Riding Up Col d'Agnel and Col d'Izoard
(Part II)

I got to talking to the cyclist. It turned out that he grew up in nearby Fontgillarde (a few kilometers down the road), and he recounted stories of how he and his father used to climb some of the peaks around here. He asked me what the climb from the Italian side was like—I was quite surprised that in all those years he had never climbed Col d’Agnel from the other side! "My body is not made for it," was his response to my puzzled query, as he pointed to his Jan Ullrich like physique. I dunno, but I wouldn’t have been able to resist the temptation had I been in his situation.

We went down the French side more or less together and he shared his familiarity by pointing out particularly scenic areas and worthwhile trails for hiking. I commented that Le Pain de Sucre looked like Mount Everest from this side. He tipped me to the fact that the summit of Sucre is an easy 2-hour walk and provides one of the best vantage points in the entire Alpine region.

Coming down, I noticed that the French side of the road was worse affected than its Italian counterpart. This fact, however, had not deterred a few cars and trucks(!) from trying. This prompted me to ask my new friend whether the French side was officially closed or open. He shrugged his shoulder and said: "Typical France. Half-open, half-closed." In a couple of places, the heavy rain triggered huge landslides that had almost completely blocked the road.

Elsewhere, the road had been torn up and we had to ride around rough patches very carefully. But this was par for mother nature’s course; topographic rejiggering is part of her daily routine.

(Above: A lovely descent to France awaits...)

The scenery on the descent was quite memorable. The white peaks of the Ecrins to the west were visible throughout the descent. Recent rains had only succeeded in making the place more lush and encouraged more wildflowers to bloom.

The Aigue Agnel, whose raging must have been formidable during the rains, now carried a more benign, subdued demeanor. And to top it all off, traffic was practically non-existent!"

(Below: Wonderful views on the way down from Col d'Agnel)

Jacques" and I parted company a few kilometers from the bottom of the descent. He had taken a detour and I proceeded towards the base of Col D’Izoard.

Those of you who have been following my adventures know by now that no ride of mine would be complete without my taking a wrong turn somewhere…As I came out of the D205 (the Col d’Agnel road), I turned left instead of right. And of course, this misdirection would not be memorable had the road been flat. I had been going on this road for 10 minutes when it struck me as rather odd that the road had started climbing so soon after the Agnel. I was back to well over 1,800 meters (6,000 feet) and the signs for Chateau Queyras and the Izoard were nowhere to be seen.

I got off my bike and, scratching my head (I wonder why we scratch our head when we’re lost or befuddled?), unfolded my map. But guess who came zipping down the road all of a sudden? It’s my old friend "Jacques"! It turned out that I was on my way up to the town of St. Veran, which, at 2,011 meters was apparently "the highest community in Europe." St. Veran was the object of his detour when we first separated. Why am I always ending up climbing by mistake to the highest communities in Europe or the steepest paved roads in whichever locality I’m on? Oh well, might as well check out St. Veran…

I backtracked after checking out St. Veran and managed to find the road without any further complications.

(Above: St. Veran, elevation 2,011 meters)

My interrupted descent thus resumed from Molines –en-Queyras, through greenish zig-zaggy roads looking down into gaping canyons before I ended up in the alliterative and homonymic Ville Veille.

Time to stop and load up the system with some glucose. I went inside one of those restaurants-cum-petrol stations to order a glass of Coke wherein a kindly grandma tried to engage me in some small talk. I embarrassingly told her in my schoolboy French that I didn’t really understand French, which tortured attempt to speak her language clearly endeared me to her and she said that, au contraire, I spoke it quite well. I think there should be grandma types at the top and bottom of every tough climb, with a plateful of cookies to comfort and to reassure us and to say we speak French quite well and all that. Yes, that would be nice….

Cheered by the encounter, I resumed my way westward towards the foot of the Izoard. Though I didn’t think of it at the time, I was now at the very road where Pantani bridged the gap that was created by the Agnello climb to join the leading trio of Garzelli, Simoni, and Casagrande in the Giro 2000. This section was also where Pavel Tonkov had suffered and where his domestique Lanfranchi had to wait for him and tow him.

(Above: Imposing Chateau Queyras on the way to Col d'Izoard)

Alas, the signs painted on the road reflected the tifosi’s growing disillusionment with the sport—there were renderings of syringes and sadly juxtaposed "Pantanis" and "EPOs." Where have you gone, Joe Di Maggio, a nation turns its lonely eyes to you? Elsewhere were "Riises" and the ubiquitous Danish flag (query whether the Danes would be as enthusiastic with their flag-painting if their flag were more complicated than the white cross on a red field –-say, like Saudi Arabia’s?)

