La Madeleine: my Tour de Proust

A ``madeleine'' is a little, spongy French cake shaped like the shell of a scallop. The cake was immortalized by Marcel Proust, in ``Du Côté de Chez Swann,'' when the delicious taste of a madeleine soaked in tea revives the narrator's senses and brings back a childhood memory. As I was cycling up the high-mountain pass col de la Madeleine in my native French Alps last month, I had a Proustian reminiscence: the taste of the lemon-flavored madeleines I used to eat as a child.

(Scallop-shell shaped madeleines de Commercy. February 2007. Source: Bernard Leprêtre.)

I've made it a tradition while vacationing in my parents' home in the Alps to climb at least one of the passes classified as ``hors catégorie,'' or beyond classification, that were included in that year's Tour de France. These are the most difficult climbs in the world's most difficult bike race. I rode Alpe d'Huez, probably the most famous climb in the U.S., last year, and col du Galibier, one of my favorites, in 2006 and 2007.

I had no choice this year because the Alps were short-changed in the Tour de France: three stages, out of 20, and only one hors catégorie pass: col de la Madeleine -- which wasn't named after the cake. None of the mythical Alpine passes was included in the 2010 edition: no Alpe d'Huez, no Galibier, no Iseran and no Mont Ventoux. Meanwhile, the Pyrénées mountains in the southwest of France got five stages and five hors catégorie climbs.

The Tour's riders climbed the col de la Madeleine on July 13, the fifth and final pass in the 204.5 kilmeter (127 mile) ninth stage between Morzine-Avoriaz and Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne.

A few days later, my parents, my husband and I drove to the bottom of the col for our own, more modest, ride. Ahead of us was a climb of 26 km, with an average gradient of about 6.4 percent and peaks at more than 10 percent: for every 100 meters you ride, you gain 10 meters in elevation. Overall, we were about to gain almost 1,600 meters in altitude. My husband would reprise his precious role as ``voiture balai,'' which can be translated as ``sweeping broom car.'' It's French cycling jargon for the mini-bus that follows the last riders in the Tour and picks up those who drop out the race. Except my husband drove ahead of us and waited at the top: there was no dropping out possible.

(The road to col de la Madeleine, with view of Mont Blanc in the background.)

My parents, age 62 and 63, had come back the day before at 5 a.m. from a weeklong cycling trip in Corsica. They averaged 100 km a day under temperatures that topped 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahenheit). A week before leaving for Corsica, they'd come back from their annual cycling ride from their home in the Alps to their apartment in Nice, climbing hors catégorie passes such as Mont Ventoux and carrying their own bags.

Since the start of the cycling season, my parents estimated they'd cycled about 3,000 km. I had mainly trained on a stationary bike, with the exception of a hilly 30 miler around our Pennsylvania home and a few climbs up my favorite local mountain in the Alps, col du Granier. Training on the stationary bike had worked to prepare for the Galibier, so I figured it would work for la Madeleine, which is shorter and easier.

The climb started off with 3 km of steady slope averaging 8 percent to 9 percent: there was no time to warm up. I discovered a novelty in my mountains: an increasing number of roads -- especially those leading to famous Tour de France passes -- have signs every kilometer announcing the average gradient of the following kilometer. It can be both a blessing and a heart-breaker: I was relieved when I saw a 4 percent sign after the steep slopes of the first few kilometers, and crushed in the second half of the climb when encountering several signs for 9 percent or more in a row. There was a downhill section around kilometer 10, and an easy slope at kilometer 19, which allowed my legs to recoup before heading to steeper sections.

(There's no train to col de la Madeleine, but cows get to watch cyclists passing by.)

As I approached kilometer 16, I recalled the TV coverage of the Tour at the same spot a few days earlier: I went up in the saddle, pretending I was one of the riders. I could hear the voice of Laurent Fignon, a former professional cyclist and now a commentator of the Tour on French television. Fignon, who won the race in 1984 and 1985, was diagnosed with intestinal-tract cancer last year. This year, he was still commenting on the Tour live, in a raspy voice altered by a tumor affecting his vocal folds.
Andy Schleck, the young rider from Luxemburg, should attack if he wants to leave behind Alberto Contador, the 2009 race winner, I remembered Fignon saying. That's what Schleck did a few moments later, but Contador went up in the saddle and stayed in his wheel. Schleck took the lead of the race and the yellow jersey at the end of that stage, but he lost the overall race to Contador 1 1/2 week later by 8 seconds.

I didn't attack anyone. In the final kilometers, a cyclist in his 40s or 50s, passed me. I expected him to go faster, but he slowed down, so I went up in the saddle and passed him back. At the top, I was greeted by the clinging bells of a herd of cows after a two-hour ride. My father followed about 20 minutes later and my mother about 10 minutes after that. After taking pictures, I decided to add a solo ride down the other side of the mountain, adding about 10 kilometers and visiting another place of my childhood: Saint Francois Longchamps, a winter resort where I used to ski.

(The cycling family reunited at col de la Madeleine.)

Lance in My Hometown (For Five Seconds)

The Tour de France started its last Alpine stage in my hometown, Chambéry, on July 14, the National day Americans call ``Bastille Day'' (The French say ``le 14 juillet.''). About 10 minutes after the start, the riders passed through my village, Les Marches, on a road that's about 1.5 km (1 mile) away from the house where I grew up.

