Grade: H
Distance: 790km, 9 days
Road Conditions:
Route:
Maps:
Description:
The 'Raid Pyreneen' came to my attention in an Australian Cyclist article in ’96. I’d recently completed the Audax Alpine Classic, my memory proved short and talk of tough mountain passes, French cultural experiences and idyllic country roads, stirred the angst within. During the following two and a half years I saved money and rec leave, took a French Language course, and rode up lots of hills. To get the feel for the "Raids" daily climbing requirement, before departing I rode the Canberra "Three Hills" route (Mt Ainslie, Red Hill and Black Mountain), but as it turns out, this did little to aid any real appreciation of the challenge except to make me supremely and foolishly confident.
So here I was, the Atlantic coastal town of Hendaye. The "Air Friday" was assembled, duly discussed with interested locals (it proved a conversation piece throughout the ride) and a spin around town ensured it performed to perfection. To celebrate my arrival at the start point I drank a beer or two in my Hotel room and that night fuelled up on a three course meal, maintained a phrasebook discussion with three French Raid riders and took a final stroll around town. A bright moon, full to bursting, lit the Hendaye backstreets, the night was warm and summery and I felt ready for the journey.
I awoke the following morning to overcast but windless conditions which I later discovered, proved best when attacking the relentless climbs. A quick photograph outside the Santiago Hotel, an au revoir to the proprietor and off I pedalled. Striking out for the Atlantic coast, I passed the three French riders who had left a little earlier, sped passed Hendaye’s resort beach and pushed up onto the cliff tops lining the route between Hendaye and St Jean-de-Luz. I paused to watch huge and dangerous looking surf swell up from the Atlantic and then continued down into the small historic town of St Jean-de-Luz. From here, I took the sharp right turn off into the Pyrenees proper. On approaching the mountains, rain clouds closed over my head and after riding a few kms in denial, I was finally forced to don the rain coat. O.K. I thought, got to expect some rain over ten days.
Five hours later, after riding through dripping forests and constant rain, offering assistance to one of the French riders who had since passed me and then fallen off, backtracking as I realised I’d made a 10 km excursion down the wrong road, and completing a few circles of Espellette attempting to find someone to stamp my wet route card, I finally arrived, in surprisingly good spirits, at my endpoint for the day, St Jean-Pied-de-Port.
After checking into a hotel recommended in the Raid guide, I took a walk around this pretty Basque town. The French Raid riders passed me in the main street, offered an enthusiastic wave and continued on to their destination, some small Pyrenean Village further down the road (they were undertaking the 5 day version of the Raid and hence had further to ride that day). During dinner that evening I met Larry, an English rider making his way from town to town to no set schedule or plan. He told me that each year he cycled around Spain, occasionally into France and that as the UK had a great deal to offer cyclists, it really was time he did more cycling back home. He added that an increasing trend in the UK was group therapy sessions but cycling was all the therapy he needed. "Yep, Kiwis and Aussies don't need group hug sessions do they?" said Larry on learning I was from Australia, "just go for a bit of adventure". Well some of us do. I liked Larry, could've hugged him.
Day two, brilliant sunshine and the first of the real climbs. After heading off down the "Fromage Route", I began climbing Col de Burdincurutcheta and immediately found myself in my lowest gear. The grade was tough but my determined mental attitude and the knowledge that as long as the pedals went round I'd eventually cross each pass, payed off. Atop Burdincurutcheta I stopped for photos, ate a chocolate bar, two mini cheeses, and drank both my water bottles. My climbing effort however, was rewarded with expansive mountain views and the knowledge that it wasn't far to go before crossing my second pass of the day. After an enchanting ride through the fôret d'Iraty - a small ancient forest of babbling brooks, woods and daisy fields, I relaxed with lunch in a little mountain restaurant. While sitting there, gazing out across snowcapped peaks, I visualised myself sweeping downhill, a concentrated grin on my face as I carve up the curves awaiting me on the road ahead.
I pushed off from the restaurant and the road rapidly dropped from under my front wheel. Wind noise built to a roar and my brake pads sizzled and smoked as I approached each hair pin curve clutching at my brakes to prevent being flung into the void. By the time I reached the valley below, my body was squeezing everything squeezable. Surely the remaining passes wouldn't be so severe, because if they were I was in trouble as I hadn't thought to bring spare brake pads. Rolling into Larrau, my checkpoint for the day, I peeled each finger from the brakelevers, shook the cramp from my hands and had my route card stamped at the local Hotel.
