Lausanne - Olympic Capital apparently...

"Das ist verboten!" - welcome to Switzerland

Our first introduction to Switzerland was at a cafe/restaurant where we had stopped for a drink during our training ride into the mountains. Humph returned from putting our order in with the mangeress in hit pursuit, and muttered to Rick, 'watch VG get a bollocking'..

As our hostess with the mostess, slammed down our Oringinas, the predicted bollocking arrived, just as I was tucking into my sandwich lovingly made from the plentiful breakfast options at the hotel. With "Das ist verboten!" ringing in my ears, we polished off our drinks and left the charming lady to her other more profligate customers... A couple of leather-clad hairy bikers splashing out on a coffee.

Charm personified and a world away from the relaxed and welcoming attitude we've encountered all through France. Anyway, too early to judge the Swiss temperament on a fleeting encounter, but an interesting start to our Swiss experience.

Yesterday we left Argentiere in France for the Swiss Alps and a lovely mountain town called Anzere, near Gstaad. What a climb! At 3 hours of climbing over 12km, it was our hardest climb yet. And the views were staggering as we climbed further into the mountains. Met up with a couple of our closest family friends, Annie and Paddy Jenkins who were holidaying with friends Gilly and Lah-zi Nestor-Smith. Fantastic to see them and wonderful hospitality all round. Fuelled by a terrific supper and a glorious rendition of the Welsh national anthem, we flew down the mountain the following morning, covering the descent to Martingy in about 28mins, with only one minor hiccup with an on coming van.

Again, it was lovely to be able to share this trip with those family friends who are so close to this whole adventure and the reasons behind it,

On arrival in Martingy, which is sadly an ugly town surrounded by the glorious mountains, the weather clouded over and the headwind came back to haunt us with a vengence. So the the afternoon was all about slogging it out to reach Villnerve, on the shores of Lake Geneva after a monstrous bowl of pasta that demanded an afternoon snooze.

After delighting in cycling through France with good roads and encouraging toots and shouts from passing drivers, Switzerland is a bit of a contrast. Sections of bad road, drivers taking too close an interest in my panniers for my liking and absolutely no hoots of encouragement apart from a Brit who lives out here. In fact, apart from lycra clad cyclists continuing the brotherly wave or 'salut' as we pass each other, we have singularly failed to have any interesting meaningful interaction with the Swiss.

And to add insult to injury, Humph beat me at mini golf. There are no words to adequately convey the depths of this humiliation. He doesn't play golf, ever. He hates it, apart from shortened versions for kids apparently, which he seemingly excels at.

Anyway, on to Lausanne shortly. Come on Switzerland, shows us your personality, it's got to be in here somewhere.

Rare Sighting of Bearded Mountain Yetis

Stage 1 Report from Tour HQ

The Bank Holiday presented a spontaneous opportunity for a fleeting Tour re-supply mission, so I headed out to Chamonix at the weekend in search of the bearded wanderers.

I'm delighted to confirm both Charlie and Cheeks are well, sunkissed and hairy, full of the joys of life on 2 wheels and verging on laissez-faire about the incredible feat of 1500kms behind them.

The adventure so far appears to have delivered fabulous scenery, scorching summer temperatures, mixed gradients (ie horrific to the mere mortal) along with excellent cuisine for the budget traveller, friendly faces and warm welcomes, along with plenty of opportunities for misadventure, endless boys banter and a plethora of excuses to ridicule anyone and everything enroute.

I think its fair to say they are absolutely loving it and its proving a very fitting homage to our father, who would be unbelievably proud.

Re-supplies delivered and satisfied with current health and hygiene (best not to ask) I left Charlie and Cheeks to crack on with their adventure. I returned to London full of awe and admiration, inspired by their unquestioning commitment to the journey ahead.. and I was, (perhaps) just a little bit envious, safe in the knowledge that even if I dared attempt to join them I would last about 5 minutes before whining 'are we there yet..'

Bon chance 'til Tarifa xx

 

Rest days in the Alps, end of Stage 1

The early morning sun bathing Mont Blanc in a pinky hue, I've just packed Lu off in the Alpibus back to Genava and it is almost time to continue the journey after a few wonderful rest days in Alps.

We arrived in Chamonix 4 days ago, a day ahead of schedule, after consecutive days of riding like men (or bearded tramps) possessed. We passed through the Puy du Domes, Haute Loire and the Rhone regions, essentially heading East under Clermont Ferrand and Lyon, up around Lake Annecy and on to Chamonix. Consecutive 120+k days in often stifling heat in the Cols of the Auvergne had resulted in us both having fairly heavy legs. So the last thing we needed was Cheeks to break another spoke and me to record the first puncture of the trip. Fortunately my flat tyre was easily fixed and we got Cheeks' spoke sorted in Aix les Bains, without needing the help from toothless mechanics in soft porn filled lawn mowner shops.

