July 24, 2015
Riding In This Year's Tour De France: Moiola to Peyruis (Fr)
There's the special green jersey for the fully loaded touring cyclist-sprinters in the world's premier bike race. In the flatter stages around the north and west of France, they appear at the front of the race in the rapid final kilometres, looking at each other and foxing each other out: then one suddenly excellerates hard causing a furious bunch sprint: touring bikes brushing panniers bags dangerously as they launch forward in a flash to the finishline, hitting speed well in excess of a hundred kilometres per hour. A TV camera showing the charge from the front along the sponsor-hoarding enclosed finishline chute, tends to picture the action more slowly for the benefit of viewer, showing muscular legs and arms dig hard on the pedals and dropped handlebars, heads down as bikes jerk side-to-side under the powerful trust of riders. In real time it's over in seconds as arms fly off the handlebars aloft in victory of the rider across the line first by only centimetres. These are the boys and girls the more normal riders learn to loath and fear with good reason, as they're so unpredictable; namely, they swerve in front of proper teams working hard to hold their team leader's position on general classifications, causing them to brake to avoid a collision and mayhem ensues; in the confusion, there's a touch of wheels; and before anybody knows what is happening, bicycles tangle and are down, riders lying on the road cradling injuries. Those touring cyclists is yelled. But one thing is for certain, Froom, Quintana and the like have never cycle-toured. Why? Because to get to the level of competing in the world's greatest race takes extreme hard work and dedication from their early teens, often with very supportive parents pushing and encouraging them to win races weekly by the time they've filled eighteen years. In brief they've always been too busy training and racing week-in, week-out to cycle tour. I wonder do any competitors at this level every go on to cycle tour once they've finally hung up their wheels.
You have to respect those that take part in the world's toughest sport.
I on the other hand, am awake and up at the now usual time of half six and on the road shortly after seven, wearing the black jersey, I'm not sure why this colour, continuing the gradual climb toward Colle Della Madelenna, upon SS21. The scenery alpine valley. There's a couple of small towns enroute; first, Demonte, which I reach about half eight: the road narrowing to little more than a vehicle width through the main street with colonnade archway shop-fronts either side. Here I stop for a cappuccino and cornet; reasonable priced at one euro twenty.
The next town Vinadio I reach an hour later and am glad to spot a sports shop, selling mainly ski and hiking gear with some bikes. Here if nowhere else I'll be able to buy a spare inner-tube and relieve my anxiety of suddenly feeling a tyre go soft without a spare tube, or patches. (The tube I bough yesterday at the hypermarket wasn't too good.)
Inside the woman assistant is selling sunhats to two elderly Italian gentlemen on holidays, so I've a look around. By the counter leans a mountain bike, only not a usual mountain bike, inasmuch as it has very fat balloon tyres and the stays and forts have the extra wheel clearance to cope with such wheels. I've seen one of these before in Sicily. I assume for riding on the beach.
When they've are happy and paid for their hats and left, I'm happy, because the shopwoman is nice and I want to chat with her. The balloon tyre bike is for the snow she tells me in slowly spoken Italian, which I understand because of the language's similarities to Spanish. She finds me a good wide 700 innertube, suitable for my touring tyres. And says laughing, there's just too many different sizes of tubes and picks up an inner-tube for the balloon tyre, which is in a box the size that a folding tyre comes in.
A little out of town is a left turn off heading toward the mountain to the side of the valley. On my Michelin map it is a white swiggle with arrows indicating an accent and a green outline for scenic itinerary. It crosses into France, to a place I think is a ski resort called "Isola 2000". I consider going that way, looking at the map spread on the picnic table at the junction. But decide to remain on the straightforward red road I'm on.
I don't have food, so at Argentera, it being around lunchtime and I'm dreaming of refreshment, there's lots of roadside restaurants, but for some reason I stop at the ski-station cafeteria with a board outside advertising "Menu Di Giorno. 8 euros" and listing what is served today in both Italian and English.
I go for roast beef. And the girl asks will I have salad. Yes and s glass of beer to drink. When the food is put on the table, the beef is thin succulent slices, like ham, and the salad is crisp. The cold beer is appreciated and there's a big basket of sliced homemade bread. So the meal is satisfying, but when I go to pay, the advertised price of eight euros, relates only for the beef. The salad is extra, so is the bread and there's a service charge. The bill comes to nineteen euros.
Argentera is the last village before the road spirals up with fifteen switch-backs and a shallow gradient up to a gap in the mountain. At this point the dark clouds which have been caressing the peaks since noon, come down in big spots of rain with cracks of thunder. Luckily there's a visitor centre where I take cover.
The rain doesn't look to be much and it seems to be coming from the southeast, so if I ride on, it'll be coming from behind. Moreover the sun is shining to the west, the way I'm going, so I set off again.
