Tracey Trek #5 - On Holiday Again

Alpe D'Huez 

It was nine in the evening and, after thirteen or so hours of travelling, we had arrived. Knackered.

Tracey and I checked in to the B&B.  Being in France there was nothing more to it than settling down for a plate of cheese and red wine as a night cap. Tomorrow? Well that looked like rain, and a lot of it, and we had our first climb planned!

Tracey,  of course, is my trusted Trek.  We've been to many parts together,  covering many miles and this was our return trip to a part of the Alps that is synonymous with great cycling. Along with our friends, we were determined to get some good riding in.

Sunday morning broke.  The weather, though, definitely hadn't. Our landlady, Caroline, said there had been a massive storm during the night.  Well,  we hadn't noticed as we were dead to the world!

Breakfast came and went.  We um'd and arr'd, not knowing what to do as it was absolutely lashing it down. Eventually we decided to do a recce in the car to give my friends their first real glimpse, and what to expect, of Alpe D'Huez. They weren't disappointed.

We pootled about and by the time we had done that,  and with a forecast of only 40% chance of rain in the afternoon,  we decided to get ready and brave it. At the time we thought we were real hardcore,  but as it turned out it was the right decision as the clouds broke and the sun started to blast its way through,  the roads drying quicker than Mark Cavendish finishes a sprint.

So, off we set for Alpe D'Huez.  A lovely, long, gradual descent on the road from Venosc was a nice way to shake the bikes down and then onto the famous long flattish straight back to Bourg d'Oisans.  Bourg of course is nestled at the foot of Alpe D'Huez and once here the reality of the next hour or so, and thirteen kilometres of hell really hit home.

The last time I cycled this it was mid thirty degrees and I cooked and bonked and ended up with the hydration of death valley.  I was determined not end up the same way, so helmet off, shirt unzipped and much more hydration than I could dream of had been consumed.

And off we go. The climb is marked with 21 hairpins, all of which are named after famous riders. The first four or five are a test. A real test. This section is steep. Actually,  it's all steep,  but this bit is the steepest and it hurts. The calves and thighs start burning and with long gaps between switchbacks there seems no respite.

I get to turn 18 (translated to only the third switchback) and think about how far it is to go.  Hey, it's only thirteen kilometres to the top but it will seem like two hundred miles! I grind out a rhythm. Tracey, of course, is spinning like a sewing machine. The sun now is fully out and it's getting pretty damn hot.  The arm warmers are already off but I'm wishing I could peel a layer of skin off to cool down.  The helmet had already been forfeited but it feels like it's still on my head.

With only small respite, of seemingly only seconds on the turns, the climb is relentless.  My legs continue to burn.  I pass people sat on the wall having a breather.  I'm determined to do this without stopping - me and this mountain have a score to settle! But it's only turn 13 and it feels like I've been climbing for hours. The drink is disappearing fast. Are my bottles leaking? I ponder.

Not even half way and it's not getting any easier. Just keep the pace going... Whippet riders zip past, some continue to rest on the bends, taking in the views. Some seemingly enjoying it,  some obviously not.  I am determined not to stop, that is my challenge.  I'll take the photos on the way down,  I think to myself.

I then see turn ten.   Finally half way. But of course these aren't mile markers,  they have no relevance on distance, just switchbacks!!  I get down to single figures.  Ten to nine seems to take hours to do.  I miss seeing eight completely. Then seven and then six. My thoughts flow back to our recce and seeing Huez churchyard and joking that was there specifically for rider fails? Now it felt real.  It felt like it was time to join them.

I hit the turn to Villard Reculas at exactly an hour,  but still we climb.  The few pedal turns on the switchbacks are not giving any rest now.

Finally the ski chalets come into view. It's a welcome site psychologically as you feel near the end.  But of course you are not.  You are only at turn five. You are conned.  Gels are used up and I'm already half way through my second bottle of fluid. My back is now aching from pushing through the pedals. I get to three, and to the bus stop where I hit the wall two years ago,  then two. The last bit seems to kick up again or is this just my legs getting heavy? I'm grunting now,  breathing getting heavier, and so so envious of much fitter cyclists bombing past me.

