When I revealed that my annual “boys’ weekend” bike trip would take place in October in the Pyrenees, the reaction at work was mild consternation. In the rugby heartland of southwest France, the terrain is rugged and the weather fickle. But what really messes with the mind is the length and severity of the road climbs. This is Tour de France territory, where grown men have been reduced to tears.
Over the summer I worked hard to build stamina. No alcohol for six weeks; more roadwork in the gym, including 20km stints on the bike; and an increase in my regular 4km run to 6.5km, twice a week. Then the carefully calibrated finale: two consecutive 80km solo bike rides from Dulwich in south London, to Westerham, Kent, culminating in a gruelling climb up Toys Hill.
A week later, here I am on a chilly Saturday morning at the local inn (Le Manoir d’Agnès) in Tarascon, a hard-scrabble town roughly 110km from Toulouse, where we flew in to the previous night. I have shed 5lb but my fellow riders look much leaner and fitter as they munch through hard-boiled eggs on toast, washed down with black coffee and orange juice. They also look the part: tight-fitting “bibs” (Mick McManus-style wrestler pants with shoulder straps); arm-, knee- and leg-warmers; and branded shell jackets, with heavier waterproof apparel in reserve.