Col du Tourmalet – myth, mur, murderer.

As early as 1910, Octave Lapize screamed in the faces of the Tour organizers: "Vous êtes des assassins!" – you are murderers. And anyone who climbs that route today understands him. There's nothing forgiving about the mountain. It doesn't swallow you up with a ramp at the beginning, but rather slowly cooks you down.

You eagerly await the few hairpin bends so you can at least get a few turns with less pressure on the pedal – and then it spits you out onto the next straight. Without mercy, without a break.

Finally! Red Flame. Your heart rate skyrockets—no wonder at over 2,000 meters—and the abyss opens wide to your right. Now you're very close to an apparition of the Virgin Mary, but the nearby Lourdes would, of course, prevent such a thing.

And then, just when you think you're making it, just when you're calculating, "I'm almost there," the last 300 meters come. No ramp, no hill – a wall. Your bike won't go on, your legs won't go on. Everything's screaming: get off. But as a recreational cyclist, there's only one tactic: stay seated, pedal, stubborn as a mule. Until it's finished. At some point, it's finished.

And up above? No triumphal arch. Just wind, rubble, and a statue laughing at you. Welcome to the survivors' club.