Hell was on Saturday, but took place in heaven

Valais, Switzerland, recon of the road to Chamoson

When I first started cycling as a teenager, I remember seeing the iconic 1977 documentary Sunday in Hell, exploring the mud-cobbles-blood of the infamous Paris-Roubaix race. That storied race, over cobbled roads in the north of France and Belgium, has always been hypnotic for its savagery, violence, and the lingering question, “Why do people do this?”

For Erich, my best friend and cycling partner, there were events that transcended even the crazy goal

Erich & I in Dillon, Colorado, summer 1987

we’d set for ourselves in the summer of 1987, of riding an English century. A full century, 100 miles or 160km, is the cycling equivalent of a marathon, and that first year we finished the Wolf River Century in Wisconsin through thunderstorms and constant headwinds. I was 14 at the time, really too young for an endurance event, let alone on a hefty steel 10-speed, and I could barely think of anything tougher on a bike. But they existed. There were metric doubles (200km, or 125 miles), the first of which I attempted in ‘88 and only failed because of a broken collar bone. And then there were double centuries, 200 miles or 320km, organized by small bands of endurance cyclists in the French/Italian Audax tradition, which was the cycling culture Erich’s dad had inculcated into us. I rejected the USCF road racing tradition, the idea of cycling tight circles in a pack around an industrial park– for us, the honor was in testing limits. The idea of a double was mythical, the cyclists who completed them unknown heroes, and we joked about riding one together one day.

After Erich died in 1989, he never left my thoughts when I was cycling. I lacked any real partner or cycling goals for years after his death, but his memory inspired me to ride a real double, my only worry being that there was nothing AFTER that short of Race Across America (RAAM)– and due to a traumatic brain injury from a bike crash when I was 19, I could not risk any ride that involved severe sleep deprivation. But I eventually found real cycling partners in Jason Perez and Jennifer Whytock, met ultraendurance riders like Betty Jean Jordan and Julie Gazmarian, have a new cycling family in Kosovo, and found new one-day distance limits on the Dublin 420K two years ago. Where does one go from there?

To Switzerland, apparently. After my injuries and illnesses in June, I wanted to force myself to train hard for an event that would test my limits, force me to try a different form of ultraendurance ride. I’d seen descriptions of the Look-Marmotte gran fondo series in Europe, and was enchanted by the idea of riding more in the Alps, especially since it was a short flight from Kosovo. I had done two short rides out of Geneva last October during a business trip, and it was a shame not to try for more. I chose the inaugural Tour des Stations in Switzerland, which boasted an ultra course of 220km and 7400 meters of climbing, almost the height of Mt Everest from sea level. The distance was no problem, but the total elevation was crazy- more than twice what tough races like the Cheaha Ultra, Colorado Triple Bypass, or 6 Gap Century had, or twice my most climbing recorded in one day in the Balkans. Before leaving Kosovo I rode a 204km route that had 3000m of climbing, and even that was an effort.

Tour des Stations elevation profile- 10 cols, not for the faint of heart

Switzerland, like the rest of Europe, had been in the grips of an incredible heatwave this summer, and I was lucky it broke the day I landed in Geneva, with rainy and cool skies. Instead of the 34C days they had been experiencing for months, August 11 was forecast for 28C and no rain. I took the train to the starting town of Martigny, arriving two days early. Martigny was only 40km down the road from Montreaux, a place I'd known well enough for my time spent at the Caux Palace discussing environmental security, and on the train I could see the palace high on a hill above the lake. Martigny itself lay in the next valley, a long, gently rising flat with mountains towering above on either side, and ultimately ending after 140km at Furka Pass.

I put the bike back together in the hotel room, and realized to my horror that my GPS computer was

gone. I had mislaid it before, as in April I'd forgotten it before the Athens 320K, but in that case I was with a group and my Trek5200 I keep in the US has a backup Cateye slim computer. The Scott bike I was using had nothing else, and I dreaded the idea of trying to complete an endurance ride without knowing distance. Most likely my Wahoo GPS had been stolen from my luggage in Pristina, where in trying not to forget to pack it, had not been careful to bury it deep in my bag. On Friday morning I ran to the Bike 'N Joy bikeshop in Martigny, where I bought a simple electronic computer, programming it in metric for once (not my usual style) to match the race distance markers. And while the race organizers had provided a top-tube cheat sheet listing all the aid stops along the way, it was printed in a small font that was difficult to read and had no climb profile information, so I created a somewhat cruder version of my own.

