velotel
09-27-2013, 03:26 PM
A change was needed, different perspective, different views, different smells. Time to head south, to the Drôme, a land of fat hills, stained limestone walls, slow valleys, sleeping villages. And roads. Small roads, the twisting, never flat, mostly narrow kind of roads I love. La Drôme, a paradise of riding. Or so I imagined; I’d ridden there but once and that so long ago I can’t remember what I rode. Driven through the Drôme a lot but never with a bike in hand, with that one exception. Sunday a day to rectify that.
Two hours of road time to Crest, my start point. Round trip, four hours. Need at least the same time on the bike. Total eight hours. Early start required. Didn’t work that way of course. First down to the valley to the market, then pick up the mother-in-law and drive back to the house. On the road at 9:30. So much for the early start. The day was too gorgeous to get rumpled over the start time. Besides, I was heading into south France and any time is the right time for that.
There’s a phenomenon here that’s quite distinctive and impossible to truly describe. One of those you-have-to-experience-it-to-understand things. South, or rather south-east, France is different. The colors, the air, the smells, the touch, the vegetation, everything. I crested the hill between Romans and Crest and instantly felt it, the difference, the air of Provence. Technically I suppose I was still a long way from what’s generally called Provence. The air didn’t know that. Drove through the medieval town of Crest, squeezed between the Drôme river and a hill on which a huge tower dominates the town. The tower is all that’s left of a chateau destroyed by Cardinal Richelieu on the orders of King Louis XIII. Apparently Louis was feeling a bit paranoid one day. Don’t know why the tower was left, maybe too big and solid to destroy since it’s still there and still dominating.
Car windows wide open, warm, rich air blowing through. Beautiful. Pulled into a parking lot along the Drôme river, got the bike out, changed, checked nothing forgotten. Bowl and roll time, slow and easy, looking long and breathing deep. Up the valley to the village of Aouste-sur-Sye, blue shutters, pastel walls, mottled pink, red, and white tile roofs, flowers spraying color into the air. Turn right onto a bridge over the river. Kodak moment. The first of many. In the near distance in front of me the hills I was heading to. Behind me the Vercors plateau extending north to Grenoble. I look at its northern ramparts every morning from my house. Now I was below the other end, two hours away, in another world. On my bike, soaking up the heat. Part of me could have just found a bench in a park and settled in for a slow nap, the rest was raring to power the bike into the hills. The hills won.
Small road, somewhere between barely two-laner and a suck-it-up laner-and-a-half. My kind of road. Heading into the hills past small farms, shallow valley pinching in. Sweet grades, spinning smaller cogs with the 34-cog. Gotta like that but, then again, just to put all in perspective, strong riders are probably on the big ring of a compact. Another life. Now and then a good ramp to keep the legs honest. Weaving through a deciduous forest. Leaves starting to ever so slowly slip into the colors of fall. Keep meeting old rally cars, all seem to be cherry, decorated with numbers and stripes and loud mufflers. Apparently some sort of club outing. No one in a hurry until some guy in a 911 comes thrashing down the road, using his horn as much as his accelerator. Loud puppy. Little while later another guy pushing the pace, this time a Renault Cinq Turbo, crazy car with the engine in the back where the rear seat usually is. Then back to the slow movers, like a Volvo 122 4-door complete with numbers and stripes and massive driving lights. Kept expecting to see a Saab 96 Monte Carlo come down the road. I doubt many remember that Saab won the Monte Carlo rally two years running with this car. Anyway, no Saab 96 showed up, just more old Peugeots, etc. out for a Sunday nostalgia cruise.
Ah, small field of lavender, must be gorgeous in late July. Back into the woods, road sliding across the hillside, in the distance what looks like a narrow canyon. Narrow and short as it turns out. Made me think of the canyons in western Colorado and eastern Utah where I spent lots of time in another life. Out of the canyon, into the woods, road curling through a series of tight, round S-curves. More old rally cars burbling down the grades. Had no idea where I was exactly, other than on the road to the village of Saou. That was enough.
