velotel
10-04-2017, 04:39 PM
Sunday morning, clouds slumping over the mountains, gray air heavy with water. But no rain. Checked the forecast. No rain, clouds, maybe spots of sunshine in the afternoon. Maybe. The maybe might be wishful thinking. Possibly too wishful for going high like I wanted so change ideas.
The Dévoluy basin and the Col du Noyer leapt to mind. Been 3 years since I was there, riding up the north side, the side the TdF always goes up. Didn’t get to the col, the last 3 K under snow. So, do it again, this time to the col.
Left the house in a frowsy fog. Dropped into the valley and under of the fog but not by all that much. An hour and maybe a half of driving under a low sky, pushing the pace, impatient to get on the bike, the weather be damned. Across the Trièves, a vast, rumpled basin of fields and scattered forests and small villages surrounded by sharp-edged peaks, none of which were visible, a cape of gray swirling across the slopes.
Drove past two huge wind turbines, their blades moving in slow motion, and onto the road for Dévoluy. Parked on the edge of a field on a side road. Changed clothes, checked the tires, bowl and roll time. Peaks lost in clouds but saw some blue sky in gaps in the cover. Could be a good day for pictures.
Long straight across fields of hay and winter wheat, an arrow pointing at the Défilé de la Souloise, a gorge slicing through vertical planes of rock soaring up into the mists. Fields end, valley squeezes in, road starts curling, glued to the land’s contours. Across a small cliff, nice view towards the gorge, still mostly lost in the mists. Blown away by how gorgeous it is, the forest splotched by bursts of yellows, oranges, reds, autumn coming on strong. Seems early. Maybe because of the dry summer.
Across a narrow bridge and into the defile. I think since I started riding I’ve crossed two cars. And no cyclists. The silence is sublime. Just the sounds of my tires rolling over pavement, the chain rolling over the chainring and sprockets, the stream splashing over rocks, occasional shrieks from birds in the forest. I like riding alone. I mean on those rare opportunities when it does work out to ride with others, I like that too. Sharing this world and the joys of riding bikes with friends is pretty amazing. But, that said, riding alone is good. Stop when I want, no frustrations at being slower, or, rarely, faster, no sounds of others talking away and flooding into non-existence the silence, no reasons needed for taking this road instead of that road, just following my senses, pushing the pace my body wants, stopping for pics whenever the impulse arrives.
Out of the gorge and into the village of Saint-Disdier. Small place, more hamlet than village except there’s a church so village it is. Perched on a hill high above the village and silhouetted against the sky is another church, the Chapelle des Gicons, also called for reasons I don’t know the Mère Eglise (mother church). Built in the 11th century and apparently in excellent repair due to the efforts of a volunteer association. My idea had been to eventually pass by the church on the return from Col du Noyer but didn’t happen. Ran out of time and energy. Another time.
Saint-Disdier is where I left the known and started exploring. Known as in I’d already ridden those roads, exploring as in I wonder where this road goes. Tight, little bugger, a lane-and-a-half, sometimes less, twisting up the slopes away from the valley. I had a map with me but the scale, 1:75000, was worthless for much more than a rough idea of where I was. Wasn’t needed anyway though. I was climbing up out of the forest and onto rolling, tilted plains spreading out off the mountains ringing the basin. I could get a pretty good idea of where I was and which direction I wanted to go just by looking around. Get to some fork in the road, go with what feels right. Came up golden every time.
The clouds were breaking up, melting, shifting, a hard blue sky filling in the spaces. Splashes of brilliant red caught my eye, wild cherry trees in full autumn display. The road was pretty much a pure one-laner. Got to a four-way junction, no signs, the road to the left squeezed between a barn and the wall of a house or maybe another barn. Took that, seemed like the way to go. Popped out beyond the buildings into fields and views I didn’t have eyes big enough for.
I swear it looked like I was back in Colorado, maybe in the valley around Buena Vista under the string of 14’rs defining the western edge. Then I’d look at the road again or maybe see some tile roofs and know damn well this sure as hell wasn’t Colorado. Made me think of it anyway though.
Another fork, straight ahead a gravel road disappearing around a long curve, no signs, the pavement going left and down. I went straight. Straight into paradise. A wide, shallow valley curving back and up into the long chain of summits and ridges. No watch so didn’t really know what time it was but must have been well into afternoon because the sun was coming in at a low angle and lighting up the slopes with galvanizing brilliance. Had to stop, shoot some pics, then just hung there, eating part of a sandwich, entranced by the light, swept away in the silence.
The gravel finally ended at the Col de Festre, 1445 meters high, the frontier between south France and the Alps. Probably the flattest col I’ve ever been on. Headed back to the north, a regular road, two full lanes, paint, even a wide shoulder for bikes. And barely any traffic. Down through some fast curves then up, short climb, 3 K, maybe 100 meters of vertical. Col de Rioupes, almost as flat as Festre. Then down, fast and easy, down to a bridge over a small canyon and onto the road to Col du Noyer.