The start was at 6:30am from the edge of Martigny. I had scouted the first 20km on my bike the day before, which were fast, flat roads to the start of the first climb in Chamoson. The start was only one kilometer from my hotel, and the roads still dark and cold at 6am as I left. I admit I was apprehensive at the start, and sat inside the cafe watching other cyclists arrive. Almost all the ultra riders I could see were Swiss or French (from their race numbers), everyone had high-end bikes but of a classical type, with no disc brakes or fancy GPS computers with colored screens (either of which would just be extra weight).

15 minutes before the start- I rarely look this jittery before a ride (Sportograph photo)

At 6:15 I took a place comfortably three-quarters back in the field, and watched with some amusement as a photo drone was attacked by a murmuration of starlings.

Race start and sunrise over the Valais canton.

We started off at 6:35 to the sound of an air horn and roar of escort motorcycles. The pack of some 200 riders flew down the first road at 40+kph, into a sunrise over the Valais valley. I really did not know what to expect, seeing and hearing everything in French and surrounded by a bunch of extremely fit people- most of whom knew the roads better than I did. The ride into the sunrise was exquisite, doubtless the most beautiful race start I’d ever seen, even more than the Door County Century in 1994. The valley was flooded with light as we started the climb to Ovronnaz, which I knew from the race profile was the steepest climb of the day. Averaging 11-12%, the climb was relentless for over 2800ft (850m) vertically, and many of the riders were spending much time out of the saddle. It wasn't a difficult climb by itself- I had done similar gradients and elevation in Albania in preparation for the ride, but I knew many more were coming.

First climb to Ovronnaz, steepest of the day

I put my vest back on for the descent, a fairly quick one back into Chamoson. Like the other descents
of the day I was taking it more slowly than the others, and I envied their confidence in flying around corners, sure in the knowledge that the roads would be banked properly, with no potholes, gravel, or Albanian drivers passing into the inside lane while going around a tractor trapped behind a herd of cows. But then the more I thought of it, mountain descents in Switzerland and France must get boring after a while without the Albanian/Slavic drama and wildlife.

Climbing to Ovronazz

The field was thinning out as we raced to the second climb up to Anzére. The first part of the climb snaked up through vineyards in a switchback pattern, and I could see cyclists already cresting those first roads as I approached -and even as I reached the top, could see cyclists behind us just starting the climb. The climb to Anzére came as a series, still winding through farms and terraced vineyards, with nothing too steep. Locals cheered us on as they did all day, from the side of the road or from their cars, shouting, “Bravo, allez, allez!” The locals’ support was heartening, especially later in the day. Families of riders would also be there in support, and one in particular later in the day didn't hesitate to offer me water, or their daughter to share her Haribo. The race organization was impressive, with each intersection controlled by volunteers or what looked like young Swiss army reservists, and the entire canton seemed to be supportive of us.

Starting the second climb, through the vineyards to Anzere (Sportograph photo)

The village of Anzére had a water station, then a short, sharp descent for the climb up to Crans-Montana, a larger resort town where the GranFondo (with most of the day’s riders) started their 130km course a few hours after us. The climb to Montana was shorter than the last two, and the aid station was stocked with Enervit gels and other foods, which I grabbed, sensing the hard part was yet to come. Crans-Montana was at 86km along the route, with a long descent back to the valley floor, and I thought of the town as the halfway point in the day. I was feeling good, but was aware that my left leg was twinging, a warning sign of possible muscle cramps if I pushed too hard on the pedals. The road after Montana had a climb out before the descent, and as I worried about cramping, my bike (Tracy’s bike, really) did the oddest thing.

