One of my abiding memories from my former life as a professional cyclist is a conversation I had with my manager, Bernard Thevenet ― twice a winner of the Tour ― on the morning after the stage to L'Alpe D'Huez in 1987. We were descending the 21 hairpins by car to the start at Bourg D'Oisans when we noticed hordes of cyclists ― from aspiring pros to pot-bellied 40-year-olds ― sweating and panting their way up the mountain.
"They're timing themselves," Thevenet explained. "They know exactly how long it took the leaders to climb it yesterday, and tonight they will compare times and work out how many pros they'd have beaten on the stage."
A few minutes later we rounded the final hairpin. There was a whole line of them, queuing with their stopwatches at the bottom of the ramp, to race up the mountain. "What a bunch of sad bastards," I thought.
Of course it didn't take a Bill Gates to figure that there was some serious lucre to be made from accommodating these freaks, and in 1993 the Etape du Tour was formed, offering the cycling besotted an opportunity to race one stage of the Tour de France each year on closed roads. This year the 187km stage from Gap to L'Alpe D'Huez was selected.
Tomorrow at 7am a gigantic peloton of 7,548 riders will take to the start. They've been training like demons and shaving their legs for months. Don't ask me to explain what I'm doing here.
After a mammoth drive through the night from Rennes, I arrive at the tented village to sign on and start to have serious reservations.
In every corner of the merchandise stores there are guys sniffing the shorts that Tom Boonen wears, loading up on Power bars and spending thousands on carbon-fibre wheels. Tonight most will forfeit the World Cup final and go to bed early. Apparently, that's what Ullrich does.
Not me. I've trained minimally and refused to shave my legs. You see, there's one thing these anoraks will never understand: when God created bike riders, he created thoroughbreds and donkeys.
Monday, July 10: Eeee-awww
Christ! Where to begin? Alarm call at four; fall out of bed; shovel disgusting bowl of raspberry-jam-sweetened-porridge down neck; remove racing kit from bag and apply axle grease to shorts; spend 15 minutes on loo trying to shift last night's foie gras. Unsuccessful. Not a good start.
05:30 Arrive in Gap after one-hour drive from hotel; bedlam; coachloads of bike riders everywhere queuing to get into the town; abandon car, strip by the side of the road and ride to the start; hand rucksack with spare clothes to baggage truck; sip small cup of coffee; find shaded bush to urinate (yellow, reasonable flow); follow the pink arrows (race numbers 1-350) to my starting corral; I'm No 67, up front with the thoroughbreds.
06:40 Alain Prost is escorted to the front row of the grid; I don't recall losing to him in qualifying, but decide not to object; he's riding a Colnago, the Ferrari of racing bikes, and looks as fit as Floyd Landis. A few rows further back I spot the former Dutch professional Steven Rooks, who won the stage to L'Alpe D'Huez in 1988. He looks as fit now as he did back then. Don't any of these guys work for a living?
06:50 Ten minutes to the start. Tension is starting to build. A few guys have edged past me to steal a couple of lengths. Others are dancing and stretching limbs. The roof of my mouth is like a parched field. My bowel is starting to shift. I haven't felt this many nerves since the world amateur championships in 1983. And I'm the only guy at the front who hasn't shaved his legs!
07:00 Bang! We're off. Two idiots collide and crash after 500 yards.
Somebody else attacks and there's an immediate split at the front. I notice Prost's blue jersey ahead and sprint to close the gap. My legs are filling with toxins; my lungs are screaming for air; my inner voice is pounding me with abuse: "You idiot! You haven't covered two kilometres, and already you're in oxygen debt!"
07:55 Of course, you never really lose it, do you? The skill of moving your bike around a bunch packed like sardines, that is; the ability to put yourself in a position to avoid all the crashes. We've reached Embrun and I'm starting to enjoy myself. The competitive juices are flowing and I am holding my place at the front with the big boys.
As we climb up through the town, I place a friendly arm around Prost and introduce myself. He looks worried. The crashes are obviously getting to him. He seems to be breathing more heavily than me and is visibly under pressure.
"Don't be afraid, my petit," I assure him. "You're in good company here."