Our final stop before Chamonix was Talloires, on the shores of Lake Annecy. A beautiful spot, and at last no idiotic bureaucratic swimwear restrictions. So whilst we were still treated to the full range of ubiquitous unnecessarily tight speedo viewings (and I thought France was a fashion powerhouse?), we were at last allowed to swim. A luxury Cheeks and I were keen to maximise to the full. So, much to the consternation of the speedo wearing fraternity who looked on incredulously, these two bearded dirty cyclists ran yelling in to the lake fully clothed, contravening every last aspect of the French swimming etiquette. Glorious.

The final day's ride was a slow 80k ascent up to Chamonix. Tired, heavy legs in need of a few days off, were fuelled by the thought of cycling into the Alps. Every hair pin, every supportive toot from supportive GB-stickered cars, and especially the more angry toots from drivers getting slowed by the two pannier-dragging bearded Brits, fuelled us up towards our Alpine goal. The Alps were enveloping us.

Cheeks has mentioned the varying motivational techniques we embrace to drag ourselves along when it all gets a bit tough. I'll leave him to his angry reptilian women and focus on the music. With mini speakers to the fore, I'm not sure what the locals in the quiet Alpine villages made of us, as first Cheeks passed through treating them to a couple of big Dolly Parton classics, followed by me with Muse giving it both barrels of glorious Devon rock. And with speakers running out of juice and the superb tarmac eventually succumbing to a pot-holed one track road, we reached Chamonix, late afternoon, in time for a couple of well earned beers.

Stage 1 complete in 3 weeks. 1506km covered in only 15 days of cycling, through the best scenery France has to offer. Very special.

And not forgetting the ultimate driving factor behind this journey is my father's memory and raising money for his hospice. So to get here following parts of the route he did 50 years ago, and to raise £6,350 feels fantastic.

We spent the next 3 days resting up in Argentiere, a small mountain village, away from the hustle and bustle of Chamonix. And happily, a further 10k up the mountain in the direction we have to cycle today!

Wonderful to be joined for the weekend by a couple of key Blazing Pedals personnel. Lu, Director of Social Media and Tour Mule bringing out fresh supplies of dioralite, energy drinks and most importantly Cheek's new kindle (he sat on the other one last week). And Rick who kept our cycling pace up with a couple of training rides in the mountains prior to the Help for Heroes' Piste 2 Plage ride in 2 weeks time. Key realisation here is how comfortable our hybrid saddles are. Jumping on a rented road bike with 'specialised Tour de France knife edge' for a saddle, for a training ride into Switzerland almost cut us in half!

We dived back into Chamonix, making a mockery of the probably very efficient bus system as we waited for endless buses, and eventually took the cable car up to the Auiguille du Midi at over 3800m, for a truly spectacular view up close and personal with Mont Blanc. If you are ever in Chamonix, don't think about the seemingly extortionate €45 - it is worth it.

I'm delighted to say, Lu and Rick did everything they could to knock the tour off the rails as we ate too much, enjoyed guilt-free drinks in the evenings, and then during the day when my cousins joined us from Geneva for a Alpine sun filled, wine soaked lunch yesterday.

Truly fantastic, and indeed I am so thankful to have been able to involve family in the journey, however fleetingly. This trip is proving to be a fantastic adventure, challenge and a lot of fun. However, there is clearly a poignant side to this journey, and it was a real pleasure to be able to involve close family in that undertaking for a few days.

Right, better get a shift on. That bike isn't going to get itself to Switzerland!

Bike Thieves: Charity Frauds In Champagne-Fuelled Fake Bike Trip Shocker!

 

Lycra-Clad Embezzlers Stage 'Charity' Bike Trip to Fund Five-Star Sabbatical 

Not really. But the thought did occur to us.

I'm sitting on my hotel room balcony, overlooking Argentiere's main street under the watchful gaze of a couple of large glaciers and the Aiguille Verte, one of the famous peaks of the Chamonix-Mont Blanc area and home to all manner of hardcore mountain activities. 

No such expenditure of energy for me today, though. Breakfast was taken in the nick of time, shortly before the 10am cut-off, and then I went back to bed for the rest of my lie-in. I'm already a huge fan of the siesta, but is it pushing it too far to have a snooze after breakfast too? Who can blame us for revelling in the utter luxury of a proper bed after 3 weeks of camping? You, sir? You, madam? I think not.

You've heard all the important stuff from Charlie's excellent and timely updates. But now let's delve into the inner workings of the tour. How are the two wannabe Wiggos facing up the the physical and mental challenge of their quest?  

