Having decided to maximise our flexibility by sleeping out rather than using the plentiful refuges we needed to carry a hefty load on our backs. Monday passed pleasantly with kit dried and then re-packed even more sparingly. Faced with a choice of a wet bivouac and more of the same the following day or pizza and beer back at Neil’s we obviously sprinted down the valley, bodies regaining feeling as we hammered out the miles, water blindingly spraying us as we followed the flow of the surface river. Missing a key junction in the fog resulted in a fairly epic three hours of hike a bike with our now saturated kit offering little protection from the plummeting temperatures and it was with a relieved cheer that we finally hit the road. As the inevitable rain gradually worsened, grip lessened and weariness started to kick in and we were both making potentially dangerous errors with fine margins between cleaning sections and washing out the front wheel over the edge. It’s a superb trail rooty, twisty and in places dizzyingly committing with jagged cliffs just inches from the riding line. That particular section to the Col Des Montets is one that I’ve familiarised myself with in the past through walking, running and biking. We grabbed the Brevent telepherique out of town, keen to rapidly get up high and at 4pm rolled out into the mist. We were well aware of the weather forecast having studied it feverishly for the previous week but it’s amazing how enthusiasm trumps reason, particularly when time is limited and the Alpine singletrack is calling. All went pretty smoothly, Brian laughing as the gun shaped pump in my bag caused a brief security issue, me cracking up when he realised he’d left all his c02 canisters in his hand luggage! Bikes arrived safely and the slick Geneva to Chamonix transfer system deposited us outside Neil’s apartment just a couple of hours after landing, chomping at the bit to assemble bikes, squeeze kit in bags and hit the trails. It was 3:30am on a dismal Dublin night when we dragged our bleary-eyed selves into the deluge outside, throwing our gear in the van and heading for the airport. This year I finally set off to realise that ambition with little more planning than booking a flight, e-mailing a mate with a chalet in Chamonix, enlisting my teammate Brian and borrowing a map two days before we left. The sheer inspiration of the Alpine environment has since prompted numerous returns for various reasons and it had become an annual ritual to voice my desire to one day ride around the TMB route. It was one of those truly formative experiences, accompanied by my Dad, that is still indelibly printed on my psyche even after nearly three decades of systematic brain cell destruction. Rewind 27 years and at age ten I’d just completed the walking version of the Tour of Mont Blanc, a stunning 170km ish circumnavigation of Western Europe’s highest mountain. From this point onwards we’d be racing the darkness back to Chamonix. The mood lightened fleetingly until we realised that hand tightening was insufficient and we’d no sensible option but to drop all the way back to Courmayeur for repairs. The pedal part was easy to locate and not for the first time I thanked my running fitness as I jogged back up to my beleaguered friend. Instinctively I began to run down the steep, rooty trail, sensing that this was a pivotal moment in our attempt with morale and motivation hanging in the balance. F*ck, f***********ck screamed Brian, hurling his bike into the dust, the naked spindle of his SPD staring back up at him where the pedal body should’ve been.
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