The temperature was very hot, in the 90s, and people kept cool in the shade while waiting for the riders.

The kids got excited when they spotted the television helicopter, the surest sign that the peloton was getting closer.

 Here they come, very fast: probably at 55 km/h (35 miles/hour) on that road. Video courtesy of P.W.

And here he is: Lance Armstrong, passing through my village in a blur.

L'Alpe d'Huez Moulinette

L'Alpe d'Huez wasn't number one on the list of Tour de France mountains I wanted to climb. Although probably the most famous pass to U.S. cyclists, l'Alpe (14 km, 8.7 miles) is neither the hardest nor the longest climb of the Tour. It’s not even a pass: it's a ski resort. As a native of the Alps, I dream of such mythical mountains as Col de l'Iseran, le Col de la Croix de Fer and le Mont Ventoux. Those names are linked in my memory with black and white film of champions of yesteryear wearing spare air tubes wrapped around their chest.
No climb was on the cards for me in 2009 anyway.

(A view from Le Bourg-d'Oisans: at the bottom of L'Alpe d'Huez.)

Yet a few weeks after June 5, when I landed in hospital for a severe colon infection caused by a bacteria, I set my mind on l'Alpe. Like a lovelorn adolescent, I obsessed over it without telling anyone.

There were many reasons why I wouldn't be able to climb l'Alpe this year: among them, my illness, my training, and the lack of time while home in the Alps to prepare my legs with a few easier passes. I chose to focus on the reasons why, if I had a shot at any mountain, it would be l'Alpe. My parents, who start riding passes as soon as the snow melts in spring, told me last year that the Alpe d'Huez ride is easier than le Granier, a local pass I have ridden more than a dozen times over the years. (See previous entry). That comment planted a seed in my mind that a year later grew into a big plant of a plan. If I could get strong enough to ride my familiar Granier this year, then I could ride l'Alpe; it was a simple, elegant proposition.

(The Alpine cyclists legs: thousands of kilometers in them.)

When a rider meets another rider on Alpine roads, they ask each other (in a literal translation): ``How many kilometers do you have in the legs?'' By early September, the answer of veteran cyclists such as my parents is in the thousands, with very few on flat roads. Mine was: ``Zero on the road.'' According to my training log, I spent more than 34 hours on the stationary bike back home in the U.S., from the beginning of July and early September. It looks a lot less impressive when you put it this way: it's an average of half an hour a day.

I made it up le Col du Granier on Sept. 6, to my great joy. As soon as we were back to my parents' home, I dropped my little bomb: ``I want to do l'Alpe d'Huez,'' I told my bemused husband and parents. ``I've been thinking about this for a long time.''

(Le Bourg-d'Oisans: getting ready for the climb.)

Two days later, we were on a parking lot near Le Bourg- d'Oisans at the bottom of the road to l'Alpe, getting ready for the climb, when my father dropped a little bomb of his own. He'd checked an information panel about the climb and it turned out that l'Alpe is longer and steeper than le Granier. My parents chose that moment to admit they hadn't climbed l'Alpe in many years and didn't remember clearly how hard it was. Now I was worried again. My plan of testing my strength and physical condition on le Granier looked flawed, at best.

(The stats of the start.)

L'Alpe d'Huez, starting at an altitude of 720 meters and finishing at 1,810 meters, has 21 hairpin turns (``virages'' in French) named after the winners of the Tour stage. The record is subject to debate, so let's just say that the fastest riders were Marco Pantani, with 37 minutes 35 seconds in a 1994 stage, and Lance Armstrong, with 37 minutes 36 seconds in a 2004 time trial.

Seconds mattered to them, but not to me. I decided to stay behind my father and play it safe. The slope gets steep right from the start and I dropped to a very low gear ratio to avoid killing my ill-prepared thighs. After a couple of virages, I started to warm up and feel better. Every virage provided me with a goal, an opportunity to sip some water and enough time to recuperate for few seconds before the slope got steep again. I decided to focus on the first half and reassess my fitness after 10 hairspins. During that half, I thought of the excruciating stomach pain from which I suffered in the emergency room on June 5: any muscle pain on the way up l'Alpe would pale in comparison. That made me smile to myself.

After virage 11 or 12, I knew I could finish so I passed my father and went on at my own pace. The weather was ideal: sunny and not too hot. The view was breathtaking. I kept smiling to myself.

My cycling style had always been to go up the saddle (``en danseuse'' in French) during climbs. ``En danseuse'' is the style of climbing specialists and I had made it my signature. That involves using on a higher gear ratio, which moves your bike forward a longer length with each pedal stroke but also forces you to go up the saddle regularly to get more power.

This year, with the lack of training, I adopted Lance Amstrong's style on some of his big mountain wins: ``la moulinette.'' He used a smaller gear ratio than other riders. He would cover a small distance at each stroke and would need to pedal faster. But he had enough oxygen in the tank to pass his rivals, who were stuck in high gears and forced to make a bigger effort at each stroke.

It worked for me too. I finished in 1 hour 9 minutes, followed by my father three minutes later and my mother nine minutes later. I was 32 minutes behind the record, give or take the seconds.

(The suntan test: guess who spent time outdoors and who didn't.)