Stage 15: Flying Solo

I think it is fair to say that my Grandfather was a product of his time. When it came to domestic affairs he was definitely a traditionalist. It was his role to win the bread; my Granny's responsibility to raise the family and keep the home. I guess that would not be atypical in a lot of households of that generation.

That’s not to say that he was incapable of looking after the kids or the grandkids. Its just that his methods were, perhaps, unusual. Freed from the logic of experience and convention, he was, to a degree forced to think on his feet. This made spending time with my Grandfather a wonderful, fun filled experience. Not least because bribery with jube jubes or dolly mixtures was often his preferred method of crowd control. Much to the chagrin of mothers, aunties and grannies who were determined to instill healthy eating habits into their children.

My Gramps worked for Glasgow City Council as an electrician on the trams and later the underground. This meant for long, antisocial hours. Often working the night shift. This meant that he would be at home asleep whilst three toddlers would be running about the house. Added to the fact that Glasgow had an acute housing shortage after the war and Gran and Gramps lived in a ‘single end’, this did not make life easy. For those who don’t know a single end was basically a one room house. The bed was in a recess in the wall and the living space doubled as the kitchen. There was a seat that folded down into a bed. My mother used to sleep across the bottom of bed, my uncle on the fold down seat and my auntie in a cot. As you could imagine space was at a premium. There was no bath and no inside toilet.

My Gran did most of the child raising, however there was occasion where my Gramps would have to step up to the plate. Often, but not always, bedlam would ensue.

On returning from the woman’s guild, or other social event, my Gran was concerned when she opened the door and found the house to be in perfect order. My Grandpa was in the middle of the room reading and, much to my Grannies surprise, the house was a haven of calm.

Closer inspection presented the following scene. My Grampa sat in his seat, a bit of string tied round his ankle. This was attached to the pram where my uncle John was sleeping, being rocked via the gentle movement of my Grampa's leg.

One of the kitchen drawers had been emptied of cutlery and in it, fast asleep was my auntie Linda. My mum was on the floor next to my Gramps, kept occupied with a pot of home made jam, face smeared in conserve but happy as a sand boy.  In order that she couldn’t stray into trouble my Grandfather had nailed her nightie to the floor.

My Gramps (and indeed my Gran), were smart and intelligent people. However, the opportunities presented to them were limited. They both grew up during the great depression, and the collapse of heavy industry hit Glasgow particularly hard. University was never an option for them, despite the undoubted ability to attend. The war too, came at a point when they were in their early 20’s and that cost them what opportunities they did have. My Grampa was a gifted, self taught artist, and I think may have loved to have gone to art school, but that was never going to happen. Aircraft, too, were a passion of his. As a young man he would spend any spare time at the gliding club in Kinross, a cheap-ish and accessible way for him to indulge his passion for flight. The chance to be a professional pilot was not open to people of his background, however.

Yesterday was the biggest day of the tour so far. We completed our multiday traverse through France. Cycling from Brittany in the north west, right through the country to Provence in the south west. The mystical and giant, Mont Ventoux lay in wait at the end of this epic journey. As we have travelled down through the country we have noticed the weather getting hotter and hotter. It was cold and wet by Mont St Michel. Yesterday in Provence was roasting hot, the mercury hitting mid 30’s at least.

The cycle to Ventoux was long – the longest stage to date. It also had an significant amount of climbing, with a number of categorised climbs to negotiate. We arrived at the bottom of the Ventoux at about 1630, after starting cycling in Lyon at 0700.

The Ventoux is a mystical mountain. Perhaps the most famous and feared hill in all the Tours roster of mountains. It is a giant. The last week had been dominated by talk of this stage and this mountain. Everything we have done in the last week has been with reference to Ventoux.

I have a personal history with Ventoux. A number of years ago I climbed it as part of the Etape du Tour. I had no idea what to expect then, and I had no idea that hills could be so long, so steep and so hot. I totally underestimated the task that was infront of me. The experience was a chastening one, to say the least. As I sat, broken, outside Chalet Raynard about half way up the mountain I promised myself that I would pay the mountain the respect it deserved, get properly fit and come back and do it again.

We had a feedstop at the bottom of the hill. After the long journey to get there, I sat under the shade of the tree and took some time to gather my thoughts and catch my breath. I had formulated a plan of how to deal with Ventoux and the other major hills that I will face. I went through it in my mind. Then I was off.

Some days when you are cycling, you feel great, your legs feel strong, you feel relaxed, you feel like you can conquer anything. Yesterday was one of those days. I have been riding well within myself for the last couple of weeks, well aware that the difficult days are all in the last week. Starting with The Ventoux. The preceding stages are really just a warm up, leg softeners to ensure that the giant hills of the Alps are as painful as possible.

