Race report: Les Boucles du Verdon

[Andrew Scheyer]

Another notch in the belt, lessons learned and legs shattered - the previous weekend I raced in a region north of Aix-en-Provençe around the area encompassing les gorges du Verdon. The race started and finished in Saint-André-les-Alpes, totalling 150km with 2500m of climbing. Commencing near 800 meters above sea-level (I live essentially on the sea, with the highest local peak sitting around 500 meters) and ascending at maximum to nearly 1500 meters, this was a physical challenge that went beyond the standard challenges of racing. It also happened to be the Masters championship for the region (Provençe-Alpes-Côte d'Azur), so the competition was fierce.

Here is a link to a few photos (bonus effect of course-recon = photo-ops!) from the race/week-end.

Pre-race

Having decided to make a week-end of the event, myself and a friend (Pelle) as well as our significant others (Laura and Maija) rented a van, packed it full of food, bikes and a dog and headed north to Saint-André on Friday afternoon. After several stops for dog-vomit and overhydrated-cyclist bladder emptying, we arrived at a spectacular villa in the mountains. We then made a giant pizza, laid in the grass and drank a lot of wine before heading off to bed.

Saturday, Pelle and I decided to do some course recon. The course was set up as a figure-8; thus that after 70km one re-enters the town before heading in the other direction to complete a second, 85km loop. Having heard that the second loop contained some tricky sections and a wild descent, we decided to scout this on our free day. We kept the riding chill (as much as possible riding through mountainous country side, dodging sheep-shit and trying to conceal winding-descent-induced boners) and found that, save for one section of very boonies-esque road (about 10km of winding, single-lane semi-paved roads through orchards and sheep-grazing land) the race was relatively straight-forward. Then, as cyclists are wont to do, we ate a lot more, drank some coffee and picked up our numbers. Note: the swag-bag did not contain gels, but rather two tins of locally produced pâté, a bottle of rosé, a mountain of meringues and assorted patisserie-goods. Pas mal.

The race

Fun-fact #1: despite a forecasted high of 27c, mornings in the mountains (especially when you're sitting in a gorge between peaks) is fucking cold. Fortunately, we had two lovely ladies to meet us at the start line so we both dressed in jackets and gloves which were quickly stripped prior to the gun. Tensions were high at the line as those shooting for the Masters' championship were on full-alert. The field was several hundred deep, and as before, I entered the corral behind the priority-start riders. This put me around 100th place, but knowing that the road opened up quite quickly after the start I was not particularly concerned by this fact.

Fun-fact #2: Being 100 riders deep means you're bound to encounter some of the ol' "I haven't clipped in while in a rush in like, ages" fun. And indeed I did. In this case, I wobbled against someone and while doing so kicked my downtube and the cable running down the left side of it (the one that, you know, moves my front derailleur). Only after about 15km would I realize that I had therefore resigned myself to racing in, as Pelle likes to say, "the big cookie." Let that sink in.

The first 10km of the race are on relatively uneventful terrain. Aside from the occasional road-furniture scare and the thrill of many roundabouts, there's not much to focus on other than the riding. One team in particular (Scott Velo-101) was out in full-force (one of their riders would later win the race solo by more than a minute) and apparently had powder to burn, as these first, relatively flat 10km saw no less than 15 attacks. The ebb and flow was constant, as 1-2 riders would throw in a hard attack off the front, only to be swallowed by the still-intact peloton within a minute or so. Then another. And another. Not knowing the relevance of these attacks, I did my best to sit 5-6 wheels deep after passing the 100ish riders who started in front of me, and close as many gaps as I could. While this was, in retrospect, a massive waste of energy, I knew that about 25km in we would hit our first major climb and nothing puts distance between you and a breakaway like some good uphill torture.

And torture commenced. At 25km in, after a wicked-fast descent into the gorge in which the top 50 or so riders (including both myself and Pelle) separated from the remaining peloton we began our first major climb. 20 endless kilometers at an average of 7%. Not terribly steep for the region, and not technical enough to separate anyone based on their skills, but a slog nonetheless. The peloton quickly breaks up in to small groups and while I watch the race-leaders escape (about half of our group) I do my best to sit in and remind myself that there are still 125km to go - plenty of time to hurt. I have my first snack (Laura made some killer pistachio biscotti so I was a happy camper in that department), try to kill a bottle (yeah, it gon' get hot) and find a good wheel to follow up the climb. After the seemingly endless ascent, we arrive at the peak and begin our descent. At this point I'm with a group of 8 riders (including Pelle) that quickly strings out along the screaming mountainside. Averaging 65-70km/h down the descent, I'm doing my best to sit right in the middle of the group under the assumption that if I descend slightly slower than those in front of me at least I'll have a couple behind to work with in rejoining our companions. At this point I remember that Pelle descends like a newborn giraffe and a quick glance over my shoulder indicates that indeed, he has disappeared. Hoping that this is due to terminal slow-ness disease and not a crash, I keep my eyes forward and finish the descent.

