Push him off an alp^[1] of course…
As a schoolboy this was my second^[2] favourite joke and I appreciate that we were in France not Switzerland. I’m also well aware that you shouldn’t push people off alps.

Sitting in St David’s Hall, watching Sarah Millican, I noticed that my right knee was really uncomfortable and felt like it needed to do that “pop” thing. It didn’t and in the end, I took to sitting on the top of my chair back to straighten my leg and to effect some relief. It helped but didn’t alter the fact that all was not right and a dodgy knee was really not what I needed before Alpe d’Huez triathlon and we were leaving the following day.

My beautiful van, still at the repairers following its attack in April, meant we were taking Jane’s Alfa. Ok, Jane’s beautiful Alfa. Luckily, it’s a mile-eater and has climate control and easily has space for two disassembled bicycles, so in some ways it was far from the hardship it might have been.
The courtesy van I’d been given was corpulent and plastic and nasty and possibly not even insured for continental use and, well, I just didn’t want to take it. Ok?
Despite being a ‘holiday’, it was going to be a busy week. Monday, Cardiff to Reims and Tuesday, Reims down to Bourg d’Oisans at the foot of the Alpe. We were also travelling on that weekend of the awful cross-channel chaos just to add to the overall angst.

The only place to be.

The weekend news was full of Dover delays, Folkstone delays and general Zombie attacks and extinction level crises throughout the south east. We hadn’t left yet and I just knew that the whole episode was going to somehow have saga written all over it.

Monday was going away day.
We had long overdue credit notes from a cancelled Vichy trip so decided to take the tunnel out and the ferry back. Being a Chunnel virgin it’s probably somewhat passé to describe the weirdness of sitting in your car on a moving train so I won’t.
It was though, it really was.
Either way, thankfully, the weekend queues had now eased and the crossing was uneventful and efficient, once we’d worked out how it worked. Hardly exciting but undoubtedly efficient. Interestingly, there seemed to be an awful lot of dogs…
Anyway, we tunnelled and then jumped on the autoroute, set cruise and finally ended the day at Châlons-en-Champagne in a charming budget Enzo hotel, suitably motor-racing themed and even slightly oil-stained. We had a room with a lovely Honda.

Still, the bed was comfortable even if the toilet wasn’t.

It could be described as compact but certainly not bijou. So compact in fact that the door caught the end of the bed every, single, time. The bathroom, that even a well-adjusted cat, one willing to suffer many a smack around the head, wouldn’t be comfortable being swung in, had a modern, replacement toilet that resulted in just a 4” gap between it and the shower, it’s use being really a sort of porcelain Tetris. A sneeze and a response of, “a vos souhaits” from the room next door completed the compact picture.

It’s been a while since I’d been to France and a very long time since I’d driven there with Spain being our usual continental haunt these days. Consequently, the first evening was spent communicating in accidental pidgin Spanish. Still, points for trying, I guess.

We grabbed some food at the local café and then took a quick, evening stroll around the locale.
Being on the outskirts of (as we discovered the following morning) a pretty town, we managed to find a charming walk past the chemical plant, along the canal and through an old part of town with absolutely no signs of life other than for one old dear watering her French equivalent of begonias. It felt rather as though we’d stumbled into that zombie apocalypse just without the zombies.
That, or Village of the Damned…

Still, the bed was comfortable even if the toilet wasn’t.

Tuesday was getting there day.
After an adequate but meagre breakfast, in the dining room cum Formula Renault parts bin, Tuesday, our 36^th wedding anniversary, took us the rest of the way down past Grenoble to the alps. It was quite a relief to get off the autoroute.
I love the higher speeds, the relative quiet and the odd, yet predictable French drivers.
I even liked the weird fact that all the road signs seemed to be taking us to anywhere except places in France.
However, the main reason was that we arrived at every single peage as though Jane had never seen one before.

