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Great things are done when Men & Mountains meet;

This is not Done by Jostling in the Street.

William Blake

I suppose we really amounted to nothing more significant than a gang of overgrown children delighting in the conquest of altitude by the force of our own muscles. Yet to see a companion arrive for the first time on a sunlit crest, his eyes full of happiness, seemed in itself an adequate recompense. Tomorrow he might return to the valley and be swallowed up by all the mediocrity of life, but for one day at least he had looked full at the sky.

Conquistadors of the Useless, Lionel Terray

Prologue

AIN’T NO MOUNTAIN HIGH ENOUGH

Stop me if you’ve heard this one, but I want to tell you about a man called George Mallory. George Mallory loves climbing mountains. He’s good at it. His grandfather used to love climbing mountains too, but unlike his grandfather (who was also very good at it and was also called George Mallory) our George prefers to do it on a bicycle.

George Christopher Leigh Mallory (the grandson) is the inventor of the concept of Everesting. Everesting is diabolically simple: pick a hill, any hill, and ride your bike up and down it until the cumulative elevation gain equals or surpasses the height of Mount Everest itself (8,848 metres, or 29,028 feet, above sea level). George Christopher Leigh Mallory completed the first known Everesting in 1994 by riding eight times up a 1,100-metre road climb on a peak called Mount Donna Buang near Melbourne. He was training for an expedition to the summit of the real Everest via the mountain’s North Ridge, and his cycling feat, only achieved after several unsuccessful attempts, seemed to exist in a dialogue with his ancestor. George Herbert Leigh Mallory was, of course, the dashing, brave British mountaineer who was tragically lost on Mount Everest in 1924, as he attempted to become the first man to reach the top. Before that expedition, the New York Times interviewed him and asked: ‘Why did you want to climb Everest?’

Whereas a more appropriate answer for those wishing to Everest on a bicycle (who are therefore contemplating scaling a mountain that exists only in their head) might be: because it’s not there.

Without the internet, George Mallory II’s cycling achievement might have remained undiscovered by the wider world, and he would have continued life as just another cyclist who loved riding uphill. (In mountaineering circles, on the great scroll of people who have climbed Mount Everest, he’s known as George Mallory II, and, as a way of distinguishing between the two Mallories in writing, it works for me.) But the internet came, Everesting became a thing and we would be destined to meet. Not before, however, the internet convinces me to give Everesting a try, and I find myself on top of a hill in Sussex slightly before dawn, pulling my bike out of the back of the car as a weak sun struggles to rise through the sea mist. As is helpful with any foolish and borderline unhealthy activity, I have an enabler. Jimmy is a guy I have met thanks to Strava, the online community for cyclists, and he will pedal the day next to me. We have met once before, at a cycling event, and now are planning to ride a stretch of asphalt that is 1.3 kilometres long and a 10 per cent average gradient 68 times.

Not long into our ordeal, a couple of Jimmy’s friends arrive as moral support, to share the road with us for a short while before they go to work. On about their second ascent, one of them says something along the lines of, ‘You must be mad, mate. Why are you doing this?’

That ‘why’ is really the question of this whole book: why do we have this obsession with cycling up mountains?

As kids, we all love going down things. First on a slide, perhaps, or in a buggy, and then for many of us on a bike. When we’re adults, bicycles return us to the freedom we had as children – the freedom seemingly to go anywhere and do anything, to whizz downhill with our feet off the pedals sticking straight out in the air, almost like flying. But for a few of us, when we take up road cycling, some kind of switch flicks in our heads and we start to love going uphill instead. It’s not a straight swap: I still like the downhills too, but the reward of the downhill (which lots of non-cyclists assume to be the ‘point’ of all that uphill) never factors into my thinking about why I want to ride in the mountains. This a book more about going up, not down. Why do we choose there, and choose that? If the downhill is not the point, what is? Why do we love doing something that’s so hard?

As a cyclist, it’s always been about the mountains for me. I’m naturally a skinny person, so as a bike rider I’m never going to win a sprint and I’m not built for the cobbled Classics of northern France and Belgium. But that doesn’t mean I was a born mountain goat. I was actually born in London, a good way from any actual mountains, and didn’t show any early signs of unnatural uphill tendencies. I didn’t start cycling seriously (whatever that means) until my early twenties, and didn’t ride a proper mountain until a few years after that, but when I did, something just clicked. Something was right, and I was hooked.

Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me in town, I thought I would cycle about a little and see the mountainous part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off – then, I account it high time to get to altitude as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the bicycle. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the mountains with me.

