Category: Alps

My Tour de France – Day 14

Day 14

Filling in the blanks

141km

As it currently stood, I had cycled from London to Mont Ventoux via Geneva and the alps. It felt great but I somehow felt that I had not satisfied myself. Because I had started heading west on Day 11, there was a ‘gap’ between the villa we were heading to and the route I had followed. I looked at the map…I could get dropped off on the way to the villa, cycle a measly 40km north east to Castellane (the point at which I started heading west) then return south east to the villa in Cannes. It was like an upside down Y shape. Doing that would feel like the true completion of what I’d set out to do, with not a single inch of road missed between London and the villa.

So at Junction 39 on the motorway to Nice, we pulled the bike and the wheels out of the car and I put them on as Lamby and Sarah carried onto towards Nice. “Oh shit!” We had loosened the seat clamp to help get the bike in the car, so now the seat post was loose and slipped down a foot lower that I needed it. Another cyclist had just turned up in the carpark and sat in the back of his van, so I went over hopingly and made ‘I need an Allen key’ gestures. No luck. With that I thought I’d just have to ride until I saw another cyclist. 20 minutes in and riding up a hill I started to worry….this would be a ridiculous way to end a tour. Destroying my knees by not having the seat in the right place. Fortunately just as the panic was setting in, a cyclist came the other way so I waved him down and he sorted me out. Probably thought what kind of idiot doesn’t tighten his seat clamp up enough and let his seat fall down. I said “mon velo dans le auto….forgot seat….”. Unsurprisingly, I don’t think he understood.

With that sorted, I again pushed on in the hot hot heat, feeling incredibly relieved. I kept passing through small quaint towns and winding forested roads, topping up on water from a town fountain in Murs. 40km passed, Castellane was still miles away. I realised that the convoluted nature of the roads meant that 40km on the map was probably more like 60km in reality.Bugger. I was steadily climbing for hours, on such beautiful quiet scenic roads, seeing other traffic infrequently. The landscape was similar to around the Verdon gorge, with steep red rock faces and trees clinging on to life in precarious positions. Eventually, I got to the top of yet another pass and I turned left to join the road to Castellane. The landscape changed again and became increasingly more green and meadowed. Sheer, crumbling grey rock faces provided a backdrop to the sporadically placed villages. After a couple more small cols I eventually descended into Castellane and went to the very supermarket I had stopped in 3 days earlier, and topped up on much needed fluids, chocolate and pastries.

Then, my time came to turn to the south and embark on what I felt was the final leg of this crazy journey. I followed the road south and re ascended the 2 cols I came over in the morning, that I assumed would be the last (they weren’t). I descended one incredible road that clung to the mountainside, lined with the concrete / stone barriers synonymous with the Riviera and films like the Italian Job. I felt a bit emotional- that slightly sick, knot in the stomach feeling engulfed me. I’d had an extraordinary time on the trip and didn’t want it to end. The fact I’d enjoyed today (after the initial panic) as much as the first day of the tour wasn’t really helping the yearning to keep the adventure going. But there’s always next year.

The road reared up again and I pushed hard to the top. It was sweltering and I was pouring with sweat. When the hell did it get this hot? I reached the summit and was greeted with a beautiful view of blue toned hills to the south. They were much lower than the hill I was on and I could see towns sprawled out in front of them. I realised that I had done it. Somewhere down there below me, was the finish. There was a roadside cafe so I had a couple of cold drinks. It was a moment to savour.

I took one last look to the north, and thought about the the rest of France somewhere beyond the mountains. I’d come a long way, but now it was time to meet everyone at the villa. There was 120km on the clock already and 25 left to the villa. At least it was downhill from here! I blasted downhill into civilisation. The roads were narrow, busy, steep, twisty, and frankly a nightmare. None the less, the km kept ticking away before I had to go uphill again. At one point the road narrowed so much that traffic on my side had stopped and the opposing traffic was crawling through the bottleneck carefully.  A woman in a mini got to the gap and stopped. She didn’t look confident. People were blasting their horns. She gesticulated that the gap was too small, despite having seen bigger cars get through it previously. And then, a shrill woman’s voice pierced the general cacophony of noise. It screamed in an incredibly strong Essex accent “where the fuck did you learn to fucking drive?? You could get a fucking bus through there!!!” I burst out laughing. I’d obviously taken a wrong turn and ended up in Brentwood. Mini lady eventually drove through and I carried on. The garmin told me to turn right and so I did. Onto a hill so steep that the front wheel was lifting up. I stood and leaned over the handlebars. The road turned to into a bumpy aggregate surface, making movement even harder. The garmin said it was a 24% slope. I started to weave across the road to lessen the slope. My thighs filled with lactic acid. My heart rate went through the roof, and my head pounded. “Fuck it!”

