June 23, 2003
Jausiers - Isola
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Today, although we were close to journey's end in terms of distance, we were still about to surmount the highest road in Europe. I'll let the natives explain: After breakfast I went into the bar to pay the bill. I mentioned our intended next move. At this point a young, local man came into the bar for coffee. 'The Col de la Bonnête is the highest road in Europe.' I was told. I'd looked at the map and knew that the Col de la Bonnête was not strictly speaking a col and that the true crossover point to the next valley to the south was the Col de Restefond at a mere 2688m above sea level. 'It's not the highest pass, that's the Col de L'Iseran, but it's the highest road.' said the proprietor. 'So why did they build it?' I asked 'I don't know exactly,' she said. 'To piss off Les Savoyards.' said the young fella. I laughed, and then said, 'Well then, we don't really need to climb the Col de la Bonnête, we could just descend after the Restefond.' 'But you must. ' she said. She was right, of course.
Afterwards, outside the hotel, we made the acquaintance of the late-arriving group of cyclists from the night before. They were five members of a Rugby club from Congleton in Cheshire, and had flown to Paris, started cycling from the airport and were also on their way to Nice. They were travelling lighter and faster than us and planned to reach Nice that night, in order to catch their flight home the next day. To that end, they had hired a taxi to take their luggage, the oldest member of their party [about our age] and his bike to the top of la Bonnête. We were going to have another night in the mountains and had no intention of emulating the rugby players and so, took our time departing.
We rode back to the signpost for Nice and turned onto the yellow road, which would take us the 24km to the loftiest Col, at 2715m. Jausiers stands at 1240m above sea-level. The first kilometre or so took us to the start of the climb. We embarked on the long grind upwards, encouraged by the fact that this would be our last major climb, but discouraged by the horse flies at the lower levels and also by the fact that we weren't carrying much in the way of food. Rather foolishly, we had not bothered to sort out our lunch supplies for the day, expecting to find something to eat on the way up. We had some bananas and other fruit from the day before and a few Brazil nuts. We were also swallowing water fast. It was on one of our stops for a drink that a member of a Cyclists Touring Club group caught us up. He was Peter from Newcastle-on Tyne, retired from work and in his sixties. He was walking his bike up a steep stretch. I spoke to him at first in French and when he replied in English, said 'How're yer doing bonny lad?' He laughed, eventually and then explained what he was up to, while the rest of his party caught up.
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The CTC riders, led by Sheila, were on the 'rest' day of an alpine tour. They had left their baggage and the rest of their group in Barcelonnete, unable to resist the challenge of riding over Europe's highest road. They were five in number, all of them older than us. Sheila complained that these days the CTC was finding it difficult to recruit younger members. I mentioned the fact that we were short on supplies. Sheila said there was a small café about half way up the climb, but it didn't usually open until July. This was enough for the optimist in me to consider that because of the early hot weather, this year might be different. We reached the café, which was tucked onto a small piece of flat land slightly below the road. It was closed. We ate our fruit and drank most of what was left of our water.
Further up the road we were given a slice of pizza by CTC member, Alan from Staffordshire, which saw us to the top of the col. We filled our empty water bottles from roadside streams. I managed to get myself into a rhythm and pulled away on my own. I have heard professional athletes speak of being in 'the zone', so I felt for a while, as I passed la Caserne, the small military barracks, situated several kilometres from the summit, where a small group of conscripts were unenthusiastically carrying out repair work on one of the buildings. This feeling of being on top of the ride continued, until the first bend of the loop, which reaches up to the top of the Bonnête. This was steeper and encouraged by the prospect of chasing a young Dutch cyclist in racing trim, who had just overtaken me, I was beginning to think I could leave the saddle, pump up this steeper stretch and get it over with quickly. I couldn't. I had to stop for a few seconds to get my breath again and ground up hanging over the back of the saddle.
There was the usual group of motor cycles and a couple of cars parked at the top, but nothing like the frenetic crowd at the summit of the Galibier. I chatted to the Dutch rider for a while, until Chris arrived. We took some photographs and waited for the CTC five. Peter was the first up. He looked really pleased with himself and with good reason. I shook his hand and profusely congratulated him. Eventually the CTC group was complete and we took pictures on their behalf.
