A Day on the Tour of Javea

The winter sun of the Mediterranean is warming on the bones, and like a waking reptile I uncoil and stretch my sluggish limbs. My start time is fast approaching; feeling nervous I keep myself occupied by checking that my stopwatch is securely strapped to the handlebars. This is the moment when doubts creep in and overwhelm me, forgotten are creative visualisation techniques and positive thinking, remembered are my lack of fitness and the hard route ahead of me. I become victim to the fear of failure.

The moment arrives too soon, and with a long sharp intake of breath I launch off down the road, concentrating on the tarmac and trying not to think of the current state of my limbs or my lungs. The trajectory is flat and soon I am sailing through the snow of fallen almond blossom, a quick glance at my stopwatch tells me that there is no time to dwell on the rich shades of colours or the sheer beauty of the pink patchwork of fields that diffuse the valley to my right. Like clockwork my legs push the pedals relentlessly. In one of those surreal moments, I liken myself to the robotic toy rabbit in the adverts, drumming incessantly, and hope like hell that today my batteries are Duracell.

After a few kilometres, at the bend in the road, I check my time, I’m UP. Suddenly I feel good, my joints seem well oiled as they smoothly turn the wheels, and my breathing appears controlled and easy. I silently rejoice on the downhill section to the roundabout, my speed unchecked like a wild child. I am oblivious to the fact that whilst the law of gravity states that what goes up must come down, Sod’s law is smugly sneering that what goes down will soon go up in a hellish fashion.

The Montgó Mountain is a category climb 4 in the Vuelta de España and even Cipollini can't get over it chatting to his team mates without pausing for breath. Somehow when I start to climb it, a process normally only seen in horror movies takes place, it miraculously transforms itself into The Hell of the Med. Like a serpent the road twists, turns, bends and wriggles its way to the summit in an unremitting uphill slog. Initially I am buoyed by optimism, the clock still tells me I am ahead and I take the sudden sharp ascent at the bottom of the climb in my stride.

Soon, however, the leg breaking drag upwards tires my flagging limbs. I swear Alpe D´Huez can be no worse; there is always another bend or curve in front, no false flat and definitely no end in sight. I look to my right and see the horseshoe bay with its inviting golden sand contrasting with the blue green of the sea down below me. A searing pain plummets to the bottom of my lungs and lands somewhere in the pit of my stomach; even incredible beauty cannot be a distraction from the suffering. Yet the green metallic glint from the crushed car that has fallen down the side of the mountain does grab my attention, it is a reminder that the roads can be a dangerous place and that awareness is my only ‘safety belt’.

Feeling desperately exhausted nothing can make me feel better and I pin my hopes that the next bend will be the last; of course it’s not. I’m sure I can hear Sod sniggering somewhere behind me, but it is the whirring spin of a chain as without notice a guy from Rabobank with a serious look on his face passes me, followed by another and yet another, the fourth guy in line says something in Dutch that makes the others laugh. Oh the shame of it! Puffing in an undignified manner, I console myself with the fact that at least my face can’t get any redder. I still have enough presence of mind to make a mental note never to go near this climb whilst the pro teams are doing their winter training camps. At least the last two in line make encouraging noises and I feel eternally grateful to them, although it was a pained grimace rather than a grateful smile that was etched on my face.

I then make a BIG mistake in an effort to recuperate my wounded pride; like a tenacious crab I claw my way up and try to hang on to their wheels pushing myself beyond my undoubtedly limited capabilities. At last the summit is in sight but the Rabobank riders are not, and to top it all I’ve blown with the extra effort.

The mountain flattens out for a kilometre or so before the descent. This is great news as I am entering the feed zone and I wolf down the chocolate bar and the energy bar trying to comfort my failing spirit with copious amounts of sugar; the banana can wait. It also means that I have time to catch my breath and become totally aware of just how deep pain can actually go in my lungs. In a moment of weakness I check my time and surprisingly it’s not looking too bad. Then before I know it I’m zooming down the other side of the mountain and actually enjoying every second. The wind whizzes through my hair and I feel a freedom and exhilaration like no other, at this moment I truly believe that I can fly. I will conquer. I am invincible. I am a goddess.

As up to now no one in my daily life has recognised or commented on these amazing qualities in me, especially the Rabo boys, I can only conclude that I have become delusional. Panicking, I fear that I have become dehydrated and I will soon erratically career across the road and end up crushed down the mountainside like the green metallic car. As soon as the road permits I take some hefty swigs of my sports drink specially designed using the latest technology to replace my lost tissue salts and finely balance my equilibrium. I sincerely hope that it is more efficient than my thermal vest designed for Everest, or either Pole you care to mention, that I slip on in the evening to combat the cool Mediterranean winter nights.

After reaching the bottom the rest of the course to the finish is undulating, or in plain English, wavy up and down bits that play havoc with already aching thigh muscles. Perhaps I should think seriously about that banana after all. I luxuriate in the sensation of ploughing through the air; I become as much a part of the landscape as the ancient olive trees, something that can never be experienced in a car. The scenery changes once again to orange groves and the sweet exotic scent of the orange blossom overpowers my sense of smell, probably because I am now snorting harder than a drug addict. Oh well, as the thing that shall not be named has reared its ugly head, I will take this opportunity to mention that I am riding completely UCI compatible.

Finally I see the welcoming sign that tells me that there is only one kilometre left, the final 300 metres are an uphill sprint. Muttering to myself like a crazed woman and no doubt scaring passers by I begin to psyche myself up. Like magic, with the end of suffering almost in sight I suddenly begin to feel quite good, no, I feel truly great. I know I can do it. Petacchi, bah! I swear no one on earth could beat me the way I feel at this minute; the earlier agony was just an illusion, a hallucination probably due to temporary oxygen debt. With the finish firmly in my sights I grit my teeth and get out the saddle, breathing forgotten, I thunder, yes that’s the only word I can use to describe it, I thunder up the road. Powerhouse thighs mysteriously replace aching muscles. As I reach the finish I am really flying. I have conquered. I am invincible. I am a goddess.

I hear some applause and the word champion reaches my ears. I look round and see the head of my partner popping over the hedge in front of our house, he is smiling. So am I, I’ve knocked nearly two minutes off my best time. I have conquered pain, humiliation and myself. Tomorrow is a rest day, but the Tour of Javea will resume the following day, although I think the next stage will be on the flat. With a change of colours and my newly found form I’m sure even the Rabo boys won’t recognise me. I wonder if I should tell Oscar that his rainbow jersey is under threat.