Got to the col, only this one is called a pas instead of a col, Pas de Lauzens. Same thing. Only reason I knew I was there was because the road started going down. Just a field of grass surrounded by a forest on a ridge. Quickly turned into a good plunge down the back side. Fast and twisty. Then it was up again, barely. Got to an intersection, to the left Forêt de Saou, straight ahead Saou. Went left, no idea what I’d find. Good road all in all, blacktop richly endowed with thick gravel. Steady, slight climb. Slight enough that I was on my big ring. Not often I go uphill on the big ring. A crazy ride, flying up this lovely road in a valley slicing deep into the mountains, no idea where I was or where the road was going, no traffic at all, nothing but silence and trees surrounding me. Finally started wondering if maybe the road didn’t go somewhere and I’d be able to make a loop out of it. No, no loop, road ended in a graceful park full of parked cars and people picnicking. Or at least the paved road ended. Beyond a gate the road, no longer paved, continued past a line of stately trees.
Looked good, swept around the gate, kept rolling. All of a sudden there’s this chateau-like house the road goes by. Floor to ceiling windows, two stories, a fine looking structure, abandoned. A rich french industrialist who had bought the entire forest of Saou had built it to create some sort of nature tourism business. The building had been a restaurant/hotel complete with two huge dining rooms with crystal chandeliers and waiters in suits and white gloves. This was five years before WWII kicked in. And that was that for nature tourism in the Saou forest. Drinking champagne in fluted crystal one day, listening to bombs exploding and tank treads clanking over stone roads the next. Strange how we never seem to learn.
Shot some pics, kept going, the road slowly turned into a rough forest track angling up the slopes. Decided that was enough, time to eat and drink and turn around. Sat on a low concrete wall, ate my sandwich of almond butter on bread full of bits of apricot and nuts chased by espresso coffee generously laced with Bailey’s. Perfect. The silence was intense, magnetic, I didn’t want to move. So I didn’t, just stretched my legs out, leaned back, soaked up the silence. Finally some hikers broke the spell, time to move, back down the valley, on to Saou.
Down the valley was big ring, smallest cog, grins. Met some cars on their way into the valley. Lunch hour must be over. Back to the junction with the road to Saou. Turned out the village wasn’t far away. Been years since I’d been there, nothing had changed. Same village I thought I could easily live in first time I saw it. Squeezed into the mouth of a small valley of limestone cliffs and towers soaring overhead. Stone and wood houses lining narrow lanes, small stream full of clear water cutting the village in two, a restaurant/bar in the central plaza with tables outside, surprisingly empty when I rode by. Every time I’ve passed through before the tables were crowded. Saou’s a small rock climbing paradise apparently. Wouldn’t be surprised if Maxn has climbed there. Usually I’m always tempted to linger in Saou but for some reason not this time. Maybe because I was on my bike and the road was beckoning.
The road back to Crest was, compared to the road to Saou, a regular highway. As in two full lanes with room for cars to pass without having to hit the shoulders. Sort of a main road, heading to Bourdeaux, Dieulefit, Nyons, Vaison-la-Romaine, Malaucène, and of course Mont Ventoux. I know the road well, by car. Never ridden it. Not the sort of road I seek but on Sunday life was tranquil, the road a pleasure, even with a pretty good headwind disrupting my advance. Big views over fields of grasses, hay, and stuff I didn’t recognize; too far away for my eyes. Over a low col then down to Crest, or sort of down to Crest. Between the headwind and the not far off flat grades I wasn’t doing a lot of coasting. A good finish to a fine ride, one I’ll have to do again, only with more time on the bike next time.
Have to say that if you ever have the opportunity for an extended tour in Provence, by bike or by car, jump on it. Wonderful country down there. I hadn’t really forgotten how fine it is but sort of. My ride to Saou definitely stirred up thoughts of more time riding down there this fall. Then again got home and the evening was spectacularly gorgeous. Made me once again appreciate where I live. So much that I decided to clean the exterior of a large portion of the glass on the house. Of which there’s a lot, facing the Alps and facing south. Got that done and glanced out over the valley. Did a double-take. Hot air balloons floating along, the Alps in the background. Hell of a finish to the day.
