Vuelta diary - Climbing Calar Alto

Three cycling friends, Marc, Peter and Martin visited the Vuelta a España in 2006.
That visit made such a huge impression on me that I decided to write about it in Dutch, my native language.
Here's the translation of the second part.
Four more to come!

Enjoy!

It only takes five minutes for the Guardia Civil to open the road again, the ribbon is taken down and cars are allowed to follow the caravan to the Calar Alto. We now feel part of the race and the first stories are told from 'our first corner' when back in the car. Of course we're riding the 'cyclists tempo' up the remainder of the Velefique climb. I suddenly realise that the immense study of these climbs three weeks ago led to being a spot on analyses and stage description, while the Belgian TV-commentary had it wrong, even when they're usually right. I feel a little proud. From the backseat soon after, I can see another ribbon going up at the T-junction. That can only mean one thing: We can no longer get up the mountain by car, alas. That means walking, another first for me on a mountain.

It seems we're stranded about four to five kilometers from the finish and start working our way through trees and shrubs towards the road to the top after Peter has parked the car in the grass alongside the Velefique-road. The sun disappears behind the clouds while reach the Calar Alto road. As soon as we're on it I can feel the wind gaining strength and an ominously looking black horizon approaches. The walk to the top tells me one thing very quickly; my condition isn't too good. The Calar Alto is already biting my calves at the tempo which Peter sets, and we've only done three hundred meters (at 8 to 12% incline)! Despite my heavy breathing I start looking around and notice that the Spaniards are making one big party out of the wait. On either side of the road they've put up camp sites and cleary make a day out of this. Peter stops briefly to take a picture of one of these groups. They pose and laugh, they like it! Promptly we get offered beer and cheese as compensation, which Peter gladly takes them up on.

We continue going up the road and not much later arrive at the top and the circus called Vuelta a España. Three grim looking Guardia Civil-guys stop us and point the way we're supposed to take: Outside the barrier! There's no messing with these guys, better do as they say... A Spanish reporter is commenting on the race which can be heard from afar, and the big screen is just behind the finishline where we see live coverage of the race. The riders need to do 25 km. when we take a position across from the screen. It starts to rain now, I take shelter under a Spanish umbrella offered by an older Spanish man and I now know I underestimated the temperature at an altitude of over 2,000 meters. It's ony about eight degrees celcius up here and getting colder. My shorts and DZI T-shirt don't provide much cover against the increasingly hard blowing wind either.

Marc decides to walk up to the real summit of the mountain to see the observatory. He wants to take some pictures of the riders when arriving at the team-coaches just before they go in, so on passing a Rabo teamcar he asks directions to the coaches. The car-window comes down and it's obvious they don't want to talk at all (Rabobank is having a bad Vuelta), a vague hand gesture has to suffice. It clearly shows the mood in the Rabo camp: Nothing is working out for them, while I find out through the coverage on the screen that Ardila has long lost his favourable position he had on the Velefique. The race is in another gear by now, while the riders are in the middle of a true downpoor. Strangely enough, it's not too bad where we're at. Probably the height of the mountain...

Peter and I agree to find each other at the same rock we're standing on, across from the screen, when he wants to go down the mountain slightly to film the riders in the last few hundred meters of this awesome climb. I go up the mountain in order to try and find Marc again, but can't find him, so I start walking back. Again, I feel watched by the Guardia Civil when I arrive back at the arrival zone but keep on going inside the barrier never the less. I act as if one of the incrowd which seems to work as I'm not stopped this time. I walk up to a position between the soigneurs of Cofidis, Bouygues, Lampre and Liquigas, about one hundred meters behind the finishline. Of course I'm curious how the riders are doing and can just see the big screen from my position as Landaluze wins the stage. Way later I find out that it's not Landaluze at all, but Igor Anton, the Euskaltel climber whom I noticed in the first Vuelta-week. I'm deeply ashamed for not noticing that in time, and decide I have to start listening better to the Spanish 'staccato-reports' on the PA.

Valverde slowly passes me and has won some time on the competition, he's still in the 'amarillo' jersey. Carlos Sastre nearly spits on my shoe while passing me and rides straight on. Marc sees Bjarne Riis not much later, sitting with his head in his hands, thinking. Words are not needed, Riis already realises that Sastre will fail winning this Vuelta. Suddenly I find myself completely surrounded by riders. I see Danielson and Vinokourov whizzing past me, both looking quite fresh still, and in my mind they're already on my favorites-list for tomorrow. Behind me, in the tent, two Lampre riders receive some extra clothing.

Then I see Di Luca right across from my position at about three yards, caught by an Asian looking LIQ-soigneur. Danilo seems to 'have lost it' completely, and looks around like haunted prey. He doesn't hear what his caretaker says to him, seems disoriented but most of all tired and is really struggling to get his blue vest on. A 'supporter' suddenly grasps on to him while he tries to get the vest on, and a photograph is being taken. Di Luca watches that supporter when he walks away again and is clearly annoyed that they had to take the photo at that precise time. 'Il Grillo' Bettini nearly crushes my toe with his bike, but I yell 'Bravo!' to him. He looks back, smiles to me and then notices that Danilo Di Luca is much worse off than he is, considering the Italian gesture he makes. When all the riders have passed me I realize that I've managed to recognise quite a few of them. A Francaise des Jeux rider is today's red-lantern at about 25 minutes from the winner, while Hushovd storms up the podium and straight off again to change his outfit into something warmer.

Only then I feel how cold I am myself and decide to go to the rendezvous point. Here I watch the Vuelta-machine working at maximum speed, the barriers and commercial signs are being taken down in a blink of an eye. Half an hour later there's still no sign of Peter and Marc, I'm in a little doubt that I somehow missed them coming down from the summit, so I decide to walk down the mountain to keep moving. I'm really cold now, no shelter from the wind that nearly freezes my still damp T-shirt. When I arrive down at the junction the sun comes out a little again, which makes the wait a bit more comfortable as Peter and Marc are nowhere to be found near the car. My legs are now protesting the day's training as well and it still takes 45 minutes more before I see them coming down the road. When we get back in the car I start to defrost slowly and we tell our individual stories. We have a good laugh about the mis-communication too. They've waited for half an hour on the rock as well, of course. Peter opts for another route home. When we're back on the motorway we pass a 'Vuelta-truck' which we'll see again the day after, at our 'home-stage' in Granada.