I have watched the coverage of Tour riders fighting their way up to the Col for many years. But the most memorable Tourmalet climb for me came in 2010, when Luxembourg’s Andy Schleck was battling Spain’s Alberto Contador for the yellow jersey (worn by the rider with the lowest cumulative time). The two broke away from the other contenders with more than 10 kilometres to go, and Schleck did his best to shed Contador as they ascended through the clouds. But the pair reached the summit finish together, which all but guaranteed that Contador would win the race for a third time. (Later, Schleck would be declared the victor when Contador was stripped of his title after testing positive for a banned substance.)

It was not long after watching that epic contest that I first thought of cycling the Col du Tourmalet myself. My plan was to ride it with a good friend who lives in Spain. He was going to represent Alberto Contador and I was going to be Canada’s Ryder Hesjedal, who finished an impressive fourth on that stage in 2010, en route to a (Contador-adjusted) fifth place overall. I eagerly scoped out the entire route on Google Streetview, and researched bike-rental and accommodation options in the small town of Luz-Saint-Sauveur, located at the base of the western side of the climb. But sadly, the plan fell apart, mainly because “Alberto” chickened out. My short-lived Tourmalet dream was over.

Then, last fall, I found myself somewhat unexpectedly heading to France, and the idea came back to me. This was my chance.

Perhaps I should explain at this point that I am not what a serious cyclist — the kind of rider who measures their rpms and watts — would call a serious cyclist. I started riding regularly six years ago on the paved paths around Toronto after injuries brought four decades of recreational running to an end. Initially I rode my 20-year-old mountain bike, but soon “upgraded” to an even older hybrid I bought in a used-bike store. Then, last summer I got the first road bike I’ve owned since my parents bought me a CCM Targa in grade eight. It’s an ancient steel-frame 10-speed, probably from the 1980s, which one of my neighbours was throwing away. The bike is a little too big for me and the rear wheel has a bit of a wobble. But when I’m riding it, I feel like I’m ready for the Tour. That is, until some other cyclist blows by me.

My trip to France is scheduled for the third week of October. I contact Ardiden Velos, a cycling shop in Luz-Saint-Sauveur, to find out if I’ll be able to rent a bike and ride the Tourmalet then. Owner Matthew Collins, an ex-pat Brit, informs me that both his store and the road will be open until the end of October “if the weather is good.” During the month before my trip, I monitor the Col’s conditions closely, and — despite one early-season dusting — am pleased to see that the climb remains snow free. But as my departure date nears, the forecast looks increasingly questionable.

I land in France on a Tuesday and arrive in Luz on Wednesday afternoon, where I meet Matthew at his bike store. I want to ride the next morning. Matthew tells me the forecast is “absolutely appalling,” with heavy rains expected, but by now I have no choice. It’s tomorrow or never.

Matthew raises his eyebrows, but pulls out a state-of-the-art Bianchi carbon bike and begins fitting it for me. Because my own bikes are so old, I’m unfamiliar with some of the basic features, and ask him how you shift gears. He looks at me for a second and then — thinking about the rainy forecast, my apparent lack of biking experience and undoubtedly my age ­— gives me some advice. “I really don’t think you should be doing this.” I’m tempted to agree, but instead somehow convince him to let me have the bike. The game is on.

I wake up early the next morning, but decide to wait until it’s closer to sunrise to set out so that I won’t be riding too long in the dark. I am staying near the start of the climb, at an elevation of about 700 metres, and when I step outside I discover that clouds have descended almost to ground level. Fortunately it isn’t raining too heavily, yet.

The 1,404-metre climb to the Col from Luz-Saint-Sauveur follows a more-or-less straight roadway for about the first 10 kilometres, as it ascends through a relatively narrow valley. Most of the twists and turns happen higher up, closer to the pass itself. Because the route is so popular with cyclists, there are signs telling you how far you’ve gone and also the average gradient of the kilometre ahead. As I’ll discover, the latter bit of info can be a blessing or a curse, depending on whether the sign says the next stretch is easier or harder.

I begin riding in darkness. Off to the left, I can hear the valley’s roaring river, Le Bastan, higher than usual at this time of year. The climb starts gently, and I cruise along feeling good on my light carbon bike. But when the road soon rises to six per cent, I begin to feel a little less positive, despite the old man’s shout of “Courage.” From there it increases to seven and then eight per cent. I try to ride out of the saddle, but can’t pedal properly on this bike while standing. Then it starts to pour. As I crawl along in the heavy rain, I think Matthew was right — I shouldn’t be doing this.

But then, miraculously, after only a couple of minutes, the downpour stops. By now it’s no longer dark and the gradient has eased slightly. As I ride along past small farms and scattered houses, with forested hillsides above, I come to the first spectators I’ve seen since the old man — three donkeys standing together in a field next to the road. They seem to be watching me intently, and I wonder just what they’re thinking.

After about seven kilometres, I enter the small community of Barèges, the only village along the way. There aren’t many signs of life, but I’m not really paying attention; the road hits nine per cent at stretches here, and I’m focused on pedalling. The steepest part yet comes just after the village, which is amazingly where Andy Schleck and Alberto Contador powered away from their competitors in 2010. I am not about to pick up the pace, but at least I am moving forward.

Fortunately, after a few tough kilometres, the grade relaxes a bit, and the valley begins to open up into a treeless alpine wonderland. To my surprise, I seem to have ridden above the clouds, so I’m able to take in the scenery — high green pastures topped with ragged grey turrets. Soon I pass by some of the ski lifts that service the surrounding slopes.

During the summer months, this road is apparently packed with cars and bikes, but, as I’d hoped, there is hardly any traffic this morning; just the odd car or truck heading up over the Col or coming down my way. Funnily enough, there are no other cyclists.

Unlike some well-known Tour climbs, such as L’Alpe d’Huez, the Col du Tourmalet does not have many switchbacks, but I zigzag up a few during the next couple of steeper kilometres. Afterwards I finally see a spot high on a ridge above where the occasional vehicle either appears or disappears. It must be the pass. I still have five kilometres, and a lot of elevation, ahead.

I’ve been riding for about 90 minutes, and it finally occurs to me (at least an hour too late?) that this might be a good time to have a sip from one of my water bottles and a bite of one of my granola bars. I stop my bike and take off my daypack. It’s only a quick break, but when I climb back on the saddle, I instantly notice that something has happened: my upper hamstrings have totally seized up and I can no longer pedal.

Now for an embarrassing admission. In the month prior to coming to France, I had increased my training mileage, but had not bothered to do any hill work. Correction: I had ridden up and down one small hill in Toronto for about 90 mind-numbing minutes, and decided I could not bring myself to do it again. And I didn’t feel like driving for miles to the closest decent climb on the Niagara Escarpment. I had hoped that my regular riding would be training enough to cycle uphill for 19 kilometres. Wrong, it seems.

I attempt to pedal a few times, but my legs just can’t do it. It appears my climb is over. I’m about to point my bike back toward Luz — where Matthew is undoubtedly waiting for confirmation of my failure — when, as a last resort, it occurs to me to do some stretching at the side of the road. Incredibly, after I climb back on the bike, I find I can pedal again, though at first just barely. I decide I will try to continue on for at least the next relatively easy section. I’m now in survival mode — attempting to make it to the four-kilometres-to-go sign. Once I get there, I’ll see how I feel. But as the minutes drag by, I don’t see the sign. How far can it be? I have studied the climb virtually, but in the moment don’t seem to have a good sense of the route.