La Ronde Picarde 2008
There is something about French cycling events that set them apart from our own here in the UK. After enduring the arduous experience of the Etape back in July, I was ready for something a bit more forgiving and La Ronde Picarde, a 187km route through the Somme valley, seemed to fit the bill.
Last year was my first taste of this late season French épreuve and was stunningly enjoyable. With wonderful weather and a satisfying result (silver medal), despite an injured knee, it was hard to believe this year could eclipse that. Traditionally a group of Border City riders take the long coach trip south over the Channel to northern France, a well oiled operation based on several years of experience.
Bound for France
The 2008 edition was taking place on Saturday September 13th. Early on the Friday morning (and at 3am I do mean early) and with a promising weather forecast, our team of 23 riders gathered in a cold damp car park on the outskirts of Carlisle, boarding the bus for the long journey through the night. Seasoned campaigners were well equipped with sleeping bags and thermarests, MP3 players were also standard equipment.
The complication this year was a major fire in the channel tunnel the day before which cast the whole trip into doubt. The decision to travel anyway, and hope for a crossing, meant that we were dealing with uncertainty. We had secured a priority ferry crossing so were confident that we would make it. Traffic as we approached Dover was heavy as cars, lorries and coaches jostled for position near the ferry port. The queues were extensive, but finally we were parking up waiting for the next available ferry.
Facilities here are spartan to say the least. We twiddled our collective thumbs on the tarmac, waiting for some movement. Finally after a couple of hours a dayglo jacketed operative waved us on and we were boarding the ferry. Calais here we come.
The white cliffs receded quickly, the uncertainty of our journey down now forgotten. Sadly the delays meant we would be unable to sign on that evening, but at least we were going to get a ride. Once on French soil it was an hour to Abbeville and our luxury accommodation in the Formule 1 motel. After quickly checking the bikes and unloading our kitbags, we piled into the nearby restaurant for food and drink before crashing out ahead of Saturday’s big event.
Saturday dawned early, but we were up even earlier. At 5.30 the alarm rudely disturbed our slumber. I do hate these early mornings! Breakfast Formule 1 style is not inspiring but serves a purpose. By 7 we were on the road, cruising down into town to sign on ahead of the ride. The day was still and cool, with some promise of fine weather. It looked good.
Sign on was chaotic. The French word for queue is probably scrum given the free-for-all but eventually we had our event numbers. Quickly these were fastened to the bikes and we lined up in the start pens with the anticipation building. I remain uncertain as to the number of riders, but looking back down the avenue there seemed to be a few. And when the starting gun fired it was certainly every man for himself. This part of the ride is hectic in the extreme, with the pace high (in excess of 25mph) and riders streaming past on both sides, jostling for position.
The Main Event
After a few kilometres we came to the first significant climb and an order was established. Thereafter, the frenetic pace settled down and groups of riders started to form. From here on I say very few fellow BCW shirts, but as long as I remained in a bunch it mattered not. The early morning atmospheric mists burnt off in the sun and the weather settled down into an ideal day with little wind and slightly overcast but warm conditions.
The route took us up and down along the Somme valley, heading toward Ault and the coastal plain. At Ault the road takes a hard right and riders are faced with a 25% incline, normally in totally the wrong gear. The frantic gear changes told the story. It was chaos. After this the course winds north across the bay before reaching the first feed after some 60 miles. By now I was dying for a comfort break and reluctantly left the shelter of a strong group. Watered and fed, I got back on and looked around for some riders to work with. A couple of useful Belgian riders were the answer and we were soon working nicely, keeping a good tempo. Soon our group was growing and I began to dream of a gold medal time.
As we emerged through the forests on the northern slopes of the valley, one of my Belgian friends was tiring and the group began to splinter Another comfort break lost me some more time, and now it was head down to try and get back on what remained of the group. I rode straight through the second feed and eventually caught them with about 12km to go, right at the foot of the sting in the tail, a nasty little 1km climb which sorts the men from the boys. The group splintered fatally on the climb, and I was on the front with 3 others. Now we worked together and raced into the finish, my gold now assured, although my dream of a sub 6-hour ride was not to be. In the end I was more than happy with my 6 hours and 3 minutes. A gold was mine.
Elated, I sought out the others who were already tucking into beer and chips, that healthy option which so many cyclists find irresistible. Stories of heroics were exchanged, and the post-mortem began. All in all, the team brought home 19 golds, a wonderful tally, exceeding our Team GB Olympic riders. We wondered whether an open-top bus ride through the streets of Carlisle was on the cards.
The Best of the Rest
The rest of the weekend was far more relaxing. Back at luxurious Formule 1, and suitably showered we headed out for a celebration evening meal, and some beer and wine. Sunday is traditionally a leisurely club run through the delightful French countryside. I have very little idea of where we went, but after some 40 miles and a few punctures (including one of my own) we found ourselves in Rue and filled the street café we had enjoyed on last year’s trip. 2 hours in the sun, with good food and beer left us feeling soporific. All that remained was the 20 mile run into Le Touquet, and the speed ramped up before the sprint broke out in the outskirts of France’s answer to Brighton-super-Mare.
The weekend drew to a close with another slap-up meal out in downtown Le Touquet and a comfortable night in Hotel Ibis, once we had found out rooms along corridors that were so long it seemed we were in the next town. Monday dawned sunny again, and all that remained was the long coach journey home, again via the ferry to Dover. Tired but happy, we reached Carlisle a satisfied bunch. Picardy had come up trumps again..