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
