2x cat5, 1x cat1 and a shit load of descent - as much climbing as we did yesterday in just the first 30k!

Who needs a warm up? Our final day's ride went straight in to a 30k climb on the Col de la Cayolle, one of the 20 highest paved cycling climbs in France. And it was amazing! Such a beautiful ride. Despite all the pain of these six days, I am no less in love with mountains and this was a perfect climb to go out on. An undeniably de-mob happy group of cyclists were buoyed by the added adrenaline of it being the last leg. At least to start with.

This last ride was a long one! I was last to summit the Col; just two of the crew and a busload of elderly French tourists to cheer my arrival, everyone else having long since continued on their way. A quick photo stop and it was straight back down the other side. I’d love to say I conquered the steep descent with its sheer drops and endless switchbacks but, about a mile down, I looked right and my nerve went. I hitched a ride in the van for a few miles until the gradient became more reasonable.

Humours remained pleasant throughout a fabulous picnic lunch of bread, cheese and ham at a picturesque mountainside bar; and on through the final descent towards Nice. It felt great to reach the sign announcing we had just 30 miles to go. But this ride was intended as a challenge and those last 30 miles pushed us one last time. Each mile seemed to take an hour, the tanks were empty despite overdosing on snacks and slipstreaming was hard work. Utterly exhausted, we battled the elements along seemingly endless straight roads to reach the final frustration of city roadworks and traffic. Not easy when everyone had pretty much lost their mind, all control of their motor functions and the will to live. Until the last few miles along the promenade came into sight and with huge grins and a few tears we rode to the finish line and a hero’s welcome. Once I’d blinked the champagne from my eyes and the momentary blindness had passed, elation set in. The job was done; Paris to Nice accomplished. 

Of course, this post was written after that final day ... on finishing the ride the last thing I was about to do was write the damn blog! No, on finishing the ride, we celebrated. With champagne. And then beer. And then more champagne. And then many, many cocktails and sambuccas. And dancing. Until morning.

1x cat5, 1x cat4, 3x cat3, 1x cat2 ... Just a short ride today then
 
Mirages do not just occur in the desert. They frequently appear on mountains, in the form of downhill slopes that are actually uphill. AND, it can feel like you are still cycling uphill when you're actually going down. Unscrupulous mountains. I wildly underestimated them.

So much pain. Everywhere. The vagina - note we are now disassociated - is hanging round my legs in ribbons. My shoulders, back and hips permanently ache and twinge and I cannot describe the pain in my knees. Actually makes me feel sick between doses of high voltage ibuprofen. Our warm up (ha!) comprised 2 hills in heavy fog. It was so cold, visibility was bad and our clothes were moist with dew. Mentally I lost it today. My mojo fucked off yesterday morning, fickle bastard. I started the day nervous and I was right to be. The mind is a powerful thing but it can be an arse. PMA MIA.

After about 15 miles we broke through the fog and the view was stunning! Alpine villages nestled at the foot of the mountains, a very light dusting of snow on the highest peaks, just a few white fluffy clouds in the sky. Another spontaneous outbreak of morale and a quick selfie stop and we pushed on. And the hills just kept coming as we climbed, and climbed, to around 5000 feet.

I started to lose my shit when, 5 miles after Lucy told me the drink stop was just 3 miles away, Toby informed me it was another 4 miles. All lies. The drink stop was at the top of the 7 mile, 4.6% climb. A mile from the top, having stopped several times already to cry and breathe, I had a complete meltdown. Hugh - having caught up from the fast group, who left 45 mins after us this morning - found me and patiently rode with me the last mile, encouraging me until we reached the top. At which point Rusty Bob was launched through the air to the ground, and just short of a whole malt loaf was consumed.

That is the hardest I have ever pushed myself. The thing about Rusty Bob is he's twice as heavy as a proper bike and his lowest front cog twice as big. That's a heavy gear to push. Getting up hills is hard and today had some real low points. But, it's only pain! My babies were all born healthy and I am here and (almost) fit enough to take on this challenge. Riding through the fog this morning, I thought of Ash. Those of us who rode Ciren to Paris will particularly miss him at the wrap party tomorrow. We could have done with a round of Allouette today. So when I find myself whining like a little bitch, I remember why we're doing this!

