RAID PYRÉNÉEN

RAID PYRÉNÉEN 1981.

A few weeks ago, while I was over in Spain, a friend, Jordi, asked about me about the Raid Pyrénéen, a cycling route which crosses the french Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.  My father had ridden it twice, in 1981 and 2003 and Jordi wanted to know the details of 1981 trip: where they had stopped, did they have a support vehicle etc. If the route is completed in the allotted time of 100 hours a medal the riders are awarded a medal by the Cyclo Club Béarnais. Having been the first North American riders to complete the Raid, my father and his business partner and friend Mike Brown, received quite a lot of media attention for their ride in cycling magazines and on the National news. The coverage inspired generations of cyclists to attempt the Raid

I dug into the files at my parents' home to find the information Jordi was after. In the file, was the following article by Bob Zeller about their trip . Bob had followed their ride, documenting it in a notebook and with his camera, and providing support where needed. My father had said it was the toughest ride he had ever ridden, and, as he understated to a good friend, "a bit of a caper". It was also one of his most memorable. Reading Bob's colourful account, I understand why. I also now feel the pull to ride the route more than ever. -Michael Barry Jr.

by BOB ZELLER. September 1981

The two riders were desperately cold. The wind chill factor was in the thirties; the rain was falling in bucket loads, and the wind which had started as a breeze was now gusting to gale force. They had been riding since 6am and now, thirteen hours later they were still going at it. And yet before being able to grab a life saving few hours of sleep, there was still the Col de Portet D’Aspet to be tackled. It would be sheer bloody work, 2000 feet of climbing in three miles.

Mike Barry and Mike Brown were tired, absolutely knackered. Out of the last 39 hours they had been riding for more than 30.

Slowly they made their way up the mountain. At one point, Brown became disorientated, took a wrong turn, and wasted some of the very few resources he had left trying to ride a sheep track. That was understandable. There was no moon. In fact the sky was blacker than any I have ever seen anywhere, and here were these guys covered in blackness, following the beams from their tiny headlamps, ten feet in front of their bikes.

Eventually they arrived at the top. To complain about the pain was meaningless. It had been there so long, they couldn’t imagine anything else. The cold was just the same, unbelievably wretched. But no one but the riders themselves could imagine or understand just how horrible it was, so why waste energy complaining.

And now that they were at the top, they knew that their torture wouldn’t end. There was still the descent!

If the climb was sheer hell, the descent would be the same times two. Everything would be worse; the wind chill would increase, and the rain would be like thousands of needles being driven into them. And if their legs would get some respite from climbing, then the muscles in their shoulders and backs would cramp in agony from the effect of physically trying to hang on as their bikes rocketed down the mountain.

Still there was no moon. They had only their headlamps and prayers to guide them away from the edges of the road. Flick, flick, each rider leaned his bike into the corner. Flick, flick, into another switch back. Their brakes screamed as the corners rushed up at them. Were there to be any gravel or sheep dung on the road, well that would end it all. In some places the drop over the edge was literally hundreds of feet. Thank God, there wasn’t any gravel, and the sheep must have been wearing diapers.

I sat in the warm and secure car after they passed and wondered why they did it. Why do two grown men hurl themselves across mountain tops? Why do they torture themselves this way? I knew that their goal was to ride 450 miles across the complete width of the Pyrenees, climbing 18 passes in less than 80 hours of total time. But how would they verbalize the whys and wherefores? In reality I knew they wouldn’t. They’d simply do the ride and let the rest of us wonder why.

Let’s get something straight right here. These mountains are not as high as the Rockies, but to ride them is so very much tougher. The narrow roads were developed from sheep tracks. In fact some of them are not much more than that to this day. On these, you climb for a couple of hundred yards at a 15° angle and then suddenly it’s a 90° switch and again you climb for another couple of hundred yards and then you switch again. It’s a vicious way to torture yourself. Frankly, the Rockies are gentle enough for a Sunday School picnic by comparison.

For years, the “RAID PYRÉNÉEN” as it’s known, has been the ultimate test for serious riders in Europe. But until Barry and Brown did it, no North American has ever even attempted it, let alone finished it. Last year less than 133 actually completed the Raid. Barry and Brown completed the course in 76 hours 12 minutes, in spite of starting out at the worst possible time, weather-wise. 

