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Reflections:  30 June 2014

Those who know me well and those who only know me a little, they know one thing about me and that is how much I love cycling.   Some would ask me which ride was the best and I would refer to two different ones: “Tour de Desert” of March 1992, where I rode from Tempe Arizona to Yuma, AZ to Palm Springs, CA and back to Fountain Hills, AZ via Parker, AZ in four days.  It was the first time I rode over 200 miles in a day and had four consecutive century days (100 or more miles) for a total of 696 miles (1120 kilometers).  Or I would refer to “The Czech Tour” in June 1994 where I rode from Baden-Baden, Germany first to the French border and overnight non-stop to reach the Czech border in less than 24 hours the next day, setting my 24-hour distance record to 321 miles (517 kilometers).  Both were made in my youthful twenties.  Both tours remained in my heart as the best and I envied the strong young man I used to be.  In my 40s I tried again and again to reach that magnitude, embarking on great journeys that I would rave about but in my heart these many tours did not approach the glory of the “Tour de Desert” and the “Czech Tour.”  They remained milestones to which I could reflect yet never repeat.  There was another part of my soul that told me that the strength of resolve of my elder years was far stronger, that I could reach that glory of my youth and do even better.  That part of me just would not give up and now I can say that the best of them all was made when I was a much older man at the age of 46.  For my perseverance and faith in Christ shaped me to be the strongest I have ever been and it enabled me to make this epic Tour des Alpes.

Most likely you are reading this story from my website and I want to make reference to the “Inn-Czech Trek” which happened last year.  That was a tour I made as a substitute for the one I did last week, because the poor weather of spring last year prevented me the opportunity to get in proper condition.  This year the weather was great and I brought my condition to the best level I have ever had.  You see, something extraordinary happened on the final day of that tour.  I wrote about it in clear detail, so if you haven’t read the “Inn-Czech Trek,” please delay reading this story and read that one first and pay close attention to what I wrote about that final day.  I started to think that I was only so strong that last day of the tour because I had brought myself to a top form by riding so long on consecutive days.  Earlier this year God reminded me and told my heart, “Don’t you forget what I did for you that day.”  Now I confess once again that the physical power I wielded that day was indeed supernatural.  There is no way for me to prove this to anyone, but if you believe I am sincere, you can trust me on this.  I claim to be guided by the Holy Spirit, as long as I keep my eyes on Christ.  This guidance is for me to make the right decisions and to see beyond what my eyes can reveal.  What happened last year was a magnificent “physical” power that lasted hours and nothing what happened in this year’s tour comes even close to the power of that special day, not even what happened on the first day of this year’s tour.  I’m going to enjoy writing this; I get to relive it all, yet not have to feel the intense physical pain.

Preparation for the Tour

As I mentioned, I really wanted to do this trip last year, but the terrible weather did not allow me to get in proper condition.  It’s not so much the distance or even the great passes I had to conquer, but what I needed to pull off on the first day.  What could that be?  Keep reading and you’ll understand.

By 19 June last year I had made a total of six century rides.  This year I was able to push out fifteen.  Now pushing out those soft-ball centuries of 110 miles or less are good training, but I try to make as many mega 150+ miles rides as possible for proper hard core training.  I had two tours earlier: “Tour des Juras” and “Tour de Luxembourg.”  You’d think those would give me all the confidence I needed, but it was really the contrary.  Tour des Juras was one of the finest four-day rides I’ve ever made; I started out with a 208-mile day and had 604 miles for the tour.  It is important to point out that I suffered horrible nausea on the final three days, vomiting once and also stomach convulsions, vomiting with nothing to discharge.  Nevertheless it ended very well on the final day when I pressed on despite the nausea and finished with 180 miles that last day.  Tour de Luxembourg was all the more miserable, but that was because it was so extremely hot.  At the end of the “Lux” tour I really thought that I had decided to call off this “Alpes” tour, because it just didn’t feel fun anymore.  That’s when I prayed, “God, if you make the weather perfect on the day of planned departure, then I’ll know it’s in your good will.”

The Saturday before the 19th I made a mega 218-mile ride into southern Alsace and up to 900 meters in the Vosges, my tenth longest single day ride of all time. The best part is how good I felt when I got home.   The Monday after I made a quick 118-mile ride in the Rheinebene (the Rhine Corridor), which is flat – I was finished before 14:00, as I had a scheduled class that evening.  The forecast for Thursday was as good as perfect and the plan was a “Go.”

