The Galibier

As I approached the Col du Galibier a sign warned that it was closed.  My heart sank, as that would greatly alter my plans, effectively denying me access to a couple of Ville Étapes I wanted to visit, and force me to go through the large city of Grenoble, which I would prefer not to do.  I held out hope that the snow on the road might not be too deep and still passable by bike.  Just before the start of the climb at the summit of the Col du Lautaret was a restaurant that would know.  

A trickle of cyclists had passed me as I finished off the 21-mile 4,304 foot Lautaret climb.  As I neared it’s summit I could saw the happy sight of a string of cyclists inching their way up the Galibier.  That was no guarantee that they could get over it, but a good sign.  A bartender confirmed that cyclists were managing it, but that there was still a danger of avalanches and that it was possible that there could have been some during the night that blocked the road.  No cyclists were coming back, so that was further encouragement.  

I paused to eat and rest my legs before the final five-and-a-half mile effort to 8,668 feet, the sixth highest pass in the Alps.  A barrier blocked the road, though it was easy enough to get around.  The legs felt surprisingly good on day seven after two weeks of atrophy at Cannes. I remained in my lowest gear and luxuriated in the absolute silence with the absence of motorized vehicles other than the occasional battery-assisted bike.  The still heightened the roar of the few fast-rushing streams along the way and gave a distinct clink to the water dripping off the walls of snow lining the road.  

My thought returned to my previous rides over the Galibier.  The last was in 2011 when it was a summit finish in The Tour de France for the first and only time. It commemorated the 100th anniversary of its first inclusion in The Tour, the first year the Alps were attempted by the riders in its ninth edition.  They had managed the Pyrenees the year before, even though one rider, Octave Lapize, famously called The Tour organizers “Assassins” for inflicting the brutal mountains on them. 

In 2011 I reached the Galibier the night before the peloton and camped half-way up it.  That was lucky, as the next morning the road was blocked to cyclists, letting me have the road to the top all to myself.  I didn’t remain there as it was too cold and the large screen television had been parked at the start of the climb, so I returned to it to watch the day’s dramatic action highlighted by a long successful breakaway by Andy Schleck with Cadel Evans chasing after him to preserve his chances of winning The Race the next day in a time trial in Grenoble, which he did.  Thomas Voeckler also was heroic clinging to the Yellow Jersey one last day, making it his second ten-day stint in Yellow, bringing great joy to the French.  There was still some graffiti on the road from fans who must have used some high-quality paint—“Cadel” and “Andy and Frank” (the Schleck brothers) and “Leopard” (their team). 

Shortly before the summit the large monument to Henri Desgrange, Tour founder and director for its first 33 years, was surrounded by deep snow.  The Galibier was his favorite Col.  In his typical hyperbolic prose he called all the others “gnat’s piss.”   I was disappointed to see the large wooden doors to the tunnel shortening the climb were closed, so it was another kilometer of an even steeper grade to get over this beast of a climb.  The summit wasn’t as congested as Everest is these days, but there was a wait to get a photo of the summit sign.  

The air was still and no one was in a rush to leave, soaking in the spectacular views in all directions, one all the way to Italy.  Less than a kilometer down the other side the road was blocked by snow about half the length of a football field.  But there was a path through it.  Others were able to carry their lightweight racing bikes through.  I was the first to put down tire tracks.  I had to stop several times afterward on the descent to wipe my rims dry as my brakes weren't nearly as effective as they needed to be when wet.  I was fully prepared to plow into a snowbank if I became a “runaway cyclist” as I came perilously close to. 

Two-and-a-half miles from the summit I came upon a monument to Marco Pantani mounted at the bend in the road where he attacked Jan Ullrich on the fifteenth stage of the 1998 Tour going on to win the stage and taking the Yellow Jersey from Ullrich, which he did not relinquish.  He had won the Giro the month before, the last rider to win both in the same year.  

It was another eight miles to the ski town of Valloire, which will be the Ville Arrivée for the 18th stage of this year’s Tour.  It was virtually deserted early in the ski off-season before the hiking season opens and the Col du Galibier reopens.  There were at least banners on light poles and a large banner across the street by the closed tourist office and church promoting the coming of The Tour.

The road out of the village took me by boarded up multi-storied condo buildings. It was three miles up to the summit of the Col du Télégraphe and then another ten-mile descent to the valley floor.  I had the option to turn right along the river L’Arc to the Ville Étape Tignes or left to the Ville Étape Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne.  I really had no choice as Tignes was via the Col de l’Iseran, which is even higher than the Galibier and was truly impassable.

A roundabout before Saint-Jean had been taken over by a small cluster of Yellow Vests with a sign berating Macron and his wife Brigette.  No one seemed to be paying them any mind with toots of encouragement or disagreement.  A roundabout in Saint-Jean had a giant Opinel knife, as this is where these iconic wooden-handled, folding knifes are manufactured, fifteen million a year.  There’s even a free Opinel museum in the city center not far from the City Hall, which had a wooden Yellow Jersey celebrating the coming of The Tour.  Unfortunately it is closed on Sundays, so I’ll have to wait to see it another time.

It was late in the day, so I was happy to take advantage of the town’s unpretentious campground without a swimming pool, just providing the essential necessities, including a morning baguette if one wished.  My worn muscles welcomed a hot shower after a demanding day over three of France’s most notorious climbs.  I was glad this was pre-Tour and I needn't be in a rush to get going the next morning.