These guys are very experienced cyclists. They live in Toronto now, but before they lived and raced in Europe. Brown was so good that he was included twice in the prestigious Tour of Britain (Milk Race as it’s more commonly called) and a number of other International events throughout England, France and Spain. Barry rose through club ranks, eventually being selected for the Royal Air Force’s super team. They’ve been out of road racing for a bit, but both are still active cyclo cross riders. Barry in the meantime has added running to his repertoire of fitness activities with two Boston Marathons behind him.

Now the two of them are partners in one of Canada’s most successful bike stores, Bicyclesport Ltd, in Toronto. At the same time, they have developed a custom, one off bike business. These machines are called Mariposa’s and they’ve been sold throughout North America. One of them, in fact, was tested by John Schubert in Bicycling in the March 1980 issue. That bike was mine and I’m fiercely proud of it.

When Barry and Brown developed a new model, especially for cycle tourism, they decided it needed an extraordinary test to prove its mettle. They immediately thought of the Raid Pyreneen. It was an event they had always wanted to ride, and one that would be without a doubt the most demanding test possible.

They thought they understood how tough the Raid was, but the truth was that they had precious little idea. Had they known more, they most certainly would have postponed their attempt until next summer. At least then the weather would be better.

You can set off anytime you want between April and September when the passes are open. But they opted for the last four days in September, and in doing so they unwittingly increased the difficulty by half as much again.

Perhaps the first realisation about the challenges facing them came about when Brown and Barry were chatting with M. Jean Beguere, the Club Cycle de Bearnaise member who tirelessly administrated the Raid. He explained at length the dangers of certain parts of the course. He talked about the cold, and the snow. He warned them about deceptive daylight and he pleaded with them to be extra alert to danger. And Madame Beguere, Jean’s charming wife, kept repeating, “Soyez prudent” (be carefull). But even though the climatic conditions were about as bad as they could be, M. Beguere understood why these men were about to accept the challenge. He warned them, but he didn’t try to disuade them. He accepted the fact that challanges exist for some people and that until these people meet those challanges head on, there’s no peace in their souls.

It was on the next Saturday that Barry and Brown set out from Hendaye on the Atlantic Coast. Cebere on the Mediterranean was the goal and the adventure was about to start. Confidently they posed for a picture, and then, after their log books had been signed by the railway station master (the only official type of person who had to be up at six o’clock) they set off into the dark. Little did they realize that they would be spending so very much of their time over the next three and a half days cycling in darkness.

At the lunch stop, they talked about their progress. A strong wind had been blowing from behind, and in spite of the heavy rain they were ahead of schedule. They were beginning however, to realize that the climbs were going to be tougher than they had imagined. Just how much tougher, they didn’t know. But they had an inkling that things were going to be difficult. In the meantime, they tucked into one of the best meals of the trip and talked about the gorgeous scenery.

Two hours and forty miles later they knew the picnic was over. They were climbing their third Col, this one being the Col D’Aubisque and it was the toughest yet. In less than 15 miles they would have to climb more than 5000ft, and of that, the last 1700ft would have to be ridden in less than three miles.

If they didn’t know already that they were in for the most difficult ride of their lives, then this last bit made it abundantly clear. They struggled through rain, and then snow. The wind began to howl and the daylight disappeared. Suddenly it was dark. For the first time, the riders began to develop a significant separation between themselves. Brown pulled ahead. Barry was hurting. It should be explained that before coming to France, Mike Barry developed a good case of the flu. He also developed and ability to hide the symptoms from the rest of us. But while climbing the Col D’Aubisque those symptoms refused to be denied and soon they had affected Barry’s performance measurably. But he never complained, even though as the gap widened he must have wondered if there would be any end to his misery.

From the Aubisque to the first overnight stop should have been, relatively, an easy ride. On the Raid however, nothing is easy, or even relatively easy. Barry and Brown were scheduled to sleep in a small town called Soulom, about twenty miles along the road. Schedule be damned there was not a room to be had, anywhere. Since the rider’s time is measured on a total elapsed basis this was serious. But there was nothing else to be done, just mount up again and ride back a few miles to where both a room and meal were available.

By now Barry was really fighting his flu symptoms. So ill was he infact, that he had to leave the dinner table and his efforts at securing a decent meal were to no purpose. Brown arrived back in his hotel room to find Barry asleep in bed, wearing almost every stitch of clothing he had with him. He had covered himself with almost every blanket and sheet in the room.

