OUT OF THE OFFICE - BLOG

Tuesday 13th November 2007

FROM THE SEINE TO SIENNA BY BICYCLE – RICHARD LANYON
SEPTEMBER 2005
THE TEAM: Richard Lanyon, Dr Nick Stanger, Dr Robert Hewetson

The flat cool landscape of the Yonne Valley in Bergundy, and the hustle and bustle of Paris where we started our trip, seemed a distant memory as I ground my way up steadily but slowly to the Col D’ Agnello (2748m) - a totally different world of the cool high Alpine pass, where harsh grey vertical crags enveloped the steep valley, falling down to the single track road leading up to the col and the tiny border crossing between Italy and France.

It had already been a hard days cycling encompassing the Col Izzoard (2360m), but the exhilaration on arriving at the crest of the col (not to say the high speed descent!), combined with the stunning views of Mt Viso and the surrounding hanging valleys in this hidden corner of France and Italy made the toil all worthwhile.

The cycling trip had been planned for a couple of years and involved a journey from Villeneuve (just south of Paris) to Gaoile in Chianti (Sienna), totalling 1220 miles. The route was to take us from the green valleys and vineyards of Bergundy, over the mountains passes of the Jura and Alps, through the vineyards of Barolo and foothills of Liguria and down to the coast of the Cinqueterra, finally ending in the Alpi Apuane and Tuscany. It took just over three weeks and my fellow peleton included two doctors from Salisbury, Nick Stanger and Robert Hewetson.

The route was not designed on a contour basis, but included amongst other six of the famous 2000m Alpine cols, some of which are featured in the legendary Tour de France. This certainly added a challenge to proceedings especially as we were laden by panniers, but it was exciting to follow the tracks of luminaries such as Lance Armstrong and Jan Ullrich over the Col de la Madeline and the famous 21 hairpin bends of Alpe D’Huez. Paint on the roads from the summer Tour spelling out “Allez Jan” gave us a spur and sense of history as we forced our way up at a somewhat more leisurely pace, with a wry smile.

The highlights of the tour were numerous, but the sheer simple pleasure of cycling along minor roads with no traffic and witnessing the subtle changes in landscape was enough in itself. This was especially true in the early days of the trip as we wound our way through the regional Parc Morban in Bergundy, and through the fortified towns of Vezelay and the wine capital of Beaune. Being able to hear the sound of woodpeckers and cycling through farmsteads and absorbing the views was just so refreshing…and what a difference from travelling by car!!

My favourite parts of the trip would include the traverse of the Jura from Arbois, which is a small gastronomic picturesque town nestled in the foothills over to Malbuison on the eastern edge of the mountains (Mt D’Or). The days cycling was approximately 50 miles and involved a steep climb out of Arbois where we were rewarded with spectacular views and through the Foret des Muidons, where narrow lanes led us through pine forests and meadows dripping with early morning dew. The whole landscape had a soft Alpine feel which was accompanied by the lazy sound of cowbells. Coffee in the hilltop town of Nozeroy was followed by a picnic in the forests of the high Jura.

The following morning we staged an early morning ascent of Mt D’Or where one can witness views all the way across Lake Geneva to the Mt Blanc Massif and the Aravis Mountains. It is a dramatic landscape that unfolds before your eyes.

Other highlights included the aforementioned leg into Italy over the Col D’Agnello – the reason for this is this is that not many cyclists or motorists use the route because its remoteness – it really is a somewhat forgotten part of France and Italy and the views are dramatic.

We also enjoyed the journey from La Morra (Barolo) which is South of Turin in the heart of wine growing country across the famous Cinqueterra and which took two days. A quintessential Italian landscape where we crossed tightly knit immaculate vineyards hosting the Barolo grapes, across tumbling valleys and small hilltop villages (each with a church!!). At one point from a col above Roddino we witnessed an amazing panoramic landscape stretching miles across Turin and deep into the Monta Rosa (Switzerland), and the Mont Blanc Massif – the light was transparent and I could understand why it is a constant fascination to artists.

This leg ended on the Cinqueterra coastline South of Genoa – here we experienced the change to a Mediterranean climate and the sight of the clear blue sea marked another chapter in the journey. We rode through the crowds of tourists and yachts in Portofino and up to the small hairpin bends high above the sea line.

The Alpi Apuane and the pass over Mt Altissimo (916m) was quite a contrast to the coastline – a more rugged, savage terrain far removed from the tourist trail – not to mention the refuge at the top of the pass “Hotel Restaurant Gobi!!” This is an area famous for its marble (dating back to Michelangelo), and was the final barrier before we broke into Lucca, Volterra and the Tuscan heartland. Again, Tuscany is a wonderful landscape of steep valleys, Olive groves, woods and vineyards. It also provides superb views from the high roads.