It is, however, definitely a minority interest. If I meet someone at a party, say, and tell them that I like riding my bicycle in the mountains – that I regularly embark on uncertain, self-propelled journeys 20 kilometres or more up exhaustingly steep slopes, from the safety and warmth of the valleys to the storm-threatened, cold and inhuman peaks (and, moreover, that I often base my holidays around them and pay hundreds, maybe even thousands, of pounds for the privilege) – I usually meet one of two responses. One: a disbelieving laugh and a nervous stare, and then a look over my shoulder, a scan of the room for someone else to talk to. And less often, two: a hint of kinship, or jealousy, in my interlocutor, and their eyes mist over as their thoughts travel somewhere beyond the horizon, to deeper wonders than the waves. Closely followed by an inquiry as to where, and a long conversation about routes and gradients, often concluding in a request to come along too.

OK, that’s a slight exaggeration, but it really is polarising. Some people get it, and some people don’t. Ditto if we talk about the Tour de France or the Giro d’Italia and their excursions into the high peaks. Take, for example, Irishman Stephen Roche’s superhuman effort climbing to the La Plagne ski station in 1987. On that crucial stage of the Tour de France he hauled himself back towards race leader Pedro Delgado, weaving and bobbing through the follow cars behind the Spaniard, limiting his losses to stay in contention for the yellow jersey he would eventually win. It was a gloomy day, the finish line was in a total whiteout and, when a lone figure emerged from the mists, nobody, least of all TV commentator Phil Liggett, could believe it was Roche. He had pushed himself so far beyond his limits that he collapsed on the finish line and was administered oxygen for half an hour after the stage. I watch it on YouTube now, 30 years distant, and feel a tingle down my spine. Many cyclists will feel the same shiver. They just get it.

But even if you do ‘get it’, it’s not all that clear what you actually ‘get’.

Everesting does, after all, look very much like extreme and inexplicable behaviour. I’ve not always been the type of person who wants to spend all the daylight hours (and a few of the night-time ones too) riding up and down an imaginary mountain. Several times on that Everesting day, the question ‘How did I get here?’ passed through my mind. Literally speaking, I drove down to the coast the night before from London and stayed at a pub in Peacehaven, which was good for cheap steak, chips and beer, but which I cannot recommend wholeheartedly on other fronts. Zoom up a level and you could say that George Mallory II is directly to blame for me being on top of a hill in Sussex with a man called Jimmy whom I hardly know. More cosmically, George’s granddad is equally a part of it – he seems to have felt something like the same pull of the mountains that many people feel, and his story of doomed endeavour has undoubtedly added to the romance of the high peaks. Why is the fight against gravity so appealing? Why are mountains so important to pro racing? Why do we amateurs go up there too, and what do we see and feel when we do?

There is a mystique here that needs, erm, demystifying. Cycling is a simple activity, and a lot of the pleasures you get from it while riding in the mountains – fresh air, beautiful views – are simple too. But the ‘why’ is not a simple question. At times, trying to formulate it, let alone answer it, has been like nailing jelly to a wall. Like a nailed jelly, this book shoots off in many different directions, but they can be grouped into a few main strands.

Pro cycling. We’re in Andorra and it’s July 2009: Bradley Wiggins – not at this point known as a climber – has surprised the world by placing 12th on the Tour de France’s first mountain stage, keeping pace with renowned grimpeurs including Andy Schleck, Cadel Evans and Lance Armstrong. Later in this Tour he will finish tenth on the legendary Mont Ventoux, helping him to fourth place overall.fn1 This achievement equals the previous highest-ever British Tour finish (Robert Millar, a climber, in 1984) but, more significantly, it is the first step in his transformation into the Tour winner he will later become. And there, in Andorra, a mountaintop kingdom in between France and Spain, he is jubilant. This is real cycling, he tells TV presenter Ned Boulting, at the top of the 10.6-kilometre finishing slope: it’s not about the velodrome (where Wiggins has been world champion in multiple disciplines and already has five Olympic medals to his name); nor time-trialling (where he holds British records); nor road racing on the flat (where he’s pretty handy too). This is real cycling. This is where the glory is and where the dreams come true, he tells Ned. Wiggins reveres the exploits of tiny featherweight climbers such as Marco Pantani. He knows his cycling history – and he’s right. All of road cycling’s most enduring legends and breathtaking rivalries have been forged in the mountains. Every rider, from Chris Froome to Mark Cavendish to the greenest amateur, wishes they could climb better. Climbing a mountain gracefully – and beating your competitors up the slope – represents the pinnacle of cycling achievement. How did the mountains become so important to professional cycling? Who are the characters whose endeavours have ignited our love for them, and why are they so appealing? How come I, a 30-something guy from a major metropolis whose early experiences of sublime infinitude and awe-inspiring wilderness were pretty much limited to Hackney City Farm, knows and loves (and sometimes hates) such a remote and alien place as the Col du Galibier? Some of these founding myths may be familiar in outline, but the real details are surprising. There is a fascinating story behind why the Alps are cycling’s Colosseum, the Dolomites its Wembley.