Barry was sick and Brown, while quite healthy, was completely exhausted. How these men faced the prospects of another two and a half days of this torture is beyond imagination.

At six o’clock the next morning they were on their Mariposas again. In the past twenty four hours they had been riding for more than sixteen, but in spite of the pain they were looking forward to the day’s challenges. Little did they realize that the first and perhaps toughest of many of these lurked less than twenty five miles down the road.

The Col Du Tourmalet is the highest pass on the route. It reaches up more than 7000 feet into an almost continually stormy sky. The road is quite simply a series of switchbacks separated by a few hundred yards of straightaways. The surface is good having been recently redone, but for a cyclist the climb may just about be the ultimate wall. There is absolutely no relief, it just keeps coming at you. For two and half hours you struggle. And if your breakfast has been inadequate as had Barry’s and Brown’s, you suffer even more.

Practically from the start they were in their bottom gears, crawling their way to the eventual top. The last 5000 feet would be in less than 18 miles. For the motorist, the view when the clouds would occasionally part was spectacular. But I doubt whether Barry and Brown saw anything but pavement as their eyes remained riveted to the road just in front of their bikes. When you're suffering so much that you think you can actually hear your muscles screaming in agony, you don’t gaze at the scenery. You simply pray for deliverance.

The end came after about two hours. At the bottom it had been bright and reasonably warm. At the top visibility was limited by cloud and snow and the temperature was below freezing. Wisely they decided to reward themselves with a fifteen minute rest. Their comments were most revealing. Barry said that compared to this, marathon runners had it easy. In fact, he felt that this ride was the equivalent of three Bostons run in as many days. Brown simply stated that the Tourmalet had been the worst experience of his life. Tougher than any of the Milk Races or anything else in fact. And never would he consider doing this again.

The fifteen minute break seemed to last only five and once again the riders took off on the descent. Some people think that descents must be rewards for doing the uphill bit. Not bloody likely! They are just as difficult, harrowing and fatiguing as climbing. The emphasis changes, but believe me there is no reward. Within seconds your body freezes from the extreme cold. The wind, and your own velocity, drives the snow into your face, blinding your vision stinging the skin until it becomes numb. The only thing that can possibly be worse, is doing it at night. And for Barry and Brown that would happen later.

From the top of the Col Du Tourmalet to Ste. Marie De Campan you drop 4100 feet. If you survive, there is a rather nice restaurant there where you can have tea. Barry and Brown elected to do just that, but they couldn’t waste much time as by now it was 9.30am in the morning and there were still five mountain tops to be crossed and eighty miles to go before they would be through for the day.

It’s amazing, isn’t it? Here most recreational cyclists are proud as hell when they manage to accomplish a hundred mile day. And yet these two guys had planned on riding another eighty miles, having just ridden twenty, through some of the toughest mountains in the world, with the very worst weather possible. I, for one, will never complain about being tired in my life again.

Anyhow, after tea and food, Barry and Brown were again on their Mariposas. For a few miles their efforts were rewarded with some bright sunshine. But everyone knew it was too good to last. And sure enough it started to rain. At least this rain wasn’t driving. Just your ordinary, everyday, soak you to the skin kind of rain.

In less than an hour they started to climb again. This time they only had to go up 1800 feet in eight miles. For most of us, that would be a super effort. We’d stop, have a pint and say how fit we were. Barry and Brown barely realized they were climbing. They did notice how beautiful the forest was that the road went through and in fact it was one of the few areas where they actually commented about the scenery.

From the top of the Col D’Aspin to the top of the Col De Peyresourde, it’s 20 miles. During that 20 miles the road drops 2800 feet and then climbs 3200 feet. The scenery is beautiful, but the constant going up and down wears the riders out and really they don’t see anything. Every once in a while the rain stops and the sun peeks out from a cloud. But just as you begin to feel you are drying out, the rain starts again. Just to let you know that you are being controlled by the climate and in fact are at its mercy.

In the early afternoon both Barry and Brown are exhausted. If you asked them what single aspect of their ride was the most difficult to this point, they might reply that it was unending climbing. Not just the walls like the Col Du Tourmalet, but the constant up a few hundred feet, down a few hundred feet, and then up again. Never would there be a length of road more than a couple of hundred yards with no altitude change.

