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It's a sunny June morning just outside of Foix, but my wife and I wear arm warmers as we cycle onto the first gentle slopes of the Pyrenees. Two days earlier, a wicked wind was blowing in this part of France, pelting down sleet. And looming in the distance is our objective, the Col de Port, where there could be snow.
Then again, we know we'll work up a sweat. This road climbs 1,250 metres over 12.5 kilometres — a gruelling climb that is often part of the Tour de France kicking off today. By July 16, in fact, this year's race will take riders a stone's throw from here, testing their endurance on mountain pass after mountain pass packed tightly into these hills.
That's one of the reasons we've chosen this ride, to gauge the mettle required to climb the cols like the pros. When they speed along tarmac like this, however, thousands of fans cheer from the sidelines, wave flags and douse them in water. On this day, it's just us and the road.
It's a road that becomes steeper as we pass through the town of Surba. We gear down. And as our speed drops to 20 from 27 kilometres an hour, we can see four hikers starting off on a track that leads into wooded hills.
We've hiked in Europe too — in Dorset, Burgundy and Tuscany. It's a wonderful way to experience the landscape. You can smell the rosemary growing beside the road, hear the dingle of bells on goats foraging in the meadows, see hawks swooping above the treetops.
You might also carry a picnic lunch in a backpack. Or, at an abandoned farm, pause to pick grapes growing in heavy clusters, their skin so purple it's black. Whatever you do, you are in immediate, visceral contact (including the dirt, the insects and the heat) with where you are.
But it's slow going. We spent a full day walking from the town of Greve in Tuscany to Radda — about a 25-kilometre trek through the Chianti "mountains." And when we caught the bus back, huffing and puffing from righteous exertion, it returned us to where we began in less than half an hour.
By contrast, cycling is about speed. Mountain bikes buzz over gravel. Even in rugged hills, eight hours in the saddle can cover 100 kilometres and more. Road bikes are even speedier if you're motivated. And the sensual delights are still there — the smell of sage and pine, the twittering of birds, the taste of dust on your lips. We relish that.
And the sheer exertion of it. Just past Bédeilhac, we pause at the foot of the Col de Port, where a sign indicates the gradient is just over 8 per cent. It may not sound like much, but over 12.5 kilometres, that's a demanding climb. We pull off our arm warmers before we remount.
In less than half a kilometre, the grade has become so steep we gear down to the smallest chain ring. We're sweating freely now, the wheels of our bikes rotating slowly. We're also concentrating hard: The road is just two narrow lanes, a tiny verge on each side to keep us from a precipitous 1,000-metre drop to the village rooftops below.
Still, the view is distracting. At one of the bends, there are two green mountains in the distance, a third snow-capped peak looming between them. "Breathtaking," says my wife, Kristen. Which is true. Literally. This climb is taking my breath away.
One switchback gives way to another. Our speed drops to 12 kilometres an hour. And then, on the steepest bends in the road, to less than 10. We wear heart monitors and mine has read 155 for some time — close to my red zone. But I'm not getting off the bike, I say to myself, a point of honour that is taking its toll. I stand up as I pedal, trying to bring different muscles into play.
Little signs posted along the route indicate the exact grade of each kilometre: This one is 61/2 per cent, the last 71/2 per cent. Our legs sense no difference. I recall Lance Armstrong saying the Tour de France is 3,500 kilometres of pointless suffering.
But this is what we've come here to see and feel. We've cycled in the Yakima Valley in Washington, in the Eastern Townships and Îles-de-la-Madeleine in Quebec, along the Dordogne River and farther north in France, in Brittany. All lovely places with challenging routes, but none quite the challenge of the Pyrenees.
Around the next bend, we spot another cyclist ahead of us. He's weaving from side to side, clearly having a hard go of it. When we catch up to him, a slender man in his 40s, he is grunting with each breath. Nonetheless, as we pass by he wheezes, "Bonjour."
At a straight stretch past the next bend, another middle-aged man sits beside the road, his bike lying on the grass. He's pouring water over his head, then drinking from a plastic bottle. "Allez, allez," he calls out, waving to us. Farther along two more cyclists wearing backpacks also call out "Allez" as we pass.
Why do we do this? The answer is simple: It's fun. We enjoy our bodies, make play with them. Climbing a difficult col puts us to the test. And we have at least a glimmer of what it's like to be (a controversy-free) Levi Leipheimer. At the summit, we pull over and take photos.
In a few minutes, the riders we've passed also come into view and stop to yak — about the climb, how far we've come today, where we're going tomorrow. More photos.
Then it's the descent. This is more demanding than the climb. Our hands are clamped on our brakes. We're conscious at each bend in the road of the gravitational force dragging us toward the precipices.
But there's a café at the bottom, a little place serving oysters and a four-course meal with vin ordinaire for about $14 a person. We've earned that: the baguettes, the cassoulet, the cheese plate.
As we glide up to the restaurant, Kristen puts out her hand for a high-five. "This is what we came to do," she says. Stole the words out of my mouth.
Special to The Globe and Mail
