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Francoholic: Part 3 of 3

Day 4: Transfer Day to Le Luc, 77 miles, 6,300ft elevation

Expect the unexpected, is typically a good rule of thumb in life and cycling. Planning can and should only go so far when you explore a strange new place. I was fortunate to be with a group of people who think this way too. The incredible feature of Provence is it's terrestrial and biological diversity. Today we leave the lush department of the Vaucluse and make our way to Le Luc in the drier yet fertile Var Valley.

Sluggishly we prepare for the day, the physical and mental efforts of the Ventoux still visible in everyone's face and stride. The exit of Ian and Brian back to Paris reduces our group to 5 riders for the remainder of the trip.  Packing the van, we drive to the village of Jouques in the Bouches-Du-Rhone. There will be more climbing, though some of us see today as recovery. That notion is quickly forgotten when we find ourselves on the first unexpected dirt segment of the journey. After a few wrong turns down various unmarked forks, we emerge from the forest and begin the first of many ridges that stand between us and Le Luc. Each valley vastly different than the one before.

Surrounding us on a switchback laden descent are towering limestone cliffs, so close they could whisper to you. Up and over the Col de Portes and into the Var. Each turn brings a new oddity. There are the hunters who gaze just as strangely at us as we do them. The dreadlocked hippies with a broken down van after the little engine struggles to the top of the Col. Andrew disappearing into the brush trying to follow a parallel dirt track, or so he thought with the road. Even the way grapes grew like weeds from the rocky Earth, devoid seemingly of soil and nutrients. Feeling this shift in environment makes one hypersensitive to time and distance.

Time and distance, 2 factors now at odds with one another. A quick calculation and we are not going to make Le Luc before nightfall. We plan to meet our driver in the next town of La Roquebrussanne and hop in the van. When we arrive, the group is spent. Brad, Abbey and Wilis find the nearest cafe and call it a day. Andrew, wants to know if I want to try and go for it. Having no idea what lie ahead, I do know we will have to turn ourselves inside out. I agreed, saying goodbye to the group we press on.

"Never turn down a ride at dusk", Andrew says quietly. The massif rising over the Var is lit on fire with the reds, yellows and blues of the waning light. The sun has punched the clock, now it's time to work. I take up the pull, I put down my head and work myself into fury. I search for a catalyst, there is none. Just a fantastic release of energy. I taste metal, then my vision blurs. We careen through the roundabouts and I listen for Andrews freewheel. Still there, good. Finally, unable to see, I sit up. It looks like we will make it just as the night catches us. Then, the unexpected. Our GPS, in all of its wisdom, takes us down a side path, then the path turns to dirt, then stones the size of baby heads.

Now pitch black, we have no choice but to backtrack onto the auto route... the highway. Still 5 miles out, no water and only 2 lights between us, we hug the shoulder for dear life. Only a single white line is visible at any given point as my headlight strobes into the black. Somehow, we make it to Le Luc to meet David our host. Andrew and I beat the van despite our detour. I'm sure we will romanticise this detail even more the older we get.

David, who is also the father of my girlfriend, makes sure we are set for the evening. I take him aside, sheepishly still wearing my cycling shorts and ridiculous shoes and ask him for his daughters hand. He gives his blessing and the exhaustion of the day is replaced by distilled joy. It was the best unexpected moment of my life.

  Day 5: Saint-Tropez: 56 miles , 4,400 ft elevation

Beach Day! It's on everyone's mind.We are shacked up in a cozy little hamlet outside of Le Luc called Les Muraires. We use the morning to explore this 18th century village and the moat like vineyards that protect its inhabitants. Today will be the shortest day in mileage, but I've learned to not use mileage as a gauge of difficulty in this part of the world. Again we start the day off-piste. My comfort on these sectors isn't the same since I took a gravel tumble earlier in the summer. I struggle, particularly on the downhill. I lack the handling skills of my fellow riders, all of them superb cross racers. Gingerly, I ride within my ability. I wait for the coming climbs to resurrect some sense of pride.

