200km, 1451m climbing; 11 hours 30 minutes (moving 9h30), average speed 21km/h
Not for the first time in my life, I woke up in the same spot where I’d finished a beer just a few hours before. The seats in the bar of the Brittany Ferries’ Mont St Michel turned out to be super comfortable, and when the bar quietened it made more sense to just turn myself horizontal rather than to evict myself to a less comfortable reserved seat. Of course, this meant that I had to wait until closing time before I bedded down for the night, but I was more than happy with this arrangement.
Slightly fuzzy, I woke at 6am, found myself a coffee and waited to dock at Ouistreham. I knew there would be a long day ahead, but I didn’t know how far at this stage. It was 120km to meet Graeme at Mortain, where the Tour de France would pass through on the penultimate climb of the day, and another 110km to the holiday home he had booked. We planned to just see how the day went, and if we needed a lift for the last few kilometres then that would be fine.
I was on the road 45 minutes later, one of the first off the ferry and through customs, and racing along the cycle route to Caen. The river Orne ends here at the coast, a much-modified waterway, really a concrete-walled canal rather than a river. The views were mostly of light industry and waste management yards, but the sun was at my back, the surface true and flat, and I made good progress. I passed through Caen where Remco Evanepoel had won the individual time trial the day before, and was thrilled to see my first bits of the Tour in the flesh. Yellow flags adorned the river, some marquees were still up around the finish, and I even almost ran over someone wearing a Tour de France lanyard. It may have been flotsam and jetsam, but it gave me a great sense of anticipation.
After Caen, the Orne valley continues and becomes more scenic as you move into the region known as the Suisse Normande. Calling it alpine would require some mental gymnastics, but there were trees, rocks and a river, and it was all very bucolic and relaxing. I was making good time and feeling fantastic. I texted a good morning to the family, sent a voice note to my mum and took an improbable number of selfies while cruising along the flat, straight tarmac. It was warm, the sky was blue and my late night was a distant memory.
All too soon I passed 50km and it was time to hit the first climb of the day. I’d passed a few Tour-y bits, such as signposts from the cycle route to viewing points, and a few early caravans while crossing main roads, but now I was going to climb the category three Côte de la Rançonnière, starting a full four hours before the riders were due to arrive. I hoped I would get to the top before they did.
I’ve watched the climb back on TV and I think I did pretty well. It’s a 2.2km climb with an average gradient of 8%, but like most there are steeper and shallower sections. It felt hard but not unmanageable; I got into a rhythm and a low gear and tried to save energy as best I could. By the roadside, people were already waiting for the Tour to come through and some offered encouragement, usually by shouting allez, allez, allez! My standard reply was a ‘je ne regrette rien!’ which usually got a smile at least. One man offered me his beer and I complimented him on his choice (a La Goudale Ambrée, which would have gone down perfectly). There was a real buzz and a celebratory atmosphere in the air. A younger cyclist in a polka dot top caught me on the last steep part, and after we exchanged ‘allez’s he said ‘come on, let’s go’ and we sprinted together for the top. I passed under the KOM banner and that was it; my first official TdF climb live. I was ecstatic. I asked someone to take a photo of me at the top but they did such a bad job, I had this one taken further on where the hill levels out instead.
From here there was a wonderful fast descent back to the river, and a meander through the valley below to Pont d’Ouilly where I stopped in the buzzing little village for a coffee and a small beer. It was starting to warm up, and it would get hotter as the morning wore on.
I had done almost 70km in three hours at this point. For me, that’s a decent pace, especially considering the climb. I had only another 45km to go to Mortain and my meet-up with Graeme, but pretty much all of it was gently uphill. It would take me another three hours, in the hottest part of the day. At first I went well, but the heat was dehydrating me and last night’s beer was – how can we put this nicely – being digested in sudden, explosive bursts, dehydrating me further. I had to stop a couple of times at cafes to use the bathroom; at each one I had a coffee (which didn’t help with the digestion or the hydration) and drank and refilled as much water as possible. But the road now seemed to be against me too; I suffered a long diversion around a closed road at Montsecret, and after Tinchebray the road was like a rollercoaster. On some of the shorter climbs I had to stop because I had no legs. I ran short of water and my planned cafe at Le Fresne-Poret was closed. I had no choice but to do the last 10km in midday heat without fluids.
I got to 3km from Mortain and the road was closed for the Tour. The gendarme told me that I couldn’t go further on the bike but I could walk if I kept to the right. I asked if there was a way around and he said no, so I started walking (it turned out later, actually, that there was a shorter route on a road that was open). It took me 20 minutes on a baking hot road before I could finally get back on the bike, and it finished me off. Excited, but too hot, and by now dehydrated.
I got into Mortain, messaged Graeme who had had similar issues on the other side of town, found him on the main street and immediately asked him to get me some cold water from the shop. I had spots in front of my eyes and was starting to feel dizzy with heatstroke. I sat in the shade, necked two litres of water, went back into the shop for a coke and a sprite, and only after that was I able to consider a beer. Unheard of. Another half an hour and I might have been in real trouble.
As it was we were just in time to see the caravan go through. Ahead of the Tour, this panoply of sponsors vehicles passes along the route, throwing hats, chicken costumes and samples of pasta and mayonnaise into the enthusiastic crowd, who squabble for each morsel like hungry piranhas savaging a steak. People jostle for the best position and guard their patch against all comers. Of course, it’s all for the kids; but there’s nothing quite like being the first to grab a yellow cap or snatching an Orangina from the hand of a passing lady aboard a bottle-shaped van. When the sponsors come calling, nobody is above scrabbling in the dirt for a complimentary novelty neck cushion.
After the caravan, all was calm. We went to grab a hot dog and a beer and took our place in the shade once more. Then the five minute warning of the Tour’s arrival; we retook our places on the ramp, and listened as the riders were roared up the hill into town. It’s a climb we did before on our first day of riding in France, short and sharp, and the riders sped up it. First the breakaway, led by Simon Yates, and a couple of minutes afterwards the rest of the peloton. It was magnificent, brief, and incredibly exciting.
And then what? All goes quiet. The Tour has passed. A few minutes to take it all in, then everyone starts to head home. We still had some riding to do.
First we followed the voie verte, broadly downhill, all the way down to Ducey-les-Chéris. The gravel surface took a little effort, but we made good time and after hitting my 150km for the day (and Graeme’s 100) we decided a beer was in order. The first pint was tart, but in my stumbling French I explained the problem and got a fresh one from a new keg. Result. And then on to the coast, the sun getting low in the sky, the light on the bay of Mont St Michel soft and beautiful. As my legs flagged, Graeme hit the front and dragged me along for a few kilometre like the hero he is. Seven years ago, we stopped here and had a great photo taken on the boardwalk, and we recreated the photo as we passed. Sadly, for the second time that day, our choice of photographer was poor, but the selfie we took instead came close to the original. I was even wearing the same jersey:
We had just 22km to go now to meet Jack and the car at La Boussac. I was ok at first but started to crawl after we crossed the motorway, and as I slowed the finish time got further and further away. With about 8km to go I had a word with myself, remembered my mantra of ‘finish strong’, and gave it everything I got. We arrived in town with me on 198km and, having only ridden 200km once before, I rode up to a mast 1km out of town while we waited for Jack to arrive. Just as I reached the milestone, I got chased by a dog and had to summon my last energy for a sprint finish. What a day. I’d been on the road for eleven and a half hours, and at last it was time for cider and pizza.
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