velotel
07-14-2017, 02:15 AM
Day two of the excellent french dirt tour, off to Bourg d’Oisan. Solude was a last minute change, and barely qualifies as a gravel ride. Only 3 K or so and mostly so smooth that about any tire is fine. Beast of a climb with red dominating the profile, as in 10% and more, but, that said, a glorious road that has to be seen and felt to be believed.
Maxn joined us for the festivities. He, Mat (my son), and I did Solude together back in 014. The last picture in my book, Switchbacks, Vol I, is from that ride, the three of us celebrating another good ride with beers on the terrace of the Auberge d’Eau Blanche in Villard-Reymond, the village on the north side of the col.
Parked next to the Romanche River near Rochetallée for some warm-up time before the climb. Not by the road to Bourg d’Oisans. That’s the one every roadie does either on way up the valley or down the valley. No way, too many cars, too many drivers in a hurry, barely any shoulder, fun factor massively diminished. I do this dirt and gravel path along river. Smooth, fast, and peaceful. While the others sorted themselves out, getting heads wrapped around that they were about to ride in one of the most famous cycling locales in the world, I rolled off into a splendid morning of blue skies, chanting birds, and, for the moment, cool temperatures.
Arrived at the foot bridge over the creek coming down from Col d’Ornon. I came in fast, ready to hang a left and hop onto the bridge. And stopped. The bridge blocked off, most of the wood planks either missing or broken. Rotted with age. Two steel support beams were still in place, the railing still firmly attached with just enough space on the beam to walk across.
Looked back to see where the others were. Perfect, the five of them in the distance in a tight group moving at a good pace. That’s what I wanted, a shot of them hauling butt up the valley. Unfortunately no long lens. Long would have been good. Shot what I had instead.
Bridge crossed, back on the bikes, more dirt, through the woods to a junction with a one-laner. Turn left, cross the bridge over the Romanche River, straight ahead into a small forest bunched up against the mountain. Temperature rising but still cool in the trees. Road darting around like a swallow’s flight, past some old farms, past a campground, more houses, into a junction where there’s a huddle of cyclists stopped looking at something. Probably their bike computers. They’re at the start of the climb to Alpe d’Huez. I swing right towards Bourg d’Oisans. Spinning easy, waiting for the others, Mark glides by, staring up at the heights. I look back and see Mat, Max, Evan, and Bob burst out of the side road, hesitate a moment, then go left in a flurry of acceleration, heading up arguably the Tour de France’s most famous climb.
Mark and I roll off to Bourg d’Oisans, going slow, the others will catch up. Amazing how many cyclists are here. The season just barely kicking-in but hard to tell by all the riders streaming by in various directions. If the objective is a week of hard riding, a different climb every day, and no need for a car, Bourg d’Oisan is pretty much impossible to beat. Good town, I always enjoy sitting outside at one of the bars for beer after a ride, invariably with lots of other cyclists and lots of different languages floating in the air.
I leave Mark sitting in a plaza and head off for the climb. They’ll catch and pass me easily enough. Too easily but such is life. Past the last house, the road tightens, I move to my biggest cog, I’m in the red zone, the double-digit grade zone, Solude’s specialty. For an instant I wonder why in the hell I do climbs like this. I mean at my age I should know better! The moment passes, I settle into my rhythm, breathing synched with my pedalling. I hear a noise behind me. It’s Mark. Decided he’d rather be in the climb than waiting in town.
Out of the trees and into the cliff, literally, a short tunnel. More gateway than tunnel, a portal to one of the craziest roads I’ve ever had the privilege to ride. A one-laner, over 2 K of this insane ribbon of asphalt snaking up, across, and sometimes through a wall of colourful rock, some sort of colourful granite maybe, not limestone for a change. Steep all the way. From time to time a bit of apron where a car can pull over to let another pass. They’re infrequent. Two cars meet, one has to backup to the nearest apron.
I stop on the first pullout after the portal. Good place for a shot of the others coming up. Still no sign of them so Mark rides back down to find them. I hang out, shoot some pics, marvel at where I am. One car goes by. I’m used to driving goat path roads in the Alps but have no interest in driving this one. Having to reverse to a wide spot would be a pain.