Psychology. It has long seemed to me that much of what we seek to know about the mountains – the wheres, the how-highs and how-fars – is fairly easy to discover. You can find those things in Stanfords map and travel bookshop in Covent Garden in London, in the books section at big bike shops, or on computer screens pretty much anywhere. And there are countless articles on how to train for a sportive in the mountains, or how to pace yourself up an Alpine climb. But all these facts presuppose one thing: that you want to be there in the first place.

In 1984 the famously uncompromising mountaineer Rheinhold Messner journeyed into the Karakoram region of the Himalaya, to climb Gasherbrum I and Gasherbrum II. Messner had been one half of the duo (the other was Peter Habeler) that first scaled Everest without oxygen, and, if the new expedition was successful, he and his new partner Hans Kammerlander would become the first climbers ever to traverse between two 8,000-metre summits, carrying on their backs everything they needed to survive, and with no returning to a fixed camp in between. If they were unsuccessful, then the most likely outcome was freezing or starvation. Bitter, lonely deaths … which might have been part of what attracted the German filmmaker Werner Herzog to document their attempt in The Dark Glow of the Mountains. He followed the pair to base camp, and in the resulting film, as the camera pans across the shining peaks where their uncertain future lies, he ponders: ‘What goes on inside mountain climbers who undertake such extreme endeavours? What is the fascination that drives them up to the peaks like addicts? Aren’t these mountains and peaks like something deep down inside us all?’ Herzog disdained the ‘accountant’s truth’ – his description of the banal external realities of life – and dug into people’s psyches to reveal (sometimes made-up) ‘ecstatic’ truths. Hopefully, this book will uncover a few ecstatic truths of its own about the mental challenges we face – and seek – in the hills.

How is that even possible (part I)? There’s no point honing the mind if the body is going to give up on you when the going gets tough, so next to psychology is physiology. One of the big draws of cycling in the mountains is the physical exertions it demands, and watching pro racers attack, up 10 per cent slopes and at altitudes where the air is thin, speeding in a way that normal riders would find tough on the flat, is an amazing and humbling sight. How do humans push themselves like this? What does it feel like, and what is actually happening when they do? But it’s not all about pros: physical training, effort, suffering, pain, are a huge part of everyone’s experience of road riding in the mountains, and, without going into ‘training manual’ territory, this book will explore the personal and emotional landscapes we encounter.

How is that even possible (part II)? This might be the most neglected of all the strands. What is it that road cyclists wishing to ride in the mountains simply cannot do without? Mountains, yes; and bikes. But the real conundrum here is the roads. They seem like a road cyclist’s playground, like they were made for cyclists, even. Of course they were not – but what on earth are they doing up in these inhospitable, lonely places? Ribbons of tarmac that lead from nowhere special to nowhere else, whose tortuous routes are a mediation between some of humankind’s greatest civil engineers and the immense geological forces that millions of years ago created the topography the roads now climb. Yet if one considers that these forbidding peaks have for centuries formed a natural – yet contested – barrier between European nations, the roads begin to make more sense. Far from being remote and insignificant regions, the mountain ranges of the Alps are key strategic areas in the struggles that have shaped the continent. Napoleon, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Mussolini will all play a part in our story, though if we’re going back to first principles we could even look to Hannibal and his elephants (around 38 of which survived a march over the Alps in 218 BC). How does this relate to cycling? Simple: without this hidden history, the Alpine roads – and our sport as we know it – would not exist.

But it’s more than geopolitics that have shaped human life in the mountains. You can ride past glaciers tumbling in supercooled slow motion, past abandoned refuges and watermills, or on roads overlooked by Second World War-era concrete bunkers on one side and 19th-century barracks on the other. Road cycling is not just competition, it’s exploration. It’s about seeing what’s around the corner, in the next valley along and in the one after that – or looking back into the past. After many years pedalling slowly uphill, I started to question what had shaped everything I saw. I got to thinking that if you do not appreciate what has created the views you see, the very ground beneath your feet, then you may as well be on an exercise bike in a gym.

This part of the journey will range far and wide. Just as we’ll head behind the scenes of a Grand Tour, we’ll also go behind the scenes on a mountain, to listen to the stories told by mountaineers, shepherds, road workers and other mountain people (and cyclists), whose presence and work can, in the rush for the top, sometimes go unnoticed. We’ll search for what is unique to cycling in the mountains, but enrich that with their stories, since there is probably something in all of our experiences that is common, that will help us understand the mountain better. What does it take to live, work, ride among peaks … and what do we take from the mountains in return?