The extended lunch stop on the shore of a beautiful lake, after a 20 mile white knuckle descent was a much needed boost. The scenery has been jaw dropping ... as I suppose you would expect cycling through the Alps. More hills, wee stops, photo breaks and an ice cream stop later and we're in early. It's so good to have a bit of time to relax. Most evenings it's in, eat, bed. One more ridiculously steep day tomorrow and we'll be in Nice. Thanks for all the support and messages of encouragement so far, it's really helped x

6x cat5, 1x cat3, 1x cat2 climbs - Christ on a fucking bike, today's gonna be hard. Route map in 2 sections, explanation later.
 
Sam has Vaseline in her handbag and she hands it to me with her lovely smile; an angel of vaginal salvation. Except I actually dreamt that and all she handed me was a bowl of porridge. Mercifully Trev does have Vaseline, though not in his handbag. I salve the raw areas and we're ready for the off.
The end.

I wish that was the end because the rest of the day was utterly brutal. Grown men have cried. Uphill all morning and then some more uphill after lunch. Very steep and very long. I had to stop for breath twice on the last one. It was very steep and long. Miles long. Cycling for MILES uphill. Have I mentioned how hilly it is? The route maps were in two sections this morning because so steep, long and treacherous was one section, we all had to be taken up in the vans.

Sorry, that's all I have. Oh, other than its very beautiful in the mountains and the cows have cow bells. And there are lots of hills.

Rusty Bob and I have fallen out. Not because he's done anything wrong per se but because he's just still here. Despite persistent attempts to lose him, swap him or get him stolen, he's still here, all old and rusty and ridiculously heavy and interminably roadworthy. I gave him a kick when I stopped for a wee in the sunflower field. He took revenge by catching a stinging nettle in his derailleur which whipped my legs down the next hill.

​Maybe someone - a remote Alp dwelling hermit who appreciates old workmanship rather than new fangled expensive bikes - will steal him tonight from the hotel shed. Otherwise we'll just have to do it all over again tomorrow. I'm so over cycling.

2x cat5, 1x cat4, 1x cat3 climbs ... a short, easy day, only 95 miles and all the climbing is before lunch

What goes up must come down, and it transpires that my incapacitating fear of heights transcends to being 3 foot up on a bike, travelling at great speed down a mountain. Rusty Bob gathers pace, the wind howls past my ears, my helmet strap bitch slaps my face relentlessly, cows become fuzzy blurs and each slight variation in the road surface becomes a gargantuan obstacle designed to cause me grave harm. Crazy thoughts of Bob flying apart or me just flying off with certain painful consequence fill my head and my hands cramp with the effort of squeezing the breaks. I do not like it one bit. If I can't get my shit together it's going to make the descent from The Alps into Nice a very harrowing affair.

But terrifying descents and ruined knees (every other pain, and there are many, pales in comparison to my knees) aside, we had a brilliant morning's ride passing through gorgeous medieval villages and rolling countryside. 3 significant climbs challenged us but I found my mojo today and enjoyed them. The rest of my lovely group - there is a fast group, we are not it - may leave me for dust on the descents but I can catch them up on the climbs ... for now!

The riding after lunch was not as charming. It should have been a breeze after the morning's hills but it was blighted by miles of mind crushing dual carriageway, spent trying not to get sucked under the wheels of a juggernaut whilst cycling through a thick fog of post chilli and beans after burn. Another pitfall of bringing up the rear, alongside having the support van crew staring at your arse all day. My gag reflex is so overworked it might be broken.

The ibuprofen took a while to kick in post lunch and the knee pain actually caused the first tears of the trip. At least until I gave myself a mental slap and pulled myself together.

As always, there were synchronised wees, jungle poos, groin lube stops, slipped chains, flapjack breaks and spills to accommodate. The ride through Lyon, whilst dicey what with playing chicken with rush hour traffic and going Maverick with traffic lights rules, was beautiful. The 1.5 mile tunnel which played soothing music to us and projected video of dancers onto its walls was superb. The ride out the other side of Lyon, what with a spot of road rage and altercations with traffic, was neither beautiful nor superb. After a horrible ride through what must be the meth suburb and a barren industrial estate we arrived at our amazingly awful hotel. We believe it's fabricated from shipping containers stacked 2 high and 30 across. The towels are the size of a pillow case, the communal showers and toilets smell bad and we suspect bed bugs. But, it's a bed in which to lie, groan and feel sorry for ourselves for a few short hours. Joan has inflicted great pain on me to fix my knees, and the crew rustled up a great BBQ in the car park.
​
Tomorrow we hit The Alps. I may need more jelly babies.

