The First Day Is Always the Worst - Part One

With Leo having finished his GCSE exams and broken up from school a month early this summer, we suddenly had a rare opportunity for an adventure together.

Last year, we’d had our first proper taste of mountain cycling in the French Alps. Leo loved it and was keen for more. He also wanted to watch the Tour de France in person again.

After considering the logistics of driving, ferries, train and bike hire, I came up with what seemed like the perfect plan. We’d fly to Toulouse in southern France with our own bikes, catch a train to Pau in the foothills of the Pyrenees, spend five days riding some of the most famous climbs, watch the Tour de France pass over the legendary Col du Tourmalet, then turn north and cycle the length of France to Roscoff before catching the ferry home.

It was an ambitious itinerary.

Some days would involve more than 100 miles of cycling. But on paper, at least, it looked just about achievable. And Leo was up for the challenge.

Looking back, I should probably have realised we weren’t going to make it to Roscoff.

I’m not very good with bike care or maintenance and have been slowly destroying all of our bikes over the last few months. When the gears on mine stopped working, I started using Leo’s bike. And when problems developed with his too, I moved on to Rachel’s. Now all three bikes were making very strange unhealthy noises and only partially functioning.

I’m not completely incompetent and I do ‘try’ to look after them. Last year, when on holiday in France, I proudly bought a can of chain lubricant from the middle aisle in Lidl and have been diligently treating our bikes ever since.

Every few weeks I’d get the can out and give each chain a generous spray. I felt quite pleased with myself.

But with an imminent trip to the Pyrenees, I realised that despite my regular applications, all of our chains were looking particularly rusty and unlubricated.

Out of curiosity I pointed Google Translate at the label.

It wasn’t chain lubricant.

It was chain cleaner.

I’d essentially spent twelve months meticulously removing every trace of lubrication from three perfectly healthy bikes. It’s no wonder they were making such horrible noises. I had unknowingly starved them of all life.

For such a big trip, the bikes needed the work of a professional. So I booked mine and Leo’s in to be serviced at a local bike shop, and after new chains and gear cables we felt a little more optimistic they would be fit for purpose for our Pyrenean cycling adventure.

Our road bikes aren’t designed to carry heavy pannier racks, which meant we had no choice but to travel light.

Packing light sounds like it should be easy because there’s so little to pack. In reality, it’s surprisingly stressful. Every item has to justify its place. Is one pair of cycling shorts enough? How many base layers would we need? What would we wear in the evening? France was in the middle of a heatwave, but we would also be spending time on top of mountains, where the weather could potentially be cold, wet and miserable, so we might need to prepare for all eventualities.

When we go away in the van, there’s no such dilemma. We just throw everything in. Last year I even smuggled our air fryer to France on a camping trip and Rachel didn’t notice until we unpacked it.

Flying to France with road bikes was a very different proposition. Every extra gram would have to be pedalled over mountain passes, so everything we packed had to earn its place.

We were booked on to a 2am bus to Bristol Airport, which Rachel was delighted to be taking us to. I pointed out that she’d probably have been awake to watch the football anyway, but she just chuffed and said, ‘Yeah, right.’

England were playing Mexico in the last 16 of the World Cup. Kick-off was conveniently delayed by an hour because of the weather, which meant we got to watch almost the entire match on my phone from our seats on the bus.

It was one of the most exciting football matches I’ve ever seen, and quietly cheering England on while everyone around us slept made for a memorable start to our trip. When England eventually held on for a 3-2 win, Leo and I couldn’t help letting out a celebratory shout, only to discover that a couple a few seats away had been watching the game too. Unfortunately for them, their stream was about thirty seconds behind ours, so we’d inadvertently ruined the ending. Thankfully they saw the funny side and admitted it was actually quite reassuring to know England were about to survive the final few seconds.

I’ve never flown with bikes before and not sure I ever want to again. As it was a one-way trip, we couldn’t use proper hard bike cases because we’d have had no way of storing them or taking them with us once we landed.

Instead, I managed to get hold of two cardboard bike boxes from Halfords and spent many hours dismantling our bikes and carefully packing them with bubble wrap in the hope they would survive the flight.

It was 40°C (104°F) when we landed in Toulouse.

Our bikes were waiting for us after we’d navigated passport control, and they appeared to be undamaged.

It took about an hour to unpack and rebuild them, during which time lots of people stopped to ask us where we were heading and get tips about flying with bikes as if we were somehow now experts. This was our first ever experience of travelling like this and we suddenly found ourselves giving tutorials on international bike transport.

Little did they realise that I didn’t even know the difference between chain lube and chain cleaner.

With our bikes built, we followed Google Maps for eight miles, out of the airport, around residential areas, along the river, through the busy city centre, and eventually to Toulouse-Matabiau train station.

We were three hours early, but it was far too hot to do any sightseeing around the city, so we sat on the sweltering platform with a McFlurry and waited for our train.

We were due to arrive in Pau at 6pm. From here we had a choice. We could either catch a bus (hoping they would allow our bikes) to take us the 25 miles up the valley to where we were staying in Laruns. Or, if we had the energy, we could cycle. We would have three and a half hours of daylight, which was plenty of time for a slow, leisurely cycle.

But then our train ground to a halt 30 minutes into the three-hour journey.

An announcement came on to say there had been a fire near the line and we wouldn’t be going anywhere until it was safe.