A few pics, cheers.
Two hours of road time to Crest, my start point. Round trip, four hours. Need at least the same time on the bike. Total eight hours. Early start required. Didn’t work that way of course. First down to the valley to the market, then pick up the mother-in-law and drive back to the house. On the road at 9:30. So much for the early start. The day was too gorgeous to get rumpled over the start time. Besides, I was heading into south France and any time is the right time for that.
There’s a phenomenon here that’s quite distinctive and impossible to truly describe. One of those you-have-to-experience-it-to-understand things. South, or rather south-east, France is different. The colors, the air, the smells, the touch, the vegetation, everything. I crested the hill between Romans and Crest and instantly felt it, the difference, the air of Provence. Technically I suppose I was still a long way from what’s generally called Provence. The air didn’t know that. Drove through the medieval town of Crest, squeezed between the Drôme river and a hill on which a huge tower dominates the town. The tower is all that’s left of a chateau destroyed by Cardinal Richelieu on the orders of King Louis XIII. Apparently Louis was feeling a bit paranoid one day. Don’t know why the tower was left, maybe too big and solid to destroy since it’s still there and still dominating.
Car windows wide open, warm, rich air blowing through. Beautiful. Pulled into a parking lot along the Drôme river, got the bike out, changed, checked nothing forgotten. Bowl and roll time, slow and easy, looking long and breathing deep. Up the valley to the village of Aouste-sur-Sye, blue shutters, pastel walls, mottled pink, red, and white tile roofs, flowers spraying color into the air. Turn right onto a bridge over the river. Kodak moment. The first of many. In the near distance in front of me the hills I was heading to. Behind me the Vercors plateau extending north to Grenoble. I look at its northern ramparts every morning from my house. Now I was below the other end, two hours away, in another world. On my bike, soaking up the heat. Part of me could have just found a bench in a park and settled in for a slow nap, the rest was raring to power the bike into the hills. The hills won.
Small road, somewhere between barely two-laner and a suck-it-up laner-and-a-half. My kind of road. Heading into the hills past small farms, shallow valley pinching in. Sweet grades, spinning smaller cogs with the 34-cog. Gotta like that but, then again, just to put all in perspective, strong riders are probably on the big ring of a compact. Another life. Now and then a good ramp to keep the legs honest. Weaving through a deciduous forest. Leaves starting to ever so slowly slip into the colors of fall. Keep meeting old rally cars, all seem to be cherry, decorated with numbers and stripes and loud mufflers. Apparently some sort of club outing. No one in a hurry until some guy in a 911 comes thrashing down the road, using his horn as much as his accelerator. Loud puppy. Little while later another guy pushing the pace, this time a Renault Cinq Turbo, crazy car with the engine in the back where the rear seat usually is. Then back to the slow movers, like a Volvo 122 4-door complete with numbers and stripes and massive driving lights. Kept expecting to see a Saab 96 Monte Carlo come down the road. I doubt many remember that Saab won the Monte Carlo rally two years running with this car. Anyway, no Saab 96 showed up, just more old Peugeots, etc. out for a Sunday nostalgia cruise.
Ah, small field of lavender, must be gorgeous in late July. Back into the woods, road sliding across the hillside, in the distance what looks like a narrow canyon. Narrow and short as it turns out. Made me think of the canyons in western Colorado and eastern Utah where I spent lots of time in another life. Out of the canyon, into the woods, road curling through a series of tight, round S-curves. More old rally cars burbling down the grades. Had no idea where I was exactly, other than on the road to the village of Saou. That was enough.
