176.47 km, 4,424 m
(first draftš¦) John loves to put an epic day into every trip (2024: Day 2, Zoncalon; 2022: Milan Sanremo; 2022: Tourmale 2019). Here is 2026ās.
The night before, Iām disgruntled to hear weāll be setting off at 7am, missing breakfast (Iām quite protective of my 1st and 2nd breakfasts), but grumpiness evaporates as we head out into across Balconnette square and into the cool, crisp morning. Donkey brays, cockerel crows and cuckoo calls ring through the valley.
Craig, Sarah, Mike E, Steve Tr, Ed and I pull west along the valley. The traffic is quiet, apart from a frightening incident with a local(?) driving an older, dark blue car. We hear him sitting on his horn as he approaches, he doesnāt seem to like cyclists, and def not ones riding two-abreast. There is no other traffic on the wide road, but he nudges his right wing to force Ed right, and Steve, to Ed’s right, off the road. Craig gives chase and the driver then drives left at Craig, seriously trying to knock him off too. We shout for calm, and he eventually leaves us alone. But weāre all flustered, angry, and a bit frightened. Tourists are not every localās cup of tea, but please donāt kill us!
The first climb to the Col de la Bonette (2,715 m) is a Monster. And by far the worse climb I can remember struggling up. Last night, the Sandman gave me just a few hours sleep, then ripped my leg muscles out and replaced them with wet sand. I have NOTHING. Itās horrible seeing the ~2,2000m of ascent on the Garmin screen, and the others disappear into the distance. After another hour, Martin pulls alongside ā “am I ok?” he cheerily asks. āNoā¦Iām notā (my lower lip is out and Iām stuffed full of self pity). I decide to have a sit down on the driver’s side step of the van, and huddle up looking pathetic. Martin is a Rock. He coaxes a cola down me, and then some biscuits (I knw – hard to belive for me!), along with encouraging comments. I perk up a little and decide to press on, but fill the next two hours with some dark wallowing and a little cry until Iām actually near the summit (amazing the power of a good wallow!).
This year, the top loop is still just about closed with snow (some of us manage to squeeze round, but the giant snow plough operator is understandably angry with this). Martin is parked at the top, expertly perching the van into a prime spot. Heās been monitoring my ascent, ready to collect me if needed. I think I will marry him later this evening.
I bag a summit shot then am lucky enough to watch a scurrying young marmot sprint across the road in front of me. The marmots are whistling warnings, or coo-ees, or other news? One, enormous, reclining marmot is less bothered and appears to be stroking his tummy with one soft pawā¦and, it’s just a blur, but a Gauloise in the other?
A few other riders are milling around and itās a little chilly so I begin the glorious descent. I love sweeping down hills, the air is rushing loudly past my ears, and Iām yodelling a bit of the Sound of Music’s Lonely Goat-herder. Iām in high spirits and may have lost track of my volumeā¦ Up ahead I see the large derriere of a motorhome trundling into the road. NO! This is going to ruin my descent. With no audio control, (and most definately not my finest hour) I loundly declare, in a bad French accent, āOh non! Cāest une total sh***tttterā. In my (weak) defence, it’s meant as a humourous ode to the 1990s Jaffa Cake ātotal eclipseā advert, and def not meant for the ears of anyone else. Immediately, the motorhome brake lights flick on, andĀ thumbs up comes out the drivers window. Ooops! And Sorry! But what a happy outcomeš Thank you Lovely Driver. The air thickens, and warms as I descend, with after a while, a somehow comforting smell of goat(?), and some ear popping. Finally, a village square with the welcoming scarlet and white parasols of a cafĆ©. The first cafĆ© we congregate in is drinks only (they have food, but itās āthe wrong time of dayā), we enjoy syrupy sweet colas then head down to the other cafĆ©, which has cakes(!).