Swinging south through Pignans, a tower looms high over the hills. That's gonna go up for awhile, I think to myself. The category 2  Notre-Dame-Des-Anges wanders around the ridge line for over 5 miles, gaining 1,800 feet. My legs, though exhausted, somehow feel better when the road tilts up. It's difficult to explain, but putting them to work silences their complaints. Still on a high from yesterday's conversation with my girlfriends father, I pour myself into the mountain. I churn away hypnotically until I again find that metal taste. Andrew sits on my wheel, and I listen to him shifting and moving around uncomfortably on the saddle. I laugh to myself as I'm unable to drop him, though I tried.

I've been warned about the descent into Saint-Tropez. It was a white knuckle roller coaster to say the least. The danger however is eclipsed by it's beauty. When coming off such a treacherous series of turns, your mind can only process that moment. The past and future, including your own memories are expendable, and lost to the mountain.

The remaining kilometers into the city are a different matter, the traffic is New York-esque. Sitting down to a late lunch, we engage in the timeless French tradition of people watching. Somehow, we manage to find a secluded cove amongst this bustling Rivièra metropolis. Into the Mediterranean we sunk our tired limbs and souls in hopes it would rejuvenate us for one more day.

  Day 6: Gorges Du Verdon: 78miles , 9,300 ft elevation

I've always found it extremely difficult to live in the moment, I think most people experience this. Most of us find hobbies, jobs, activities or vices to aid our sense of now. Mine is the bike. Every second on the bike, is better than the last or the next.

Today begins with dirt, a lot of dirt. We head north towards the "Grand Canyon of Europe" known as Les Gorges Du Verdon. But first, the dirt. After a few punchy slopes, we find ourselves on a strange Serengeti like plateau. The red rocky clay below stands in stark contrast to the whispy blue skies overhead. Disheveled trees stand in protest with wretched outstretched limbs, providing little shade. At any moment, I expect to see a rampaging elephant or lioness peering through the tall grass. The other riders take flight on the double track, only I remain as prey. Eventually rejoining them, I concede my place in the cycling food chain.

Lunch today is in a small village called TourTour. Like many of the villages in this part of Provence, they were built during Roman antiquity and conveniently located atop large hills. Like most other days we must earn our lunch.

We've enjoyed the last bits of summer in Provence. Hints of the Fall air finally catch up with us in TourTour. Pulling on our light outer shells we begin our farewell. Unfortunately, this isn’t a processional. We again realize that time is not in our corner if we want to make it before sundown. For the next 90 minutes, Andrew and Wilis trade monster pulls at the front. I can only sit on, the last 5 days have finally cracked me. Helicopters break the silence of effort as we approach a military installation. Dozens of tanks and armored vehicles stoically wait. The realities of the world come rushing back. But the bike is always there, ready to give you another moment, another chance.

Approaching the eastern opening of the Canyon, I'm overwhelmed. The abrupt topographical changes of Provence have saved their best for last. An impossible void surrounded by impossible beauty. This cathedral of nature defies expectation and explanation. The first humans to have seen it must have been dumbfounded. For 16 kilometers, we tightroped the edge of the world. The sky competed for attention as it liquified from one color to the next. Brilliant hues of reds and yellows eventually extinguished by soothing purples and blues. Terrific gusts of wind rushed down the canyon walls, nearly bringing me to a full stop during our final descent into Aiguines. Until the very last moments, the bike and mountain challenged us to leave our comfort zones.

Then it was all over. We arrived just as the sun met the water in Lac de Sainte-Croix. 6 days, 425 miles and 41,000 feet of climbing. A sudden sadness washed over me as I realized our small group would soon go our separate ways. "I hope this is not a once in a lifetime trip...", I toast that evening dinner, "But if it is, I'm honored it was with this group of friends". We would make many toasts that night and will assuredly recount the adventure in varying levels of exaggeration for years to come. 

Photos by Wilis Johnson and myself.

