one other than complete morons would cycle around. In this way, they can claim it to be the highest ‘pass’ in Europe. Wankers. There is a monument at the summit and naturally, Basile requires we get a selfie with us and it, so up the 17% section we go. After just doing a 25km hill, this extra 500m kick in the balls is not at all welcome, but I didn't care, I had just taken a shit and was literal kilos lighter, I felt like I was flying. At the monument, there is a crowd of people generally queueing to take the same sort of photo we are supposed to be taking. Andy, ever the polite chap ‘umm’s and ‘ah’s and generally gives the impression he might be nice enough to wait our turn. Luckily for us I am a bit of an arse so push to the front of the queue and get the selfie and get us on our way before Andy can even mutter that it’s not quite the proper behaviour.

The utterly ridiculous Cimes de Bonnette

I genuinely enjoy cycling up excessively long hills, but I genuinely love hooning down them at a wildly unsafe pace even more. La Cimes du Bonnette may qualify as one of my favourite descents, ever. Fast, flat, flowing corners down the left side of a wide, steep valley, where you can see the whole squiggly route from a long way off. It’s warm, no cross winds, and perfectly set up for an epic charge. Except it’s so scenic that Andy is dithering-about trying to get some bloody photos! But, when we go, we really go. Full of confidence - all out. Other road users, such as cars, can be a trouble on these descents, in that they can really hold you up. You want there to be a tight-ish corner just as you catch them (because you inevitably catch them), dive on the inside, accelerating hard cutting and cutting the corner, hoping the driver isn't one of those total douches who’ll accelerate to not let you pass. Here for some reason, it’s uniformly the opposite. Cars are pulling over to let us pass and we are absolutely flying. A small village at the bottom marks the end of the fun and speedy downhill racing gives way to yet another long, hot false-flat downhill valley road with a viscious headwind. But even that can’t quite take the shine off what was genuinely one of my top 10 descents ever.

…But once over the top, the whole descent is in sight - fast, flowing roads up high, then a brilliant series of hairpins down into the vallery.

From a high, to a low. This headwind is like cycling into an industrial hairdryer. If I open my mouth, I’m instantly parched. We spend the next hour pedalling really hard downhill, feeling like we’re getting nowhere. I feel actually disgusted with it. If I’d been doing it solo, I reckon I’d genuinely probably quit right now. Thank god we can draft each other for some respite. It’s downhill but it’s really that bad. Mercifully, we eventually turn off for the Col St Martin: 12km, 1000m. Easy.

Peillo Bilbao was on it in full Bahrain kit doing laps. We politely don’t overtake him and just let him go.

Out of the hairdryer, into the furnace - the road, and the cliff walls the road is cut into, radiate the mid-afternoon heat back to us. It’s silly hot again. But hey, no headwind, so we’re happy. We do need more water though, and soon. We pass dried up fountains and I’m starting to get worried. Then the Swiss team catch us. Well; half of them do. That long disgusting valley has done for one of them - called it quits; waiting for the broom wagon. His buddy is continuing solo. We chat about lack of water and all decide this is very bad. Andy shows a nearby village has a fountain and we detour through it, but our Swiss man carries on. The town does indeed have a wonderful, cool fountain and drink deeply before filling up and carrying on. So, hang on, if the Swiss team has quit, then we were the only team left, so… by default the winners? Really? I find this quite a funny prospect, but as ever, we agree to stick to our plan, go slow and just get there. No celebrating too soon. In this heat, we could still crack. Still, we set off with spirits considerably higher. It’s baking hot, steep and one more climb even after this one. But right now we have lovely fresh, cold water in our bottles, a sniff of victory, and most importantly, no more valley roads to do. Just steep up, and steep down, and one repeat. This is what we love. What better way to spend a summers afternoon? Five minutes later the water in our bottles is warm.

A couple of kms from the top of the St Martin we find the Swiss cyclist by another fountain, filling up and dunking his head in, looking pretty beat. We all cruise to the top together, enjoy more food and comfortable chairs. The Swiss man took a short break and took off, still seeming to be taking things far more seriously than us. According to our relaxed strategy, we eventually push off about 300m more to a restaurant where and find Andy a proper toilet, coming back almost as triumphant looking as I’d felt earlier.

The St Martin was is a rather hairy descent. It’s mid-afternoon now and everyone who had driven to the top of the hill to see the stunning views was now on their way back down. This makes for some rather fun car overtaking and dodging to keep the mind focussed, but not the most epic descent of the trip. Almost as soon as gravity has ceased pulling us down, we turn left across a busy road for the Col du Turini, our last course in this epic torture meal. Andy nearly gets in two different accidents making the turn, and in classic road-biker style, proceeds to blame the drivers. I take great delight in telling him it was definitely his fault.

