Whew, this week has been a week, hasn’t it? I am back at work and in my routine, reading the news for fun(?) in the morning and for my job in the evening. So … we have a king now? Environmental regulations are about to be dismantled? Debates are this thing where the loudest liar wins? Mass diaspora, historic hurricanes, explosive wildfires. I’ve been tracking the hot spots of the Globe Fire in Alaska because I want to see how big of a bite this wildfire will take out of my beloved White Mountains. Nobody cares about this, but I do. If only I could transport myself back to a mountain pass on the Tornio-Nice Rally, where I hardly glanced at a screen for two weeks. Of course, I wouldn’t want to go there right now, as Northern Italy is recovering from catastrophic flooding that we barely missed.
After my travel travails and some harsh personal triggers last week (a friend’s heart attack while hiking and witnessing the immediate aftermath of a car-bicycle collision), anxiety has grabbed hold. My brain has reverted to classic disassociation (Oh well, empires fail, what can you do?) and agoraphobia. I have been unwilling to ride outside since passing the disturbing bicycle collision. This has translated to only briefly venturing outside since I returned from France. I blamed allergic asthma for my hesitations to go for a run or join Beat on an adventure (really, my symptoms are bad right now), but …
What I mean to say is, thank you for indulging me while I write this old-fashioned blog report about our frivolous bike trip through the Alps. Reliving the magic is my form of self-care. I understand why these sorts of posts are like watching a slide show of your Uncle Craig’s vacation to Disney World, and I thank anyone who has not unsubscribed yet. Now where was I?
We struggled to coax ourselves out of Briançon. First, we had to luxuriate in the hotel’s continental breakfast. I remember four cups of coffee (way more than I should have had, but I had fallen off the caffeine abstinence wagon in the name of survival), many croissants, tiny jars of jam, and individually wrapped cubes of cheese that tempted us to take a few to go.
Once outside, a light rain had started to fall. So we lingered at the awning and searched for that night’s accommodations. Our goal hotel was only 30 miles away. Yes, just 30 miles, but also 5,400 feet of climbing over the storied Col d’Izoard and partway up the highest col on the route, Col Agnel. Given our struggles with snow at elevations above 2,300 meters (7,500 feet), I had been texting with Beat to gauge our chances of crossing these passes. Beat studied a few Strava segments and confirmed that many cyclists had been up and over both sides recently. Phew! This news relieved my anxiety about glissading down terrifying snowfields and set me up for an especially enjoyable couple of days.
Finally, we had to hit up a bike shop and the local Decathalon. The sporting goods retailer is France’s version of REI, with a bit of Cabela’s thrown in. Lora was nursing a saddle sore and needed new bike shorts, and I had ripped the back end out of my rain pants. While browsing Decathalon, I impulse-bought several more items that I’d have to stuff on my bike but justified them as somehow needed: A T-shirt (for sleeping!), sunglasses (what if I lose mine?), and several boxes of the most delicious fruit jelly bars ever manufactured. They’re like little rectangles of heaven.
It was nearly noon by the time we rolled out of Briançon. But that’s okay, we’re taking a rest day — a rest day with a vertical mile of climbing. As we started up Col d’Izoard, gentle rain continued to fall. My body had been running particularly cold on this trip, so despite generally warm temperatures, the cool precipitation meant my new rain pants were already earning their keep.
Despite the bulky body and bike gear, I felt oddly lithe this afternoon. It was as though a motor had been installed on my bike, or as though there was suddenly 37% more oxygen in the air. I could breathe! Come to think of it, the breakfast had tasted particularly delicious this morning — probably because my sinuses weren’t nearly as clogged. The rain fell, tamping down the pollen, relieving my allergies, and giving me a few extra gears I didn’t even realize I had.
Col d’Izoard is a famous stage in the Tour du France, an “hors catégorie” (beyond categorization) climb, gaining 3,625 feet in just under 12 miles. Dramatic pinnacles and barren scree slopes surround the narrow ribbon of pavement. The stark backdrop gives the region its name, “Casse Déserte.” It was a deliciously fun climb, probably because I was feeling great and hardly had to do any work, and also because my muscles finally had the oxygen to work hard enough to generate heat, so my body wasn’t freezing.
I was feeling chuffed with myself at the summit. But let’s be honest, even if I were to subtract all my photo and scenery-gawking and snack breaks, I was still ploddingly slow. After I returned home, I rode this same col virtually on Rouvy and carved more than two hours off of my real-life time (3:42 versus 1:35.) So yes, I do want to spend the winter building my FTP and acquire a feather-light road bike and return to see how well I can crush all of the TdF climbs!
The scenery was endlessly compelling here. It reminded me of Rocky Mountain National Park, except on a grander scale. And this is just a ho-hum part of the Alps compared to the mountains farther north.
We flew down the col and started up the next, passing Fort Queyras. Apparently, in 2023 this stunning 13th-century relic went on the market for £4 million. According to the Daily Mail, “Now a 20-bedroom towering chateau nestled in Hautes-Alpes, the property was once the site of witch burning trials.” Yikes.
Near Château-Queyras was a lone rock pillar rising above the larch forest. It’s a natural sandstone spire. I couldn’t find much else about it in several Google searches including “Queyras National Park phallic rock formation.”
