Get ready to ride L'Etape.

It’s Thursday afternoon as I sit here typing. My bowels are still in their own special world of turmoil. I’ve just stepped off the scales and I’ve lost 11lbs since Saturday afternoon. Not surprising really, considering I’ve eaten almost zilch since spending 10 hours in the saddle.

Let’s go back to the big day on Monday.

I was up at 4-15am local time, feeling tired but adrenalized. We had to dress in our cycling kit, pack all our stuff, and then load the bags onto the coach in order for them to be taken to the other end in Loudenvielle. Then a quick breakfast, trying to eat as much as possible, and forcing fluids down to bursting point. What I really needed was a big bowl of porridge and 4 mugs of tea, but it wasn’t to be. We boarded the coach for a quick transfer to a gymnasium where the bikes had been stored overnight in a small town near Foix. Everyone was rushing to grab their bike and other stuff in order to get to their designated starting point as quickly as possible. There was a big queue for the khazi, but it had to be done despite a feeling of panic as the clock ticked by towards the start time. We then faced a 6 mile ride to Foix where we entered our start pen and joined the other 7500 riders nervously waiting for the off at 7 am local time (that’s 6am in England and ‘No’ we hadn’t adjusted within 2 days). One guy crashed when he braked and his bars twisted because he hadn't tightened the clamp properly when he had re-assembled the bike off the plane. He went over the front and seriously knackered his knee. He couldn't continue, and his Etape finished before it had started.

There was plenty of nervous banter and bravado as we all anticipated the day ahead. The weather was perfect, cool but clear. We could hear Phil Liggett over the PA system, and then the klaxon sounded for the off. The hotshots and Greg Lemond were at the front, and I imagine they all sprinted away while we stood still. It took 16 minutes to roll gently over the start line, and my friends Steve and Simon (top Northern semi-pro in the photo above) set a fast pace as we steadily overtook hundreds within the first few miles.

I drafted like a sneaky thing following the big blokes, conserving energy until we reached the first proper climb of the day, Col de Port after about 16 miles. This is a Category 2, so I settled into a decent pace and watched my heart rate, keeping it well down as I ascended reasonably comfortably. There were occasional trains of very fast riders overtaking on the left and you had to have your wits about you at all times in order to avoid collisions. Halfway up the 7 mile climb I let my friends pull away and decided I would proceed at my own pace, but I was a bit disappointed and a little perturbed that I couldn't keep up with them. No matter… all my training has been done on my own.

The woodland cleared towards the top and the gradient seemed to ease as we approached the Col with fabulous views over my left shoulder. I was pretty warm by now and it was obvious we were in for a hot one.

Over the top and then it was time to see how fast I dared to go. This is the first time I have had the chance to descend on closed roads, knowing that a 2CV or a French farmer won’t be coming up the road around the corner. The art is to choose your line to hit the apex in a controlled manner having finished any braking well uphill, weight low, watch the road like a hawk and trust in your tyres, forks and brakes! It was a buzz. Exhilarating and scary as I hit almost 50 mph trying to take it easy. Some of the bends were very tight and the road surface was far from perfect, so total concentration was needed if you weren’t to join the growing number of casualties. Because we were so near the start, it was still very crowded and there were loads of kamikaze dudes swooping down from behind cutting me up and swerving into my line. I saw some bad accidents. One guy unconscious, medics in attendance. One girl sobbing holding her shoulder in the middle of a multi-bike pile-up. Two guys remonstrating with bloodied knees. Sadly, one of our group, Chad, was taken out by an Aussie and fell, collecting a good dose of road rash. By the time he had mended his bike/puncture etc and been sorted by the medics he had lost 45 minutes. As a consequence, he was mopped up by the broom wagon and forced to quit on the 3rd Col. He was gutted. That's his dodgy shoulder in the picture above.

The road then meandered quite comfortably with a long run through a valley for about 25 miles. There were a couple of nice villages with people enjoying a coffee and croissant on the pavement as we whirred past.I can hardly remember anything else, except I made sure that I drafted and conserved energy. The first refreshment stop arrived at 45 miles and I stopped for fruit and water.

At this point I didn’t feel like the real Etape had got going knowing that 4 major climbs lay ahead. Climb 2, Col du Portet d’Aspet was also a Cat 2 and it was fairly comfortable. The descent was the opposite, very steep and scary, and we passed the monument to Casartelli who died in a crash here in 1995. Huge stone barriers line the edge of the road to pulverise anyone unlucky enough to slide into them. Again, I witnessed plenty of trauma as people overcooked it. It’s so sad that some peoples’ Etape experience ends in pain and even hospitalisation for the sake of a little more care and caution.

Almost straight away with no respite we started the Category 1 Col de Mente. It was a bugger. Very steep, very hot and this section heralded the start of the day’s suffering. I was grinding in my lowest gear for an hour, although I couldn't get my heart rate above a meagre 150. After your classic switchbacks in the intense sun we seemed to enter a long straight bit towards the summit. By now , people were walking, sitting and resting by the road. I heard 3 of 4 tyres literally explode. I was so pleased to get up and took 15 minutes for food and water and a lie down.

I now faced the real test of the day, the horrific ascent called Port de Bales followed by the Col de Peyresoude.

There would be real suffering. Grown men cried.

Part 2 tomorrow.