Food and wine featured highly on the agenda to refresh weary legs! We enjoyed fabulous meals in Arbois (Jean Paul Jeunet) and Aquiterme (Pisterna), but perhaps the most memorable meal was at Sempeyre, on the evening when we entered Italy after a long day in the mountains.

The restaurant is called Da Ricky & Catia and whilst the entrance is unprepossessing and the dining room is through a family living room scattered with children’s clothes and toys (no menu forthcoming), the food is Italian cooking at it most genuine and delicious. We feasted ourselves on a melange for homemade pasta; with each course proudly presented by a smiling Ricky – the crepes stuffed with fresh artichokes were out of this world. The local wine was a great accompaniment and all for a modest £15 per head!

As far as practicalities were concerned we travelled as light as possible – no luxuries apart from the treasured ipod. The ipod created heated discussions as to that ultimate top 5 selection and the relative merits of Led Zep, Hendrix, Miles Davis or The Who!! A must for any trip!!

We also prebooked some accommodation such as Bourg D’Oisans, where I can recommend Les Petites Sources (run by Eric and Pauline Durdin who are fantastic hosts with Eric being a Guide de Haute Montagne).Where accommodation was not booked, we always managed to find small hotels and the Michelin Guide is a reliable barometer.

As a rule 50/60 miles was accomplished each day, not withstanding the climbing. Whilst we only had one rest day (due to the allure of Alpe D’Huez) in three weeks, on reflection I would recommend one every seven days.

All in all it was a trip of a lifetime and is well recommended as a complete break from the pressures of everyday life. Due to the time away, I could not have done this without the help of my wife Sam and daughter Elli, and several close friends who were on hand.

Richard Lanyon

Post Script:

Next year, apart from my annual climbing in the Alps, I hope to return to Bourg D’Oisans to compete the Marmotte which is a 100 mile ride over a number of Cols.

If anyone reading this article wishes further information on the exact routes and accommodation please contact me on richardlanyon@lanyonassociates.com and I will be pleased to help.

Tuesday 13th November 2007 - MARMOTTE DIARY – DR N STANGER

THE TEAM: Dr Nick Stanger, Dr Rob Hewetson, Richard Lanyon, Broom Van Chris Brown

Half past six in the morning is an odd time to be doing mental maths, especially when setting off on bike, in the dark, up a very long steep hill before breakfast with the prospect of 12 hours in the saddle to look forward to. But as we began our attempt on the Marmotte, my mind kept going back over the numbers in all their bizarre combinations. How far was it again? And how much climbing? And what average speed was needed if we were to get in before dark?

110 miles and 17,000 ft. of climbing. So- we need to average at least 10 mph, say 16 kph at least if we’re to have time for a couple of breaks for resting and eating and still get in by dark. The first climb – Col de la Croix de Fer - I’m averaging 6.5-7mph uphill, no less – 6 mph - and not yet even half way up. Is it enough or should we speed up? No – take it steady early on or you’ll blow any chance of holding out for the whole day’s ride. Keep it steady there are four mountain cols ahead. Not too fast, easy spinning rhythm, enjoy this incredible day. Too quick here and the legs will never last. Keep it even, strong.

Chatting freely at the start of this first col, now that we’ve turned off the busier main road along the valley bottom from Bourg, our conversation fades and gives way to the odd breathless grunt , and private thoughts. Bike thoughts and contemplation, dominated by those worrying sums.

Doubts creep in about completing the ride, and how will we all fare on this crazy challenge. Who’s fitter? Who will come unstuck? Will I be equal to it? We’ve cycled together hundreds of miles and share a common love of cycle touring – but we’re all daunted and have our own doubts about the ride. I sense that Alpe d’Huez, the sting in the tail, may be a hill to far.

Ricardo – hit by a virus a few weeks ago, a knee strain climbing before that, hasn’t done the training miles he had hoped for – looks lean and mean and…fairly red, red bandana and red croix de fer shirt, even red in the face too come to that. Red, a powerful image, it suits perfectly this gutsy friend, determined mountain man.

We stay reasonably bunched together gaining strength from each other. Eh? Where did that one come from? Am I losing the plot here or did I really say that? The hill goes on and on, up and up it feels interminably long. And after this one, still three to go. I’m not gaining strength from anyone, its just draining away like traditional family values under a labour government. Oh well, we chose to do it, so cut the crap, its no use moaning.

