It was the perfect French breakfast. A lump of cheese, a hunk of bread, coffee and a glass of juice on a sunny morning in the square. I chatted to two Norwegian cyclists and pulled out my map for us to pore over, before sending them on their way to the Col de la Croix du Fer. I tried to pay but found out it was cash only, then got sent to a cash machine that didn’t work and eventually managed to scrape together enough coins to avoid an hour of washing up. Robert Miles’ Children came through on the cafe speakers and immediately took me back to Plainmoor. It was a quiet half an hour, unhurried, nostalgic.

My plans for today had reset after Graeme’s overnight illness. While he got a taxi with his bike and most of my baggage, I was on my own. Just getting to St-Jean-La-Maurienne had been a victory of sorts, and I missed the chat and mutual encouragent. Alone, my fear of the busy roads had driven me to a side route away from the incessant trucks that pounded the main road. Today was all about my ride now, but my unshared anxiety felt raw.

I delayed as much as I could, but eventually had to ride, and found myself climbing a beautiful route to Montricher and then on to the Col d’Albanne. This was not the usual route to Valloire and Galibier, but had been recommended to me in a guidebook. The climbing was steep but straightforward and almost traffic-free, and at the top I emerged into a beautiful flower-lined pass of almost improbable charm. A botanist was studying flowers alongside the road; we smiled and greeted one another, admiring our surroundings in our own ways. The sun shone warmly and the world seemed perfect in this quiet little pass.

From here my guidebook had told me about a 4km forest trail that led to Valloire, and it took me a while to find out. A couple of friendly French hikers were resting at the start of the most likely route, and they helped me to try to find the right path. Both their suggestions ended up as dead ends, and without any other options I headed down the trail.

This went well at first and I bumped along, but soon reached a 100m section where avalanches had blocked the path. Not a problem in my hiking boots, but with a road bike, clears and baggage it was dangerous. A slip could have sent me flying, cracked an ankle or worse. I moved as slowly and carefully as I could but this involved removing the panniers for the worst bits, and being safe cost me an hour of time. Still, Valloire was just ahead.

It was closed. Despite throngs of cyclists, there was only one cafe-bar open, and they were raking it in. There was not even a supermarket, and I’d hoped to top up with juice and snacks. Never mind. Time was now pressing and I needed to get on.

The first stretch of road out of Valloire is steep but soon settles into a wide valley flanked by mountains at a low gradient, and the world whizzes by. There is a sense of dead-end about it all though, and after a few kilometres the road begins to rise. For the last 12-13km it’s a solid 8% gradient with no respite, and Galibier makes you fight for every metre. There are long straight stretches and switchbacks at all scales, but not even a few metres of shallow gradient or flat. Taking the outside of curves was the only chance to buy the tiniest bit of relief.

The trees are soon long gone and scree takes over. Snow patches start to appear. Passing cyclists seem to be increasingly slim and lever-like, and you start to feel part of a select group who made it this far. The air was still warm and it was not until 2000m that I needed another layer. There were still 7km to and my rough maths told me that it wasn’t going to ease right to the top. My gearing barely let me reach down for a drink or sweets but I was still going well. I passed the bar and tunnel 2km from top and emerged into a final world of snow and struggle.

The last kilometre was the worst: marked as 20% gradient it’s more like 500m at a hellish 12-13% followed by an easier bit after the final corner.

On the final few metres the wind whips over the col. There’s no space or time to commemorate the moment. A monument faces a small car park with extraordinary views on either direction, and even Mont Blanc shows why it’s so named. A Dutch guy took my photo in front of the monument and nearly made me burst into tears by asking if I was ok. After only a few minutes I was layered up and ready for the descent.

Descending is painful and cold; on your back, on your fingers, mercilessly in your shoulders. I stopped regularly on my way down to the Col du Lautaret – still over 2000m – where I got stuck into a litre of San Pellegino and a beer and reflected on an amazing ride.