I dismounted. For the first time of the trip…. I couldn’t get up a hill….literally less than  1 km from the end. What a dick. But to be fair it was hard work even pushing the bike up it, let alone cycling. I got to the top and found the complex that the villa was in. I rode around, not really sure where I was meant to go when I heard a familiar voice shout “Lloyd!!” It was my housemate Chloe who had spotted me through the gate. She rushed over and I planted a fat kiss on her forehead through the metal bars of the gate. Chloe let me in and got me a cold beer from the fridge. It felt so surreal to suddenly be ejected from 2 weeks of un familiarity and from living as a solo traveller, to being with people I’ve known for most of my life in such different  surroundings from where I’m used to seeing them. I showered and jumped headlong into the pool that overlooked those blue hills in the distance. It marked the end of my adventure and the start of 4 days of getting drunk with friends. It was the perfect ending.

My Tour de France

14 days of cycling. 7 Hors Categorie climbs. 1200 miles.

Fini.

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My Tour de France – Day 13

Day 13- Mont Ventoux!

53km

1,777m ascent

Another sunny day. We got our gear together and headed into Bedoin to pick up Sarah’s hire bike from the same shop that fixed my wheel on the previous day. We set off and I immediately got into a group of about 8 riders, going at a pace that I felt was just below my limit. It felt great not to be laden with luggage and it was a very different style of riding compared to the last 12 days. Riding half a metre behind the person in front, tapping out rhythm that wasn’t far off ‘my legs are f****d.’

There is a very fine line between being able to ride at a decent speed for a few hours, and pushing it too much too soon and running out of steam before you’ve got where you wanted. It might be less than 1 km/h that makes the difference. I’ve straddled that line many times riding in Essex; sometimes it works, and sometimes you slow to a crawl for the last 10 miles of a ride, with no energy left to turn the pedals with any appreciable power. This tends to happen more when riding hungover, or into a headwind.

Back on Mont Ventoux, we sped up the first gentle slopes past fields before getting into the trees that crowded the flanks of the mountain. There were hundreds of people riding up and down on bikes of different shapes and styles, but all having one thing in common- being in a state of exhaustion to one degree or another. This part of the ride contains some of the steeper sections of road and now people started dropping off the back of our group every 10 minutes or so. Eventually there were just 3 of us left in the group before the leader stood up and started moving ahead. I knew there was no point in trying to follow so I sat behind the last remaining guy and kept on spinning. I knew if I tried to overtake and do some work  on the front, I would be straight into a world of lactic pain and off the back! Eventually he started going a bit too quick on one of the steeper gradients and started slowly eking out a gap. I was a bit disappointed that I couldn’t keep up with him, but then, he probably hadn’t cycled a 1000 miles to get here.

I sat in my own world spinning up through the trees. People always ask “Don’t you get bored? “, when you tell them you’ve spent two weeks riding solo for many hours a day. I suppose the honest answer would be that there are times when you question what you are doing, but only really when something has just gone wrong, or when you’re running out of energy. I get pretty grumpy and think life is rubbish when I’m hungry. Most of the time, especially in unfamiliar places, you spend the time looking around, spotting the odd thing that makes you smile, appreciating being able to do something you love every day. Sometimes you think about existential subjects, like the universe and theology and sometimes you think about the time you nearly died laughing at some absurdity. You wonder what people are up to back home whilst you are making your way through alien surroundings. Occasionally, when the conditions are right, your mind slips into a meditative kind of state where the only thing that registers is the white noise generated by the tires on the road, the sound of your breathing and the rhythm of your pedalling. Those are probably my favourite moments. Despite being completely exposed to the elements around you, there’s a bizarre feeling of isolation from it all. It’s just the road, the bike, the rider.

There wasn’t really any opportunity for this on Ventoux as the sheer number of people meant I had to keep swinging out around them, with the usual caution I’d have in London. Eventually with about 8km to go, the trees lining the road begin to thin out and you are again exposed to the power of the sun and, for the first time since the start, can see the barren, treeless rock slopes continuing above. A couple of km later and you can see the weather station at the summit , marking the end of a winding road lined with boulders and stones bleached from the sun. It is often said that when you get to this point the wind can be fierce, blasting warm air from the west into your face. But not today! Upon seeing the summit I found new energy and started reeling in loads more people. I felt pretty awesome now! Past a water bottle strewn monument to the British cyclist Tommy Simpson, who died on this very road in the ’67 Tour de France. Past the cars lining the side of the road then finally around the last bend and up the ridiculously short, steep summit slope that I had seen in the Tour so many times! I reached the summit in 1:28:5. A very pleasing time.

Lamby arrived shortly afterwards, and we celebrated with a photo and cola, before dropping back down to give Sarah some moral support and get a few photos of each other in action. We then absolutely steamed back down maxing out at 50mph…occasionally thinking of the consequences of something going wrong…maybe this was the most fun you could have on a bike. A not too technical, extremely fast descent through trees. Epic.

Lamby and I got back to the villa and swigged down several beers before packing up in a quick sharp fashion whilst Sarah made her way back down the mountain more cautiously. We were in a bit of a rush to get to Marseilles in time to have  an interesting guided trip around Le Corbusiers’ ‘Unité d’habitation’. A brutalist monstrosity or beauty depending on who you ask. The tour was in French but I knew when to “oooo and aaaah”. It was unbearably hot and I was standing about, sweating like I was riding a bike up a steep hill. I wished I was.

