La Bourne Michelin

Failure is not easy to write about. There are ways to write about something with a positive spin: I rode 120k; I stayed in the front group most of the time; I climbed 3200 feet—all successes. But the moment I lost the wheel in front of me on a 9 kilometer climb, I came face to face with a limitation. The grade to the top of the climb at Taillet pushed past 9% and I quickly gone into the red. It was a bit like drowning, breath going from easy to labored gasps, no longer able to talk, my awareness begins to narrow to the rear tire tread in front of me and the long fibers of my quads. Halfway up the climb, I lose the wheel. Either you have the wheel or you don’t; it’s a black and white reality and I don’t. I’m falling off the pace. I focus on recovery and increase the cadence to ease the pressure on the legs. Geoff and a friend come up from behind and I briefly join them. I’m not yet recovered and say goodbye a kilometre from the top.

I don’t know this climb, this road, and have no idea when the grade decreases. It flattens just before Taillet. Seven club members are sitting in the square, helmets off, chatting. My legs are burning, lungs ache and I need an energy bar in the worst way. I haven’t found a good one (meaning one like I’m used to in the US, a good ol’ Harvest bar, or even a pop tart) yet, but the facsimiles in my pocket will have to do. Worse yet is the local varieties of energy drink. My recommendation for anyone in a similar predicament, looking for energy drink in a foreign land, get the unflavored kind. The first try at the Decathlon in Paris netted me Hydro, a drink allegedly tropically flavoured. Didn’t know the tropics tasted like baby powder, but you learn something new every day. The second batch of drink, Born, at least came with a bottle (now on Karl’s bike) and tasted vaguely like lemonade. Geoff swigs straight water and eats jelly sandwiches; I think I know why.

We head down the mountain towards Amelie les Bains. The road dives right and left, and we keep shedding speed on the hairpins, never really getting past 30mph. Then a flat stretch and down again. We climbed a long time and my hands ache with braking. I keep my distance from some of the club members in front of me, better to come down in one piece slowly then be taken out by a yahoo careening across the road.

At the bottom, we recover and then climb again towards the Bourne Michelin, a crossroads on top of another 2k climb marked in the past by a Michelin milemarker. It’s not there anymore, but everyone still calls it by the name. My legs are still hurting, but I stick with a second group of riders slogging it up. At the crest, Geoff is munching a jam sandwich and a couple of local gentlemen with staffs are shaking hands with the riders re-assembling at the crossroads. I’m introduced as l’Americain, and I get lots of smiles in return.

Our numbers for the descent are greatly reduced with most of the riders off to their homes on this side of Amelie. Geoff and I coast down with the president of the club and we briefly discuss the weather forecast for Tuesday’s longer, 135k, ride through the plain of Rousillon and the cols of the Aspres and Vallespir ranges. It might actually rain, and I’ll need to call in the morning. I don’t hope for a rainout, but the way my legs feel right now, it might not be a bad idea!

68.1, 4:19, 3520ft