At the bottom of the descent we regroup as a 6 person chase. One extremely motivated rider from a team not far away from my home (La Ciotat) takes it upon himself to start a very aggressive rotation, demanding sub-30sec pulls and hammering our eardrums with an incessant chorus of 'ALLEZ' (oh! you want me to go! Now I get it, thanks for the reminder). The pace is remarkably high within our group, averaging about 40km/h in the flat-ish valley between climbs. At this point I'm certain Pelle is all sorts of fucked, so I try to focus on staying with the current group. We plow through the valley at this pace for about 20km before re-entering the town. Laura and Maija are waiting on an uphill hairpin with bottles (those training runs at Galena's hand-up zone came in handy) and I quickly ditch a bottle (into which I've stuffed armwarmers) and grab a fresh one at 30km/h. Smooth as coconut oil.

Then begins the next climb. This is where Pelle and I had begun our scouting the previous day. As expected, we enter the great land of sheep-shit. The rotation stays remarkably strong, though I'm regularly jumping ahead in the pulls as one of our 6 begins his inevitable bonk. Surprisingly (or not) the rider from La Ciotat has yet to cease his demand that we all ALLEZ and hasn't skipped a pedal-stroke yet. At this point I'm not sure whether he is a motivated monster who simply didn't make the break or just an idiot who will get spit out the back when he spends his last kilojoule of energy on yelling rather than pedaling. Nonetheless he's a fast fucker so I'm happy to be with him. Each time he gets on the front another rider and I relish in the brief opportunity to exchange winks and quiet "allez"s. There is humor everywhere, if you want it.

We make it through the next climb intact, which lasts 6.8km and fluctuates between 9 and 17%. The following winding descent is relatively uneventful, though one rider from our group decides to make his move as soon as we hit the flat valley. This mistake proved quickly fatal as the wind picked up to 40km/h and his watts were quickly eaten up by the Anemoi. We catch, then subsequently drop him like a kid fumbling in the water-balloon toss. I'm not entirely convinced he didn't splatter into a puddle behind us as I chose not to look back (no one wants that eye contact).

After making it through the valley, we hit the sign I've been waiting for: 20km to go. This is the start of our final climb, which lasts a mere 3km but has a number of >15% moments. I'm starting to feel the day creep into my legs, and realize I'm out of both water and food. I keep to myself and sit in the rotation, and we stick largely together over the course of the climb by some miracle. When we reach the peak, I see that two of the riders are ready to put down some watts. Thus begins the descending attack. I have no legs nor will for this, and watch them round a corner (which is graced by the Citroën factory museum) into the distance. Meanwhile, the vocal clown from La Ciotat falls off the back of my wheel. I'll call that a win for my spirit and my eardrums - so I'm content.

Following this descent it's a relatively flat course, circling the lake (and Goldeneye-caliber dam) before entering the outskirts of town for a flat-out sprint finish. I'm praying at this point that I've put enough distance between myself and anyone else that it will be uncontested and indeed, I see the 1km d'arrivée sign without a soul in sight. I roll across the line, greeted by a beautiful wife and her Latvian compatriote for the day (plus one adorable [save-for-the-pukey-moments] dachsund). After biting the crusty end of a baguette and shoving a handful of cold grapes into my pocket (pro-tip: these will not stay cold for long) I spin down, head back to the house and promptly pass out in the grass.

In the end it was an 8th place finish in my category (which in this case was 18-34 y.o.). While I retain a foreign-podium in my crosshairs I'm happy with a top-10 finish. It pops into my head that the true icing on this cake is that a top-10 finish earns me enough points to start in the priority corral next year. Maybe I'll have a "little-cookie" to help me up those climbs that time around.

Next episode: 24hr relay-race in the mountains above Roquefort (yeah, like the cheese) on the Paul Ricard Circuit. Forecast says sunny Saturday, rainy Sunday, 100% chance of epic shit.

Love to all y'all killers. Hope you're breaking legs 'round Chicago, Alabama, and wherever else the wheels are spinning.

Big hugs and infinite tailwind,

Directeur Steezois

--

Andrew F. Scheyer, PhD

perpetual student

Institut de Neurobiologie de la Méditerranée

Parc scientifique de Luminy

163 avenue de Luminy

BP13 - 13273 Marseille cedex 09 - France