Into the Snow
It was time to climb the Alps. I had meandered through valleys (relatively speaking) and skirted alpine lakes but the snow capped peaks were always baring down upon me, calling to me from their snowy caps.
I chanced upon a very kind T-pee owner who made a call to the “mountain pass hot line” . The news was not good, in fact at the time it made me feel down right miserable. The pass I was now less than a days cycle ride from was closed!. It had been raining insatiably since I arrived in Switzerland and snowing to the same degree “up top”. The men with the big diggers had claimed it inpassable.
The detour was at least a 3 day cycle away and involved over 1500 combined meters of hill climbing.
Afer “t-pee man” had concluded his informative dialogue on the extortionate Swiss land tax he had to pay for his tent he bid me good luck and reminded me the alternative pass may be closed if there is any more snow.
Later that day I passed the train station that runs the 15 minute train journey under the mountain (that was closed). I looked away in defiance and was thank full the arrangements to meet friends in Venice had been loose ones. The hill I had zoomed down the day before was graced with a second visit from me and Condor the cycle. So began the biggest (or is that the tallest) detour of the trip so far, I was on my way to the Gottard pass, all 2400 meters of it (how easily it roles off the tongue).
On the way to the Gottard pass...........
.........the best cycle path ever!
I was still determined to Ski and the detour took me past the road that lead all the way to Engleberg one of the few remaining places where the ski slopes were still open.
Over the weeks cycling since Calais I had grown to accept the staring eyes of people I pass, and ussually managed a nod or grin in return (even if it looked more like a pained grimis) and have realised the beep of a cars hooter is more often than not for encouragement than in anger. It was very different this time.......it was a dead end at the top of over 1000 metres (high) of rain swept tarmac. It was grueling. Cycling into cloud cover, soaking wet, to the sound of rain, wind and jeers from snug and warm coach passengers waving. Shaking fingers appeared from open windows, i’m sure they were all saying “its a dead end fool, you are going the wrong way”, or was that just my legs and the sane part of brain? My self esteem was taking a battering, I felt silly.
I was gasping at the. Shield my face from an ear splitting side wind I was disheartened to say the least but had made it the top. The Gottard pass was over double this height in half the distance. As I waddled and dripped my way into the tourist information office leaving puddles in my wake there was a tv screen displaying a dull mist with no discernible detail what so ever, at the bottom of the screen was written “web cam - 3000m”
Complete cloud cover or not the next morning I clipped out of my peddles and into skis, marvelous! I spent 6 hours ski-ing down hills I couldn’t see and loved every minute of it.
It was a little strange going up my first hill without expelling any effort, since setting off from Shepherds bush, but it was a joyous time shooting down hills jumping and falling over lots and generally moving without having to peddle. The whole occasion (to which I was very proud of achieving) seemed a little dreamy in thick white at over 3000m....... it swiftly drifted to the surreal as Indian people dressed in little scarfs and sun glasses started asking if they could have their photograph taken with me. I say this not to feed my ego but to remind me that it really happened. By 2 o’clock in the afternoon every time I reached the top of the mountain to have another super ski I would be paused and made to stand like a statue, ski poles in hand whilst Indian tourists took movies and pictures of a ‘real’ skier. I was a one day Bollywood film star (as were the other handful of skiers daft enough to ski in a complete whiteout). As a close to the “Engleberg experience” I am compelled to mention a whole coach load of Japanese tourists dressing up in ledder hosen (spelling) and huge brass horns to have their picture taken in the snow with visibility down to 15 meters.............why?
With horrific sunburn and aching legs It was time for the grande finale of my incredible cycle through the Alps. The Gottard pass.
I could see what I named the “gateway” for around a day before i passed through its intimidating folds. It didn’t start raining till later in the day, at this point I was wrestling with the full force (60km gusts apparantly) of wind funnelling through 1600 metre high gully I was shortly to begin my final ascent through. It was painfully slow so slow in fact I had to stop at times and wait for gusts to calm themselves, it was certainly no way to bolster my fragile confidence in preparation for Gottard.
It is a funny thing that happens when one knows a large mountain looms ahead. For a while you forget, and cycle along metaphorically twiddling your thumbs, then you see something ahead, a little incline or a poke of snow through the clouds. Suddenly I will start checking how many gears there are left in reserve or analysing the map feeling sure “it” should have started at the last bend or village. Alternatively the climb can start oblivious to me and my legs. After a few minutes of ignorant glory, reality takes a firm grip along the lines of “drink!, breath! loosen your grip on the handle bars, relax your shoulders”
Like I said it is a funny thing to know a big hill is approaching.
This was certainly no Biggin hill it was the Gottard pass and there was to be no oblivious up hilling to be had today.
The start of the Gottard clamber.
The following morning I awoke from my very own base camp and prepared for my attempt on the summit ( excuse the dramatics ) I had just lugged a very heavy bicycle to 1600 meters above sea level and was proudly clicking my feet into my peddles to take me and almost all my worldly belongings to nearly 2 miles high YEH!........ It was raining!
Dressed in full regalia, I was a true arctic explorer . It started getting a little chilly, weirdly the amount of cloths I was wearing was inverse to the falling temperature. By the time I reached the snow line I was sweating hot and looked more like a beach bum than arctic explorer. Everything was becoming a little surreal and my poor little head was finding it difficult to keep up. I was completely on my own, shrowded in cloud, in shorts eating Bananas and leaning against a 2 meter wall of ice. The only thing that made sense was to get back on the bike and cycle up some more.
The road started to flatten ahead, I had been fooled twice already with such mountain tom foolery, only to be forced back into the easiest gear and slink once more into the hill climbing slouch. The map was saying you are at the summit. You have cycled to the top of the alps, then out of the mist the sign appeared........ I HAD!
I threw snowballs, brewed coffee, played my harmonica and had a picnic (once I had reverted back to my artcic cyclists attire).
Under all those layers is the biggest smile my chilly cheaks had ever managed!
I was literally sky (or cloud) high. It had taken a total of 13 hours, and unlike Biggin hill I could stand and even have snowball fights with my self when I reached the top!
In short the descent was record breaking. 45 minutes of breath taking hairpin bends, panoramic wonderment, reaching speeds unheard of for a 2 wheeled, free wheeling alpine peddler (details not to be disclosed as mother may be reading). This was followed by hours and hours of casual down hilling all the way to Italy.
Switzerland, dispite its small horizontal footprint on the world has left an indelible imprint on my mind. I had camped by alpine lakes, skidded down hills with skis on, seen mountains that had literally stopped me in my tracks. Swiss Decadence had been everything people had said, private submarines floating next to oversized 4x4 monsters and a price tag on a glass of wine that took the piss (pun intended)
Most importantly of all it was ten times that which I could have imagined. The mountains bestowed themselves upon me and made everything good. Doubts faded about the madness of this very long cycle ride and my physical ability to carry so much weight upwards.
Above all I had sincerely enjoy it! It had filled holes in me that had been empty without my knowing.
Italy and blue sky!
The whole massive day concluded with me sipping coffee kindly bought by a man who makes his living travelling the popular beaches of Spain in winter with a metal detector. Apparantly pocketing 15,000 Euros for his troubles...........wierdo!
Next stop Venice and the Dalmation coast ...................
