French reflections

After forty years of cycling I can confidently assert there are only two ways of riding a bike: in the company of friends, or solo.

The former is more popular, and rightly so – for riding with companions provides encouragement, support, a touch of good-natured competition – it’s what the old cycling journals used to call ‘fellowship’. For the vast majority of riding, and unless you’re an anti-socialite,  it's the best option.

So with typical perversity, on my holiday this summer I chose the second option: in part from necessity (no one else would contemplate peddling in 30 degree heat), but also because I wanted to ride alone.

A few days after arriving in the Alps I climbed the Col de Joux-Verte, riding from St Jean d’Aulps.  The road reaches 1760 meters - every one of them in shrivelling heat; every one an effort of will.  On the steeper sections, I was down to 4 miles an hour – and for the first time I can remember, I didn’t overtake a single rider. I lost count of those who left me in their wake.

It didn’t matter.

Some say the pleasure in riding solo is that it takes the pressure off – there’s no need to set a pace or keep up with the group.  Others like the flexibility – with no fixed schedule, you can stop and deviate at your whim.

There's truth in both these perspectives – but to me the attraction of riding alone is more cerebral than physical.  For in a lifetime of outdoor activities, I have found no better way to access to the introspective pleasure of self-reflection, primed by a landscape that requires physical effort.   

To cycle the high cols requires that you are either super-fit (and there’s plenty of testosterone on two wheels to remind you of what’s possible) - or stoic to a level which embraces the difficulty, less as physical challenge, and more as philosophic opportunity.

I tend to the latter approach!

Which is just as well, because the truth is, riding the cols hurts – a lot.  

And yet the odd thing is, I remember those few hours on the bike more than any other on our holiday:  the pull on my calves as the road steepened; the smell of the pines and the cool of their shade; the lake at Montriond and the speedometer hitting 40 mph.  It’s not pain that I remember – it’s delight.  And when it was all over, I remember yearning for more.

Tomorrow I'm off on another challenge - travelling to Paris then peddling back home. It’s the third year I’ve ridden for charity, and this time I’ve again raised money for the National Autism Society.  I’ll not be alone though – I’m riding with twenty colleagues who’ve also supported good causes. In three years we’ve raised over £100,000, so the pain seems worth it.  

I have no doubt it will hurt again – frankly, I’m out of shape and practice. But I know I'll get through. And if I drop off the back and find myself alone… well, that’s almost a bonus. I've promised to write the blog of the trip - and who knows, if I spend enough time thinking, I might even write a little more on here, when I get back.

Wish me luck.