Col de la Croix de Fer/Col du Galibier
(Part 2)

The view opened up and a verdant valley, punctuated here and there with high waterfalls, greeted me. On a hillside, a shepherd and his alert cadre of sheep dogs kept watch over a contented-looking flock of sheep. It was all Alpine postcard perfect, the only elements missing being Julie Andrews, a guitar case, and the von Trapp children yodelling their lungs off.

(Below: Looking back at the lake; Col du Glandon is not too far off)

Though the surroundings appeared benign, the steep road was not. The names Il Diablo (Chiappucci), Lino, Indurain, and Bugno painted here and there reminded me that I’m in the midst of a climb that’s a Tour staple, a climb that is rated hors catégorie in this year’s edition of the Tour.

(Above: Approaching the Col de la Croix de Fer)

From Col du Glandon at 6,260 feet, the road curved clockwise towards the Col de la Croix de Fer, one of the most illustrious and historic passes in all of cycling. But once the tough Col du Glandon was attained, the additional 2 miles to Croix de Fer (6,772 feet) became a relatively short, easy climb.

(Above: Looking west towards the 8,000-ft. peaks of Massif d'Allevar
from the Col de la Croix de Fer, at 6,772 feet. The gently rising road
is visible in the middle of the picture.)

I got off my bike at Col de la Croix de Fer to take a short break and put an end to my quickly browning banana’s misery. In the parking lot opposite the restaurant at the top of the pass, a large group of French boys and girls were strapping on their backpacks getting ready for what looked like a day-long hike. I chuckled after observing them strap down thigh-sized loaves of French bread outside their backpacks. Though the sun was shining, it was cold at the summit. I hurriedly put on my windbreaker, clipped on to my saddle bag a little red tail light for the tunnels, and pushed off for the long descent on the other side.

(Below: The iron cross from which the pass gets its name)

(Below: Visitors take in the scenic view by car, by bike, or by foot.)

What a blast! From the top, the descent started out very steeply, with more twists and turns than Kenneth Starr’s investigation of the Monica Lewinsky affair. The narrow road was newly resurfaced with asphalt and smooth as glass, although older, rougher pavement reappeared further below. The expansive view of the valley several thousand feet below was almost vertigo-inducing; the villages appeared like tiny specks from 6,500 feet up. Not the greatest of bike handlers on technical descents, I rode down conservatively, rationalizing to myself, as many lightweights do, that glory in the mountains is attained from climbing, not descending. After more than 4 miles of downhills, the road passed St. Sorlin, the first in a series of high villages dotting the southeastern side of Col de la Croix de Fer. Partly for this reason, I was glad that I went up the col from the side I did, where the scenery was more rustic, more pastoral, and less developed.

(Above: The twisty descent from near the summit of Col de la Croix de Fer)

(Below: l'Eglise, one of several villages on the southeastern side of the mountain)

My Avocet’s altimeter counted down as I continued my descent; at this point the road had become less windy and steep. After what seemed like forever, the road levelled off, crossed a bridge, and proceeded to turn uphill. My thighs burned from the sudden change of pace. But the uphill was short, and the road resumed its downward course. I approached the first in a series of tunnels on the way down the mountain. Those tunnels were scary. Though none of them approached even half a mile in length, I wouldn’t want to be in them going in an uphill direction. As it was, I pedalled through the tunnels furiously, like a rabbit on the run, anxious to finish them off.

(Above: Something wicked this way comes...)

(Below: The fast descent continues)

The road dropped off more severely just after the last of the tunnels, and the landscape took on the familiar look of the western Sierra Nevada, what with the pine trees, granitic rocks and the macadamized roads. Finally, after 20 miles of quick, mostly downhill riding, I was deposited in a rather nondescript town of St. Jean-de-Maurienne. I felt wired from the long descent. But my exhilaration was quickly doused by the sobering realization that am I now, at 1,900 feet, lower than where I started at Bourg d’Oisans (2,600 feet). I knew that I would regain all that altitude and more because, 40 miles away, a giant was waiting, the 8,600 ft. Col du Galibier…