08:25 What you do lose is the horsepower, the ability to shift gears when the going gets tough. I'm almost two stone heavier than I was when I first raced these roads in 1986, and I am starting to feel it as we leave the village of Guillestre and enter the foothills of the Col d'Izoard. At the foot of the climb, a 14.5km brute that rises more than 6,000ft, I calculate that there are about 300 riders in front of me.
But suddenly my legs are powerless and I'm going backwards. I stop at the side of the road for a pee (orange, poor flow) and my bowel explodes with a fart that almost shakes the valley. Considerably relieved, I remount and try to attack the gradient again, but I'm belching like a trooper (that bloody raspberry-jam-porridge) and still going backwards.
A woman glides past me just before the village of Arvieux. (That may sound terribly sexist, but I've been cycling since the age of 11, and that's never happened before). I haven't passed a single rider since the bottom of the climb. They say age waits for no man? You'd better believe it. I've just been left behind by a 60-year-old.
11:45 I stop to take on supplies at the feeding station in Briancon. A reporter from the local radio station requests an interview. At first (because of my number), I think he's made the approach because he knows I am an ex-pro, but it's soon pretty obvious that he thinks I'm a donkey.
"How have you found it so far?" he asks.
"Tres, tres dur," I reply.
"Is this your first time to ride L'Etape?" "Yes," I say, laughing. "And it's definitely my last."
13:45 I stop to buy a cold can of Coke on the summit of the Col du Lautaret. I have always utterly detested this climb and my tank is almost empty. I chew an energy bar and finish the Coke and decide I've had enough.
There is no way I will make it to the summit of L'Alpe D'Huez. The plan is to enjoy the long descent to Bourg D'Oisans and climb off. I've got a wife and kids to consider. And it's not as if I've anything to prove. No, I'm climbing off, my race is run. And I can't say that I've enjoyed it.
14:45 I've reached the outskirts of Bourg D'Oisans and I'm looking skyward towards the ski resort perched on top of the mountain; L'Alpe D'Huez, the Mecca of cycling. As a boy, on training rides after school to the Hill of Howth, I must have won that stage a million times in my head. As a pro in 1986, it wasn't quite as much fun struggling to keep pace with Hinault and LeMond, but even when you were on your knees, the sight and sound of that crowd was always a buzz.
I stop at the final watering zone at the bottom of the climb and consider going on. It's only 13km.
I'm thinking, "It's only 13km . . . that's an hour-and-a-half at worst." I climb back on my bike, glance at my watch and begin the ramp to the first hairpin with one thought in my head: "You sad bastard."
15:45 I've covered the first nine hairpins at a painfully slow crawl. It is 37C. I'm starting to hallucinate.
"Why is toilet roll always white?" "Why are there no black riders in the Tour?" "Have I just been passed by a guy with one leg!" I stop and rest in the shade by the side of the road.
It's the first time in my life I have ever stopped on a climb. There are bodies scattered everywhere; most sitting on the crash barriers; some lying exhausted by the side of the road.
I resume the climb after a 10-minute break. I'm thirsty. The heat is stifling. I'm wondering how much more I can take before having a heart attack. What a strange irony that would be. The muppets in the press room would piss themselves. I pedal for five more hairpins and decide to rest again. At the village of Huez, with 4km to go, I stop for a third time. I can see the finish now, three hairpins over my head. One more push should do it.
16:45 Did it. I cross the line and a guy removes the timing strap from my ankle. Another hands me a medal and says well done. These are the statistics of my ride. It has taken me 1 hour 57 minutes and 12 seconds to climb L'Alpe D'Huez and 8 hours, 52 minutes and 9 seconds to cover the 187km. I have finished 907th in my category (40-49 years old) and set the 2,635th best time.
Alain Prost and Steven Rooks have beaten me by almost two hours. The winner, 21-year-old Blaise Sonnery, was an hour quicker again. I collect my rucksack from the baggage truck and sit down to change my clothes.
On the opposite side of the road, a guy who has just finished is spewing his guts all over the pavement. There are more, lying in the medical tents on drips. They wanted to ride a mountain stage of the Tour; they wanted to live the dream and experience how it feels. And now they know."
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