Tour de France Cyclotourism — Up the Port de Balès

• 1,755 meters high
• 18.87 kilometers long
• 1,185 meters of climbing
• 147 cows
• 3 riders
• 1 Port de Balès — the final HC climb in Stage 15 of this year’s Tour de France

Ore, France. Three courageous, intrepid, foolish… American cyclists set off across the mighty Garrone towards the French hamlet of Mauléon-Barousse. From there, they will meet the Port de Balès. Three cyclists, three friends. Here’s how it went down:

Four hours of HC climbing is exactly what Van De Bobke – Team Vertical Pandas’ Directeur Sportif (fictional) – would recommend as the appropriate taper for the following day’s journey up the Col de Tourmalet. Some had their doubts, but not the cyclists three. For them, today was not about getting ready for tomorrow, not about the famous Col, the lore and legend.  Rather today was about one climb – the Port de Balès. When the Tourmalet shouts “History!” “Tradition!”  the Port de Balès whispers “doubt,” “pain,” “triumph.”  What the Port de Balès lacks in name recognition it makes up in size. Its big – end of story.

Riding three abreast, the cyclists wandered up the road looking back rather than forward. They were being followed! A red euro car crept behind the three, spare bike on the roof.

Eventually the car passed, but then pulled to the side of the road (damn, I wish the driver gave a euro beedee beedee honk while passing). It was team BMC with the spare bike on the roof unmistakably displaying “the” rainbow bands. Ryan asked the gentleman in the team-issued polo “where’s the champ?” A slight smirk and a reply “He’s coming… in the big ring.” Oh la la …the cyclist’s spidey senses started to tingle. Their minds raced in anticipation of riding “with” Cadel Evans. What would they say and in what language? Would they attack? They continued to ride at the leisurely pace, looking back to see if the champ was closing the gap.

Soon, the cyclists three reached Mauléon-Barousse — a town literally straddling a river. The town’s charm lured the three’s attention away from the chasing champion for a moment until the motorcade with the champ roared by.

“Allez! Allez! Chapeau at the Giro!” The champ gave them a Mur de Huy celebratory flick and then as fast as he appeared he was gone. Somewhere over the rainbow (come on, sing this part — you know the tune)… the cyclist three would climb alone.

The climb itself was long, but steady. It pitched at 7% for the first kilometer, but then mellowed out until picking back up to 10% at 9 kilometers in. Leaving the tree line, the road entered pastures, mixing the gradients between 7-10% averages for the final 8 kilometers. Around the next bend, cow bells. A shelter and more cows. If you want more facts and figures, keep noodling on the internet and you will find them. If you want more words then read this: the climb was beautiful.

Some considerate French yeoman, or perhaps a lonely Basque shepherd, marked the final two kilometers of pavement (averaging 8%). Counting down… 1000m…. 500m… 300m… almost there, now push… 200 meters… 100 meters…

No café on top, just smooth pastureland and trailheads. Mountain flowers and clouds. The cyclists paused and donned what extra layers they had for the descent. The descent was technical at first and it was cold. Cold and wet. After the first switchback – rain. Then the next switchback – hail. Although the cold persisted, working deep into the cyclist’s bodies, the switchbacks soon gave way to hamlets that provided some warmth to their souls. Sure it was bitter and wet, but if you opened your mouth and let the water mix with sweat, then breathed out, you’d smile. Listen to the song, breathe, and come down from the mountain to find your lady.

Luchon is no stranger to cyclists, having welcomed La Grande Boucle more than 50 times. Seeking refuge, the cyclist three shivered into town and stopped at Café Manu. Chris ordered three hot chocolates. Jeremiah ordered an Armagnac. Make that two, Ryan would need one.

While warming up, World Cup on the screen, Chris informed the patrons of Chez Manu that no, they were not professional cyclists despite the largeness of their legs (Jeremiah’s measure forty centimeters), but in fact were just a trio of wet Americans enjoying the bucolic French countryside. The cyclists paid their tab – which had grown from the original tally – and headed north to meet their sag wagon, drink some wine, watch some more World Cup and then do it all over again. Next up, the Tourmalet!

Check out The Port de Balès (with café stop) on Strava!