Another hour passed, during which a woman opposite us had some sort of medical emergency because of the heat and had to be whisked off the train.

I assumed we would be unlikely to get moving again so started looking into places to stay near to where we were stuck.

Eventually, after an hour and a half delay, the train began to move.

But we had a new problem.

We would now arrive in Pau long after the last bus. And we also now only had two hours of daylight to cycle the 25 miles uphill to Laruns.

I looked into taxis but there was nothing available to carry us and our bikes.

Leo and I were feeling quite positive though. At least the train was moving, and we had come to France to cycle. After a day spent on buses, planes and trains, we were both looking forward to getting back on our bikes.

Leaving Pau train station at 7.30pm, we headed south towards Laruns.

Shops would be closed by the time we got there so I hoped we would pass somewhere to buy food on our way out of Pau.

On the edge of town, we called into a petrol station. The shelves were pretty bare and there was a large chest freezer that was almost empty apart from two frozen chorizo pizzas. I instinctively bought them both and strapped them to the top of my saddle bag.

I am not sure why frozen pizzas felt like the logical purchase for a two-hour uphill bike ride in 35°C heat, but I didn’t have much choice. They would likely be cooked by the time we got to our accommodation.

It was about an hour into the ride when I realised I might have been overly ambitious with our plans for this trip.

Sitting at home on the sofa, the thought of being on a bike and pedalling for multiple hours a day had seemed perfectly reasonable.

Sitting on a bike in 35°C heat for even an hour, it suddenly felt considerably less reasonable.

In my mind, I had thought Leo and I would have no problems cycling 700 miles in France.

What I had neglected to realise was how little cycling Leo had actually done. Yes, he had climbed a couple of mountains the previous year and made them look easy. But I don’t think he’d cycled further than five miles in the year since. And he had only ever cycled more than 25 miles twice in his life.

Leo had gone very quiet behind me. I could tell he too was feeling overwhelmed by what was ahead. If cycling 25 miles was this tough in the evening, how were we going to manage multiple days of nearly 100 miles in the heat of the day?

‘Why don’t we try and flag down a lift?’ I suggested as we neared the top of a particularly steep section.

He didn’t respond.

‘Loads of vans and SUVs have gone past. I’m sure someone will be able to give us a lift.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s just keep going.’

‘Are you sure? We don’t want to overdo it on day one.’

‘I just feel really tired and I’ve got a massive headache.’

‘I think we should try and get a lift then.’

‘No,’ he sighed.

‘The first day is always the worst,’ I added. ‘It will get easier.’

‘How much further is it?’

‘I think we are about halfway. And looking at the gradient map, this is definitely the worst bit. Over the crest of this hill there’s a nice downhill and then it looks a little flatter all the way to Laruns.’

‘Do you think we’ll make it before dark?’

‘Yes, I hope so. Why don’t we go over this hill, enjoy the downhill and then see how bad it is after that? If it’s still quite steep and hard work, we can try and flag down a lift.’

‘OK, sounds good,’ he said.

I’m so glad we did push on.

Things did get much easier. After a rejuvenating downhill, we then joined a section of the Camin d’Aussau – an old railway line that’s been converted into an immaculate cycle path (voie vert, as they are known in France). If we had hitched a lift, we would have missed out on these dream cycling conditions.

Leo started taking photos which I saw as a positive sign, and he seemed a little happier. Perhaps everything would work out OK, after all.

The sun had been below the mountains to our right since we left Pau, and now only the peaks over in the east were illuminated by the last of the evening light.

These too had faded just as we rolled up outside the big wooden doors of our Airbnb in Laruns.

‘Oh my word! Look at this place,’ said Leo, as we unlocked the front door.

It was an enormous two-floored, three-bedroom apartment, with a huge open-plan kitchen and living room.

During the ski season, places like this would cost a fortune. In the summer months, there is often far more accommodation than there is demand, so you can find some absolute bargains. We were gutted to be only staying for one night.

While Leo had a shower, I put our clothes in the washing machine and our already warm pizzas into the oven, and we sat down to watch Spain beat Portugal 1-0 in the World Cup last 16.

It had been an immensely long day.

We’d been up since 12.45am and travelled by car, bus, plane, bike, train and then bike, all the way from Devon to the Pyrenees.

We’d finally made it, but it felt as though the adventure hadn’t really even begun. In many ways, all we’d done so far was reach the start line.

Normally after a day like that, I’d have been asleep within seconds of my head hitting the pillow. Instead, I lay awake for hours that night thinking about the days ahead.

Oddly, I wasn’t really worried about our four days in the mountains. I knew they would be tough, but felt confident we’d get through it and I was really looking forward to the challenge. There’s something reassuring about cycling up mountains in that if it gets too tough you can just turn around and cycle back down again.

It was everything that came after it that made me anxious.

I had given us six and a half days to cover 600 miles across France. That’s an average of over 90 miles a day. The weather forecast for the following week suggested it was only going to get much hotter, with temperatures expected to hit 44°C (111°F) when we passed through Bordeaux later in the week.

Those 25 miles in the cooler evening heat had felt like a slog. What would 100 feel like in the middle of the afternoon?

For the first time since I’d dreamt up the trip, I began to wonder whether I’d been wildly over-ambitious.

I had a horrible feeling I’d made a very serious mistake.