This was the procedure.
Arrive at peage.
Position Alfa as close to kerb as possible without scuffing wheels.
Jane’s window is still up.
Jane opens window but can’t reach ticket.
Jane removes seat belt.
Jane still can’t reach ticket
Jane opens door.
Jane takes ticket.
5km down the autoroute the seatbelt warning klaxon is still going.^[3]

A brief halt for lunch in Mervans provided one of those peculiar moments. Jane popped to the toilet and seemed not to return – ever. The more time that passed the stranger it got. I had visions of her total disappearance in the manner of “And soon the darkness” or possibly “Taken” with everyone denying her existence, no evidence of her in the car, our Chunnel booking receipt turning out just to be for one and that ever-growing feeling of madness and paranoia etc. Her coffee, growing ever colder, (and more tempting) was all the evidence I had from 36 long years of marriage. Just as I thought about calling the gendarmerie, just in case there was a genuine abduction, imagine my delight when she returned. It turned out that the cafe only had one toilet and she was just waiting for some chap to finish taking his extraordinarily protracted dump.

It’s what anniversaries are made of, and they say romance is dead.

By now our French was gradually starting to return and we escaped the café with a “merci” rather than a “gracias”.

By early evening we were at our temporary home for the rest of the week, a delightful little apartment off the main shopping street in Bourg d’Oisans with a view of an alpe, but not THE alpe, just an alpe with its fascinating, twisted geology.
What is it with French toilets? This one had your knees pressing against the door. The only way to use it was to sit down with the door open (of course, lowering yourself onto it, post-event) and then shutting the door.

Charming apartment in scenic foothills.

Being our anniversary, we opted for the obligatory meal and staring lovingly into each other’s eyes – I think.
I do remember having lasagne though and some vin blanc.
I chose not to mention the peage…

Griff was doing neither. Griff was supporting. He was a very, very good boy.

Wednesday was signing on day.
But first…
Back home, before we left, as I removed my back wheel for packing, I glanced at my brake pads knowing full well that my upcoming event was going to thoroughly abuse them. Hmmm, not a lot of meat on those, I’d better toss some spares in the car.
Did I? No, I totally forgot. Thankfully there was a splendid bike shop in Bourg-d’Oisans with splendid pads and splendid prices, oh, and splendid cycling caps too.
I had considered stealing Jane’s pads for the day and then popping them back in for her race. Altogether a fabulous plan but then, of course, I might not have got a new cap.

After the obligatory croissants and a brief shop for provisions, it was time to sign on and our first trip up to Alpe d’Huez.
I’m sure you all know this, but for those that don’t I’ll bore you regardless. Alpe de Zwift is a digital version of Alpe d’Huez matching each bend and gradient. Having trained by riding up Alpe de Zwift many times it was rather peculiar to now be doing it in real life. The architecture, lack of snow, radar dishes, tunnels, logs, churches, weird birds etc were clearly different but the overall route was eerily familiar – just a bit less digital.
Understandably there was no bonus for reaching the summit.

Blatant graffiti

Signing on was a formality, yet more bags, none of them pink and then a quick meet up for a coffee with Lisa, Kayley and Griff the dog.
Like me, Lisa was doing the longer event. Like Jane, Kayley was doing the shorter event.
Griff was doing neither. Griff was supporting. He was a very, very good boy.

I don’t want to offend anyone but I didn’t really warm to Alpe d’Huez as a location. The ski resort, in the blazing sun, with its alpine architecture, apres-ski outlook and lack of snow seemed rather tacky and a little tired – a bit like Blackpool, a bit sort of lost and unloved.
Maybe if I was a skier, things would be different.
I’m certain I’d have visited A&E far more times than I have if I was though.

Originally, when we entered the event, there was no accommodation left at Alpe d’Huez so we’d had no choice but to book in Bourg d’Oisans in the valley below.
Now, we realised, we’d actually made the better decision.
Other opinions are, of course,  available.

Thursday was race day.
This event has a split transition.
You swim in a lake, the feeder for a hydro-electric power station, some 25km from the alpe. You then descend from the lake and complete a 120km bike leg that finishes at Alpe d’Huez where T2 is located. You then do three laps of a trail course high on the alpe.

There are different ways of approaching the race set-up depending on whether you have supporters. You can rack your bike the day before or you can get the organisers to set out your T2 for you if necessary, and you trust them.
Most competitors though, start their day up at Alpe d’Huez, place their run bag in T2, ride down to the lake with their bike bag, swim, bike and then run.
After your swim someone kindly collects your bike bag, that has now become your swim bag and takes it up to Alpe d’Huez to collect later.
Teutonic efficiency if not for the fact it happens to be in France.

