Every year thousands of amateur cyclists are given the chance to compete across a stage of the Tour de France. This race is called L'Etape du Tour and is run during the middle of the Tour, usually on a rest day. This year an impostor sneaked in with the shaven legged road cyclists. I was the hairy mountain biker within their midst. This is my account of what happened next. L'Etape du Tour 2003 ran for 125 miles from Pau to Bayonne, up and down 11000 feet of Pyrennes mountains and across a few river valleys for good measure. 8500 entries for the race had been accepted including 1000 British riders.
The roads along the route were closed and it followed exactly the same course as the professionals would ride one week later. Medals are awarded to riders who complete the course within certain time bands. This year a gold medal required a time of 7 hours 30 and a silver 8 hours 46. A group of five of us left our hotel at 5am on the morning of the race in order to make the start time of 7am. Don't ask why, but I had booked accommodation almost 40 miles from the start of the race, luckily they had laid on a mini-bus for us brave riders. The journey to the start was punctuated with nervous silence, hardly a word was said as we each pondered our fate whist ticking off a list of regrets (I should have ridden more, packed different tools, tweaked my gears, bought better food, not had that second glass of wine last night....). I personally wondered whether I was really up to the challenge of the Etape. I had never ridden in a road race, my training had been unstructured, my bike handling skills pertained to off road riding not road racing, I'd never climbed 12,000 feet in a single ride and I had hairy legs. Hope lay in my food preparation. One of the other riders, Peter, had advised me that I probably needed to eat 60g of carbohydrate per hour in order to survive the race.
This led to a frantic shopping session with detailed nutritional content label reading, followed by an incredibly complex spreadsheet. The spreadsheet estimated my time between feed stops and the amount of food to be ingested on the move. To summarise, I was to start the race with 14 fig rolls, 3 energy bars, 2 carbohydrate gels, 1 banana and 3 bags of carefully measured energy powered to be added to my water. The spreadsheet told me when to eat it all and what to pickup at each feeding station. According to my sheet I would finish the ride in 8 hours 29 minutes and consume 498g of carbohydrate, or 62 fig rolls ! I was now inducted within a feeding program similar to that of a goose destined for the fois gras factory. Mountain biking seemed so much simpler with my own personal rule of thumb being "sling some stuff in my Camelback, ride for 3 hours and forget to eat any of it, return home and leave it festering on the bench in my garage until the mice take pity and cart it away". Anyway, back to the race. Our van made good time to Pau and as we came within ½ a mile of the start the Lycra to cotton ratio took a serious escalation. Thousands of riders milled about the streets, twiddling gears, adjusting bits both personal and on the bike and pissing.
Riders were pissing everywhere, up walls, on trees, against cars and into the street as pre-ride hydration took its toll. We hurled our bikes out of the van, pissed up a wall, stuffed our pockets with food, muttered hasty "Good Lucks" at each other and strode round the block to the start line. Setting 8500 riders off at once from a race that begins in a town centre is impossible. Therefore, each rider is allocated a pen according to their race number where they must wait until the race starts Each pen holds 1000 riders and they re released in number order. I had number 6092, which meant that I would have to wait for about 20 minutes before it was my turn to start. Migual Indurin had number 1 and Alan Prost number 2, they both twitched nervously knowing that Dave Barter was due to start 20 minutes after them. They were the ones under pressure, desperate to avoid the humiliation of being overtaken by a hairy mountain biker. I'd even brought my road bike along so no advantage for them on that front either. I found my pen and sized up the riders that surrounded me. Almost without exception they fell into the following genus:- -About 40 years old -Holding a very very expensive bike -Looking tanned and fit -Appearing relaxed and confident -Dressed in clean, neat colour co-ordinated clothes -Talking French too fast and punctuating their sentences with "Migual Migual"
After an eternity the commentators speed-French reached a frenzied peak and I think he announced that "They're Off!". The start had to be the biggest anti-climax of the day as we simply stood and waited for our turn to go. Finally an orchestra of cleats clicked into pedals and our section started to move, then stopped, then moved, then stopped, then walked a bit, then got on, wobbled stopped again and walked some more. It took nearly five minutes for us to reach the start line and be able to cycle freely. I jabbed my digital watch and the seconds started to tick away. A transponder strapped to my ankle informed the Etape computer that Dave Barter was on his way, but not to panic as it probably wouldn't hear from him for a while. It was then that I realised that the organisers had cleverly created a bottleneck to ensure that riders were not bunched after the start line.
