Bill Conry
As we delved deeper into rural France towards the Pyrenees, Kellen and I were aware our days of leisurely pedaling through the relatively flat terrain of the south of France were up, and that the most challenging leg of the continent was imminent. A bit anxious for the forthcoming climb and eager for all luck we could find, our first official day of cycling the mountain region began inauspiciously when I woke up with a gun to my head…
Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration - here’s what happened: we camped in yet another harvested vineyard, and at 7 AM while brushing my teeth I spotted a man 50 meters away wearing an orange hat and wielding what appeared to be a weed whacker. I told Kellen that there was a farm worker nearby and that we should hide out in our tents for a bit until he leaves. When I arose for the second time I found him standing five meters from me and discovered that the weed whacker was actually a double-barrel shotgun. He said something to me in French, I responded with “bonjour.” He said something else, I responded with “one minute, no French,” and calmly informed my language guide that there was a gentleman out here with a gun and he should come speak with him. By the time Kellen got out of his tent the man had strolled off and our lives were no longer in danger. Once we hit the road we saw our friend with some other men bird hunting a few kilometers from our campsite in an adjacent vineyard. Only then did it hit me that the bright orange cap served hunting safety purposes and was not a French fashion statement.
After a long day climbing and a delicious dinner in the Quillon town square, we pedaled off in the hopes of finding a nearby campsite as it was already dark and my legs were threatening to strike if I put any more stress on them. As we climbed the densely forested mountain in the dark, we knew that stumbling upon a flat, open space to pitch our tents may take a while. Luckily, Kellen spotted a small path off the main road that appeared to be promising and went to investigate further. He returned to inform me that the spot was perfect; it was level and spacious, but there was a catch: he heard a loud rustling in the nearby brush that could only be credited to a human or large animal. We agreed we couldn’t let some anonymous creature ruin our slumber and decided to go for it. All was silent until a half hour after my head hit the pillow I was awoken by a deep, thunderous roar that seemed to shake the mountain. We debated what “thing” was the source of this sound and concluded it was a Yeti, a mountain cow, or a dinosaur. We were never able to verify our suspicions, but we awoke the next morning unscathed and prepared to continue our trek through the Pyrenees.
As we delved deeper into rural France towards the Pyrenees, Kellen and I were aware our days of leisurely pedaling through the relatively flat terrain of the south of France were up, and that the most challenging leg of the continent was imminent. A bit anxious for the forthcoming climb and eager for all luck we could find, our first official day of cycling the mountain region began inauspiciously when I woke up with a gun to my head…
Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration - here’s what happened: we camped in yet another harvested vineyard, and at 7 AM while brushing my teeth I spotted a man 50 meters away wearing an orange hat and wielding what appeared to be a weed whacker. I told Kellen that there was a farm worker nearby and that we should hide out in our tents for a bit until he leaves. When I arose for the second time I found him standing five meters from me and discovered that the weed whacker was actually a double-barrel shotgun. He said something to me in French, I responded with “bonjour.” He said something else, I responded with “one minute, no French,” and calmly informed my language guide that there was a gentleman out here with a gun and he should come speak with him. By the time Kellen got out of his tent the man had strolled off and our lives were no longer in danger. Once we hit the road we saw our friend with some other men bird hunting a few kilometers from our campsite in an adjacent vineyard. Only then did it hit me that the bright orange cap served hunting safety purposes and was not a French fashion statement.
After a long day climbing and a delicious dinner in the Quillon town square, we pedaled off in the hopes of finding a nearby campsite as it was already dark and my legs were threatening to strike if I put any more stress on them. As we climbed the densely forested mountain in the dark, we knew that stumbling upon a flat, open space to pitch our tents may take a while. Luckily, Kellen spotted a small path off the main road that appeared to be promising and went to investigate further. He returned to inform me that the spot was perfect; it was level and spacious, but there was a catch: he heard a loud rustling in the nearby brush that could only be credited to a human or large animal. We agreed we couldn’t let some anonymous creature ruin our slumber and decided to go for it. All was silent until a half hour after my head hit the pillow I was awoken by a deep, thunderous roar that seemed to shake the mountain. We debated what “thing” was the source of this sound and concluded it was a Yeti, a mountain cow, or a dinosaur. We were never able to verify our suspicions, but we awoke the next morning unscathed and prepared to continue our trek through the Pyrenees.
