Alps Divided by Two

Alps Divide 2024 - The pie was more than enough for two

I'd been looking for a 'statement ride' in the year I turned 60. Before she went travelling, Kate had introduced me to this thing called the Silk Road Mountain race. I'd foolishly said I'd be up for it, without thinking for a minute of the logistics of a month away. Why? Well let's charitably agree that I like a challenge, but this one was just not practical. 

Once I'd reneged on that pledge, Kate found a new Ultra, The Alps Divide. For those not familiar with the lexicon, the word 'Divide' signifies a race/ not race of eye-watering proportions, starting in one far flung place and ending up in another, via some significant obstacles, over a prolonged distance. This one looked mouth-watering, apparently gravel-bike friendly and through the heart of the stunning mountains of the Alps, from Menton on the Mediterranean coast to Thonon-les-Bains on the shores of Lac Leman. 

The description of the ride as 'a big piece of pie' came from Kate's coach, Peta, an experienced ultra-rider and super-nice person whose guidance was invaluable throughout the event. We knew we'd chosen a large slice of pie, but we had no idea quite how large. 

Big lorry

Following a pre-dawn start and a lift to Gatwick in a hilariously massive lorry, we arrived in Menton on the Friday afternoon in time to register and went through the usual preamble and faffing with kit; pre-match nerves, but with a definite sense of anticipation. 

Saturday started for me with a bracing swim in the shimmering dawn sea, followed by a

breakfast of freshly baked croissants and coffee, with the feeling very much one of the calm before the storm. Figuratively, but literally too as it turned out. Eventually, it was time to make our way to the start and luckily, we were early because we had both failed to read the instructions and made a wrong assumption about where it would be. It wasn't to be our last mistake. 

A police escort helped us out of Menton at 4.00pm on Saturday in 30-degree heat and we finished, completely broken, in Briancon some 5 and a bit days later. 400km shy of the official finish in Thonon. Chastened, in a bit of a state of shock, tired to the bone, but alive. 

Back to that first evening. We wound up part of the Col de Madone before heading off the road onto some very rideable gravel, the climb continuing up and up and then tilting the other way allowing gravity to usher us down to the Col de Braus, a road climb familiar to anyone who has ridden out of Nice. There were nearly 100 of us at the start, with the huge majority looking younger and thinner than me. Even on the first climb, the group spread out and already, the heavy bikes and hot weather were having an effect. We were carrying tents and lots of spare clothes and tools, so the total loaded weight of the bikes was around 30kg. Anything less, and you are taking risks in an environment that can be fatally hostile. Our plan was to ride until about 1.00 am and get to a small hotel for some quick sleep. Like most of our predictions about where we would be, when, this proved hopelessly optimistic. 

The weather quickly showed us who was in charge with some heavy showers as we stopped to replenish water bottles at a fountain in Sospel. This was our first chance to chat with some of our fellow riders, and by now we were in amongst many who we would keep seeing at points over the following days. A little later, we detoured slightly to wolf down a pizza in a pretty medieval village called Airole, where the proprietor made us promise to let him know we'd made it to the finish.  Off we went, with some benign downhill helping with pizza digestion, until the terrain weighed in with some Hogtrough-steep road climbs and some unrideable sections of 'gravel' that would make Roubaix cobbles blush at their inadequacy. One section had been highlighted in the organiser's notes as being very rough going and boy was it. We were on gravel bikes - essentially road bikes with more gears and fatter tyres. Painfully inadequate for this terrain, as were our still relatively newly acquired off-road credentials. We progressed very slowly and it was 4.00am before we arrived at the hotel in Pigna, a little shell-shocked. We'd ridden for 12 hours, managed 103 km and a little over 3000m of climbing, a good slice of it off-road and with fully laden bikes. I tried not to think how this effort looked against the vastness of the course that still lay ahead, a further 900km and 29k meters. That's OK, we're still ultras, still in the game. A bit damp, dirty and tired, but nothing a good 4 hour sleep would not resolve.  

We enjoyed a slightly delayed start, but we were on the road again at 8.00am, getting coffee and croissants in a cafe opposite. We set off as the rain started. A gentle road climb up the valley until we hit the turning up towards the Refugio Allvenna and then onto the legendary salt road. That's when the rain really kicked in. Sometimes just heavy, at others biblical. 3 hours later, we crouched under some shelter and munched on a sandwich, not realising we were just yards from the refugio that would become home for the next 12 hours.  Fellow divider, Webster enlightened us, and we joined a good sized group dodging the rain. Food, hearth, beds, even a drop or three of wine whilst outside the storm did its best. 

