Before I left, a lot of people asked me if I was looking forward to the Marmotte. Not really, was my answer. After all, I don’t really like sportives, and I’m not a huge fan of climbing. Then why are you doing it? The truth was, I chose it because so many people had told me it was the hardest thing they’d ever done, and was one of the hardest sportives in the world, so I figured if I could do the hardest, I didn’t have to bother with any of the others.
My biggest mistake in all of this was complacency. Despite all of the above, I did hardly any proper training for it. Don’t get me wrong, I ride my bike way more than your average cyclist, but after giving up triathlon last year to concentrate on road racing, my whole season had been geared towards going fast for a relatively short period of time on relatively flat terrain. Besides hitting the Surrey and Kent hills over the past two weekends for “cram training”, I hadn’t done anything that would help me get over 4 mountain passes and 5100m of vertical rise. The last time I rode over 5½ hours was the Ironman Switzerland bike leg, and that was a year ago. I also weigh 2.5kg more than I did last year. And I had no real feeding strategy, besides to make sure I did (eat and drink). Sounds like a recipe for disaster!
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| In the start pen |
The day started well enough. The bad weather of the past few days had cleared and we were greeted by a perfect sunny day. Coralie and I started together in the 7:50am (last) pen, and despite her being a stronger climber than I, we had planned to try and stick together throughout the ride. The ride out to the start of the Col du Glandon was uneventful – we were used to riding fast in large packs, and moved from wheel to wheel until I found a couple of Norweigans who looked trustworthy and were moving fast enough. We started the Glandon together, but I knew almost immediately that I was pushing too hard to keep up. I definitely couldn’t talk, and I could see my HR creeping up past 165 (I had vaguely aimed to keep it at about 155-160). After the short descent that split the climb in two, I let Coralie go ahead and we re-grouped at the top in the neutralised zone, which she reached about 10min before me. Despite only being at an altitude of 1900m, I felt nauseous and sick as soon as I got off my bike, and gladly accepted a seat in the La Fuga tent in the hope of recovering. Ian even offered me the bus back, but it was way too early to quit. I knew I probably should have eaten something after 2 hours of climbing, but I felt like I would vomit it back up, so squeezed in a gel, a bite of cake, and some water, before we pushed on down the descent.
The descent off the Glandon is now neutralised, after a death a few years ago. A sensible decision, with steep narrow roads, and the field not having quite spread out after only one climb. We took it safely, but not too slowly, as it was quite painful having to squeeze the brakes all the time, and not the best thing for your tyres or brake pads. I tried to sit up and use my body to slow me down, and get in front of any groups of riders.
It was hot and a little windy as we hit the valley between the Glandon and Telegraph. Coralie pulled us from group to group, continually moving forward and making up time, whilst I sucked her wheel, probably my best skill in cycling! The road was longer than expected but thankfully flat. I felt ok as we hit the foot of the Telegraph, and stayed with Coralie for the first 3km or so, although I told her to go ahead as I got progressively slower. The Telegraph was actually a nice climb, largely shaded, with no steep rises, just a nice meandering 13km road. It was still quite hot though and I got through a mountain of fluid.
The descent off the Telegraph was way too short for my liking, and the cars on the road didn’t help my attempt to catch Coralie (I was nowhere near anyway). And then it was time to go up again. I genuinely thought that the Galibier was a 21km climb, so I was pleasantly surprised when I saw a sign that said 13km to the tunnel. I slugged away for a few kilometres and wondered why I was going so slowly as the road pretty much looked flat. I even stopped to check that my brake pads weren’t rubbing at one point (Coralie later reported that she felt the same!) What makes the Galibier a b*stard was the fact that the landscape was so open that it appeared flat, but really was a 3.5% climb. And there was no shade anywhere, hence it was hot. I looked down at my bear arms (sans sunscreen) and realised that I was going to have a wicked farmers tan tomorrow. And then the wheels really did start to fall off! I actually stopped and got off my bike just after the 10km to the summit sign. Thinking that I probably hadn’t eaten anywhere near enough, I had a gel, some water, pushed my bike along for a couple of minutes, then got back on. This seemed to revive me momentarily, but marked the start of a familiar pattern, except the next time I got off, I also had to vomit.
The road got progressively steeper. I tried to tell myself to push harder on the pedals (thank you Guy Pearson), which also worked momentarily, until I blew up again. And so it went on. At around 5km from the summit, my friend Rory, who I haven’t seen for over a year came past me as I was walking, and stopped to give me a hug. He offered to pace me up the rest of the climb, but I knew I had to take it at my own (slow) pace, so I waved him off. The La Fuga feed station was a welcome site at 3km to go. I stopped and sat down. I knew I needed to eat and drink, but I was feeling so nauseous that all I could get down was a cup of coke and a quarter of a cheese and ham baguette. Definitely not enough. It didn’t occur to me to adopt an alternate feeding plan eg. Fill my bottle with coke, take energy bars or more gels. Instead, I just pushed on as before. In my mind, the clock was still ticking, although it wasn’t technically a race.