I’d had trouble with the gear cassette on the Scott, and swapped in an 11-32 9-speed cassette I’d bought in Ukraine for Tracy. A 32 gear is quite low, especially for a bike with a compact crankset, meaning that the lowest gear ratio could be 34-32. But I didn’t think it would work because of the derailleur length, and testing the day before had confirmed that, leaving 28 as my lowest gear (normal for me). But leaving Crans-Montana, the gear kept jumping out of 28, and in frustration I downshifted hard, planning to shift back up quickly to clear the gears. Except then it stayed comfortably in the lower 32 gear, a soft mechanical purr the only indication that it was pushing against the jockey wheel. OK, if that’s too technical for you, think of it this way. The bike, sensing I was possibly in trouble, somehow adjusted and gave me a much easier (if slower) way to get up the steep hills, like a loyal horse knowing its rider was in pain. That would become important very soon.

Descending from Crans-Montana (Sportograph photo)

We descended back to the valley floor, the last time we would do that, crossing to the other side of the valley and pasing through Chippis and Chalais to the start of the Vercorin climb. The second half of the day, with the Vercorin climb starting at 110km (70 miles), contained many more climbs than the first half, and some of them remained a mystery to me, Strava not helping much to decipher how long and how steep all of them were. Vercorin I knew would be tough, over 6 miles (10km) at 10%, with frequent steeper sections as the road cut into the cliffside. The real worry was maintaining energy.

For those not familiar with ultra-endurance events, I should briefly explain a thing or two about energy. Despite popular myth, it's not enough to eat a large plate of spaghetti the night before and be set for the day. Carbs can be stored in the body as glycogen, both in skeletal muscles and the liver, but even endurance athletes can't store much more than 2000 calories that way. On a day when I would burn through 9-10,000 calories over 240km, that only lasts about two hours. The body can metabolize food at the rate of only 300 calories per hour, sometimes even less as distance wears on and heat increases, and the body can't spare enough blood for digestion. Do the math, and that leaves a huge deficit. Ultraendurance athletes therefore also rely on fat stores-- 1 kilogram of fat can store some 10,000 calories, but the body can only convert that into energy slowly. So in events where too much energy is burned early, one can "bonk" or "hit the wall," where there simply isn't enough energy left to keep a 200 watt power output -which requires about 1000 calories per hour.

The climbs get harder (Sportograph photo)

That's what happened to me in the Vercorin climb. Ok at first, partway up the climb I hit a wall, my energy levels falling to almost nothing. I downshifted to the 32 gear (note: I had never done that before on any road bike) and started feeling demoralized as everyone passed me on the climb. All I could do was push down on each pedal stroke, hoping that at the next aid station I could recover my energy somewhat and press on. It was difficult, and I kept thinking how easy it would be to turn around, descend to the valley floor, and coast along the flat roads back to the hotel in Martigny. Had I not told everyone about this ride, I could have done that, still had a respectable distance and enormous amount of climbing (by the top of Vercorin, I had climbed almost 13,000ft or 4000m), but I sincerely wanted to finish. I would have to slow down considerably, relying on fat reserves, the meager 300 calories/hour from gels, and then hope that the body wouldn't react too badly once it started eating away at muscle tissue for energy (note: this is not as bad as it sounds, as long as it's not done frequently- the body's enzymes are "smart" at going after broken proteins and damaged muscle tissue first).

Looking down into the valley

The aid station as Vercorin had more gels and electrolyte drinks, and I stood there as another rider did abandon, turning in his number to the ride officials. I pulled out my phone and checked the ride profile (note: there is an Android app called GPX viewer that works well in offline mode, showing a route and the elevation profile in detail). From Vercorin there were six more climbs, four more if I was being optimistic. The next one I figured I could handle, the third one looked no worse than a typical Kosovo climb, but the second... the climb to Thyon would be tough. I told myself that if I could make Thyon I could finish, because I could handle the third climb to Nendaz and then all that would remain would be the final climb to the Col de la Croix-de-Coeur (which itself was a massive climb, but later, later...). I was over an hour ahead of the time cutoff for that station, so I could afford to pace myself a bit. I just needed to recover.