We considered giving it a go, but we were just below 2000 meters, and before us was 10 hours of the salt road, most of it well above 2000m. Tough in benign conditions, downright dangerous in a storm. Our plan was to sleep the afternoon away and leave at 1.30am to try to make up time. 

Off we set, the night now clear and dry, with a sky full of stars. A couple of other riders with a similar plan were up ahead, their lights dotting the way ahead. Our first encounters with the Patou, fierce white dogs on guard for their  flocks of sheep, were a bit scary. Scottish Becky and Belgian Lissa riding solo sometimes waited for us to provide strength in numbers. Then came the dawn, reminding us why we signed up. The power of nature's beauty to fire the soul is nowhere stronger than on these desolate mountains. The tracks wound up and around for mile after mile until we eventually arrived at the Refugio Don Barbera, where we got outside a couple of pints of coffee and some brownies. We'd already done a big ride and it was just breakfast time. We chatted to some over-nighters who had seen some of our fellow dividers the night before, by now long gone in the morning sunshine. 

Thereafter, the ride was not too hard, but it did go on. Some sections we walked, most we rode. The views all around us were stunning  and, in the bright sunshine, we enjoyed some of the best riding we'd done so far. A lot of riding later, including a hellish descent, where my handlebars decided to slip around so I was slammed in a ridiculous aero position, until I recognised my pig-headed refusal to stop to adjust them and pulled over, we found ourselves in Tende  along with a number of fellow dividers for a late lunch and the end of Stage 1. 207km and 6550m in all and roughly the same again as we'd done on that first night. 

By this point, we were more than a little concerned about our ability to make the first checkpoint in time. We were realistic from the start about our ability to finish this thing, but the first checkpoint was surely in our reach? The 12 hours hunkered down in the refugio had really hurt us, and we had no option but to just press on and hope. Stage 2 was another 191 km and 5780 m of climbing, and we were tiring after a day that was already 14 hours long.  

Just keep moving. The next section started with a long downhill, following the dramatic gorge carved by the La Roya river. We stopped at a petrol station to refuel before another long, long climb. I say refuel, because that's all it is. Try to consume as many calories as you can get down, in any weird combination that works. Just buy handful of any old garbage and push it all in. The climb was not too bad, but by 9.15, still 4kms from the top, the fatigue from 20 hours on the go dictated that the tents came out, and we got our heads down for a few hours. A few riders passed us, with Gabi calling out a greeting as she went on her way. By 5.30am, we were back on the go, with a testing pull up to the first peak of the day. These climbs are so different from most of the ones we get in the UK. So long and relentless, you have got to ride at your own pace and play mind games with yourself to let the time pass as you tick off the meters and kilometers. As the height in meters ticked past familiar dates, I tried to remember key events. 1900, year my grandad was born, 1914, WW1. 1945, WWII ends. 1964, I arrive on the scene. 1988 married. And so on. You do have to think and time to forget. Not a moment did I spend thinking about work.

With the first climb of the day done, we descended into La Bollene Vesubie for breakfast, where we bumped into Martin. I'd played a small game at the start where I tried to spot anyone older or fatter than me. I'd already bumped into a plump dutchman, and at breakfast, there was 67 year old Martin from Worksop munching fresh croissants. With another resupply needed, we headed to Carrefour, where Kate went shopping whilst I tried some maintenance on my failing front brake. Just seconds later, I'd managed to transform a working but noisy brake into a mere deadweight by somehow emptying all of my brake fluid. Still, we are ultras, and this sort of set-back is welcome as it confirms our hard-core credentials! I'm not ashamed to admit I was super-relieved to stumble on one of the finest and nicest bike mechanics in France in St Martin Vesubie, who put it right. 

The second climb, a longish but not too steep drag up the road towards the Pic de Colmiane, turned into manageable gravel at the top and then took us down through a ski resort. One particularly sketchy piece of descent had Kate walking whilst I slightly unwisely gave it a go. Canadian Benjamin, we discovered later, had come a cropper here and ended up with a nasty case of concussion. Sometimes, it's not worth the risk.

Back on the road and a long grind up past Isola and inexorably towards the tallest peak in the region, the legendary Bonnette, it's reputation as a Tour classic confirmed by the road signs and spray painted "Pogi allez' along the way.

