When planning this trip I could have easily plotted a route straight from Caen to Bilbao, but as well as the multi-day aspect I was really keen to see how I would cope with some proper climbing, tired from putting in some big mileage the days before. My biggest climb to date was Mount Seymour in North Vancouver, at just under 1,m. This is dwarfed by the climbs on the Transcontinental, in both size and pitch.
So instead of a direct route I plotted a detour to take in the highest climb in the Pyrenees: the Col du Tourmalet. Hopefully for my sake Gascony has it right. On y va! I set off with purpose on what would be a gradual climb, the whole day. Being Sunday I took no chances with food supplies, especially after a disappointing spread at the hotel.
The first boulangerie stop was a slightly slower four minutes, with the extra 30 seconds necessary to explain how I only needed six choquettes but was quite happy to pay for the 12 they insisted on selling. Today I had something to focus on. I was within reach of the Pyrenees and one of the most iconic climbs in all of cycling. However this day panned out it was going to be a major chapter in my cycling story.
My technique of plotting POI breadcrumb trails around suspect stretches of road was also bearing fruit. The experience I was gaining also helped me to make better calls when faced with the option of a less than perfect piece of pre-planned route.
I was genuinely feeling pretty good about things. Passing through Cazaubon I was drawn into a little detour, like a moth to a flame, by the prettiest of old streets that plunged away down the hillside. The street was so charming it was worth the detour. The sun was out and I rode past a perfect little restaurant terrace. A coffee with a tasting platter of mini desserts or, in my case, a hot chocolate.