Weirdly, we all knew Simon Vincent…

The 25km descent to the lake was fast and furious (no Tokyo drifting) and my new brake pads took an absolute hammering. Still, nicely bedded in for the race, once I’d put out the flames.

There is a corner of Alpe d’Huez triathlon T1 that is forever Welsh. Clearly anyone that had put ‘Welsh’ on their entry was chucked in the same corner of the field. As people set up their spot it became clear that the organisers had thought we’d like to hear some familiar accents. So, we all made Welsh small-talk before disappearing into a lake and never seeing each other again.
Was still a nice touch mind…

Weirdly, we all knew Simon Vincent…

The lake was tepid – which was nice.
The swim start was a mass start – which wasn’t.
Still, after 100 or so metres I’d punched and kicked a few people and been punched and kicked by a few others. It might have even been the same people – it’s so hard to tell and no-one was keeping score.
Either way, I still had my goggles on so I followed the competitor in front until we all reached the first turnaround. It was bound to be messy – you could sense swimmers converging from all directions and sure enough we all arrived simultaneously at the buoy and were all convinced we each had priority.

A bit more punching and kicking and we were all off again to do it all once more at the next buoy.
I took solace in the fact that I was still surrounded by swimmers after a mass start rather than seeing the distant froth of neoprene arms.
Either my swimming has improved or there are some rubbish swimmers out there.
The second buoy was an exact repeat of the first except this time we knew what to expect.
This time I spotted my assailant as he had bright orange sleeves. So, now with a legitimate target I set off after him to tell him exactly what I thought about his arrogant swimming and sense of self-importance.
Of course he simply swam away from me.
I could now add ignorant to his growing list of faults.

The course was a straight out and back around two distant buoys so we were now on the home straight.
To avoid unnecessary sighting, at which my skills are rather pathetic, I spotted another earlier sparring partner so followed their wake all the way back to the steep, blue, welcoming exit ramp.
Thankfully, there were helpers dragging you up the ramp then zip strippers dragging down your zip.
I had time for a quick wave to Kayley and then it was time to see if my brake pads had cooled down yet.

There are only so many ways you can say brutal.

This time I’d remembered to pack not only a small towel^[4], so I managed to at least start the ride with dry feet, but also sun-tan lotion because it was sunny, very sunny.
Transition wasn’t fast – it didn’t need to be, but it was efficient, with everything correctly packed and my area tidied – my grandma would have been so proud.

If my transition area was tidy, I couldn’t say the same about the bike leg.

The first part of the bike is deceptively pleasant as it gradually drops from the dam of the reservoir for a fast 20km through that French alps scenery that is confusingly Swiss to us from Cardiff.
I know borders are only lines on a map but my mental image of cycling in the south of France was nothing like cycling here in the south of France. This France has Swiss trains, buildings, cows and meadows.
Because of the limited roads in the area a loop from the dam to Bourg-d’Oisans is either reasonably short (the shorter event) or 107km (the longer event), there is no option for a sensible distance so there were three climbs before Alpe d’Huez, those being Alpe du Grand Serre, Col du Malissol and Col d’Ornon, or, as Lisa put it, Puig Major, then Lluc monastery, Rhigos and another Puig Major to finish.

The first climb and the first time I climbed from the saddle, my Sarah Millican knee made its presence known and decided it was time to interfere with my event.
Seated was just ok. Stood up on the pedals was painful.
I sat back and climbed – I wasn’t in the least bit surprised.
I whistled that song, “if it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all…”
I made a plan to keep my heart rate reasonably low on these three climbs and save something for Alpe d’Huez, hopefully not destroying myself on it and saving something for the run.
What do they say about best laid plans?

Descending a hill, somewhere in France

It must be said, it was an awesome route. I know it’s boring to read descriptions of views but the scenery was truly spectacular.

The roads weren’t closed but there were marshals on junctions and on descents, holding back traffic to allow the race to flow.

Eventually the pretty loop returned to Bourg-d’Oisans. No drama, no issues, just a dodgy knee.

There are only so many ways you can say brutal. 1300m of climbing over 13,000m is, to coin a phrase, brutal. Even without my calculator I make that 10%. It doesn’t help that you’re making your 58-year-old lungs work 1300m higher than they did at the bottom and the bottom was somewhat above sea level, 750m if we’re being accurate.
It’s worth repeating that we’d already climbed 2000m to get to the base of the Alpe – just in case I needed to clarify ‘brutal’ any more.
Oh, and I had a dodgy knee too; I think I said.