19 June 2014

Day 1

Strasbourg, France (close to Baden-Baden) High Temperature 26c (79f)

It was a public holiday in Germany, “Fronleichnam,” known as Corpus Christi in the English speaking world.  I had the following Friday and the entire week after off from work.  At about 14:00 I took a shower, lowered my shades and turned on my fan for a soothing ambient sound.  I may have managed as much as two hours of sleep, that on top of more than eight hours of sleep I had the night before.  One might think of why such lazy behavior before embarking on a major tour.  It was the proper preparation for a 19:00 departure.  Now why would I want to start a major tour in the evening?  You see, I had departed at this awkward time only twice before in my life.  The first time was on 22 June 1994 and by 19:00 the next day I completed 321 miles, which stood as the longest distance I had biked in 24 hours.  The second time was on 13 June 2011 and not surprising, that was my second longest 24-hour trek at 304 miles.  When making a 24-hour trek, you need to get the hardest part over with first and doing it as close to the first day of summer as possible minimizes the dark hours.  Starting at midnight would be futile; good luck at finding a hotel open at that hour.  Starting in the morning is all the more dangerous by feeling most tired in the darkness.  I wasn’t doing this for amusement; I was aiming for number one and was determined to make it happen.

About an hour before departure I had a large plate of Quinoa along with a cup of Ginseng tea and plenty of water mixed with a magnesium tablet.  My bike down in the cellar had been pre-packed including the water bottle.  I was fully fed and juiced up some thirty minutes before departure.

At 18:55 I was outside by my bike and I took a photo of it leaning against the wall; it was the first photo to be added to the photo album as well as the video I was going to make.  My watch alarm was set at 19:00 and I would not move from that position till that first chime.  “Beep” and I took off like a horse breaking through the derby gates.  The blood rushed to my head as I knew there was no turning back.  I got into a good rhythm and headed south on Bundesstraße 3.  The whole atmosphere was just right; the temperature in the evening was perfect and I had a gentle breeze out of the north to push me along.  On the straight away I was holding a good 23 mph and I thanked God for the perfect start.

About 28 miles from home between the villages of Zunsweier and Hofweier on a short paved farmer’s path off a lightly-travelled country road I stopped briefly to relieve myself.  It’s the same spot I stop at on all my rides going south as the need usually kicks in after the first 25 miles after fully hydrating one self.  I took a couple of photos before continuing south and reconnecting to Bundesstrasse 3.

The sun set shortly after the time I turned west away from B 3 to head over to the Rhine crossing at Markolsheim. I stopped to put on my jacket but left the front zipper open, only enough to take the chill away from my arms. Once in Alsace, France I turned south again to ride on the Rhine highway which not only has good pavement, but has very little traffic.  A course to the southern end of Kaiserstuhl would have been unquestionably shorter, but I chose to ride where there is less traffic.  The twilight made riding easy till it was about 10:30.  I wasn’t all that hungry, but I knew that I would soon run out of places to refuel.  I crossed back into Germany at Breisach.  I didn’t need to go any further than 500 meters over the Rhine to find a McDonalds.  I would have preferred a simple snack from the petrol station, but it was closed.  I got a chicken sandwich and three half-liter cups of water, one just to refill my water bottle on my bike.  I grumbled over the fact that I would have paid only a third the price for the water at the petrol station had it been open, but I had a nice place to sit inside where it was a tad bit warmer.

Leaving McDonalds I zipped up my jacket and knew that doing so would not allow the sweat on my body to escape.  I also didn’t want to ride on feeling cold all the time.  It was now dark, but going back into France, the Rhine highway is very straight and has very little traffic.  I rode down the middle of the road and fixed my eyes on the center stripes with my front light off, to preserve the battery.  Naturally I would switch my light back on every time a car from the other direction approached, mainly so that he or she would dim the beams.  Traffic at these late hours was very thin.  My back light shone the whole time as I had fresh batteries and the life on them would stretch far beyond just one night.

After the village of Kembs I turned away from the Rhine for a mild climb into the lower Jurassic foothills of southern Alsace.  I had to pay close attention to the direction signs for the towns I had committed to memory.  It was a stretch of about 10 miles that I had not yet travelled, as on the “Tour des Juras” trip; I had missed that turn and took a more southerly route.  When I got to the village of Sierentz I managed to locate a beverage vending machine by a car wash; I thanked God for the fortune as I knew that I could not get through the night on the remaining water bottle I had not yet drunk.  I had one bottle of water and another of ice tea. 