My pack of riders hared through the streets of Pau at close to 40 kmh. I joined a mini-peleton ate a fig roll (according to schedule) and for a while felt like a proper bike racer. The next 10 kilometres disappeared frighteningly quickly as a combination of flat roads, cool conditions and adrenaline sped us on. We reached the town of Gan and veered right towards the first real climb of the day. My drinking strategy was working a treat and an overflowing bladder forced me to the side of the road for a moment of relief. It struck me that female cyclists must have an interesting time during these long events and I kept a close eye out for rustling bushes. The road went up, and my first surprise of the day ... most of the riders went backwards. Gears clicked, deep breaths were sucked and spat out and a sea of grunts flowed up a not too difficult climb. I realised that I was not the only impostor within the Etape as many of the riders around me faded at a very early stage. Having said that, there were also those who shot up the incline at race speed shouting "Attention au gauche" at those riders in their way. I took it relatively easy, I knew that this was a mere pimple in comparison to the mountains we faced 40 kilometres later.
More undulations took us on to Oloron. I was eating well and hiding behind other riders negating the slight headwind that nagged at me. As the road flattened out into a long river valley I decided that I felt pretty good and allowed myself a few moments of overtaking and generally pretty fast cycling. This bit of the ride was there to enjoy. The first feeding station was located at the 57 kilometre point. I needed to refill my bottles and pick up a couple of bananas. I imagined some sort of slick manoeuvre whereby I could accomplish all of this without dismounting. As I reached it I realised that I had scored a perfect 10 on the scale of wrongness. The feeding station was besieged with riders clamouring for water and food. It was physically impossible to reach the table holding the bottled water as riders queued three deep. I raised my hand and was spotted by an eagle eyed attendant, a plastic bottle of Evian sailed through the air and landed perfectly within my outstretched palm.
A perfect throw and catch. This was repeated three times and I then had enough to fill my bottles. I nodded a "thank you" at my pitcher and made a mental note to have a word with the scouts for Wiltshire Cricket Club. I then moved on to the banana section and raised the hand again. Fully stocked, I was ready to move off until I spotted Gordon. He was one of our other riders and was not looking too well. In a fit of feeding enthusiasm he had downed four bananas on the trot. They were not having that and rapidly reappeared along with various other residents of Gordon's stomach. The two of us set off and headed towards the incline known as the Col du Soudet. When I say incline, what I really mean is 14 kilometres of road that ascends at a gradient averaging 8% over 2000 metres. The climb was packed with riders, grunting and sweating their way to the top. Gordon and I seemed to be climbing well and made good progress through the pack.
I even took time to take a photo of him, much to the disgust of the grunters and heavy breathers. Halfway up the climb we came across people walking their bikes. I felt sorry for them as this was the easier mountain pass and they had a long way to go yet. I maintained a steady pace and ground away at the gradient, nearly one hour after the start of the climb we reached the top. Another scene of total chaos presented itself as a feeding station was located upon the summit. My cricket skills were tested once again as I refuelled and picked my way through the mass of riders towards the steep descent. Gordon had already left the top so I sped down on own. Sped being a relative term as I realised that most riders were catching and passing me, on the way down I was slow. The dormant sexism within my brain was reawakened as two women cruised past. I wasn't going to have that and decided to let off the brakes and pick up a little more speed A long straight section saw me exceed 70 kmh and I started to gain confidence which was rudely shattered by the sounds of a bike disintegrating behind me. I was travelling too fast to look back and see what had happened. Later I read that a British rider had crashed seriously on the Soudet descent, I'll never know whether that clash of metal I heard was him. The descent carried on and on and on.
A rough road surface required total concentration and my arms began to ache from the effort of constant braking. Eventually the gradient began to ease and I was required to turn my cold legs once more in order to maintain momentum. I'd done the fist mountain of the day, I felt good, I'd eaten well and m spirits were up. Onwards to the next mountain. At this point I noticed a slight headwind and made more of an effort to hide behind other riders as we climbed up towards Larrau. The climb was steady, but long enough to cause many riders some pain. Gordon and I were still going well and fought our way through the pack. However, I was starting to have a slight problem .. total food aversion. I had consumed over 10 fig rolls, 2 energy bars, 1 carbohydrate gel, 2 bananas and some horrible biscuit type thing picked up at a feed station. All of this was washed down with sickly sweet energy drink and few passing French flies. My schedule said "eat more" but my stomach said "please Dave can I have something a little more savoury?", unfortunately the schedule won and I forced more energy bar down my reluctant gullet.