Onto the long straight into Alpe D'Huez to the first finish line,  but of course that's not the official one,  that's another one kilometre.  Through the short tunnel and then climb again,  through the village,  switch left and then try and do a Cav to the line.  It's up hill of course and I find something in my legs to go for it.  I cross the line.  I'm spent. But I made it.

1hr 25 minutes to the first line and an extra 10 mins to the second finish line.  I'm not sure which finish Marco Pantani used when he did it in thirty six minutes but I'm really pleased with that.  Alpe D'Huez and I had now settled our differences!

With my mission accomplished, I roll back down to the cafe and join the throngs of other cyclists,  sit down and order a coffee. Russ appears out of the crowd,  orders a Sprite ("be back in a minute...") and cracks on to the top.  Dave is somewhere in between and they manage to meet at the finish and then join me back up at the cafe.  The sun is glowing, we are are glowing.  A job well done.  We take it all in over a drink and watch the other cyclists arriving. Tracey resting her wares amongst the other bikes like horses tied up outside a saloon bar.

And still they arrive, all with different looks on their faces.  Elation, anguish, bravado, determination or all of it at once.  Looks that I undoubtedly had in the duration of my climb. We think about setting off,  my back is still aching, but decide on a beer first.  Well we hadn't celebrated had we and we think we deserved the one? 

Beer consumed and off we go as we set off for the descent.  Now the fun begins.  Fast wheeling for thirteen kilometres and views that are incredible. For a while I had forgotten that I wanted to stop a few times to get some snaps, such that I was enjoying the descent so much. The roads were dry,  the sun was out. It was perfect conditions.  Accelerate, turn, accelerate, turn...

Unfortunately,  before we knew it we were at the bottom.  Over in a flash but exhilarating and so worth doing.   

Now, with us all being qualified Pro Cyclists, we thought our work was done.  But of course we had forgotten something;  the ride back to the B&B, or rather the other climb!  Of course if you can free wheel for five miles at thirty/forty mph on the way down means only one thing:  It's going to be painful going back up, especially after doing Alpe D'Huez. 

Boy,  that was a real shock to the system,  but eventually we crawled back to where we started. Roll on supper and roll on an ice cold beer. Tomorrow? Well that would be another challenge.

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In the meanwhile,  here's the descent recorded by Russ on his posh Garmin camera thingy:

http://youtu.be/L6q5eGEyM2U

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Stats from the days ride:

Average speed: 10.2mph. 

Max speed: 41.5 mph

Total Ride Time: 3 hrs 10 mins 

Distance: 33 miles

Bohemian Rhapsody?

Bohemians 1905 1-0 Slovan Liberec

"Are you going to the game?" we asked.

We had planned to jump on the tram again, as Bohemians was only one stop away from Slavia's ground and on the same line. But in usual bloke fashion we diverted when we met two 'locals' dressed in green and white. In a sort of international sign language they ushered that yes, they were and that they were walking. OK, we thought.  They know what they are doing,  lets go with them.

I'm sure they said two kilometres though?

After half an hour it was obvious they didn't know where they were going. It turns out that, although Bohemians fans,  they were not from Prague at all and had less of an idea how to get to the ground than we did!

"Look fellas,  I suggest we jump on the tram, just up here, as there are some fans going to the game", I mentored.  So we did just that,  our original plan.  The irony was that they were the 'real' fans, and had not had a drink, and we were bailing them out!

Ten minutes later and we tip up at the ground.  The clientele was less 'trendy' than Slavia. More docker/industrial looking types, worn looks and imposing in the main.  We managed to work out which turnstile to take and paid for our ridiculously expensive £3 tickets.

What we didn't realise was that this was the entrance to the Ultras 'home' end.  A sort of cannibalised terrace with half seating and the other half having had the seats ripped out at some stage.  A beer caravan sat nestled on the top of the terrace serving Pils at the equivalent of thirty pence for half a litre.  Some confusion was had over the plastic beer cups. We later learnt that these were a kind of fund raising exercise,  and could be loaned to you during the game. (A kin to the days of bucket collections outside Loftus Road) We of course kept ours as souvenirs. Alongside the beer unit was the mandatory spicy sausage unit which spewed it's fragrances across the terrace throughout the game.

