Four days to ride 100 kilometers was plenty of time. However, riding under a time limit would be a new experience for us. During the past month of touring through Europe, we moved at our own pace, frequently pushing ourselves but never under any pressure to make it anywhere by a certain time.

"Chris, do you think we'll get to meet Lance?" I asked.

"There's gonna be a lot of people at the finish line," he replied.

Lance Armstrong was reason enough for us to make this trip. After a courageous battle with cancer, Lance had returned to the sport to win the Tour De France twice. I didn't think there would be many people willing to travel through a 6,900-foot mountain pass in the middle of the Alps to watch that particular stage. How I picture bicycling in Europe has changed since I have been here. I knew cycling was more popular than in the United States, but the level at which it is respected and loved by Europeans could be compared to how soccer is viewed in South America.

After packing up camp and paying our camping fees we were off. It took us about five minutes before we had gotten lost. We passed through parks, over bridges, through neighborhoods, and got to see a great deal of Zurich. It's hard to say how far out of our way we had gone, but it took us all day to get to our next campsite, taking backcountry roads and accidentally heading east instead of south. Switzerland has a vast network of bike paths that spans the entire country. The paths are well-marked and periodically have maps to help cyclists navigate anywhere with little trouble. However, somehow we had gotten off track, which was not good, considering our lack of time.

We camped off the side of the road in a little section of woods similar to Arcata, California's community forest. Pushing our bikes off a path into the forest, just out of sight from any trail, we set up camp. Chris Tamucci, a.k.a. "Mooch," Chris Calonje, Andy Ellsmore and I were determined to make it to this great event, but as mosquitoes landed on me and put new bites over old bites, doubts crept into my mind.

My three friends and I had started our trek across Europe a month earlier. With little planning and a lot of ambition, we were four college kids on the adventure of our lives. Only a week earlier, we had gone over Gotthard on our way to Zurich. As the first mountain pass of our journey, Gotthard had become the pinnacle of our tour through Europe. To see Lance Armstrong and all the other great cyclists go over the same pass became a sort of symbol of our trip. Andy said to me: "They're on bikes, we're on bikes." Just as simple as that. It was the embodiment of what we had been doing for the past month, of everything we had accomplished.

"You guys think we're going to make it?" I asked.

"I don't know," said Chris.

"We got pretty lost today, but if we ride hard and stay on track tomorrow we should make it," said Andy.

That night we talked about our planned route and what we expected in terms of riding difficulty within the next few days. We had little idea of what lay ahead because we were so far off course. If I had known what was coming, I probably would have turned back.

We left bright and early on a mission to make up lost time. Luckily, we picked up the trail and. Using a map, figured out where we had to go. As we rode, suburbs turned to grass fields and we saw the beginnings of hills that rose and fell into the distance. The road brought us to a crystal-clear lake as the day turned to evening, and we searched for a place to set up camp. As the sun began to set, two riders pulled up alongside us, curious as to what our little entourage was all about. They were two women, beautiful and with legs burlier than mine.

"Where did you come from?" they asked after a query as to what language we spoke.

"We're from America," said Mooch, which was quickly followed by "We started in Paris." Unsure of what they wanted to know, one of them pointed at the trailers we were using to haul our gear.

"Does this work well?" she asked in choppy English.

"Yeah, they're very maneuverable." Mooch continued to explain the pros and cons of the Yakima sleds we had in tow as I studied the two women. We talked to them for a while about bicycling, the Tour De Suisse, Lance Armstrong's domination of the sport, and finally, where we could find camping. The pair pulled away at high speed when they decided the conversation was over, which left us to mull over what to do about the lack of campsites anywhere nearby.

Just before dark we found a spot off some sort of service road on the side of the lake. Once again we pushed our bikes just out of sight of the road to set up camp. The spot we chose was overgrown and had about four inches of mud under foot. It was kind of thick, clay-like mud that wasn't very wet, so you sort of sunk in real slow. It was actually really comfortable to sleep on.