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My Tour de France – Day 12

Day 12-Apt- Bedoin

80km

Up, showered, full of pastries and still somewhat confused by the events of last night, I left for Bedoin. I kept eyeing vehicles warily, suspecting all of them to be carrying a wierdo. What the hell was that about? I was glad of an overcast day that wouldn’t cook my body like yesterday whilst I headed north into some hills. As I got further north the vegetation seemed to become more sparse and lacked the vibrancy of previous days with grey olive trees abound. This was compounded by silvery grey clouds overhead that occasionally gave way to rays of light streaking through. Somewhere in the distance I could see a massive rockface that surely must be a climbing venue. I continued to wind my way up and down a few small cols and through few small towns with a Spanish feel, comprising of white rendered buildings topped with terracotta roof tiles.

Eventually, about 20km away, there it was. Mont Ventoux. Looming in the distance. Rising out of the landscape and towering above everything around it by hundreds of metres. It looked like the arching back of a huge sleeping monster with a pale exposed summit contrasting with the green trees covering its flank. It is quite intimidating just because you can see the top from way down below. The cols in the alps are so far hidden in the depths of the mountains that you are nearly at the top by the time the summit comes into view.

I went into Bedoin and got my spoke fixed. The chap with limited English said something about ‘kapput’ but fixed it regardless. I’d be going up Ventoux with no luggage and it had go this far. It would be ok! I sat and ate pizza as the heavens opened and drenched the streets and cyclists passing by. I tried to call Lamby. I didn’t get through but he called back a while later and we arranged to meet at the villa later that afternoon. It got really hot again and I found myself snoozing under a tree with a soundtrack of crickets. I rode up to a castle at a nearby town and down to Carpenteras for a stroll around with more funeral surreality, watching a coffin being carried into a church with dozens of tourist on lookers taking photos. The slow tolling of the bells had an incredibly melancholic feel and gave me a sort of feeling of dread in my stomach, but I’m not sure why.

When the time was right, I headed to meet Lamby at the villa for a reunion! It was great to see him and Sarah and regale them with the story of my French encounter, which they found amusing and horrifying in equal measures. We drank copious amounts of beer and ate a massive amount of pasta for the next day’s activities. We also had to evict a scorpion that was hanging about on the stairs. I slept like a baby in the pitch dark, enveloped by the silence of this quite part of the world.

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My Tour de France – Day 11

Day 11-Castellane – Apt

130km

1,875m ascent

During the night I keep waking up, thinking I can hear the sound of water rushing down the river ready to pick me up and sweep my away. I’d seen how much water that dam was holding back…After the fifth time of waking up, I decide to move somewhere I could be certain I wouldn’t be carried away, so I could sleep in peace.

I wake up again and feel white light trying to penetrate through my eyelids. I open my eyes and realise that it’s actually the full moon that has risen above of one of the hills that was to the east of me. It was bright enough to make out time on my watch without using the back light! Pretty epic. Unfortunately I couldn’t rouse myself enough to take a picture.

When actual morning arrived, I went for a morning swim in the river and wrestled my bike back up the steep embankment and onto the road. It was warm. I followed the winding road that lead to the Verdon gorge, spending a fair amount of time ascending the gorge in the heat whilst sweating like mad. The scenery was spectacular especially as I reached the top of the small col and approached the Lac Croix du Verdon. I could make out pedalos and canoes way down in the gorge drifting along the azure blue water with the sheer walls of the gorge looming either side. A rapid descent, chasing another cyclist bought me closer to the lake before I climbed a super steep hill (steeper than anything in the alps) to a narrow country road that ran along the top of the lake. As I looked to the north the change in scenery was immense. Vast flat fields  went on for miles and in the distance a few prominent hills seemed to rise out of nowhere. The heat of the sun caused the scent of the surrounding lavender fields to pervade my nostrils, reminding me of where I used to work as teenager in an old chapel selling artificial flowers, preserved lavender, candles and other floristry bits. I never would have thought that 10 years later I’d cycling the length of France.

At the other end of the lake I reached a town called Sainte Croix du Verdon and tucked into several ice creams and cold drinks before descending to the lake for a swim and to chill out for an hour or so. Finally, and with a lot of effort, I re ascended and continued West along roasting hot French roads. They were way hillier than I expected and I couldn’t physically drink enough water to stay hydrated. I was necking a litre of water in each town I passed through and for the first time (or maybe second time – see Day 9 shivers) the holiday was feeling like an absolute glorious sufferfest. But it was the penultimate day so it was time to dig deep!

I got to a town called Manosque and it was surely the hottest place I’d ever been. It must have been 28/29 degrees. I dove into a McDonald’s to get a milkshake and out of the sun under a parasol. The metal tables outside could definitely have had a full English cooked on them. I plugged on further to the West until I finished the day in a town called Apt. From here I would just need to head north for a few hours the next day to reach Bedoin for my rendez vous with Lamby. I found myself a great park with a picnic table and lake, perfect for the penultimate bivvy. I sat and feasted on meat, crisps and cakes, watching the sun setting over the lake and ducks splashing about. At about 10pm I stood by the lake and brushed my teeth. “this is the life” I thought.

