MY RIDE

I've done the Col de Colombiere ten times in my Tour de France travels, but never from this side. Usually the Tour meanders up from the Alpine ski village of le Grand Bornand, and rarely is it the final climb of the day.

Every time I've crested the top, I've thought about the Tour cyclists and am grateful they do not have to climb the vicious side they are descending. This year they do!

The uphill starts as I leave the town of Scionzier. From there, it's 16 kilometers or 10 solid miles of straight climbing away.

I hit the play button of my iPod, clip in, and pedal away.

I soon realize that you don't have to be above treeline to get your heart rate bouncing in Rictor Scale proportions. I steadily watch my pulse soar, and now my eyes are bulging... 150, 160, 170, 180 beats per minute. I start to wonder, what my maximum heart rate is? The one time I tried, I could still get over 200 bmp, but that was well over a decade ago. I remember coaches in college saying you should subtract your age from 220 to find your maximum heart rate. That would be (pause) 175.

Whoops.

I try to get my mind off heartbeats and just find a rhythm. Despite my wheezing, my legs are still turning over nicely it seems. I'll credit my ultralight carbon frame Scott Addict with such comforts.

Just past the 2-mile mark "It's Goin' Be A Long Time Coming," clicks into my headphones and I moan at Stephen Stills for reminding me that I still have 8 miles to go. I am in full labor now.

What you say, you're listening to some old folkies like Crosby, Stills and Nash as you climb the Alps? Yes I know, I generally opt for more rhythmic ventures when cycling but hey, even the sick can be healed, at least momentarily.

Indeed it is "going to be a long time coming" so I just settle in, get used to my heart rate hovering at 180, and try to concentrate on minor miracles like my legs, that strangely still feel good.

Suddenly, just after the 3-mile mark the road seems to level out and I pick up speed, shifting down into the 23 cog, 21 cog, 19 cog, 17 cog and even into the 15 briefly. My speed picks up and I start to think that I might actually finish this ride before the sun goes down.

Conveniently, CSN kicks into "Marrakesh Express," just as I pick up speed. I don't have to wait for them to sing in unison "all aboard that train," and I'm riding it for all it's worth.

I know it's not going to last. Something told me that despite the name of the next village, Le Reposoir, or resting place, this old cat issn't going to be getting any R n' R any time soon.

And sure enough, a steep hairpin just out of the town center announces a new colorand I am back on the grindstone. Five dreadful miles still to go.

Suddenly I'm singing to Van Morrison, "And it stoned me to my soul. And it stoned me..." Suddenly I think about the countless faceless cyclists that have gone before me, stoned cold from their own personal defeat in the face of these mammoth mountains.

You know the look. A cyclist shelled from the lead group, resigned to simply finishing when there is nothing left to give. Empty from the effort already produced, he simply assumes the slouched position of the defeated and trudges on. And so do I. Dazed and confused, I feel as though I have just been stoned by a mob, minus the bruises. But I have no choice but to continue.

About this time I am again singing the praises of my Addict, grateful that at least my bike is riding effortlessly, even though I have lost all semblance of control.

Suddenly I come upon a small herd of cows grazing in a field along the roadside. "How did you all get here," I wonder. And I figure this is as good a time as any to stop and take in the view. "What gear did you use," I ask one of them, not really thinking at all.

Putting the pieces back together, I again clip in and continue my grind. Any sense of adventure, is now gone. All that is left is the task at hand-getting over this bloody mountain.

And then comes the kicker. With barely two miles remaining I come upon a road sign reading "Route barree/avalanche" Road closed my ass. What do I care about a rock slide at this point in my ordeal.

I did think briefly about the time this winter on a nearby mountain where I disregarded a sign saying "Track closed," and skiied down a black diamond in a snow storm. Shivering and shaking as I inched through zero visibility, I wondered what would happen to me, who would come looking for me when the track was closed.

And who would come looking for me on a closed road up some forlorn climb if I was stricken by some rock slide? But then I figure, "what good would it do even if they did?" and I venture on.

Now the last two miles of the Col de Colombiers look just a little like that lunar landscape that is the Col d'Izoard outside of Briancon. It's nothing but man against nature and a long dauntingly steep road that continues to climb.

Now I won't tell you about the various and sundry positions I've discovered on my bike in an effort to gain more leverage with each pedal stroke. Let's just say it's not pretty. But I get the job done.

And there I sit on top of the Colombiere, with its majestic view of the Alps. I start feeling pretty proud of myself. Then I think about the pros coming here in July. And my heart sinks.

Those fit bastards barely consider this a big climbing day. For them it's just an appetizer to the other meaty stages in the Alps.

--James Startt