Stories from "France"

DOWNHILLING IN FRANCE

I belong to a French brotherhood, the Club des Cent Cols.

Membership is based on honour and an eco code, for anyone who has climbed at least 100 recognised mountain passes, unaided, on a bicycle, including at least five over 2000 meters. You can count each pass only once.

I qualified a few years ago when I completed a 100-mountain pass challenge in the Pyrenees and at the same time raised a goodly sum of money to help a penniless cancer sufferer.

Each year I have added to my total, but seemed far away from the next levels that carry an award, 500 and 1000 passes, including 25 and 50 respectively over the 2000 meter mark.

So in 2011 I decided to lift my total significantly, whilst I was at my home in the Pyrenees. Having completed most of the local surfaced mountain passes I had to plan for an off-road odyssey.

In the end I climbed 102 new passes and 156 in total, think of the buzz on all those descents!

Where I live in the Pyrenees is on the border of France and Spain and there are many passes that have linked the two countries from time immemorial. The off-road passes are remote and were used for centuries by smugglers bringing cheaper goods and refugees into France or, during the second world war, refugees from Nazi tyranny to neutral Spain.

The mountain scene of the smugglers in the mountains in the film of Bizet’s immortal opera “Carmen” is what used to happen in real life.

Planning was necessary to complete the maximum number each day, without marooning myself with the wolves and bears at night. Sometimes I can manage a day trip from home, sometimes it is a small hotel or camping.

Each day needs logistics planning for hydration, food and knowledge of the weather. Even in summer the high mountains are unforgiving and since I would be alone, out of contact, a degree of care was necessary.My brotherhood has atlases that give detailed maps of every accepted pass and I have a complete collection of large-scale maps of the Pyrenees.

Why be alone? The purely personal challenge, no crowds cheering you up the mountain, no prizes, just the chance to make close contact with the reality of life in a land of shepherds and their troupes, smugglers and the indigenous wild life. The scenery is stunning.

There is also the need to cross a certain number of really high passes, over 2000 metres. I have fifteen different ones to my credit and probably fifty in total. These are the remotest and often are in my first love: “les neiges eternelles”-the land of the eternal snows. You pass through different levels of weather, from heat in the valley to clouds, light rain, mist, snowdrifts and having reached the summit, if the weather comes down, you have to find your way home. Yes, I do carry a compass!

Col de Laquets 2630 metres or 8630 feet.

This is the closest to God you can get in the High Pyrenees, from my home in St. Marie de Campan, up the famous Tourmalet pass (a mere 2215 metres), up the track to the Col de Sencours and then here to the snow that never melts.

I am still in France, in front is Spain, the weather is coming down, this is the Port d’Aula at 2260 metres or 7415 feet.

There is also the language challenge. I am perfectly bi-lingual, French –English and can get by in Spanish. However in the Pyrenees there are numerous dialects, French and Spanish and the completely unique Basque language that linguists have been trying to fathom for centuries!

A “Pass” in English is a “Col” in French. However there are Pas, Breches, Cots, Coits, Courets and Ports in French. Just as many alternatives in Spanish and in Basque “Lepoa” and derivatives and usually three different names for each pass location, usually unpronounceable!

By David Linehan


YOU ALWAYS REMEMBER THE FIRST ONE!

Whatever sports you may be involve in, winning is special. People say it is not important, that competing and giving your best is enough. But let us be realistic, don’t you feel envious of someone who hits the headlines, however modest the level?

I was fortunate to go through the categories of bike racers and at each level there is a “first one” that remains in my memory.

I started racing at club level and even as a green teenager had enough talent to win club races. However the memory is of the hill climb championship where you sprint up a steep, lung-searing hill. I went to the race as a non-favourite. A bigger older guy was tipped to win. I went up the hill not only in first place but took eight seconds off the course record. At the time I did not know it, but being a redoubtable hill climber was to shape my future.

I then graduated to road racing and quickly started to win the intermediate hill climbing  I am still in France, in front is Spain, the weather is coming down, this is the Port d’Aula at 2260 metres or 7415 feet.

There is also the language challenge. I am perfectly bi-lingual, French –English and can get by in Spanish. However in the Pyrenees there are numerous dialects, French and Spanish and the completely unique Basque language that linguists have been trying to fathom for centuries!

A “Pass” in English is a “Col” in French. However there are Pas, Breches, Cots, Coits, Courets and Ports in French. Just as many alternatives in Spanish and in Basque “Lepoa” and derivatives and  usually three different names for each pass location, usually unpronounceable!

, the coveted king of the mountains. However I never seemed to do it at the finish. Then one day we came to a race where my team mate, a future Olympian, was the favourite. We came to the last hill with the finish in top. Everyone was fighting for his slipstream. He winked at me and lifted off the pedals. I was gone and had won my first real road race.

I graduated to the senior class and came up against a harder bunch of guys who gave no presents. Half way through the year after a lot of second places I came good in the mountains and rode away from the field to win in the best way, alone with the field groveling behind. A didn’t win again that year but had enough high places on pro-am races to get a pro contract the next year.

I won my second race, a “welcome to the pros” gift from a teammate and spent the rest of the year groveling in the slipstream again of some really mean guys. The boss fired me at the year-end and told me I was too soft.

That should have been the end of my career, but I rode as a privateer, having toughened myself up. I won a genuine pro race and threw my hands in the air in victory. The race sponsor was the guy who had fired me the previous year. That was sweet!

The same year I turned to cross country racing and won a big one at my third attempt that put me into a hierarchy that I was not to leave. That was also very satisfying, the first of many. Nobody ever told me I was soft again!

Then, after many career enhancing moves away from cycling, I was back in the game. My personal counter was stuck on 99 wins. I spent a whole season trying for number 100. Everyone was worked up about it. I finally achieved it in a small country race. That also was sweet.

How I became a TV star. It was during the professional track championships, run together with the amateur events. Suddenly, out of program we were called to the line. The Chief Judge said to me “You are live on Eurovision, a good chance to make a fool of yourself in front of several million people!” My two opponents were from the same team but did not have my steep banked track experience and they were obviously nervous. I rode in between them at speed and did the impossible, much to the chagrin of their team sponsor and the joy of mine. Three minutes free advertising on prime time is worth a fortune.

Then there was the time, back in the amateurs, when I was working in Wales and there was a local race. It was the final selection for the Commonwealth Games team. So I thought I could take advantage of the Welsh guys marking each other. It worked out and I got to the finish with two of them. One was dead and the other started to sprint too early and was dead meat. However he rode me all over the road and I protested, knowing that normally they don’t disqualify the homeboy. For the first time in my life I was wrong, they awarded me the race and I slipped out by the back door to avoid an international incident!

I then ended up working in the Mediterranean and won a few races. The one that remains in my memory is the Festival of Santa Maria, in Mosta, Malta. I arrived in the finishing straight with three guys from the same team. In the pros I would have been there for fourth place. These guys got all excited and started to sprint too early. I won by a mile and was promptly banned by the national coach from racing with the young guys, whose egos had taken a serious dent. I was then reduced to winning veterans’ races with one leg tied behind my back!

Back home in France, every level was run like a pro team and I was in the best team. However, I was a foreigner, so I had to ride to orders and from time to time was “allowed” to win. My best ever win was at Aulnay-sous-Bois. I destroyed the field. Then I was asked if I was happy, I said, no, it came a week too late, the previous week I had missed the world title in Austria.

Bittersweet was the European Masters Championship the next year. I rode my heart out and finished second behind a convicted dope taker. He was eventually declassified and I was the Champion, but nobody called me back and played my national anthem.  I consoled myself by inviting him into the car park to discuss his morals like gentlemen, via my wheel jack handle!  He declined my offer and disappeared into history. My French team was not impressed; I never got my win bonus.

Then I went to Jamaica to work and enjoyed the local scene. Two memories of wins I cherish. Both were on the waterfront at downtown Kingston where the wind blows off the sea. Twice at the bell, with a lap to go, I was out of contention. Twice I won easily. Why? Because I was what the French call “un finisseur”, in cycling terms a hit-man. A lap to go, you but it in the biggest gear on the bike, you go as hard as you can for a long as you can. That is my secret, hard to imitate, but it has won me lots of races. People still ask me “How did you do that?”

Finally for now, the comedy of errors, one I should not have won but did. The cross-country mountain bike race at Jakes, held as part of the triathlon weekend. This became the Jamaica championship, so at the age of 69 I was the Elite category champion. It started fast and two riders got away and I settled down, because their tempo was too high for me. However, this is mountain biking, anything can happen. Sure enough on the last lap I came round a corner and they were standing in the road. One had punctured and the other, very sportingly, was helping him. I called out that they would “soon come”. Then the penny dropped, I was winning. The local crowd, who christened me grandad were ecstatic that “granddad, him winning”. Eventually one of the two riders caught me, but I noticed that he had heavy off road tires and dual suspension, that meant that my bike was much lighter. So, close to the finish I used my brutal acceleration and took off to win, to the surprise of everyone. This was a bonus in my life. I have lost enough through misfortune, that day Lady Luck smiled on me.

By David Linehan

 BECAUSE IT IS THERE!

