by Chris Geiser

 

Gonzo journalism in the heart of Europe! Cutting straight to the heart of the cycling dream! Fear and loathing on the TGV! Eight legged freaks in double occupancy! Smashing the would-be PRs of Horatio Alger on the Giant of Provence!

All respect to Hunter S. Thompson, a master, and an inspiration, in bringing humor, drama, and extremism to every story he pursued. He coined the phrase “Gonzo Journalism”, trying to cut straight to the heart of every issue he investigated, every journey he took, every assignment he had. While we had forgone the cigarette holders, fast convertibles, and mass quantities of drugs and alcohol, we made sure to find plenty of excitement through travel, exploration, making new friends, and of course, cycling.

We have talked about the races, but, to be fair to the journey, getting there was half the fun. Over twelve days we met cyclists from all over the world, ate schitzel, bretzel, bratwurst, duck, tapenade, piri-piri chicken, and butata frita. We drank gallons of Pellegrino, Perrier, and whatever sparkling water we could get. Usually ordered in 5 bottle quantities before we opened the menu.
We used every available means of transportation with the exceptions of horse-drawn carriage, hot air balloon, and boat. We traveled to the heart of Europe, down to the Mediterranean, and back to the Western most point on the Continent. We faced climbs, headwinds, cross-winds, twisting and turning descents, and the occasional straight, flat road, with a tail wind (snoozers). To be honest, after GFNY Italia in 2017, I secretly worried that we could never put another experience of a lifetime trip together. I should not have worried.

Time Between Races

With our GFNY Deutschland experience in the books, we got things in order, straight away when we got back to the hotel from the finish line. Aleksandra had family visiting her in Hameln, and watching her wave the flag of Poland as she crossed the finish line. For Jack and myself, it was a short order of bike packing, showers, and dinner, so that we would be ready to hit it bright and early in the morning. Or, maybe just early, as it wasn’t very bright out yet. We had the following itinerary for the day tomorrow

05:00 — wake up and get bags and bikes into the truck

05:30 — get to Aleksandra’s hotel, and get her stuff in the truck

06:00 — get on the road to Frankfurt

Wake up man it’s late but not too late,
It’s six o’clock like everyday!

Get your things run and forget the rain,
Take power pills don’t miss your train!

09:30 — arrive Frankfurt train station (aaaaand music)

13:58 — catch the TGV to Avignon (this one sounds simple)

21:20 — arrive Avignon — rent car and drive to Vaison la Romaine

23:00(ish) — arrive Vaison la Romaine

You maybe asking — Hey, Geiser, this sounds like an awful lot of trouble to go through to get to Lisbon, when you could have just driven to Hamburg or Hannover and caught a plane and maybe waited for a reasonable hour to do so? WTF Man? What’s this all about anyway?

I am SO glad you asked! With a week to kill between GFNY Deutschland, and the inaugural GFNY Portugal, we decided that this was ample time to get to the South of France, and climb Mont Ventoux. I had wrestled with the great Giant of Provence twice in 2015 (a Friday on my own, and the following Sunday as part of GFNY Mont Ventoux), and I had a score to settle. While I may have been lighter then, I had the feeling that I was a better cyclist now. And I wanted to see what that looked like. It also allowed Aleksandra to live her dream of climbing the mountain. With Tom already planning to spend some time in that neck of the woods, we coordinated months in advance to create a plan to meet in Vaison la Romaine, spend a couple of days, climb the mountain, drive to Marseille, and fly to Lisbon with enough time to shakeout for GFNY Portugal. Just another week in September for intrepid GFNY travelers. Nothing to it. The only hard part should be the mountain…right?

Final check on the room in Hameln, and the truck is mostly loaded for our drive to Frankfurt.

So you got on the road?

Oh right, yes, thanks — aaand, we are back in — yes, we got on the road. Stopped two times for gas station coffee, and made pretty screaming time down to Frankfurt. We were actually on schedule. But here is where it gets complicated. Let’s drop Jack and Aleksandra, at Frankfurt Main, take the truck to a gas station, fill it up, drive it back to the airport, return it, and get on a quick train back to Frankfurt main.

Unloaded and ready at the train station. A Hammering Man replica, just like the one we have in Seattle. Except I am guessing this one didn’t get dropped.