After Vercorin was a climb to Nax, and a shorter one to St. Martin, all labeled on my top-tube cheat sheet. The field kept thinning out, but I could still see riders ahead of me, which meant I did not have to worry about getting off course. The ride organizers were well prepared, posting people at all intersections, making sure that hard left turns into an uphill weren’t missed or slowed down by cross traffic. I knew I had slowed down considerably, and I had retreated into myself, not paying attention to the scenery, not trying to pace other cyclists, just focused on the pedal cadence and all the new pains that were emerging. My energy levels stabilized a bit, but my right knee began hurting, an old injury that suggested energy wasn’t the only thing I had to worry about. Each pedal stroke felt slower, more painful, and I had over 100,000 to make that day. I wasn't feeling faint, not like when I got back into serious road cycling, and I remember feeling like I would pass out while climbing Mt Champlain during the Grand Prix Cycliste Gatineau in 2013. This was the body simply saying it couldn't run at more than 60%. On flat roads that would have been fine, but wasn't enough for steep mountain climbs to maintain pace. I simply put my head down and concentrated on reaching the next checkpoint.

At 158km was the village of Hermence, another aid station and transponder check, and the start of the 10km climb up to Thyon. The first section of that climb was crazy, like Guri i Kuq crazy steep, and even in low gear my knees were both screaming in pain. It’s hard to describe what it’s like, even shorter sections of 4 miles (6km) can take 45 minutes to climb at a high gradient and slow pace, and there is nothing to do, nothing to focus on, other than the pain and the kilometers ticking away on the computer. Yet oddly, as often as I worried about having to abandon, of not making it to the end before the time cutoff, it wasn’t until after Thyon that I wondered, “Why am I doing this?” Most times it’s not really a question, the answer comes in a Sir Edmund Hillary-style “because it’s there” and because I can. So I thought more of Erich at that time, that I would finish for him, that this ride was EPIC and I may not have chances again to try for this level of craziness.

The climbs begin to feel lonelier (Sportograph photo)

So I pushed on, up the second to last climb to Nendaz, which was tougher than it had looked back in Vercorin (it’s just easier in comparison to Thyon and la Croix-de-Couer), and by this aid station there were perhaps eight of us in sight of one another. I took what food I could (by this time, any energy had to come from liquids or gels), took the last of my pain medication, lactate pills and chamoix cream, was startled a bit by an ambulance leaving the station with sirens wailing-- I had not seen anyone in distress, or perhaps we all looked that way-- and climbed up a small section to the final descent. This descent was hardly relaxing, a very narrow and rutted road that wound through hillside villages. Perhaps in another setting it would look idyllic, but I was acutely aware that time was running out, and I needed to finish the race not long after 7:30. My Kosovo training prepared me for such roads, but I greatly feared a tire puncture, not having the time or energy to change a tube. I made it to the last aid station at La Tzoumaz, which I knew was 9 kilometers from the final summit. I was shocked to find that it was 6:45pm and the time cutoff in Tzoumaz was 7, so grabbed some water and made my way up the final climb.

During the final push to the final summit (Sportograph photo)

The organizers had described the final road to the Col de la Croix-de-Couer as unpaved, though perhaps that was just by Swiss standards. The road surface did change, but to something that was highly familiar to me, like Alabama chip-rock surface that I had ridden on tough centuries like Cheaha and Tour de Blue. It did require more effort to pedal, but one or two other cyclists were in sight and I just kept grinding at the pedals, counting off each kilometer to the top. There was a photographer sitting in the grass some distance from the summit, and I wondered how my face was set at that moment. See the photo above. I heard him saying, "...à seulement quatre kilomètres du col, bravo!" Both my knees were full of molten lead, I was at the end of my second wind as far as energy was concerned, and I just needed to reach the summit. From there, I knew there was a 5km descent into the village of Verbier and the finish line. The winds grew ever colder toward the peak at 2200m (7200ft), and my Castelli climber’s jersey did nothing to keep me warm, but until the top I had no energy to take out my vest, hardly could drink, I just kept fixated on the road 10 feet in front of me, until finally there was a golden light spilling out from the crest of the hill. A final road marker indicated the peak at 1km (shorter than I had estimated!), and I knew I had done it.