Robbie too is short of training miles, but life is hectic, too busy; took a bit of a hammering on the three peaks a couple of months back too – has he recovered bike fitness yet? Is the moon made of cheese? Well no, but some questions don’t need asking this man is indestructible - a total stranger to the very idea of giving in or coming second even. (not that it’s a race…). Truly another giant of the mountains.

The challenge of the day motivates, keeps us pushing on. Suddenly it feels do-able…

Still early and we start to relax, enjoy ourselves, accept that the day will be as it will be. What is this cycling magic, drawing us close, invigorating, inspiring? Bollocks, it bloody hurts.
We climb steeply on up from the valley floor as the sun rises. The crisp cool mountain air begins to warm. Miles crawl by with painful slowness. I convert them to kilometres – looking for 175km over the day, about 35 to the top of out first Col. So, how many more miles then? Convert the speedo figure-multiply by eight; divide by five; or what? Multiply by five, divide by eight, no hell, that’s the wrong way round, think again, you’ve done three hours at about 8mph which is 5kph, no its not – and so on as the brain goes to mushy and the figures jumble about in my distracted mind. Keep it steady, about fifteen miles gone and we’re almost 2 hours in. I can’t do the sum. It feels good already but check that average – how’s it looking for the day now? Oh fine we’ll do it in about 37 hours. What? No, that can’t be right? Of course, wait for the downhill’s, that’ll help the average. So how fast do we need to go down then? My mental maths is soon completely cowed into submission I give up.

Now we pass a Dame two thirds of the way up, spotted him ahead, quite early on and gradually reeled him in. He looks relaxed, comfortable, saving himself for later, perhaps, and he’s young too – lean, fit and quick looking – are we going too fast too early? He stays close. He’s cycling alone, it can’t be so easy. Dull as dull I reckon, but later we meet the Mrs. Who is lending him her full support and cheering him on nicely at the put stops. Later we find out – they are afraid of him cycling through tunnels. Perhaps it’s a Danish thing, she gives him a lift in the van through all the tunnels. Sweet.

We stop at the top, rest a while, and regroup. Windproof tops on. Grab a snack, top up water bottles. We’re glad of the fourth man, our staunch support and friend…but don’t envy him his driving lot. Oddly enough Brownie doesn’t envy us either, so that’s alright then.

We remount and descend in joyful mood, happy to be over our first col and revelling in the thrill, the sheer excitement of mountain road descent. Odd how the bikes seem now almost part of you, part of your day, trust the machine and it’ll take care of you. Help, I’m turning into a geek.

We fly down towards St Jean de Maurienne. Then – route debarred! – Catastrophe! – and the detour means a longer ride, an extra 40 minutes climbing. Expletives are heard, they puncture the thin semblance of optimism I’d began to feel, its definitely a low point as we strip off the wind cheaters, trying not to let this setback get us down.(…the mountain).

Its steep and a poor road surface, narrow, with construction traffic on its way up to the road building. On the descent I see the chaussee deforme ahead and a lorry grinding up the single track road towards me – Robbie is in front, gets through OK, I follow, see its going to be close, teeter on the edge of broken tarmac, then suddenly I’m once more in to the Anglo Saxon, sodding stupid bike/lorry/road etc. Then more contrite as I realise that in truth none of them are to blame, but I am. Plonker. It was a slow motion moment, happened in a kind of suspended slow rush. Laughter – yes, I fell off my bike into a patch of three foot high stinging nettles, ho ho ho! I’m tingling all down one side and wheals soon appear. Ouch. A puncture is quickly repaired, luckily the wheel isn’t buckled. On down we go.

Pain au chocolat and a Danish for breakfast at your typical if slightly grotty French pavement café in St Jean. But what a pleasure, very enjoyable indeed... Cometh the hour, cometh the café, that’s how it is in France, and don’t we just love it? But all too soon that pesky Marmotte beckons again. Hill-wise its only one down, three to go. The day’s business is still far from done.

Sun cream needed – it’s hot and sweaty down in the valley. The route out is flat, a good main road but busy, ugly, smelly. The surface is good, we ease our way along at a fast pace until the turning to col de la telegraph. I feel surprisingly positive, a long climb ahead yet I’m loving it, almost ecstatic, how weird! The exercise is working its magic, the mountains too; it’s just a great day to out cycling these Alps.

