Col du Galibier - riding between the snow drifts
�I will not fail in my work in proclaiming that beside Galibier you are but pale and vulgar beers. There is nothing more to do but tip your hat and salute from well below.�
So said the legendary Tour de France director, Henri Desgranges in 1911, about Col du Galibier. Allowing for the poor translation, I can but only agree with Monsieur Henri, who has a monument in his honour one kilometre from the summit.
The Galibier is an icon of cycling, used by the Tour more times than any other mountain in the Alps. Climbed twice in 2011 to celebrate its one hundredth anniversary of Tour involvement, I�m pleased I�ve left the �Giant of the Alps� until last. The summit is a whopping 2,642 metres elevation, and today I�m climbing it from Valloire, an alpine ski village eighteen kilometres down the valley. I should mention, many riders first climb Col de Telegraphe before dropping down to Valloire and taking on Galibier. One Hors Category mountain is enough for me today.
The 1911 Tour winner, Gustave Garrigou, on finishing the climb, declared to the organisers, �You are bandits!�, which no doubt pleased the headline-seeking Monsieur Desgranges.
Today, in glorious sunshine, I cycle out of Valloire and immediately hit a kilometre of 9% climbing. It�s a torrid beginning. I pity the riders who�ve already climbed the Telegraphe. I stop briefly at a boulangerie and grab a pain aux raisins. Not the correct way to cycle up a mountain, but I�m low on energy. Oh, what the hell, any excuse to eat cake!
Surprisingly, I find the monster rather benign today. The weather is calm and clear, with a slight cooling breeze. The streams are gurgling with snowmelt and in front of me always lurks le Grande Galibier, the mountain peak from which the Col takes its name. At 3,228 metres, I�m pleased there�s not a road to the top of le Grande!
Yesterday, on Col du Glandon, I was stopped by cows blocking the way. Today, it�s sheep, being shepherded across the road and up an impossibly steep incline. They bleat and hop and defecate on the tarmac.
The next few kilometres are some of the most relaxing climbing I�ve done in France. The gradient hovers between 5% and 7% as the road hugs the hillside and I content myself with leaning back in the saddle and admiring the view. My heart rate barely whispers 100 bpm. I lose myself in the reverie of the past few months, cycling across the breadth of this lovely country and, these last weeks, climbing its most iconic mountains. I�d be more than happy to spend every summer in these mountains, taking every backroad to a glorious summit. Forget languid days spent on the pristine white sand beaches of my Australia. Give me a lung-busting climb up a lonely road, with the promise of an unparalleled vista at the summit, where there�ll be a cafe offering a jambon and fromage baguette for a few Euros. Heaven.
At Plan Lachat, the road crosses to the other side of the valley. It�s here the real climbing begins, with the final eight kilometres along a majestic sweep of snow-capped mountains creating an amphitheatre of epic proportions. My imagination hears opera echoing down the mountainside. Perhaps I�m hallucinating from all the effort, as the gradient has ramped up to a consistent 8% and the hairpins are more frequent. I love the lack of a guardrail. It just adds to the wild untamed nature of the beast, even though I�m scared to cycle too close.
There are more riders than on Glandon yesterday and it allows me to pace myself when I start to flag. On one steep section, I pass a young woman on a steel-framed bike, complete with panniers. I�d like to say I shot past her, but she held my rear tyre for a worryingly long period. Next in the race to the top is a confident cyclist, who as he speeds past me, nonchalantly changes down to a lower gear, just to prove how easy it is. Except, he changes too low and almost stops. I ride past him again before he recovers, with much clanking of gears, and passes me again. I try hard not to laugh out loud. The only real competitor on these climbs is yourself.
As with all great climbs, I don�t want this one to end. Every switchback allows me magnificent vistas. About five kilometres from the summit, the snowbanks start to crowd the road. They provide a comforting coolness. The mountain ahead looks like a dalmatian, dotted with patches of snow alternating with clumps of rock.
Near the summit, there�s a tunnel for cars through the Col. We cyclists have to go the extra few kilometres over the top. And what a pleasure that is. Two metre high snowbanks on the mountain side thrill me to laughter. I�ve never cycled this high before. It�s almost as much fun as kissing my wife after not having seen her for two months. Sorry, personal details getting in the way of a cycling story...
Snowmelt trickles across the road and looking down, I can see the switchback bends, gray tarmac a ribbon through the snow, with the lycra dots of fellow cyclists slowly climbing. Too soon, the summit arrives and I have an unsurpassed view of the Haute Alps� and one hundred cyclists at the altitude sign, waiting their turn for a photo. Many cyclists are ascending from the south slope, having first climbed Col du Lautaret. They earn the privilege of cycling past the monument to Henri Desgranges, but they also have to battle more vehicle traffic. The summit is clogged with cars and motorbikes and cyclists, all eager for a photo beside the sign. I wait my turn before putting on a jacket and gloves for the descent.
The snowbanks may have been enchanting on the climb, but as I gather pace on the descent, they offer an icy windchill and a slippery road surface with snowmelt. I clamp on the brakes, grit my teeth and wish I hadn�t written that stuff about no guardrails! Wherever possible, I look up from the next corner to enjoy the hard-earned view, but not for too long.
I tailgate a car for a while. Amusing, but it defeats the purpose of being alone on a bicycle on a mountain. I notice more waterfalls on the downhill run and the wildflowers colour the narrow verge before the drop over the edge. I�m tempted to stop at the Beaufort Fromage Shop to celebrate with cheese made from mountain cows, but the car park zips past before I can decide.
Much too soon, Valloire appears. Time for another cake. This time it�s tarte de pommes.
I have tackled a giant and survived. Ridley and I rest at a table with an umbrella shading us from the glare of sunshine off all that snow on the peak of Le Grande Galibier.
A short video of the ride is below:
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