Day 5: Suffering Cyclists Sup Sumptuous Soup at Summit

Nerves were on a knife edge as we made early morning preparations for our biggest day of cycling yet. As the 7am alarm sounded, the Raiders had already been preparing in their own ways: Tom had spent the early hours going through a strict regime of stretching to warm up his leg muscles. Team Leader had been up for hours analysing map data and Mike had snuck out in the dark to service to Doblo and prepare nutritional supplies for the riders. Greg had concentrated on maximising resting time by making full use of the alarm's “snooze” button.

 After another confusing breakfast set-up featuring coffee in bowls, we managed to make our earliest start yet and we had hit the road at a record breaking 9 o'clock. Mike loaded us up with full water bottles and headed for the nearest supermarket to scavenge for yet more supplies and further embed himself in French culture. He looked pretty fetching in his beret.

The plan was to meet as a team at the foot of Col du Tourmalet, about 20kms away, so that Mike could collect letters to loved ones in the event that the riders didn't make it. We donned our skin suits for a quick 20km team time-trial which positioned us in the town of Luz, where almost telepathically Mike cheerily appeared out of nowhere brandishing a boot full of energy bars. We stuffed our jersey pockets with as many bars and bananas as possible - necessary fuel for the climb, and bade our domestique farewell. A sharp left from the town centre took us straight into a 12% gradient – as the lactic acid burned in our legs, it was very clear to us that Tourmalet had begun! 

We followed the road out of town and were immediately met with unnerving scenes that depicted the danger of the route. Flanked by a raging river on the left and a crumbling cliff face on our right, our only protection from both was a rock-net and a decrepit wooden barrier. The danger of the elements were kept at bay by fragile and possibly token prevention methods. There was an eerie atmosphere as we emerged from the “protected” roadway into a scene of devastation; one of the worst catastrophes in recent history had taken place in June, with a flash flood wiping out entire sections of the habitats in the valley. The futility of the rock nets and wooden barriers seemed almost ridiculous in the light of the open destruction we faced. Our timing for this col was fortuitous; had we arrived during a weekday we wouldn't have been able to use the road at all due to the ongoing rebuilding of the area.

While setting up a telephoto shot of the riders, Mike, oblivious to the fact that the town didn't always look this... destroyed, quickly offended a French couple by naively expressing his appreciation for the “beauty” around him. To these local inhabitants (who were possibly now homeless due to said disaster) Mike's attempts at charming conversation were probably confusing at best. We witnessed houses that had been torn in half and countless trees that had been ripped from their roots. The devastation also meant a lot of the organised km markers, that we'd become used to on our first few cols, were missing. We got our heads down and rode on as the misty cloud gathered around us.

Mike was a constant presence, zipping past us in the van then re-appearing further down the road in sniper-position, targeting us in his telephoto lens and collecting (amazing) footage for the RAID film. The sudden burst of speed and heroic grimace we were forced to produce every time the camera came out made the climb even more arduous. It'll be worth it when we look like gnarled mountain badasses in the final footage – luckily Mike's knowledge of Visual Effects for film will help create that illusion in post-production.

As the gradient intensified Team Raid executed their perfectly orchestrated tactics like a well oiled machine: Tom and Greg went a bit faster and left Mark to fend for himself. As unbelievable as it seems, there were men more chiselled and physically impressive than us on the mountain that day. They started appearing in increasing numbers, striding across the mountainous terrain, trekking sticks in hands; We had crossed the path of a mountain ultra-marathon, and could only pause to admire these gods among men as they ran up to 240km over a 48 hour period without sleep.

The quick stop allowed us to hand over the GoPro to Mike – who was desperate to stick the camera to various surfaces of the Doblo. The most intimidating section of the ride remained, and it had been amplified by testing weather conditions; thick cloud cover loomed overhead, spitting out millions of icy droplets of rain. Soon enough the clouds became an omnipresent fog, limiting vision and lowering the riding temperature to dangerously low levels. Meanwhile Mike was enjoying the toasty warm refuge of his heated cabin, having accelerated to the peak to read a book.

 

The town of Bagneres-de-Bigorre emerged from the mist, its residents stared open-mouthed in denial that cyclists could penetrate these kinds of altitudes. On exiting the town the landscape quickly became more barren with vertical edges dropping down from the road side. We could no longer see anything apart from the road in front of us, which was punctuated every few metres with the corpses of fallen cyclists. Well, that bit we made up, but there were fading layers of Tour de France Graffitti: Wiggo, Froome, Rolland, Voeckler...soon people would be adding 'Probert' to that list.

We snapped out of our day dream and back to reality to see the final km marker, spray painted onto the road. A final effort pushed us up the steep ascent to the final bend and out of the mist emerged the unmistakeable silhouette of a cafe, surrounded by a forest of abandoned bikes. As Greg and Tom summited they took in the scene. It was like something from an everest expedition, but with more motorhomes and a lot less snow. Everywhere you looked, cyclists were desperately sheltering from the conditions, diving into the sanctuary of the mountain top cafe.

In a state of exhausted confusion Tom and Greg stumbled through a forest of lonely bikes chaotically abandoned outside of the cafe, and collapsed through the door, followed by a blizzard of cold wind. Mike looked up from his hot chocolate and book, and with a look of vague pity, strolled up to the counter to order the lads a hot drink. Several hours later, Mark emerged through the door, a snotty icicle hanging from his nose, his arms frozen in bike riding position. Mike gently placed a cup of hot chocolate on top of his frozen hands and returned to his book while Greg ordered up some hot soup.

A hearty meal in their bellies and full blood flow returned to their limbs, the team picked up some souvenirs and gingerly posed for the mandatory snapshot in front of the Col sign, or to be exact the Col monument; with mental states in complete disrepair and an eagerness to get to the Doblo for warm clothes we forgot to get the official sign photo.

The team geared up in warm clothes from the refuge of the Doblo – preparing for the frost bite inducing descent ahead. Mike hurried the team up in order to minimize heat escaping from his previously warm cabin. With the inevitable pain of the cold conditions ahead, the plan was to rocket down the descent at full speed – the cycling equivalent of ripping off a plaster. Alas, with 10 ft of visibility and the risk of flying off the edge of a hard switchback corner – the only option was to edge down the mountain at a painfully slow rate.

Mike was waiting again at the bottom in order to let the team offload some of the frozen layers of clothes – an essential act with the Col D'Aspin ascent immediately ahead. Two Cols in one day...yes, we are hardcore! With every ounce of bodily fluid being perspired during the day, it is a rare pleasure for the riders to enjoy a satisfying country piss – and as a frozen bladder slowly defrosted through the Aspin's early stages, an opportunity was taken to have a pee behind an abandoned house. 

Feeling like unstoppable cycling vikings, the team felt the raw power from within their very souls as they accelerated brutally towards the utterly puny heights of the Col' D'Aspin. The team barely noticed the forests on either side, which looked like a green blur at the breakneck average speed of 7mph. The team were going so fast that they had to deploy emergency brake parachutes at the top of the ascent in order to avoid literally shooting off into orbit as they hit the peak. A few minutes was taken to let the red-hot gears reach a temperature that could sustain their solid state – and with the arrival of Mark a final descent began. Within minutes we were in Arreau checking in to our private apartment and arguing over who would sleep on the floor due to unexpected shortages in sleeping facilities. Mike got the floor.