If the big question I’m asking is ‘why’, then each chapter contains at least one ‘because …’, even if it’s not spelled out as such. One of the main characters I’ve enlisted to help is a young pro rider called Joe Dombrowski. He agreed to meet and chat, over the course of a year or more, and help me capture something of the life of a pro climber, the experience of training and racing in the mountains. For this I can’t thank him enough. The other main character is the Col de la Bonette, a mountain pass in southern France. Many of the rewards of being in the mountains are no doubt similar if you’re riding in Colorado, the Victorian Alps, the Atlas mountains or Montenegro, but much of what is particular to the history of cycle sport is distilled in the sweat spilt on the roads of the French and Italian Alps, so it made sense to me to remain there. There are plenty of climbs more famous than the Bonette, cycling-wise, but it is a place I knew well and kept returning to. It has the mystique of being the ‘highest road in Europe’ (which may not actually be true, as we’ll see), which draws cyclists like moths to a flame, and it also became important in so many other ways: I found drama and war in its history, beauty and struggle in its natural environment, and people there who helped me understand the mountain more deeply. So, while the cycling stories roam far and wide across the Alps and the Pyrenees, the book also became a portrait of one mountain, built up over several years of riding and visiting it. It is a worthy stand-in, I think, for the iconic mountains of the Grand Tours, and the stories I found there will, I hope, resonate widely. There are a few other writers in here too, and you’ll find a list of their books in the back pages of this one.

I’ll be honest: I don’t have a ready answer to any of this (that old thing of ‘If I could tell you what this book was about, there wouldn’t be any point in writing it’). At some points I’ll be the White Rabbit leading you tumbling down the rabbit hole. But I hope there is enough common ground, bizarre adventures and amazing characters to carry all of us – those who ‘get it’ and those who don’t – through. This is the story of an obsession, or rather several: we’ll be travelling by the side of some mountain addicts, and some of the most remarkable sportspeople and explorers; across the world and back in time, to the earliest geological eras, the edges of civilisation and the cutting edge of scientific progress. The aim is to build an overall picture of the sensations, emotions, natural, physical and historical things, people and cultures you find in the mountains. If, by the end, we’ve clarified even something of what pushes people to ride their bikes in the mountains and keeps us coming back to see the wonderful things you can see there, then I’ll have succeeded.

Chapter 1

SETTING THE STAGE

I am drinking a coffee made for me in a Ricard glass by a man called Didier, and we are higher than the sun. I would go so far as to say nobody drinking coffee in Europe is higher than us right now. It is just past eight o’clock in the morning and we are in a blue portacabin placed slap bang in the middle of a road near a mountain peak north of Nice. To the south the road slopes downhill all the way to the Mediterranean Sea 115 kilometres away, and below us the surface is already warm in the morning light, but the asphalt here is covered by sheet ice. Behind us is a wall of snow some two or three metres high that – temporarily at least – forces a dead end, and to our left a narrow gap in the rocky ridge, where the road passes over the Col de la Bonette and down towards the Ubaye valley to the north.

The sun, which is literally below us, has just appeared between two other peaks some miles off in the gentle remote air, and is broadcasting silver darts across all creation, save for where the still-proud snow dunes around us cast deep dark shadows.

We are in a blue portacabin – HQ, lunchroom, sanctuary when the 100 km/h winds blow and the unpredictable blizzards come – emblazoned with fierce zebra stripes from the metal grilles at the windows, and Didier, a short man in sports sunglasses who in physical appearance owes much to both boulders and snowmen, is looking gnomic. On the picnic table in front of him are more Ricard glasses, Nestlé powdered instant coffee presented for our delectation in sugar-style sachets, and some actual sugar. He is leaning on a worktop with a small kitchen sink, and a gas bottle underneath it; to one side, a 25-litre plastic jerrycan half full with water, from which Didier earlier filled a saucepan to set on the stove for coffee.

It had taken a long time to heat. We’re at 2,715 metres and although that means water will boil at lower temperatures (around 90°C at these heights), the altitude means the gas pressure is low and the stove’s flame weak. There is barely any air up here, and Didier’s colleague, Éric, is currently making sure there is less: he is slouched against the doorway watching, through sports sunglasses, the sheet ice melt at the bottom of the portacabin steps while he rolls a cigarette, one of many high-altitude gaspers he will smoke today.

We are in a blue portacabin and Aurelien, a young man with a deep tan and an air of perpetual surprise thanks to the white circles around his eyes, the negative image of the sports sunglasses he habitually wears, is outside taking his work boots and an avalanche transceiver from the back of a Citroën Berlingo 4 × 4, which is decked out in the jaunty white and yellow livery of the local authority’s roads department. It is Wednesday 20 April and they have already been working for almost three weeks.

We drink our coffees, chat; then, once Éric finishes his cigarette, we walk out into the glare without bothering to lock the cabin (there’s nobody around for miles) and drive off to clear snow from the roof of Europe.

It is an obvious and yet rarely considered fact that many of the roads that are central to cycling’s mystique exist on the very margins of reality. They are places that can be said only properly to be there for four or five months of the year. In Europe’s high mountains, if a climb doesn’t lead somewhere important, like a ski resort, then most of the time, typically between early October and late May, it is shut. It is often covered with snow: at best, a lazy blue run; at worst, buried without a trace. Galibier, Croix de Fer, Tourmalet, Aubisque, Stelvio, Gavia: out of sight, but not out of mind – their names live on in our memories of the races we have watched and the rides we have done, or in our daydreams of sunny days to come.