Perhaps it was a reflection of their exhaustion, but at this point, as they rode into a beautiful town called Bagneres De Luchon, they made a navigational error. It was easy enough to do. In fact I made the same error whilst driving, so perhaps the route instructions were not quite clear. For me in the car though, it was simple enough to back track and set off on the right road. For Barry and Brown, it must have been much more difficult. To retrace your steps, when each one originally surrendered to you so unwillingly and with such great personal pain, must have been such a bitter blow. But it didn’t stop them, they simply doubled back and carried on with the job.

For the next 25 miles they plowed on. Again it was up and down, but the weather was clearing a bit. Not far from Luchon the riders stopped for some tea and food and with this rest, their spirits began to improve. They talked that somehow, they would complete it. Whether or not they would do it in the required time was a different question. But they now knew that they would complete the course. To this point, I think that each one had secretly wondered about his ability to actually finish the Raid. After all, the degree of difficulty had been such a shock. I’m positive that each man in his own individual black moments wondered whether or not he would be the first to throw in the towel. But now, confidence was returning. After all, nothing could be worse than what they had already gone through and they had survived that albeit just barely.

Darkness came about seven o’clock and with it rain and wind. They had climbed the Col Des Ares which wasn’t all that difficult and now the end of the day’s ride was in sight. If they could just get over the Col De Portet D’Aspet.

To put it simply, the pain of the Col De Portet D’Aspet was greater than all of the pain accumulated to this point. But in the end, they got to the top.

Now they were riding off for the final 18 miles to St. Girons, the scheduled overnight stop. I was still sitting in my car, warm and secure and I still hadn’t answered my questions about why they are doing it. I had no clearer idea of the motivations. I simply knew that I was witnessing what I’m sure will prove to be the finest example of courage and determination that I’ll ever see in my lifetime.

Realizing how late it was I started up the car and soon overtook Barry and Brown. I was worried that again there would be difficulty in finding a hotel room. But that wasn’t so, and by 11.00 the exhausted men were fed and asleep.

One of the most serious problems during all three and a half days was that of food. When it was available it was delicious, it was nourishing and cheap. But the time that it wasn’t available seemed to be when it was most needed. A traditional breakfast was never possible as Barry and Brown were always off by six in the morning. Restaurants and shops don’t seem to open for the most part until after eight. Sometimes you were lucky to get croissants and coffee but that was all.

On the third day, the problem became acute. Not only was there no food, but there was no water. I sped off to a neighbouring town, but of course all of the shops were closed and would be for some time. Water I was able to get from a villager, but the chaps would have to do without food for a bit.

Eventually I was able to locate a store that was open and I stocked up, catching up to the riders about 9.30. Perhaps it was the food, or maybe it was the clearing sky, but by now everyone’s mood had improved and spirits were much brighter.

I couldn’t help marveling at just how mature and calm these two fellows could be, even when things as important as food were not available. There was never a sign of a tantrum or even a little bit of pique. Never did they do the star trip, and never were they even the least bit disrespectful to themselves or anyone else who crossed their paths. Some of our North American super star athletes should take note.

It was fortunate that the food and water became available when it did because soon they had to attack the Col Des Caougnous and then immediately after that the Col De Port. In less than eight miles they would have to climb 2000 feet and already they were looking rough. But get to the Col De Port they did, although soon after Barry breathed a long sigh and suggested that he wasn’t feeling well. This was obviously the understatement of the ride. The only thing that was whiter than Barry’s face was the colour of his frame. And frankly it looked a whole lot healthier. I was worried about him and so was Brown. What would happen if he had to pull out? Would the ride be able to continue for Brown or would he then prefer to drop out so that they could both have a go at it another time? One thing I knew for sure was that he wouldn’t quit willingly. He’d either go out feet first in an ambulance or not at all. That’s the kind of determination that he always shown in the past and I knew it would never waver.

They took a break. Just long enough in fact for the weather to get lousy again. But that was no surprise. In fact the one thing that remained constant about this trip was that the good weather would only stay with you just long enough for you to be aware of it then Bingo! instant change.

Anyhow, they got back onto their Mariposas full of determination to get to Ax Les Thermes in time for lunch. They rode like men possessed, arriving in fact too early, before most of the restaurants were open. The one place that was advertising hot dogs and pizza. Hardly the meal of champions but the beer was good and the omelet we asked them to make was acceptable.

