A sofa bed for the night, we spent the next morning walking around Embrun. A charming town, we went to the newly opened Tandem Velo cafe. A bike cafe in the sleepy streets of this medieval town, we looked to get the wheel repaired. With the mechanic inspecting the rim, tyre and tube, Will was vindicated in his feeling that this was simply without reason. All the same, we got another inner tube in there and ordered a muffin by way of thanks. Returning 20 mins later to the bike and that very same wheel was flat once more. Eurgh.
We got it repaired, and headed off, making sure to scoop up as many inner tubes as possible. Making a little ground around the Lac Serre-Ponçon, we found ourselves in Savines taking lunch, when once more – POP. Will’s rear inner tube exploded.
We repaired it, got ready to ride once more, and then…Pssst. Stef’s bike this time. Beyond frustrated, we found the problem, patched it, and once more got ready to go.
And then – Will’s tyre was once again flat. Slowly this time, but definitely flat, this mad succession of punctures left us extremely low on inner tubes and with a large distance to go before the next bike shop, settling for the night was the only option. A campsite around the corner allowed us to have a little security and dump the bags, whilst we took a little time to get over the run of poor luck that saw us simply unable to keep any air inside rubber tubes of any sort.
The next morning, Will turned backwards on his own, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t get a flat. Making a 22km round trip to an Intersport, he picked up inner tubes, patches, spare rim tape, and a new rear tyre for Stef, allowing her to ride without putting faith in Will’s bodge work. Returning to find that Stef had punctured in his absence, we now had the tally at 11 punctures within 4 days – A frankly unthinkable quantity.
All the same, we set out, all intrepid and well stocked, making better progress around the stunning azure blue of the alpine lake. This was however, the day of the World Cup Final, and as 17hrs came around, the flurry of cars whizzing to their televisual huddles thronged the road. We took a quick dip, before ploughing ahead, making distance around the lake at 700 meters above sea level before climbing to just above 1000 meters exactly, where we found another lake, and a bar packed out with people regailed in blue. As for the result, there’s little point retelling it, but, we can safely say that it was well received. The next hour was filled with fireworks, car horns and rather enthusiastic slurs. Pushing our bikes around, we stumbled upon a campsite, and finding the rates and raging river passing close to the tent rather enticing. We cooked, we chilled a bottle of cider in the cold snowmelt river, and we bedded down.
Upon waking we had time to make a coffee, snack on some bread, and pack everything up. With the bikes ready to roll, the skies opened, and it poured. And poured. And bucketed. And poured.
For 5 hours, we sat around by the shower block-come-reception, looking at clouds for a clearing, but it simply didn’t come. With a good 30kms of ground to be made uphill, we rather fancied doing it in the dry. And so, by 18hrs, we had once more unpacked and restored our tent to it’s former place. We slept and resolved to leave early, which we did.
Making our progress steadily up the valley, we wove about with the road and river, past roadworkers clapping us up and cars beeping us along the way. There was of course a reason for this – we were headed to Jausiers, a small town at the base of one of Europe’s highest roads – The Cime de la Bonette. Towering over most European passes at an altitude of 2804 meters above sea level, this Alpine pass is about as tough as they come. We however, were preparing not just to ride it, but to do so loaded each with somewhere in the region of 40 kilos of kit. This was our biggest challenge to date.
We made around 25 kilometres of ground to Barcelonette, where we pulled into the nearest Lidl supermarket to make sure we were sufficiently stocked to tackle the climb, however long it took. Stepping off the bike, we weren’t the only long distance tourers in town. We met and had a talk with the lovely Bess Robbo, who was taking part in the North Cape Tarifa ride – she had passed 5000kms in 26 days with her ultralight setup, of which we were interminably envious. Both with ambitions to climb the Bonette, we exchanged stories, tips and experiences of life on the road. After taking up too much of her time, she rode off – only to end that day in Nice. We were mightily impressed.
For us, we were content to drift around our favourite German chain and pick out pastas, noodles, and bottles of water – all essential, and all of it weight that we would have to pedal the 35kms summit.
It being midday, we also bought some bread and salad. Whilst scoffing it in the shade of the trolley park, a green Fiat Panda slowed down and rolled down the window:
“Are you cycle tourers?”, Sylvie inquired
“Yes!?”, Will responded.
“Where are you sleeping tonight?”
“Errrr…..”, bumbled Blackmore.
“Would you like a shower and a place to stay?”
Some offers you simply can’t refuse. After passing a phone about, Sylvie plugged in her address, and declaring she would be in all day, we had now some time to walk up and down the streets of Barcelonette, finding some gas and making the last preparations we needed to tackle the climb.
Pedalling to Sylvie’s place, we were warmly welcomed. We spent the evening learning about reclined bikes, electric assistance and the Sun Race – a mad 12000km pursuit from Lyon to the furthest reaches of China. Preparing us a delicious dinner and warmly offering up her wonderful self-tailored home, we even had the chance to wash clothes properly, eat properly cooked vegetables, and take in a beautiful mountain sunset on her balcony. For all these things, we are eternally grateful.
As we woke early, the prospect of the day ahead loomed large. We started with the false flat to Jausiers, some 10kms up the valley to a starting altitude of 1400 meters. As we took the turn-off up the mountain, hordes from the campsite opposite looked on in disbelief.
Starting with a series of hairpin bends, we soon saw ourselves shooting upwards. Climbing and climbing through sparse vegetation, there was little shade or comfort to be had. Interspersed taps at random distances the only source of refilling we had, we took every available opportunity to keep as much water, and subsequently weight, with us.
After 12 kilometres of steady climbing, we were now at 2000 meters. With the final shack on the mountain declaring itself boldly, we made a stop and hid under an umbrella before continuing. Struggling onwards, we pawed at our pedals as a trio of Team Sky riders, pursued by a support car slinked down the mountain past us. Such was the calibre of the climb.
We carried on, but by kilometre 18 and 15hrs in the afternoon, we were sorely in need of a stop and some food. Finding another little lake, we pulled in, rigged up a tarp around an upturned bike and profited from the only shade above the tree-line. Taking out our lunch, we soon found ourselves drifting off, and after a brief snooze, the clock pointed to it being 17hrs. Certainly time to tackle the further 7 kilometres and 500 meters of ascent to the top, but, frankly, surrounded by camper vans, we struck upon another plan.
We set up our camping gear and set upon the idea of climbing before dawn, in order to see the sunrise from the summit. After sundown, we soon ran to our tent and wrapped ourselves up, knowing too well that our alarms would greet us at 3.30am.
Greeted by the finest starry display of our lives, we quietly wrapped up the tent, stuffed our panniers, and made determined pedal strokes to the top. Pushed on by the thrill of the hour and a little unnerved about the prospect of wolves looking on, we made quick ground, snaking up hairpins, following only the narrow paths of light our only means of guiding us ahead and away from the sheer drops either side.
Battling past the old gun emplacements at the top of the Restefond, we knew we had only 100 meters left to gain. With light rapidly spreading across the alpine panorama, we knew we needed to make good time, and we raced the sun. Will going ahead, and Stef just thirty seconds behind, we made it to the summit just in time to see the light as it rose above the peaks, glowing in oranges and yellows across the snow-scattered landscapes of the high alps.
It was, in short, without description.
Climbing a footpath to the summit at 2860 meters above, we sat for hours, watching the sun enliven the moon-like landscape, devoid of grass and trees, with only the snaking of the road depicting our way ahead, down the valley, to the Cote d’Azur.