They arrive, grins aplenty. Okay, back at it, and we’re at the first real tunnel. Riding Solude was planned so I hadn’t bothered bringing a light. Not good but I managed to ride through with no light the first time I ever did Solude so I can do it again. Damn! Way darker than I remember! All three tunnels curve so they all have black spots of varying lengths in the middle. Once that dead space is crossed there’s just enough light trickling in from the far end to create a weak line of light to follow. Way, way easier with a light. Riding blind on a damp surface on double-digit grades, no fun at all. But doable.
Kind of weird exiting a tunnel into or maybe onto a cliff face but that’s what happens here. Fantastic road. Had to stop for a quick RD adjustment and by the time I got to the next tunnel, the others were out of sight somewhere up ahead, probably already through it. My eyesight isn’t so good anymore at night and I ended up walking a couple meters in this tunnel. And about banged into the wall, that’s how blind I was in there. Soon as I saw a streak of light dribbling down the tunnel, got back on the bike and rode the rest of the way. Really need a light for these puppies. I have a good one back at the house. Next time.
Got to the third tunnel, the longest, or maybe the second longest, with a good bend in it but the sun must have been in the right position because there was just barely enough light dribbling in that I managed to ride all the way through. Like I said, riding blind, or almost blind, on double-digit grades is definitely no fun. I met some other cyclists in that one, coming down, afoot. Looked like they were using lights on their phones to show the way. The road to Solude is not your normal road.
Third tunnel is the end of the cliff face. From here on the road’s practically a highway in comparison, even spreads out to a lane and a half wide at times, and buffed pavement. No more cliff faces but the mountain is crazy steep anyway. Covered with a forest of big trees. Can’t begin to imagine the root system they have to keep ‘em there.
A climb of silence, the soft pattering of my tires, a subtle mechanical humming from the drivetrain, the songs of countless birds, the soft rustle of trees swaying in currents of warm air rising out of the valley. In one section of switchbacks I catch shadows of voices from the others, carried down by some stray wisp of air. A glorious ride. Bloody hard of course but really once the muscles have gotten through the initial shock, it’s just a wonderful cruise up this beautiful mountain. I’m enjoying being alone, stopping whenever I feel like grabbing a few shots, feeling no pressure to pick up the pace, not that picking up the pace was much of an option anyway, other than in my head.
Around a switchback in the sunlight, water pouring off the slopes on the other side of a steep valley, and on the slopes above me the village of Villard-Notre-Dame. Seems close but I know there’s a good bit of hard climbing between me and the village. But with moments of easing grades, like maybe 8%. You know you’re in a hard climb when 8% feels like a rest zone.
A switchback to the right just under the village, the final ramp, steep right to the end. Voices, I hear my name, not sure what’s being said, my ears filled by my own breathing, plus they’re coming from above me to my left, the side where I’m effectively blind. Around the final switchback and into the village. So small not entirely sure village is the correct terminology, but there’s a church so yea, I guess village is what it is. Plus a bar! Definitely a village. A bar with a deck, which is where they are, with tall glasses of amber liquid. One of which has my name on it. Excellent! First time I’ve ever stopped here. Closed the other times I’ve ridden through. Plus there’s more climbing to do, admittedly not so much, and drinking a beer with more effort coming usually doesn’t strike my fancy. Today it does. Great views too, la Meije in the distance, the gorge/valley to la Bérard disappearing into the distance.
Beers consumed, the final climb, the gravel section, but like I said so smooth any tire will do. That said, my soft 700x35 Bon Jon tires are sweet. Up through three switchbacks, crest a hump, glide into a meadow with striking views of Alpe d’Huez across the valley and the Aiguilles d’Arve in the distance. Cool traverse across the mountain, the road slicing across a cliff at one point with Bourg d’Oisan underneath. Last switchback leading into a steep and loose ramp to the col, a grass saddle on the ridge, the village of Villard-Reymond just below. From here down the road’s black but I slip onto a dirt and rock track that drops right down into the village where we stop at the Auberge d’Eau Blanche. Before we order beers, we check to see if we’ve enough cash on hand since they don’t do plastic. Nope, not enough. Not a problem when she realizes I live in the area. Says I can send her a check. Which pretty much blows the others away. She doesn’t even know me but hey, no problem, send me a check. Then I dig around in my pack and realize I have enough in coins and we’re good to go.
The siren call of gravity whispering our names, I’m off. Couple pedal strokes and I pass it over to gravity and I’m rushing down the mountain, speed piling up fast. Into a sweet curve to the right, road hopping around a bit. Mat flies by, then Max. Last time we did this together Max killed the plunge, had the record time on Strava afterwards. He said it didn’t last long. Today it’s Mat killing the descent, Max not far behind, me just behind. Then Evan goes by, no doubt with visions of catching Mat swirling through the gray matter. Won’t happen, I’m sure of that. First he’ll have to get past Max and that won’t be easy, if at all possible. Mark slips by, then Bob, the three of us forming a train of blurred motion on this outrageously fun speed run.
