Three K's up.

And you thought global warming may keep you from shivering throughout the summer!

Summiting the heady atmosphere of Europe's highest road pass, the Col de l'Iseran, lies one of Frances few remaining summer skiing glaciers, Val d'Isere's glacier de Pisailles. Menaced by swirling clouds the light snow scurries around us as we engage in a bitter cold battle to prise on our ski gear and prise our minds from the warmth of our beds to the harshness of minus 5 plus 50 mph of gusting, bone chilling, winds.

A few runs later I've set the gates and red and blue flashes by as the boys focus on thier line and bury thoughts in to improving their performance. But this is July! The Tour de France is coming over this very pass in a matter of days and we are being bombarded. There is a relentless pummelling as the icy winds drive shards of snow into our cheeks, the wind penetrates through my three layers of jackets and I stand there perplexed by our decision to not go to the beach.

A most amiable Chief of pistes and mountain security drops by with a grin like Gollum when he has spotted The Ring lurking in squalid depths , "Are you guys ok to carry on?", is he asking me because I am British and will be the first to crack under the darkened skies, to scurry back down the hill away from such hardship? Or is he too, with his leathery complexion, bright husky-like eyes shaded by his non-vintage '60's Vuarnets and hardened veteran of the never winnable battle with Mother Nature, looking for a reason to get the hell out of there and back to the bossom of the boulangerie?!

So the call comes over the radio, "the Col de l'Iseran is closing, there are snow drifts on the road." As I look towards the void three kilometres above sea level where there was once an ocean of beauty and majestic hills laying in wait soon to be devoured by the titans of the Tour de France there now lies a murky sea, a mist of memories, a heart-quickening fear of the descent, the snow and an implausible chill.

At times like this I have become barely the troubadour, we make haste for the comforts of our Bavarian beast with wishful thoughts of January skiing that seemed just so much more pleasant. Thankfully the Bavarian lights up and warms up without any of the complexities of a human relationship- man once again connects with mechanical beast.

As we crawl through the remnants of the glacial road we breach onto the summit of the Col where eight years ago the Tour passed-by, not on two wheels but on many more. Stunned by conditions rarely seen in the winters midst I grab the video camera and start to film with my hand out of the window- its too much and I retract as the first snow bequeaths itself upon sheer leech-like tarmac. Sticking like a newborn to its mother the snow had rapidly engulfed the road as our Michelin friends at the corner of the Bavarian squirm for traction.

Forty minutes of nervous chatter and impact into some poor unsuspecting Italian driver who just happened to be trawling through the same patch of dark salvation amongst the slippery white perilousness of our route, like a nit attempting to garner purchase on the locks of one of the Italians less salubrious relatives, is thankfully avoided.

Finally we draw up into the OK Corral of French mountain civilisation, the Boulangerie. Nestled with espresso's stronger than a Gallic mans breath and memories barely a year old we reminisce of when a Continental summer was hotter than the Chanel clothed honeys of the Champs Elysee, we could nitpick at their preference for Socialism and entice ourselves to quaff from La Domain d’Ott.

Not this year though, summer quivers with the chill only the titans of the Tour will feel when they look three kilometres skywards and realise that the Alps are not yet conquered.