Go To Francoholic: Part 1, Francoholic: Part 2

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Francoholic: Part 2 of 3

"People are moved to wonder by mountain peaks, by vast waves of the sea, by broad waterfalls on rivers, by the all-embracing extent of the ocean, by the revolutions of the stars. But in themselves they are uninterested." -Petrarch, Ascent of Mont Ventoux, circa 1350

Day 3: Mont Ventoux, Géant de Provence: 70 miles, 9,700 ft elevation

Today will hurt. Our fresh legs from 2 days prior have long been eroded. "This is what a grand tour rider must feel", I delusionally think to myself before cramming another croissant caked with butter and jam into my face. Well, maybe not a GRAND tour. If I have anything going for me, it's that I've done this route from Bedoin to the summit of Ventoux just last year. This will be the first time for Andrew, Abbey and Wilis from this direction (they came from Sault last year), and the first time for Brad, Ian and his dad Brian. More often than not in this beautiful sport however, ignorance is bliss.

Before we get to the base of our giant, we first have 40 miles and 2,500 feet of elevation between us. The day begins heading north towards the Col de Liguiere. At 6 miles in length and 2,000 feet in gain, it's south facing slope and scarcely populated vegetation make this climb a punishing ordeal in the noonday sun. The inclines, though not severe, are instead long drags that meander through the arid shrubs and hearty vineyards. I'm feeling motivated though today. Wilis has again set an impressive tempo, a pattern starts to emerge for myself, chase Wilis. Like a loyal dog, I do so with great joy despite the agony. We get to the top and wait for the others, only to quickly discover something has been waiting for us. Thousands of flies and gnats swarm the summit, infiltrating our agape mouths, nostrils and jerseys as we gasp for air. We zip up and start our descent as soon as Andrew joins us. You win this one, Liguiere.

We make our way toward a gorge Andrew has mentioned. I don't think much of it, most of my preoccupation today has been with our destination as I mull over the strength left in my legs. We crest a slight rise and the horizon begins to fold, shift and crumble. I look down to my left and there is suddenly a great scar in the Earth. Then around the next turn the Earth fights back with a violent rise. It goes on like this for as far as the eye can see. Just as quickly, we begin to descend. Passing through man made tunnels, the road drops and drops and drops, hugging the edge of the void. It wasn't fast, which allowed as to gaze into the Gorges de la Nesque as we emptied ourselves like drops of water into its basin. I completely forgot about the Ventoux, I forgot about about bills and work waiting for me back home, I might have even forgot to breathe. It was the best 20 minutes I've ever had on a bike, so far.

After a light lunch in Villes-Su-Auzon and entertainment by let's call them, local happy hour aficionados, we strap ourselves in like terrestrial astronauts preparing for our Lunar landing. On a clear day, Ventoux can be seen from 50km away. Though Bedoin and the lower slopes are bathed in sunshine, the barren and windswept top puts on a tantalizing burlesque behind her stratus and cumulus unmentionables. It isn't until we commit ourselves does she reveal what we've come for. Just as quickly, the summit vanishes as we plunge deep into the forest of the Ventoux. For the next 10km, there is no escape, no respite, this is where the mountain spits out pretenders. She finds me faster than I hoped. Wilis, long gone up the road will soon be joined by Brad who comes by Andrew and I like a locomotive. "Ignorance is bliss", I mutter. The grade bucks up to 9, then 10 percent. I feel the deep burn of acid fill my legs and surrender to Andrew's pace, hoping his image soon ebbs into the mountain. Easing, I settle into my own rhythm. Every expectation is now abandoned and my only request is to not stop, to not rest until the job is done. My legs and the Ventoux grant me this one favor.

After the turn at le Chalet Reynard, reality becomes twisted and bent . The thin clacking of bells and barking dogs up the road reveals a crossing herd of sheep, by the time I reach it, only the smell remains as I catch a glimpse of the last beast ambling up an embankment. The lantern rouge of the group, I know the feeling well my friend. With 2km to go, time stands still, and again the road heaves upward. I pass the Simpson memorial and see the sticker I placed on it's base the year prior. The summit, like a Hitchcock dolly zoom effect, seems to fall away the closer you get, always just out of reach. The last turn, I get out of the saddle and slump my exhausted body across the faded white line marking the top, to the bemusement of a welcoming party of other masochists. After we compose ourselves, document our triumph, and put on every single layer of clothing available, we fall back to Earth.

