velotel
08-01-2012, 02:06 AM
The week before rode Cormet de Roselend. Cheated, drove to Col de Pre with my wife and mother-in-law for lunch in the restaurant near the col. Then rode down to the lake, up to Cormet, down to Bourg St Maurice. A week later my bike’s in the Tourneo along with my wife and her mother again, destination la Grave. Silver dollar day from the moment the sky started to glow. Drove through la Grave, through the tunnel at the exit of the village, turned right on the little road immediately at the tunnel exit, wound up the hillside until we found a good field for a picnic. Five star picnic with la Meije reigning across the valley. Summit a spear of rock at 3984 meters (13071 ft). Couple glasses of a very fine white wine, good food, I was ready to roll.
Back to the road to the Col du Lautaret, 580 meters higher and 12 K away. Glad I didn’t ride up the road I drove up for the picnic, steep little puppy. Turn right, on the way. Been wanting to ride this road for years, but only from la Grave on. Riding from Bourg d’Oisans through the tunnels along the way isn’t my idea of fun. Too much diesel exhaust plus they’re narrow and poorly lit. Only problem was I forgot there was one more tunnel to traverse, the narrowest of them all and something like 700 – 800 meters long! Got lucky, rode through with no cars! Lunch hour, good time to ride; everybody’s eating. Through a set of sweepers into Villard d’Arêne. From there to the col nothing but fields and views.
Nice wind on my back all the way up. Wonderfully agreeable climb, nothing steep, just a steady rise up through the mountains. Hard to keep my eyes on the road. Kept staring at high peaks, ice clinging to impossible places, vertical rock soaring up, small streams crashing down from melting snow and ice, the air saturated with the sweet odor of moved hay. What more could anyone ask for. Well, maybe less traffic. Lunch was over, the cages opened, the hordes released, Sunday definitely not the best choice but still hard to beat being there on a bike under a dome of blue. Lots of motorcycles, waves of them. The riding was everything I’d imagined it would be, and more. Perfect.
Got to the col, place was crowded, didn’t stop, turned left, direction up. My wife and her mother were off to the left visiting the alpine garden just above the col. Plants from all over the world, all mountain plants. Even columbines from Colorado. Good place to visit but not today, not for me. First kilometer marker for the climb showed 8,3% for the K to come. No problem, rolling well, up through some bends then around hard to the left and straight into that wind that had been blowing me up the valley. Added a couple of digits to the grade. Also right in my face la Meije. Never seen views from a bike like the ones on the south side of Galibier. All of a sudden there was a tsunami of cyclists and motorcycles pouring down the road with a bunch of cars scattered through them looking like flotsam in the flood. The cyclists were kind of embarrassing; with only a few exceptions they were slow, death grips on brake levers, butts clinched tight on saddles, inhibitions guiding them down the mountain. The ones who were flying free were scorching the road, mixing it up with the motorcyclists, slicing by cars and other cyclists. I smiled watching them.
Switchback to the right, wind on my back, K marker announcing 6,3% or something like that for the K to come. Road sweeps around to the left and across a mountainside of grasses, rock outcroppings, and orphaned rocks that tumbled down from the heights. In the distance way below is the Serre Chevalier valley, one of my favorite places in France. Crossing over the Lautaret always makes me think of Colorado, at least until I look up and see the glaciers. Swarms of cyclists still coming down. Lot of them seem to be wearing the same jersey. Maybe some huge club ride.
Getting close enough now to see riders in the final switchbacks. Below me are cows laying in a swell of grass chewing their cuds and decidedly unimpressed by all the comings and goings on the road. A very fast looking white GT3 Porche passes me on his way up the mountain. Nice sound. Some ridiculous amount of horsepower going no faster than all the other cars on the road. I shoot some pics looking up at the final switchbacks with the Porche standing out with its white body and red wheels. Place unchanged in the line of cars.
Past the tunnel and into the final ramps. I’ve ridden this before but I think they changed something since I was last here. Made the road steeper for some dumb reason. Shockingly steeper in fact. Spot the photographer waiting like a spider for his next victim. I like seeing them; only time I ever get any photos of me riding. Good pics too. They’re always located in the most dramatic place, where the road’s the steepest and the background the most spectacular. They managed to make the last K considerably longer than a K too. I wonder how they did that, steepen and lengthen the road at the same time.