Fabulous descent, linked S-turns, high-speed carvers, some tight curls followed by furious out-of-the-saddle accelerations. Definite hood ornament territory. As in road’s tight, lane and a half or so, blind turns, anybody coming up more than likely a local driving like a local, as in fast and assuming no one else is on the road. Not sure if we met anyone coming up or not. If so, only one, and down low. So no volunteers to become the star on a hood. Just a ripping fast drop off the mountain. Following the others, watching this line of riders strung out like pearls on a mountain necklace, a beautiful view. Hit the bridge over the river and into the short climb to junction with the road to Col d’Ornon. Everyone’s stopped, smiles and laughter exploding off faces like the grand finale of the world’s biggest fireworks display.
I keep going, into part two of the descent, the Col d’Ornon road down to the junction with the road to Bourg d’Oisan. A full two-laner, one of those hang-on and go descents. Nothing remotely technical, just carving long, round turns then tucking in tight and letting gravity do the work. Turned out to be longer than I remembered. Blew by the road up to Oulles. Good memories from that. An up and back, steep puppy but thoroughly delightful. I enjoyed myself on that.
The junction with the highway to Bourg d’Oisan. I stop to wait for the others to show them a double-track that’s kind of hidden on the other side of the highway. The extension of the gravel road we started out on and then deserted to cross the broken bridge. The run back down this track always makes for a fine finish to whatever I rode.
The five of them blow past me then settle into two lines, their pace hard and fast, small stones spitting out, headwind but they slice through it seemingly with no effort. I don’t even think about catching their draft. Too much work. Instead I find a comfortably fast rhythm that feels right for my old legs. My riding equivalent to settling back into a favourite arm chair with a good book and my legs stretched out and a glass of fine wine near to hand. Day two on french dirt wrapped up. And tomorrow the Grand Traverse, the longest, hardest, most beautiful ride on the program for them. Also one of the three best rides I’ve ever done. And if you’re wondering, the other two are the Plateau d’Emparis and a monstrously enjoyable dirt track I did in Italy up to and then on the Strada dell’Assieta.
Maxn joined us for the festivities. He, Mat (my son), and I did Solude together back in 014. The last picture in my book, Switchbacks, Vol I, is from that ride, the three of us celebrating another good ride with beers on the terrace of the Auberge d’Eau Blanche in Villard-Reymond, the village on the north side of the col.
Parked next to the Romanche River near Rochetallée for some warm-up time before the climb. Not by the road to Bourg d’Oisans. That’s the one every roadie does either on way up the valley or down the valley. No way, too many cars, too many drivers in a hurry, barely any shoulder, fun factor massively diminished. I do this dirt and gravel path along river. Smooth, fast, and peaceful. While the others sorted themselves out, getting heads wrapped around that they were about to ride in one of the most famous cycling locales in the world, I rolled off into a splendid morning of blue skies, chanting birds, and, for the moment, cool temperatures.
Arrived at the foot bridge over the creek coming down from Col d’Ornon. I came in fast, ready to hang a left and hop onto the bridge. And stopped. The bridge blocked off, most of the wood planks either missing or broken. Rotted with age. Two steel support beams were still in place, the railing still firmly attached with just enough space on the beam to walk across.
Looked back to see where the others were. Perfect, the five of them in the distance in a tight group moving at a good pace. That’s what I wanted, a shot of them hauling butt up the valley. Unfortunately no long lens. Long would have been good. Shot what I had instead.
Bridge crossed, back on the bikes, more dirt, through the woods to a junction with a one-laner. Turn left, cross the bridge over the Romanche River, straight ahead into a small forest bunched up against the mountain. Temperature rising but still cool in the trees. Road darting around like a swallow’s flight, past some old farms, past a campground, more houses, into a junction where there’s a huddle of cyclists stopped looking at something. Probably their bike computers. They’re at the start of the climb to Alpe d’Huez. I swing right towards Bourg d’Oisans. Spinning easy, waiting for the others, Mark glides by, staring up at the heights. I look back and see Mat, Max, Evan, and Bob burst out of the side road, hesitate a moment, then go left in a flurry of acceleration, heading up arguably the Tour de France’s most famous climb.