The shivering was uncontrollable, elbows, knees and breathing all trembling violently and erratically as the cold stabbed deeper into my chest. "I thought astronauts were afraid of heat upon re-entry?!" I wondered. With every bit of concentration I could manage, I focus on the bike. Finally dipping back into the tree line, away from the wind, warmth. We fly past the Chalet and I latch onto a paceline consisting of Wilis, Andrew, Brad, Ian and myself. We use every inch of the road. Like spandex clad marionettes, each leg raises and pauses before every apex in unison. Wordlessly, our cadence syncs together on every exit. Maybe it was the exhaustion of the last three days, or the concentration of the task at hand, but no one jumps off the front. Instead we silently enjoy this symbiotic existence together, if only for this short time words aren't necessary.

Just as the sun sinks behind Ventoux to the west, we arrive in Sault already cast in the mountains shadow. To our surprise, we learn today was Andrews birthday as we sit down to dinner. He doesn't have to explain why he didn't mention it, for him today was about the ride. We toast the mountain and the man.

photos by: Wilis Johnson

Go To Francoholic: Part 1, Francoholic: Part 3

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Francoholic: Part 1 of 3

Hello, my name is Mark, and I am a Francoholic. It’s true, I ride for The 5th Floor NYC. A team rooted in the UK and transplanted to the States. Yet I stand before you today a man with not merely a strong predisposition towards all things French, I have a sickness for it. The women, the wine, the food, the art, the history, even the smell… you heard me, smell. But it is the mountains that REALLY do it for me. Or Mont, Col, Montagné, L'alpe, whatever you call it… I’m addicted to it. I tell you this not to better my ailment, I tell you this for context.

I’ve recently returned from 6 days of riding in Southern France, Provence to be precise, the Vaucluse and Var to be MORE precise (such is the Francoholic). The trip was produced by fellow Gallophile, Andrew Crooks. A curated series of routes that were not only physically demanding, but gave us the time and flexibility to enjoy this majestic and sweeping region of France that is often overlooked by TDF bucket listers...well, we did Ventoux on principle. Wilis Johnson slowed down just long enough to document the trip on film, his photos are featured in this post, and here on Flickr. Route links from Strava can be found by clicking the days description.

Day 1: Luberon Mountains: 68 miles, 5,700 ft elevation

Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? After months of excitement, weeks of planning, and a full day of travel, we are here. Sitting outside of Le Providence, a converted lavender farmhouse, we sip on our smuggled NYC coffee going over the plan for the first day. Everyone hopes their bikes are dialed in from the previous nights build session. I fidget with my machine a little more, trying to convince myself that bringing it 4,000 miles across an ocean to ride mountains I wasn’t capable of mentally grasping, was a good idea. A quick pre-ride photo, and we are clipped in. I keep reminding myself (and everyone around me) WE ARE IN F*CKING FRANCE RIDING OUR BIKES. My enthusiasm was bordering on annoyance to those around me, so I tried my best to keep it together. A few miles in and we hit our first significant bump, a 1,000 foot slog up to Casanueve outside of Apt. It was the first of many unexpected climbs. Our mapped courses omitted elevation data, so each climb was like going into the great unknown. It was exhilarating. We stopped for lunch in Bonnieux for pizza that would put anything Italy has to offer to shame. Recharged, we continued on towards the lip of the Luberon Mountain range. Our first Cat 2 climb, le Col de Vidauque, was a punchy 7 mile long, 2000 foot climb onto the ridge of a mountain range. It was worth noting, this climb is not accessible to traffic. As such, it was without a doubt the worst pavement we saw all trip, which is also the reason why this is not a known climb. It was also our first switchback heavy adventure as we snaked our way to the windswept weather station perched on-top. We quickly learned that many of our climbs would take us to weather stations on top of mountains, I guess its a thing.

The payoff was a rolling landscape of thin pinetrees that eventually opened up to vistas of the Vaucluse below. Finally, all of the anxiety subsided. I was here, beaten into submission by the days elevation, with friends on a mountain. I reached my addictions equilibrium. We descended home, cleaned the days dust off, and sat down to an amazing dinner in Apt. Day 1 was more than I could have hoped.

