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That morning, while I was tying the laces of my cycling shoes, I was breathing a little more deeply, and slowly, than perhaps I normally do. The pauses, seemed to be that-much-more elastic. What were normally glances were approaching stares and colour seemed to be slipping away from saturation as my world became more black and white.
The roll out of Laruns, first south, and then bending east, on the Rue de Gerp toward the D918 was literally a slow and patient roll. The town seemed asleep and although my heart raced with a nervous energy, I wanted to take it all in. It was cloudy, thick, wet and humid with a slight chill in the air. What could potentially develop into a downpour, held, clinging onto the dark clouds which hugged the mountainside. It felt like I was going to another time in some far off foreign land. After all, this place, the road to the base of the 1709m Col D’Aubisque had enough history to be another place from unfamilier time. This route that would eventually wind over the three timeless giants – Aubisque, Soulor and Tourmalet – wasn’t just a series of roads. It was a immense stadium, and the rocky peaks and jagged faces of these mountains were it’s walls. This was home to some of the greatest epic battles in the history of cycling and the Tour de France. It was as if I were trespassing onto the pitch of the old Wembley stadium, or gently skating on dimly lit ice at the old Montreal forum, or leaving my unwanted footprints in the clay at the old Roland-Garros. It felt like I shouldn’t be, or couldn’t be there, that history wouldn’t allow it. But instead, I was. And the mountains looked down, nearly claustrophobic in their stature as if to mimic the crushing presence of the thousands of screaming fans that, when the time comes, adorn it’s slopes, presenting a path-too-narrow for the exhausted to cut through. And the road looked down, with an eerie ghostlike-presence of the riders of the past and present, their names stained into it’s dull grey surface, Hinault, Pantani, Merckx, Anquetil, Bahamontes, Coppi and Schleck. And every. last. tree. leaned over and looked down, the ones in behind still rustling in a wind-stirred chatter about the riders, the times, the records and the happenings, which made these slopes famous. And as I turned left, passing the sign marking the start of the first hors catégorie climb on the day, and the road began to ramp up, they all leaned in a little closer, and further down and whispered in unison: “Kid, you better be ready.”
Final Numbers for the day
Laruns > Bagnères-de-Bigorre: 120km (837km – 6 days)
3 Cols – 1709m, 16, 2210m (3310m gain)
Average speed: ??? not recorded
Time: ??? Aubisque – ~1:15, Tourmalet – ~1:35
Bike Map: 485650
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