In the summer, they are alive, busy with cyclists, hikers, motorbikes and even coach parties. Then, towards the end of each year, they revert from being a torture chamber or paradise (delete as applicable) for cyclists back to the harsh, untamed wilderness they otherwise are. And then, at the start of each following year, they need to be dug out so that we can enjoy them again. The responsibility for that lies with municipal authorities and so, propelled by an obscure conviction that significant things must happen there when cyclists are not around, I sought permission to go up the Bonette with the road-clearing crew. That meant arranging a meeting with Aurelien, Didier, Bernard (we’ll come to Bernard later) and Éric’s boss. His office was at the municipal depot in Saint Étienne de Tinée, the pretty village at the southern foot of Bonette. There, above the garages housing the salting lorries and the snowploughs, subdivision head Jean-Marie-André Fabron (soft pinstriped red shirt with the sleeves rolled up, three buttons loose, gold necklace not quite big enough to be termed a medallion nestling in a bed of grey chest hair), who talked me through the work and explained the schedule: that the département administration was obliged to secure the Bonette road as far as the little hamlet of Bousiéyas by 20 April, so people could get back into their houses and check what damage had occurred over the winter, and that was when they would begin the snow-clearing work in earnest; given good weather they should be hitting the top of the col around 20 days after that; and, since the local authority on the other side didn’t have much money, the annual agreement was for the southern crew then to head down the northern road and clear that, even though it wasn’t really in their jurisdiction. If the other side was not, strictly speaking, their responsibility, it was definitely in their interest: once the road opens, Jean-Marie said, the cyclists, motorcyclists and hikers come – 100,000 to 120,000 motor vehicles in the four peak months of summer – and the economy in both valleys is boosted by 25 per cent. On top of that, I thought, it must get boring living at the end of a col-de-sac, mustn’t it? For seven months a year only to have one route to the outside world. To be able to turn left as well as right, and go to Jausiers for your shopping instead of Nice; that must be nice for locals too.

Jean-Marie’s office was finished in light varnished slatted wood, in a ski chalet style, though the cheap lino floors and ringing telephones were a reminder of the council business at hand. On the walls were maps of the region and a few small photos of himself and others at the top of the mountain, dwarfed between white walls of snow, with huge road-clearing machinery behind them. He showed me more photos on his computer: guys in sports sunglasses and big coats with thermos cups in hand, posing smiling year after year behind the diggers, as if the magic of the thing, of the journey through the wardrobe to Narnia, never quite wore off.

It looked like quite a party. And the mountain man in him bristled when I cautiously inquired whether it was – although clearly good fun – risky in any way, shape or form. ‘Not dangerous!’ he scoffed, took stock a second, and finished up: ‘Bon. There is still that sheer weight of snow …’

Jean-Marie was the boss of the whole of the Tinée valley, named after the tiny river that wells up just under the summit of the mountain and which runs 75 kilometres down to join the Var river not far from Nice. His beat included five ski stations, 14 villages and at least one other high mountain pass. But it all paled in front of the Bonette: ‘Bonette is a special mission,’ he said. ‘For me, for my teams of guys … it’s a source of pride for us to do it.’ Even in summer he sent a road-sweeping lorry up there almost every day. From Saint Étienne’s position of relative shelter at 1,100 metres you could never quite know what the weather was doing up there, and the friable rocks at the top were prone to rockfalls or even landslides in freak summer storms. ‘We don’t want cyclists hitting stones,’ he said.

Once I explained what I wanted to do, Jean-Marie was almost extravagantly unconcerned about letting me loose in the pristine wildernesses above, with the avalanches and the ice sheets and all that heavy machinery. But this was October. I wouldn’t be able to hitch a lift on a snowplough until April or May next. Jean-Marie said he’d drop me a line when the work was in progress, and I left.

The Col de la Bonette closed just a couple of days after my visit, on 13 October. It is often called the ‘highest paved road’ in Europe, and it is always one of the first to be surrendered to the winter snows. But, if we’re being honest, it is not really Europe’s highest paved road. That accolade is usually given to the Cime de la Bonette road, above the col. We commonly think of cols as high places, but col is the French word for a mountain pass, and a pass is usually, relatively speaking, the opposite of a high place: it is the lowest or the most easily accessible way of crossing a shoulder of land between two peaks, from one valley into another. The Col de la Bonette-Restefond, to give it its full title is, at 2,715 metres high, superseded by several roads in Europe, including the Col de l’Iséran (2,770 metres) behind Val d’Isère in the French Alps and the Passo dello Stelvio (2,757 metres) near the Italian border with Switzerland. Cime, on the other hand, means ‘summit’, and the Cime road, at 2,802 metres, is widely proclaimed to be the highest paved road on the continent. It is a loop that lassos the Cime de la Bonette itself, the dark, very regular pyramid-shaped peak which has a viewpoint and a panorama on top. However, the Cime is actually not the highest paved road either. The Ötztal Glacier road in Sölden, Austria, is surfaced higher, but it’s a toll road and a dead end; the Pico de Veleta in Spain’s Sierra Nevada is higher too, but that’s also a dead end and vehicle access is restricted.