In France, mealtimes are sacrosanct, almost religious affairs. CafĆ© staff guard the tables with food, and drinks-only areas are strictly segregated (if you sit at the wrong table ā Oh lĆ lĆ !). The food tables are prettily laid with baskets of bread, napkins, cutlery and upside down wine glasses (stout ones for stability outside). People dress-up a little, and arrive ready to enjoy a long, drawn-out, relaxed experience, doubtless with profonde conversations on Voltaire, Rousseau and Diderot. A French meal is about giving an experience, a lot less about monetising.
There are dainty tarts visible in a cabinet and bread in the baskets on the tables. Without even sitting down, we congregate around the cabinet. Weāre hungry, and perhaps more used to UK fast-food service. One of our party, with a beautifully broad Blackburnian accent asks āhave ya gorā any breadā? The dainty, chic waitress looks quizzically at him (heās clad in black Lycra, 6ā2ā and blonde). After a second, using tongs, she offers him a piece of bread from one of the baskets. āHave ya gorāany buttt, herr?ā. Sheās uncertain of the response here. They are worlds apart and watching this endearing exchange is just lovely.
As are the cakes. An exquisite lemon merangue hits my furnace and we head off along the valley to find the second climb. Last night, John pointed out that the climbs are sequentially lower, so āslightly easierā. Itās one way to distract the mind. However, itās not necessary, Mr Sandmanās wet sand has dried out, and trickled from my legs; the second climb to the Col de la Lombarde / Colle della Lombarda (2,351 m) is long, but itās not hideous. The bikers have finished their breakfast Bratwursts and rumble their engines past us, the noise rolling around the mountains.
Tony L. Pulls alongside for the last few 100m of height and we cross the summit together. Itās such an addictive high; Martin is there with a van full of drinks and goodies and this time I decide that I will to bear his children. We replenish water bottles, take on cearal bars, Madelines, and ābun cakesā, then take summit photos, sharing the viewpoints with the leather-clad bikers.
The second descent is superb!Ā A bit like skiing lots of little turns, and it eeks out the height beautifully. Near the end are a set of famous switchbacks which are over all too soon (thanks and Kudos to @StephenReed for Clifton track tuition š), and I arrive at the main road junction at the bottom of the valley, with a cafĆ© to find.
Heās ok now, but along the descent, very unfortunately, one of our party collided with a couple of cars and was swiftly borne to the nearest hospital for checkups and minor bandages. As I type, he has just been given the all-clear, and is on his way home for a rest.
Iām joined at the junction by Mike, Craig, Sarah, Steve and Mike. After stuffing some cereal bars down while we search on our phones, Mike spots a cafĆ© ~1km off the route. Itās an ancient fort, we cross a drawbridge over a dry moat and realise weāre in Italy (not just in the fort). Itās a round of focaccia rolls, cola’s and espressos. There are deckchairs tempting, but we need to get on the road again; just one more itty bitty, little Col: Maddalena (1,991 m). Should be a doddle. Main road, steady incline. IT IS interminable. And possibly the hardest of the three summits. I think weāve been cycling for at least a week before, feeling humbled, we crawl to a stop next to the van at the col. Steve Tk and Martin are brilliant at topping up bottles and spurring us on. Itās a long, dusty descent on the main road, slotting in-between enormous lorries keen to get their milage in for the day. In La Condamine-Chatlard (great name!), I wait for Steve and Sarah, and we race the last ~20km downhill to Barcelonnette, roping in a willing German who pulls a few turns on the front.
The restaurant booking has been pushed back to ~8:30pm, and weāre still waiting for Cal, he joins us, still en Lycra, to wide applause straight off the bike at ~9pm. Epic effort!
(first draft – more photos and info to follow later)
Bolton Lads & Girls Club (BLGC) (www.blgc.co.uk) and the wider national community to which it belongs, Onside (www.onsideyouthzone.org) in the hope you will feel inspired enough to donate just a little to ensure its continued success āhttps://www.justgiving.com/page/roofoverourhead
