Raiding

Blogging of some long-distance bicycle adventures ("Raids"). Click here to see a list of them.

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Bonus pictures, from Sam's and Jacci's phones, shared while we were recovering back at home. As well as being highly visible in mist and fog on the road, hi-viz pink overshoes made it easy to pick out which photos I was in!

The first of these photos is from early in the week, perhaps the day we toured the Verdon Gorge. All the others are from our three ascents of Mont Ventoux: approaching and at the summit in the clouds, and two from further down the mountain and later in the day, by which time the sun had appeared.

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Our base for the past three nights, the Ventoux Provence hotel, is a collection of old buildings round a gravel courtyard (picturesque, but treacherous for the arriving cyclist). It’s been done up since I was last here, and has been very comfortable.

Breakfast is in the Magnanerie, which I learn is a building for silkworms (presumably warmed by the chimney behind it). It contains the most enormous elaborately carved dresser, about 3.5 metres wide and taller still. I sat looking at it to work out how it would have been made. It’s not modern, unlike the elaborate distressed-finish ‘dresser’ in last night’s restaurant. It was a facade about 5 cm deep, stuck onto the wall.

I’m trying to eat a smaller breakfast than of late.

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Here's the pic from the enterprising photographer on Ventoux. I don't think I'd have won an award for best-dressed rider, in my odd mix of winter and summer kit, but my feet and hands were at least reasonably warm on the descents!

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While I was out on the road, others spent their final day in other ways. Paul, who completed the Cinglés route on Friday but suffered along the way, had a day off. I had spoken to Simon over breakfast, and asked him what his plan was. 'Fix my bike,' he said a little mournfully (it was indeed the batteries in his shifters, depleted by the low temperature). And his digestion, which was giving him trouble. He, ah, made a full recovery, and used the rest of his day in true Audax fashion.

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Since my first bicycle computer was the kind that clicked up the miles when a pin on the front wheel engaged with a cog on the device strapped to the fork, modern technology seems close to magical, though not always useful. Apple Health informed me, on my return to the hotel, that I had spent more time working out than usual over the last five days. Like I might not have noticed.

Other applications are very useful indeed. Marmot's route files are exceptionally good and well-prepared (by humans!), and my Garmin delivered all their directions and information faultlessly. Where I missed a couple of turns, that was down to me (and the Garmin immediately says 'off course').

Strava provided this heat-map of the roads I've covered in the past six days, and the week in figures: 838 kilometres of riding, in about 48 hours on the bike, and 16,181 metres of vertical ascent, only a little shy of twice up Mount Everest. And (did I mention?) six Challenge routes in six days, which was the challenge I came for.

Garmin also tells me about my fitness and recovery, and usually knows better than I do when I've been overdoing it. It's being quite restrained: 'Try decreasing your training load a bit.'

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By this point in the day, and the week, even the small cols felt hard. Riding up the Côte de Bluye, a mere 5 km at 3.5%, I had to shift to a lower gear in a way that made a French rider passing me wish me 'bon courage.'

I got my reward after crossing my outward track at Veaux, in the few kilometres from Entrechaux to Malauscène, which contained these fine sunlit views of vineyards and olive groves surrounded by forest: a lovely way to say goodbye to Provence.

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After another cracking descent from the Col St Jean, the D542 towards Séderon was a drag into a headwind which felt stronger than it was, to my tired legs. I resigned myself to a slog home; but I was wrong.

Coming from this direction, the climb to the Col d'Aulan is tiny; but then comes the Gorge d'Aulan, which was narrow, steep and exhilarating. All I can show you is one picture of its geology. Towards the bottom, I had to swerve out to avoid a class of geology students in hi-viz vests, gathered at the side of the road to stare at a rock: so it must be remarkable to more than cyclists.

The bottom of the gorge brought me out at the back of Montbrun-les-Bains, the front of which I'd photographed two days previously. There I filled my bottles and jersey pockets for a last time from Sam's van, and sent him on to the hotel where he had work to do, while I finished the ride.

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Sam was waiting for me at the top of the Col du Perty. We enjoyed the view across to the (hautes) Alps.

It was Sam's idea, when stocking up on cyclist-fuel, to buy several tartes aux pommes. I'd already told him this had been inspired. Seeing that I was going to get the last two slices of the last tart, I said I would take a picture of them, so significant had they been to my enjoyment of the ride. Dessert at dinner was also apple tart; but it doesn't taste quite as good when you haven't climbed to 1,302 metres to eat it.

I had the view from the next col, that of St Jean, to myself, and sat on the large white bench to enjoy it. Nearby, however, was a group of electric bikes, and a little further off, a hearty French picnic was happening. They, too, must appreciate food at altitude.

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Over dinner, the Glasgow riders and I agreed that the Col du Perty had indeed been a 'route remarquable', outstanding, both on the way up and the way down; and, by comparison with Ventoux the previous day, deserted. The many hairpins on the ascent opened up larger views of the valley from which we'd climbed. My picture looks down into Ruissas, one of the five hamlets which make up Montauban.

It seems to be a Provençal pastime to embellish road-signs. I passed one yesterday on which two aliens had been added as passengers in a car, and this cross-roads has become a third.

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I hung on to the 'Cobham Crew' (the SWRC riders) until the scheduled coffee stop. They stopped at an earlier boulangerie, in search of cake. I had some coffee and a chat with Sam & Jacci, then headed on by myself. After the split of the Classic and Challenge routes, there were only Scots riding the latter, the others being two of the three Glasgow riders, fresher and faster than me. So I allowed myself to be in tourist mode, while making enough progress to get back in time to hand over my bike before dinner.