Table for two please
We ain't scared of nothin
For the first time all trip the signs of autumn were apparent with orange, red and yellow foliage lightly coating the roads of the rustic region through which we cycled. As we ascended higher and higher the beauty of the surrounding scenery increased with our altitude. We rode up and down several labeled mountain passes, each one higher than the previous peak. At the Col du Chioula I was thrilled to reach my highest elevation of the trip. I knew in the back of my mind though that that pass would seem like a sledding hill compared with the climb into Andorra we had in the queue for after lunch.
My memory is a bit foggy, but I believe this was gorgeous
2nd highest climb of the day
Downhill to lunch
After a hearty meal in the town of Ax-les-Thermes, and some tweaks to my bike, Kellen and I began to ride up. And up. After three hours of straight uphill I finally came to terms with the extent of the undertaking I had before me. A rule of thumb I’ve garnered from this trip is that if you can’t see the top of the pass then you can assume it continues to go up. The top was nowhere in sight and I had to mentally accept this if I was going to stay sane. Motorists provided us with encouragement and entertainment with their honks, thumbs ups, and inspirational yells, while the grazing bulls, sheep, and goats gave us sights that were anything but mundane. As we neared what we were reasonably confident was the top we faced a fork in the road both in the literal and figurative sense. All of the traffic was funneling through a tunnel that pierced through the mountain allowing cars to avoid the highest and most treacherous section of the pass. As evening approached we had to decide whether we would take the tunnel or the pass. A quick cost benefit analysis caused Kellen and I to agree that since we had come this far it would be a waste not to take the pass. It would be more worth it in the long run to know that we conquered a mountain instead of having arrived at Andorra La Vella a bit earlier.
Need the wheels to spin
Baguette break at 2000 meters
How do these animals get all the way up there?
Towards the top of the pass
The final switchbacks to the top were hands down the most intense riding I had ever done. The effects of the altitude began to set in as the cold, thin air caused me to experience disorientation and nausea and forced me to dismount from my bike once for a breather. Out of nowhere it suddenly became foggy and we soon realized this was not fog, but a cloud through which we were riding. The road finally flattened out as we reached the top just as the sun was setting and were welcomed by the rain shower micro-climate of the peak. Further research revealed that the Port d’Envalira, which we had just ascended, is the highest paved road in the Pyrenees at 2408 m and has been featured numerous times in the Tour de France, most recently the 2009 race.
Riding into the clouds
Note fork in the road to the tunnel
We've reached the top!
The hard part was over, now it was time to go down. We bundled up as much as we could to combat the teeth chattering low temps and high winds to which we would be subject. Thankfully Kellen had an extra pair of knit gloves to lend me and a Dumb and Dumber scenario did not unfold. After the brisk downhill we rolled into Andorra La Vella, the capital city of Andorra, for a celebratory meal and a much needed day off from cycling.
Cold, windy, dark downhill into Andorra La Vella
Both of us were unfamiliar with ALV and were a bit surprised to learn that it is a hip, classy ski town. When we were walking around after lunch the following day we saw five men dressed in all green drinking beer on an outside patio and walked over to see for what occasion they were throwing back cold ones mid-day. Our new friend Allen explained that they were all from Ireland and were in town because their country was taking on Andorra for 2012 European Cup qualifying. Tickets were hard to come by because the tiny county of Andorra (pop. 80,000) played its games in a miniscule 800 seat stadium, and the demand significantly outweighed the supply. They assured us that Irish nationals were traveling to ALV in force and while only some were fortunate to have a ticket for the game, they all would be drinking at the bar later and we should come back in the evening.
As a duel Irish/American citizen, I determined it was my duty to represent my country and return to this bar. After taking care of our typical rest day chores Kellen and I walked back over and saw that Allen was not lying when he told us there would be more coming. Now there were over one hundred Irishmen present, chanting, drinking and just overall wreaking havoc on this tiny watering hole. The atmosphere was about as tame as Lindsay Lohan’s 21st birthday party. I fit right in with my red beard as Allen introduced us to his buddies who were all eager to hear about our trip.
My peoples!
Ireland won the football match 2-0 to gain entry into the Euro Cup. The next day Kellen and I packed up and headed into Spain. We enjoyed our riding through the Pyrenees and knew we had notched a victory of our own.
BEARD WATCH
The mood is tense.
The red flame has spread to other regions of my face and is showing no signs of extinguishing itself. The growth pattern has continued to favor the lower chin area causing me to question whether I am still within the bounds of socially acceptable grooming standards. More to come!
The mood is tense.
The red flame has spread to other regions of my face and is showing no signs of extinguishing itself. The growth pattern has continued to favor the lower chin area causing me to question whether I am still within the bounds of socially acceptable grooming standards. More to come!
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