Col de la Croix de Fer/Col du Galibier
(Part 4)

The climb to Col du Galibier is over 12 miles long and gains 4,100 feet from the Télégraphe side. But these figures don’t quite tell the whole story—true, the climb is very manageable if one were to attempt only the Télégraphe/Galibier tandem, but towards the end of a long riding day, it is something else. This year, the French Vélo Magazine called the hors categorie climb up Galibier’s north side "est un moment du Tour." The last time I remembered the Tour riding Galibier from this direction, Miguel Indurain was battling it out with Tony Rominger and Alvaro Mejia for podium placings.

Profile taken from here.

From where Télégraphe bottoms out at Valloire, the Galibier grade is moderately steep for the first 4 miles. But real climbing begins at Plan Lachat, 5 miles from the summit.

(Above: The steep road just above Plan Lachat)

Anyway, my new buddy, with whom I rode Télégraphe, turned out to be a Category 1 rider who’d logged 4,200 kilometers year-to-date, as he proudly pointed out from his cyclecomputer. I did the math. Uh-oh….my mileage was 1/6^th of his. As much as I enjoyed his company (he was a well-travelled, bright and articulate student from St. Etienne studying to be a professor of geography), I felt that I needed to focus my waning strength exclusively on the climb ahead. On the pretext of stopping to shoot a few pictures, I asked him to go ahead. That was the last I saw of him.

The Galibier road is like a long, gray, giant python coiled over and around a massive piece of rock—now slithering left, now turning right, now doubling back on itself, its head reaching into the clouds up above. Unlike the climb to the Col du Télégraphe, Galibier is barren and treeless. The panoramic view throughout the climb seemed to change with every turn, and the distant views of snow-capped peaks and jagged pinnacles were quite spectacular.

(Above: The wide-open views around Galibier)

It is now mid-afternoon and I’ve gone over 70 miles and climbed almost 11,000 feet (though almost all of the climbing had been concentrated over 3 passes and 30 miles), totals really far more than a prudent rider with insufficient training would have undertaken. But then, prudence never was my trademark.

Shortly after passing Plan Lachat, the road buckled upward with a vengeance, shooting straight up at 10%. Alas, this proved too difficult for my tired legs, and for the first time that day I shifted down to 39x23. "Funny how cycling fortunes ebb and flow in the mountains," I thought, "just earlier this morning I was pushing 39x17 up the steeper grades of Col du Glandon." But that seemed oh so long ago. Now, my legs started feeling every slight steepening of the pitch and the dreaded counting of the pedal strokes to the summit began in my head. It’s a lonely feeling when you’re far away from home, riding up a stark, mostly deserted mountain, 2,000 feet of climbing still standing between elation and desperation, and where pedal cranking and grittiness the only ticket home. It was melodrama that would have put Hemingway to shame. Ever so slowly, at a pace that more become the glaciers surrounding me, I grimaced, groaned and grunted my way up the unsympathetic road. I made slow progress and the climb felt endless. By this time my mood had soured. I could only shake my head at the range of emotions that I have gone through since I started this ride this morning. But such is the life of an inconsistent rider; on a good day, few things can surpass the adrenaline rush of attacking a mountain out of the saddle, bike rhythmically swaying, the elation capped by the exhilaration and mental high of going over the top of a pass. But today the cycling blues seemed to have descended on me, as every inch of climb felt like a struggle. I tried to get up and try short surges, but my legs were too weak to support my body. I looked up and around me. The aiguilles stared back at me with an indifferent expression. The high, wispy clouds moved idly by, as if in procession, certainly unimpressed with the goings on down below, perhaps bored with this man-vs-mountain scene they have witnessed countless times before.

(Above: 3 miles to go)

A little milestone mockingly announced that it is a further 3 kilometers to the summit. Despite all my efforts to keep my eyes focused only on what’s immediately ahead, I found myself looking up to see how much higher I need to go. It must have been at least 600 more feet, and the summit still looked too far away. Here and there patches of snow appeared on the side of the road. My altimeter read 8,110 feet and, despite my exertions, I started noticing the drop in temperature and the cold breeze coming down from the summit. I’m officially past hitting the proverbial wall—my imprint, like Wily Coyote’s in a Looney Tunes cartoon, is on it.

(Above: The long and winding road...)

(Below: Looking down at the last of the switchbacks from near the summit.
Restaurant/lodge is visible on the lower left quadrant.)

So, does he make it?