I reached Altkirch, which is more or less the main village of the extreme southern Alsace; I was in familiar territory, right where I had been only four weeks prior.  Another five or so miles and I passed through Dannemarie and the neighboring village of Retzwiller.  I located the Rhine-Rhone canal, which was to be my path for the next 25 or so miles.  This was the most haunting yet exhilarating part of the night ride.  I chose this route for the canal path is forbidden to automobiles and was completely vacant at these late hours, except by me.  I was forced to use my front lamp in fear of not correctly seeing the path and subsequently riding into the canal.  It was here that I used my Go Pro camera for the first time on the tour; I would be well pleased on how well the Go Pro captured the feeling of that moment.  In many parts there were bright lights illuminating every lock along the way.  There was also a stretch of some five or more miles through the forest where the only light I could see, other than my front lamp, was that little bit coming down from the stars.

Before reaching the town of Montbèliard, I noticed the quarter moon had risen high enough over the horizon to be of assistance to my eyes.  There were a few light clouds in the sky, but too few to block the moon’s light.  At times where the moon was not obscured by tree tops I could see well enough without my front lamp.  Montbèliard is a town of significant size and to my surprise I saw another cyclist coming from the other direction at about 3:30; he was dressed in an orange suit like those who do road work.  I also heard the giggles of a few young adults, who may have being heading home after a long night at a pub or disco.

Directly after Montbèliard I was back on the main roads again and a bit relieved that I would no longer have worry about dozing off and ending up in the canal.  Somewhere shortly after Montbèliard, perhaps it was in the village of Bavans, I found a beverage vending machine.  I thanked God for the timely discovery; I was really pleased for I knew the next time I would be in need of fluids, the stores would be open and I still hadn’t touched my bike’s water bottle.  I drank a couple of cans of Nestea to go along with two power bars.

By the time I had reached the village of L’Isle-sur-le-Doubs, the faint onset of morning twilight was overtaking the light of the moon.  By the time I reached the town of Baume-les-Dames it was light enough that I no longer needed my front lamp, but I kept my rear lamp on for safety measure against the traffic coming from behind.  There is a hefty climb on the highway leaving Baume-les-Dames and the Doubs valley.  I actually enjoyed the climb as it got my blood worked up and made me feel warmer.

The sun rose up from behind and I immediately stopped to take a photo; it brightened up the sky as it fired up my soul.  I don’t suppose I rode more than just two miles when I found a tobacco shop open next to a bakery, which was still closed; interesting how the French would need their cigarettes sooner than their baguettes.  I stopped at the tobacco shop to get a drink and twenty pieces of gummi candy.  It was a quick stop and as soon as I walked out, the bakery/café was open. 

Before going into the bakery I removed my jacket and the sweat gathered in my sleeves gushed out and saturated my biking gloves.  I took off my gloves and squeezed the excess sweat from them and listened to it splash to the concrete.  My tricot was fully saturated and the worst part was that the sweat had also dripped down the back side of my cycling shorts, which caused some irritating swelling on my backside.  Fortunately I carried the best type of saddle crème I’ve ever used, for it works more like a medicine than as a lubricant; it did the trick.  I squeezed as much of the sweat from my tricot as I could; it was as much as if someone had thrown a bucket of water on me.  That short break in the tobacco shop had allowed my body to cool down.  Now I felt miserably cold in the shadows. 

I walked into the bakery, noticed the many tables and asked if they served breakfast.  She asked me what I would like and I asked if an omelet would be possible.  I’ve always loved going into France to keep the language alive in my head.  On this morning my head was really awake; the caffeine tablets I got for this ride, really only for that first overnight run, were doing the trick.  Unlike the first two times I performed a 24-hour ride, fatigue was never a factor; I had really prepared well for this one.

I went to the men’s room to wash my hands and take extra liberty of allowed the air hand dryer to blow down my shirt.  It was a soothing euphoric feeling, but short lived as I went back into the café.  I had ordered green tea and was trying to warm my hands on it, but it was too hot, so I cupped them to feel the radiating heat.  I was shivering violently, not just from being soaked in my own sweat on this cool morning, but from calorie depletion.

The woman brought me my omelet and moments later she came back; without saying a word she draped her sweater over my shoulders.  The gesture shocked me, so much that my eyes welled up in tears.  I felt as if the angel Gabriel himself performed the act.  Surely she could see that I was soaking wet and that her sweater would be pulling some of my sweat onto itself.  It made me feel so soothed, like it was a magical fleece.  I made sure I tipped her well before leaving.

