The last hour of my life can only be described as possibly the most strenuous and torturous I've faced, certainly physically. Though hardly unrelentingly steep the Col de la Cayolle is pretty constant, snaking its way up the valley before hitting the wall of mountain which forces it to arch its way up in hairpin bends from the commune of Estenco. It is an imposing but mightily impressive mountain which deserves more than the apathy with which many visitors seem to treat it. It is not particularly rugged or wild, in fact rather immaculate, like a painting. The views back down the valley of lush green and earthen red rock are grandiose.
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| Looking back down the climb at the lush valley |
What is most noticeable though is how exposed the Col feels. The heat today was fierce, seeming to burn the rock and the road underneath my wheels. It completely saps your energy, tightens your lungs and takes your breath away. Within minutes of starting the climb I was pouring with sweat from every pore and I simply didn't have enough water. I knew I would have to consolidate and ration it until I found a fountain, but all I wanted to do was pour one bottle down my throat and the other over my head.
From about 5km out I hit the wall completely. My legs died and felt like lead, my lungs gave in and no matter how many gels I gobbled I simply could not find a rhythm. It was all I could do to grind out metre after metre after metre. From 4km out I was stopping every 200 metres just to recover, until finally that 2km to go sign seemed to give me some reserve that I didn't realise I had. I'd hardly say I flew up that final part but it certainly felt like it.
The Refuge de la Cayolle awaits you at the top and all I could think of was cold coca-cola, but alas, it should be called the Col de lack of Coca-Cayolla. It has to be said though, the lemonade there tastes like crystal water and it is a beautiful summit. I sat in awe for quite some time as the endorphins literally coarsed through my body. It was a tough first two days, for which my diary was a fitting testament. As I wrote my entry at top of the Cayolle, the cover was literally soaked to the spine with my sweat.
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| The Refuge de Cayolle, in brilliant sunshine |
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