Frustratingly I wasn’t out of power. I could push harder and climb more quickly but my heart rate went up dramatically, sort of inversely proportional to my expectations of the run. In a conscious effort to cap my heart rate I was also throttling back my climbing, relegating it to slow, steady progress.

If the gradient wasn’t bad enough, the mid-thirties heat did its best to hinder too. I convinced myself I was taking on sufficient fluids. I’d finished my super-strength tailwind and was onto the full-fat Pepsi from the aid stations. It was like nectar for sure but I think I drank too little, not often enough, during the first part of the ride and then a little too much, too often, when climbing the Alpe.
I might even have been getting heavier.

Ascending a hill, somewhere in France

Six corners from the top, a mere 4 corners from briefly comforting a fellow competitor immobile and in agony with cramp, I was struck with a familiar cramp in my left calf. For me, a guaranteed sign of dehydration and yet another notch on the bed-post of endurance-sport education.
Thankfully it didn’t tighten fully and I could stretch it through the final climbs with a little asymmetric pedalling and by not pushing too hard.
It was still there though, that weird feeling of your muscles doing their own happy dance with absolutely no input from you and at any moment they’re going to do something crazy and un-commanded.

Anyway, after what felt like only 8 or 9 hours the summit of the alpe was reached and then a very brief descent into T2.

Again, T2 was leisurely. Once off the bike and jogging through transition I knew my knee was going to be a problem. Whatever was wrong with it seemed to be exacerbated by a straight leg rather than a bent knee so running wasn’t going to be pretty. The cramp I’ve coped with before. It’s not fun but can be mastered with a walk-run strategy. Run as normal until it cramps tight and then walk it off. Rinse & repeat.

As I laced my shoes I ran through my limited list of available options.
1. Go get a beer.
2. Complete the run course with as little knee distress as I could manage and get my medal.
3. Dose up on painkillers, run ignoring my complaining knee and then possibly lose the rest of my season.  Liberally season all options with calf cramp.

Despite the obvious attraction of option 1, with hindsight I think I chose wisely. It wasn’t pretty, it was rather uncomfortable, but option 2 got me to the end and to the medal.
The conquest of Avalon had taught me a valuable lesson about pursuing option 3.

I made a mental note to let down her tyres later.

Until I started running I’d also forgotten about the copious Pepsi that was now sloshing around in my tired, overworked stomach.

The course was three loops, each around 7 km with scrunchies collected each lap a la Ironman Wales.

The route was pretty, semi-trail with a climb what was a mandatory walk for most and then a steep descent down the runway of Alpe D’Huez’s airport.

Once running down it, I quickly realised why there wasn’t an option to fly to Alpe d’Huez.
I didn’t spot a terminal, never mind any Duty Free.
I only ran down it three times but I can promise you that each time I did, my arms were out wide and I was singing Ride of the Valkyries. Allez, allez, allez!

Running down a runway, looking far too happy, somewhere in France

I met Lisa at one point on the loops. She had an infuriating spring in her step and a way-too cheerful disposition.
I made a mental note to let down her tyres later – providing I could find her car.^[5]

It was a bittersweet finish line. The medal was welcome, obviously, but there was a sense of disappointment that I’d sacrificed a good chunk of my ride to leave something in the tank for the run and then effectively had one of my wheels fall off.^[6]
Hindsight, as always, is a wonderful thing.

When I finished, wearing my finisher’s shirt, driving back to the apartment, I mentally ticked the Alpe d’Huez Triathlon box on my bucket list.

By the time we were headed home though, lost in France, bimbling down tree-lined N roads, I’d discreetly rubbed it out again.
I have a rule to not do the same events twice but as the saying goes, it’s really more of a guideline.

Oh, on Friday we did it all again except this time I got to watch whilst Jane and Kayley got to race.

[1] Alpe and alp are used interchangeably within this blog. It’s how I roll.
[2] My number 1 favourite joke was; “Have you got Jingle Bells on a 12″… etc
[3] This is a fib. It was 500m
[4] Thank you Douglas Adams
[5] This is a fib.
[6] As metaphors go, I think that was really poor.