Departure: Argeles-Gazost
Length: 17.3km
Altitude: 1,635m
Height Gain: 1,170m
Average Gradient: 6.8%
Maximum gradient: 10.0%
Category: Hors Category
...Another peak situated
close to the foot of Argelès-Gazost, Hautacam is a 17-kilometre ride averaging 6.8%. While veiled in mist at the 1,635
metre summit, the conditions for climbing seemed perfect from down below. The early part of the climb took
me through three small hamlets. As I passed through each one, I had the
distinct feeling that I’d seen them before. It was obviously on one of those
intimate television coverages of the Tour de France, where cameras probe deeper than a
colonoscopy.
Nevertheless,
seeing them first-hand felt a little bizarre, even surreal.
Visibility on Hautacam's tarmac was much better on my second climb, 3 years later. |
As I came closer to the top I was riding over graffiti-covered road. It was a tribute to some of the famous Tour riders, who had their names emblazoned all over the bitumen. Occasionally the site of a stage finish, I could only imagine the frenetic pace generated by the race leaders as they sprinted to the finish line. In the mist it might have been something akin to Andy Schleck and Alberto Contador’s famous seesawing duel up the Col du Tourmalet in 2010.
But unlike the Alto de l’Angliru, the final kilometre up Hautacam seemed relatively easy. In my mind, what distinguishes the Spanish mountain, and the other great climbs, like Austria’s Grossglockner and the Cime de la Bonette, are the killer gradients towards the top. Going above 16%—and 20% in the case of Angliru—at the end of a long day’s climb is physical and mental torture, only too well reinforced by David Millar’s dummyspit back in 2002.
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Another typical sight along Pyrenean roads. |
Coming down was half pleasure, half pain. The road was still shrouded in fog, and if anything it was getting colder. Suddenly I was forced to come to a screeching halt at the sight of cattle, about 40 head, being herded across the road. Like the motorist coming the other way, I had to wait until the very last cow had meandered its way, ever so slowly, across to the other side, swatting its tail and giving me a disdainful sideways glance. That’s the Pyrenees for you, I thought. Just the same, despite sighting the odd kangaroo and the occasional echidna excavating by the side of the road, I’m looking forward to the day we get cows, sheep or goats up on Arthurs...
Lycra, Latte and the Long Way Round
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