Continuing anti-clockwise on the Bonnête loop, we all dropped down to the Col du Restefond and said our goodbyes, as the CTC turned back towards Barcelonnette. We crossed into our final département, Alpes Maritimes [06] and started our descent into the valley of the river Tinée. On the way down I stopped several times to look at the ruins of 19th century military installations, built, presumably, to keep the warlike Italians at bay. A plaque told of a French general killed by lightning strike. I fell into conversation with a young couple from Seine-St.Denis, north of Paris, who were touring in a sports car. 'There are too many things of interest interrupting my descent.' I said. 'You need muscles for this.' said the girl. 'I've got the muscles,' I said, 'I've come down from Calais.'
I caught up with Chris while he was admiring a waterfall at a bend in the road. The couple in the sports-car passed us and waved. We pressed on into our last river valley, la Tinée which would eventually take us down to the outskirts of Nice. Sheila had suggested we stay in the village of Isola and we had decided to take her advice. We had about 35km to go. As we dropped into the valley we found ourselves facing a hot, dry southerly wind. To borrow Chris's phrase, it was like opening the oven door. At the top of le Col de la Bonnête, the air had been still and warm, there was no hint of what was to come down below. We stopped at a café in St. Étienne de Tinée. It was very hot here and we made certain we were out of the sun, while we treated ourselves to a premature beer. We were relaxing now, in spite of the headwind, but there was an unexpected and annoying climb up the valley side just out of St Étienne. With only 15km to go to Isola, we shouldn't have complained, but of course we did.
The village of Isola is off the main road. A river flows rapidly through it before joining the Tinée. The banks are lined with steeply sloping concrete as protection against flash flood. There are two hotels. We chose the Hotel de France. The young serveuse, as she was showing us where to stow our bikes, asked if we would mind having pasta as a first course for dinner. 'Some other cyclists have asked for it,' she said. This was a bit like asking a lion if he fancied a chunk of antelope. 'No problem,' I replied.
Chris showered first as usual, while I rapidly swallowed a large beer, then took my time with the next one, as I sat on the terrace luxuriating in my situation. I had a brief conversation with a building supervisor from Nice who was staying in Isola while working on a bridge in the valley. Then, after Chris came down to join me, we chatted to another cyclist, a German translator of French. He had just come back from the Italian side of the mountains and had tried unsuccessfully to find accommodation in the ski resort of Isola 2000, which is evidently unavailable in June. I went up for a shower and then back down for dinner. Sitting close to us, in the dining room were a couple from Grenoble who were touring the Alps on a tandem. It was they who had ordered the pasta. We spoke initially in French, but they said that as they both worked for an American company, they were quite happy to speak English, for the benefit of Chris. They told us that their 19-year old son rode for the second string of the AG2R bike racing team, participants in the Tour de France. They mentioned their concern over the possibility of their boy being expected to take performance-enhancing drugs. I asked what if ? Almost simultaneously they both spoke of EPO.
For those of you unfamiliar with the mores of top professional cycling, EPO is the drug that is currently, but covertly one of the drugs of choice for the top teams. It is a training drug which has the effect of raising the level of red blood corpuscles and therefore the oxygen-carrying capacity of the blood. One of its more unfortunate side-effects is death. At least 20 top athletes have died from its use, most of them cyclists, presumably those with narrower arteries. That's 20 fit young men going to bed and waking up dead. More bio-chemically advanced replacements are in the test-tube. They both said they hoped that their son would never be told, 'If you want to ride for us, you use this.'
After dinner, and a walk around the Italianate village, Chris and I indulged ourselves in more of the drug of our choice, in the form of beer on the terrace. Some Tour riders used to swear by the odd glass of red wine or eau de vie as an aid to performance. Modern dietary practices have put paid to booze en route, along with minced raw steak for breakfast. [See Paul Kimmage's A Rough Ride.}
We chatted to a newly arrived family from London, who were at the beginning of a week long tour of Provence by car. Our sociability and resultant lack of attention to the detail of the goings-on behind the bar meant us being refused a beer at 10-15pm, as bulldog-faced Madame and her serveuse shut everything down. I do not take easily to being sent to bed at 10-30 so Chris and and I took a short walk along the street only to find the other hotel bar equally closed. This meant a short spell in bed with Donna Tartt [The Secret History].
Today's ride: 67 km (42 miles)
Total: 1,310 km (814 miles)
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