I went outside and walked to the warm side of the building where the sun was shining unobscured and with no perceptible wind.  My body warmed up quickly and I was able to pack away my jacket and continue with my journey.  Quite often on long rides it’s hard to get back on the road, but that wasn’t the case here.  I had to pass through Besancon, which is a small city and it was a bit hectic with the morning rush.  On the other side of the city I felt really good.  I was retracing the route of the “Tour de Bourgogne” ride from four years prior, as I had been since getting off the Rhine-Rhone canal before the sunrise.  I passed through the village of Saint Vit, where four years prior the screw holding my saddle mount snapped, which kept me idle for two days that tour.  The fear of something like that happening again frightened me. God, you wouldn’t let something horrible like that happen to me this time, would you?

As I was approaching the town of Dole around 10:00, I noticed a large black dog strutting along the highway on the opposite side.  It trotted to my side of the road and as I passed it, it darted toward me, which gave me a shock.  I thought it was going to get its snout caught into my wheel and break a spoke or two.  Once it was behind me, I didn’t need to worry; only something like a greyhound would have had a prayer of catching up with me.  It was cute looking back seeing it try.  What angered me was that I wanted to take a photo of the “Welcome to Dole” sign; stopping would have allowed that dog to catch me.  Fortunately further down the road I was able to photo the traditional French red-lined town sign.  Entering Dole brought back strong memories, for I had spent two nights there waiting till that next Monday to get my saddle fixed.  There was no time for reminiscing and I passed through quickly.  I took note that I had passed the 200 mile mark and was pleased with my progression.

Shortly after crossing into the Burgundy region of France I spotted a restaurant on the intersection where one road leads to Dijon, where I had gone four years ago, and the other continued onto Lyon.  I had Andouilette, the traditional coarse sausage of the region.  It looks like and even smells like doggy doo doo, but I obviously wouldn’t have ordered it, if it didn’t taste good.

Back on the road I was on my way to Chalon-sur-Saône; there was a breeze, but it was conveniently at my back.  I thought I would have been able to avoid this town altogether, as I have no interest in entering town of significant size like this one, but I was only momentarily within the city limits after crossing the Saône River.  The highway curved to point almost due south to follow the course of the Saône River, but I was seldom close enough to it to see it.  The terrain was great, mild hills at best – and the wind at my back. 

I had the cut-out maps that I had printed of the greatest part of this planned tour for these areas that I was venturing into for the first time.  I did not need them at all for this portion of the tour, for I had taken in to memory all the major settlements along the way.  There were only three of them I needed to know.  The first was Tournus and I got to it so much quicker than I had anticipated.  Then I went through Mâcon, which wasn’t as big as I had thought.  One thing was for sure, the highway had heavy traffic and it only seemed to thicken as I ventured south.  On the plus side, there was a designated lane for cyclists like me.

I made a drink break along the way.  I don’t recall exactly where I was, but I believe it was somewhere between Mâcon and Belleville.  I ate a few gummi candies and knew it would be the last thing I should eat before the final stop of the day.  I still had three or four power bars with me, so I didn’t have to worry.

It was about 16:50 when I reached the 300 mile mark, only for the third time in my life had I biked so far within 24 hours.  Reaching 305 miles I had surpassed the 24-hour effort I had made three years prior on my Baden-Baden to Maastricht, the Netherlands ride.  I was going for number one and at this point I knew only a disaster would prevent me from getting it.  Nonetheless I wished not to celebrate early.  Villefranche-sur-Saône was a large town with so much traffic and many traffic lights to slow me; I was happy to get past it.  At 320 miles I was a mile from tying my record and two from safely saying that it was broken.  (I did not record my 24-hour distance record to the hundredth or even tenth of a mile 20 years ago, but I knew that it was no more than 321.5 for sure.  I put the Go Pro on the mount and recorded this event on 30 second intervals. I entered the village of Anse; this place is to forever remain sacred in my memory.  When the odometer hit 322 miles there was conveniently a wall alongside the road for me to rest my bike against.  The Go Pro indicates in seconds when the next shot will be taken.  I held up my arms and took the victory shot.  I was exhausted and had pains that I rather not describe to you; nonetheless I was a very happy man.

The traffic approaching Lyon was getting worse as I proceeded.  It really didn’t matter as my record was broken, but I wanted to get as much as I could on top of it.  In my heart I have no ambition of ever doing a 24-hour trek again.  The training I did prior to this was key and the preparation and thought I put into this stretch made the difference.  It would take something like an angel from God to get me to do something like this again.  At the age of 46 I beat the record I set in my prime; it’s a badge of honor I will carry for the rest of my life. 

I couldn’t understand why I was going so steeply uphill heading towards Lyon.  I thought that everything should be flat following the course of the river and then I remembered that the western side of the Saône-Rhone valley is high right where Lyon is and that the road may be veering away from the river.  It came to a high point and I was happy to be going back down a little bit.