And so the Cime de la Bonette may conceivably be the highest inter-valley road in Europe, which is, if you dig into the history a bit, pretty much what it was built to be.

Though there had long been a mule track over the mountain, the road was not built on the northern side until the end of the 19th century, and even then it did not connect with the villages in the south. It rose, via a slightly different route called the Col de Restefond, to link two military barracks, and did not go further. The two sides weren’t truly connected until 1950, when the junction was made with the existing road on the south side. Previously, that had only reached as far as Bousiéyas which, at 1,880 metres above sea level, was about halfway up. Quickly the new route, the first proper link between the départements on either side, became popular with tourists, but the road at the top was in a terrible state. It was now strategically useless so the army had no interest in maintaining it. But given that it was perilous, remote and extremely high (and also partly belonged to the army), the regional authorities on either side weren’t keen on spending any money either. Finally, the prefect ruled that the state wouldn’t give any funds unless it became a ‘prestige’ road. What better way to do that than to abandon the old Restefond col and build a new road along the top of the ridge, add a little loop around the peak and go for the altitude record? So that’s what they did, and the road as we now know it opened in 1961.

But even this ‘highest road’ is problematic. It’s only the highest inter-valley road if you ignore the fact that the Cime’s start and end are within metres of each other, across a narrow ridge above a perfectly usable col, and that the loop is therefore completely pointless. It is a ‘long-cut’ built simply for the glory, a treacherous circle of tourist road, two kilometres long, with steep drops and 15 per cent gradients on all sides.

I wouldn’t, however, bother expending much energy debating the case. Ever tried arguing with the French? It’s a losing game. And besides, the factoid is announced on signposts everywhere, and written in books and everything. The French are nothing if not masters of branding. In fact – think Bordeaux, think Champagne, think Camembert, hell, think cycling itself – they practically invented branding. So Bonette may not be the highest paved road, but since they’ve said it is so, that’s what it’s known as.

Approached from the villages of Jausiers to the north and Saint Étienne de Tinée to the south, it’s a beautiful, fairly regular climb of around 25 kilometres. In summer, above Bousiéyas, that last outpost of civilisation, shepherds wander the pastures with their flocks in the time-honoured way of the transhumances, while even further up the deserted barracks still forlornly survey the landscape. Like all the very highest roads in the Alps, the climb seems to take you from one landscape to another, one season and one mood to another, as you ascend from valley to ridge and into valley again, up until there are no more valleys, to where all earthly lines converge at the peak. You can be in 30°C summer at the bottom and by the top be surrounded by stormy winter, or start off in a heavy mood and 25 kilometres later have been lifted out of it – having, thanks to the twin analgesics of the scenery and hard physical work, left your troubles on the road far behind.

There may be longer climbs elsewhere, and ones more brutal, and ones with more Tour de France history, but this is the highest point ever to have been ridden in a Grand Tour, and it is really something to be able to say I have ridden up the highest road in Europe (and show pictures of the signposts that prove it).

The journey to the blue portacabin started at sparrow’s-fart o’clock on Wednesday 20 April in Saint Étienne. The previous Friday, the road-clearing crew had reached and passed the col in their machines, and they were already engaged on the descent. We had travelled from Nice in the dead of night to catch them before their drive up the mountain and I was keen to know why they were so far along so early in the year. The first of the crew to arrive, Bernard, was no help. He was unsure of who we were, how the work was progressing, what would be happening for the rest of the day, or, equally possibly it seemed, how he had arrived at that place, at that time, why he was not in his bed. He seemed cheerful about it all, however, and in that moment, fresh from a late flight from the UK, a 4 a.m. alarm bell and two shots of bad black coffee, I envied him his eternal present and the equanimity – nay, dry humour – with which he was able to confront all things that crossed his path.

Aurelien arrived on a mountain bike, then Didier, and then Éric, and the situation became clearer: it was because of the Giro d’Italia.

By lucky coincidence (both for my snowblowing visit and, it would turn out, this whole book), it had been announced only a week before my visit to Jean-Marie that the 2016 Giro would be passing over the Col de la Bonette. It was the first time the Giro was to cross the Bonette, and it was to take place on 28 May, the penultimate stage before the grand finale in Turin. The race would enter France the day before, and having overnighted in Risoul to the north, would climb the 2,111-metre Col de Vars before attacking the 24-kilometre climb of the Bonette from Jausiers. Then it would head down the other side and take a left turn at Isola, where the riders would face another 20 kilometres or so of uphill – through Isola 2000, a ski resort, and over the 2,350-metre Col de la Lombarde. There, it would re-enter its homeland and continue via a short, technical descent and a steep uphill to the finish line at the holy shrine of Sant’Anna di Vinadio.