We shared another small room in a cute old hotel in Molines-en-Queyras. The rain increased in intensity after we arrived. We were glad to be indoors. Our short day gave us much of the afternoon to lounge around, even after our late start. Dinner at the hotel was incredible — beef, scalloped potatoes, vegetables, salad with a delicious citrus dressing and gougères. Dessert was the richest chocolate mousse I’ve ever tried. What a time to get my sense of taste back!
We struggled to coax ourselves out of Molines-en-Queyras. Steady rain pelted the windows as we lingered over our second luxurious continental breakfast in two days. This time, I tried to hold myself to three cups of coffee. The hotel lady urged us to stay and wait for the rain to stop, so we did. Of course, we knew the rain wasn’t going to stop. We were heading up to 2,700 meters (9,000 feet) and this cold precipitation was likely to turn to snow before the top. Still, I was mostly excited about the day. As long as it was raining, I could breathe! What a time to get to ride these big climbs!
Col Agnel is the third-highest road pass in Europe, cresting over 9,000 feet as it crosses from France to Italy. Previously a mule track used by French and Spanish armies to cross into Italy, the road was built in 1973. Because it passes through a national park, it’s a popular route for recreation if not the most practical way to travel from France to Italy.
In mid-June, Col Agnel is still very much snowed in. The plowing on the Italian side of the road had been completed just days earlier. Again, if our trip had started even a week earlier, it’s likely many parts of the route would have been impassable.
On this day — Saturday, June 15 — the climb was a pleasant spin in the drizzling rain. But then the clouds closed in and the rain turned to a stinging sleet. I was beginning to feel miserable, shivering while pedaling with my brain on autopilot, when I heard Lora’s voice yelling my name, somewhere unseen in the fog. She had veered toward the entrance of a refuge we had discussed visiting. The fog was so thick that I did not see the intersection and almost missed it.
Refuge Agnel was incredible. Just imagine. A warm, dry respite at 2,580 meters. It was so refreshing to peel off all of our wet clothing, hang it around the fireplace as though this were a wilderness shelter in Alaska, and order all the coffee and hot chocolate we could drink. (I held myself to one coffee and one hot chocolate.) I enjoyed yet another amazing meal, a broccoli and feta cheese tart with fresh greens and balsamic vinegar. It was hard to believe that just two days earlier, I’d been rationing a dwindling supply of peanuts and crackers on a seemingly abandoned military road.
As we ate, we watched the fog close in, retreat, then close in again. By the time we left, the fog had lifted for good and the rain and sleet had stopped. Such timing!
The descent from Col Agnel was such fun. Truly. I know this makes me weird, but I am not all that into the descending part of bicycling. I’m not an adrenaline person, I’m an endorphin person. I don’t like to go fast and find sitting in a seat and coasting to be relatively boring. The cold often makes descending uncomfortable, and technical aspects can be frightening. Descending is a necessary chore to enjoy endorphin-boosting climbs. But this descent was just too incredible of a thing to simply endure.
First, we effortlessly sliced through all of the snow that would have been a terrifying death slide without this plowed ribbon of pavement.
We continued descending into a beautiful valley, stopping often for photos.
Down, down, down, nearly 6,000 feet down, past glacier-blue lakes and charming villages.
And then we were in Sampereye. Although I definitely did not need to load anything more on my bike and was still stuffed from breakfast and lunch, I bought a few more items from the grocery store and filled up on water. While waiting for Lora, I had an unbelievably stupid crash. I was straddling my bicycle when I decided to step away from it. I lifted my leg over the saddle, caught my foot on my seatpost bag, and toppled to the ground. It was a rough impact, absorbed entirely by my right knee, which turned into a stiff, painful bruise that bothered me the rest of the trip. And although I hadn’t sprained my ankle when I rolled it two days earlier, I did aggravate it enough to ache when I walked. After the trip, I would think about how lucky I was to come through an entire 10-day adventure unscathed with no stupid Jill crashes and no injuries, but now that I think about it, that wasn’t the case at all.
Having lost an enormous amount of altitude, we commenced climbing toward Colle Sampeyre. We planned to camp along the road. The fog returned and suddenly it was hot and very humid. I still felt reasonably good, but maybe I should not have eaten so much delicious French food.
We were turned away from a fancy refugio whose proprietors did not want dirtbags camping near their luxury guests. Everyone thought it would be a great idea to just set up at the ski lift that brought fancy guests to this refugio. I was pretty nervous about this prospect, but it was a nice spot, and the road was only getting steeper, and anyway, it was so foggy that they wouldn’t see us up here.
Of course, that was when the fog dropped below us. Still, I wasn’t mad. It was a gorgeous spot.
Tomorrow is another day, another col, and no better place in the world to be.
Sounds like a great trip and you have nothing to feel bad about in terms of climbing. Enjoyment can be had from acknowledging our surroundings, which you are doing. Probably easy for me to say since I am not a competitive person. I think it must be a genetic predisposition (competiveness).
Loved it, Jill! And I just had this little adventure of my own. :) https://tinyurl.com/mr5dvmy2