I executed my plan to the letter. I caught and breezed past many riders who had started the hill a long time before me. I passed the point where I dry wretched back in 2009, past the point where I had to lie down fearful I would pass out, past the point where I had to sit for 45minutes and eat gel after gel and try and get some energy. I danced past those memories and two weeks into a grand tour, I wasn’t even trying. Then I got to Chalet Reynard the only flat bit on the whole hill, where I had made that promise to myself, years ago. A few of the riders had stopped there for a break. Stopping wasn’t part of my plan, so I kept on keeping on. My plan had been to slowly increase my effort from Chalet Reynard. The last 6ks of the climb I was allowed to ride progressively harder, but never as hard as I could go. I looked round to see one of the faster riders on my wheel. I steadily increased my effort for then next k. when I looked round again, he was dropped, far back down the road. As I reached the summit I reeled in and passed many other riders, first passing them slowly, then racing past them as I increased my speed. By the time I reached the top I was flying.

Not only had I slain a giant, I had laid a ghost to rest and I had done so with plenty left in the tank. I crossed peak of the hill feeling strong enough that I could do it all again.

I waited at the top of the mountain for the rest of the Autobus to summit. As I was waiting there were a number of broken bodies who crossed the line. Everyone of the Autobus crossed with a smile on their face, dancing up the hill and all finished in good time. I had a feeling of immense pride and delight for everyone of them.

People talk about climbing mountains being a spiritual experience. I have never quite got that, but each to their own I guess. I love being in the hills though, I love climbing mountains on my bike. There was some emotion as some of my friends crossed the line and as we stood to get our picture taken at the summit. Handshakes and hugs were exchanged, backs mutually slapped. There was emotion that no one had expected. I began to understand what people meant when they talked about spirituality.

After I had crossed the line, I sat with my back against the wall. The Kempervan had followed me over the top. I watched as glider circled the summit. My Mum came over to congratulate me.

‘There’s Grampa’ I said pointing.

‘So it is. Do you know?’ she said ‘That looks just like the glider he used to fly’

We watched it in silence as it flew round the other side of the weather station.

Mum turned to me ‘Well done son, that was great. Can I get you anything?’

‘A wee can of coke would be champion, mum’

‘Righto’

As she disappeared into the shop the glider passed for a second time. Closer this time. At eye level. Close enough to see the pilot and to hear the swoosh of the wings as he flew past, almost close enough to touch. I touched my cap and gave him a wave. And I swear he dipped his wing as I did so and gave me a wave back.

I would never admit to being emotional, but I did leave my sunglasses on for longer than I perhaps needed to.

Thank you Ventoux for the perfect day on a bike.

From Bedoin,

N

Postscript.
October 2013
There were many wonderful things about the Tour. It sounds twee, but one of the best was the people that I met. The memories of France will undoubtedly fade, but I hope that the friendships will be lasting. 
I remember the first time that I met Chris, a few weeks before the beginning of the Tour. During a cafe stop I started chatting to him and enquired as to what cycle club he was a member of.
'Cycle club? Nah I'm not a proper cyclist. I don't even like cyclists' he replied, laughing. 'I'm just someone who likes to ride my bike'
The Autobus have met a few times since we came back from the Tour and it is common for the conversation to turn to France, then inevitably to the Ventoux. I still try and find it difficult to understand why that mountain was, and is, so special. Why it is different? Why was there so much emotion on the Ventoux that day? Grown men, hardened cyclists, sat at the side of the road  with their head in their hands and openly wept. I can't properly explain why.

Maybe it is because the Ventoux is so much more than a great sporting amphitheatre (Shadow Boxing with Major Tom). It is a place of pilgrimage. For cyclists it is a place where we mortals can go and pay homage to the spirit of the great champions like Coppi, Poulidor, Hinault, Merckx and Tom Simpson. We can never emulate their feats, but we can share in their suffering. And although it might not seem so to outsiders, in its own way, our suffering is as noble and glorious as theirs. Perhaps the pain that we felt whilst climbing the mountain is akin to a bare foot pilgrimage of old?

Maybe it was because we knew that if we got to the top of the Ventoux then we could get to the top of any hill. For those of us who had suffered through the winter and long months of training, we finally felt like we were going to make it. The collective mood changed after the Ventoux. Trepidation and fear was replaced with determination and quiet confidence.

Maybe it was because of the vista at the top. On a clear day they say you can see the Med. That day, despite the storm clouds rolling in and obscuring the view, I was sure I could glimpse Paris.

Or, maybe it was all of those things and none of them.

Or maybe, Chris, just maybe it was because that day all of us became cyclists. Yesterday we were just riding our bikes.