I was thinking the climb was relatively easy with only a few small sections of steepness. And not so far, only 10 K or so. Piece of cake in other words. Which was good because my legs were starting to feel some twitches of tiredness. Reminders that maybe I ought to start thinking about wrapping up the day’s festivities.
Up through the village of Dévoluy, the place was dead, nothing moving, nothing open, off-season, waiting for the ski season to come around. On up the valley then around a sharp turn to the left and the climb to the col was joined. Climbing mode, big cogs, steady pace. Had to stop a couple of times, the views too electric to pass up.
Over a long, round shoulder and into a shallow valley heading to the col. Past where I’d had to stop because of snow the last time I was here and into the final K’s to the top. And some rudely steep ramps that I wasn’t expecting. The worst was right before the col itself. About killed me. But only for a moment and then I was up and rolling onto the col. Gorgeous place. Huge views off the south side, in the distance the southern Alps. And just below the south-side road twisting up the mountain. I’ve done that twice. Double-digit grades about wiped me out both times.
Noyer isn’t high, 1664 meters, but visually feels way higher, more like a 2000 meter col. The entire distance from before Dévoluy is all but treeless, just small pockets of forest mostly. The rest alpine meadows of grasses and up higher ground-hugging plants. Austere was the word that floated through my mind looking at the U-shaped valley forming the col. But beautiful. Wouldn’t want to be there with the wind howling through though.
The sun was getting low to the west, time to turn-around and head back to the car, probably an hour away. There was another road I wanted to explore, paved then dirt then paved again, a long traverse across the mountains then down to the old chapel. I knew it could be fun, though I’d never been on it, but not enough time. My photo stops had sucked up time like water swirling down a drain. I also wasn’t too sure my legs had any more climbing in them and if by chance the dirt had some up sections, that could be nasty. So down and back, big ringing it all the way, if I could.
I couldn’t, some climbs along the way, plus my legs weren’t interested. Easy climbs in fact that I should have just spun up in a medium-sized gear but by then anything going against gravity was damn near too much. A good descent, nothing extraordinary, just 55 minutes of smiling, loving where I was and what I’d just done. The numbers made me smile: 68 K with 1849 vertical meters (6066 ft). Into the car, change clothes, attack the pain-au-chocolat I’d left in the car for the return, knock down the no-longer-warm-coffee-laced-with-Baileys in a thermos, turn the key, on the road, pedal to the medal, racing to see if I can get home before dark. I did, barely.
I needed that. Hadn’t done a big ride in a long time. That qualified. October kicked off with style.
The Dévoluy basin and the Col du Noyer leapt to mind. Been 3 years since I was there, riding up the north side, the side the TdF always goes up. Didn’t get to the col, the last 3 K under snow. So, do it again, this time to the col.
Left the house in a frowsy fog. Dropped into the valley and under of the fog but not by all that much. An hour and maybe a half of driving under a low sky, pushing the pace, impatient to get on the bike, the weather be damned. Across the Trièves, a vast, rumpled basin of fields and scattered forests and small villages surrounded by sharp-edged peaks, none of which were visible, a cape of gray swirling across the slopes.
Drove past two huge wind turbines, their blades moving in slow motion, and onto the road for Dévoluy. Parked on the edge of a field on a side road. Changed clothes, checked the tires, bowl and roll time. Peaks lost in clouds but saw some blue sky in gaps in the cover. Could be a good day for pictures.
Long straight across fields of hay and winter wheat, an arrow pointing at the Défilé de la Souloise, a gorge slicing through vertical planes of rock soaring up into the mists. Fields end, valley squeezes in, road starts curling, glued to the land’s contours. Across a small cliff, nice view towards the gorge, still mostly lost in the mists. Blown away by how gorgeous it is, the forest splotched by bursts of yellows, oranges, reds, autumn coming on strong. Seems early. Maybe because of the dry summer.
Across a narrow bridge and into the defile. I think since I started riding I’ve crossed two cars. And no cyclists. The silence is sublime. Just the sounds of my tires rolling over pavement, the chain rolling over the chainring and sprockets, the stream splashing over rocks, occasional shrieks from birds in the forest. I like riding alone. I mean on those rare opportunities when it does work out to ride with others, I like that too. Sharing this world and the joys of riding bikes with friends is pretty amazing. But, that said, riding alone is good. Stop when I want, no frustrations at being slower, or, rarely, faster, no sounds of others talking away and flooding into non-existence the silence, no reasons needed for taking this road instead of that road, just following my senses, pushing the pace my body wants, stopping for pics whenever the impulse arrives.
Out of the gorge and into the village of Saint-Disdier. Small place, more hamlet than village except there’s a church so village it is. Perched on a hill high above the village and silhouetted against the sky is another church, the Chapelle des Gicons, also called for reasons I don’t know the Mère Eglise (mother church). Built in the 11th century and apparently in excellent repair due to the efforts of a volunteer association. My idea had been to eventually pass by the church on the return from Col du Noyer but didn’t happen. Ran out of time and energy. Another time.