At 6 o'clock the next morning we were off, with two days left until the Tour De Suisse hit Gotthard and a lot of riding to go. We lost our way only a few times and almost always got back on track immediately, making good time. The bike route followed the edge of the lake and at one point required us to cross the lake on a ferry. It took about half an hour to cross the lake, which gave us some time to eat breakfast and soak in the view. With snow melting all over the Alps, a massive amount of water pours into the valleys and gathers in lakes at the bottom. On the way down the steep mountain ranges, the water creates waterfall after waterfall, encompassing the valley in which you are standing.

After the ferry trip we continued to ride, now following the path along the other side of the lake. The path, which consisted of an old road that had been replaced by a new highway and tunnel system, followed a cliff-line next to the lake. It took us up to about 1,000 feet above the lake and then all the way back down to the water level. By about mid-day we made it to a town called Altdorf. We decided to stop for lunch before continuing on. The next town was at a junction of passes, including St. Gotthard pass, nestled in a valley between these behemoth mountains. It would be our final campsite before the Tour De Suisse.

So began our climb to Andermatt. After a salami-sandwich lunch, we started the 30-kilometer climb. The very beginning was a steep pitch, probably about an 18% grade for one kilometer.

"Jesus, do you think it's going to keep going on like this?" I asked no one in particular. No one answered.

The Alps were created by extreme continental tectonic forces that pushed large complexes of massed over-thrusts of extremely varied sedimentary, metamorphic, and igneous rocks shaped by glaciation. I was about to go over them on a bike with 45 pounds of gear.

The climb was relentless, no flat sections, no relief. On the sides of us, the Alps rose from grassy steep hills to jutting, impossibly steep mountains that seemed to bend over and laugh down at us. My mind reeled at considering the possibility of coming all this way and not making it. I searched the gear shifter with my hand in hopes of one lower gear that I could spin just a little bit easier in. It wasn't there.

"I don't feel too great, Andy," I croaked out of the back of my throat.

"We'll make it," he said with neither energy nor re-assurance. Mooch and Chris had pulled well ahead, leaving Andy and me to combat this monster ourselves.

We would round a corner and be able to see the road ahead. It looked like an endless climb. I could see the switchback road ascend into oblivion with cars that looked like ants at the top. It's funny, because the way you are going is right in front of you, and it just winds straight up.

About halfway up the climb we came across a barricade in the road. It was a road construction site. Somehow we had missed a detour a few kilometers back. I was wondering why I had not seen a car in awhile. There was no way I was going back down.

"What the hell!? What the f*%# are we going to do!!?"

"Uhhh," was Andy's not-so-encouraging reply.

I had decided it was not going to stop me. I got off my bike and proceeded to move the barricade. Andy soon followed suit and gave me a hand. After it was removed, we continued on for a little ways, before coming across the reason for the barricade. The road had been cut in half with one section higher than another. Large machinery was strewn about the work site with no one around. We pushed our bikes up to the section of cut road where it rose about six feet in the air. Straining our already fatigued muscles, we awkwardly lifted one bike at a time to the higher section of road. I couldn't help but laugh. It was so crazy at the time. For all we knew, there would be more roadwork ahead that could be impassable and would then totally demoralize me and shatter my hopes of making it.

"I can't believe we didn't see a sign or anything. Do you think the others went through this?" I asked.

"I doubt they went through that," Andy replied.

After this, I was starting to become a bit hysterical, and what I saw around the next corner didn't help. Once again we came to a point where you could see where the road was going to take us for the next five or six kilometers. Winding up the hill the road turned into a partial tunnel with the side open to the valley it was ascending through. The view was spectacular, but I didn't care.

"Do we have to go up that!?" I asked with panic in my voice. Andy didn't reply. As I turned up switchbacks and peddled up t

he seemingly endless hill, I wondered if the burning desire to see this epic event would overcome the burning in my legs and lungs. My blood pumped battery acid. My mind continued to reel. A car came within inches of hitting me, but it didn't matter.

Hours passed that seemed an eternity. When we came to an end of a tunnel, suddenly we were there. It was like summitting Everest. I cheered when we saw our two companions at the top. There were some tourists taking pictures nearby who looked at us with curiosity, probably wondering why we were so deliriously happy.