The main highway to Lyon suddenly turned to a “Schnellstrasse.”  I don’t know how to translate it, but it’s like a second grade Autobahn (motorway), which is forbidden to cyclists.  I took the road to the right and there was a large arch spanning it:  “Bienvenue à Porte de Lyon Dardilly” – “Welcome to the gateway to Lyon, Dardilly.”  Oh, my God, I actually made it to the outskirts of Lyon.  I was so pleased.  Lo and behold there was an Ibis Budget hotel right up the hill.  I rode to it and saw I had but two minutes remaining on my 24-hour trek.  I rolled a bit around in the parking lot and stopped in front of the lobby and took a photo of my odometer.  It showed 332.01 miles; my watch alarm pinged as I took the photo.  I added 11 miles to my record.  I thanked God the opportunity to break my record and more importantly to actually break it.

I went in and booked a room; I was happy to get it for 65€ with breakfast, not too expensive for France.  I just had to tell the receptionist what I had just done; I was an exhausted but very proud man.  Settling down I got to notice how much my lungs hurt; I started to worry that it would be a factor the next day.  The amount of exhaust I had been breathing in since Chalon-sur-Saône, it was little wonder. 

The receptionist offered me to take a drink from the water cooler.  I went to my room first to secure my bike and wash my face.  I looked like a guy who’d just biked 332 miles, I had never looked better in my own eyes.  My shirt was well stained with salt, a normal sight for any ride over 100 miles, but it was pretty thick this time.

I went back to the lobby and took a drink from the water cooler, three glasses-full.  I didn’t feel so good and walked out into the parking lot; those three glasses of water came right back out, it hardly had a chance to warm up in my stomach.  My body was telling me that nothing was going down least it had a fair amount of salt with it to bring my electrolytes back in order.  I really didn’t feel ill, but just the thought of drinking plain water was enough to make me gag. 

There was a restaurant right next to the hotel; I had a seat out in the beer garden.  The outside evening temperature was cozy warm.  I had a beef dish, the plat du jour with a Grimberger Rouge beer.  My stomach welcomed beer but allowed only so much water.  I still felt rather groggy after the meal.  France beat Switzerland in the World Cup match that evening and I could hear the celebrating out in the streets.  When it came to sleep, nothing was going to keep me up.

332 miles (534 kilometers) for the day

21 June

Day 2

Lyon, France - High Temperature 28C (82F)

Geneva, Switzerland – High Temperature 28C (82F)

I had my breakfast and was out of the hotel by 8:15.  I had a good solid eight hours of sleep and was ready to go.  My lungs did not hurt at all; I was surprised. The receptionist told me that the best way to get to Lyon was to ride via the town of Champagne-au-Mont-d’Or.  It was a continuation of going downhill after all the uphill climbing I had done before reaching the hotel the evening before.  On the way down I recognized the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourvière and the Tour de Fourvière at the top of the hill across the valley; it was easy for me to remember even not being in the city since 1988.  This tower is also known as the mini-Eiffel, for it looks just like the upper third of that famous tower in Paris, coincidentally this one in Lyon was built at about the same year.  I rode down to the Saône River and followed the riverside road around a big bend into the city.  I took some photos from amongst the fish market and surprisingly the smell of fish was rather pleasant in the morning air.  I crossed the city center isthmus to the Rhone River and to the other side, where I worked my way to the northern part of the city.  I knew exactly where I was, but had so much trouble trying to navigate through one-way streets and all the traffic.  I found myself rolling along slowly on sidewalks rather than trying to find a way around one way streets.  Eventually I found the Boulevard de Stalingrad which had a bridge that brought me to the suburbs north of Lyon over the bend of the Rhone from where it flows in from the east. 

I took the Route de Genève through a string of towns that I found rather drab and uninteresting, not like the area I had spent the night.  It was a rather long stretch of towns and villages till I was finally in some open country area.  I could see the Jura Mountains on the horizon and knew that I would be riding along the Ain valley on the western flank of the mountains a good ways before turning east to cross them.  The further I got from Lyon, the lesser the traffic.  Long stretches of the highway were avenues, whose trees were mandated by Napoleon himself.  In the village of Pont d’Ain I stopped for lunch at a Turkish restaurant and ordered steak haché, which are just ground beef steaks, but I wouldn’t categorize them as simple hamburger patties.

Directly after lunch I crossed a narrow plain and began a gentle climb into the Jura.  It was just as I had imagined, as I had been in the heart of the Jura to the north only four weeks prior.  The part of the Jura Mountains I was crossing was not as high as the bigger mountains I tackled in that previous tour.  These mountains are green forested peaks, but unlike the Black Forest or the Vosges close to home, the Jura has vast areas of barren limestone.  For long periods I rode in the shadows of the road carved into the side of the mountain.

