Le Col de Fourtou

23 January 2007

Drop, plink, drop, and then nothing. Five more drops and then, a few more, then a constant pattering on the roof tiles outside my window. It’s still dark and the lights of Perpignan out on the plain are still blinking against the blackness of the sea. The club in Amelie les Bains has a long ride planned for today and, although my legs are still aching from the last run on Sunday, I’m excited about the chance to see some new country.

The forecast hasn’t been hopeful, strong winds, rain and cooler than the past two weeks. It’s six thirty and there’s time for the rain to stop, so I get the bike ready, pressuring the tires to about 120psi, a bit less than usual for more traction on the wet roads, filling the bidons with the foul athletic drinks available locally in France, and locating the assortment of leg warmers, underlayers, insulated booties, vest, gloves and hat, most not needed much the past two weeks. I’m supposed to call Geoff at five minutes to 8:00, but he beats me to it at 7:45. He’s not hopeful that many members will show up, but if I’m up for a ride anyway, let’s meet at the rondpoint. And I’m out the door in fifteen minutes.

The scene is biblical. Towering grey clouds are streaking across the sky. Snow has fallen on Le Canigou, leaving the upper faces white. Even the Alberes behind me have a dusting of snow. The rain has stopped, but the road has a wet sheen, and I slow in the turns through Villelongue dels Monts on my descent to the valley. The wind isn’t up yet, but I know it’ll be coming later.

Geoff and I meet and hurry up the road to Amelie. We’re fifteen minutes later than our usual time, but we get to the club meeting spot just a couple of minutes after the hour.

No one.

A quick trip around the block, scanning the ground for tire tracks in the road and we decide to head out to Palada and up the climb to the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou. I have no idea where we’re going and ask Geoff how long the climb is. “28 kilometers, so no heroics. Just keep a steady pace.” A bit outside of town, we see the paint marking the start of the club’s annual time trial to the top.

We’re on a nice tar road with very little traffic. The cork oaks pass as we keep a nice tempo, staying just inside my aerobic threshold, meaning I can keep this up for a while. After 13k we reach the town of Taulis, a few houses and a World War One memorial. I confuse the town’s name with Taillet, the town we climbed to on Sunday, but Geoff corrects me; we’re actually only about 4 kilometers from the other town, as the crow flies, but much farther away in road miles and altitude. And we’re still going up. Another 6k of switchbacks and we’re in St Marsal and then we crest the col at Xatard.

I’m developing a familiar pain in my lower back, a spasm that shoots down through the right leg. I will it away and it comes back. I ask my riding partner for advice, does he experience back pain on these climbs. “I hurt everywhere; sometimes I even go blind slits.” Not much help. But then he offers that I’m not ankling enough, leaving my heel up ala Armstrong. Initial stubbornness from me, but then I try it. The pain disappears. Hmm. We climb on.

The false flats between the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou screw with my head. The road looks flat, but my effort is still up and I’m only doing 14mph. I comfort myself with the strain on Geoff’s face, a strange and heartless act common in cycling, and we plug on to the top.

The climb has taken more than an hour and there is a sense of relief when I see the blue sky coming up on all three sides in front of me. We roll over the top and then take a tiny road directly in front of us. Large for a cowpath, but just about the width of a mid-sized American car. The vistas on all sides of us are mind-numbing. Ok, the 35 degree air is also numbing. The road is wet but the traction is fine until the asphalt changes from black to red. My rear wheel slips about 6 inches on a turn and it occurs to me that I could drop for a long ways if I slide off this road. Full brakes and then a few minutes later, my front wheel slides a bit. Full brakes again!

Descending a cowpath/road in the Pyrenees is not like descending a country road in Iowa. I seldom have reached beyond 50kph on my descents here, while I can hit 50mph pretty easily on a steep road in Dubuque or Clayton county. The roads twist, turn, offer black ice on blind corners, have the occasional driver taking over your lane. The result is that the descent can be as slow as the ascent.

Can Baills is passed and then the road to Caixas, Les Hostalets and finally Fourques. Legs numb and stiff, the climb up to the town is hard but needed to get the blood flowing again. The Plains of Rousillon stretches out in front of us and we cruise along at 21mph with a strong crosswind hitting us from the side. Geoff’s Corima wheels are a little jittery, but we keep a good pace all the way to the sea at St Cyprien when the wind begins to push us from behind.

Four hours and we reach Argeles and the familiar road along the mountain to Sorede, Laroque and Villelongue. When Geoff punches it up to the village center in Villelongue, there’s no gas left in the tank. He shares a jam sandwich and shake hands. Good ride, see you on Sunday.

72.2, 4:26, 3720ft