By five that evening I reached the beautiful Vallée d'Aspe and was facing a small dilemma. My aim was to average 80 kms a day however, I was yet to cross the Col de Marie-Blanque to reach my planned goal, the town of Larruns. I had covered around 60km but faced an unknown pass, was feeling tired and did not want to find myself riding in the dark. Deciding to take a short detour to Sarrance to find a hotel for the night, I found only one and apparently, the Addams Family lived there. Well that's what it looked like as I knocked on the door. An older woman wearing very Victorian looking clothes greeted me, and guessing I needed food and shelter explained a room and meal were 70 francs, a shower 10 francs extra. The Hotel was huge and empty and it appeared I was the only one there. The wooden floors creaked and moaned, had more dips and waves than a Bondi break and tried to throw me with each step. My room was cavernous and dark with a single fluorescent tube, which, when I finally found the switch, struggled to fight off the night. The bath though, was great. It was deep and came complete with the usual hand held shower, in this case a trigger operated unit delivering more pressure than a five inch fire hose. That night, on considering my schedule and options and noting my inability to reach my goal for the day, I decided I could ride longer each day if necessary and should offload some heavier items. The following morning I left my thick and heavy French guidebook in the hotel room and quickly cycled away from the Addams Homestead. Another beautiful sunny day, four Cols: de Marie-Blanque, d'Aubisque, du Soulor and des Bordères await.
Covered 95km on day three and found myself back on schedule. My dream descent came true on all passes and I was relieved to find the previous days severe descent an exception. Although tired, I felt good by days end and found the town of Luz-St-Sauveur particularly attractive in its rugged mountain surrounds.
Day four and today the Col du Tormalet, that most famous of Tour de France passes and the highest pass of my ride, stands before me. After a final mouthful of baguette and jam (thinking oh for breakfast in America), I filled my water bottles, loaded the bike minus the tee shirt I decided was extra, and started pedalling. Ten metres on I'm in low gear already. Well that's not really true, In fact the Tormalet started off at a quite easy 5- 6% grade. I also felt stronger than previous days, found I was making good time and seemed altogether better acclimatised.
The 98 Tour de France had recently passed by and the painted names of Ullrich, Riis and Pantani adorned the road. Cows with bells and indifferent sheep wandered in and out of the fog as did the occasional cyclist. One, an Austrian more heavily laden than a packhorse, pulled alongside and asked if I'd mind taking his photo. "girlfriends back down the road" he stated, "I just stop here for a while". We exchanged photographic duties, each taking turns to shoot the other emerging from the Tormalet fog. While discussing our respective cycle journeys, I found he and his girlfriend were undertaking a 500km trip through the Pyrenees before heading back to Austria and work. He expressed a desire to visit Australia, where, he assumed, cycling would be easy. I'm sure it would've been easier too, than riding up the Tormalet with a full sized back pack, mind you, he looked curiously like Arnie Schwarzenegger. Not having to wait for anyone myself, I said my goodbye and continued up the hill. Approaching the 2km marker the fog parted letting an intense sun flood through. A massive rock peak peered down on me and I could see the restaurant at the pass. Meanwhile a cyclist 20 years my senior puffed quietly on past, something I'd become accustomed to from my Alpine Classic days.
The old restaurant proved to be a repository of Tour de France history with photo covered walls showing every race. Perusing the photos while munching lunch is almost as much fun as a day in the Louvre, probably more for cyclists, and I found myself spending an hour or so simply relaxing and enjoying this place before moving on. My time up the Tormalet had been good that morning and therefore, having plenty of time, I spent a leisurely afternoon making my way over the Col d'Aspin and on into the small town of Arrau.
The following day was relatively uneventful. After offloading "excess underwear" and a few other miscellaneous bits and pieces I felt I couldn't lighten any further and remain civilised in my travels. The weather remained overcast but rain free and the two passes, Pyresourde and Portillon, proved easy in comparison to previous passes. Each was unique, as were all the Cols I'd ridden over to date. St Béat was my stop for the evening, a tiny ancient looking village complete with castle, 12th century church, and once again, an entertaining hotel. At the hotel bar a local man told me that Pyrenean bears often came into town and apparently, were partial to touring cyclists (I suspect the locals were too). Told him I hadn't seen any yet, that I'd keep my eyes open and then actually began to wonder. Anyway, feeling good about reaching St Béat, the halfway point, and confident of completing the journey, I sat in a cafe , and while watching for bears, wrote postcards home with comments like "I'm halfway", "nearly there" or "it's a breeze". Unkown to me though, my new found confidence was soon to be challenged.