Climb over, we descended for a short while and prepared ourselves for the Col de Bargagui. This climb was not as long as the Col de Soudet, but it was much steeper, reaching 13-15% at certain sections. Additionally the road was very narrow and riders started to bunch up and block traffic as they regretted the decision to leave the low gears off the back of their bikes. Me, I'm mountain biker, so my bike was well equipped with a triple chainset and a 25 tooth cog at the rear. I simply sat back and spun gently up the climb smiling cheerfully at my road riding brethren as their legs pumped and their lungs put in a planning application for a large extension. The steep sections at the top became quite frustrating as riders dismounted and blocked the path of others. It was very hard to gain a rhythm as I dodged from left to right in an effort to avoid the walkers. As we gained height, so we gained spectators. Many second winds were obtained from the shrieks of "Allez allez" shouted with enthusiasm by the French, a far cry from the gentle clapping in between cups of tea we would probably get were the event to run in England.
Climbing the col I passed some real heros. A man on the back of a tandem pedalling with prosthetic lower legs overtaking many fully able riders, older riders who can't have been shy of 65 years, tired riders still grinding away determined to make the top and many ladies out climbing their male counterparts. After endless switchbacks a large noisy crowd signalled the summit of the col. I'd not been working that hard as the triple had helped and the roads were congested with riders. I saw a gap and sprinted to the top. This drew a large cheer from the crowd "Bravo Messier" they shouted, thinking that I had ridden like that from the bottom. I was happy to leave them with that illusion. I stopped briefly at the feed station, refilled and refuelled, donned by jacket and chased off down the descent.
The Col de Burdincurutcheta briefly interrupted proceedings by being harder to pronounce then climb On the long descent that followed I scared myself silly with the speed attained. The roads were in better condition and there seemed to be fewer hairpins. I haven't checked the maximum speed I gained on my cycle computer as it would probably frighten me to death. No girlies passed me on this section either. At the bottom I looked at my watch and noted that the ride had taken me nearly 6 hours. I had another 70-80 kilometres to go and if I wanted a medal I have to be back within 8 hours 46 minutes. A further calculation highlighted that I needed to average 18 miles an hour to do this, including stops. It was going to be tight. However, salvation was in sight as I spotted a large group of riders in front of me moving at pace. A determined effort saw me join the group and I sat on their tail spinning comfortably at about 23 miles per hour. The course profile showed the final section as mostly downhill with one slight climb at the end.
So I relaxed as it looked like I would be well within the silver medal band with time to spare. Our group sped towards St Jean Pied-de-Port where I spurned the feed station and chased the silver instead. But soon disaster struck, we went up hill. The climb destroyed my peleton as riders became strung out and I soon found myself pedalling on my own at about 15 mph, too slow ! I stepped up the effort and joined another group, which also became fragmented as we went up hill. Something was wrong here, it was supposed to be an easy final 50 miles but a combination of hills and a headwind were making life difficult. I jumped from group to group for the next 40 kilometres desperately searching for a bunch of riders with the same objective as me. It wasn't to be and I became progressively more tired and dehydrated, my silver medal was starting to slip away. Desperate measures were called for and I reached into my back pocket and pulled out another carbohydrate energy gel. Somehow I forced it down myself and kept it down, this very act seemed to spur my legs into action again and I stepped up my pace. 20 kilometres from the finish and I had about 45 minutes to go.
I screamed "du l'eau, du l'eau" at every spectator until a young lad thrust a 2 litre bottle of Evian into my pleading hand. I filled my water bottle, poured water over my head (‘cos the pros do it and it looks cool) and upped the pace a little bit more. With 10 kilometres to go I'd exhausted my mental arithmetic and we were climbing up hills as well. I had no idea whether it was feasible to still make silver, but I tried anyway. My leg muscles signed all sorts of loan agreements with other parts of my body and borrowed heavily to gain more energy. I surprised myself with my speed up the final climb and turned to visualisation to get me to the finish. My thoughts : I WAS a Tour de France rider, this was going to be MY stage win and I'm going to out lead a breakaway and steal the stage from Lance Armstrong. Spectators saw: Some scruffy British rider on a dirty bike huffing and puffing like a mad thing when hundreds of riders have finished already in front of him It worked. Seven minutes remaining and I found myself in Bayonne with only 2 kilometres to go.
Other riders were now picking up the pace and we sprinted along the river front towards the finish. A right hand bend and we came into the final strait, we were out of the saddles doing nearly 25 mph each determined to gain our own personal victory. Two riders came down in front of me after one of t
And finally I'd finished only 2 hours and 2 minutes behind the winner ... he had to be worried about that. I queued for a while for a food bag and was then reunited with some of the other riders from our hotel. Peter had finished very quickly in just over 8 hours and Gordon wasn't far behind him. Gordon turned to me and said "Even if they do take drugs I can't argue with the professional riders finishing that in 6 hours after 2 weeks of riding" He's right. I left the race
(c)Dave Barter July 2003
Thinking of doing the Etape yourself ? Ron Cutler runs an excellent website for UK entrants at http://www.etape.org.uk/
This article was previously published at Singletrackworld
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