Saint-Disdier is where I left the known and started exploring. Known as in I’d already ridden those roads, exploring as in I wonder where this road goes. Tight, little bugger, a lane-and-a-half, sometimes less, twisting up the slopes away from the valley. I had a map with me but the scale, 1:75000, was worthless for much more than a rough idea of where I was. Wasn’t needed anyway though. I was climbing up out of the forest and onto rolling, tilted plains spreading out off the mountains ringing the basin. I could get a pretty good idea of where I was and which direction I wanted to go just by looking around. Get to some fork in the road, go with what feels right. Came up golden every time.
The clouds were breaking up, melting, shifting, a hard blue sky filling in the spaces. Splashes of brilliant red caught my eye, wild cherry trees in full autumn display. The road was pretty much a pure one-laner. Got to a four-way junction, no signs, the road to the left squeezed between a barn and the wall of a house or maybe another barn. Took that, seemed like the way to go. Popped out beyond the buildings into fields and views I didn’t have eyes big enough for.
I swear it looked like I was back in Colorado, maybe in the valley around Buena Vista under the string of 14’rs defining the western edge. Then I’d look at the road again or maybe see some tile roofs and know damn well this sure as hell wasn’t Colorado. Made me think of it anyway though.
Another fork, straight ahead a gravel road disappearing around a long curve, no signs, the pavement going left and down. I went straight. Straight into paradise. A wide, shallow valley curving back and up into the long chain of summits and ridges. No watch so didn’t really know what time it was but must have been well into afternoon because the sun was coming in at a low angle and lighting up the slopes with galvanizing brilliance. Had to stop, shoot some pics, then just hung there, eating part of a sandwich, entranced by the light, swept away in the silence.
The gravel finally ended at the Col de Festre, 1445 meters high, the frontier between south France and the Alps. Probably the flattest col I’ve ever been on. Headed back to the north, a regular road, two full lanes, paint, even a wide shoulder for bikes. And barely any traffic. Down through some fast curves then up, short climb, 3 K, maybe 100 meters of vertical. Col de Rioupes, almost as flat as Festre. Then down, fast and easy, down to a bridge over a small canyon and onto the road to Col du Noyer.
I was thinking the climb was relatively easy with only a few small sections of steepness. And not so far, only 10 K or so. Piece of cake in other words. Which was good because my legs were starting to feel some twitches of tiredness. Reminders that maybe I ought to start thinking about wrapping up the day’s festivities.
Up through the village of Dévoluy, the place was dead, nothing moving, nothing open, off-season, waiting for the ski season to come around. On up the valley then around a sharp turn to the left and the climb to the col was joined. Climbing mode, big cogs, steady pace. Had to stop a couple of times, the views too electric to pass up.
Over a long, round shoulder and into a shallow valley heading to the col. Past where I’d had to stop because of snow the last time I was here and into the final K’s to the top. And some rudely steep ramps that I wasn’t expecting. The worst was right before the col itself. About killed me. But only for a moment and then I was up and rolling onto the col. Gorgeous place. Huge views off the south side, in the distance the southern Alps. And just below the south-side road twisting up the mountain. I’ve done that twice. Double-digit grades about wiped me out both times.
Noyer isn’t high, 1664 meters, but visually feels way higher, more like a 2000 meter col. The entire distance from before Dévoluy is all but treeless, just small pockets of forest mostly. The rest alpine meadows of grasses and up higher ground-hugging plants. Austere was the word that floated through my mind looking at the U-shaped valley forming the col. But beautiful. Wouldn’t want to be there with the wind howling through though.
The sun was getting low to the west, time to turn-around and head back to the car, probably an hour away. There was another road I wanted to explore, paved then dirt then paved again, a long traverse across the mountains then down to the old chapel. I knew it could be fun, though I’d never been on it, but not enough time. My photo stops had sucked up time like water swirling down a drain. I also wasn’t too sure my legs had any more climbing in them and if by chance the dirt had some up sections, that could be nasty. So down and back, big ringing it all the way, if I could.
I couldn’t, some climbs along the way, plus my legs weren’t interested. Easy climbs in fact that I should have just spun up in a medium-sized gear but by then anything going against gravity was damn near too much. A good descent, nothing extraordinary, just 55 minutes of smiling, loving where I was and what I’d just done. The numbers made me smile: 68 K with 1849 vertical meters (6066 ft). Into the car, change clothes, attack the pain-au-chocolat I’d left in the car for the return, knock down the no-longer-warm-coffee-laced-with-Baileys in a thermos, turn the key, on the road, pedal to the medal, racing to see if I can get home before dark. I did, barely.
I needed that. Hadn’t done a big ride in a long time. That qualified. October kicked off with style.