The ascent of the Turini from the west is fantastic and varied. Stunning views, cliffs, forested bits, quaint little villages, and people on mopeds who generally seem to think our barmy idea of cycling up is fantastic. Ignoring the fact that it’s a 1200m+ climb, I feel rather fantastic. Whilst still terrified of a last-minute bonk, I’m now pretty confident that we’re going to make it. It seems totally surreal to be here. The last two days were one long blur, though memorable - if that makes any sense - punctuated by very little sleep. But it’s now glorious sunshine, the day is starting to cool, and I couldn't have been happier. Andy though, wanted to ruin everything. I initially ignore his raised eyebrows and half-asked questions of how the legs are feeling, because I know exactly what he means. Eventually the phrase 'finish strongly' comes out and I knew we are fucked. We are both feeling fine, and clearly morons, so why not start cycling faster after 200km+ today. So the pace creeps up, steadily at first, but then getting frighteningly close to trying hard. Unfortunately for us we then see our Swiss compatriot ahead in the distance. Now that we had a target there really was no going back. The pace notched up even more.

We catch him less that a kilometre from the top. He’s cracked hard and was struggling. We exchange a few quick words in French to check he’s ok (he says yes, but really, who says no at this point if still cycling...) and power off again. Out of the saddle pushing hard feels great, because we hadn’t assumed that position in almost 500km so far but the end was literally just round the corner, and I had been promised there was beer. On the final rise toward the finish-line I persuade Andy to slow down so I can do up my jersey for a comedy race finish, zipped up shirt, arms in the air, just as one would arrive victorious in the tour de France. With hands in the air, we realise we’ve miss-timed it and the finish is around the following corner instead, so we just laugh at ourselves and roll over the line, to the cheering of the sum total of about 5 people.

And lo, there was beer, and it tasted gooooooooooooooooooooood.

…and Col du Turini summit - and race-finish - from the back of the race-organisers car.

Whilst eating everything we can see, we chat away with the last few people hanging around on the to of the mountain. Happily surprised by our performance - our survival. It was over, we had done it. Wow. But not quite. We have a short 40km ride to the hotel down by the coast, in Menton.

And that ride was very beautiful. We hook up with Luca and ride down the famous snake-coils of the col du Turini. A ridiculous series of switchbacks and tight turns gliding towards the seaside in the distance. We chill out and take it easy. I am not sure I’ve ever ridden this slowly down a hill before, but with the race in the bag, the experience was actually fantastic, all pressure off. Except for keeping a wary eye out for incoming Mercedes, Ferraris and what have you, that have left so many skid-marks on the road surface.

There is a long, gentle and rolling traverse around a mountainside towards the ocean, which still seems disturbingly far away. And then, a final wonderful blast down the fast, wide, windy roads into Menton - as memorable as any of the descents from the high cols. And then there it is. A classic Mediterranean sunny evening at the beach, and a deserved cooling of hot feet in the Med. Cycling to the hotel, we find we are too late for massages, but it doesn’t really matter as there is more beer, and lots of food.

And importantly, a prize ceremony! I’m not sure whether us competitors had spared a moment to imagine there would be one, but there is, in what feels like a spare hotel store room. We are shown official photos and hear that someone was fined 10 minutes for being caught wearing headphones. Since this is illegal in France, it seems a fair punishment but it didn't change any results and we all get to poke fun at the offending combatant amid cries of “Shaaaame!“ and much laughter. Finally, our lack of taking it seriously seemed to be spreading.

We also see our results. We come in at a respectable 23h and 53 minutes. Victorious in the men’s team category! Also last, in that same category, which causes much amusement for Andy and me. The last team standing. Our strategy has unexpectedly paid off.

We all go out for a beer but no-one has much stamina for it and bed soon beckons for all. The following morning, we take a dip in the sea, then settle into the van for the long but scenic drive home.

Postscript

I recorded videos whilst cycling, for my family, at the start and end of every hill, then one at the end of each day. Watching them back on the way home someone in the vehicle asks 'Yeah, but how are you still able to talk while cycling?'?’. So serious, and yet - not a winner.

In the end it was amazing. The route was stunning. The food was great. It was well organised. The participants were fun. There was something for everyone (within the subset of people who think riding 200+km per day, for multiple days in a row, is a good idea ...). I can’t recommend it more. But I was done. My bike was going away. My arse was fed up and I wasn't going to ride again for a while. I was going to chill out and go rock-climbing.

A week later I would set off at 4am to ride round Mont Blanc in a single push. 330km 10000+. But that, that really is a long story.

Andy never gave my Gilet back.