La Marmotte Race

Once a year, I set out on a sacred pilgrimage. Not to the Hajj – walking in circles makes me dizzy – but further west, to France and the imposing amphitheater of the French Alps, where I pit my fast-waning physical attributes against some of Europe’s most dedicated and socially maladjusted amateur cyclists. Every summer, this awe-inspiring alpine arena plays host to the formidable cycling challenge known as La Marmotte; a 175-km race over some of cycling’s most iconic mountains, including the Col du Galibier and Alpe d’Huez, both of which hold mythical status in the history of the Tour de France, cycling’s premier race for the world’s most dedicated and socially maladjusted professional cyclists. 

This year, in an effort to exact a greater return on my prodigious travel investment, I decide to double up and further submit myself to the debilitating discomfort afforded by the fearsome Tour du Mont Blanc, which as the name subtly hints at, involves a tour around, well, Mont Blanc. But this is no ordinary tour – there are no cheery guides holding up an umbrella, forcing everyone to hold hands and wear a sticker with their first name on it. On the contrary, the Tour du Mont Blanc serves up a grueling 330 km cycling odyssey, taking in a phone directory of fearsome mountains, totaling more than 8,000 meters of climbing. This is, by any measure, a proper test of your will to wear the Lycra.

The Journey

When you live in Vietnam, the most challenging aspect of international travel is invariably getting onto the plane. Navigating the check-in, passport control and security check requires a level of patience that would test a dead person. Simply booking an air ticket is apparently not a sufficient indicator of your desire to exit the country; you need to manifestly demonstrate that you’re prepared to suffer if you want to be let out. And so it was for me, as I inched my way towards my seat on the plane to freedom. 

Long-haul flights are always difficult for me. Being financially compromised, I usually end up in a seat within alarming aromatic proximity to the toilet, which, although unpleasant, does at least help to mask the smell of the food. 

I also struggle to sleep on planes, suffering, as I do, from an irrational fear that someone will place a brown paper bag over my head and draw a happy face on it. I therefore typically spend much of the flight sifting through the inflight entertainment options, trying to find a film that hasn’t been “edited for content” down into a trailer. Eventually, I’ll give up, close my eyes and try to meditate, although in reality, I just sit there, wondering when someone is going to place a paper bag over my head and draw a happy face on it. 

France

Despite the title, I arrive in Switzerland. But at least it’s the French speaking bit. As it happens, the location of  La Marmotte is considerably closer to Switzerland than to most of France, which is fine as it means the baggage handlers are not on strike. A short transfer on a train and a bus sees me arrive in the picturesque little town of Bourg d’Oisans, the host of the great race. The plan was to arrive a couple of days before the race, to afford me sufficient time to shake off my jet lag and remember how to put my bike back together. Unfortunately for me, while I was busy pretending to meditate near the toilet on the plane, the organizers surreptitiously decided to bring the race forward by a day, owing to snap elections and an acceptance that the French struggle to multitask. With unseemly haste, I reassemble my bike to look more or less as it did before I took it all apart and set off for the pre-race registration. Tomorrow, we ride!

La Marmotte

This is the third year I have participated in this epic cycling endeavor. My first two attempts were most memorable for the astonishing summer heat and my own spectacular capitulation to bouts of cramp. I did manage to complete the race on both occasions, albeit in a state of such physical distress that, were I a horse, I would have been euthanized on the spot as an act of mercy. This year, in an effort to avoid the trauma of my previous indignities, I put myself through a grueling dietary and training regimen, which comprised mostly of eating large packets of peanuts and riding everywhere with the brakes on. Time to race!

Unlike in previous years, the weather on the start line was decidedly chilly. True to form, I had somehow forgotten to pack anything for cold weather, so I stood on the grid shivering like a blancmange on a spin-dryer, jealously eying up the other riders, wrapped up nice and snug – and smug – in their gilets and wind jackets. But before I can finish cursing the lot of them, we are off!

The first half of the race passes off without incident, save for the sighting of a particularly distressed rider, a large gentleman, slumped at the side of the road, panting like a dog hanging out of a car window. Over the first climb we go and onto towards the mighty Col du Galibier. As we begin to ascend this beast of a mountain, I notice the weather turning colder and the wind picking up. At first, I barely notice the chill as I’m busting a gut just to turn the pedals up the steep incline and sweating like I’m stuck in a traffic jam on the way to my own wedding. 

As we crest the summit of the mountain, however, everything changes. I immediately cool down, the wind turns gale force and little raindrops become large hailstones. I begin the 20-km descent off the Galibier, soaking wet, freezing cold, with no gilet or wind jacket to keep me warm. My whole body starts to shake violently, and I can barely feel my hands on the brakes. The blasting, icy wind is now almost blowing me off the road and the hailstones are stinging my eyes. As I creep precariously down the side of the mountain, one foot out of the pedals to stabilize myself, I spot stricken riders hunched on the roadside, sheltering behind rocks and bushes, waving their arms in extravagant circles, trying to get some circulation and feeling back into their fingers. 

It is at this moment I notice the front of my bike wobbling. At first, I think it is just from the violent shaking of my body but soon realize that I haven’t properly assembled the front fork, which is now coming loose. Panic sets in, as I start to visualize some rather dramatic outcomes. But I figure that if I stop now, I will freeze to death on the side of this mountain. Better then, to edge my way slowly down the mountain, and reach lower, warmer climes, where I can regain the feeling in my hands and perhaps seek some technical assistance for my bicycle. And so, I continue on, meter by meter, numbed with cold, battered by the wind and petrified that my bike might spontaneously fall apart at any moment. The slowest, longest descent I will ever make. 

Finally, I reach the bottom of the descent. By now my legs are cramping from the cold but my fingers have come back to life. As I reach flatter ground, I notice that the front of my bike isn’t wobbling as violently as on the downhill. I decide to ride on, easy enough to ride off the leg cramps but hard enough to get some warmth back into my body. 

Only one climb to go. But it is no hill; it is Alpe d’Huez, the most famous climb in all of cycling. I settle into the effort: 21 hairpins, steep gradients, and a seemingly never-ending ascent into the sky. Battered, beaten riders litter the roadside; some resting, others walking, one lying prostrate on a wall. I know they will all somehow make it to the finish, however long it takes them, because they are cyclists, and this is La Marmotte and giving up is not an option. 

I too eventually reach the top of the mountain and the finish line, where a compassionate volunteer places a medal around my neck and points me towards a pasta stand. I am exhausted but elated. I have dared and doubted. I have persevered and prevailed. It is my own little victory, of body and mind. And for every cyclist who crosses the line that day, it is exactly the same and yet also entirely different, for each and every one of them. I salute them all.   X