Alpe d’Huez—the absolute pinnacle of mountain stages at the Tour de France. Since 1952, it has regularly featured as a summit finish and, alongside the final sprint in Paris, it easily ranks as the most heavily visited and iconic spectacle of the entire Grande Boucle.
On paper, the climb up Alpe d’Huez—spanning 13.8 km with an average gradient of 8.1% and an elevation gain of just over 1,150 meters—is certainly not the most brutal monster in the Alps. What makes it completely unique, however, are its 21 legendary hairpin turns, the most famous of which is undoubtedly Turn 7: the notorious Dutch Corner. Why?
- Dutch riders won 8 out of the first 14 Tour stages finished here (though they haven’t won since 1989).
- Beer literally flows like a mountain river.
- Approximately every third fan packed onto the slopes is from the Netherlands.
🟡 Tour de France Showcase
The Myth of the 21 Hairpins and the Orange Cauldron
Alpe d’Huez (1,850 m) is far more than just a long climb in the Isère region; it is a holy sanctuary of modern road cycling. The ascent features 21 iconic switchbacks, each numbered in descending order and bearing a bronze plaque with the names of historic stage winners (including Fausto Coppi, Marco Pantani, and Geraint Thomas).
- Tour de France Appearances: The race has scaled this massive open-air arena 32 times since its grand introduction in 1952, where the legendary Fausto Coppi took the maiden victory.
- The Infamous Turn 7 (Dutch Corner): This specific hairpin is absolute cycling sci-fi. The madness dates back to the 70s and 80s when Dutch climbers dominated the mountain. The local parish priest even raised funds to restore his church by betting on Dutch stage wins. Today, over 50,000 orange-clad fans claim this corner on race day, bringing entire tankers filled with beer and turning the mountain side into a massive techno festival.
- An Otherworldly Climb Record: The all-time speed record up the 21 turns is held by “The Pirate,” Marco Pantani, who in 1995 practically flew up the mountain in a mind-boggling 36 minutes and 40 seconds—averaging over 22.5 km/h up an 8% wall.
Welcome to the Madhouse
It is pure, unadulterated hell. Not because of the incline itself, but because of the sheer, overwhelming atmosphere. Imagine squeezing over 700,000 screaming, drinking fans onto a narrow, 14 km mountain road. Unverified reports from the historic 2013 edition even claimed the crowd size peaked close to a million people. We had the absolute pleasure of experiencing this madness firsthand that very year, when the organizers scheduled the riders to climb the mountain twice in a single day.
Die-hard fans arrive in vans, cars, and camper RVs days in advance, essentially setting up a massive alpine campsite on the cliffs. Claiming the prime spots takes real commitment. The Dutch take it to a professional level; they roll in with entire industrial tanker trucks filled to the brim with beer. It’s a shifting ocean of bright orange. If you’ve ever experienced the King’s Day celebrations in the heart of Amsterdam, it’s a very similar vibe. But more on that in a moment.
Climb from Bourg d’Oisans
We made it to the stage early in the morning, driving up from Briançon. Everything was already hopelessly packed. The only available parking spot was miles before Bourg d’Oisans—the small valley town where the climb officially kicks off. There was practically zero chance of driving up; the mountain passes are completely locked down by police on race day. But we grabbed our road bikes and refused to give up.
We cleared the valley town with ease. Even the opening ramps—the absolute steepest section of the climb, averaging over 10% for the first 3 km—went smoothly. We wanted to stop, take a few photos, and catch our breath, but the sheer energy of the crowd wouldn’t let us. The dense human walls lining both sides of the asphalt erupted into cheers the moment they saw us slow down. They screamed, waved flags, clapped, and laughed, thoroughly enjoying themselves at our expense. At that point, there was still a decent one-meter gap in the middle of the road, allowing us to spin our gears comfortably.
Passing through the small hamlet of La Garde, we encountered clusters of motorhomes draped in German, British, and Belgian flags. Blaring music echoed from every corner, and the heavy aroma of grilled sausages filled the air. Fans lounged in folding camp chairs, and our struggle up the incline provided them with some prime entertainment. They stared at the road, roaring encouragement at anyone turning a pedal.
Cycling Alpe d’Huez
Any pre-conceived plan of staying together as a tight group evaporated immediately. It was every man for himself. In that modern-day Tower of Babel, you lose all sense of orientation and simply grind. Logic tells you to put your foot down and find a good viewing spot on the grass, but your ego simply refuses. If I stop now, I will never get clipped back into the pedals.
Suddenly, three guys dressed in Superman costumes and tiny Speedos started running right alongside my bike, slapping me on the back and screaming: “SAGAN! SAGAN!” They were completely wasted, stumbling far worse than I was. I felt an immense sense of relief when I finally dropped them.