Then shit got weird. I turned around and was slightly startled to see a guy standing about 50m away on top of a little mound. I thought nothing of it as people had been wandering past since I’d been there. He then came and stood by the reed beds next to the lake about 20 metres away. Getting weirder, but no need for alarm. He was probably equally perplexed by my presence. Then he kept walking from one side of me to the other in a large arc. I felt like I was being stalked by a lion “OK this is now  definitely weird.”

Say something to ‘break the ice’….. “Bonsoir!”. He replies in French with a voice that tells me the guy is definitely a wierdo even though I couldn’t understand him. I should have stayed quiet as he then went and stood against the tree that was no more than 1m from the end of the picnic table I was sitting at. “Jesus Christ, what is he doing?” I kept glancing in his direction trying to see if he had a weapon, making sure my feet weren’t under the table in case I needed to react to something. “OK so he’s shorter than me, kind of frail looking and wearing a pretty middle aged button t shirt and shorts combo….if shit kicks off I can definitely have him.

What the hell, why is his hand in his shirt? Is he touching his nipple? And what is that rustling in his pocket? He surely isn’t touching himself is he?

He is.

Better than brandishing a knife I suppose. At least if he’s some pervert he’ll finish what he’s doing he’ll leave me alone…

10 minutes later….. For fuck sake. What is this guy doing? Why? I just want to go bed! Been sweating my tits off all day. I’ve slept in random places all holiday and no bother. As soon as I get to civilisation, I encounter some creep. Is he done? No? Ok fuck this.

And with that, I grab my bike and head for the other end of the park, eventually rejoining the road that runs around it. The whole time fuming that this idiot has spoilt the last night I’d be sleeping under the stars. As I rode past a RV type vehicle parked in a layby, the engine started and my silhouette streaked ahead of me, cast by the lights of the vehicle. I heard it pull out of the layby and slowly driving behind me. “weird” I thought, “I’m riding slightly uphill and there’s a junction right here. Maybe he just doesn’t want to overtake and cut me up”. I turned right. The van turned right. “ok ill pull over and let him past.”

I pulled off the side of the road and waved it past. Nothing. I waved again. The lights flashed. I turned around and rolled my eyes in disbelief. “What the hell is going on? Am I in some sort of fucking nightmare?” I rode on some more and still the van followed. Options…..Keep riding in the hope he’d back off before I either fell asleep at the wheel…………. or confront the guy. I was now starting to brim with adrenaline and frankly I was feeling really fucking pissed off. What an arsehole. I stopped again. He stopped. I turn the bike around and started riding towards him. Shouting “what the fuck do you want?!?!” with the most aggressive tone and face I could muster. He pulled out around me and sped off down the road….this was my moment! I cranked as hard as I could in the opposite direction. I spotted the cycle path that I came in on earlier in the day. It was on the other side of a car park and soon went behind buildings so I could hide. I raced through the car park it and got on the cycle path before quickly turning off my lights. To my horror I could see the rv pull out of the same side road and drive back in my direction. “Ok this is actually mental now. What shall I do?” I rode along the pitch black cycle path with my lights turned off, narrowly avoiding turning a cat into road kill, all the way to the other end of town to a spot I’d seen earlier.

It was a picnic area next to a deserted building that was boarded up, and there was a well with a metal cover over it. Classic horror movie setup. I stood in the dark in the silence. Still buzzing with adrenaline and fear. Every noise in the bushes freaked me out. There was no way I could stay somewhere outside. Every time I heard a distant car engine it was sending a shiver down my spine and every sudden rustle in the trees was making me jump. I rode back towards town and went into the first hotel I could find, paying  90 euros for a bloody family suite. The owner was friendly but I sensed the family suite was a stitch up…..at least I wasn’t going to be wanked over!

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My Tour de France – Day 10

Day 10-Barcellonette – Castellane

90km

1,916m ascent

The final col.

I looked outside and the sky was blue again! Good times. I felt completely refreshed, especially after a continental breakfast sitting in the crisp mountain air watching the deserted town square. The soaking I got yesterday was a thing of the past and I thought about how everything, no matter how mental, is always fun in retrospect.

Today was going to be bittersweet. I love mountains. They give me this sort of sick feeling of being both overwhelmed, amazed and despite the fact I grew up in Essex, I always feel like I’m  exactly where I should be when surrounded by mountains. This is possibly due to the film Cliffhanger – thanks Mr Stallone. But in all seriousness, maybe it’s because mountain are really a window into the power of the earth and a clue to its ever changing surface. I love it when you can see different bands of rock that have literally been folded in half from the incredible forces acted upon them. Today I would sadly be saying goodbye to the epic hills of the Alps and hello to different landscapes, although I wasn’t really sure what to expect on the other side of the pass.

I left town and retraced my path from yesterday to pick up the bottom of the col. The road up to Pra Loup branched off to my right and I carried straight on further along the valley. This pass felt a lot more narrow than the rest I had done and there were quite a few rocks randomly lying about in the road. I was glad to be ascending rather than weaving my way down this side. I took it easy as I wanted to savour the ascent, slowing to speak to an English couple who were on an organised touring holiday and staying in pre booked hotels. I felt a bit envious that they just had to get from A to B without any thought for much else, but then I also felt pretty heroic to have done so much with no more help than route planning on the internet and suspected I’d probably seen bits of France that very few tourists do.

