Riding high
What began as a mission to climb 4,000m and descend Europe’s highest single-track in a day turned into an altogether different type of challenge…
IN ASSOCIATION WITH
Aiguille de la Grand Sassière is a monster of a mountain, sitting on the French/Italian border not far from Val d’Isere. Virtually hidden from view from the valley below, the trail from its 3,752m peak is believed to be the highest singletrack descent in Europe, accessible only via a five-hour hike-a-bike over loose, rocky terrain with glaciers to one side and precipitous exposure to the other. Those who ride the Sass usually start this gruelling ascent from a car park at 2,300m and return via a steep, loose, technical descent. This is what I did back in 2011, while working for BikeVillage Holidays near Bourg St Maurice, run by my mate Sam, on one of the staff’s regular ‘Savage Wednesdays’. But this smash and grab approach has never sat well with me. Bourg sits 3,000m below the summit, so why not commit properly to the mountain and ride it from the valley floor?
This summer presented the chance to go back, and I was keen to see if I was up to the challenge. I’d also been tasked with putting MET’s latest Parachute MCR convertible helmet to the test, and this seemed the perfect opportunity. I certainly didn’t want to wear a bulky DH full-face on the long climb, yet I knew I’d appreciate the extra protection of a chin bar on the way back down. The plan was set – Sam and I would finish the regular guest ride on Friday afternoon, grab our big bags and pedal from Bourg that evening, escaping the heatwave that was enveloping Europe in 35°C-plus temperatures.
The idea was that we’d hit the car park in the early hours and crawl into our thin but light summer sleeping bags for a few hours’ kip, before a dawn assault on the summit, stashing our sleeping equipment at 2,400m. On the way down we’d collect our kit and return to Bourg via a classic route through the valley, named ‘Heidi’ after the stunning alpine meadows we’d pass through. This descent would add another 1,000m of climbing, bringing our day’s total to 4,000m, so the recovery beers at the bottom would be well deserved.
Best-laid plans
We roll out of Bourg at 8pm, both a little frazzled from a week riding through a heatwave. With so far to go, we’d ummed and aahed about taking a steeper but shorter route up, via some fireroads below La Rosière, before cutting along on and off-road the rest of the way. Time, and the knowledge of what was to come, though, meant we stuck to the main road that (eventually) leads to Val d’Isere – one of the Tour de France’s most infamous climbs. Passing through Sainte-Foy Tarantaise at 9.30pm, we luck upon a hotel serving pizzas. We haven’t eaten much nor really packed any food, and while Sam was fairly certain we’d find something, it’s a relief to be able to sit down and cram a pizza and glass of red down our necks – athlete nutrition at its best. The staff are a little confused as to why we want two pizzas each, though, and even more so when we ask for a big sheet of tinfoil. Goat’s cheese and honey pizzas folded in half and stuffed into our packs will make an excellent breakfast…
By the time we leave, it’s dark. Lights on, we roll up the road while digesting dinner. The moon isn’t yet above the mountainous horizon, so our head torches’ glow is the only source of light, save for the odd vehicle; the motorists no doubt wonder what we’re doing out riding at this hour. Our pace is slow. I’m feeling the effects of the heat, on top of two weeks of alpine riding, so Sam and I play increasingly dark games of ‘name something beginning with the letter…’ to pass the time.
An hour or so in, a huge lump of rock looms out of the darkness on our right, its peak seemingly in the stars. “What mountain’s that then, boss?” I ask. “Mont Pourri. About 3,780m, I think.” Silence. A look of realisation spreads across Sam’s face, and then mine. The summit looks so far away, and yet it’s less than 30m higher than where we’re heading, and still glistens with moonlit snow. The climb drags on, my legs getting more and more tired, way worse than I’d expected. Eventually we make it to Lac du Chevril, across the valley from Tignes. Just along the reservoir we turn left up a singletrack road, the final stretch of our night’s climb, just another 500m vertical to go. Ten minutes in, the moon finally makes its appearance and within seconds we’re bathed in an ethereal light.
We turn our head torches off and continue, slowly, up, finally reaching the car park at 1.30am. Plenty of hikers are here in their cars and campers, waiting to head up the Sass in the morning, and we quietly slink past to some open ground near the lake. Sam takes a few photos, and as we do so it dawns on us that this high up, with clear skies, even daytime temperatures well into the 30s don’t relate to warmth at night. Fingers are going numb and our breath is visible; our ‘light and fast’ approach is looking slightly foolish now. At this point, there’s no room for British reserve. We butt our sleeping mats up against each other, wrapping the groundsheet over the top of us to keep the breeze away, with our Bluegrass knee pads adding some welcome extra insulation. Within 30 seconds, I’m the little spoon. We lie there for three hours, neither of us sleeping. A farmer rocks up at about 3.30am to milk his cows, whose bells have been clanging throughout the night. It’s almost a relief when the sun rises and we have an excuse to crawl out from our paltry sleeping bags.