Mark and I roll off to Bourg d’Oisans, going slow, the others will catch up. Amazing how many cyclists are here. The season just barely kicking-in but hard to tell by all the riders streaming by in various directions. If the objective is a week of hard riding, a different climb every day, and no need for a car, Bourg d’Oisan is pretty much impossible to beat. Good town, I always enjoy sitting outside at one of the bars for beer after a ride, invariably with lots of other cyclists and lots of different languages floating in the air.
I leave Mark sitting in a plaza and head off for the climb. They’ll catch and pass me easily enough. Too easily but such is life. Past the last house, the road tightens, I move to my biggest cog, I’m in the red zone, the double-digit grade zone, Solude’s specialty. For an instant I wonder why in the hell I do climbs like this. I mean at my age I should know better! The moment passes, I settle into my rhythm, breathing synched with my pedalling. I hear a noise behind me. It’s Mark. Decided he’d rather be in the climb than waiting in town.
Out of the trees and into the cliff, literally, a short tunnel. More gateway than tunnel, a portal to one of the craziest roads I’ve ever had the privilege to ride. A one-laner, over 2 K of this insane ribbon of asphalt snaking up, across, and sometimes through a wall of colourful rock, some sort of colourful granite maybe, not limestone for a change. Steep all the way. From time to time a bit of apron where a car can pull over to let another pass. They’re infrequent. Two cars meet, one has to backup to the nearest apron.
I stop on the first pullout after the portal. Good place for a shot of the others coming up. Still no sign of them so Mark rides back down to find them. I hang out, shoot some pics, marvel at where I am. One car goes by. I’m used to driving goat path roads in the Alps but have no interest in driving this one. Having to reverse to a wide spot would be a pain.
They arrive, grins aplenty. Okay, back at it, and we’re at the first real tunnel. Riding Solude was planned so I hadn’t bothered bringing a light. Not good but I managed to ride through with no light the first time I ever did Solude so I can do it again. Damn! Way darker than I remember! All three tunnels curve so they all have black spots of varying lengths in the middle. Once that dead space is crossed there’s just enough light trickling in from the far end to create a weak line of light to follow. Way, way easier with a light. Riding blind on a damp surface on double-digit grades, no fun at all. But doable.
Kind of weird exiting a tunnel into or maybe onto a cliff face but that’s what happens here. Fantastic road. Had to stop for a quick RD adjustment and by the time I got to the next tunnel, the others were out of sight somewhere up ahead, probably already through it. My eyesight isn’t so good anymore at night and I ended up walking a couple meters in this tunnel. And about banged into the wall, that’s how blind I was in there. Soon as I saw a streak of light dribbling down the tunnel, got back on the bike and rode the rest of the way. Really need a light for these puppies. I have a good one back at the house. Next time.
Got to the third tunnel, the longest, or maybe the second longest, with a good bend in it but the sun must have been in the right position because there was just barely enough light dribbling in that I managed to ride all the way through. Like I said, riding blind, or almost blind, on double-digit grades is definitely no fun. I met some other cyclists in that one, coming down, afoot. Looked like they were using lights on their phones to show the way. The road to Solude is not your normal road.
Third tunnel is the end of the cliff face. From here on the road’s practically a highway in comparison, even spreads out to a lane and a half wide at times, and buffed pavement. No more cliff faces but the mountain is crazy steep anyway. Covered with a forest of big trees. Can’t begin to imagine the root system they have to keep ‘em there.
A climb of silence, the soft pattering of my tires, a subtle mechanical humming from the drivetrain, the songs of countless birds, the soft rustle of trees swaying in currents of warm air rising out of the valley. In one section of switchbacks I catch shadows of voices from the others, carried down by some stray wisp of air. A glorious ride. Bloody hard of course but really once the muscles have gotten through the initial shock, it’s just a wonderful cruise up this beautiful mountain. I’m enjoying being alone, stopping whenever I feel like grabbing a few shots, feeling no pressure to pick up the pace, not that picking up the pace was much of an option anyway, other than in my head.
Around a switchback in the sunlight, water pouring off the slopes on the other side of a steep valley, and on the slopes above me the village of Villard-Notre-Dame. Seems close but I know there’s a good bit of hard climbing between me and the village. But with moments of easing grades, like maybe 8%. You know you’re in a hard climb when 8% feels like a rest zone.
