Tour de France

Eclectic shops and crazy drivers in the tiny Principality of Andorra

My book ‘North to Norway’ is out in paperback and e-book. It's a story as much about the joy of travel as about motorcycling.

My readers keep sending pictures of the book in different places and some encouraging comments about it. One, Jon Webb, was immersed in his copy on the train.

'“One minute I’m quietly sitting on the train back from London and the next I’m catapulted on a seat of the pants journey up the Trollstigen! What an adventure. A gripping and exhilarating read.”

Recent excerpts might have given you a flavour of my writing and the adventures I recount in the book. I hope that you’ll want to buy the full version, available now on Amazon and in selected branches of Waterstones.

In last week’s extract Duty Free Loonies Andorra offered a diverting detour on my journey deep into the Pyrenees, where there was some fabulous riding to be enjoyed. The best was yet to come as I was about to tackle the Tour de France highlights, once I’d finished a pesky virtual board meeting.

A couple of hours later, the meeting over, I made a Le Mans start, scooting out of the car park as fast as I dared. A few kilometres down the road lay the ski area of Baqueira-Beret, Spain’s most popular winter resort. The snow had melted long ago and the place had a slightly desolate air that out-of-season ski areas have, the grey tows and chairlifts casting long shadows across the lush green slopes. Back on the proper track, the border crossing into France at the Col du Portillon marked the true beginning of my day’s Tour de France challenge.

The mountainous miles flew by in a blur of exhilarating switchbacks and spectacular scenery. The distant high peaks of the Pyrenees wore a mantle of white cumulus clouds above the hazy blue of the arêtes, cwms and valleys but immediately above me was an intense deep purple sky pierced by scorching midday sun. In Arreau, between cols and temporarily back at ground level in the Vallée d’Aure, I parked the bike under a shady oak tree for a coffee in the pretty main square. It was thronged with cyclists out doing some of the climbs the hard way, dreaming perhaps of Tour de France glory on their own étapes. I was full of admiration for their efforts.

I approached one of the riders clad in logo-covered blue Lycra, arms tanned and whippet-thin, his muscles defined like a Grecian statue. ‘Which way are you heading now?’ I asked.

He gave a friendly nod. ‘We’ve come from Bagnères and now go up the Col d’Aspin and then to Tarbes. It’s an easy day today. Yesterday from Pau, conquering those other passes, that was sacrément difficile.’

I wished him and his mates bon courage. They’d need it.

The roads became ever steeper as I dropped down the gears. Sitting on top of 1,100cc of internal combustion engine I was powered up the winding, narrow roads to the sound of the exhaust reverberating off the rocks.

As I carefully overtook group after group of sweating cyclists, it seemed no self-propelled day on two wheels in this glorious countryside could be classed as easy. It was hard enough on the motorcycle, managing some hairy bends, with little or nothing by way of a barrier against the long plumbline drops. Sharp switchbacks disappeared round sheer cliffs and tight corners where only one vehicle could possibly pass. I prayed nothing was coming the other way.

Tribes of goats and, on the Col d’Aspin, a herd of cows, stood stationary in several places on the road, four-legged bovine boulders leaving slippery brown deposits to catch the unwary. I was forced to crawl past, my feet dangling just centimetres above the surface, ready for an abrupt stop.

I was aware of my buttocks clenching, gripping the sides of the fuel tank harder, as the bends tightened, and the exposure became almost overwhelming. I fought hard to try to relax my grip on the handlebars, reminding myself that the secret to smooth and safe cornering was a delicate touch on the controls, not the grip of death. At the summit of most of the cols I pulled over, taking in the stupendous wide-angled vistas which helped to shake away the nerves.

My arms simply weren’t long enough for a panoramic selfie so I swapped phones with an Austrian rider so we could both capture the grandeur of the scenery on camera.

I sat down on a rock to drink some water and to contemplate just being there. I’d started the morning back in the world of work but here I was doing something I loved, being in a place that was simply beautiful and in glorious weather to boot. I had no worries, other than staying safe. I had hours still to ride, enjoying the physicality of being on my machine. It was joyful, memorable… and I still get goosebumps when I think of it now.

There are some occasions when the ride is about the destination, when the weather or traffic or the lack of diverting scenery make the day a bit of a chore. Then there are days like this one, a day I didn’t want to end.

Large brown metal signboards that displayed the name of the pass and route profile were plastered with stickers by countless cyclists and motorbikers, souvenirs of the enduring popularity of these roads.

Nearing the summit of d'Aubisque, a giant heart painted on the tarmac stopped me in my tracks. Above it, boldly inscribed, was the name “Judith”. My wife's name.

Astounded, I walked back down the col, phone clutched in my hand, to capture this strange coincidence and to send it to her.

She replied, via WhatsApp, in a masterpiece of bluffing: “I painted it earlier for you. Glad you spotted it. Keep going. Love you. XX”.

As I continued to ride majestic peaks, their summits shrouded in wispy clouds rose on all sides. Deep valleys, carved by ancient glaciers, plunged into the earth, their slopes blanketed in a patchwork of green meadows and dense forests. The air was thin and crisp at this altitude, carrying the scent of pine needles and wildflowers. A refreshing breeze whispered through the trees, offering a brief respite from the scorching sun. I was riding with my visor up, the better to see the road ahead but also to dry the sweat that trickled down my cheeks. On my left, as I rounded another sharp bend a waterfall cascaded down the mountainside, fed by snowmelt from high above, its roar echoing through the valley. Nature was raw and visceral in its power here.

A vast expanse of mountains stretched out before me, their peaks forming a jagged horizon that seemed to go on forever. Tiny villages nestled in the valleys below, their red-tiled roofs glinting in the sunlight. Vehicles, far beneath me, seemed like tiny ants crawling up the tarmac zigzags.

Each conquered pass—Peyresourde, d’Aspin, Tourmalet, d’Aubisque—felt like a personal victory. It was a grand cru of motorbike touring. A vintage day.

It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening by the time I made it to the Spanish border at the Col du Portalet, the shadows growing long in the valleys. At nearly 1,800 metres it was decidedly chilly; I pulled on more layers and thicker gloves for the rest of the day’s 280-kilometre journey to Jaca, in the fading light that soon dimmed to an inky blackness.

As I drew to a halt by the Hotel Oreol and parked the bike down a narrow alleyway, I sighed with deep satisfaction. I was completely knackered from the physical effort (yes, even on a motorbike) and the sheer concentration I’d expended.

That had been one of my most unforgettable rides ever.

© 2025 Stephen Oliver

If you’ve enjoyed this excerpt you can find the complete story in paperback and Kindle format on Amazon.