After unloading I can say it went mostly to plan. With the exception of sorting out which train, which direction, how much to pay, and then getting back up to the station. We got our tickets printed, and we had time to spare, enough for a respectable, sit down lunch, and the purchase of some on-board snacks.

With the handy-dandy, Rick Steves website loaded on my phone, we established our strategy for boarding the TGV with 3 bicycles, 3 large roller bags, and 3 backpacks. While we had assigned seats for the first class section of the train, luggage on the TGV follows more of the “festival seating” model. With our train in the station, Rick told us that we could approach the train 20 minutes beforehand. I spoke to the conductor in French, and got his permission for us to board.

Deliver us from evil — I couldn’t believe that another country had been duped into drinking Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Iggy on the cover of the DB magazine has to be a good sign. Oh wait, we are not riding DB.

This would make it a cake walk. But here is where it gets messy. As we had booked all three tickets in two goes, I had car 11 seat 82 for Aleksandra, and car 13 seats 105/106 for Jack and myself. You would think I could remember this. We knew it would be a heave-ho to get the bikes off the train in Avignon, so we developed a strategy ahead of time to plan for it, and it would work. Especially if Jack and I hadn’t sat (at my direction), in seats 105/106 in car 11, and if I hadn’t helped situate Aleksandra and her stuff in car 13. As the train continued to board, my mistake was exposed. We would change places with Aleksandra, but moving the bikes and bags was out of the question. We would have to get up at Lyon, and change places, to handle this effectively — No problem. We got this.

HA!

Now situated, seemingly from Frankfurt to Lyon, the train started to roll. An announcement in German that I half-caught. Followed by an announcement in French that made may say “MERDE!”, and followed by the dreaded confirmation in English.

Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry for this inconvenience but this train will need to change equipment at Strasbourg, we will give you ample time to change trains, and will provide up to the moment track information.

This was bad. We would have to get everything down into the lower decks and get ready to move in the next two or three stops, and, be ready as we crossed the border into France, to dosi-d’oh the equipment to another train, while trying to stay ahead of a train full of passengers, and a platform full of new passengers all struggling to make their luggage fit on the train. MERDE!

By 4PM we were over the border. This text came in welcoming me as we were humping the bikes to the lower deck.

At Strasbourg it was a complete goat-rodeo. The trains had been lined up across the platform from each other, but in reverse car order. We now had to swim up stream, yelling “Regardez!” (Watch out) as we went to get the bikes through. Aleksandra was able to get onto the new car 13 without much issue and get everything stowed. As I got stuck behind another passenger, Jack was able to stand the bikes on end behind the last seat. It was sight to behold, and I thought we were home free. I settled in, to our seats, and the train started to roll. Within seconds of closing my eyes I heard the muted cry of “bicyclist!”. Fear and loathing took over as I opened my eyes. Both bikes had tipped and had the last single side seat occupant trapped under their collective weight. I moved back to the luggage area and began hoisting the bikes onto a luggage rack, on an angle, and warning the nice passengers in the seat in front of the rack to watch out.

Our arrival in Avignon was relatively on time.

We were ready to exit the train with all haste in Avignon. The lower deck became crowded with travelers eager to exit after a long afternoon’s journey from Frankfurt and points south. We were no exception to this, knowing we still had a car rental and a drive to Vaison ahead. But we were confident that the Marx Brothers portion of our program was over. Jack watched with amazement as the French Casey Jones cranked the train up to 318 kilometers per hour. Finally we slowed, and could see the platform materialize.

We exited to the platform, and found our way to the car rental counter. The transaction was quick and efficient and we even got an automatic transmission at no extra charge. (not that I object to a stick shift, but for as many roundabouts as we would see, and automatic was a nice bonus). We engaged the maps, and started to make our way.

