Le Loop have just published a piece on what it’s really like to ride the full Grand Loop, all three weeks and twenty-one stages from Nice to Paris. I read it twice. The first time I read it as a cyclist. The second time I read it as someone who spent thirty years in policing planning for the worst-case scenario, looking for the catch.
There isn’t really a catch. There are some reflections, and I want to share a few of them here, because they’ve changed how I’m thinking about next summer.
The bit before the start line
The first thing that struck me was their admission that the months before the ride take up more space in your life than you expect. All you really have to do is pay the entry fees, fundraise, train and believe you can do it. That sounds simple. In practice it means fitting long rides around consulting work, executive coaching, four voluntary roles, two books and a family that has its own plans. I’m already finding that Le Loop comes up in most conversations, whether or not anyone asked. Elizabeth would probably say that started some time ago…
So it helped to read that this is normal, and that the people who have done it say every cold, wet winter ride turned out to be worth it. I’ll be holding on to that thought in January.
Will I make it to Paris?
This is the question every rider asks, and the one I ask myself most. Le Loop say that on arrival day nearly everyone looks round the room and assumes they’re the weakest one there. Then they share the number that matters. Fewer than 5% of Grand Loopers who start fail to reach Paris, Covid years aside. That’s fewer than two people a year.
As someone who instinctively looks for what could go wrong, I found that statistic more reassuring than any amount of “you’ll be fine”. They also say that if you’ve managed around three-quarters of the training you planned, and you’ve got some grit in reserve, you’ll get there. That feels realistic. It also gives me permission to miss the odd session without worrying that it was the session that will cost me the event..
That three-quarters figure came with a twist. Last week, checking some detail around the time the Tour announced its final Paris stage, I found I’d been training to the wrong number. I had 54,000 metres of climbing fixed in my head, which was last year’s figure. The 2027 route is 58,200 metres over a 2,952 km route. That’s more than 4,000 metres extra, close to another full mountain day. If you’ve heard me quote 54,000, that’s why.
But better to find out in October than in June. It has changed my plans: the April climbing camp is no longer optional. I’ve booked five nights in the Welsh mountains for four back-to-back days of riding, which is the nearest I can get at home to what the Alps and Pyrenees will ask of me
Life in the bubble
The part I hadn’t really thought about is what the three weeks will feel like. On tour, your only job is to ride your bike, eat, sleep, stretch and repeat. Everyone around you is either doing the same or there to help you do it. After a year of juggling, there’s something appealing about that.
They describe the second week as the point where riders talk about “the bubble”. The rest of the world drifts away. Days are measured in feed stops. Conversations from that morning feel like last week. You follow the yellow arrows so often you start seeing them in your sleep. And by then the 2027 Tour de France will have started, so France will be decked out in jersey bunting while we ride.
But we won’t be following this year’s race. The Tour of Tours is built from historic stages of past Tours, so each day I’ll be riding roads where the race was won and lost decades ago. Some will cross towns and climbs the modern Tour still visits; others haven’t seen the peloton in years. That’s exactly what drew me to this, and to writing the book alongside it. I’ll be riding through the Tour’s history while the current race goes on around the country.
The bad day will come
Le Loop are honest that most people have at least one bad day, and you can’t predict when. It might be the body adjusting to back-to-back stages, a poor night’s sleep, or the third mountain day in a row. Often it arrives just before the first rest day. Their advice is not to push too hard early on, even when you’re in the best shape of your life.
I’ve written that one down. I know myself well enough to know I’ll need reminding.
What you come home with
The section that stayed with me most wasn’t about the riding. They talk about the conversations that happen between riders after a fortnight together, when trust has built up and people start talking about things they’d usually keep to themselves. Riders say those conversations gave them comfort and clarity they never expected.
Having spoken publicly about mental health in policing, I know how rare that space can be, and how much good it can do. I’m looking forward to that as much as to the Galibier.
They also mention the charity visits, and how meeting the people the William Wates Memorial Trust supports gives riders a new respect for why they’re doing this. I’ve already had a taste of that from my visit to the XO Bikes workshop at HMP Pentonville. It’s the reason the miles matter. I plan to emerse myself in visits and meet ups, it all ads to the drive I need to do this.
Where I am now
I’ve now passed the £3,000 minimum fundraising, thanks to some very generous people, and I’m working towards the £4,500 target and really want to be able to hit £4000 by the end of the year, of course if I can get some way past the target I have set myself, I will be thriled. If you’d like to help me get there, every donation goes to the Wates Trust and helps young people turn their lives around through Sport and the Arts:
https://fundraising.wwmt.org/fundraisers/simonbowden/ride-le-loop
Le Loop finish their piece by saying that by the third week most riders can’t remember what they were afraid of at the start. I’ll let you know in Paris…
