Q: What name is given to a cyclable road that crosses a mountain saddle at high altitude? A: Pass! Yes, today it was down to real business: two of the four big passes between us and the End of the End to End, namely Grimselpass and Furkapass. After those will come Oberalppass and Albulapass, but our two ascents today add up to a mighty day of 3000m climb, or to put it in feet terms, far too many.
But the good weather arrived at last: sun and blue skies all day. My sunhat was excavated from the damp abysses in my pannier, the sunscreen recovered from under ancient strata of laundry.
We took the path along the south shore of the lake from Interlaken, which had clearly taken inspiration from Sustrans: it was uppy and downy and turned into long stretches of bumpy gravel. At one point, just after a wildly gushing waterfall, it turned into a lethal skiddy downhill with DO NOT ENTER police tape at the bottom, though which direction it was supposed to work was unclear.
Still, the views of the lake, all shimmering blue waters, green hillsides and trim churchy villages, were delightful. And the flat ‘Austrian’ stretches of meadow between the lake and Meiringen, which we cycled yesterday on our Scheidegg loop, were even more picturesque in the sunshine.
We stocked up with grub from the supermarket in Meiringen and started the long, long ascent of Grimselpass.
The climbing itself was OK – steady gradient, just a case of finding the right low gear, and pleasant meadow-mountain scenery that grows in majesty as you go – but the road wasn’t. Because motorbikes.
Normally I don’t have a wrong word to say about motorbikes. But that’s only because there’s no point: the roar of their engines drowns you out. I did have a few wrong words to say about them as we ground up Grimselpass, though. Pulse after pulse of bikers tore past, a dozen at a time, ripping up the air and shattering our ears.
At least a couple of detours offered respite, where the new route takes cars through tunnels but cyclists (and cyclists only, by the way, yes Dutch campervan I’m looking at you) go on the old road, dizzyingly cantilevered round the side of the mountain.
We lunched at one of the little mountain villages that dot the way up. Wooden chalets. A water trough with permanently flowing free springwater. A supermarket or self-service shop for a sandwich, chocolate and fizzy drink.
It was a long, long, hot climb: ‘steigt 1650m auf 30km’, the sign had starkly informed us in Meiringen – and I needed whatever shade I could grab when we passed alongside woods. Several tunnels offered some cool repose too, unless the peace was shattered by a motorbike posse blazing through.
Near the top, things got a bit misty, glacial and grey, with a gritty hydro plant and monochrome mountainsides we hairpinned up.
The summit sported several cafes and restaurants to cater for the exhausted motorcyclists, some high-fiving each other like they’d just achieved something more remarkable than twisting a throttle for half an hour.
We snacked and sped down towards Gletsch, suddenly revealed under the cloudline as a small valley-bottom town accessed by staircase roads from all sides that looked like child’s scribble. I was glad of my disc brakes. And even gladder that they worked.
Down in Gletsch, over a quick stop to take on more water – I’m not a tardigrade, I need to stay hydrated – we realised we had another 650m of climb, and it was past six o’clock. However, with three more hours of daylight and plenty of strength in our legs, the decision to carry on was as obvious as, say, whether to stay in the EU or not. Except we made the right one.
That 650m of climb is one of Switzerland’s most famous mountain roads: Furkapass, featured in the 1964 James Bond vehicle Goldfinger. And the vehicle in question was an Aston Martin DB5, with various gadgets that enabled Bond to stymie an assassination attempt on him by Tilly, pursuing him at speed round the precipitous bends.
A model of the DB5 (in gold, rather than the silver of the film version) was a popular toy back in the 1960s. I had one. Replicas cost £25, but an original in good condition is worth up to a grand; I suspect mine went to a jumble sale in Ferriby circa 1970. For the real thing, you’re looking at half a million quid. I’ve never looked at half a million quid. Especially not when checking my pension fund.
Anyway, up we went. Furkapass was mercifully quiet this summer evening, free of blooming motorbikes, even cars. Just us, plodding up this way and that as the road clambered up the mountain shoulders, past the derelict hotel and on to the summit where a few motorhome drivers congratulated themselves on the view back down majestically to Gletsch.
This will be the highest point on our Swiss End to End: 2436m according to the sign, or 7,992ft. Either way it’s very high.
Now came the dubious pleasure of the downhill. Lots of braking and concentration necessary: hairpin after hairpin, each coming abruptly at the end of a 35mph freefall. One lapse, idly thinking about which beer to have tonight maybe, and I could have been over the edge and never come back. You Only Live Twice applied to Bond but not me.
All thrilling stuff though. After what seemed ages the road finally reached the valley, stopped corkscrewing (hmm; maybe I’ll have a glass of wine instead of beer…) and settled into a gentle-downhill, mostly-straight run down to our accommodation destination of Hospental, outside Andermatt. It was dusky, grey, getting misty, and the roads were almost empty.
It was just starting to drizzle when I arrived gratefully at our lodge to join Nigel, already halfway through his beer.
I soon caught him up.
Miles today: 62
Miles since Chancy: 230