At the place where the road makes a sharp bend there was a huge statue that appeared to have been carved out of the mountain rock, only the lines revealing the placement of massive limestone blocks showed otherwise.  It was a war memorial in honor of those who died in the resistance movement.  I met a man with his wife and son of about ten years of age.  The man could speak French, but told me that he was from Portugal.  The boy spoke to me in Portuguese; of course I couldn’t understand him.  Yet knowing French fairly well and learning a good deal of Italian, one’s ears can pick up a lot from any Latin language.  The boy was asking me a question and I clearly picked out the word “Montana”.  I pointed to the mountain heights. “Le montana, no problemo, sono rubusto, sono forté.”  I kind of mixed a bit of Italian and French.  The father smiled and I’m pretty sure the boy understood.   Whether I was addressing his question properly, I don’t know.  The father mentioned that he was going to take his family to Lake Geneva and to Lausanne.  I mentioned that I had been in Lausanne four weeks prior, but I would be going to the other side of the lake on my approach to go into Italy.

Once around that sharp bend and the monument, I had to do a bit more climbing, but in the direct sunlight.  I was feeling the heat and after so many miles the day before, I began to felt a bit stretched out.  At least the climb was not so hard at about the highest point I made a little break in the village of Labalme in the shade near the Marie (village hall). 

Less than ten miles from Labalme I arrived on the shores of Lac de Nantua; I took a long drink break in a park where I watched children and their parents in a playground, well shaded from the towering trees in the area.  I drank two bottles of Powerade, as I had the feeling that any amount of plain water would cause me to vomit.

There was a bit of a climb after the lake and the road was light on traffic, probably because the Autoroute which ran higher up on the mountainside was drawing a lot of the traffic off the road I was on.  Over the crest of the Jura I could see straight over the valley and see some of the snowcapped Alps on the horizon.  I enjoyed the long downhill run to the town of Bellegarde, where I would be returning to the same stretch of road I had been on four weeks prior.  I knew that I had a bit of a climb on my way towards Geneva ahead of me, as the road rises above the canyon where the Rhone busts through the Jura Mountains.

I think of this wall, where the Rhone River flows through, like an “Iron Gate” that separates the basin where Geneva and the surrounding French suburbs lie, from the rest of France.  Past the Iron Gate I took the road down to a bridge that spans the Rhone.  I had a bit of a climb to rise up to the basin and continue on the road that leads to Saint-Julien-en-Genevois.  I had to take a rest at the crest of the incline, I was feeling a bit nauseated again.

I was my desire to ride to the shore of Lac Leman (Lake Geneva), but I knew that it wasn’t going to happen that day.  I saw a white peak rising behind the smaller mountains in the foreground.  I wondered if it could be Mount Blanc.  This white mountain came much clearer into view and I asked a local gentleman walking his dogs if that was Mont Blanc.  Hearing that I was not French he replied in good English, “That’s it alright.”  I took a photo and later regretted not taking another as it was a bit blurred.

I rode to the far end of the town Annemasse, which is perhaps the largest of the French suburbs surrounding Geneva.  I found a Comfort Hotel and booked a room.  As the receptionist was explaining where the breakfast room was and how I needed to put the key card in a slot in the wall in order to turn on the electricity, I noticed just how hot it was in the front entrance area.  I told her, “Excusez moi, je retourne tout de suite.” (I’ll be right back)

I had to get outside for I felt I was not getting enough oxygen.  I sat down on the concrete with my back against the window.  A man asked me if I was okay.  I told him that I was just exhausted and needed to get out of the reception for it was so hot.  He had a wife and son of about eight years old.  The little boy sat right next to me, put his arm over my shoulder and said. “Doucement, doucement.” (Take it easy).  

I explained that I had ridden in from Lyon that morning.  The man and his wife were impressed.  I explained that Lyon is not far but how I had ridden to Lyon from Baden-Baden the day before.  I also had to explain where Baden-Baden is, some 40 kilometers north-east of Strasbourg.  I was really giving myself a good reason for my exhaustion.  I secured my bike in my room and had dinner at the restaurant right by the hotel.  I had risotto di mari, a rice dish with shrimp and scallops and just one beer.  Back in my room I watched Germany come to a draw against Ghana in the World Cup match.

