The Galibier
So, you have been to the Pyrenees, and you have climbed Mont Ventoux, but what of the Alps you ask: isn’t that where the truly big climbs are?
I give you a simple answer: The Galibier. And I won’t bother asking if that’s big enough for you.
Like the other passes we have ridden it is not on the top of any list of the longest, steepest or highest, but it sits near the top of all those lists. And what’s more, it has the magic that comes with the big mountains. Where does it start: St Michael or Valloire. Does the Galibier include the Telegraphe or are they separate climbs. For us it is easily solved. We are staying in Valloire. The climb starts in Valloire.
Preparing for the ride we are treated to a tremendous view from the balcony as the light from the rising sun hits the top of the mountains on the opposite side of the valley. It takes all our will power to pull ourselves away from the slowly evolving view and step onto our bikes.
The town is below our apartment, and rolling down even this small hill this early in the morning is enough to numb the hands. The sun is only on the tops of the mountains, Valloire in the valley still in deep shade, and largely asleep.
As always, the road is up immediately from the town, a solid 7%. With no warm up, the legs are tight. There are a few trees on the edge of town, and then only scattered grass and tussocks. We are in the high mountains, and start above the tree line.
The road then kicks up again for another km before easing. The steepness highlighting that I had not fully recovered from the previous rides. The legs feel heavy, lethargic, there is no spring in the legs, just a dull ache.
That is a shame, I want to do this climb justice. But really, what does it mean, to do the mountain justice. Let me tell you, the mountain doesn’t care what you do. What is really meant, is you want to do yourself justice, you want to feel as majestic as the mountain. Sitting at home, months ago, that meant, hammering up this hill. Now, it will be enough to get to the top.
Unlike other rides, on this I note the distance on my speedo when I start, so I know exactly how far to the top. But, inexplicably, there are two sets of milestone markers on this climb, set several hundred metres apart. You past the first, and it says 8km to go, and then 400m later, there is another, saying 8km to go. When every pedal stroke requires a mental effort to complete, the difference matters.
What this ride lacks in prettiness, or the intimacy of a close forest, it makes up with the grand vistas. One side of the valley is in deep shade, on the other, the sunlight touches the tops of the mountains, ahead, with no forest to conceal it the road can be seen snaking up the valley: simply magnificent. There is a grandness to the view, and therefore the occasion, that does not exist on other rides. Where the Pyrenees seem more personable, relatable, the Alps are bigger and feel more distant: majestic.
At 3-4km from the top, when you can finally see the top, I look up in despair. I have not felt like that before on these rides. I have hurt, I have wished for a rest, but I have never despaired.
I see Pam above me: She has recovered well and appears to be going strong. Today I am as she was on the Tourmalet. Now that climb is well behind us, I can tell you how she suffered.
Riding up the Tourmalet, the low fuel warning light came on for Pam: but she ignored it. Then the tank was empty: she ignored it. The engine warning light came on, she was starting to burn as fuel the oil that protects the engine – she ignored it. The engine stuck it’s head up through the bonnet and said ‘there is no fuel left, you have to stop’. Pam’s response, ‘are we at the top yet? Keep going’!
And then the engine again stuck it’s head through the bonnet and screamed at her ‘don’t do this to me, you are destroying me, you must stop’. Pam reached forward and smacked the engine back into place and continued on.
Eventually though, the reality of the situation cannot be ignored, and the engine blows up, as it did for Pam, on the Tourmalet: the engine steaming and hissing at her. At that point, the climb became the tormenting, torturous Tourmalet.
I am not as bad as that. On the steep sections the low fuel light comes on, but when the becomes Tourmalet is steep it never eases, the Galibier is never truly sustained, easing up around the bends, and the imagined warning light goes off again. These breaks on the corners allow me, encourage me, to continue.
Again the question arises, why do this, why put ourselves through this? You can only sit on the balcony enjoying the view for so long before there is the desire to put yourself into the picture.
Finally the tunnel is reached, our way bypasses the tunnel and continues on the road to the actual pass. From this point to the pass it is 1km at 11%. I have been steeling for this the last few kilometres: I finish it standing, rocking the bike and stomping the pedals. Just before the pass I join Pam and we ride the last 100m together.
The col du Galibier, the actual pass, is barren; no cafes, no tourist shops, not even a tuft of grass. The emptiness accentuating the feeling of remoteness, and achievement. In the distance, a snow covered mountain: Mont Blanc
The descent, promised so much, delivered so little.
The promise was created by the openness of the road, very few blind corners, very little traffic, few very tight hairpins. Delivered so little due to the very bumpy, and at speed jarring surface, and not as flowing as it appeared on the ascent. What do I mean by jarring? Take a cricket bat and smash the front wheel of a push bike. That is how it feels to hit an unseen bump at speed. Apart from being unnerving, it is very uncomfortable. Eventually I decide to just sit up and enjoy the splendid view. And give a wave and a shout to the fellow cyclists now struggling up.
The Numbers
Distance: 38km
Height Gained: 1,333m