Chateau Queyras, approximately 2 kilometers before the start of the Izoard climb, is as advertised: there is an imposing chateau in the Queyras park. For the most part, though, what I remember about this section was the uphill that slowed up my quickened pace.

It was mostly a pleasant flat-to-downhill 5 kilometers from the round-a-bout in Ville Veille to the junction with the Izoard road, or the D902.

From the south, the climb to Col D’Izoard is approximately 14½ kilometers long and gains about 890 meters (almost 3,000 feet). I hit this climb mid-day, and the oppressive heat of the summer sun was directly beating down on me.

(Below: The lower Izoard road)

The first two or so kilometers after the turnoff were moderately strenuous, though the scenery was only fair at best, bordering on the residential. The road turned quite steep as the scenery took an ominous turn for the worst, exposing the nakedness of a ski area that was singularly ugly, having been devoid of its snow covering. I passed les Moulins, le Pasquier, les Maisons and la Chalp settlements, with nothing but the steep road to regale me.

That the road was straight and the scenery unchanging made me feel as if I was making little progress on my "assault" of Izoard. I tried to look around for something—anything—to inspire me, but all I saw were ski-rental shops and hibernating lodges, places that looked so out of place in the summertime on the mountains. Having made Izoard an important stop on my itinerary, and now battling monotony (and fatigue) as I labored up a boring road, I began to wonder what the fuss about visiting Izoard was all about.

After about a seemingly interminable stretch (actually 1½ kilometers) past la Chalp, the long straightaway finally gave way to the switchbacks.

The lower sections of the bends were covered with trees and thus provided some relief from the heat. I suspect it’s a universal truth that most cyclists could better handle a steep series of switchbacks than a comparably steep straight uphill. I attribute this to the almost instinctive approach of breaking a curvy climb into its component bends instead of being overwhelmed by one big, straight hill.

Anyway, after a couple of turns, the view of the valley I had just visited provided a much better perspective as to how much I had been climbing—la Chalp and its ugly structures were mere dots in the landscape. As the road rose steadily higher, it presented progressively more rugged views. There was the deep chasm (are "chasms" ever shallow?) to the west and the barren peaks to the east.

On the road were more reminders of the Giro d’Italia battle of a fortnight before—more wry EPO commentaries, many "Euskadis," and, somewhat amusingly, an overwhelming number of "Vitalicio Seguros." The unexpected manifestation of strong support for the Spanish team was most certainly intended to convince the team’s sponsor to reconsider its decision to end its support (unfortunately the effort failed as Team Vitalicio Seguro is no more). Most moving, however, were the tributes, in pink, to cycling legends Fausto Coppi and Gino Bartali.

As I grunted through the steep grades, I kept seeing visions of the Giro stage from two weeks before, of Pantani toying with the leading group, trying to crack Simoni and Casagrande on this section of the climb. That was when I realized that Pantani was no Einstein since it was quite obvious to everyone (except Marco, of course), that his surges were putting his teammate Garzelli in difficulty. With the epic battle fresh in my mind and visions of Pantani and Simoni dancing up these grades vividly remembered, I was impressed by the strength of these super-human wonders. Yes, EPO or not.

The hairpins were carved close to the steep slope of the mountain and I couldn’t tell how many bends were left on the climb, or indeed, how much higher I needed to go. I always resist looking at my altimeter to encourage myself to climb "on instinct." I remember feeling disconcerted on a couple of occasions as, rounding a turn, I looked forward to seeing the summit only to hear the hum of motorcycles or car engines further up.

I couldn’t remember whether the Izoard summit was 2,100 or 2,300 meters and I decided against checking my map. The switchbacks eventually eased in steepness, and were succeeded by three straightish sections that had "summit" written all over them.

My instincts appeared correct, for, as the road crested, I could see numerous parked cars and people milling about. OK, time to catch my breath and zip up the jersey for the salute (admit it, you wouldn’t want people to see you summit with your tongue hanging out either, would you?). I shifted down, did my best Claudio Chiappucci/Richard Virenque strut and sprinted to…wha…where’s the sign? Isn’t this the summit? I started circling the parking area, then my eye caught the continuation of what I thought was the road down the other side. The road dipped, but following a sweeping left curve, rose like a Phoenix, even higher than where I was, before it disappeared behind rock spires so red they appeared to have been blushing. My eyes followed the path to…s---! there’s the true summit!