A switchback to the right just under the village, the final ramp, steep right to the end. Voices, I hear my name, not sure what’s being said, my ears filled by my own breathing, plus they’re coming from above me to my left, the side where I’m effectively blind. Around the final switchback and into the village. So small not entirely sure village is the correct terminology, but there’s a church so yea, I guess village is what it is. Plus a bar! Definitely a village. A bar with a deck, which is where they are, with tall glasses of amber liquid. One of which has my name on it. Excellent! First time I’ve ever stopped here. Closed the other times I’ve ridden through. Plus there’s more climbing to do, admittedly not so much, and drinking a beer with more effort coming usually doesn’t strike my fancy. Today it does. Great views too, la Meije in the distance, the gorge/valley to la Bérard disappearing into the distance.
Beers consumed, the final climb, the gravel section, but like I said so smooth any tire will do. That said, my soft 700x35 Bon Jon tires are sweet. Up through three switchbacks, crest a hump, glide into a meadow with striking views of Alpe d’Huez across the valley and the Aiguilles d’Arve in the distance. Cool traverse across the mountain, the road slicing across a cliff at one point with Bourg d’Oisan underneath. Last switchback leading into a steep and loose ramp to the col, a grass saddle on the ridge, the village of Villard-Reymond just below. From here down the road’s black but I slip onto a dirt and rock track that drops right down into the village where we stop at the Auberge d’Eau Blanche. Before we order beers, we check to see if we’ve enough cash on hand since they don’t do plastic. Nope, not enough. Not a problem when she realizes I live in the area. Says I can send her a check. Which pretty much blows the others away. She doesn’t even know me but hey, no problem, send me a check. Then I dig around in my pack and realize I have enough in coins and we’re good to go.
The siren call of gravity whispering our names, I’m off. Couple pedal strokes and I pass it over to gravity and I’m rushing down the mountain, speed piling up fast. Into a sweet curve to the right, road hopping around a bit. Mat flies by, then Max. Last time we did this together Max killed the plunge, had the record time on Strava afterwards. He said it didn’t last long. Today it’s Mat killing the descent, Max not far behind, me just behind. Then Evan goes by, no doubt with visions of catching Mat swirling through the gray matter. Won’t happen, I’m sure of that. First he’ll have to get past Max and that won’t be easy, if at all possible. Mark slips by, then Bob, the three of us forming a train of blurred motion on this outrageously fun speed run.
Fabulous descent, linked S-turns, high-speed carvers, some tight curls followed by furious out-of-the-saddle accelerations. Definite hood ornament territory. As in road’s tight, lane and a half or so, blind turns, anybody coming up more than likely a local driving like a local, as in fast and assuming no one else is on the road. Not sure if we met anyone coming up or not. If so, only one, and down low. So no volunteers to become the star on a hood. Just a ripping fast drop off the mountain. Following the others, watching this line of riders strung out like pearls on a mountain necklace, a beautiful view. Hit the bridge over the river and into the short climb to junction with the road to Col d’Ornon. Everyone’s stopped, smiles and laughter exploding off faces like the grand finale of the world’s biggest fireworks display.
I keep going, into part two of the descent, the Col d’Ornon road down to the junction with the road to Bourg d’Oisan. A full two-laner, one of those hang-on and go descents. Nothing remotely technical, just carving long, round turns then tucking in tight and letting gravity do the work. Turned out to be longer than I remembered. Blew by the road up to Oulles. Good memories from that. An up and back, steep puppy but thoroughly delightful. I enjoyed myself on that.
The junction with the highway to Bourg d’Oisan. I stop to wait for the others to show them a double-track that’s kind of hidden on the other side of the highway. The extension of the gravel road we started out on and then deserted to cross the broken bridge. The run back down this track always makes for a fine finish to whatever I rode.
The five of them blow past me then settle into two lines, their pace hard and fast, small stones spitting out, headwind but they slice through it seemingly with no effort. I don’t even think about catching their draft. Too much work. Instead I find a comfortably fast rhythm that feels right for my old legs. My riding equivalent to settling back into a favourite arm chair with a good book and my legs stretched out and a glass of fine wine near to hand. Day two on french dirt wrapped up. And tomorrow the Grand Traverse, the longest, hardest, most beautiful ride on the program for them. Also one of the three best rides I’ve ever done. And if you’re wondering, the other two are the Plateau d’Emparis and a monstrously enjoyable dirt track I did in Italy up to and then on the Strada dell’Assieta.