Morzine 2004
Trip photos: http://www.su.nott.ac.uk/cycling/photos.php?album_id=141
On 26th August '04, various bikers rolled up to the chalet in the French Alps which was to be subjected to another year's abuse and excessive kitchen cleaning. It was a scene a bit like the start of Big Brother, as there were several different groups, each arriving at random times, and it was only when we had seven of the ten intrepid advernturers, that we realised that no-one was quite sure who the other three were. In fact, if some random Yugoslavian ballet dancers had rocked up, we'd have probably let them stay the week without realising. Not that those three looked anything like Yugoslavian ballet dancers of course...
Anyway, people and bikes arrived intact - always a good start, and meaning that there was more stuff available to break during the following week. I think it was Dave who first managed to start a one-man demolition derby, breaking the saddle, mech and seat-bolt of his hired GT I-Drive Ruckus during the first day or two. I'm now glad that my attempts to talk him into something less hardcore were pretty poor, as both wouldn't have survived the week... in fact he may have been better off with the £460 per week rental, yes really, for the shiny Giant DH monster we were offered at the first place.
Soon enough, Roger decided that he wanted a bit of the carnage action, and tried to go one better - breaking a bike is easy enough, but Roger wanted gore, lunging off his Pace DH warrior rig (albeit with no rear sus and a whole 63mm of air sprung travel and super long carbon seatpost) and removing much arm/leg/shoulder/chest skin. Would Morzine have enough wound dressings, and how would Giles' medic skills cope when put to the test?!
Indeed, Giles' doctor hat had been packed, although he needed some (Halfords) specialist assistance when his own mount (again, far too much carbon for such a gnarly place) decided to admit itself to A&E, the front wheel needing rebuilding halfway down a particularly fast loose rocky fireroad. Wheel rebuilt, we plunged onwards (aren't chairlifts great?) back to our new home. In fact that chalet life was almost as entertaining as the riding, with many riders on the first day wondering if they'd come on the wrong holiday - the highly eroded infamous Tennis Court Run proving to be more of a hike than a 'ride' - still, £2,000 for a pimpy walking stick with anodised bits sounds like good value to me... Phil was on a mission to find as much melted cheese as the year before, and everyone seemed to be raving about Granny Maniacs. Was this some strange Morzine hardcore zimmer frame convention? No, just the weirdly titled cereal bars. I felt somehow cheated. James was trying to introduce the others to the wonders of "plaisir noir" (black pleasure), but again, imagine the disappointment when this turned out to be a chocolate ice-cream desert and not the new rental from the XXX video store.
Personally, I was still slightly worried about Roger as he asked me whether I had ever put eyeliner on knee injuries, but it turned out that the only mental problems were mine, as he'd meant(/said) "iodine" and why would anyone want to tart up their gaping gashes with eyeliner... anyway, moving on swiftly... Tuesday dawned with the same sunburningly gorgeous skies as the previous days. Simon, Giles and Dave set off early.. I thought the rest were keen aiming for a 10:00 start (note the word "aiming"..), but apparently this was about their first cake stop of the day. When they returned, we learnt of their adventures with the local (and not so local) stormtroopers. Stormtroopers, in case you didn't know, are those power-ranger-on-steroids folk with full-on body armour and full face helmets and *big* bikes (no, a 20" frame is not enough!)... they are not to be confused with Wannabe Stormtroopers who look very similar, but they just rented the costumes from down the road as they don't have the special riding forces that the true ones have. Equally, I hear you can now get
StormtrooperLite variants... Anyway, I digress - one of these here stormtroopers had enlightened the ultrakeenos/less lazy ones in the ways of how to deal with local ramblers: <said>
"They know the risks; mow them down!"
And so, that was to become the catchphrase of the week ranking just above James'
"I've had mega-arse pounding all day, but I'm up for more". Simon C had decided to take the afternoon off, a wise decision perhaps, given that most of the others went off to pinball down the Gulley Run in Les Gets. Pinball is not a bad description as most of us pinged off the rocks in the lower section, glad to be spat out the other end. Dave took the pinball to greater lengths, using the steep gulley sides, a log or three and a large solid rocklike object (probably a rock) to mame himself and the now long-suffering bike on - cue broken brake hose.
Once more Roger was not to be deterred, but having found the earlier incidents a bit painful and not wanting to stain the bedsheets any more (with blood I hope), it was the bike that rebelled this time, twisting the XT front mech into a mini modern-art sculpture. Simon's afternoon off had not been in vain as we later found out. It was the preparation for a cunningly sick and twisted plot to knacker us out for the next day's ride - not happy with the Punani Bar (cheated again, when I could find nothing more entertaining than a cheesey Panini to buy with my 50Euro note which I'd saved up especially for), he led us on a mystery tour of Morzine in search of the apparently hallowed Indian restaurant. Which after several kilometres of walking (or doing a Monty Python impression in Roger's case) was found....to be rather expensive. Between us we had about enough downpayment for half a stale naan, so back to the Punani Bar it was. Punanis thoroughly digested, the next day broke to see the group attempt an ascent on Avoriaz, albeit using the cable cars, so maybe it wasn’t that hard after all. Mr Hampshire, a.k.a. roadie boy still had some nandrolin floating about his veins so opted to ride up the road from our lunch stop while the rest of us abused the lift passes like any sane person would. That wouldn’t have been so bad, had he not reached the summit at about the same time. Sicko.
