La Marmotte

The morning chill prickled my shoulders. It was early July, but in the shadows of the terraced stores and apartments, the air was still crisp. Dance music throbbed in my ears, as if coaxing the sleepy village to life. The kind of tunes that breathe life into my soul. That make me want to get up and dance, to move, to throw on a pair of runners and run. I tapped my hand against my thigh and pushed closer to the barriers as the second start wave of cyclists trickled toward the starting arch.

I couldn’t help but cheer as a river of bikes began to flood past, riders deep in concentration . . . reflection . . . maybe even fear. Some fiddled with Garmins, others focussed stone-faced ahead and some pushed themselves up off the handle bars, arms raised in command of well-deserved cheers. I thumped the barriers in time with Calvin Harris and caught their eyes. I hoped my gaze screamed: “You’re amazing!” Young people, fit and experienced on carbon Cervelos. Old people on hybrids that had seen better days. Women, lost in the sea of men. My hands slapped together harder. Tall people. Big people. Fat people. Every rider was an inspiration, because if I’ve learnt anything, it’s that gravity is cliquey when it comes to friends.

The Marmotte is one of the most popular Grand Fondos in Europe with almost 7,500 participants from around the world each year. The course is 174 km long, which in itself is epic, save for the 5,180 vertical meters of climbing. Commencing in Le Bourg d’Oisans in the French Alps, it climbs the Col du Glandon, Col du Telegraphe and Col du Galibier, before descending back into Bourg d’Oisans for the final climb to the finish; Alpe d’Huez . A year earlier, as I struggled to ride over a freeway overpass, I would’ve been in awe of these people. But after two months riding up mountain after mountain, my empathy for their dedication, motivation and stamina blew me away. My own epic efforts didn’t come close.

And while a year ago I would have written the event off as something beyond what I could ever achieve, the vibe intoxicated me . . . and I began to think . . . maybe, just maybe.

It wasn’t a week later that cycling chewed me up and spat me out. The enjoyment drained away like water from a dirty tub. I wedged my front wheel against a wall, a discreet distance from my friends, slumped over the handle bars and sobbed. I’d just clung to Colby’s wheel for forty-five minutes as we swallowed up lines of mums, dads and kids, all lost in anticipation of one of the most iconic stages of the Tour de France: the Col du Tourmalet. Only I no longer cared about the Col du Tourmalet, or the Tour de France. I didn’t even care about my bike. I’d climbed Alpe d’Huez, Mont Ventoux and Stelvio – twice. Two months, 24 mountains, 60,000 vertical m and no meltdown. But I was tired, sore and the leap from river loops to mountain passes had destroyed me . . . I just couldn’t face another mountain.

Each time I looked at my bike in the months to follow, a knot formed in my stomach. Romantic visions of snow-capped mountains and majestic summits still sang in my head, but my body cringed. I’d burnt myself out . . . before we’d even hit the peak of summer. On the rare day I struck the delicate balance between headspace, positive company and plenty of rest, I struggled my way up a couple more Cols. But it wasn’t the same. And my body hated me for it. From the jaded beauty of the Alps to the short sharp ‘cliffs’ of northern Spain, I cursed the climbs. Gravity was not my friend.

It wasn’t until the temperature dropped (and my bike started to gather dust) that I gave that cool morning in July a second thought. I’d slung my feet up on the coffee table, pulled my hoodie tighter around my neck and reached for a second piece of chocolate. Gravity was not impressed. The days were getting shorter, the weather unpredictable and I wanted nothing more than to curl up and hibernate. But although I’d revelled in the the brief reprieve offered by the cooler weather, this all had the potential to end badly. We’d anticipated winter and loathed it. We’d endured the devastating aftermath of too much mulled wine and endless Bratwurst, and we couldn’t let it happen again. We needed a winter survival plan, an ‘indoor’ training substitute . . . and one big incentive to get out of bed on those dark, freezing mornings to train . . .

. . . maybe . . . just maybe. The intoxicating vibe flickered. Only I’d struggled to make it to the top of the Col du Galibier alone this year, and I never had made it up the Glandon. Maybe . . . the Marmotte was a stupid idea.

Pre-registration hadn’t even opened when we tore our shiny new trainer and targeted training plans from their boxes, but the doubt in my mind faded to a whisper. It was power numbers, targeted intervals and a persistent butt-ache that slowly reignited a flicker of bike-passion. It had been two years since I’d properly trained for anything, and I missed it. I missed the structure and the targeted formula for success. The discipline, the hurt and the motivation that came with incremental improvement. But most of all, I missed the confidence. The knowledge that I’d done the work and I would make it to the top. That my body was unlikely to break in the process.

When Marmotte tickets went on sale yesterday, my hesitation was gone. Last year I doubted I could make it into the Perth Hills . . . but I did. This year, I feared the mountains . . . still I made it every summit, one by one. So next year I will be among that river of cyclists, trickling to under the starting arch . . . and with a bit of hard work between now and then, I’ll still be with them at the top of Alpe d’Huez.