The col is crowded, people waiting for parking slots, lots of motorcycles, not so many cyclists. I circle the parking lot twice to cool off a bit, stop, put on my wind-breaking vest, then dive down the north side. Road’s a rough old cob, bike bouncing around, fighting the brakes like a wild horse fighting the bit. Through the last hairpin, let go, I’m off, speed building fast, blow by another cyclist tiptoeing down the mountain. Past a photographer shooting people coming up the north side. I was hoping she’d shoot me coming down, carving through the bend. She didn’t. Been years since I’ve ridden this. I’d totally forgotten how fast it is. Blow by another cyclist and then a couple of cars. Tucked in tight, flying. Turn coming up, sit up, instant roar in the ears, the wind-brake effect. Sweet. And on and on. Have to say the vertical here is monstrous. My arms and hands are hurting, my legs laughing because for once it’s not them in pain.
Past the farm selling cheese, into a series of turns, into a tight hairpin to the right, chasing a motorcycle that had just passed me. Long traverse down the mountainside. Hard left and into the long, long run down the valley to Valloire. Wait, stop, what’s the bloody rush, turn around, roll back to that café with the tables outside. Wait for my wife to arrive. Wait some more. And some more. Finally spot her way up above, a line of cars behind her. She’s not hurrying, probably too busy looking at the flowers and listening to marmots whistling. She stops, yep, she was looking at the flowers, listening to the marmots. Time for a beer. Amazing, way up here they have draft beer. Perfect.
Off again. Down to Valloire, place is crowded, work my way through cars with drivers looking lost, out of town, into the climb to Telegraph. Damn, the same idiots who steepened the final ramps to the col did their work down here too. Used to be easy. Maybe they steepened it for the TdF. Grind it out. The col, no stop, just dive down. Fast. I’d forgotten it was so long. On and on, long, round turns, back and forth across the mountain, a few sweet back and forths in one section, otherwise not the most interesting downhill. Not technical enough.
All in all a crazy long downhill, 34 K from Galibier to St Michel de Maurienne. Subtract the 5 K between Valloire and Telegraphe, 29 K of going down! A monster downhill, an even bigger monster of a climb. What a day, la Grave to St Michel. Excellent.
Some pics, starting with the view from the picnic site under la Meije
Back to the road to the Col du Lautaret, 580 meters higher and 12 K away. Glad I didn’t ride up the road I drove up for the picnic, steep little puppy. Turn right, on the way. Been wanting to ride this road for years, but only from la Grave on. Riding from Bourg d’Oisans through the tunnels along the way isn’t my idea of fun. Too much diesel exhaust plus they’re narrow and poorly lit. Only problem was I forgot there was one more tunnel to traverse, the narrowest of them all and something like 700 – 800 meters long! Got lucky, rode through with no cars! Lunch hour, good time to ride; everybody’s eating. Through a set of sweepers into Villard d’Arêne. From there to the col nothing but fields and views.
Nice wind on my back all the way up. Wonderfully agreeable climb, nothing steep, just a steady rise up through the mountains. Hard to keep my eyes on the road. Kept staring at high peaks, ice clinging to impossible places, vertical rock soaring up, small streams crashing down from melting snow and ice, the air saturated with the sweet odor of moved hay. What more could anyone ask for. Well, maybe less traffic. Lunch was over, the cages opened, the hordes released, Sunday definitely not the best choice but still hard to beat being there on a bike under a dome of blue. Lots of motorcycles, waves of them. The riding was everything I’d imagined it would be, and more. Perfect.