I think it was this day, when Dave managed to turn a minor bike mechanical into a feat of major engineering resourcefulness. What started off as a simple front puncture, soon got a lot harder as the front wheel refused to disengage from the forks (us XC riders have absolutely no idea how a 20mm axle works – it might have had a quick release but all that wanted to do was release itself quickly, leaving the axle to it. Although this is where it gets hazy for me, as I also recall a remarkably similar incident involving the same bike (and rider!) and the rear wheel – again a bolt-on axle- halfway down a remote mountainside. It was evident that none of Nottingham’s finest engineers could solve the problem (although maybe this was no surprise seeing as they were still back in Nottingham - watch how I run for cover now…). We got close to offering Mars bars to passing stormtroopers, in the vain hope that they might share the secret of rear wheel removal, but fortunately brute force and hitting it lots finally did the trick.
Maybe I’m being too harsh on Dave, as it wasn’t just him trashing bike bits left, right and centre. The route down from Avoraz was to claim its own victims, as we saw one rider wash out on a fireroad corner just some fool off Dumber and Dumber. Phil’s Duke forks wanted some of that and spontaneously committed fork suicide, their 60psi soul escaping heavenwards, in contrast to the crown which was intent on burrowing into the fiery depths of hell. How would Leisure Lakes react, seeing as the forks A) weren’t Phil’s and B) had only ventured out of the safety of their box at the start of the week.
The ridge ride on the way back provided our intrepidphotographers with some amazing alpine vistas, made all the more impressive by having one on each side of us as we teetered along the ridge. Apparently this was the mtb route but certain members of the group must have thought that VTT was the French translation for “only for mentally deficient mountain goats on acid” – it was a tad nadgery in places. Which was a challenge that Roger (and moreover his bike) refused to leave unaccepted, as both lunged off the arête onto the steep scree slope below, coming to rest as three separate entities – Roger, the Pace and its saddle and bits of seatpost. XC jeys may indeed have a reputation for having a seatpost rammed up their posterior, but it was all he could do to get back without performing a surgical procedure that even Giles would have issues sorting.
That evening is fairly vague in my mind – not due to the purchase of the cheapest ‘champagne’ in the world (1Euro bargainage by Simon, Dave and Giles), nor an attempt to sample every red wine in the Champion supermarket (Amit and his partner in crime, Phil). Maybe the crème brulees had gone to my head – all I recall is Simon recounting the wonders of Bobfocs (apparently “body off Baywatch, face off Crimewatch”) and other members of the group suspiciously asking what the age of consent was in France…
Moving swiftly on, the final days came, and as usual for the morning, certain people were still in bed <hangs>and others were fighting it out to go and get the bread for the day’s sarnies. You wouldn’t think that the walk to the bakery would get people so excited, but I am led to believe that there were an impressive display of baps at the boulangerie, even if every time I went, it looked like said baps had aged considerably and become a bit droopy. Sandwiches made, and bladders filled (or emptied depending on whether we’re talking about camelbaks or siphoning pythons here) this was to be the day of the Col de Cou, a masseeve climb with no chairlift. Bummer. The mission was to beat Barrie Clarke’s 14 and half minutes up it. The mission was lost right from the outset. Still, a valiant effort was made by all,and huge swathes were cut from the time it took us last year, with everyone trying to keep up with the bouncy Oranges, led out by Jimbo H. I wish I’d not been wearing the heart rate monitor that I was due to its absolute certainty that I was close to death, my heart going into hummingbird mode. Not aided by your chest feeling as though Lisa Riley was sitting on it… now there’s a thought. It was, however, well worth it for the excellent run down the other side, with some huge drainage ditches to negotiate. And also some fairly insignificant ones that managed to suck my front wheel in and then spit out the back wheel and rider onto the floor. Pain.
Earlier on we’d managed to sample the Swiss downhills, which were rather like the French ones but with more cows with bells round their necks. The ongoing mental trauma prevents me from reminding you about the moo-cow that took a fancy to the saddle on the Patriot and Phil’s grips, but my bike says it feels violated. For others, the suffering was more physical rather than mental, with no amount of red wine able to take Amit away from the pain within. In fact it almost seemed like he’d been swatting up on his MBUK masterclasses each evening, but the Steve Peat-like speed was also due to Amit’s arm muscles go on partial strike, electing to do either steering or braking but
never both. It was a wise choice to go with steering! Simon went for the last mechanical of the trip, and whilst most bikes were beginning to look the worse for wear and need a good strip down and clean (much like the riders I guess), Si’s saddle had had enough and parted company with the post, making that the third one of the week to go AWOL.
And that’s where the story ends more or less – Saturday beckoned and we all got on with packing, cleaning the kitchen (again) and double-checking that no baseball bats had infiltrated our baggage (that’ll only happen the once eh Rog?). Somehow we all got back unscathed, with a few falling victim to the ravages that are Swiss check-in clerks – “What’s that you say? Bicycle? In a bag? Over 25 kilograms? Empty your wallet please sir”- some almost succumbing to French gendarmes on the autoroute (lucky those vans aren’t that quick) and others just bumbling home jabbering about the holy trail and how they were like totally on the edge, dude.
As I finish and start to look forward to next year’s antics, I’ll leave you all with what was for me the funniest moment of the trip – if you’ve not seen it, then ask for a demo – it’s awesome! It all came about in the restaurant one night, as Simon C was regaling us with the delights of X-treme red squirrel watching, sitting there in the woods going “f***ing come on you b*st*rds”, and this evolved somehow (probably beer induced) into the best impression of a fish swimming up err a place which would be bad for a (little) fish to swim up… there is more but it’s just not printable – for those of you who weren’t there (or who had sensibly convened down the other end of the table) I’m sorry, but you’ll either have to see Mr Chopin or come along next year if you dare…
Andy Robson, 6th September 2004.