Neither of us can stomach the thought of eating pizza this early, so we crack on as quick as we can. We aren’t the first to start the climb; a few crazies running it are already on their way, and a pair of Italians with bikes get a head start on us. We have 13 hours of light to make it up and down, though, so we aren’t racing anyone. Racing would have been impossible anyway; at 2,300m there’s ample oxygen, but noticeably less than at a few meters above sea level, where my red blood cells have been formed. We pedal for 5-10 minutes, but there’s no chance of gaining much height via pedal power. The path up is largely hikea-bike, and so my 15kg Bird full-sus is soon hoicked up cvonto my shoulders, my legs having to learn a new way to effectively and efficiently gain height.
“THE EXPOSURE DEMANDS TOTAL FOCUS, AND THE SHIFTING GROUND NEEDS PIN-SHARP ACCURACY”
Downward spiral
The summit looks impossibly far away. The final pitch of the climb sits adjacent to a glacier, while on the other side is a sheer drop, hundreds of metres to the hanging valley below. It’s an intense place to be so early in the morning, knowing there’s a solid, uncomfortable five hours of hiking ahead. We’ll have to clamber up and over shoulders in the mountain, scramble up sheer rock faces littered with loose rocks and trudge up narrow walkers’ paths with exposure everywhere you look. And then ride back down it all.
The climb is hard; I’m shedding clothes and sweating as the sun hits my back. I keep my helmet on, with the chin bar strapped to my pack – it’s easy to carry like this, and gives me a sense of safety as I look vertically up at the rock I’m trying to carry my bike to the top of, with stones dislodged by hikers occasionally rattling down past my shoulders. The steep pitches keep on coming, and my shoulders ache with the weight of my pack and bike. The higher we go, the less oxygen there is, and I’m really aware how thin the air is becoming.
Pizza, cereal bars and SIS gels do their best to fuel me, but the lack of sleep and the heat of the previous week have definitely taken their toll. Sam promises me he’s suffering too, but he’s strong and used to the mountain air. There’s no room for chat, and we climb at our own pace, Sam stopping from time to time to take candid shots of me, my face usually crossed with a scowl. I descend into a bit of a mental rut. The route up is technical – I knew the descent would be, but how on earth am I going to ride down this sheer, loose rock-face of a trail? I’m starting to seriously regret my keenness for this project. In my head, I’m telling myself to give up, turn around. Sam’s encouraging me, though, and I’ve too much pride to stop.
By midday we’ve nearly made it. The glacier is to our left, a 1,000m drop to our right. The dirt is now dark shale, the trail zig-zagging the final couple of hundred vertical meters to the top. Sam goes ahead, and for the last time I lift my bike onto my screaming shoulders. I start hiking, one step at a time, breathing fast with the effort and altitude. About 100m from the summit, I take a rest. The views are awe-inspiring. In the distance, Mont Blanc is free of clouds. I can see ski resorts below, and the sky is infinitely stretched.
Things fall apart
People are hiking past me. Initially, a few comment on how crazy it is to see a bike up here. Then some start to ask me if I’m OK. I probably don’t look it. “Oui, bien merci,” is my first, and second, reply. More people ask, and as they do so my response becomes less certain. Am I OK? I’m knackered, yes. But I’ve been here before and know what’s to come. Still people ask, though. Next, I’m not sure I am OK. I’m breathing faster and faster, overwhelmed by the situation. Soon, someone’s sat next to me, giving me a banana. Another guy seems to be putting his jacket around me. Sam’s been watching me, too. From the top he sees me chatting to a couple of people, and then 30 seconds later, five or six people. He starts making his way down, by which point I’m in the middle of a crowd. Someone’s wrapped me in a gold foil blanket.
My French is alright, but I’m breathing hard, gasping for air, and can’t seem to tell the people around me that I don’t need the helicopter that’s just been called for me. They think I’ve fallen or am having a medical emergency. It only takes Sam a couple of minutes to reach me. He’s an old friend, and knows I’ve struggled with my mental health in the past. A quick nod from me confirms to him that I’m having a panic attack. I just need to breathe and relax. He speaks to the helicopter station, telling them to delay their departure until he calls them again if necessary. He’s talking to the French hikers around me, working out a plan of how to get me and my bike down. Slowly, people disperse as I regain control of my breathing. Two guys head up to the summit and grab Sam’s bike. They offer to split mine into its frame and wheels and carry it down to the car park for me. By then I’m recovering composure, feeling a little wiped-out but determined to make my own way back down. I was only minutes from the summit, but my head wasn’t ready for that.