I'm not going to go into detail here or make too much of it, but I'll just mention two of the principal sources of discomfort on the bike. Bear in mind the number of hours we'd been perched on a bike saddle, a small and unforgiving piece of hardened leather, constantly pounding against a small and office-chair softened slice of backside. This meant a lot of shifting around trying to relieve the numbness and avoid the onset of proper saddle sores. Secondly, wrists and hands. The weight not borne by legs and backside goes down through though arms and into the handle bars. On a gravel bike, there is no suspension and, although the fatter tyres help a bit, the miles and miles of banging into rocks and potholes was beginning to tell. Oddly, both of these came to the fore for me as we plodded up the main road to St Etienne de Tinee. We arrived in the late afternoon, stupidly late and bumped into a couple of other riders who'd abandoned. It struck us that however well you prepare, and these guys were premier league to our EFL League 2, there are so many variables that can stop you. One had his front suspension fail. The other had severe carpel tunnel syndrome. We didn't mention that we had no suspension or that I'd broken my wrist just weeks earlier, and we went on our way, full of concern for the climb and descent ahead of us. 

All we had to do was go up and down the Col de Bonnette by 7.00am the following morning to avoid being timed out at the first checkpoint. As the hours ticked by and the meters crawled up and up, the feeling of utter exhaustion gradually seeped into every fibre of my being. When riding, every pedal stroke felt like the last one possible, and every stride when we walked was a struggle. The route took us in a cruel loop, up to the magnificent views from the 2800m peak of the Bonnette. I have to assume the views were magnificent, because we saw fuck-all bar the few meters illuminated by our lights. We also experienced for the first time the ferocity of mountain top alpine temperatures, garnished with a bone-aching wind chill factor.

 With our down jackets on and our hearts filled with relief, we flew down towards the refugio and the first checkpoint. I must have got some dust in my eyes in the way down because they would not stop leaking as we pulled into the most welcome rest. Race organiser Katie-Jane waited patiently as Kate and I hugged in relief and with me sobbing like a child. I don't know, I just do! Since breaking camp this morning, we had been on the go for 21 hours and we'd ridden 150km with 4240m of climbing. In the last 48 hours, we'd cycled 40 of them. I'm not ashamed to say I'd been closer to the physical edge at any time. Marmotte, Etape, LBL, Ironman. You can all take a step back because you always had an easy bail out, marshals, medical and mechanical help. We had Patou, wolves, mountains and more fucking mountains and a gnawing dread of anything failing because there is no safety net. As for being under-biked, there is not yet a bike invented that could make this ride easy and if there was, I would not have the skill and fitness to do it justice, but we'd got the first stamp on our Brevet card. The reality, though, was that this effort had almost finished us. This is one big pie, even if it's shared.

Somehow, checkpoint 1 had become the goal. The organisers, acknowledging the hideous conditions, had shifted the deadline, allowing us to stay in the game, but after such an epic 2 days, neither of us had any fight left. Partly from a still deep sleep deficit, partly because we had not eaten a square meal in days, and mostly because we'd done so much riding and walking (there was a fair bit of pushing!) we needed an easy day to recover physically and mentally. We started later, stopped for a decent breakfast and with just 8 hours of riding and 2 moderate climbs, we pretty much confirmed that we were not going to make CP2, but we were still in the race. The plan was to get a decent night's sleep and a proper feed in Embrun and set off early for another big day and see where that took us. One day at a time. Like a boxer who's taken a hell of a beating in the opening rounds, still in the fight but not willing to quit without the knockout blow. The local bakery in Embrun opened at 6.30, and we loaded up on freshly baked croissants and coffee before getting on our way. The Alps Divide website had promised some nice gravel, and this day delivered.  A relatively benign, but nonetheless testing climb to about 2400m and  through the ski resort of Risoul.

We earned the dreamy descent in bright sunshine, which was capped with a baguette from this morning's bakery at a deserted skiing rest point. Deserted except for an unusually brave Marmotte. 

Then it was on to the climb we'd been avoiding thinking about too much. The Col des Ayes. Described by a professional as 'unrideable,' we did wonder how bad it could be. It started well enough with a drag up the road towards Izoard, one of the alpine giants frequently included in the Tour. Bits of it vaguely familiar from my first Etape ride back in 2005 on a lightweight carbon road bike. 

We turned up into the big mountains at Chateau Queras, refilling bottles and girding loins. The pleasantly warm afternoon was giving way to a chilly and breezy evening as we plodded up the early slopes. The first 800m of climbing were OK, mostly ridden and then there was a bit of down before the final 1000m up. On the down, extra layers went on as the chilly evening gave way to bitterly cold night, and then we climbed. 

