June 19, 2003
Le Col de la Lèbe - Le Pont de l'Abime
This was the way to start the day. The sun was shining, it was cool and we were going downhill fast into the valley whose scenic attractions we had been admiring the evening before. We crossed the river, the Séran without noticing and then started to climb. This was the approach to the col de la Biche. The road wound upwards, gently at first, through the villages of Passin, Poissieu and Brénaz. Then a left turn and we were at the bottom of the pass. The gradient had become steadily more difficult. As we turned into the first hairpin it became even steeper. It was hot. This was hard going. We rode slowly on into the trees only to have one discomfort replaced by another. Horse flies do not prosper in sunshine. They are remorseless and their stings are painful. We stopped to apply insect repellent. The gearing on my bike was a problem: 36-28 wasn't low enough for this. I found the most comfortable riding style was to stick my arse over the back of the saddle and push slowly. This, though, was to count for nothing. The road had recently been resurfaced. Resurfaced, but not in a 'Shall we not lay a beautifully smooth blacktop for these bold cyclists to pedal smoothly to the summit, all the while breathing the pure mountain air and exulting in the beauty of the scenery,' sort of way, but rather employing the simpler 'Let's smear some tar on this old cart track and heave a whole heap of gravel out the back of the truck.' method. We became bogged down in gravel drifts and had to walk some of the way. My understanding of this method of road building is as follows: Molten tar is poured onto the old surface. Gravel is then spread over the sticky tar. Some of this gravel adheres to the tar. The rest is forced into place by the weight of traffic passing over the new surface. This, of course, is a cheap method of road renewal. It's chip-seal. It usually works. In this instance, a crucial element was missing: the traffic. Over a distance of around 15km and a time of two and a half hours, we saw two cars, only one of which was moving. The other was parked on the downhill side. So, the map was right. Come to think of it, the receptionist at the hotel back in Bourg-en-Bresse didn't mention exactly what year le Tour followed this route.
We wearily reached the summit, out of the trees, in full sun. Col de la Biche 1325m. La Biche is the French for doe, a deer, a female deer. We thought an anglicised pronunciation might have been more appropriate. The descent was steep with tight bends, the road surface, though mercifully unimproved was bumpy. I began to feel anxious about my brakes and descended charily. I interpose a brief mechanical concern. I wrote earlier, without going into much detail, about the bike I rode away on: a 12-year old road bike. Road bikes are not equipped with either cantilever or v-brakes and although adequate, either in less taxing country, or when not carrying luggage, side-pull brakes do not pull up a heavily loaded bike as quickly on a steep descent. This means holding them on for longer. In this heat, my worry was about overheating the rims and blowing a tyre. I stopped a couple of times to check the rims and they were hot. Not too hot fortunately.
We dropped down to the village of Seyssel, in the Rhône valley, crossed the river at several minutes after one o'clock, to find the village grocery store closed. Some children were playing on bicycles nearby. We aroused their curiosity. Where had we come from? England. Is that far? 950 kilometres. By bike? Of course. They were impressed. On reflection so was I. It was very hot in the valley. We re-crossed the river and took our places under a parasol by the embankment, across the road from a café and ordered lunch. It was mostly pork and chips as I remember. Too much of it, in that heat and it took ages. From start to finish about two hours. From time to time we had to move our seats to remain in shade. It was still hot. At this point, the river was about 100m wide and a glacial, milky green. 'It's very pretty, the river.' I said to the café owner. 'Yes,' she said, 'We're very proud of our Rhône.' On the one hand I was inwardly fretting about losing riding time to sitting on my arse in the shade by this inspiring stretch of water and on the other, feeling quietly pleased that I wasn't sweating under that sun. Warm south anyone?
This ambivalence had to end. We eventually left and followed the river for 500m before crossing yet again, into Haute-Savoie[74] then heading due south for 2km before entering the valley of the Fier towards Rumilly. The first five or so kilometres of this stretch were through a rocky gorge, doubly attractive because of the shade it offered, before the road left the sight of the river, for a greener, flatter countryside and the outskirts of Rumilly. I wonder, do the inhabitants of Rumilly gaze longingly over their river and sigh to themselves,"Nous sommes fiers de notre Fier." [We're proud of our Proud]
We found some shade in the centre of Rumilly and sat on a stone wall for a rest. Chris informed me that he had seen a digital thermometer outside a pharmacy, back down the road, showing a temperature of 41°C. That, for the unreconstructed anglophone, is 105.8°F. A few minutes later the owner of a trendy looking bar across the street, took pity on us, called us over and offered to fill our water bottles with as much ice as he could cram in. I said 'Nah, mate we're English, we don't need no poofy ice in our bottles.' That translates into French as, ' Merci bien, mille fois, monsieur.'
We departed Rumilly with difficulty, the town centre being short on direction signs. I had to use my compass. Eventually, we found the unpleasantly busy main road, which would take us out of there. Worse, it was uphill for about 12 km. Chris was suffering badly from the heat. A word on the heat. This was undoubtedly the hottest weather, in which I have ever ridden a bike. The last time I was in a place, anywhere near as hot , was in Phoenix, Arizona in August 1977. See how I remember. We could not have anticipated this. However, before we left, I promised my wife I would wear a cycle helmet, not something I am a firm enthusiast of. I had kept that promise up to now and was beginning to think that the insulating properties of the expanded polystyrene box, which a helmet basically is, were working in my favour against the heat. I was also wearing wrapround sunglasses, all to the good in keeping the sun at bay. Chris was wearing a floppy sun hat and his regular spectacles.
We were now struggling, desperate to find somewhere to stay. We stopped for a cold drink at Héry-sur-Alby, with a view to spending the night in Cusy, 5 kilometres ahead.. In Clusy not only was there no room at the inn, there was no inn. We rode wearily uphill again out of the town and were debating, whether or not to take a detour down an unpromising looking track, to a possible bed in a Chambres-d'Hôte, when Chris spotted a sign advertising the Auberge aux Gorges du Chéran, at Le Pont de l'Abîme [the Bridge of the Abyss] about 2km distant.
The auberge was a of a Swiss-chalet style construction, built high above the river. Our room was two rooms, a suite you might say, with a terrace affording us a view over the eponymous gorge and bridge. It was by some distance the smartest place we had stayed in and the most expensive, [€65] but in comparison with English prices, more than reasonable. In any case, at this point we were in no mood to make economies. The sun was still blazing away at our windows and we had to close the shutters to keep the room[s] cool. We ate dinner on the terrace, then swallowed a couple of beers, while watching the sun set down the valley, before trying to capture the dying rays on film from the bridge. No distance records broken today. It began to sink in, what high mountain touring might be all about.
Today's ride: 76 km (47 miles)
Total: 986 km (612 miles)
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