The road changes to D900 and there's a sign "Col Du Larch 1957 msl" and on the yellow capped D900 stone, there's Barcelonnette 32km. The way drops abruptly in long stretches punctuated by sharp hairpin bends into a wooded river valley, where it continues a more gradually descent.
Not far from town I pass a left turnoff, D64 with a sign stating "Route de la Bonette alt 2802 m. La Plus Haute d'Europe": the highest road in Europe. Worth considering, but it would be miserably cold and wet today. The place sign says: Nice 126km.
It is just as well I don't take that turning as a few kilometres further, I happen to think, well, I've got this far on the thin racing innertube the man gave me yesterday, when sure enough I feel the rear tyre soft and wobbly, then the rim bumps on the road. The thin racing innertube being overstretched to fill out the considerably wider touring tyre, has failed. It's well I come upon that bike shop before noon.
Now needing a spare innertube again, my first port of call when I reach Barcelonette town centre, full of French holidaymakers, is tourist information to inquire on the whereabouts of a bike shop. The young girl behind the counter has nice light brown ringlets all along both sides of her head and the rest of her hair clamped in a broach on top of her head, looking like she's an actor in a nineteen century period drama. With a pen she marks on a town-map a bike shop. It is further along the main street where it re-joins the main route toward the town of Gap.
On the way though there's another bike shop, a small hole in the wall with cheap new mountain bikes on a rack outside and a mix-mash of old steel Peugeots, Gitanes and a carbon fibre Look piled to the side of an oil stained floor. I ask the young man behind the counter for "un cambre d air" but my pronunciation isn't getting across. He speaks English so I explain that I need a wide 700 innertube. He doesn't have this size and directs me on to the other shop. Once there I ask a young man working on a bike, does he speak English. He nods yes and I tell him I want a wide 700 innertube. He has, but goes out into the back room for some minutes to get it. Meanwhile the Tour is on the TV and I watch the Italian cycling champion riding alone and the aerial shots of the road with the main group in pursuit.
I shop at Carrefour before continuing on D900. It's a dull cloudy evening as I reach a picnic area with protencial for camping if I wait until nightfall to put up the tent. Meanwhile I cook pasta, during which it become quite breezy and I've a job shielding the alcohol stove. The wind blows in and the flame flairs up. Soon all the alcohol has burned and I've to refill and relight the stove to finish cooking the pasta, which, when finally cooked, there's thunder and the rain comes downs. I pack everything that can get wet and take my supper in undercover of a broad thickly leafed tree; then having eaten, I don't wait until dark, but put the tent up in the shelter of the tree before placing it in an optimum spot on the inside of the picnic area by evergreens blending with my green tent, so perhaps I won't be noticed in the remaining daylight.
Saturday
Peaceful night's sleep, except at one point I's awoken by headlights and a lovemaking couple, but slept again once they'd gone.
This morning I'm not the only person camping here. There's a white van parked and a green tent on the grass alongside. Also a campervan with canoes on top. So I'm in no hurry taking my tent down first thing; instead waiting until I've breakfasted
If the gendarme had of come and objected to me camping here, I would've just pleaded "Oh, it began to rain and I took shelter underneath that tree. And ah, and it didn't stop raining as it got dark. So ah, I thought it would be perfectly okay to put the tent up."
The sky is clear this morning, but because of being in a deep valley, the sun is slow appearing over the rocky ridge: it's well after seven, when already on the road, the hills to the west are lit up in vivid colours of dark and pale green and a big twist of cotton wool cloud rests in the valley that way.
The road has descended with a swift cement hued ice-melt river (Le Abaye) below to the right and vertical slope to the left. Then bottoming out and climbing again, the road splits in two, with a lane along a terrace for westbound and a separate terrace up above for eastbound. And shortly the river below opens to a placid blue valley filling lake (Lac De Serre Poncon).
Once the two halves of the road rejoin near the hilltop, I come to the left turnoff for Digue Les Bain, still numbered D900 and the climbing continues a few kilometre more, before sweeping down into another valley of green undulation hills and ripening barley by the roadside.
I reach Seyne in time for the morning stop. I revitalise the French procedure of visiting the boulangere first, then with my purchase of pan-au-raison, go to a café nextdoor for coffee. The French coffee is so different to the Italian. I can't say what it is; nevertheless, both are equally good.
I cover the remaining forty kilometres to Digue Les Bain, over two cols up to twelve hundred metres above sea-level, by lunchtime feeling hungry and tired, but seeing no supermarket until I go to tourist information, where they give me a map of the spa town and mark on it the Intermarche.
Once I've taken a two hour break, I continue on N85, then D4 southwest, crossing the A51 autoroute to D4096, by which time. it's time to stop for the evening as I come to a picnic place.
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Today's ride: 206 km (128 miles)
Total: 7,618 km (4,731 miles)
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