Got to the col, place was crowded, didn’t stop, turned left, direction up. My wife and her mother were off to the left visiting the alpine garden just above the col. Plants from all over the world, all mountain plants. Even columbines from Colorado. Good place to visit but not today, not for me. First kilometer marker for the climb showed 8,3% for the K to come. No problem, rolling well, up through some bends then around hard to the left and straight into that wind that had been blowing me up the valley. Added a couple of digits to the grade. Also right in my face la Meije. Never seen views from a bike like the ones on the south side of Galibier. All of a sudden there was a tsunami of cyclists and motorcycles pouring down the road with a bunch of cars scattered through them looking like flotsam in the flood. The cyclists were kind of embarrassing; with only a few exceptions they were slow, death grips on brake levers, butts clinched tight on saddles, inhibitions guiding them down the mountain. The ones who were flying free were scorching the road, mixing it up with the motorcyclists, slicing by cars and other cyclists. I smiled watching them.
Switchback to the right, wind on my back, K marker announcing 6,3% or something like that for the K to come. Road sweeps around to the left and across a mountainside of grasses, rock outcroppings, and orphaned rocks that tumbled down from the heights. In the distance way below is the Serre Chevalier valley, one of my favorite places in France. Crossing over the Lautaret always makes me think of Colorado, at least until I look up and see the glaciers. Swarms of cyclists still coming down. Lot of them seem to be wearing the same jersey. Maybe some huge club ride.
Getting close enough now to see riders in the final switchbacks. Below me are cows laying in a swell of grass chewing their cuds and decidedly unimpressed by all the comings and goings on the road. A very fast looking white GT3 Porche passes me on his way up the mountain. Nice sound. Some ridiculous amount of horsepower going no faster than all the other cars on the road. I shoot some pics looking up at the final switchbacks with the Porche standing out with its white body and red wheels. Place unchanged in the line of cars.
Past the tunnel and into the final ramps. I’ve ridden this before but I think they changed something since I was last here. Made the road steeper for some dumb reason. Shockingly steeper in fact. Spot the photographer waiting like a spider for his next victim. I like seeing them; only time I ever get any photos of me riding. Good pics too. They’re always located in the most dramatic place, where the road’s the steepest and the background the most spectacular. They managed to make the last K considerably longer than a K too. I wonder how they did that, steepen and lengthen the road at the same time.
The col is crowded, people waiting for parking slots, lots of motorcycles, not so many cyclists. I circle the parking lot twice to cool off a bit, stop, put on my wind-breaking vest, then dive down the north side. Road’s a rough old cob, bike bouncing around, fighting the brakes like a wild horse fighting the bit. Through the last hairpin, let go, I’m off, speed building fast, blow by another cyclist tiptoeing down the mountain. Past a photographer shooting people coming up the north side. I was hoping she’d shoot me coming down, carving through the bend. She didn’t. Been years since I’ve ridden this. I’d totally forgotten how fast it is. Blow by another cyclist and then a couple of cars. Tucked in tight, flying. Turn coming up, sit up, instant roar in the ears, the wind-brake effect. Sweet. And on and on. Have to say the vertical here is monstrous. My arms and hands are hurting, my legs laughing because for once it’s not them in pain.
Past the farm selling cheese, into a series of turns, into a tight hairpin to the right, chasing a motorcycle that had just passed me. Long traverse down the mountainside. Hard left and into the long, long run down the valley to Valloire. Wait, stop, what’s the bloody rush, turn around, roll back to that café with the tables outside. Wait for my wife to arrive. Wait some more. And some more. Finally spot her way up above, a line of cars behind her. She’s not hurrying, probably too busy looking at the flowers and listening to marmots whistling. She stops, yep, she was looking at the flowers, listening to the marmots. Time for a beer. Amazing, way up here they have draft beer. Perfect.
Off again. Down to Valloire, place is crowded, work my way through cars with drivers looking lost, out of town, into the climb to Telegraph. Damn, the same idiots who steepened the final ramps to the col did their work down here too. Used to be easy. Maybe they steepened it for the TdF. Grind it out. The col, no stop, just dive down. Fast. I’d forgotten it was so long. On and on, long, round turns, back and forth across the mountain, a few sweet back and forths in one section, otherwise not the most interesting downhill. Not technical enough.
All in all a crazy long downhill, 34 K from Galibier to St Michel de Maurienne. Subtract the 5 K between Valloire and Telegraphe, 29 K of going down! A monster downhill, an even bigger monster of a climb. What a day, la Grave to St Michel. Excellent.
Some pics, starting with the view from the picnic site under la Meije