The first few kilometers were steep, the next few steeper still and then it all went to shit. With 400m still to gain in just 2km, the gravel track gave way to surely the narrowest,  rockiest path that has ever featured in a gravel bike ride.  Every step became a trial, an all-body workout, wrestling the overweight bike up and over the rocks. Kate had had her meltdown the day before, sheer fatigue reducing her to tears. This time, it was my turn. I choose rage in these situations. Railing at the mountain, the weather, the rocks. Those bloody rocks. One had me on the floor on top of the bike and I'd had enough. I picked up a chunky stone, hurled it at the rock and gave it a volley of high volume, double barrelled swearing, leaving it in no doubt at my displeasure. Still it went on. And on and on some more. My god did it go on. Eventually, we did make it over the ridge, but by now, it was bitterly cold. I already had every item of clothing with me on, including a hooded down jacket, and still the wind tore into me. With hands and feet numb, we started to stumble downwards towards Briancon. Some 18 hours after leaving Embrun, we rolled painfully to a stop outside the hotel we'd booked the afternoon before. We had to rouse the owner to let us in, and were treated to his down to earth assessment of what we'd just done. Fair to say we did not get unqualified admiration. Mad. Stupid. Dangerous. My French isn't great these days, but that much I got and couldn't help but agree. We agreed to defer decisions on what next until the morning. Well, later in the morning as it was already 1.30am. I knew in my heart that we were done. I'm reasonably OK with putting myself through the mill, and my ride buddy is made from  the same stuff, but there is only so much you can put yourself through. Last night, I knew I'd reached that point. 

Now we're in an expensively hired taxi van, taking us back through the remaining Alps towards the finish line in Thonon les Bains, and I have no regrets. Maybe I could have trained harder. Paul Mill has coached me and, whilst I'll be the first to admit I haven't been able to stick 100% to his plan, he's been patient, encouraging and effective. I've definitely got much, much fitter than I was. It would certainly have been easier if I hadn't cracked my wrist 3 weeks before the event, but there was always a vanishingly slim chance I'd finish this thing. The negatives, I can't really think of any. Hardships, yes, and that's part of the point. The positives? Riding with Kate has given me a huge amount of pleasure over the years and she is a perfect foil for me on these rides.

Lots of people mistake us for partners, and in a sense, we are, but not that way. We just fit in these mad events.  She's the more sensible, the more danger averse. But she's also often the stronger one. She didn't lose it on that last climb like I did. Then, there were the others on the ride. We bonded with a group, holed up in that first refugio as the storm raged, and every time we saw or heard from any of them, we got a huge lift. Then there was the ride itself. The sheer natural beauty of the mountains and the privileged access we were able to gain to areas that few ever see was a constant visual feast. And, of course, those same mountains produced the challenge that we went for. The challenge of propelling a slightly overweight and ageing body up and over some of the most testing passes in Europe in conditions not always easy. That was what it was all about. I told Kate I was looking for a 'statement' ride in the year of my 60th. I've been toying with what the statement really is. One might cruelly be. 'Not fit enough, too old, too fat. What were you thinking of' Another might be 'What an achievement, you must be mad!'

I'm not sure that it really was a statement, though. Or at least it was just me saying to myself that there are still challenges out there that get me going. That just because I am 60 doesn't mean that things have to get easier. That there are people out there who finish these things and are truly phenomenal athletes and it doesn't matter if I don't quite match up to them because the point of the race is to run your own one. Or, in my case, one with my best buddy. I'm already looking forward to the next one, though it might be a more modest challenge for now, I think.

I'm now back in London, physically whole again and getting there mentally. Re-reading this still makes me tearful. I don't know why, but it has happened to me before and I think it's because the effort and pain gets bottled up and once it's done, I have no defences left and the slightest thing sets me off. Over the last couple of days as we went to the finish and then journeyed home, Kate and I have talked a lot about the ride. Not necessarily what went wrong, but what we might do to get a different outcome. She's much harder on herself that me. We have one big regret. Two of the biggest peaks we climbed, Col de Bonnette and Col des Ayes, were at night. We saw nothing. The first, we wouldn't have changed, because we wanted to make the checkpoint. But Ayes was dangerous,  a twisted ankle away from a very bad outcome and for what? We knew by this stage the finish was beyond us, so why not wait for the morning? 

Strava says I rode 588.9km, did 16,471m of climbing in a total moving time of 61.5 hours. 

Kate is also very literal. The other thing we have to do is ride faster. Right. Best clean the bike and get training.