Most excitingly, it might very well happen that these French climbs – the Vars, the Bonette and the Lombarde – would prove decisive in the battle for the overall leader’s pink jersey (the maglia rosa) or the mountains classification jersey (currently a very Italian shade of blue). Equally, they might very well not. It was also totally possible that the Italian favourite, Vincenzo ‘The Shark’ Nibali, or another contender could have built an unassailable lead in the nineteen stages before then. However, given that the Giro’s last day is traditionally just a celebratory procession (and in this particular edition’s case, almost all downhill), the Bonette stage would be the last chance for any real racing. This would be the last place any of the climbers would be able to show themselves or make their mark on the race. I could already imagine hordes of thin-limbed cyclists hurling themselves in a sort of reverse-lemming manoeuvre at the flanks of these formidable mountains in a kamikaze final lunge for glory, victory or self-immolation on the bonfire of best-laid plans and dashed hopes. Either way, it was certain that my favourite corner of the Alps, one that seemed often criminally overlooked by the big races, would be the scene of a right rip-roaring Grand Tour battle.

The thing about the Giro is that the weather can be, well, interesting. Italy is a long, thin place, and while the south can be sweltering, even in May, the north can offer an entirely different climate. One of the reasons sometimes proffered for why the Tour de France is a bigger and more prestigious race than the Giro (aside from its seniority and that branding thing the French do) is that the Tour de France occupies a prime position in July. There is a logic to this: people are on holiday, the sun is reliably shining almost everywhere in France, and consequently the race has a laissez-passer to go anywhere: the highest, most picturesque climbs and the most breathtaking roads in France. The whole thing screams summer and good times. The Giro’s position in May makes all that less certain, and the race has often famously run into difficulties in the high mountains. Think, for example, of the celebrated pictures of Andy Hampsten climbing the Passo di Gavia in a blizzard in 1988. That year, in preparation for the stage, the 7-Eleven team riders covered themselves from head to foot in lanolin and team soigneurs raided the local ski shops to keep their riders warm.fn1 Or, more recently, the Passo dello Stelvio, the Giro’s iconic climb close to the Gavia in the Ortler Alps: in 2014 it was the scene of some confusion when, in a freezing, dank near-whiteout, the racing on Stelvio’s long, looped-spaghetti descent was neutralised, on safety grounds. And then it wasn’t. Or maybe it was. Whatever the race orders (it is still not 100 per cent clear what actually happened), the Colombian Nairo Quintana raced down the hill regardless, winning the stage and putting himself in the maglia rosa – which he would eventually win.

You’ve spotted the flaw in this line of thinking, haven’t you. The Bonette is clearly not in Italy. It is very near Italy, yes, but it’s also pretty near the Côte d’Azur and should be more blessed by sun than the Italian Alps to the east, where the climate is much more Mitteleuropean. Nevertheless, the basic point remains. Any high European climb can be hit by bad weather in any season (I took a drive up the Stelvio once, in mid-August, and looked pretty silly wandering around in espadrilles in the few centimetres of snow at the top) and there is always an element of playing chicken with the forecasts. But the bottom line is, taking a race over 2,000 metres in May is definitely a more risky business than in July, and the 2016 Giro wasn’t planning to do it just once, but 10 times. (By contrast, the always-more-conservative Tour was programming four 2,000-metre-plus highs in 2016.)

We’ll leave the question of ‘why go so high?’ until a bit later: for now, let’s just concentrate on the final two climbs, the Bonette and the Lombarde, which were the ones on Jean-Marie Fabron’s turf. The decision to include them was surely the result of a detailed feasibility study, risk assessment, long consultation with stakeholders and serious high-level debate. Non?

‘I’ve no idea whose initiative it was … So far I’ve only heard about it in the newspaper,’ Jean-Marie told me that day we met.

Bonette can suffer serious snowfall and is not reliably open until May, so the decision not to consult the man in charge seemed, from the vantage point of his office at least, slightly flawed. The previous winter there hadn’t been much snow, so the road had opened on 11 May. The year before that, however, had been a snowy one, and it hadn’t happened until 31 May.

‘In May, we’re not certain of having made the link. I … Listen. If the Giro comes through, that’s great. Great for the valley and for everyone. But nevertheless, there’s two cols to open, the Lombarde and the Bonette. When that’s done, it could very well come through. But so far, nobody’s asked my advice, whatever that is, on any of it.’