Something comical about the size of the huge modern tractor compared to the tiny ancient Mairie made me stop in Montauban-sur-l'Ouvèze. I parked my bike behind the tractor, thus creating a tableau of three of the seven ages of cyclists. There I found a really interesting board about the village, which I read attentively in French before finding the English translations in smaller print.

My reading about Les Baronnies this morning told me the population had been 'decimated,' which I read as 'reduced by a tenth.' But no: According to the board, the population of Montauban was about a thousand in 1639, 330 in 1901, and only 80 by 1982. In 2006 it was 114, and French Wikipedia says it was 117 by 2022. Some of the stabilisation will have been through agriculture – I passed crates of harvested apples and rows of well-tended olive trees – but it cannot provide much employment these days. That tractor is very roughly 100 horsepower; which very very roughly replaces the work of 1,000 fit humans. And, anyway, it belongs to the council, not a farmer.

The tractor was parked in front of the war memorial, which lists the names of 16 men from Montauban killed in the First World War: which was itself half-way to a decimation. I took a picture of the inscription for Victor Hugo fans. In English, it reads:

Glory to eternal France. Glory to those who died for her. To the Martyrs. To the Valiant. To the Strong. To those who are inflamed by their example, who want a place in the temple and who will die as they died.

... which is a bit on the blood-thirsty side.

Thus informed and rested, I rode on up the Col du Perty.

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The Baronnies felt properly autumnal, from the colour in the tress to the roadside hips to the apple-harvest.

Ste Euphémie-sur-Ouvèze used to be called something much worse, until the Bowdlers holidayed in Provence.

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Parts of our ride were through yet more gorges, which were... lovely. (Please admire my restraint.)

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This is the bridge over the Ouvèze in Mollans-sur-Ouvèze, which we agreed was a Provençal village straight out of central casting.

We cycled up the Ouvèze from here all the way up to its confluence with the Rieu, at the foot of the Col du Perty; and (I realised) I had also followed the Ouvèze from Vaison-le-Romaine, where it is crossed by a Roman bridge, back to Malaucène on Wednesday evening.

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Sam, collecting our day-bags, looked as though he was auditioning for a modelling gig with Louis Vuitton.

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Six days, six Challenge routes.

I started today with the aim of just getting round the course, knowing that was going to be tough; and it was, physically. At the end of a long week, and especially after yesterday's epic ride, my legs were willing, but couldn't sustain my usual power for more than a fraction of the usual time, so I was slower on the climbs; and by the last descent, fatigue was making me concentrate very hard on responding fast to what the road, the bike and the traffic were doing.

But it wasn't just an endurance trial: it was one of the best day's riding of the whole week, on quiet roads through wonderful country, right down to the last five km or so, which could have been just a suburban approach to Malauscène, but instead took us on a gem of a back-road past vineyards and olive trees, just to remind us what riding in Provence can be like.

I took lots of pictures...

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Overheard

Rider at breakfast, Day 6:

I caught sight of the shadow of my bike yesterday. It looked like a wheelchair.

Rider to his companions just before the départ:

Adrian's just getting his banana sorted.

I overheard Julian mention music at dinner tonight, son asked him about it. He was a cellist and pianist at junior school, then a French horn player at grammar school, because the school didn't have cellos. Then he joined the Marines. Later, he got divorced, and took up the piano again, quite seriously. He's fanatical about the Dunedin Consort and Ensemble Jupiter. I've let him into the secret that the latter are playing at the Lammermuir Festival next year, and he is very excited.)

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One Challenger left

As dinner broke up, I went to the other end of the table to congratulate the new members of the Club des Cinglés de Mont Ventoux.

Me: 'So, who's doing the Challenge route tomorrow?' Simon: 'Not me. My bike's only got one gear, since the last time up from Chalet Reynard.' Ian: 'I've got a good excuse, too.' Me: 'What's your excuse?' Ian, gesturing to Simon: 'His bike's broken.'

(Fortunately for Simon, his bike's single gear was one that allowed him to finish yesterday's ride. It'll be an issue with his electronic shifters, possibly brought on by the cold conditions. I prefer old-school steel cables.)

After Thursday's exertions, the guides have offered us a choice for our final day: the rides originally planned for Day 5; a self-supported shorter ride; or a day off the bike in Malaucène. Some want to ride the Gorges de la Nesque in the other direction, the gentle climb giving more time to take in the scenery. Some might do the 48 km loop through the vineyards that I did on my own at the end of Day 4. About half the group have opted for the longer supported rides in the Parc Regional des Baronnies Provencales, of whom three including me have said they'll take on the Challenge route. The only person left who could complete all the week’s Challenge routes is me.

Les Baronnies are the lands north and east of Mont Ventoux, settled by retired Roman soldiers given land there, and named for the local fiefdoms which grew up to resist invasions by the Franks, Lombards, Saracens and others, after the collapse of the Roman empire. Earlier, Hannibal is reputed to have crossed les Baronnies with his elephants during the Second Punic War (218 - 201 B.C.). Later, the area was a stronghold of French Protestantism, and suffered in the Wars of Religion (1562-1598). Then the plague struck twice, in 1629 and 1652. After centuries of economic decline and depopulation, in the 1980s things began to recover, based on tourism and agriculture. The area is now a playground for all kinds of outdoor sports, popular with retirees, and its olive oil has its own Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée.

A bit like the Highlands of Scotland, except without the Romans, elephants and olive oil.