The views as I neared the top were spectacular and  surprisingly I could still see Barcellonette, now far below down the hill, so for the first time had a great sense of the elevation gain. As soon as I stopped at the top, I sat down for  a bit of lunch in the sun, overlooking the surrounding hills and contemplating my journey through the mountains that disappeared off to the north. As I started descending it felt much warmer and I had a massive beer craving so stopped at a bar in the company of a lovely husky dog that was acting as a body guard against wasps. Riding further south, dropping in elevation and following the barely wet Verdon river, the sun was getting more intense and stifling. Way hotter than I’ve ever experienced in this sort of environment. I briefly stopped in Allos for more lunch, a nap and had a slightly panicked moment when I thought I’d lost the map for the following day, which had a much more complex route than the simple few days I had spent in the mountains.

Rolling on alongside a lovely stone retaining wall, I was musing about the fact everything so far had gone perfectly, with no mechanical nightmares, or near death experiences during the many fast descents. I heard a ‘BANG!’. I slowed, turned around to the spot where it occurred. There was no sign of any bits of bike/luggage on the floor so I hopped off the bike and immediately saw a spoke on my rear wheel had broken and now poked listlessly out the side. Bollocks. I wrapped the broken spoke around its neighbour to stop it from flapping about and considered my options;

Turn around and ride back up hill to the bike shops in the ski resorts? – …nope, going backwards sucks and they might not even have spokes for a road bike.

Head straight down to Cannes which I could probably reach today and to a bike shop? – …nope that would probably mean I couldn’t head to Mont Ventoux to meet Lamby.

Ride on to Bedoin where there will definitely be a bike shops but is still at least 2 days away? – …Yea, sod it. It’ll be fine.

I carried on with a spoke nipple rattling around in the wheel, like a really shit percussion instrument being played by someone with no rhythm, passing a massive lake formed by a huge dam further down the valley. I felt slightly annoyed at myself for not checking the spoke tensions before I left the UK, considering the wheels have probably already done several thousand miles on the roads of England.

After riding on a little way further, I stopped before I reached the Verdon gorge and found a spot somewhere after Castellane, down by the river where the water flowed gently. I jumped into a natural pool and the swim cooled my overheated body. There was a family nearby and the 2 kids were larking about in a dingy until one of them jumped into the water and hurt his back on a rock much to the amusement of his brother. I tried not to laugh as the unscathed brother shot a joyous grin at me. Mutual schadenfreude with a 10 year old.

I decided  to stay here for the night, setting up my bivvy on the pebbled shoreline of the river, keeping my fingers crossed that there wouldn’t be a sudden uprising of either mosquitoes or the water level as the evening came.

 

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My Tour de France – Day 9

Day 9-Guillestre – Barcellonette

70km

2,041m ascent

At some point in the night it started raining so I had to zip myself in, leaving a small opening to try and expel my moist breath and avoid condensation. I could feel the cold of the rain as it fell against my cheek, separated only by a thin layer of material.  It was still drizzling as morning came and for a long time I considered staying put for the day, before getting my act together. I waited for the rain to abate before springing up and packing in record time.

Once I pushed my bike to the edge of the field I was already on the climb, and so I began the start of a 19 km uphill ride without any sort of warm up, apart from the gymnastics required to get dressed without leaving the cocoon of a bivvy bag. 5km in it occurred to me that I didn’t have any water, having made the fairly rash decision to forego going into Guillestre for supplies. I’m a bit of a camel at the best of times but today I was suffering, with limbs that hadn’t woken up and a dry throat. I plodded on and overtook a group of tourers in sandals, carrying heavy loads. I didn’t envy them.

Somewhere up the hill, there was an massive field sprinkler, turning in a circle, drenching the crops and road alternately. Fortunately I managed to time my riding to pass it as it was facing the opposite direction. A small victory on this testing day. The hills and trees around me were shrouded in mist and clouds, but I imagine it was lovely view.

Further up, I overtook another rider on her own with barely any luggage but riding a heavy full suspension bike. Soon after, just as I was really starting to feel incredibly thirsty and considering asking her if I could have some water, I spotted a water source and we both topped up whilst having a little chat. She was riding from her home in Martigny to Nice over the highest pass in the alps (Col de la Bonette) to meet some friends.

I carried on and by the time I got to the top, which had a landscape that looked like a golf course, I was soaked through. I wasn’t wearing a jacket as this would just result in being drenched in sweat rather than rain water. Before descending, the jacket went on and I set off somewhat more carefully than the previous night. I’m not a fan of wet roads and hairpin bends. 10 minutes in and I was feeling chilly. 20 minutes in and I was actually having to fight the need to shiver, occasionally succumbing to a jolt of involuntary movement that caused me to veer across the road. My lower back muscles began to ache from the tension bought upon them from being cold. I wanted a nice uphill to warm up on. I kept going, not relishing the thought of unpacking my fleece buried deep in my bag whilst being rained on. Km passed whilst constantly looking for some sort of cover to get out of the elements. Eventually a bus stop provided a bit of shelter and I threw on my fleece before heading into Barcellonette for a delicious burger and couple of cappuccinos in the town square, gradually warming back up to a normal temperature. I can testify that food always taste incredible during or after some sort mammoth effort.