The Andermatt campsite is a ski-resort parking lot that is closed for the summer. Wearily setting up camp, we offered congratulations to each other, and traded excited stories of the climb through the night. We had made it, tomorrow was the tour, and we would be there. A few other cyclists who were also on tour had made it for the race and we made some new friends that night. At about 11 p.m., a line of huge trucks passed by on their way to the top of the pass, which is the finish line and home base of that day's event.

We slept well and got up early to ride to the top of the pass. Leaving our trailers at the campsite, we leisurely climbed to the top with just our daypacks on.

The Romans first used St. Gotthard Pass in the early 13th century. Gotthard Pass got its name from a bishop of Hildesheim in Germany. It became an important trade route between Italy and southern Switzerland, easily defendable for the Swiss like much of the country, due to the Alps. While I was in Switzerland it seemed that you were either in the mountains or in a valley between them. Wherever you were, the great masses of rock that shot impossibly straight up into the sky were always present. At the top we found a flurry of activity: booths were being set up, teams were setting up their support centers and hundreds of spectators had already gathered. They had even brought up a giant-screen monitor so people could watch the progress of the race. This thing was huge, standing about 30 feet high and 30 across. Expensive bikes were everywhere; Pinnarelos, Colnalgos, Bianchis, Looks and of course Treks. Banners of every color flapped in the breeze. Vendors beckoned for us to look at their products, and everywhere could be heard excited chatter in all sorts of languages about the race.

We decided to find a spot to wait on the other side of the pass where the very end of that day's race would take place. We had a 6-hour wait ahead of us and used the time to take a nap. It had been a long journey to get where we were.

We found a spot on a rock out-cropping that overlooked the switchbacks at the top of the climb, about one kilometer from the finish. All day long bicyclists came up the hill wanting to ride the same pass the pro riders would be ascending later that day. By the time the leaders were drawing near, thousands of people had gathered. Apparently, a good way to advertise one's products is to get in a car and drive the route in front of the race to catch all of the spectators' attention. This involved all sorts of cars with loudspeakers on their roofs, yelling stuff as they drove by. One, in particular, blared its little theme song right at the crowd, so loud that it was deafening.

"What is that car selling, man?" I asked Mooch.

"I don't know, but it definitely got my attention. What does mini-peek mean?" Mooch went down to check it out, but the cars would just race by and maybe throw some stuff out the window at you. We noticed the crowd getting antsy and some cheering farther down the hill. The riders were getting close. Making our way down to the cobblestone road, we maneuvered into position to watch the race. The first cyclist to go by was a Russian. He had a big smile on his face. People cheered and ran alongside, as they did for all the riders, yelling, "Up! Up! Up! Up!" This was encouragement to keep up the pace and good work.

Finally, a few minutes after the first three riders passed, we caught sight of a U.S. Postal jersey coming around the switchback.

It was Lance Armstrong.

I'll never forget it. We ran alongside and cheered, and I yelled until my voice cracked. Lance didn't even seem to notice. The look of absolute concentration on his face remained unchanged. I managed to get a great shot with my disposable camera, and within just a few seconds he was gone.

We watched a lot of the other riders go by and went to the top when it was almost all over. At the finish, it was a madhouse. People were jammed together like it was a rock concert, and every other person was trying to get a bike through the crowd. I had some delusions of grandeur about meeting Lance and telling him our story, but that was a fleeting aspiration. After an hour of looking around, I had lost my three comrades. I decided to head back down the mountain to Andermatt. Traffic was backed up for miles, but thankfully, on a bike, it was easy to negotiate past the masses at the top and make my way down.

At least a thousand other riders were on their way down the hill with me, which was an amazing sight. The scenery reminded me of something out of a J.R.R. Tolkien fantasy novel, and as I raced down the pass that has no shoulder and no guardrail, I felt something strange. For so long the trip had been surreal to me, and now, even though I was surrounded by people bombing down this hill on bikes, I felt totally alone. It was pure bliss. At the campsite I met up with my friends and the rest of the day and night was filled with excited renditions of the day's event from each of our perspectives.

Gotthard Pass will always hold a special place among my memories. There's nothing that compares to it, and it was an experience I wouldn't trade for anything in world.