Jean-Marie was a little miffed. The mention of the Giro was the only time in our conversation that he seemed discomfited, not king of his castle. Miffed, but was he worried? No: ‘Let’s be clear: we’ve got what we need, we know what we’re doing. It’ll be a great experience for the valley, for the col. It’s a great advert. I’m very happy, proud even.’

The Giro has never been over the Bonette before, but the Tour de France has taken it on four times, in 1962, 1964, 1993 and, most recently, 2008. Jean-Marie had been in charge for that one – a memorable Tour stage where the race passed over the Cime and the first man over, South African Barloworld rider John-Lee Augustyn, overshot a corner on the descent and tumbled down the mountain. Remarkably, Augustyn was OK, and even managed to finish the stage in 35th place, but for Jean-Marie there was more to regret that day: ‘For me that was a bit of a missed opportunity. The Tour de France is magnificent, but when you see it elsewhere it’s always so crowded, and here … I shouldn’t go on about it, and we’re in the middle of the Park, for sure, but I think that not everything was done to make people come, you know, and that’s a shame.’

‘It’s clear that when people come there’s always cleaning up afterwards, but we could have organised that and shown off this mythical col to cycling fans. I hope that for the Giro there can be an agreement to accommodate people at the side of the road. We can sort out patrols … there will be cleaning to be done for sure.’

The unspoken context of all of this is that the Bonette is in the middle of a national park, the Parc National du Mercantour. It’s one of the wildest and most deserted parts of Western Europe, complete with roaming packs of wolves, Bronze Age remains and vultures wheeling overhead. It had been implied to me more than once (when speaking to other people in the area and not, I should stress, Jean-Marie) that the park rangers would prefer nothing else happening in the park at all. No cars, no roads, no bicycles, no people, nothing – and that they were militant about getting their way. So this was Jean-Marie’s situation: he was a man. A man who loved a mountain. A man who loved a mountain and wanted to share it. A man who loved a mountain, with a big job to do. ‘It’s great that people can come to these mythical high cols to watch the riders pass. If not, what’s the use? All the interest is lost.’

This is the backstory, then, to the accelerated schedule that Aurelien and gang are following – the pressure of the prospect of the passage of Italy’s greatest race – and we are driving in convoy behind their jaunty Citroën as the sky lightens above the black cliffs on either side of us. It’s a hell of a commute, up a road traversed by rivulets of meltwater that have refrozen overnight. A breakneck drive made safer by the more-or-less-certain knowledge that no vehicles will be coming down – though there may be newly fallen rocks, or large chamois or curly-horned ibexes around any corner, still sure that the mountain is theirs. We barrel past the tumbledown buildings of Le Pra with their rusty corrugated iron roofs, steam through Bousiéyas, and finally see banks of snow just below the Camp des Fourches, the roofless, abandoned collection of 19th-century huts that had once housed hundreds of soldiers defending the valleys against Italy. Two weeks ago, Didier explains, the drifts in this particularly gusty corner were up to six metres deep. ‘The wind takes it from some places and dumps it somewhere else,’ he says. Now, where it was six metres it is three, and where it was three it is only one. Once the snow’s mantle is broken and the road dug out, the newly uncovered blacktop absorbs the sun’s heat and accelerates the melting. This radiator effect is another good reason to get clearing early – the extra days will melt more snow, and make it safer and easier when race day arrives for the hoped-for multitudes of roadside spectators.

Above us, now, all is white, and you can trace a line of disruption, like animal tracks, high on the mountainside kilometres ahead, a rumple and a ripple and a ruff of tumbledown snow boulders that show where the mechanical shovelling has taken place. It must be a very satisfying job, I think, mixing as it does public service and breathtaking surroundings, and something childlike with high doses of risk and testosterone. It is not abstract and modern, like human resources or social media, say, or management consultancy (all fine choices in themselves). Or much like writing, save for the fact that most days the only thing a writer can do is dig down into the white page on screen to find the black words below that will offer him or her a way forward.

For the road-clearing crew there must be a tangible sense of achievement. We get in our machines and we move snow. We cut and we blow and we dig and we tip. Our progress is measured in metres advanced every day, and at the end we all sleep well because we’ve worked hard and we’ve helped. How many metres? Up to a kilometre on good days where there isn’t too much snow banked up, says Aurelien. On other days, progress into this pristine backcountry of chamois, marmots and wolves slows to a crawl. The view, magnificent in macro, monotone in micro, barely changes, and only rock ’n’ roll at full volume, through earbuds jammed into ear holes in an attempt to cut out the infernal racket of the machines, can make the time pass at a satisfactory pace.

Around three kilometres from the top we reach a wooden barrier swung across the road. The cars stop. It is secured with a padlock and two large bolts, which Aurelien, who is weighed down with a large bunch of keys and a hefty socket wrench, undoes. He hefts it open, we pass through and he locks it again behind us, and even just doing this is ticking off a life goal, albeit a fairly minor one: riding past a ‘Road Closed’ sign is a primal thrill. These barriers exist on almost