Thankfully it stopped raining and the sky cleared up a bit whilst I was preoccupied with eating and drinking. I checked into a hotel on the square (the Choucas) and got a huge room with two double beds for a bargain price of 60 euros. I knew a town called Pra Loup was just 10km away and provided a great hill top stage finish at this years Tour de France. I couldn’t resist and left all of my luggage at the hotel before storming up to Pra Loup and back down as quickly as I could. The difference it made riding the bike with no luggage was massive. I felt like a pro, especially descending in a super tucked position. I didn’t get anywhere near the pro’s times though – Froome is safe for now.

The age old conundrum of what to do after I washed my only clothes presented itself back at the hotel. I had a bath along with all of my kit and then spent the remainder of the night spread eagled over the bed listening to the sound of the town getting incredibly drunk in the square, whilst I watched a French soap, making up a story to match the pictures and my scant ability to understand French.

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My Tour de France – Day 8

Day 8-Saint Michel de Maurienne – Guillestre

106km

3,572m ascent

I woke to a chilly morning but blue skies. There was a thrashing around in the bushes behind me and a cheery French man emerged to retrieve the plums that had fallen to the floor, awaiting death by jam. I gave him my most pleasant bonjour and he said something about picking a nice spot. Or at least that’s what I assumed. I laid my gear out in the morning sun to dry off the dew and  after massive amounts of procrastination, meticulously packed it to keep it as dense as possible.

The plan for today was an ascent of the highest col of the trip, namely Col du Galibier followed by a night in Briancon. The biggest climb and shortest day, although, in hindsight I’d completely overestimated how much time and energy it would take. To get to Col du Galibier you first have to ride to the top of Col du Telegraphe at 1566m. The ascent starts as you leave the town when you ride under the motorway bridge, then continues winding its way up the hillside for 12km through the trees. There were many people out on bikes and I enjoyed the camaraderie between most of them with many nods,  and exhanges of “bonjour” and “allez allez”. I slowed and had a chat with a couple of guys from New Zealand who were over on a guided trip. They definitely had me in the ‘crazy Brit’ box by the time I pressed on to top where I was greeted by a huge straw figure riding a bike.

There is then a hasty descent into the Valloire valley through a town before a long false flat leads you up to a more isolated part of the road with few bends. Eventually, just when you think the road can’t possibly cross the wall of mountains you are riding towards, the road turns back on itself and starts switch backing its way up again, before you reach another flatter portion with the summit looking tantalisingly close, across a small valley. I eventually drew closer and the final push to the summit felt steep to the point of having no choice but to be ‘in the red’. Fortunately it wasn’t long lasting and shortly afterwards I was standing on top of the col. To my north I could see the road winding its way down and disappearing to the Valloire valley, and Mont Blanc some way off in the distance. To the south the mighty north face of the Barre Des Ecrins (a 4000m mountain on my to do list) looked impressive but not very welcoming after a warm summer. I suddenly had a longing to be crunching my way along a moonlit glacier in the cold of the night. Instead I was up here sweating my nuts off after 3 hours of riding up hill.

A rapid and fairly tricky descent from the summit to the Col de Lautaret  took some concentration due to the rough road and proximity of cars and cows. I continued down towards Briancon on a relatively flat wide road stopping for a nap at a blue lake next to a meadow and overlooked by mountain tops. Beauty. Once in Briancon,  early afternoon,  I checked out the old town and attempted to get myself some food and beer. The beer was great but the chef who appeared to be the French version of Alan Yentob, completely forgot about the food. In the meantime I checked the weather and discovered the forecast for the night and following day were not the best. Thunderstorms. Bad news. This meant I could potentially lose a day in the saddle as I didn’t  particularly want to be 2000m up a mountain  riding a lightning conductor.

After a guy doing the Transcontinental Race came over to have chat. (He wasn’t doing too well), I felt inspired to ride one more col. This would help take some pressure off if the following day was a write off, and there was still loads of hours left in the day. So with that, I finished my beer, grabbed a baguette from the supermarket and headed for the hills. Next up was Col d’Izoard which started with a gentle ride through a narrow valley before emerging at a bit of a meadow and then into a windy tree lined road where all the local flies like to hang out with cyclists. All of the time I was racing the setting sun which was ducking down behind the mountains. Eventually near the top,  the road was lit up and I emerged into the light at 2100m after 1. 5 hours.

The south side of the col is an extraordinary world of sandstone and precipitous cliffs. A compete contrast to the north side and fitting of the name Casse Dessert. I suddenly felt isolated as looking south looked like a mountainous wild west with no sign of civilisation. I had only seen one car on the way up and I pondered what would happen if I hit the deck whilst descending or plummeted over one of the edges.

