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Part II. The Col du Croix de Fer

Bring a jacket, plenty of money, and a triple chainring, or at the very least a 27t cog (Shimano) or a 29t cog (Campagnolo). Secretly proud that a "2" sticker was affixed to my road racing license a couple of years ago, and further buoyed by the fact that I've squeezed in some reasonably big mileage since the birth of my second child in February, I armed myself with only a 13-26. I started regretting my choice about 6K into the ride. Alpine climbs are unimaginably long. If you are not a steeled Euro-dog pro, you can't "tap out a rhythm," to use the words of Phil Liggett, when you find yourself climbing for 3 hours at a stretch. The mountain will pummel you every time. Low gearing will ensure that you'll enjoy the brutality at least a touch.

The loop I chose was based on one I saw on the Grenoble Cycling Pages. The recommended route was 177K. From a mere mileage standpoint, it wasn't a worrisome prospect. From a climbing standpoint, though, it inflicts supreme carnage. Until you've ridden a really long Alpine Col, the task before you is unimaginable. I certainly had no clue what I was committing myself to.

Leaving Rochataille, I warmed up with 4k of a relatively flat stretch of road before beginning the ascent of the legendary Col du Croix de Fer (pronounced cwah-duh-fair). The translation of its name is appropriately menacing  the Cross of Iron. The climb is 32k in length, and it was my initiation into to beastly world of climbing Cols.

The only real preparation I did for the ride was in converting my cycling computer from miles to km. I've spent many years peering down at the computer on my mile-long hills at home. I oftentimes climb with a single-minded determination to keep my speed at "10" or higher, as though a full computer screen is akin to a full fuel tank, meaning my reserves are still topped off and I have plenty of power left to give. A sinking feeling overcame me at about 6K into the climb  it was the same moment I acknowledged the virtues of the triple cranksets I'd spent a life condemning  as I did the same battle for "10," except now I was in kph, not mph.

So it went for the first 3 hours of my ride: amid flowers and breathtaking vistas and the cacophonous sounds of waterfall after waterfall I encountered cyclists on bikes of every sort imaginable. Even if you put aside the body-searing toughness of the climb and disregard the fact that climbing this one mountain takes as much time as a round of golf, it was a marvel to witness the incredible number of people out for a bike ride. I was amazed by the obvious devotion the French have for their bicycles. Likewise, I was stunned how every kilometer intensified the panorama of what seemed to be most picturesque scenery on earth. Not unlike an episode of the TV show "Elimidate," nature and culture fell all over each other in a battle for my affection. The heaping décolletage of the Alps pressed itself against me while the fairyland ville 10K up the climb beckoned me with mysterious romance. But unlike the poor Elimidate protagonist, contractually obligated to commit to one beauty alone, an exquisite ménage a trois was mine for the having.

It was 3 hours of painful pleasure. The only constants were my low cadence, the fire in my legs, and a fear that if the road pitched upward any steeper, I'd be putting the walkability of my Time Impact Café cleats to the test. A bit of relief came in the form of a trio of hilarious Brits I met halfway up who, as they rode, told joke after joke about their slower teammates down the road who weighed "twenty bloody fucking stone," and as I began to wonder exactly how many stone I weigh, a blond rider reminiscent of an anorexia-minded ballerina blasted past us going at least twice as fast. He was in full Quick Step-Davitamon kit, and as I caught up to him further up the mountain (mind you, at that point he was having a leisurely coffee at a roadside café) I took a long look at his body and his bike to assess whether he was the real deal, or just an amazingly fit fan of Richard Virenque. All the way down to his Quick Step-embossed tires, he sported 100% company-issue gear. And later on an all-too-brief 500m descent in the middle of the climb, he passed me in a hairpin with an acceleration that had the precise punch of an F1 car. A poseur? No way, not with that lithe figure and those mountain goat skills. It frightened me to think that he didn't make the Quick Step Tour team.

The complexion of the terrain changed as the summit neared. The trees and their wonderful shade vanished, and the mountainside was covered instead by boulders and a brilliant green scrub. Bike riding aside, it was as though I'd pedaled into a Wordsworth poem  the vibe of pastoral peace was overpowering. Hundred-head flocks of fleecy sheep lowed their songs as they wandered the land in between 20-story waterfalls. And as the summit grew ever nearer, a lake as blue as a perfectly chlorinated swimming pool stood in beautiful stillness.

The final 3K took an eternity. A few hundred meters from the top, though, I could see a simple, black, wrought iron cross lording over a gathering of riders. It had a magnetic pull that made the last few minutes something akin to easy, enabling me to enjoy the fact that I'd just reached the summit of my first Alpine Col, and allowing me to forget for just a few moments that it'd taken a full hour longer than I'd planned.

After 2 Cokes and 3 Mars bars in the bar at the summit, I ran into the trio of familiar Brits. As with virtually everyone on the top of the Col du Croix de Fer that day, their plan was to descend the road they'd just climbed, ride the few K to the bottom of Alpe d'Huez and ride up the Alpe before calling it a day. It was the fundamental crossroads of the ride: if rather than returning toward the Alpe you instead launch yourself down the backside of the Croix de Fer to head toward the Col du Telegraphe and Col de Galibier, there's no going back.

I knew the ride I'd originally planned was 177K  or, as I was quickly coming to accept, only 149K if I skipped Alpe d'Huez at the end. It was 2:45pm, and my computer assured me that indeed in the previous 3 hours I'd made it only 35K. It was about 4.5 hours til the final bus for Grenoble departed Bourg d'Oisans, and about 7 hours til darkness fell. I still had two long descents and two Cols remaining, and for reasons I still don't quite comprehend I wasn't terribly worried right then about the logisitics of getting home. It was the defining moment of every epic ride: the instant when ambition completely overrides common sense. I plunged down the far road, away from Alpe d'Huez. Whether I liked it or not, I'd just committed myself to an epic.

Just as my first Alpine climb was a shocker, the descent was the same. Guardrails? Of course not. 200° hairpins? Absolutely. Pitch black tunnels? Why not? If you misjudged a corner, you were assured to have at least two or three seconds to ponder your misdeed before your warmed the land below with your sticky remains.And for those of you who take pride in your descending skills, keep in mind that you likely stoke your ego by dropping down the same descents week in and week out. Push the envelope on a descent you've never before seen  a 45 minute long descent with traffic patterns completely unknown to you  you'd assuredly perish. I made my way down the absurdly steep Col stunned at my slowness. For all of Phil Liggett's claims at how the pros shred these descents at 60mph+, I was doing well to simply hit 60kph. Perhaps it's a tribute to my love of my family: my survival instinct is too well honed.

Your eventual destination is a medium-sized village named St. Michel de Mauriene. You pass through a handful of villages beforehand (plus one long, uphill, black-as-night tunnel whose darkness will inspire you to one hell of a sprint, as likely nothing on your person will be reflective and your invisibility to cars is most assured). Follow the road signs for it and you'll safely find yourself at the foot of the most beastly climbing experience the Alps offer. It's a 1350m descent from the Croix de Fer to St. Michel de Mauriene, and it's there that the day's ride intersects the parcours of Stage 8 of the 2003 Tour de France.