117 miles (188 kilometers) for the day

22 June

Day 3

Geneva, Switzerland – High Temperature: 31C (88F)

Grand Saint Bernard Pass, Switzerland – High Temperature:  about 15C (59F)

Aosta, Italy – High Temperature: 29C (83F)

I elected not to have breakfast at the hotel to enable me to get on the road earlier.  I forgot to record the exact time I left, but I presume that it was before 8:00.  I rode via the village Bons-en-Chablais instead of heading straight for the lake.  The route I chose was a bit hillier, but also a quicker path to my goal.  I reached Thonon-les-Bains where I then got on the highway that runs along the shore of Lake Geneva and I passed through Evian-les-Bains, the town most popular from its bottled water that is exported worldwide.  It was a lovely warm morning and I was pleased with my progress.  The last village in France before the border is Saint Gingolph, where I stopped for a late breakfast at about 9:30.

I was hoping that breakfast would have given me the urge to “take a dump.” (I don’t know a different way of explaining it more lightly) Normally such matters are settled in the morning before setting off, but not on this day; I was deeply worried, but did not wish to let time burn. Not more than 100 meters from the café where I had breakfast, I crossed into Switzerland.  The Rhone valley upstream from the lake was very much what I expected.  My progression up the valley was so mild, it was as good as flat, but the mountains were towering giants on both sides.  I love riding in Switzerland as the streets are in such good condition and villages so beautiful.  The village of Saint Maurice was particularly nice, where the valley becomes suddenly narrower.  I saw a waterfall coming down the side of the mountain and not only took a photo but made a quick video of it as well.

When I reached the outskirts of Martigny, I had to take shelter under the eave of a house from a sudden rain shower.  Fortunately the rain shower lasted only a few minutes and I could proceed slowly through the village not to allow moisture from the street to be slung up on my backside.  Deeper into the village I came to a part where the rain had not fallen and I could return to a regular pace. 

It is directly after Martigny where I was no longer in the Rhone valley as I turned onto the Grand Saint Bernard highway where the road increased to about 7% grade as it followed up the Dranse valley.  According to the map I went through a section of more than 10% grade, but it didn’t feel that hard.  I stopped at a petrol station/café in the village of Bouvenier for a drink break.  I felt uncomfortably constipated and was afraid to proceed under this condition.  My situation was so severe that I had the courage to ask the cashier if she had any laxatives.  I was really embarrassed when she asked a few patrons at a table that same question.  I ordered a coffee as it had seemed to work for me in this way in the past.  The cashier seemed to pity me and gave me the coffee for free.  I had spent over an hour and was frustrated because I really wanted to make this epic climb up to the pass, but feared that the urge would kick in on the way.  I went to the toilet and it was kind of like that funny scene in the first Austen Powers films. “Who does number two work for?” – “That’s right buddy, you tell that turd who’s boss.”  Feeling a lot more relieved it was time to hit the road again.

This epic climb was something I was really prepared for.  I had studied the map so well; I even knew when to anticipate certain turns.  I knew the sharp turns on the map also indicated grades exceeding 11%.  All in all the first ten miles after Martigny went smoother than I had expected.  I noticed that it was getting cooler, but not too cool.  I was so lucky that this was a warmer than average day, as I knew it would not be so warm up on top.  I made another drink break at a roadside café somewhere between the villages of Orsières and Liddes. 

Higher up the road I could see some rain falling; it appeared to be light, but it made me very nervous.  When I arrived to the village of Bourg Saint Pierre, I knew from memory that I was over 1600 meters high, less than 200 meters lower than the Arlbergpass I had climbed the year before but I would still have to climb another 800 meters.  I entered the longest gallery I had ever been in.  (A gallery is like a tunnel with windows on one side)  It’s difficult for me to judge, as going steeply uphill always seems longer, but I feel certain it was over three miles long.  What I hate about being in a gallery or tunnel is the roar of every car that is in it with you.  On the good side I was being sheltered by the falling drizzle.  How convenient that I would not have to take a break at a time when I really needed to be pushing along after the longer than normal break I had made earlier.  Without the sun shining on me, I could feel how much cooler it was, yet still not to the point where I would be uncomfortable. 

Where the gallery ended the main road goes into the long tunnel and I had to go up the old pass which was used by Napoleon.  I knew, according to the map, that the pass road from where it splits from the main road is very curvy.  I presumed that the hard curves were planned in order to make the road not too steep.   At first, the incline was milder and in the sunlight, it was a pleasant climb.  The easy climb turned to nasty.  I cannot say for sure, but I had dealt with 20% grade three times before in my life, only once was going up.  What I was battling was surely exceeding 15 % in some areas.  It was so brutal.  The road is not very wide and so curvy; the few cars I saw were going rather slow whether going up or down.  A couple of times I put out my right hand and rested against the cliff wall; it is extremely difficult to remount one’s feet in clip pedals when on such a steep climb.  I was seeing vast amounts of snow right up to the road; it was all melting rapidly.  Some of the snow melt spilled across the road, which was fortunately seldom; I worried about encountering wet spots in the road on the decline.  A car with a couple of Italian woman encouraged me as I climbed. “Bravo, bravo!”  I was so exhausted; I didn’t care to look to see how pretty they were.  I suddenly occurred to me that I was the lone cyclist climbing this mountain.  I remember only seeing one cyclist coming down after passing Martigny; this was the opposite case of going up the Arlberg a year earlier. 