Surviving the Dutch Corner
And then, I rolled into the infamous Dutch Corner. It was a solid wall of grinning faces clad in orange. Within seconds, a guy ran alongside me, tilted a plastic cup of beer, and poured it straight down my throat while I was still trying to peddle. Half of it drenched my cycling jersey. To be fair, I was incredibly thirsty, so I gulped it down, praying I wouldn’t lose my balance and crash.
The next guy cared even less about manners; he simply doused me in beer while cheering wildly. At that point, I stopped caring entirely. Two more guys lunged toward my front wheel, performing a chaotic rumba dance just inches from my tire, trying to get me to stop and party. Having successfully managed my “hydration strategy,” I put my head down and pushed right through.
The crowd became increasingly dense, and a few switchbacks later, our cycling journey came to an abrupt halt. Gendarmes, metal barriers, and a strict lockdown. This was the end of the line for amateur riders. My legs were completely cooked, so I gladly accepted it as a perfect excuse to stop. I had made it as far as physically possible.
Escaping Through the Back Door
I finally unclipped from my pedals and started snapping a few photos of the spectacle. Nearby, the official Tour de France promotional caravan was parked—a massive train of allegorical floats handing out free hats, keychains, shirts, and cheese samples.
Suddenly, I noticed a tiny, unmarked paved path branching off the main route. Could this be a way through?
I took a gamble and headed up the side path, having no idea where it would lead. After thirty minutes of heavy climbing, I miraculously popped out at the upper parking lots, just a short distance above the official finish line. The hidden back road around the ski resort was completely unguarded and virtually empty.
My friend Pavel had been camping out here with his family for four days. He handed me a dry jersey, cracked open a cold can of beer, and the true “Sagan-mania” could finally begin. One by one, the rest of our scattered group—Igor, Martin, Meggy, and Berty—managed to navigate the crowds and find us. Against all odds, all five of us had made it to the top.
The Double Ascent of peloton
We almost missed the first arrival while relaxing on a camper sofa with cold beers in hand. We scrambled to the barriers, waving our flags like absolute madmen. Whenever you watch the Tour de France on television, you get the feeling that some of these fans belong in a psychiatric ward. But when you are trapped inside that massive human cauldron, the absolute hysteria consumes you entirely.
You can hear the riders approaching from miles away—the heavy rumble of helicopters, the roar of police motorcycles, and a deafening wave of human screams moving up the mountain. The pro riders flew past us, creating a colorful blur. By the time the final grupetto of suffering riders rolled through, we had just enough time to grab another beer before the leaders hit the bottom and began climbing the 21 turns for the second time.
This time, it was the definitive battle for the stage victory.
The Anarchic Descent
If you think the peak of the madness happens during the race, you are dead wrong. The real insanity kicks off the second the stage concludes. What follows is a state of total, unmanaged chaos and absolute anarchy. The police try their best to direct traffic, but absolutely nobody listens to them. Trying to control that massive, intoxicated ocean of humanity heading down a steep mountain is a physical impossibility. The gendarmes are reduced to mere spectators.
This is where you realize what high-level bike handling truly means. The golden rule: do not clip your shoes into the pedals. The race is over, and half a million people are simultaneously cascading down the mountain. People on foot, people on road bikes, massive camper vans, promotional floats, ambulances, and singing crowds are all crammed onto the same narrow strip of asphalt.
It was a total, beautiful madhouse. I felt like a single chicken in a massive industrial farm. To my left, to my right, in front of and behind me, I had a maximum of five centimeters of breathing room. At one point, the tire of a massive moving beer tanker was brushing against my left leg, while a group of thoroughly exhausted teenagers leaned against my right shoulder.
I bumped my front wheel into the bike ahead of me a dozen times, but nobody cared. Everyone was in a state of absolute euphoria.
The chaos finally started to thin out once we reached the valley town of Bourg d’Oisans. But the relief was short-lived for anyone in a car. After loading our bikes onto the rack, we sat in a grueling, gridlocked traffic jam for several hours, finally moving under the cover of a deep alpine night.
The Verdict
The Tour de France has scaled Alpe d’Huez so many times that the local authorities have named every single one of the 21 switchbacks after a legendary stage winner. Turn 1, for instance, honors both Fausto Coppi and Lance Armstrong.
If you want to understand the true, unhinged soul of the Tour de France, you have to experience Alpe d’Huez firsthand on race day. To give you some perspective on our achievement, here are the historical climbing times of some world-class cycling legends compared to our team performance:
- 1995: Marco Pantani – 36:40
- 1997: Marco Pantani – 36:53
- 2004: Lance Armstrong – 37:36
- 2015: Chris Froome – 40:42
- 2013: Alejandro Valverde – 40:58
- 2013: Petere Ertl – 2:21:18 👑
We might not have beaten Pantani, but we definitely had more fun, drank more beer, and lived to tell the tale of the greatest cycling stadium on Earth!