2x cat5 climbs, 3x cat3 climbs ... longest mileage and hill training starts today

Cyclists in various states of mental and physical health are wandering around our luxurious (compared to F1) hotel in various states of consciousness following an ordeal of a day. Some people do this for fun. Those people are insane. Arduous, excruciating, soul crushing, arse shredding is what it is!

110 is a ridiculous number of miles to cycle in one day. The hills were brutal. People and bikes are broken. I haven't cried yet but it's been close, particularly when Joan was elbowing the knots out my shoulders. But we all pushed through those miles and made it up those hills; an amazing group of people taking time off work to push their limits to raise money for poorly babies and youth sport.

Let me introduce you to the cyclists:

• The Essex Boys - Andrew, Jon, Trev, Jase, Alex and me (I am an honorary Essex Boy, except I speak the queen's English and can't keep up with them on a bike)
• The Cotswold Massive - Big Dan, Normal Size Dan, Will, Chelsey, Chris, Greg 'The Power' (and me)
• The Northerners - Phil, Dean, Toby, Asia, Lucy
• The Proper Northerners (with accents) - Scarby, Pete, Hugh
• And, of course, Fadi

And the crew - keeping us organised, fed, and safe:

• Andy - the guy responsible for our suffering, has a tendency to tell big fat lies about how many hills lie ahead; former friend
• Sam - goddess of the al fresco kitchen, keeping us fed and watered; giver of fantastic hugs
• Sian - first aider and sous chef; also my very lovely roommate
• Paul and Matt - patiently driving the support vans, administering mechanical help, operating the megaphone (so motivational)
• Ian, Mike & Toby - fantastic outriders keeping us on track
• Joan - masseur extraordinaire, making people wince and cry but ultimately feel better

At supper Mr Hammond rightfully won the 'Biggest Bell End' of the day award for his part in our suffering and for lying about that last hill! A round of pool was decided on by the Essex contingent but our interest was short lived due to lack of, well, interest, and we're now all in bed. Not together. Although who knows what Andrew and Trev are up to, and Jon's in for a night of it as those 5 energy gels Jase had will undoubtedly stage a comeback.

​I'm just hoping the liberal application of voltarol to my knees will stop them screaming in agony by morning. As for my vagina, I'm not sure I still have one.

​I love France, I really do! Especially the cheese and wine. But those damn Romans and their endless straight roads, not so much! Miles of open agricultural land; nothing to break the monotony, and the rancid smell of rotting cabbage that burns the hairs in your nostrils and makes your eyes bleed.

During the hours it took us to extricate ourselves from grey, I mean gay, Paris, we longed to reach the open roads of the countryside. Then we hit the open roads of the countryside and changed our minds as agoraphobia set in. Our lunch stop, another French village with no sign of life, was pretty enough and provided distraction in the form of a kid's roundabout. There was a momentary outbreak of morale sometime after lunch for no apparent reason and again later when the sun made a brief appearance.

Much testosterone was flying about today - of the 21 riders there are 4 girls - and some very speedy sections were accomplished by the lead pack. I must keep my testosterone in check tomorrow because it transpires I can only keep up with the lead pack until mid afternoon, at which point my thighs magically become lead weights and the energy tanks bleed dry, making for some very horrible lonely miles.  Whilst cycling in no man's land between packs, I tried to motivate myself with the thought that I like time alone with my thoughts. But my thoughts were largely shit and refused to go anywhere beyond rotting cabbages and back pain.

But enough of this maudlin rhetoric, let's discuss the really fun things we loved today ... really, I can't remember the last time I had such fun:

• watching many Lycra clad men line up at the edge of a field to synchronise pee
• listening to Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet and other such peppy 80s tunes through a very powerful speaker. Oh yes, my own personal nirvana. Though Greg was very obliging when yelled at to 'turn that shit off' (sorry Greg, you found my limit)
• saddle sore; my vagina is no longer talking to me. OK so my vagina has never spoken to me but if it had, it's not now
• riding someone's slipstream as they speed through a puddle
• riding someone's slipstream and getting a small quarry's worth of grit sprayed in your face
• Fadi

​Now, as we enjoy the salubrious delights of Hotel F1 - no really, you should try it - Joan, the masseur, is being relentlessly overworked and the ibuprofen are being abused. And that was the easy day. Unfortunately I think I'll survive the night, ready to do it all again tomorrow. I'm thrilled.