Cycling the Tour de Cheese

MONTLUCON, France (CNN) -- Every year more than 200 professional cyclists set off on the epic Tour de France, some preparing for this brutal and astounding journey by embarking on various programs of extreme workouts, strict diet and intense focus. Plus huge quantities of drugs.

This year, I thought it might be fun to have a go myself, but rather than trying to score thigh-swelling pharmaceuticals from dingy backstreet bikeshops -- or riskier still, trying to do some exercise -- I decided I would train by ingesting a substance that, though largely untested in the field of sports science, is one I am all too familiar with: Cheese.

A vacation in France is an inescapable chance to combine my two passions for dairy and drop-handlebars. It is home to more than 500 cheeses and has such respect for cyclists that riders are accorded equal status with cars but still favored by law in the event of a crash.

Despite France's bike and fromage-friendly credentials, I realized there was a fundamental problem with my plan even as I watched TV pictures of the Tour's emaciated and grimacing riders sweating their way up the slopes of the Alps and Pyrenees.

To complete daily etapes of up to several hundred kilometers these men had to draw on enormous resources, not just physical but mental.

My aim was to spend a week savoring the best dairy produce the tranquil French region of the Dordogne had to offer before attempting to complete two stages of the Tour. With this kind of preparation, it was highly unlikely I would be able to count on the same enormous physical resources, And mental? Emmental perhaps, but mental -- no.

Unfortunately, there was no way around this. The week in Les Hirondelles, a beautiful stone vacation home near the town of Montignac, was already booked, as were the car ferries to and from England. It had to be cheese first, cycling second.

Though often dismissed as a summer tourist trap, our time in the Dordogne proved surprisingly peaceful, however I must confess we did minimal exploration of the numerous chateaux, caves of prehistoric paintings and charming French countryside.

Instead we spent most of the week stirring only briefly from heat-induced slumber to gaze out over the broad oaks and trembling poplars that lined the secluded valley surrounding our vacation home.

Occasional forays were made to local supermarkets, where the hum of refrigerators were no match to the hum of Brie, Camembert, Bouyssou, and Truffe de Perigord that were piled into my basket.

These, in turn, were no match for the discovery we made on the one day we did make it further afield to the medieval market town of Sarlat.

With noisy hordes thronging hot and narrow streets, we were about to give up on the place until we noticed a large area the crowds appeared to be avoiding. Closer inspection revealed a market stall groaning under the weight, and smell, of a cheese whose gnarled exterior resembled not so much decaying wood as just plain decay.

This was vintage Cantal de Montagne: The putrescent spoil that is the dark destiny of all life on our planet perfectly rendered in cheese form. It was frightening to look at, even more frightening to smell and was the potential breeding ground for any one of the five most virulent strains of listeria. I ordered a kilo.

Back at Les Hirondelles, the latest acquisition began making its presence felt despite being banished to a cool cellar beneath the property outside of cheese-eating hours. Soon a cloying miasma of Cantal permeated its way up two flights of stairs into our attic bedroom where it delivered night after night of mildly harrowing dreams.

On the last evening, as thunder clouds rumbled through the sticky night air, I awoke in panic, my body tangled in bedsheets and coated in waxy perspiration. I realized with some trepidation, and not inconsiderable relief, that the cheese course was over. It was now time for The Tour.

At 196.5 kilometers from the high Alpine town of Bourg D'Oisans to the central industrial city of Saint-Etienne, stage 18 of the 2008 Tour de France was among one of the longest distances the riders had to complete on their way to the Champs Elysees finish line in Paris.

But unlike the others, stage 18 had one key factor that sealed its inclusion in my mini two-day version of the Tour: Almost all of the first 75 kilometers are downhill -- a far cry from stage 17, which finished with a eye-wateringly steep 1,000-meter ascent of nearby Alpe D'Huez.

That's not to say it was an easy ride. Mounting my trusty Trek in the mountain resort of La Grave (actually 20 kilometers higher up than the official Tour start) I faced an alarming descent, reaching speeds of up to 60 kph as the road careened around precipices and plunged into cold, dark tunnels hewn through solid rock.

As the course leveled out, I coasted into the city of Grenoble where, unlike the professionals, I had to contend with heavy traffic and dozens of red lights.

Here I also had several thrilling encounters with other cyclists who I initially took to be poseurs since, despite their expensive bikes and lurid lycra outfits, they seemed happy to let me overtake and ride into the distance.

But, as the midday temperatures started to rise and a familiar aroma began to swirl around my slipstream, it dawned on me the main reason they didn't want to join my peleton was that I was beginning to sweat. Not the ordinary kind of sweat that quickly evaporates on a hot afternoon. This was pure Cheese.

After completing a creditable (for me, at least) 175 kilometers of stage 18, the following day I set out, freshly showered, on a marginally less lonely ride, attempting to cover the 165 kilometers of Stage 19 that links the splendid central France towns of Rouanne and Montlucon.

Taking much quieter roads than the previous day, this ride offered a true flavor of the Tour with towns still proudly sporting the cycle-themed decorations glimpsed by the real riders when they passed through just a week earlier.

Many of the roads themselves were still covered in graffiti -- now a traditional part of the race -- including jaunty splatters of "Allez! Allez! Allez!" that I found genuinely encouraging, and alarmingly anatomical images of syringes jabbing at testicles that I found less so.

It was on the second day, as the kilometers creaked slowly past, that I began to appreciate the real beauty of the Tour de France: The sheer enjoyment to be had from pedalling alongside bright yellow fields of sunflowers and through silent shuttered villages, far from the tourist trail but bursting with charm, where panting dogs bask in the afternoon heat.

The other advantage is, of course, that it does build up a healthy appetite. So that when -- after I'd ridden proudly into Mountlucon, checked into the delightful Grenier a Sel (the splurge hotel of our vacation), plowed my way through a steak and several beers -- the waiter asked me if I wanted anything else, I smiled broadly and pointed to my favorite part of the menu.