Day 10: The Tortoise and Marmere

Our morning ride as usual was croissant and coffee fuelled, and after a slight navigational mishap we turned 90 degrees and went back through the town, which was fortunate as it was really attractive and for the first time in a while, drenched in sunlight.

Leaving the town was a mistake as we were instantly into punishingly hilly terrain. We had now started thinking solely in gradients, even in day to day civilian life, and this landscape was throwing unimpressive sounding figures like 9% at us. That's bad news for a cyclist. At least we could console ourselves that the steep gradients meant that we were already on the col. This pleasant illusion was soon shattered as we passed the official 'col' start sight some ten kms of hills later.

Constantly trying to juggle his film crew and riding duties, Greg was forced to stop and attach the GoPro onto Tom's bike in some avant-garde new position. During the tricky process, Dad came up the hill and rolled past us, allowing a head start for the two boys to catch up in a few minutes. Dismissing it as a given that they would catch up, the boys finished off the fine tuning and set off to hunt down team leader.

The morning's constant climbing finally paid dividends as we emerged onto a ridge high above a sweeping valley. After a morning of narrow roads enclosed in tunnels of trees, the view was breathtaking. Tom and Greg were compelled to stop and set up a full picnic arrangement with hamper, blanket and Pimms. They made themselves comfortable, enjoyed the fine spread and snoozed under the shade of a tree for a few hours.

Meanwhile, at the front of the pack and making good progress up the col, Dad started to distantly dream about a stage win. A couple of sleepy cows were no obstacle as suddenly driven by potential glory he defiantly pulled his shades down and sprinted flat out between the previously docile creatures, leaving them confused and angry in a cloud of dust.

The two young raiders emerged fresh from their naps, gave a nonchalant glance at their watches, and still unconcerned about the time gap renewed the chase for the yellow jersey. In a narrow wooded section their path was completely blocked by two massive bulls. As the boys approached, the twitchy creatures stared them down with wild crazy eyes. A three hour stand-off begun, and eventually Tom tried telling the cows some of his new Eddy Merxx stories. Within seconds both cows had collapsed from sheer boredom, and the boys passed delayed, but unharmed. Now slightly concerned about the growing time gap, they upped their pace slightly, chatting away as they enjoyed the warm breeze.


By now Dad had the bit between his teeth. His steel frame was being contorted beneath him as each pedal stroke landed like an industrial piston. Like a mirage before his salt encrusted eyes, the col summit emerged. One last effort pushed him over the crest of the hill. Mike was waiting, mouth wide open in absolute shock. There must have been a mistake, how could he have been so slack as to miss the two faster riders, what if they needed help? Triumphantly Dad claimed the stage victory then passed out.

A few minutes later, having collected an exhibition's worth of landscape photography wince the cow incident, the two boys emerged casually over the crest of the hill chatting away merrily. Assuming Dad had been picked up somewhere along the course by Mike, they rushed to his assistance only to learn he had claimed a legitimate stage win. The young riders were understandably devastated and didn't talk to Team Leader again for the rest of the day. 

Karma was swiftly repaid for Dad's obvious cheating as he lost his rear light on the descent to the day's lunch venue. As Tom and Greg made sure they arrived at the cafe well before dad, and with Team Leader still elusive, the remaining raiders had the choice between tucking into their lunch or launching a search party for the lost team member. Of course it was a no brainer. The tandoori chicken and chips were delicious. Dad finally turned up empty handed and long faced just as we were setting off for the descent. Dad's lack of food intake didn't stop him claiming a final bonus col of the day as we cruised down the flat road past the sign. Tom and Greg looked on disapprovingly. It was as if we'd descended right off the end of the Pyrenees. With momentum from the long descent, we left the mountains behind and burst out onto a huge flat plain just as three fighter jets screamed past in tight formation. We mused about how similar we were to the three sleek, powerful machines, which we're sure will come across in the final footage.

As we pressed on into the novel terrain, the plain transformed once again with steep craggy outcrops of rock towering up beside our gravel track. We were in the badlands, and were suddenly compelled to scan the ridge tops for Navajo ambushes. The valley we entered was a geology teacher's wet dream. The road looked like it had been hand-chiselled from the rock, with an alarming overhang almost encasing us in a tunnel. Expecting Roadrunner to be painting the scene onto a wall around each corner, we slowly cruised through the alien landscape, trying to take it all in. An angry beep from Tom's Garmin signalled a sharp turning off this mesmerising road, jolting us back to reality with a sharp 15% ascent to our night's destination. The road swept round a wide bend, revealing the tiny settlement of Cailla, perched precariously on top of a solitary rocky outcrop. It looked like a deserted bandit town.

It didn't take us long to find our chambre d'hote among the town's six or seven buildings but we weren't prepared for what greeted us as we stepped through the door onto the wooden veranda. The wooden platform hug over the edge of a high cliff, treating us to a panoramic view over the whole mountainous valley. We drank in the sight along with some hand made apple juice provided by our hosts. Once Mike had arrived and performed a token few minutes of activity (a gentle jog) we got freshened up for some aperitifs out on the balcony with the other guests. 

Our dining companions that night would be an Italian, his French girlfriend, her French friend and a charming French lumberjack. The meal was prepared by our host's son, with most ingredients coming from their garden. A fluid mix of French, English, and poorly attempted French (by us) criss-crossed the table as the red wine flowed. The night's entertainment mainly came from the lumberjack, who stole the show telling more and more spurious and outlandish stories as we diligently kept his glass topped up with wine. Understandably he couldn't keep up the pace and with the conversation increasingly English he left us to it and retired ready for a tough day's logging (like blogging but not as demanding).

Team: Raid climbed the rickety wooden stairs to our mezzanine room and crashed out in the heat of the low valley climate, trying to work out what had just happened.