PHYSICALLY... we were both unknown quantities pre-tour. Charlie much less so, as he does a lot of cycling and enjoys the odd triathlon. For fun. For God's sake. Even so, he'd never cycled more than 100kms in a day, let alone done that kind of distance for several consecutive days. Ditto me, but even more so. And I don't (couldn't) do triathlons. My pre-tour form could be summarised as follows: sore back from driving around Britain for 10 weeks in a car I couldn't properly sit up in, clearly not fit enough having done just a couple of token bike rides, looking at the start of the trip as if I'd just finished it, an unemployable tramp.

But so far we're holding up. A few exceptions: I hit the wall at the end of day 1, simply the result of running out of energy and a clear signal that henceforth I should eat as if the future of the universe depends on it, and had a few knee niggles in week 2, which on a couple of days meant our distance was reduced, but seem to have come to the party at last. VG has been on great form all the way, but has had a sore knee once or twice and seems to sweat more from his head than a human being should. So the bodies are adjusting to what must be for them them a most unusual change. Basic fitness seems to be good - we're making it up big hills without stopping or being too out of breath, unthinkable 3 weeks ago. And we're eating so much food, good food at that, that energy levels seem to be pretty high most of the time. On several occasions, Charlie has informed me (and all within earshot) that his digestive system is working most efficiently.  

MENTALLY... It's still early days but we each seem to have pioneered our own motivational techniques. Picture the scenario: a clear, sunny morning in the Auvergne, even if the full, fierce heat of the day is yet to arrive. A large hill. We've been climbing steadily for the 6km and 40 minutes since breakfast. Charlie's ahead, maybe 100m or so, and going well. I'm flagging, the legs not quite ready for this onslaught so early on. 

And then, from somewhere, I get a gradual surge in energy levels. A few minutes later I'm at the top, barely out of breath, chuckling at VG, whose bike falls over as he attempts to get the video camera off his handlebars to film my arrival. 

What was it that powered me to the top? A third Weetabix? Banned substances? Divine intervention? 

I asked VG the other day how he motivates himself up these hills. His answer: mantras. He repeats "Drive the legs!" or (my favourite) "Victoire!" as chanted by the prisoners of war in the film Escape to Victory. Not unreasonable, and it clearly works for him.  

We have both also rigged up little speakers at the front of our bikes, as (the right) music is a great motivator. My favourite tune for the hills so far: that disco classic Car Wash. "And work! And work!"

On top of that, for me, however, the answer is altogether more bizarre. All of a sudden, without any conscious process going on, I find myself in an imaginary argument with the snootiest, rudest stereotypical French waiter, bureaucrat, or - in this particular case - campsite owner.  

I should declare, before this rant goes any further, that I am a huge Francophile, and so far this trip has only my strengthened my love for this great country. We've experienced the warmest welcome everywhere we've been, and the majority of Francais we've encountered have been very hospitable, generous and keen to discuss our trip. But, you all know the grumpy, pouting and occasionally zenophobic dwarf of which I speak. He or she who, through some sick joke, happens to have a job that requires some level of customer service. Yes, it is that (pleasingly rare) French beast that I rail against in my mind when the going gets tough.  

On this day, I found myself particularly livid at the hunchbacked owner of a campsite who'd reinvigorated my faith in rudeness a few days earlier. Beyond knackered, we'd arrived at a delightful town bang in the middle of France called Ste Catherine Sur Riverie, looking out - as always at this time of day - for signs to the nearest 'camping'. This one was up a huge hill that had both Charlie and me in lowest gear (the granny ring, as it's known in the trade) and zigzagging, completely out of breath and hope. On arrival at the campsite, whose spectacular views justified the ascent, even if I was unprepared to admit that at the time, a short, rotund battleaxe of indeterminate gender, stepped out from his or her front door and snootily asked "Oui?"

We bonjoured back heartily, despite her obvious annoyance at being interrupted. To get from her front door to the campsite office, she had to walk down a short flight of steps. "Well, you'll need to move the bike," she said to me, the chemical opposite of charm oozing

from her reptilian pores. I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing, partly because I was still out of breath and bent double over the bike, but also because VG had just walked up those same steps and past my bike with no difficulty whatsoever. Suffice to say, I kept quiet and moved the bike a token inch so the unit could slither Jabba-like down the steps and initiate the lengthy, paper-based process of checking us in.  

 

And since then, in darker moments mid-climb, I have been replaying variations of that meeting. "Madame, you are a beacon of charm, it is such a pleasure to be staying here warmed by your spirit." Or "Madame, it is clearly the work of a benevolent god, that one with such diplomacy, charm and administrative excellence as yourself should be stationed here, helping your customers as you do with that radiant smile." Or, much more likely, "Listen, you medieval swamp-dwelling half-inflated space hopper. We've just cycled over 120kms to get here. We're tired. My mate just managed - as you plainly saw not 10 seconds ago - to get up those steps and around my bike, so..." you get the picture. 

And then I come to and seem to be moving up the hill barely noticing the physical effort. Ah, self-righteous anger... fuel of choice for the self-propelled!