The ground itself reminded me of watching the Faro Islands, with two sides being open and one stand down the side. Rugged flats gave a hostile looking back drop.

So we pitched ourselves to one side and tried to mingle in.  As it turned out,  although these folks were hardcore and spoke very little English, they were actually a friendly bunch and in the end would spend time comparing the Premier League with this League.  (Not sure on what exactly as it got lost in the translation). Having said that the playing standard was more League Two by comparison!

The Corner Kick

It was because of the poor standard of football that we ended up talking more than watching.  The crowd were  incentivised once again by the man with the loud haler,  although this guy looked like he was hanging on for dear life on a plank of driftwood cable tied to the netting.

With the game cracking on it turns out that the club is on the brink of bankruptcy and earlier that week they had appointed a new manager. So this game was very important to see if they could pull themselves to safety, and away from the drop zone.

In the end they came out winners and everyone was very happy. Not sure though how it would have fared had they lost,  but thankfully that is something we didn't witness.

As per Slavia,  they did like their flares and no more so than when the opposing side, Slovan Liberec, came on the attack and won a corner.  We,  of course,  were yakking and hadn't noticed that the fans had erected a series of large banners across the netting behind the goal.

I asked my new local friend whether it was a political statement or something?  His reply was this: "No,  they erect it when the opposing team has a corner.  They don't want to see should they score" and with that lit a couple of flares which smoked out the goal mouth!.  In England,  the ref would have stopped the game and the stewards would have been ushered on to remove. But no,  not here, the game just carried on regardless.  Needless to say Liberec couldn't see anything and they didn't score! On the flip side,  if they had, we wouldn't have seen it either!

With the game wrapping up and us readying ourselves to make our return journey, we were approached by an English speaking 'local'.  "Hello,  I couldn't help notice that you are English...?"  And so the introductions continued oiled of course with more Pils.  "What are your plans now?" our new friend asked. "Why not come with me and enjoy some true local Czech hospitality. There are some friends who I would love you to meet. (I know what you are thinking,  but you are so wrong!!)  I'll take you to a Bohemians local".  Well we couldn't pass this up could we?  So, off we trotted in full faith that this chap,  our new friend, was genuine and not about to knee cap us and place us in plastic zip up bags.

We arrived eventually at this bar which was obviously very Bohemian and green. We  grabbed a table and were introduced to two other Bohemian fans amongst the tables of many more.

So we are sitting there,  beers on table and etiquette being learnt only to find out that the two fellas we have just met are sons of Karol Dobias.  He of course played for Bohemians and the then Czechoslovakia and indeed played in the winning side that played West Germany in the Euro Championships in 1976, scoring one of the goals. Both were Ultras and friendly,  but boy they seemed on a mission to drink us under the table.

Etiquette, as I mentioned we were learning.  And in Czech when a beer glass is empty and it hits the table, well, just expect another one to appear.  In time honoured tradition it was deemed way too rude not to accept.  This went on until our friends were informed it was actually my birthday. Two shots each appeared one green one clear. The clear one was obviously petrol, I'm sure. The green one was meant to freshen the palette. I'm still unsure whether it actually did this as,  well I was too intoxicated, and indeed how many were had. By now, though, we had moved on to each singing a terrace song from our own clubs.  As it was my birthday,  I went first and proudly stood, arms aloft ensuring the pub knew exactly what a fine football club QPR really are. Which of course is true! Our new friend by now getting really concerned that the locals would take offence at my commitment.  Of course I was too inebriated to know or care. But they were cool,  found it amusing and tried to join in.  Next up was some dross from my City friend and then a tune from Liverpool.  Finally we had a Bohemian chant, which strangely the rest of the pub enjoyed and joined in.

So by this time it was very late, and we were hanging.  We also had absolutely no idea where the hell we were,  but a great night all round.  We said our farewells to our two Ultras and somehow with the help of our new friend boarded a tram and ended up at a bar back in the centre.  How we met back up with the rest of our party I still don't know.

In the end we had a right blast going to these games.  These are true old school football fans.  Real die hard.

