Megavalanche 2 - Six Degrees of Gastro-Intestinal Distress.

Of the many things I got wrong about going to France in July, my epic misjudgment of the weather and the resulting effect on packing turned out to be a fairly fundamental error.

I like it warm.  28-31ºC – the sort of temperature which on the rare occasions it happens here in the UK provokes screaming headlines about KILLER HEATWAVES and the inevitable onset of the End of Days, and sees off scores of pensioners who have forgotten how to undo their cardies.  And I was labouring under the misguided impression that France in mid-July was warm.  We’ve all watched the Tour, seen the glistening mahogany limbs of the peloton bathed in the golden French sunshine.  I was completely reeled in with tales of the previous year’s event’s 30ºC dusty high every day.  Of the hub of the social scene being the Outdoor Pool in the centre of the resort - the small town at the top of the famed 21 hairpins and our base for the week -  where frolicking (actual frolicking!) was said to have occurred.  And thus, I packed accordingly.  I even ordered factor 50 sun cream off the internet, so worried was I about my woady blue pasty british shoulders.  Joke’s on me, lads.

The cyclist and I had a single jumper each with us that we had required for the journey - this being July in England.  I’ve never been a particular fan of the sock and hadn’t bothered to pack any for myself, the only footwear I had with me anyway were my converse and a cheap pair of flipflops.  I had one pair of jeans, and three pairs of shorts.  A wistful bikini never even made it out of the suitcase.  As a last minute thought I’d thrown my North Face down jacket on to the back seat of the car as we left, and this was to be my constant and faithful companion in a cold and hostile land.

France was in the grip of some of the very worst weather on record for July evah, with temperatures across the entire country some 10ºC lower than the average.  The terrible weather started the day we arrived, and lifted the day we left, because it wouldn't be funny otherwise.  News reports for the duration of our stay were full of angry residents cursing the weather gods.  The Tour was a complete wash out, heavy rainfall contributing to crashes and last minute course changes.  When we got to our apartment, it was 4pm and 6ºC outside.  

Six.  Degrees. 

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The cyclist was starting to feel a bit unwell.  He had been driving now for about 20 hours all told (he had to do all the driving because reasons), and risky service station food had been consumed, so this wasn't altogether an unreasonable turn of events.  It took ages to find the apartment, and then there was a fun 45 minutes where the girl who was meeting us to give us the keys was waiting around the corner from where we were because 'In front of the swimming pool' actually means 'In front of the ice rink'.  All the time, the cyclist is getting paler.

The apartment was beautiful (yay TripAdvisor!), but on the 6th floor with a tiny lift and absolutely no way of getting the bike in other than the stairs (Boooo!).  We unload, and the cyclist decides this is the point at which he has had enough, and lying down will be happening from this point.

We head to bed as his tummy rumbles kick in.

I am woken at about 2am by the cyclist engaged in a noisy bout of the epic shits, rounded off with a vomit to be sure the poison's out.  All goes quiet.  'Are you okay?' I whisper-yell to the bathroom door.  'Fucking Olive Oil ice-cream. Fuck's sake', and he's off again.  I roll over and go back to sleep, supportively.

Megavalanche 1 - Lost in Translation.

It was pretty much all Anna Glowinski's fault.

A segment she did on the Megavalanche (roughly 30km of downhill enduro, starting on the Pic Blanc glacier at the top of Alpe d'Huez and finishing in the valley 2,500m further down the mountain, and touted as the longest downhill race in the world) for the first series of Ch4's The Cycle Show fired the cyclist's imagination.

He thought in silence for a minute or two.  "That looks fucking brilliant" was finally his considered response (side note - it did not look fucking brilliant, it looked completely fucking insane).

And thus we found ourselves, a little over a year later, hunched over the cyclist’s laptop, counting down to the precise second the entries open for the 2014 event, painfully aware that every year it books out almost immediately.  The first gruelling task was to negotiate the online application while desperately fumbling with Google Translate and long-forgotton A-Level French.  For some reason I could remember the word for ‘Bishop’*, but sadly it wasn't required on this occasion.  Less than ten minutes later he has his place.

Travel arrangements, an apartment, babysitters (I am riding shotgun as support crew, but the kids won't have broken up for the school holidays when we go.  After some fairly tense UN-style negotiations we bring in the big guns and my father in law is drafted as chief peacekeeper, a role which will require drawing on every reserve of strength, tact and diplomacy, as well as making packed lunches and sitting through no less than 2 full junior school productions of Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.  The man is a hero.) and massive amounts of life insurance are all arranged over the next few months.  Due to the enormous bike and piles of ancillary kit, spares, clothes, and protection, we elect to throw it all in the car and drive.

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And as we drive through France, I am struck by just how much France there is.  France is huge.  Every time you think you must have got to the end and hit Italy or Africa or whatever, there’s yet more France to drive through.

To break up the monotony of the Autoroutes, we had booked an overnighter at a small family-run establishment in the absolute middle of french nowhere which we shall call, for reasons which will become clear, L'Hôtel É-coli.  Clearly a well known stop off point for Brits making their way through the vastness of France to their chalets in the south, it was busy and seemingly exclusively patronised by retired geography teachers.  The place has been recommended by friends of friends on the strength of the restaurant.  We make a reservation for 7pm, and head to our room to wash off 12 hours of road.

The restaurant is pretty epic.  Starters; - something cheese, something beef.  A post-course palate cleanser of olive oil ice cream, which tastes exactly as it sounds.  The sommelier looks aghast as we order the wrong wine (red) and brings us a bottle she thinks better compliments the meal (white).  We drink it anyway.  Mains; - something langoustine, something more beef. I think a gin and tonic might have got stuck in there at some point too, but I cannot be sure; the reason being I was very tired and french wine does not mess about.  We stagger to bed with as much dignity as two knackered and pissed brits can muster.

The next morning, crucially before the forthcoming digestive onslaught, as we check out I book a room for the return journey.  As the receptionist asks what time we expect to be arriving I confidently ask for a seventeen-year-old, s'il vous plâit.  She arches a gallic eyebrow and writes it down.  I realise my mistake and desperately try to correct myself, stammeringly trying not to look like I belong on the sex offenders register.  It makes it worse.

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*L'Évêque.  It's feminine, translation fans.