Crossing the finish line in Verbier, but still 30km to go (Sportograph photo)

The view from the peak was amazing, looking down into the ski village of Verbier (we had just climbed the entire mountain, around the ski lifts), with the sun setting over the mountains to the west. I put my vest back on for the cold descent, slowing at times like the Clingman’s Dome descent to stay warm, and winding through the town to the direction of police, until finally I rounded a corner and THERE was the final chute and finish line. I staggered across, accepted my medal, but then... well, I wasn’t done yet. I had planned to bike the 30km from Verbier back down to Martigny, and as it was closing in on 8pm I need to move right away. The road from Verbier to Martigny was almost all a fast downhill, and for the first switchbacks I was COLD. Having no warmth left after the final climb I bit hard into my lower lip to keep my teeth from chattering, and pedaled as fast as I could to get down to lower elevation and warmer air. Part of me worried that Swiss police would complain I didn’t have any lights with me (I didn’t want to carry them all day), though my vest was almost dangerously reflective. Yet it was the most relaxing part of the day. I had finished the climbs, and this road was both smooth and dropped precipitously from 7200ft down to 1000, an almost two thousand meter drop- like going from the Eisenhower Tunnel in Colorado to Denver, but in a third of the distance.

Starting the final descent to Verbier and then Martigny-- none of it looked real (Sportograph photo)

I made it to Martigny and finally breathed a sigh of relief. I was done. It was over. I had ridden 150 miles (240km) over almost 7400m (24,000ft) of climbing, a feat that kept me staring at the GPS data, not believing it had been possible or that it had been me doing it. It was warm in Martigny, with people sitting outside in cafes, and I rolled through the last few kilometers almost effortlessly. It was a strange way to end such a ride, though perhaps more in keeping with Audax rides than big events, standing outside the hotel, no shoes on, pressing stop on my phone app. All I wanted at that moment was a hot shower and the chocolate milk in my room fridge, as even food would be hard to get down for another day or so.

On Sunday I managed a short recovery ride over the flat roads nearby, and then created a ride video to track my movements from the day before. I stared at it in disbelief-- it just kept going and going.

I had been smart enough to book my hotel in Martigny for two nights after the ride, not forcing myself to take the train back to Geneva until Monday. So early Monday morning I got in one last bike ride before breakfast, into another sunrise. For those not familiar with long-distance cycling, the recovery rides are deadly important, as they help to flush toxins out of the legs after a hard effort. It's just too bad the Martigny Hotel du Poste didn't have a masseuse.

Sunrise over Valais

Again, the organization of the ride was remarkably good, especially for a first time event. The length and complexity of the course required over 400 medics, motorcyclists/marshals, volunteers, traffic controllers, police, etc. There was only once when the course was confusing (about 2km before Hermence, when there was a sign for a climb toward Thyon), but otherwise we didn't have to worry about navigation all day. I was also impressed at how the organizers had arranged for our race numbers to be used on regional transport (bus, train, cable-car), so in case of a medical or mechanical abandonment, one could at least get back to the hotel. For the ultra riders it was especially easy-- too easy-- to quit. All we had to do was turn right onto a road descending to the valley floor, then follow the flat roads back to Martigny. And I know riders who did just that. Out of those who started the Ultra route, only half finished.

A thanks to the support crews, police, medics, everyone.

It's been a few days now since the ride, and I am back in Kosovo. I admitted to Tracy that the ride was so epic, so relentlessly difficult, that I would be hard-pressed ever to repeat it. But perhaps that was the point. It may cause a bit of wistfulness, it may make other climbs and rides seem small in comparison, but it's not something really anyone can top. Having done it, even slowly the second half, was enough. Perhaps next year I'll look for another Look-Marmotte gran fondo to ride, but at a normal distance and a region in France I don't know yet.

Chapeau to the race organizers, volunteers, and other riders who survived. I'll not forget this one. Erich would be proud.

Final Strava record

(note: the RidewithGPS app I was using for tracking recorded 7400m of climbing, matching the race profile-- Strava changed it when I uploaded the GPX file, and 8000 sounds like a round number...if I had to suffer through a stolen GPS computer, I'll take the exaggeration.)