Finally I could see the buildings of the pass in my sight.  I was so excited yet so exhausted; I needed to just catch my breath by leaning against another rock.  Reaching the Grand Saint Bernard Pass has to be one of the proudest moments of my life.  Suddenly I noticed how cold it was for I wasn’t going to wear my jacket on this climb.  I stood right at the pass and was about to take a photo of the sign when a young woman offered, in English, to take of photo of me.  I am so glad she was there, as that photo is undoubtedly the best photo of the tour to me and one of the most important photos of me in my lifetime.  Her English was really good, I was certain she was neither American nor British, but felt she had to come somewhere from the Commonwealth.  Canada maybe?  She was from Rotterdam, Holland.  I told her that I was an English teacher and her English impressed me.

I went into the monastery at the pass and went straight to the toilet.  I didn’t need the toilet per se, but to get my hands on some paper towels and dry some sweat off my tricot.  All the better, the toilet had a hand dryer.  It felt so good I thought I might over indulge and get carried away.  I had the dryer blowing down my shirt long enough to do some significant drying.  Now I was ready for the biggest thrill of the tour.

It is only a short distance to the Italian border.  I had my Go Pro on its mount and started filming once I picked up a bit of speed.  After about 20 seconds I heard the Go Pro beeping.  Oh no!! The battery is going flat!  This was a major disappointment, I only got those few seconds.  I wanted to film the whole descent!  It was past 19:00 and I had no time to despair.  I had my jacket on and it was flapping rapidly in the draft of going down.  This was by no means a fast decline, but I was pleased that the pavement on the Italian side was even better than that final stretch on the Swiss side.  I felt cold and was shivering; the road was very curvy.  It was so beautiful, but I did not wish to stop for any photos.  Despite the big disappointment not being able to record the descent, I enjoyed the ride down.  After riding down about six miles I spotted a fountain; a nice free drink.  I took a good slug of this cool mountain water.  My stomach didn’t like it at all and vomited it back up.  I really wasn’t all that thirsty and knew I’d have to be a bit thirstier before I could down anything.  It was no doubt the longest decline I’ve ever had where the average grade was at least 10% or more.  How quickly I noticed that I was well below the patches of snow and how much warmer it was.  Before I knew it I had arrived to the outskirts of Aosta, which is the capital of this small north-westernmost state in Italy.  I pulled over to an empty parking lot and my stomach contracted, but there was nothing inside to be discharged.  Strange, but it made me feel better.  I was in such a good mood even a bit of nausea wasn’t going to ruin this special day for me. 

I went to the center of Aosta in the pedestrian zone.  I was in Italy! I loved the sight.  I spotted a couple of hotels, but when I saw the one that was tucked away in a narrow alley, I knew that was going to be the one.  I booked a room and asked the receptionist if she spoke French, which she did.  I assumed that everyone in the state of Valle d’Aosta spoke French, as all the village names have French names.  When I got to the restaurant, I seemed to me that no one was speaking in French.  For the first time I was using Italian outside of the classroom.  I looked at the menu and immediately decided that I wanted something from the “regional cuisine,” the wording for that in Italian is really not all that different from English, “cucina regionale” if my memory is correct.  When the waitress came back I immediately explained that I only spoke a bit of Italian.  I asked her if “carbonada vecchia” is something like “pasta carbonara.”  She explained that it is meat with polenta.  It was amazing how clearly I understood her. 

I sipped on my beer and looked about the restaurant.  I no longer felt any nausea.  I wasn’t just in Italy, but I had biked to get there.  I thanked God for the moment.  I was so far away from home; nonetheless I got there on my own energy, including the crossing of the Grand Saint Bernard Pass.  Back at the hotel the receptionist was still there; I ordered a shot of Sambuca.  I sipped it slowly while watching the TV in the lobby.  I can only understand so much and no use trying to understand what was being said on the airwaves.  I wasn’t just drinking Sambuca; I was drinking Sambuca in Italy.  This obsession stayed in my brain for the next couple of days.

111 miles (178 kilometers) for the day