Google Maps — and yay, all mapping programs on your phone, absolutely suck in the South of France. Let’s just own this. Do you own it? Good. There is no getting around that the roads ebb, and flow in all directions, and that route names and numbers are really guidelines. They work EXTREMELY WELL when you are following them exclusively, but combine that with a mapping program and it is a holy terror. Knowing the area as I did, I thought we could maybe follow the signs, but the map seemed to be doing ok at first. Until we ended up in a shopping mall parking lot, being told “proceed to the route”. Finally, we got some guidance that took us to the A7. Aleksandra was prepared and threw us a 3kg ziplock bag of Euro coins. We would need it. As we proceeded onto the A7, instead of following my instincts, I followed the GPS which told me to take the exit toward Nimes/Montpelier. I did it. I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway. Why not light a cigarette, put me in a 73 Ford Pinto, and back me into a brick wall. That’s how wrong it was. But according to Google, salvation was at the first rest stop. There at the rest stop, instead of asking (as Jack suggested), we zigged and zagged and hit three different dead ends. We gave up and went to the next exit. Uzes. We were really in the wrong direction now. But we were able to jump off, and back on, and get going toward Vaison again, and finally it was going our way. Once off the A7 we were all road signs and roundabouts. I recognized the area from my last visit and we were able to use the “trust but verify” system of Google maps now that we had an idea where we were and what to do next. Finally in Vaison, we were able to find Tom and Nancy’s place and get Aleksandra dropped off for some much needed rest.

Fawlty Towers

I won’t name our hotel in Vaison la Romain. Except to say that it was once the top cycling and tourist resort in town, it seemed to have fallen, literally on darker days. We pulled into the circular drive and were directed around the back by signage to the garage. We were traveling the garage in reverse of how it was laid out, and Jack and I were hysterical that our comedy of errors continued. With the car parked, we went inside to find the front desk actually still open. He provided us keys, and we assessed the elevator. We unloaded. Jack stacked the bikes in the elevator, pressed “2” and we both ran up the three flights of stairs to the elevator area to unload them, as we couldn’t fit ourselves and the bikes. No matter. But it was dark. We used flash lights to navigate to our rooms, and finally got our stuff put away. We would meet in the morning. After getting undressed, tucked in, turning the air conditioning up, and getting my phone plugged in, I noticed my new roomate.

The hotel tennis court — we are a long way from Roland Garris!

OK In all fairness, the place was really ok! It had just seen better days. It had a garage with a bike area, and a bike stand for putting our stuff together, and so it was really quite friendly. In meeting our gracious host the next morning, I casually asked about the lighting.

Excuse me, Mr. Fawlty, but might we actually be able to have lights on on the second floor?

There are no lights?

Well inside the room, yes, but in the hallways, no.

Oh, right that happened on the first floor last week, mate. We will get that fixed.

He then looked at his footman, across the counter who answered him in another language. Not English, not French.

You’ll have to excuse him. He’s from Barcelona. In Spain.

Our assault on Mont Ventoux would be on Wednesday, so we got ourselves down to Place Montforte, the main square of Vaison, and found some coffee. Tom, Nancy, and Aleksandra made their way up to meet us. We were S.O.L. for a full breakfast as it was Tuesday, and Tuesday is Market Day in Vaison. We had a cup of coffee, hit the market, and then hit the super market to get our own breakfast together before we got bikes back together and got out for a shakeout ride.

After breakfast Jack and I got back over to the hotel and got our bikes together. We would want to get out on the road, Tom would be picking up his bike (shipped to Malaucene by Mirko), and I wanted to get my bottom bracket checked out. It was a 10km ride to Malaucene, so the sooner we got started the better.

The bike garage included holdovers from GFNY Ventoux 2016. On the way back to the hotel, Jack and I got a look at Ventoux from a distance.

We had an easy spin over to Malaucene, where we stopped in at Ventoux Bikes. Tom had to straighten out some issues with his bike as it was shipped in, and I started to talk to a mechanic about my bottom bracket issues. The plan — a civilized lunch, Tom would ride back with Aleksandra and Jack, I would leave my bike, and drive back to Vaison with Nancy. My bike would be ready at 6.

To cut to the chase, it was a full bottom bracket replacement. “I think you live near the sea. The salt from the sea, it steals your grease!” 90 Euros later, it was replaced, and I was ready to go. (Merci Matthieu). The noises and clicking I had during GFNY Deutschland were getting disconcerting, so I was happy to have it fixed.

We had a fabulous dinner at Restaurant L’ Epicurien — this was a place that Tom and Nancy had found and was an undisputed 5 star experience. They had a unique menu, exquisite food, and amazing desert. We could not have asked for better. But we still had a mountain to climb.