For the next three days the weather closed in, overcast with frequent freezing rain. Once again good quality rain gear proved its worth and, during a blizzard while traversing the Port de Pailheres, the winter gear I'd carried over the previous 20 Pyrenean passes earned the free ride. Being prepared, in the best scouting tradition, I felt immensely satisfied. The satisfaction however, was short lived as I realised the howling snowdrifts combined with a lack of bicycle snowchains or ABS brakes meant a perilous and icy descent lay ahead. Precise downhill speed was required to avoid severe windchill, gravel rash with raspberry coloured ice pack, or a snow burial and discovery in two thousand years. I managed however, to maintain critical speed for a surprisingly long time before genuine concern for frostbitten toes and fingers and the sight of a small pastoralists refuge convinced me it was time to stop. Philippe answered the door. He understood my predicament immediately and invited me to warm myself beside the pot belly stove simmering in the corner. Philippe and Andre turned out to be a weather worn cyclists saviours and the friendliest of hosts. They invited me to join them for lunch, a basic but wholesome meal of fish soup followed by bangers, bacon, fried tomatoes and bread, free flowing Pastis, and finally a good glass of red. We were settling in for the afternoon when knock, knock, two Dutch cyclists dressed for a summer day and showing clear signs of hypothermia, stood at the door. Well it seems, Philipe and Andre frequently sheltered cyclists and this was quite routine. On arrival of another two pastoralists however, I decided that despite the party atmosphere, the little refuge couldn't squeeze another in and I should be on my way. In addition, the meagre 25km I'd completed that day was not far enough. Therefore, I passed an Alpine Classic tee shirt to Andre as a small gift, thanked my new friends with vigorous handshakes, threw a leg over the trusty bike and pedalled off down the pass. After a slow 25 - 30 km and the discovery that the hotel I intended to stay in that night no longer existed, I continued on to the little village of Escouloubre. Here I found an empty hikers hostel and another kind host, Patricia. She explained there was little in Escoulobre Village and therefore, if I wanted a meal, I should join her and her family for dinner that evening, A quick look around town confirmed her advice and I spent a lovely evening sharing Patricia's company and that of her husband and two young daughters. Once more my French was seriously challenged although one daughter spoke a little English stating "my mother and father are farmers". What a great day it had been I thought as I returned to the hostel, lousy but challenging weather, good food and excellent company.
Back on the road again and passing over the Col de Jau, the Mediterranean sun greeted me just as my ride guide said it would. My first view of the sea was wonderfully relaxing and I enjoyed a long, gliding descent to the coastal plain below. Further on, and back up in the foothills, the Col Palomère greeted me with an "ARRIVEE" painted right across the road. Pretty appropriate I thought as I considered this the last of the real passes. While standing there taking in the view, three sightseers took an enthusiastic interest in the Air Friday and my Pyrenean journey. Despite polite protests, they forced a deliciously cold beer on me, which admittedly, sure beat the mineral water I'd saved for this moment.
Moving on, I felt I had indeed arrived, as the architecture changed to Spanish Villas and hillsides were covered in olive trees, grape vines and Mediterranean flora. Le Bolou was the last town before my ride end point and I spent a sultry summer night there before an easy coastal ride to Cerbère the following day. The night before leaving Cebère, I lay in my hotel room drinking wine, listening to ringing railwheels on the nearby trains and considering my journey. The "Raid Pyreneen" had taken 9 1/2 days, covered 790km and crossed 28 Cols. My memory certainly was short. Despite tough climbs, severe weather, poor communications, sunburn, sore knees, and getting lost, there was no resisting thoughts of future cycle journeys (of course there was old Pyrenean forests, blue mountain lakes, sunbeams in the rain, fascinating history, good company, fine food, cycling freedom, satisfying challenges, downhill descents....................). That old angst was back again.
Contributed by Stephen Craig, Canberra, 2001
A Few Travellers Notes:
