A marmot whistles from the grassy alpine slope to my left, but I'm focused on my cadence and the stone building in the distance that marks the top of the Col du Glandon. Barely 8:30 in the morning and already 90 minutes into La Marmotte GranFondo, together with 2000 others. It's the yearly cycling race for amateurs that passes three legendary mountain passes before finishing with the (in)famous climb to Alpe d'Huez. This morning, remnants of last night's cloud deck mixed with early rays of sunlight make for a stunning scenery to climb through. In about 10 minutes I will reach the top of this first of four climbs and hope to find Merijn there healthy and happy. At 6 in the morning, I had dropped her off at the parking lot at the foot of the mountain with her bike and four bottles of sports drink. She would climb up before the riders, carrying the weight of the bottles on her back, in order to resupply my friend Mark and me when we crest the col during our race, which started at 7 AM.
Suddenly, I recognize the rider next to me. It's Henk, the Dutch guy I rode to the finish of the Vercors Challenge with, about 5 weeks ago. Would he have made the 1000 km trip to the French Alps again, just to participate in this race? How many times a year would he do that? What would he do for a living? He could be a lawyer, or a system administrator, or the owner of car dealership maybe. Instead of asking, I focus on dropping him. Why? Why is going fast always trumping the opening of the senses to all that's there to be seen, heard and smelled? The scenery is stunning, the weather nice, the people diverse. Could it make more sense to maximize one's time on the course rather than minimize it? Maybe, if people wouldn't immediately ask your time and rank when you tell them you did La Marmotte. Maybe it’s that bike racing brings a new social order. On the bike, social differences are neutralized and replaced at the finish line by the classification. From that perspective, it would be cowardice not to race, an arrogant rejection of the new order. And what about the joy of racing, the great feeling of satisfaction that is waiting for you at the finish line and which is strongly correlated to the amount of suffering endured to get there? The mountains won't go anywhere, I can devote them my proper attention some day when the clock isn't running. So, let's drop Henk if we can.
Unfortunately, my legs feel mediocre. I have more difficulty pushing the gears than I remember from last year and something in my back seems to block my left leg a bit. Merijn's waving and smiling. Two fresh bottles, a jacket and a kiss and down it goes, into the treacherous descent into the Maurienne valley. In the valley, I'm thinking I ended up in a good group to cover the 25 km traverse to the next col with. But the cooperation in the group is getting progressively worse. One frustrated rider starts screaming at another, but he is complaining to the wrong one, a strong one, instead of the short old Frenchman who, knowingly or not, is constantly sabotaging the echelon and deserves a . As a result, I'm spending much more energy on this flat part than I planned to. As soon as we hit the bottom of the Col du Télégraphe, the group is back to a mere swarm of individuals. The next 75 km over the Col du Télégraphe and the Col du Galibier back to the foot of Alpe d'Huez pass rather quickly. The weather is excellent: neither warm nor cold, some sun, some clouds, but no rain. When I hit the bottom of the climb to Alpe d'Huez I'm glad to discern Petra, Mark's wife, standing beside the road with her pregnant belly of 8 months, holding out a fresh bidon. We exchange bottles as if every second counted, and I drop all excess weight (jacket, arm warmers) at her feet. The speed I have to settle for I find a bit disappointing at first. But as I seem to be leaving behind most of the riders of the group I'd been in in the descent from the Galibier, I cannot be doing so bad. In corner #7, the (in)famous "Dutch corner," a bit past halfway up, there's Merijn again! She's holding out a bottle of refreshing water this time, which I partly pour over my head. I control my pace and manage to keep it steady until the top. I've tried a bigger gear, but the effect on my speed was zero. Coordination is giving in on the last steep straight, so this must be all I have today, the legs are done. Behind the finish line I suddenly find me and my salty face standing still in the midst of the colorful fair that is the finishing area in the heart of the ski resort. The abrupt change from a pressurized racing environment to a slow-paced holiday atmosphere confuses me.
According to the official time, I needed four minutes more than last year to finish the race and ended up 159th in the classification. Surprisingly close! All day I'd been disappointed about the speed on the display of my odometer; I was convinced that last year I was significantly faster. Last year, though, I didn't have an odometer, and with only four minutes difference it's impossible that I was really noticeably faster last year. So this innovation had been feeding me negative energy all day, for nothing! I can't believe I spent a good seven hours in the saddle, though. Normally, that would be a very long day, but today they passed very quickly. The loop the parcours makes is awe-inspiring on a regular day, but in an event like this, the magnificent mountain tops and endless roads seem to shrink to a mere backdrop for a cyclists' playground. Come back again tomorrow and the rocky heights will demand your renewed respect.
After finishing I feel a bit dizzy, but the feeling quickly fades. In the finish area I'm looking for Mark, but he's nowhere to be found. Last year, he was waiting right there behind the finish line. What happened? He was racing ahead of me from the bottom of the first uphill, and I did not see him again after that. Then, after about ten minutes, he suddenly shows up next to me, looking exhausted. Sweat drips from his glasses, leaving a trace of salt. He obviously just finished and told me he had a puncture near the Col du Galibier. As he was descending, in the first corner his bike almost slid from underneath him. He stopped, was freezing, but was lucky to find a kind spectator who happened to have a spare tube and CO2 cartridges. The guy replaced the tube and reinflated the tire while Mark was shivering. It had cost him at least 15 to 20 minutes. The malheur had cracked his morale and confidence, but he got back into his rhythm on Alpe d'Huez.
Mixed feelings after the race. I would love to race again next year, faster. But the time and energy that went into preparation was costly, in many ways. What would it take to get fit enough to feel strong, ride with grace, enjoy the effort, the scenery, and sometimes the game? Even more training, possibly. Should I just let go of the racing and maximally appreciate the opportunities the event has to offer. For that, though, I don't need a chip for timing and had better do a randonnée, together with the other old men.
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