Got to the col, only this one is called a pas instead of a col, Pas de Lauzens. Same thing. Only reason I knew I was there was because the road started going down. Just a field of grass surrounded by a forest on a ridge. Quickly turned into a good plunge down the back side. Fast and twisty. Then it was up again, barely. Got to an intersection, to the left Forêt de Saou, straight ahead Saou. Went left, no idea what I’d find. Good road all in all, blacktop richly endowed with thick gravel. Steady, slight climb. Slight enough that I was on my big ring. Not often I go uphill on the big ring. A crazy ride, flying up this lovely road in a valley slicing deep into the mountains, no idea where I was or where the road was going, no traffic at all, nothing but silence and trees surrounding me. Finally started wondering if maybe the road didn’t go somewhere and I’d be able to make a loop out of it. No, no loop, road ended in a graceful park full of parked cars and people picnicking. Or at least the paved road ended. Beyond a gate the road, no longer paved, continued past a line of stately trees.
Looked good, swept around the gate, kept rolling. All of a sudden there’s this chateau-like house the road goes by. Floor to ceiling windows, two stories, a fine looking structure, abandoned. A rich french industrialist who had bought the entire forest of Saou had built it to create some sort of nature tourism business. The building had been a restaurant/hotel complete with two huge dining rooms with crystal chandeliers and waiters in suits and white gloves. This was five years before WWII kicked in. And that was that for nature tourism in the Saou forest. Drinking champagne in fluted crystal one day, listening to bombs exploding and tank treads clanking over stone roads the next. Strange how we never seem to learn.
Shot some pics, kept going, the road slowly turned into a rough forest track angling up the slopes. Decided that was enough, time to eat and drink and turn around. Sat on a low concrete wall, ate my sandwich of almond butter on bread full of bits of apricot and nuts chased by espresso coffee generously laced with Bailey’s. Perfect. The silence was intense, magnetic, I didn’t want to move. So I didn’t, just stretched my legs out, leaned back, soaked up the silence. Finally some hikers broke the spell, time to move, back down the valley, on to Saou.
Down the valley was big ring, smallest cog, grins. Met some cars on their way into the valley. Lunch hour must be over. Back to the junction with the road to Saou. Turned out the village wasn’t far away. Been years since I’d been there, nothing had changed. Same village I thought I could easily live in first time I saw it. Squeezed into the mouth of a small valley of limestone cliffs and towers soaring overhead. Stone and wood houses lining narrow lanes, small stream full of clear water cutting the village in two, a restaurant/bar in the central plaza with tables outside, surprisingly empty when I rode by. Every time I’ve passed through before the tables were crowded. Saou’s a small rock climbing paradise apparently. Wouldn’t be surprised if Maxn has climbed there. Usually I’m always tempted to linger in Saou but for some reason not this time. Maybe because I was on my bike and the road was beckoning.
The road back to Crest was, compared to the road to Saou, a regular highway. As in two full lanes with room for cars to pass without having to hit the shoulders. Sort of a main road, heading to Bourdeaux, Dieulefit, Nyons, Vaison-la-Romaine, Malaucène, and of course Mont Ventoux. I know the road well, by car. Never ridden it. Not the sort of road I seek but on Sunday life was tranquil, the road a pleasure, even with a pretty good headwind disrupting my advance. Big views over fields of grasses, hay, and stuff I didn’t recognize; too far away for my eyes. Over a low col then down to Crest, or sort of down to Crest. Between the headwind and the not far off flat grades I wasn’t doing a lot of coasting. A good finish to a fine ride, one I’ll have to do again, only with more time on the bike next time.
Have to say that if you ever have the opportunity for an extended tour in Provence, by bike or by car, jump on it. Wonderful country down there. I hadn’t really forgotten how fine it is but sort of. My ride to Saou definitely stirred up thoughts of more time riding down there this fall. Then again got home and the evening was spectacularly gorgeous. Made me once again appreciate where I live. So much that I decided to clean the exterior of a large portion of the glass on the house. Of which there’s a lot, facing the Alps and facing south. Got that done and glanced out over the valley. Did a double-take. Hot air balloons floating along, the Alps in the background. Hell of a finish to the day.
A few pics, cheers.