 Fortunately the irrational part of my brain piped  down as soon as I started the descent and I was promptly having the most fun I’d ever had on a bike, at eye watering speeds. I dropped quickly back below the tree line and soon the road followed a river with a steep wall on  one side and scree slopes  on the other, occasionally interrupted by tunnels hewn into the rock . Eventually I got to Guillestre at the foot of Col d’ Vars. By this time the clouds had blackened and I knew what was coming as I watched ominous clouds roll in from the west, slowly turning the dusk to darkness. I found a field off to the side of the road at the bottom of the next climb and made camp for the night. As I lay awake there was plenty of thunder  that shook the floor and lightning that briefly illuminated the trees around me, but fortunately no rain. 4 cols in 2 days. It felt good. 

Ascending Col du Telegraphe
Fini! Now to descend into the Valloire
False flat
Col du Galibier. 3 hours of riding uphill. High point of the tour
Looking over to Barre Des Ecrins
Looking back down Col d’Izoard
Ascending Col d’Izoard. Racing the setting sun
Col’ d’Izoard
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My Tour de France – Day 7

Day 7-Geneva – Saint Michel de Maurienne

177km

4,274m ascent

I wake up full of enthusiasm for the day ahead- I’ve been looking forward to this since planning the trip. Today would be my first foray into the mountainous terrain of the Alps and my mood was even more enhanced by the fact the sky was blue once again. I check out of the hostel and head to the UN building for the obligatory photo in front of the massive 3 legged chair dominating the plaza. It always strikes me how quiet most cities are compared to London rush hours. There’s a relaxed atmosphere that just doesn’t exist in the pressure cooker of London, where people tend to be in a hurry to be first to the next set of red traffic lights.

I haven’t had breakfast yet and take the first opportunity once over the barely noticeable border into France to have a pastry feast. Sugared up and ready to ride, it doesn’t take long to leave the built up area around Annemasse behind and head towards my first Col. Col d’Aravis. I could see the hill for many km before I got to the beginning and yet I couldn’t make out where it went or even started. After a brief stop at a supermarket and some expert following of signposts, I began to ride the first BIG hill since my time in Canada, when I rode uphill for 2 hours with Ed. At that time I didn’t know such hills existed, being somewhat naive to the scale of the different landscapes around the world. Today I felt much more prepared with copious amounts of time spent riding up the steepest hill I know in London. (Swains Lane in Highgate)

As it was a category 1 climb, Col d’Aravis would be a good warm up to the alps, topping out at 1498m. It started climbing up through a gorge like valley with the road cut into the rock, forming steep rock faces to my left and precipitous drops to my right. The temperature fluctuated as I twisted my way up, with occasional glimpses of the sun warming pockets of air. About an hour in, the landscape flattened out and I was surrounded by meadows, occasionally passing through small alpine villages before reaching a busy town called La Clusaz. By this time the valley I had began from was long out of sight and houses were becoming fewer. I eventually hit the top after 1.5 hours of riding and there was a lot going on! Stalls selling fruit, souvenirs and other bits and pieces. I’m not one for these sorts of things so chomped on a banana before steaming back down to the valley on the south side towards Albertville. So many km of downhill riding was incredible. I was definitely going to enjoy the mountains!

I sped on through Ugain then skirted around Albertville, along the flat base of the valley following a well signposted route towards my next target. Col d’Madelaine. Another infamous climb, that starts with switchback after switchback, with corners formed by huge concrete walls. All of the way up, the names of Tour de France legends are scrawled over the road. Eventually the gradient eases off and the road runs fairly straight along a wide valley with a waterfall way off in the distance at the head of it. It was here I finally encountered another cyclist heading up the hill. He was laying on the wall at the side of the road looking decidedly knackered whilst a man holding an ‘Arete’ (stop) sign controlled traffic.  Once allowed, I sped of and didn’t see him again. Eventually a wall of mountain seemed to block any chance of getting up. By this point I was in the clouds and couldn’t see much above me, with the only clue of the roads continuation being the strain of car engines somewhere above my head. The road started switch backing again before I emerged at the top and was surprised to see a car park and a few cafes. Time for an expensive but oh-so-cold coke before descending down to the warmth of the valley. A long ride down a road that was too busy for my liking and due to it’s unrelenting straightness, felt almost more draining than both the hills of the day, finally got me to my finishing point of the day in Sainte Michel de Maurienne. After scouting around for somewhere to bivvy, I relented and checked into a campsite as bivvy spots were pretty limited. It was a great decision as I told the cheery French woman about my adventure and she didn’t want payment! Legend. She also let me charge up my portable battery for the first time of the trip. I found a quiet spot atop an area of grass terraces at the back of the campsite and lay in my bag supping a cold beer watching the walls of the hillside opposite slowly turn pink as the sun set.

The United Nations
Heading towards the first col
Somewhere up Col de la Madeleine. Hot work
Looking back down to the valley.
Into the clouds
2 hours to summit.
Clearer skies to the south
The setting sun from St Jean de Maurrienne
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My Tour de France – Day 6

Day 6 – Les Rousses – Geneva

41km

The day starts with drizzle and I hide, zipped up in my bivvy bag chewing on haribo for breakfast. I suddenly hear a dog barking a few metres away. Clearly not used to seeing giant green slug like objects sleeping on the fort. I then hear the owner berating it as it jumps on the bag. I stay silent and undercover. It’s way too early for this. I eventually rise and pack my wet stuff away. Today will be a short day to Geneva. I make my way along the D1005 to the top of Col de Faucille stopping to watch some ski jumpers practising on a jump with no snow. Lunatics. A steady climb to 1323m along pine tree lined roads felt like a pretty savage start to the day, especially in the wet. I had already been through this day in my head. Except in my head I get to the top and see the majestic alps, crowned by the mighty Mont Blanc massif across from the azure blue lac Leman. What I actually got was very wet, and a vista consisting of grey cloud and a town far below peeking through the mist every so often. Descending from the col felt pretty treacherous in these conditions and it took some heavy brake application to negotiate the hairpin corners without making acquaintance with the crash barriers. I was glad of the fact the air got so much warmer the further down the hill I went.

