A very Euro experience

Sometimes I forget how Europe works (or fails to). I'm going to the Etape with a European travel agency-- one is needed in any case to enroll in the event, so why not having them take care of the logistics?

I picked one I liked from the list, checked it up online, it looked good. I paid the fee, which being in Euros was quite high, and then sat to wait for a confirmation. And I waited. And waited. Four days later, I tried to call. The main number given on the web page was actually a fax. I must be wrong, I thought, and tried again a couple of times. Beeep beep beep twaingg.... Not good for my eardrums. What the heck I thought, and I dialed what on the webpage was indicated as the Fax number. Screaming kids. It turns out to be the personal home number of the owner of the travel agency. That was quite unexpected. Once we were able to understand each other over the wailing infants, he turned out to be a super nice guy. He told me he had been out for almost a week, but his assistant surely had replied to my mails right? Well, wrong, but what the heck, I was plenty happy to learn my money actually had arrived to destination.

I checked today on the web, the phone numbers are still wrong. Governments came and fell, and we entered a new millenium since I left that continent, so I'm happy to report, the more things change the more stay the same. But people are still nice, and I appreciate that.

Back to training now...

Up all night

Training did not start very well today. In fact, I did not train at all. I planned to get up early and go practice some low cadence, butt on the saddle hills to build strength. Instead I spent the whole night under the stars with my poor whining dogintent in fertilizing an area of several blocks around my house. He finally calmed down around five. I went to bed, closed my eyes, and the alarm clock was ringing. Needless to say, the training is postponed to a morning when I can actually feel vaguely rested and not like one of those septic tank cleaning guys at the end of a shift.

Meanwhile I found the detailed elevation charts for the two climbs of the Etape. I think yellow means "steep", blue "really steep", and red is "breathless agony steep":

A picture is worth a thousand words

The profile says it all. After about 66km (40 miles) of gradual ascent, the real climb begins. 17,7 km climb averaging 7,5%. The top is at 2115 m, nearly 7000 feet, the second highest in the Pyrenees and, some say, the most difficult. The easy side is from Luz-Saint-Sauveur. Unfortunately, we'll be climbing the opposite one. This climb was won the first time by Alfredo Binda, in 1930. If nothing else, I'm also Italian (although that might be the only common trait).

If the Tormalet was not enough, after a long, breakneck-speed (a figure of speech, I hope) descent into the Lourdes area, the second great climb concludes the stage. According to the Tour de France site, the "climb between Lourdes and Hautacam, averaging 6.8% over 17.3 kilometres and finishing at an altitude of 1,635 metres, is one of the toughest on the Tour.

Hello World

Hi, my name is Paolo and I’m a bicyclist... among too many other things. I’ve been riding bicycles for fun, sport, for commuting to school or work for now almost 38 years. I love cruising on a bike, I’d rather be on a bicycle than in any other vehicle. It’s the cleanest, most efficient mean of transportation ever devised. And I can’t get enough of it.

However, I often feel like I’m a jack of all trades-- master of none. Because of this, and many other reasons, I have decided to scare myself into accomplishing something bigger than I usually would consider. Something that might appear trivial to many, but that I just know I would not be able to attain without dedication, commitment, passion and sacrifice.

I have thus decided this year to take on the 10th stage of the Tour the France, which includes the mighty climb of the Tourmalet. I will join l’Etape du Tour, fight my way up and down the Pyrenees, and arrive to destination, alive if at all possible.

Before anything else, allow me to list the reason why I shouldn’t do it:

• I will be soon 42, I can’t climb to save my life (for instance, if chased by a group of rhinoceros, unlikely but not impossible event). There are no serious mountains around here where I could train.
• I’m horrible on the flats too: I have two disk problems (cervical C5-C6 and lumbar, L5-S1) that prevent me from taking a good aerodynamic position, and hurt on long rides.
• I have no endurance. I’m dead in the water after two hours on the bike. After three I can barely sit to gulp down my pasta. After four my whole body starts trembling uncontrollably and all my muscles feel like jell-o. Five hours, I suspect, might lead to an early (albeit glorious) demise.
• I just own an old aluminum clunker, a touring bike which I bought because of its unique (at the time) upright position.
• I have no time to prepare. There never is, really, but I’m starting with little more than four months to go to the event, and I don’t even know where to start.
• I have not and cannot afford power meters or other expensive equipment. All my budget is going into paying for the trip itself.

Will I make it? Will I even get to France without crashing and burning during training? Will I die on on the climbs or suffer the indignity of the SAG van (”la voiture balai”)? Stay tuned to find out!