We were about 7km into the 15km climb when the trees parted and left us exposed to the raw heat of the day. It was a muggy, moist heat, perfect for horseflies. We spent the next 2km comedically slapping our thighs as we felt each and every piercing bite through our sweat-sodden shorts. Why. Why the heck am I doing this? Instantly I knew; to get to the top.
It was a muggy day in the summer of 2019 in the French Pyrenees. We had set out to climb some mountains that day. For most, the attraction is the 2001m summit of Col du Pailheres, a beautiful climb winding its way through forests and the skeleton of infrastructure that becomes a ski resort in the winter time. At the top, you are greeted by a herd of chunky, mountain acclimatised ponies who are keen to share your lunch and provide some great photo opportunities. But most cyclists turn around here and the motorcycling groups enjoy the descent and head off to the next viewpoint.
A few hardy explorers don’t turn back. We were two of them. It seemed to be only us and two professional teams who bravely fell over the top and enjoyed the descent down into the next valley, knowing that past this point, the only way home was over another mountain. And it was raw, rural France. No cafes, no shops. We stopped at a local watering hole (literally a well in some village green) and ate the last few mouthfuls of food we’d packed for a cycling lunch, showered ourselves in ice cold spring water, refilled the bottles and drank one while we were there for good measure, knowing we’d probably not see another water stop before home. And then we climbed.
In France, they’re very helpful. They put up little signs to tell you how far you’ve got to go. But I’m sure those kilometre markers get further apart as you get higher…convinced…
Col du Pradel was a 1600m summit. It was a shorter climb, but with a mountain in the legs and several horseflies trying to pick the meat from my bones before I’d actually died, it felt a lot further.
When we got to the top, I cried. I rang my dad. We sat and enjoyed a strange stillness, a silence I’d never heard before. In the distance, we could see other, colder, snow-capped poking up just a little higher than us. And not a soul in sight. Not one other person. The teams had long since left and it was just the two of us. This was way more special than the first mountain. This mountain felt like it was just for us. It was a the “secret level” of climbing, the reward that only came after taking a deep breath and descending into the unknown, knowing we’d have to climb out or die trying. This was an opportunity that very few climbers would ever see.
Life is exactly the same. A lot of people can climb the first mountain, overcome the first problem, enjoy the view, celebrate the win, but then most will fall back down the same road they came up, enjoying the descent, until they get back to the same grey, dreary village they started at and wonder what all the fuss was about. There are a few, hardy explorers who will celebrate their first climb, but will be willing to take another step into the unknown. They will acknowledge there may be more mountains ahead and while it will take them time, energy and a heck of a lot of guts to get over them, the reward will be even more special than the first mountain. Not many people will understand. Not many people will ever make that second summit. Not many people will ever to commit to something they could fail at, that could put them at risk of breaking down, of uncovering raw grit and emotion and they will always stay within their comfort zone. Occasionally they’ll break out and celebrate a short term win, but for the most part, they’ll stick to the roads they know, avoid the hills and not even think about how much further they could push themselves.
But for those that are willing to challenge their body and their mind. For those who are willing to cycle over the top of the mountain and enjoy the rarely seen descent on the other side, there is a magical reward, an epiphany, a journey to some sort of emotion many will never experience.
That second mountain is an experience I regularly draw upon. I still remember how it sounded, smelt, felt. I remember the tricky wooded descent from it, I remember how cold and clear the mountain spring was. I remember looking down on high soaring birds of prey and realising how high we’d come under our own steam. But it took guts. It took mindset and motivation more than it took strength and stamina. Make your mind your greatest weapon and go climb that second mountain.