Our original plan was to ride all the way back to Bourg, including that extra 1,000m of ascent. We’re both exhausted, though. Sam makes some calls, and two friends drop their plans and set off to meet us in a couple of hours at the car park. I attach the chin bar to my Parachute helmet; I realise my opportunity to ride the more technical sections of the descent is past – I didn’t ride half of what I knew I could – but knowing I’m more protected as I gingerly start making my way down, at first largely on foot, is the psychological boost I need. The lower we get, the easier things become – not technically, especially, but mentally – and the more time I spend on the bike. We have a target and it feels achievable.
Resurrection
The trail, if you ignore panic attacks, is incredible. It’s steep, loose, technical and tight. The exposure at times demands absolute focus, while the shifting ground under our tyres means pin-sharp accuracy and immediate reactions are needed to navigate it cleanly. It twists and turns, spitting us through jagged rocks and grabbing at our rear mechs. At times, there’s no option but to get off and pass our bikes down head-height slabs. There’s no beef with walkers here. They’re just bemused that anyone would want to bring a bike to such a hostile environment. It takes us a while, but we reach the lower sections of this upper part of the mountain. I’m feeling much better, and while I can’t match Sam’s 20-plus years of alpine experience on the tightest of trails, I’m actually really enjoying the descent now. My bike, a Bird Aether 9, is at home on this terrain, and the confidence a full-face lid and goggles gives helps when the tyres are scrabbling for grip.
We finish our ride with some classic alpine singletrack, a narrow cows’ path that skirts the mountain with a few rocks placed to catch you out if you’re not paying attention. In all, we’ve been out for nearly 19 hours, including three sleepless hours freezing on the side of the mountain. The sight of the van waiting for us, along with a can of full-fat Coke, is a huge relief. Sometimes, your plans just don’t come off. Yes, our photos look epic, and I’d love to tell a story where we bossed it to the top of Europe’s highest ridable peak. But it simply didn’t happen. I got close, but heat, exhaustion, sleep deprivation and self-imposed pressure to complete something I’ve dreamed of for years combined to push me mentally over the edge. The Sass still stands, and will do for as long as I’m riding. Never say never, but perhaps the best-laid plans are sometimes best left lying.
WHERE ARE WE?
The Aiguille de la Grand Sassière (elevation 3,752m) sits on the French/Italian border in the Savoie region of France. At the bottom of the valley is Bourg St Maurice, while Val d’Isere and Tignes are the closest ski resorts. Access to the mountain is usually via driving to the Lac de la Sassière car park, with the path heading up from there. Expect the climb to take around five hours and the descent 90 minutes to two hours.
A FRIEND IN NEED…
Sam’s thoughts on Tom’s experience:
“It’s hard to watch a mate spiral. Hard to know what to do, and harder too feeling you can’t do anything tangible to help. Panic attacks aren’t even the hardest bit to help with – www.mind.org.uk has some great advice there. If we could make our friends feel the love for themselves that we feel for them, life would be a lot easier. Until then, a space where we step outside of the ‘yeah, fine thanks, how are you?’ routine and get talking is crucial. For a lot of us, mountain biking provides that opportunity, and I’m so grateful for that side of our sport. Tom has helped me through a torrid couple of years, and bikes have been the delivery method of choice for his unrelenting kindness. Hopefully I can return the favour and hopefully you can, too – book in a ride with a good friend this weekend and get chatting.”
Why not enter to join one of MBUK ’s Ride Together group ride-outs, in collaboration with Nukeproof and the charity Campaign Against Living Miserably, in the Forest of Dean (16 October) or Llandegla, Wales (12 November)?
MET PARACHUTE MCR HELMET
MET provided Sam and me with their latest convertible enduro helmet, the Parachute MCR, along with some Bluegrass knee protection. The Parachute MCR’s chin bar is removable, via a clever magnetic release system developed with Fidlock. This allowed us to climb with plenty of ventilation, then attach the chin bar to descend with extra confidence. In full-face form, the helmet is downhill-certified. It also features the MIPS brain protection system, along with a BOA fit dial and no fewer than 21 vents. For full details, visit www.met-helmets.com.