We stop as Robbie’s rear deflates. The re-inflation doesn’t last so we stop to change his inner tube. Ricardo catches up, goes past, head down concentrating, oblivious – he’s found a dark place and can’t see out, blind to his companions working at the side of the road. Later Ricardo passes Brownie, tells him we’re ahead, but…confusion sets in, Brownie is sure we aren’t, so doesn’t know where we’ve got to. Lost in France, where’ve they got to? It’s a Lanyon moment. This boy was focused…..

Onwards and upwards, feeling chipper, another long slow climb up to Telegraph. Surprisingly the col is busy, but it’s really no beauty spot. We replenish bottles at the top and grab some snacks, cover up again, have a chat with our Danish friend’s wife, then straight down as planned for our lunch stop at Valloire.

Dejeuner sur l’herbe without the desmoiselles. Browny, artist in residence, finds it all a bit Manet-esque. No-one thought to bring a bog toll either which inconveniences me somewhat, but the occasion is no less agreeable for that and we pass a relaxed and half hour or so conversing and eating, recovering, gathering ourselves for the second half of the day. The exertion has yet to dampen our spirits and we chortle away happily as if oblivious to the madness that is this Marmotte.

Too big a picnic. Ooh la la. So now two of my abdominal organs have an issue. Or not, in the case of…etc. We remount promptly - after 40 minutes rest. Galibier. A beast, also interminable, and Robbie gets the bit between his teeth, disappears on ahead. A small diversion takes us round the houses in the village, Robbie sensibly does a Hewetson and ignores it, saves himself a small climb and two or three minutes. I try to keep spinning but soon downgrade to a rhythm less grind, not particularly helped by the lump of stodge in my stomach injudiciously put there a short while earlier. I feel the first pain of lactic acid burning in the legs; it eats away at the morale. The pleasure gives way to pain with the realisation that we’re still only just past half way.

Checkout the view, it’s a stunner, reminiscent of the Col d’Agnelli which we rode last year. I drink it in and am elevated by it as well as the endless tarmac which seems now steeper than ever.

Mostly we climb alone – spread across the mountain. There is little traffic, every now and then a group of German motorcycles roar past, the odd cyclist appears, one passes me and we chat breathlessly, briefly, clipped sentences which belie a mutual respect, camaraderie. “So you’re a sad nincompoop too then, eh?” “Oh yeees zo you are eengleesh cyclist, uh?” “Hmm, and where are you from then” etc etc. Holland, as it happens, but the conversation was never really going anywhere so we soon shut up. Also he leaves me for dead, but then he’s only going half way today.

I see Robbie ahead, waiting next to the car with Brownie, arrive eventually, dismount with relief and collapse on the ground exhausted, thrilled to have got to the top shattered…Brownie snaps away with the camera, but Robbie’s talking, what’s he saying??...He was just waiting for me so we could summit together; we’re still not at the col! Aaaagh! A false dawn, I don’t believe it. But I remount quickly as I watch Robbie disappear on up, soon it’s done. Relief.

And now Mr Giant of the Mountains talk of NOT DOING the Alpe d’Huez climb once we get back down to Bourg!!!!! I am shocked, perhaps hallucinating after the exertions. Can this be the same RPH? Hewetson has had enough! Yes, we can stop at Bourg he says, it won’t matter…and this is truly alarming, a never-before –heard-on-this planet, unique kind of moment. Is this man sick?

What is this sedition? Alpe d’Huez, the infamous 21 hairpin climb is what it’s all about, surely. I missed out here last year, an omission I must put right and I don’t want to miss the opportunity again even if it does come at the wrong end of a 100 mile ride up three mountains. I’ll do it alone, say I. But of course, he gamely says he will have a crack at it if I am keen… while meanwhile for our red Diabolo Rosso friend, discretion is the better part of valour. We’ll be down to two for the final push.

So down we fly, heading back to Bourg and the start of that final climb – through a fierce rainstorm as torrential as it was unexpected, localised, a typical bit of high mountain weather. Water lies deep on the road, now skating rink, busy with traffic. Rain stings the face, blinds and chills, I feel suddenly insecure, unsafe, frightened. Brakes hardly work, its scary speeding round the steep hairpin bends and down through the Col de Lottaret. We cycled up this one last year, a time of suffering for Ricardo who was having his paracetemol and voltarol experience with back pain, poor chap. (What is it about these bike rides?)

Tunnels are interesting, noisy and fast, we seem to motor on down, a long haul back to Bourg, finally arrive, and there’s Brownie and the wagon, waiting at the foot of Alpe d’Huez. Says he thinks I am stupid to tackle this last ascent. Suppose I am, definitely this does seem a possibility. He just wants his beer a bit sooner….