But things were to get worse. Barry who was operating on nothing but determination to this point, now looked even worse if that was possible. I was convinced that this was the point that he would have to pack it in. Ax Les Thermes is a town built largely on the reputation of the curative powers of the sulfur springs that run through it. There was a hospital right next to the restaurant and I must confess that I was grateful we wouldn’t have to carry him too far if he keeled over at the lunch table. But he refused to pass out and in fact surprised both Brown and myself by telling us to stop wasting time, there were still four cols and better than a hundred miles to go.

And so, go they did. Within ten miles there was a 3900 foot climb to the Col De Puymorens. This time, the weather stayed reasonable until just before the top. But then again there was rain and snow and cold. The riders stopped to rest and change into clothing more appropriate for the descent. By now it was snowing quite hard, and as always, I became quite fearful about their ride to the bottom of the hill.

At one point when they were climbing to the col, I had driven ahead and found an inn at the top. This was wonderful and I sped back down the road to tell them that there would be an opportunity for a cup of tea. Imagine their disappointment when they arrived and found the place closed for the season. I had spoken without being sure that I was right and that was one of the more stupid mistakes of the whole adventure.

Anyhow, Barry and Brown who had already done so well were able to shrug off this disappointment and carry on, as they had been doing all the time. Barry even looked better. He was developing some colour in his face, although I must confess I thought at first he was suffering from frostbite. Whether it was simply the fact that he had survived one of the toughest climbs of the trip, or whether it was that in reality his ailments were disappearing I don’t know. But he did look better and in fact he announced that he felt better.

So now, the push was on. To this point no one had been talking about the eighty hour time limit, but just about finishing. Now we were calculating available time left and whether or not there was a chance. Well the riders decided that they not only had a chance, but had been doing so well that in fact they might be able to beat the limit by one or two hours.

From the Col De Puymorens to Bourg-Madame it is all downhill. It’s a 2600 foot drop in fifteen miles. Couple that with the fact that the lower altitude brought warm and sunny weather and you see why Barry and Brown became rejuvenated. In fact for a while the wind was behind them and gave them a much appreciated boost and they simply flew along in great style.

The scheduled overnight stop was Prades. So that we could be sure of a hotel room, I went on ahead to scout one out. When Barry and Brown arrived I couldn’t believe my eyes. These guys, who had looked so whipped only a few hours before now looked like a couple of club riders just back from a Sunday run. And yet, I calculated that they had been riding for almost sixteen hours that day and a cumulative total of forty eight during the last three days.

The difference was that the end was in sight. That was all that mattered. Barry and Brown had made up their minds that they could beat the time limit, and damnit, they would, no matter what the problems, hazards or obstacles. Frankly I would have quit within the first three hours of the first day and so would most anyone else that I know. But these guys are different from you or me. Please don’t ask me why they are different, I just accept that they are.

At Prades they had accumulated 72.12 hours. That left them just less than eight hours to complete the course. But the route directions indicated that there were fewer than sixty miles to go, without any climbs, so Barry and Brown allowed themselves the luxury of sleeping in. They didn’t actually get started until six thirty.

It was downhill for a long way. Right to the Mediterranean coast, in fact. But the elation of seeing the ocean soon wore off when they realized that the organisers had presented them with the sneakiest challenge of all.

The last ten miles were up and down like a child’s yo-yo. Never was the climb more than a hundred feet or so, but nevertheless it was significant. But Barry and Brown were unstoppable. They flew through the remaining few miles of the ride quite literally attacking the hills. The weather was gorgeous. In fact it was so sunny and bright that the memories of the previous days of rain and snow were almost impossible to recall. Now the temperature was in the high seventies, the sky was the bluest that anyone had ever seen, and the finish was near. Through Port Vendres they swept past the magnificent yachts, onward around the harbour, and then up a hill, before screaming down to Banuyls. Here was the last climb and then at last down to Cerbere for a well deserved and most welcomed bottle of champagne.

The clock stopped at 76.12 hours. Barry and Brown had not only ridden the course in the allotted time, but they had 3 hours 48 minutes to spare.

To this day, I have no understanding why they did what they did. I do know that they attempted and succeeded in one of the toughest rides in the world. I know, furthermore, that they did it at a time when conditions were at their absolute worst. I know also that I am grateful to have been a spectator to it all.