The feed stop definitely did revive me, and I managed the next 2km without getting off, until it got quite steep at the end. The view was spectacular, although I felt a little nauseous looking down, but made a mental note that I would have to come back, with friends, tackle one or two mountains at a time, and take photos. I finally reached the top, stopped briefly to don my gilet and arm warmers, before hitting the 42km descent.
I have grown to love descending since taking up road racing, and I had full intentions of making up as much time as possible on the way down, to compensate for my lack of ability on the way up. The road was quite wide and open, and there weren’t too many cars coming the other way. Most people didn’t seem to want to pedal down, so they were quite easy to pass. My new Hed Ardennes wheels rolled like a dream with their wide rims, and I had complete confidence in them (and new tyres) after riding slightly un-trued wheels for the last year or so. I was tucked in, chin on handlebars, as I passed rider after rider, and for the first time that day, thought how much fun I was having!
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| Nellie, looking over the hairpins of Alpe D'Huez |
I got to the foot of Alpe D’Huez with the clock reading 7:45. Right Nicole, you have 2 hours to get your arse up the Alpe! I was glad to have done a reccy with Coralie a couple of days previously, so knew that the first 5 hairpins were a little steep, but levelled off after that. My plan was to take the Alpe two hairpins at a time, which kind of worked until about #14, where I completely lost it. The vomiting/dry wretching was far too frequent now. I was stopping every 10 minutes as I found it increasingly hard to breathe properly. It went a bit like this... slump over handlebars, dry wretch, push bike a bit, stop again, get back on when walking was harder than cycling… repeat. I sat by the side of the road a couple of times but only for 30sec or so before moving again. It was HORRENDOUS. At 5km to go, I did wonder how I was actually going to make it up the damn Alpe. I was tempted to lie down for a while to recover, but looked at my watch and calculated that I had 45min to still get a gold time. Coralie and I had said if we didn’t get a gold time, we would have to do it again (a bit like the 4hr marathon or 12hr ironman), so I kept going. I did some calculations in my head as I pedalled past the 4km to go mark… 10min per km would get me there… that’s 6km/h… I was walking at 4km/h or cycling at 7-8km/h… so as long as I didn’t stop for too long…
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| The view from our balcony |
Hairpin #1 finally appeared and I realised that I was going to make it, and I was going to make it inside a gold time, which I did in 9:39 (2min to spare!). I crossed the finish line completely empty, in fact, I think I had been running on empty for the past 4 hours! I just stood slumped over my bike, obviously not looking very well. Guy came and got me, gave me a hug, told me he thought I was dead/lying by the side of the road/in the broom wagon, took my bike, got my certificate (whilst I collapsed in a corner), then gave me a beer. The F-word came out - never again, I swore.
So, looking back, how did it go so wrong? I simply didn’t give the “race” the respect it deserved, despite quite a few warnings. I thought I would just get away with it, without doing anything specifically to prepare. I think I overcooked the Glandon, which made me feel ill (perhaps also a little altitude sickness?), so then I had trouble refuelling properly, and didn’t have an alternate plan. I probably should have not kept trying to push on when I should have been stopping and trying to refuel, but I tend to approach everything as a race, so with time ticking on, I didn’t want to stop. And I definitely should have done some hills and longer rides in preparation – I know I’m not a natural mountain climber and don’t enjoy pushing up a hill for hours at a time!
My first reaction afterwards was to just quit sportives – I’ve only done three, and I can’t say I really enjoyed any of them that much. However, I’m thinking maybe I should just change my approach to sportives. Coralie is keen to do another big one next year – my Grimpeur friend stormed in almost an hour ahead of me. So, Maratona anyone?? But for now, back to road racing!
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| Gateau the Marmotte, with my "Or" finishers certificate |
It was hot and a little windy as we hit the valley between the Glandon and Telegraph. Coralie pulled us from group to group, continually moving forward and making up time, whilst I sucked her wheel, probably my best skill in cycling! The road was longer than expected but thankfully flat. I felt ok as we hit the foot of the Telegraph, and stayed with Coralie for the first 3km or so, although I told her to go ahead as I got progressively slower. The Telegraph was actually a nice climb, largely shaded, with no steep rises, just a nice meandering 13km road. It was still quite hot though and I got through a mountain of fluid. 
