Hitting out hard on the Aravis

Much like the Tour’s general classification and polka dot jersey hopefuls, who will in likelihood use the stage to try a final attack to advance their positions, I chose to go hard, early – against most sportive advice. My rationale? The weather had become very warm over the days leading up to the event, with temperatures in the low-thirties, and that, teamed with the higher-than-usual humidity experienced by much of France this summer, meant being on the course in the middle of the afternoon didn’t appeal. Any advantage gained by saving myself for the tough Joux Plane would be undone by the extra time spent in the sun, I thought.

And so it was; rolling out with the rest of the pen at 7:35 in the morning, I focused on warming myself up for the first climb of the day, spinning my legs under the early morning blue sky. 16km down the road, and we hit the climb like a train. At seven per cent, and 6.7km in length. the Aravis is by no means easy, but on this course much more a hors d’oeuvre than anything else. So I ride at a steady tempo, making the most of the cool morning air as the pack bunches up.

Slower riders on the right, overtakers on the left – I stick to the left, getting sucked along by the inertia of the 3,000-odd riders ahead of me all forging a path over the mountain. As I’m sure most found, you can’t really go for it at this stage – the closed roads are chocker with cyclists this early in the day, before it’s really begun to string out; you just make the best of the space you have. Still, the road winds up to the summit, past towns with boulangeries baking the morning’s baguettes and croissants, and I try my hardest to ignore the wafting smells as we roll by.

It seems I’m not the only one with an idea to push on. As one of the timed segments, the Colombière becomes a frantic scramble for space, as riders try to push on while others try to keep their pace. You need to keep your wits about you, and it’s a real challenge as a select few aim for gaps that really don’t exist. Time to get my elbows out!

Down the other side, and the dangerous side of road cycling rears it’s head. It’s a wonderful descent: sweeping, technical, and fast. But, there are always those who take corners simply too hot and overestimate their talent, hitting the ground at over 60km/h. In the event, I count four ambulances, including one poor soul being airlifted to hospital. It’s a stark reminder of the hazards the mountains can present.

That average speed, that I’d worked harder than I should to establish, doesn’t last long, however. A left turn at the base of the climb, and the gradient hits hard. Immediately, I’m in my smallest gear (36-28t), grinding up as the 100km previously covered hits home. Hard.

Rising up to the highest point of the route (1,691m altitude), the steepest climb of the day, averaging a thigh-stinging 8.5 per cent, is an unrelenting challenge. It never gives up, constantly pitching up and allowing precious little respite. Many rest by the roadside in one of the very few patches of shade, paying not only for their optimistic efforts earlier in the day, but also faltering in the stifling, still midday heat. Spectators are dotted along the route, too, some with hosepipes on tap, spraying riders in cool, refreshing elixir as they struggle by. I wonder if official ‘shower zones’ should be a thing?

The summit becomes a virtual finish line for me, gradually getting nearer as I focus my determined gaze on the road in front. No-one’s racing now, despite the climb being timed. It’s about survival; about making it to the finish in one piece.

And eventually, that line arrives – with a most welcome water stop to boot. But, horror of horrors, that’s not the end. In a fitting demonstration of ASO’s sense of humour, there’s another uncategorised rise to go – the summit of the Col du Ranfolly. It’s not long, barely a kilometre after a quick dip, but it’s a final test for legs that cried enough long ago.

Over the top, and the phrase “it’s all downhill from here” is completely apt. Ironically, the energy comes back in floods – where was that when I needed it – rising out out of the saddle to accelerate out of bends as the road winds down to the ski town of Morzine. It’s here that the final race for the Tour’s yellow jersey will be on ahead of the finale in Paris, but I can really enjoy the sensations, knowing that the day’s real efforts are done. The finish beckons – as well as the real reward: a pasta party and a cold shower.

Merci, ASO, I’ll see you next year.