Once in Geneva the weather was at least dry if a little chilly. I checked into a hostel and walked around town in cycling gear and flip flops. This was not a commonly done thing judging by the baffled looks of other people. Lightweight touring certainly doesn’t leave room for luxuries such as dignity. I had a refreshing swim in the lakes beach. There was a small bouldering wall in the middle of the swimming area. I climbed up an easy route and back down. Tried a harder route, fell off into the freezing water and my head briefly pulsed with extreme brain freeze. That was my cue to get out and continue wandering to the old town and more bohemian areas with Juliet balconies adorned with colourful window boxes. I made a mental note to return and check out some of the museums and CERN one day. Before returning to the hostel I stopped for a cold beer and for the second time in the same day ate the most calorific food I could find, feeling slightly guilty that I could be eating fine cuisine rather than a fast food burger. You get a lot of ‘bang for your buck’, is always my excuse. I picked up some chain lube from a bike store and blew the owners mind when I showed him the map on the side of my hat. But then, I was in an electric bike shop.

Back at the hostel I washed my cycling gear and laid out my bivvy gear to dry before promptly falling asleep, ready for the first day in the mountains.

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My Tour de France – Day 5

Day 5 – Dijon – Les Rousses

183km

Sleeping near field mice is not recommended. They rustle about a lot. Anyway, I emerged from my bag under a moody sky and rode into into Dijon. It has a beautiful historic centre, with a plethora of architectural styles ranging from timber framed houses to immense gothic churches. I noted many of the roofs had vibrantly coloured tiles arranged in geometric patterns that sparkled in the morning light. After some aimless wandering it was time to head south.

The hills of yesterday had disappeared and the road was once again pan flat as I slid past field after field, without fighting a headwind. I could see the Jura way off in the distance and buzzed with excitement as I past the sign indicating I was now in Le département du Jura. I passed through a few towns that were on the river and had huge quays with pleasure boats swaying in the breeze before stopping for a warm lunch in the sun outside a church.

After 100km I arrived at Lons le Saunier at the foot of the Jura alps. As I stood outside the supermarket swigging on several litres of fizzy orange I first noted how hot it had become, and then realised how big the hills were that I surely had to ride up to cross the Jura. And so it began. After some small amounts of descending I rode up a few insanely steep hills on narrow roads through villages comprising of only a few houses, that seemed to be hanging onto the hillside for dear life.  Eventually after about 200m of climbing I was deposited high up on a main road at about 500m and it was time to traverse the Jura.

Once I was up high, it was actually surprisingly flat with only 1 really big descent, to a valley home to alpine meadows and the heart warming clang of cow bells – a sound that I associate with descending from climbing mountains in the alps and it being the first sign of civilisation having ascended one of the fantastically secluded peaks.

After seeing a particularly exciting looking information sign for a waterfall, I thought I’d go check it out and rode down past a huge lake to packed carpark / info centre. I donned my finest hiking boots (flip flops) and strolled up the trail to the waterfall, only to find it was a bit lacking in water due to a hot summer. Fortunately, there was enough of  a pool at the bottom of it to dowse myself for an instant cooling effect.

Back on track and feeling a bit fresher,the perfectly smooth road surface I had become used to disappeared, turning into a gravel nightmare, which I rode on tentatively expecting either a puncture or to topple over at any moment. It’s never good riding through gravel on 23mm tires. 144km in, I started riding up hill and kept trending uphill for the next 15km. Then it was then time to do a super long descent which I wrongly assumed was the drop into Geneva despite being able to see more hills ahead of me…. at the bottom of this the first real test piece of the holiday reared up. Starting at 700m, I kept cycling and the hill just kept going up. I rounded a corner, and still more ‘up’ presented itself to me. There was a distinct lack of ‘down’ and I frankly was starting to feel quite knackered. On my right the valley floor was getting further and further away and some time later I reached the top at about 1100m. Was this the last hill before the descent into Geneva? It wasn’t. As I rolled into Les Rousses I decided I may as well call it a day, feeling like it had been a long ride to this point. It turns out 183km was the distance for the day. It also occurred to me that I was higher than Mount Snowdon in Wales! A local map told me there was one more pass before Geneva and it was getting a bit late for slogging up another hill. I followed signs to an old fort that overlooks the town and surrounding hills, after wandering around trying to find the best view to sleep near (and not summoning the courage to walk into some pretty ominous looking dark rooms and stairs), I decided to sleep in the place I found in the first 2 minutes, on top of the fort wall.

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