I’m ok but seriously need a comfort station. There is none, despite a curious white plastic kiosk perched on a small mound of concrete beside this scrubby lay-by, marked ‘Dames’. Surreal it certainly is, a tribute to Gallic practicality, and just exactly what I needed (except for the sign which I happily ignored). My hopes are dashed as I peer inside, it is no longer an operational facility. Perhaps it is all a mirage.

I turn my mind to other thoughts, contemplate the final climb, grab a can of Coke and strip off again down to the favourite cycling top. I delay no longer and set off, chase up after the doubting Robbie who has decided to boldly go where no man has gone before apart from a few thousand cyclists every month and several million skiers every year including in 1994 the Heweys and the Stangers on an early childless ski trip. Onwards and upwards despite his better judgement.

Slow. Steep. Soon the view of Bourg is breathtaking. It takes my mind briefly off the hurting legs, arms, back, feet, neck. Neck? I have no idea why the neck is so painful, this is uncharted territory. I hadn’t expected it, I too am in a dark place now, its bad pain and I stop straining to look up, keep the gaze down. Now the view is the six feet of tarmac dead ahead. Speed is down to 4 or 5 and anything flat is somehow a huge pleasure, like a child’s sudden unexpected treat which lifts the spirits. There are a few flattish bits, just a few; I relish these, a child again thrilling as the speedo changes.
Counting down the 21 numbered bends helps, I’m glad they have numbered and signed them all so clearly. Now 3/21sts complete. Now 4, 5 as I notch up bend 16, bend 15, then quite soon I pass our hotel – it’s tempting to nip in for aforementioned comfort – but still some unfinished business, lets sort this last stretch out first. The final bends are here now; I finally creep up and ever so slowly in to Alpe d’Huez. Its 8pm. All passion spent. It’s finally over. We cracked it.

And so – elation, a good feeling, its done and I feel OK. At the bar a beer is waiting for me – it can wait a moment longer as I seek out the facilities, I find them quickly, one of those great visits life occasionally serves up, and I shall not forget it. Paula Radcliffe I am not.

114 miles cycled, 17,000 feet and 54 miles of climbing over 13.5 hours. Multiply by eight and divide by five and its even further.

It’s been fun, definitely an achievement. Comfortably knackered, it’s a good feeling. Later Robbie and I have a light supper at the hotel while the driver Brownie and Ricardo tuck in with gusto. Choosing the crème brulee is a fateful moment as we team up for tomorrow’s golf with fellow choosers of the same pudding. Brownie and I, the brulees, are to take on the pear and apple tarts. A fine battle in prospect. (The tarts won 2 and 1 at Bresse the next day).

What a great day it has been, it will live long in the memory. It’ll have to, as I shall never do it again. You have my permission to shoot me if ever I talk of tackling this Marmotte again.

With thanks to the wives and families for letting us go and we hope you’ll now be tempted to join us next time to join in the fun don’t all shout at once…and yes my bum still hurts.


Post Script----------------

Robert Hewetson went on to become founder of a new political philosophy drawing on Gourmet-Marxism, known to the world as Marmottism, resulting ultimately in the inglorious war with the United States in the second decade of the 21st century which cost Britain her independence and resulted in her becoming the 52nd state of America and reduced Europe to an economic basket case riven with internal strife and rampant inflation but rigorous Health and Safety laws.

Richard Lanyon rose to become CEO and honorary life president of TWL Inc (Transworld Land). His best selling video “Clinch that Deal the Lanyon Way” made him a household name throughout the corporate world, success he attributed to hard lessons learned as a young man exploring the habitat of an obscure Alpine mammal. Little is known about that period in his life which he occasionally refers to in his autobiography “I was a Springsteen Groupie” as the Marmotte years.

Nicholas Stanger was shot by a mystery attacker as he tried to sneak off early one morning for another bike ride whilst training for an endurance cycle ride. Recovering from his injuries, an unlikely twist of fate lead to him becoming senior pest control officer for the Rocky Mountain Wildlife Directorate, and for the remaining years of his life he shot Marmottes from his wheelchair which he frequently fell out of.

Christopher Brown rose to obscurity as Keeper of the Queens paintings and now advises governments the world over on matter of policy ranging from the importance of exercise in personal development to the establishment of left leaning think tanks and what to put in them. He also runs a small taxi company, a business he enjoys increasingly as the twilight of his life brings with it an ever reducing tolerance of the arduous exercise required for playing his beloved golf. No longer a scratch player he finds little time and has not the breath required to complete an 18 hole round.