A day above the clouds up the Alto de l'Angliru, 'the hardest climb in the world' – Reflections from the Vuelta a España

What do a West Bromwich Albion flag, a 20-seater minibus of sweaty journalists and the Timo Roosen fan club have in common? Not much, really… But they were all on the roadside of the iconic Alto de l’Angliru today, ready to welcome stage 13 of Vuelta a España as it returned to the Asturian icon for a 10th time.

Cycling's circus of fandom is known for throwing up a random concoction of supporters, and though the numbers along the brutal climb couldn't hold a candle to the hordes who went to see Alberto Contador's last dance in 2017, it was my first time up such a historic climb.

The journey on the 12.4km climb starts at the bottom, which was in La Ara, in Riosa, for anyone who'd signed to board the media van organised by the Vuelta a day prior. The anxious Brit in me was half an hour early to the meeting point, but I got to see several 'invitados' who were eagerly queuing to get onto their transportation the next street over.

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Shorts and t-shirts were commonplace with a glorious day welcoming the Vuelta to the beautiful landscape in the valley, though the coal-mining legacy stood out on the approach to La Ara, with high-rise stacks lining the views. A Chicago Cubs fan was among those ready to board the VIP bus, and though not many stolen bases awaited him on the climb, nine innings' worth of action certainly would.

The stage was already kicking off with a rapid start from Cabezón de la Sal, bringing the 25-rider breaker and the animation of the Angliru closer, but by 1:30 local time my ascent had begun, as the largely Spanish-speaking media and me piled onto the minibus and headed for the finish.

Some people were already posted for the afternoon in their camping chairs, others were making the trip that stage winner João Almeida (UAE Team Emirates-XRG) and Jonas Vingegaard (Visma-Lease a Bike) would make three hours later – albeit with a much slower pace and without the fury with which the Portuguese rider ate up the kilometres on the front.

Methods of transport differed from road to gravel to mountain bike, but I also bizarrely saw electric scooters and a dad towing his son with both on bikes attached by a bungee cord. The minibus driver honked constantly as he tried to avoid the side of bike riders on one end and walkers hiking on the other, but thankfully, we didn't hit anyone.

Flags were, as usual, draped on everyone's backs or the spot they'd chosen to call home for the day on the Angliru, and came from far and wide: Spain, Brittany, Portugal, Palestine. Asturias, Cantabria, the Basque Country, Scotland, Ireland. You name it, your flag was probably there with someone waving it.

Such is the steepness of the climb, you actually get a chance to observe what paraphernalia people have chosen to haul as their cargo in the back pocket of cycling jerseys, from a pair of sliders to change into later to a well-deserved bocadillo being carried by a young rider.

He was in a Ciudad de Oviedo jersey, a place I know little about other than that I am staying there in a few hours and that an Asturian cider is something I should seek out, but whatever he had for breakfast was certainly working, as he overtook around 30 riders as I saw him and our minibus three times as we ebbed and flowed from open road into packed narrow hairpin.

Steepest sections

With just under 8km to go, our driver had to remind a Vuelta worker that it was 'meta' we wanted – the finish line, for press – and with some minor convincing and the driver's foot down once again, we were through and into the steepest sections of the climb.

Naturally, this is where more fans were waiting, with a large car park housing campervans, including the Timo Roosen fan club, ice cream vans, and looking over a stunning landscape. "Abierto", or open, read the sign beneath Angliru, and from here on in I felt as though I was retracing the steps, rather pedal strokes, of Roglič, Carthy, Contador, Elisonde, and all of the other conquerors of these vicious slopes.

The crowds got bigger, and the hairpins more difficult for the van to navigate, with the odd hairpin bringing a slight crunch as the long vehicle bottomed out but muscled its way around the bends, much to the fear of those who were positioned at the top of the hairpins, unsure of whether our minivan was about to send them crashing into the mountainside.

With the Vuelta soon heading west to Galicia to close out the second week, it was no surprise to see several Deportivo de La Coruña football shirts, but Porto and as already mentioned, to my surprise, West Brom were also represented.

My favourite was a Gareth Bale Real Madrid jersey; however, with the Champions League on the sleeve and the fan donning it offering our driver a beer through his window, which he thankfully didn't accept, but the exchange was nice nevertheless.

Today's priorities ran beer, bike race and Angliru, in that order, for the man playing the mercurial Welshman today, but he wasn't the only one in great spirits several hours before the race would arrive, with the Portugal fans out in full force beginning to bang on our windows, praying that their man Almeida would deliver the business. I can only imagine the feeling when he finally came by them and won the stage, describing it later as "the hardest climb in the world, it's crazy, it just doesn't end".

It was nearly over for me, though, with the last through ramps up into the final two kilometres showing the pain that would await the peloton – or remnants of it. At times, I felt like I was on a rollercoaster awaiting a drop, such was the gradient. It was spectacular, and the long open sections allowed another peak at the green Asturian backdrop, which juxtaposes perfectly with the hellish slopes. The riders wouldn't be afforded a peak as they battled to find rhythm, so I took a few for them.

The summit

At this point, we entered the cloudy peak we'd seen from the bottom, and neared the final run for home, with the known descent section and quick run to the line providing an early look at how Almeida would lead out Vingegaard and still outsprint him.

The summit was serene when I first saw it, when the makeshift gravel car park providing a home to a small number of approved vehicles and leaving a space for the team cars to arrive later. The wait wasn't long, though, with the rapid speeds in the opening three hours of racing meaning Angliru was coming for those in the peloton.

Colleagues told me of cold and wet years gone by at the top of the road, but it was blazing sunshine and a guaranteed sunburn that awaited my first time up Angliru – certainly a memorable one.

When Vingegaard and Almeida arrived, they quickly got surrounded, and the pouring of water overhead and downing of cherry juice began, with the cameras shoved in their faces and whisking away to the winner's area unfolding in a matter of minutes. Knowing that they would be speaking in the mixed zone and press conferences, I quickly spied out Tom Pidcock (Q36.5), who had been dropped but fought well to keep his podium spot.

The Brit chose the stone monument at the top of the climb, which lists its previous winners, with a map of the climb and a picture of the Asturian method for pouring cider on another, and was met by his partner, soigneur and his dogs. He was exhausted, but still gave attention to his pets as he removed his helmet and put on a jacket.

After he spoke, the finish line was getting fuller and fuller by the minute, with riders arriving in dribs and drabs to the top of the Anlgiru – they'd completed it and all they wanted to know was 'Where is the bus?'. Finding out it was near La Ara, back at the bottom where my journey had begun, was no music to their ears, but the routines were all the same – neck a recovery drink, put on a couple extra layers, and begin the long road downhill.

Some looked completely spent, others happy – either to have made it, or won the stage in Almeida's case. He did the rounds with the media, as did Vingegaard, but there was none of the animosity or rivalry that I witnessed at the Tour between the two teams. A bike race was had, they proved very much each other's equals, and they'll go again tomorrow on Lagos de Somiedo, as will I.

The happiest I saw throughout my day on the iconic climb, though, were the Portuguese fans, who I'd seen some five hours earlier, as the convoy of vehicles, including the media van, also headed back down the steep slopes, with a group of six or seven Almeida fans olé-ing any and everyone who drove past them. I hope they got back to wherever they were staying safe, because this Vuelta is not yet over, and their man is well within a chance of overall victory if he can break Vingegaard.

Hopefully, one day, I'll be back on the Angliru, to take in the sights and smells that make a bike race what it is and make the Vuelta so special. But for now I'm finally in Oviedo, and I'm off to find a cider, and hopefully someone to pour me it from an obscene height.

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