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.