Mont Ventoux

I won’t beat around the bush, or sugar coat the fact that I was out to prove something on this day. It had nothing to do with competition, with the exception of competing with myself. I won’t say that I was dissatisfied with how I performed in 2015, but I was uninitiated. I was not strategic. I had no idea how to go about managing my effort. I was also a little freaked out about my current gearing. Rocking the 53/39 with a 29 on the back turned the heads of more than a few people that I told about this trip. It would have to do. This was after all, an HC climb. This ain’t no party, this ain’t no time trial, this ain’t no foolin’ around.

I chose the same route I used on the Friday before GFNY Mont Ventoux in 2015. It went out through Malaucene, followed along the same roadway, and then turned in over Col de Madeleine (not that one), and then down into the town of Bedoin. The Bedoin approach is the one that is used by the pros in the Tour De France, and in the Dauphine. It is reputed to be the most difficult of the three. When I saw Uli a few days later in Portugal, he asked “You went up Bedoin of course?” It was the presumptive pro approach.

I led out, knowing the route by memory. I enjoyed every second of it and pondered the concept of having a French soul. I feel completely at ease in France for some reason, I am not sure why. It makes me happy to be there. To be there on a bicycle, even more so. I grew to feel the same ease, and at home feeling in Italy during GFNY Italia last year.

At KM 0 — the start of a 22 KM route to the top, we checked in at a local bike shop to get Tom a new power meter battery. This would be an essential effort measurement tool. I was myself, going to keep a close eye on power along with my heart rate to make sure I was spreading myself evenly over the 22KM to the top.

Finally we were rolling.

Kilometer 0, and the bike shop. The initial kick starting about 2KM in from the bike shop.

I was quickly off the back of our foursome, but it was admittedly without despair. My day today would not be about keeping up with the group. It would be about making sure that I was ahead of the 2:13 mark that I had in my mind as what needed to be done to ensure that I was improving as a cyclist, a climber, and a person. I could not have a bad day. I needed to protect my frail ego from failure, and I was ready to do anything I could to make that happen.

As the pavement started to kick up to the requisite 8% + I knew that I was beyond all respite until the “softening” at Chalet Reynard, with about 7KM to go. I was already 39/29, and there I would stay, trying my best to manage a fast cadence for as long as I could. As we meandered through the woods, I saw parts of the group, specifically Tom, and Aleksandra get further away. I had Jack in sight, but I couldn’t catch him. I was unwilling to burn a match on such a frivolity as catch up. I would either catch him with my strategy, or I wouldn’t. Spoiler alert — I wouldn’t. But I could see him all the way to the top.

About 10KM a French rider came up along side me and put his hand on my back. Concentrating, and not being able to see, I freaked out a little. Quel suprise?! What the hell is happening? He apologized and explained he was trying to help me. I mean, I get it, but if you don’t know a fella, you don’t put your hands on a fella on an HC climb while he has blood pouring out of his eye balls from his effort.

“I don’t need any, I don’t want any, Merci!”

He moved on. I kept pedaling, through the doldrums of the Ventoux forest where the mile marker stones are few and far between, and where the KM numbers don’t count down as fast as the grade numbers kick up. This was the thick of it, the toughest part. Where it continually kicks up over 9, 10, 12% without relenting. A long road ahead that you can see the torture laid out in front of you as you continue to climb. Finally, I came into the sunlight and turned. I could see the top again, and the road turned to the left and twisted around to the approach to Chalet Reynard. I could see the green and black GFNY colors on Aleksandra as she continued up from the Chalet. The signs for big horn sheep gave me a boost of confidence, as I could now get into countdown mode.

I started to mark the KM in my head as I went. I should see the photographers soon. I should see Tom Simpson soon. Maybe not, maybe I was still at the bottom of the approach to the top — I was. It started to get difficult again, as I knew it would. The thing about this part of Mont Ventoux is, for some reason, even as you get closer, it doesn’t feel like you are getting closer. Despair starts to set in. As I got to the final turn, before I knew the top was coming, it kicked up again. I was now shouting fucking 53/39/29 — gear numbers randomly, like I was having a stroke. Frustrated at how hard it was to push, I was thinking:

This has to be going on three fucking hours. There is no way I am under 2:45. Fuck it, I will be happy to be at the fucking top, and be done with this sick fucking fantasy.

It kicked again, and I kept pedaling. My head was down, and I heard my name.

GEISER!

Tom, what the hell are you doing here?

Cramped up, rode it out, here I am.