  Day 2: Montagne de Lure: 82 miles, 8,000 ft elevation

*THUNDER CRACKS* Groggy and confused, I snap upright. It's dark, another brilliant flash fills the room and overloads my senses. "Who's there?!", I murmur to the silhouette standing at the foot of my bed. Panic sets in, “who the hell has been watching me sleep?!” More lightning and I see my helmet and jacket hanging next to the bed. Relieved (mostly that I didn't relieve myself), I try to get back to sleep. The thunder turns to driving rain, then hail and I start thinking what I will need for the days ride. We decide to start later in hopes things will dry. We stuff our day bags with every piece of kit we have just in case and throw it in the van.

Ah, the support van. Before you laugh at how soft we all are, it should be noted we saw this van for rollout, lunch, and pick-up. Anything in between we were on our own. It was great to have this feature on the trip. The weather tapers and we shove out under low skies. We start climbing immediately. Miles and miles, at a comfortable 3-4 percent grade. My legs feel incredible, and I spend most of the time out of the saddle, stretching and opening my lungs to all of the smells that permeate around us. The road, still damp and tacky from last nights deluge, gently swishes under my wheel as I rock side to side on the pedals.

Behind schedule, our stomachs began to object as we near 3pm and Saint-Etienne . It's a ghost town, as is the norm round these parts. Eat your lunch by 2... Or you're screwed. So we improvise. We find an open grocery, load up on some meats, cheeses and baguettes, and build a perfectly delicious sandwich for ourselves (or 3) in the town center. But now the real work lay ahead. Plump bellies that test the integrity of our lycra be damned, we begin the Montagne de Lure. Never heard of it? Me either, how bad could it be? Seems it has never been featured in le Tour, and only twice in the Race to the Sun. Ironically,  gloom sets over St.Etienne, I look down and we are already at 13 percent before we leave the town proper.

Sure enough, the Lure is a monster. 11 miles long and 3,400 feet in elevation. I try to keep pace with Wilis initially, we chat for the first 3km or so and I realize I'm in the red. I look back, and it seems everyone else knew this was coming and paced themselves. I ease up slightly and Wilis continues his punishing tempo, inhaling la Montagne.

I'm alone, and now the weather gets cold and damp as I near the clouds. There are hollowed out buildings and a run down ski resort along the way. The mist surrounds me now, happiness has abandoned this mountain pass years ago.

I’m 2km from the summit, things start to level off and suddenly Andrew has caught me. It was the first sign of life in an hour, and he grunts ‘hey’ as he charges on by. The mountain has visibly taken its toll on him, his shoulders slouch as he wrestles the bike. I’m content to keep spinning away. There is a clearing in the weather and a sweeping right around the bowl of the summit. I look down into a chasm of scree and broken forest. Andrew, now 100 meters ahead, is swallowed by a rogue cloud as he continues his assault. I’ve never witnessed such a thing in my life.

The summit is amazing, amazing in its absolute starkness and lack of life. We catch our shivering breath and pull on every layer of clothing waiting for us in the support van (I told you it was great). Attempting to avoid a worsening of the weather, we descend the way we came. The next 20 minutes was a blur, survival mode. 5km into the descent, I was unable to see more than 20 meters in front of me. The uselessness of my fogged glasses was immediately apparent. Somehow avoiding riding off the side of the mountain, we punched through the clouds, the air temperature quickly rose 10 degrees and the shivering subsided. The next 15 minutes was an absolute rush of high speed straightaways and screeching switchbacks. We made our way back to St.Etienne and carried on back to Apt in a desperate paceline, returning just as the last bits of light had bled from the horizon. We had escaped the Lure, barely. That night, I remembered to put my helmet on the floor.

Go To Francoholic: Part 2 , Francoholic: Part 3

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On the Job

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Candid Portraits

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Headshots

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France and Suffering

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Orchard Street Runners shoot 12.3.2012

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If you see a beard behind the camera, it's already too late