There you have it. Standing, terraces, beer in the ground, smoking, toilets wherever you can find a spot, food from caravans. I can guarantee that there are no plastics here (except the charity mugs) and no multi- buy offers. I managed to get to the game, buy a ticket, drink beer, eat half time food, and buy a programme all for a quarter what I pay for a home ticket. I would definitely recommend going to these games if ever you are in Prague.

It's how it used to be before Sky. Well sort of!

Be rude not too.

Recently (well actually three months ago - I'm a slow writer) I was fortunate to make a trip to the Czech capital, Prague.  It was a birthday trip with the agenda predominantly being filled with local beer and, well, more local beer.  But going with similarly minded footy fans meant that taking in a couple of games was a must.

So, bring on Slavia Prague and, to follow, Bohemians. 

Of course as they say, when in Rome... (OK, I know I wasn't in Italy, but you get the drift) then you go with the locals.  So, tram boarded and aimlessly following the crowd not really knowing where we were heading or indeed whether we would get a ticket even. Out in the suburbs the tram stopped and a friendly sort in red and white attire pointed and said something in a language we didn't understand.  We assumed that he meant that the ground was somewhere over there, so we headed off on foot following the crowd and upon seeing a big queue forming we worked out that it was the ticket office and discreetly added ourselves to the line and in broken Czech/English mix we bought our tickets at the huge outlay of £5 each...bargain!

Slavia's ground is a newish 20,000 Seater bowl, all neat and tidy with good access in the concourse areas,  littered with the usual food and beverage counters. The difference here of course is the beer is Pils and the pies have been replaced with larger spicy sausages and mustard.

Going to English games, you get used to the protocol. No smoking or drinking in the ground, thou shalt sit or be evicted etc. 

So in the usual English fashion we sunk what we thought was a final drink in the concourse before going to our seats.  Needn't have worried though, on cue as the thirst was setting in a couple of young ladies very politely came round offering beers at leisure at the equivalent of 80p a shot. Well, it would have been rude not too - we wouldn't want to offend, would we!

Pointless though was the all Seater stadium. Of all the fans that we could see, they stood or bounced throughout the game. And the stewards? Well they just leant against the stairwells, having a sneaky fag, checking their phones or just simply watching the game - quality.

So for £5, we plonked ourselves down where we wanted to, had 'a few' beers,  could have smoked if we were smokers and stood all the way through the game and not a H&S spoiler in sight.  Now, that takes you back.

The game itself was functional and Slavia ended up winning 2-1. So emotions were, well, high and infectious with us all being Slavia Ultras for the night, which leads me on to the support and the end of game ritual.

Firstly the support. Orchestrated and full vocals.  By tradition they have a guy standing on a small plinth, his back to the game, with a load hailer kicking off the chants. The songs/chants were constant throughout the game apart from probably 5 minutes. But the weird thing is that they chanted irrelevant of what was happening in the game though. No oohs or aarrghs,  just constant orchestrated singing. Odd.

Anyway various banners got erected at different times,  not knowing why or what they meant. Towards the end of the game a huge banner was draped over most of the crowd, organised of course,  not like them across South West London. No one had sight of what was happening on the pitch but as it transpired no one was bothered as it allowed them to organise their flares. And boy they loved their flares.

At the end of the game we were just about to leg it to beat the crowd when a local, who we had been talking to, advised that we should stay.  So we did as we were told. We did wonder whether it was to avoid trouble but soon found out why, their end of game ritual. 

All the players came over to the crowd and lined up behind the goal and knelt down. In unison the crowd sat down.  Mr load hailer man started them off and they all sang some chants and it all kicked off again. You couldn't help get in the zone with them and we were bouncing along with the locals,  admittedly with our English versions of their songs.  Basically the fans were thanking the team and the team were thanking the fans.  More flares went off and it was like they had won a cup tie.  But they hadn't, it was just a normal league game and they do this win, lose or draw.

Bear this in mind when you see certain players running down the tunnel ( er hum...BAE! Etc)

Here's the link to the end of game bit - and my apologies for my drunken City friend who put his own angle on their song.

Slavia You Tube Link

When I get time,  I'll do a round up of the Bohemians visit,   which was quite a contrast to this.