We both kept pressing. We were close. Just the 20% kicker at the very top. We were up. I hit the lap timer. when I got to the flat. I screamed! YEAAAAAAH! Like Roger Daltrey getting ready to tell me who the new boss is! People around me laughed.

TWO FUCKING ELEVEN!

Are you kidding me? 2:11. I was thinking it was three hours. I hit the lap timer at KM 0. 2:11. I was 2 minutes ahead of the 2:13 I was thinking. But that wasn’t the real story of my comparison to 2015. I had hit an almost 10:00 difference (in a good way), in the Strava Segment. (Obviously not measured from KM 0, but it was how I was tracking my time).

Almost 10 minutes difference in the Strava Segment from Bedoin.

We called Ventoux a success and reveled for a while before getting ready for the descent. I had brought my 2015 GFNY Mont Ventoux gillet, for just this occasion.

For the last laugh at Fawlty Towers, Jack and I got ready to pack the bikes. We would be out to Marseilles in the morning, and wanted to make sure we could eat dinner with a clear head. But first I needed a cup of coffee. Throughout our stay, I was walking into the grand cafe of the hotel, and availing myself of the coffee machine. Thinking, it’s there, it has cups, and it’s not coin operated. Well — to the chagrin of the aforementioned footman, when he finally caught me inflagrante cafe, so to speak.

Hey — that is not free — just for breakfast.

Uh oh! I made quick with the Humble Pie face, to protest my innocence and ignorance, while offering to pay for the coffee. We shook hands, and Jack and I enjoyed our last cup at the hotel before we would depart in the morning. In 24 hours we would have a different stunning view in Portugal. But we had work to do and bikes to pack before dinner and rest.

On to Portugal

The race in Portugal, already documented, was an amazing experience. With time after the race, we were able to create an amazing addition to the whole GFNY Double-Double experience and see some of the countryside, beaches, and history that makes travel so fascinating.

Editors note: Portugal — is amazing!

While Tom and Nancy, needed to get back to France to fulfill the remainder of their plans in Cognac, we decided to take a day trip to Sintra, and see the Castle of the Moors, as well as the colorful palace that sat atop the beautiful Portuguese seashore.

We split into groups with some taking the Tuk-Tuk (small motor carriage), up the hill, and the rest of us taking the climb on foot. With almost 300 meters in climbing done, we were at the Castle of the Moors, and walking the battlements. A mix up on the Tuk-Tuk took the remainder of the group to the palace. Either way, we were able to see some amazing history, and beautiful scenery, before taking the Tuk-Tuk down. Then recovery ride, beach, and dinner.

For our last dinner together in Cascais, we chose a local pub-fare type place. Easy in, easy out, nobody gets hurt.

How’s the fish and chips?

Oh wonderful, prepared in the English way, but with beautiful hake fish, meaning no bones.

We ordered.

Oh by the way, we were out of hake fish — this is sole — you have heard of sole maybe? This sole has bones but it is a better fish. Just be careful of the bones.

The next morning, we were on our way. Back to reality, back to the states, and back with the perspectives that only travel can bring. After 12 days of traveling I was tired and a little ready for my own bed. But not so tired, that I am not already looking forward to what lies ahead. With the podcasts teasing out things that may happen in March and June, I am already planning how I will divide up my time off. This trip was special in that my better half was able to make it to Portugal. To be able to share it with Chaz, was an amazing thing. Not only to see her waiting for me at the finish line, but to share all of the other experiences with her. To have a friendship of 27 years, with Jack, rekindled — how else could you do that? We bonded with travel, and racing, and it was like we hadn’t lived 3000 miles away from each other these past 20 years. We picked up right where we left off. And the Gavia team, to have so many there, from all over, Tom and Nancy from California. Aleksandra, Adrienne, Ari, Mike, BTG Greg, Alicia and myself, all there from NYC. Jack from Seattle. Clarence and his wife from Germany. Noel, and Luis from Puerto Rico. The shouts of “hey Mister Double Double” from people I didn’t know. More friends, in at least four more countries. More Strava profiles to follow, to see where everyone is riding, or traveling to.

More GFNY races ahead, more travel. More! More!

I feel the hot wind on my shoulder
I dial in, south of the border
Hear the talking of the DJ –
Can’t understand, what’s he say?

I’m on the Mexican radio
I’m on the Mexican radio
I’m on the Mexican radio
I’m on the Mexican radio