Sunday June 21, 2009 in France was a completely different cycling challenge for me, far from the madding crowd. No spectators, no outside assistance or following vehicle, a test in what the French call "total autonomy" against a wild and inhospitable mountain.

I belong to a French brotherhood called the “Club of 100 Cols”. A “col” is a mountain pass. Climbing them is what we do; we have over 50 of them in Jamaica, which I am cataloguing for the brotherhood.

 This wild environment means that I am carrying a "Camelback" a large backpack with a drink reservoir, energy food bars, bananas, maps, warm clothes for the descent, waterproofs, camera, cell phone (it only connects through Spain if you get a signal), spare tubes in case I puncture and tools.

 The test was the Port d'Aula, a 12 mile pass that connects France with Spain in a wild wilderness, the road is normal for a couple of kilometres and then degenerates into a stony grassy track, with no less than 42 hairpin bends to gain elevation. The picture above is a “flat’ part, about half way to the summit. The final height is 2260 meters, about 8000 feet, with an average gradient of nearly 10 per cent, much steeper than anything in Jamaica. No flat road at all.

 I had carefully consulted the local weather forecast before leaving home and the weather in the valley was brilliant sunshine but higher up you are soon in the clouds and the mist. This is on the French side, the Spanish side is always sunny. That's mountain weather for you.

 At about 1500 meters it starts to get cold and the first snowdrifts appear, we are in the land of the eternal snows. Fine until the road is entirely blocked and I have to go down the side and then try to climb up with my mountain bike. Two more drifts leave only a foot or so to pass from the edge, since there is no rescue here if you fall and it takes about 45 minutes to die from exposure, once you lose body temperature, I get off and walk a few yards. Up past some typical high mountain lakes and through the cloud line into some welcome sunshine.

 Finally the summit, which is also the Spanish frontier, so I cross and take a picture of the sunny side with lakes and horses. Lunch is a banana!

 Whilst the challenge is " on your honor" it is better to have some evidence, so I take a picture of my bike and then a shepherd appears and he takes a picture of me; by this time I am dressed up like an Eskimo for the descent which is steep, bumpy, slippery, dangerous and cold. My clothing works a treat, except for the ends of my fingers.

 My road-blocking snowdrift appears and I go off the side again and for a moment the total whiteness disorients me and a small panic overcomes me. Common sense prevails, climb up to the other side of the drift, that is where the road is; walking would be easy, lugging a fully loaded mountain bike is exercise indeed. Actually I had also a special mountain watch with me that has a compass, barometer, altimeter, which together with the maps is supposed to help you orient yourself.

 Going down the bumpy road and hanging on the disc brakes is very tiring on the arms as is having to maintain concentration with all the hairpin bends; no mountain rescue here.

 Suddenly, sunshine again and I am soon back at my car in the valley with a change of clothes, five hours after leaving and a thermos of hot coffee which is very welcome.

 What do I do for my 70th birthday, the Carreterra de la Muerte in Ecuador or the world's highest road in Katmandu? Why? Because it is there!


 David Linehan

WELCOME TO THE DARK SIDE!

There is a similarity between skiing and mountain biking in that they both use the same terrain at different times of the year for the most popular races, the downhill. There is a tremendous following for both in Europe and North America.

There is a difference however. North America and Europe have well manicured slopes with plenty of room for error and even padding around the trees you may hit at speed!

In Jamaica we have some wonderful and natural down hill trails that have been cleaned up but are usually very narrow and a mistake at speed has painful conclusions. That is why I am so keen to help develop this side of the sport, a young Jamaican who can handle our slopes will handle anything in the world.

When I started to take an interest and went down the famous Carlton Pass above Robins Bay in St. Mary I managed to do a somersault and bruise my ribs. Andy Giles the dean of down-hillers in Jamaica came back to me and said:

“Welcome to the dark side!”

Given my history, which you will pick up from other “blogs”, I am probably the safest person in the world to follow downhill, since I am still haunted by my near-fatal accident in the Pyrenees over 10 years ago. This makes it unusual that I should even take the risk at my age, but it was in fact my idea that we included down-hilling as a favourite discipline.

Now for my secret, the “Dark Side” has a range of protective clothing as the picture below will show. A full-face helmet, shoulder, chest, elbow and knee pads. The secret if you fall is to let go of the bike, so you don’t get hit by sharp pieces of metal or break your collar bone.

The bike is also special with front and rear suspension, large tyres and massive disc brakes. The photo below shows my bike known as “The Beast”.

In the last downhill race I overcooked it on a slippery piece, fell, got up and still finished sixth. Looking at my time compared with training I was going 10% faster. That is the adrenalin rush for you.

Welcome to the dark side!

By David Linehan