The Fourth

It isn't a long way on the map, but it is a schlep from La Grave to the Col du Lautaret, and the first real mean hairpins and gradients on our trip. It took over an hour to cover the 6 or 7 miles to the Col - one of the lowest at 6410 feet. But, with altitude problems still a further 1500 feet higher up and the t shirt weather, Lautaret is a beginners Col - most cyclists do it as a means to getting to the Col de Galiber, one of the toughest - the web is packed with blow by blow accounts of self torture up this infamous gradient. I'd expected my lungs to burst but it was more about slow rather than high drain - even faced with a 1 in 5 or 8, the gears make light work - but eventually you just run out of gas and the legs turn to rubber, becoming useless and heavy. D weighs around 12 stone - nearly 60lbs less than me. The odd extra weight in the panniers is, in end, not a suspect - my extra blubber was the culprit. D would pull away but have the decency to keep with in earshot on most occasions - the one time he didn't I gave him an earful and some old flannel about doing this shit together etc.

My first col

As this was the first Col we'd managed, it was also the first gathering of cyclists we'd encountered who weren't flying past in the other direction in a blur. I'd expected something a bit more serene than the blaze of lurid spandex spread between the two cafes that bathed in the sun. An Englishman and his son from Hebden Bridge were just about to go up the Galiber and so they stuffed their faces with chips. They, sadly, weren't on a couple of Raleigh 3 speed Sturmey Archer boneshakers. Like most others who'd flashed by in swishes of bright pink, aquamarine or chartreuse, they had no baggage - just one of those shirts with pockets in the back for essentials - highlighter pens in case your shirt inexplicably becomes duller - and you could cut pizza with the wheels on their steeds. They had left the car in Briancon - having driven from Hebden B - and were just knocking off all the cols, day by day.

Once you get going down the other side, your river for the journey changes to the Durance. This is another high speed, steel grey torrent. I'd thought the road may have gone downhill, but past Briancon, the gorge that splits the valley became more and more dramatic and sheer, the road had to go higher in search of flatter ground. We didn't give Briancon the once over - I'm sure its pretty as pie -but headed directly southwards to Guillestre.





Spooky - no pedals: Tour de France territory, Briancon





Once through the gorge the D1091 becomes a relatively dull experience.

There is a point where a headwind stops being a valuable extra break as you hurtle down breakneck hills at breakneck speeds -instead, it becomes an extra big force bearing down upon you and you may as well be riding up hill again. It hit us at 3 in the afternoon when we were beginning to tire and perhaps should have gotten off the bike and had a nap. But it was Sunday, all the supermarches were shut in Briancon, and we 'd no substantial food so we pressed onto Guillestre, suffocating in the oppressive afternoon heat of the broad valley.

Flies.
There is no reliable estimate on the world's fly population. The question sadly remains unanswered at wiki.answers.com/Q/How_many_flies_are_there_in_the_world. Even more sadly, somebody asked the question. But even more sadly than that, as you struggle against a headwind and buckle under the parched oppressive heat of an airless valley, yet another of the little fu**ers gets up your nostril to join the ones already up there, and you wonder what it would take to kill all of the little bleeders on the planet. Unbelievable source of annoyance.
But, thank god for small mercies. Flies, all umpteen trillion of them, don't sit in trees rubbing their legs together all night - we have crickets to do that. They are spooky in that I have never met one of the rascals but the tree, hedge, bush, shrub next to the tent seems to be one. The sound emanates from the whole plant. And they never stop - they have some sort of shift system. If the rattling or clicking or whatever you call it is a means of communication, crickets have a very limited vocabulary. Imagine how the world would be if the only word we could say was 'button'? - we'd be sat in trees, hedges, bushes operating a shift system saying 'button' over and over again.

We got to Guillestre just in time to see the weather go all funny. Peals of thunder shuddered around the tight valley campsite. It was the Very Big Plastic Bag's big moment. Everything except the bike and the tent went into the bag. We legged it up to the town to get a front row seat for the Euro 2008 final and hoped the campsite wouldn't slide down into the river.

We also met our first hardcore tourer. I didn't try to find out his name. He was dutch and he'd been out there 40 days and had another 18 to do. He had front panniers - total cycling, and, he was in his mid to late 50's but the loneliness of the long distance cycler was getting to him. Once you have been away from people and TV and newspapers all you have to talk about is your route - he talked of Cols and little else. His story filled you with a mixture of awe and fear - fear that one day you might be the one telling that kind of hermit's tale.


Guillestre as the clouds parted.