The Fifth

Our leisurely starts to the day only serve to have us cycling in the heat. It gets hot at 10 and stays that way till 4 or 5. Today ,we had to wait for the tents to dry and so we didn't get to the D902 turn off until 11.30, by which time wars had been won and lost, greener sources of fuel that will save the planet had been invented, a city's worth of babies had taken their first breath, the ice cap had shrunk back another millimetre, Orange had released yet another ten mobile phone packages, and a city's worth of people had taken their last.




Elevenses

We were down at 3280 feet (exactly 1000m) and we were going to the Col Du Vars at 6930ft in 12 miles - 3650 up over 63400 - a 1 in 17 or 5.8% gradient. On the face of it, that is not too steep - not over a couple hundred yards but do it relentlessly over 12 miles then its something else. Having said that, had we left a lot earlier it would have been a whole lot easier as one thing always leads to another. You go so slowly because its hot so it gets even hotter a you have no breeze. So, as you get so hot, you sweat like a pig so you have to keep stopping to drink and get shade and while you do that the sun gets a little higher and a little hotter. D would laugh at me: 'Man you are in a swarm of flies - look at you!, he would say as he cycled a few yards behind, ' they are all over you!' He'd be right - they were in my ears in my nose crawling around my salt trimmed lips and eyes. They strolled across my forehead, cheeks, around my neck. They tickled my forearms and knees. But mainly they were all over my face. So I would slow down, flap an arm around, swatting hopelessly as D overtook - his head in the biggest swarm of flies I'd ever did see. Again, had we been a nippier, as the saying goes, you wouldn't catch any flies on me/us/them etc.


We were well into Ski Resort territory. These are the opposite and the same as seaside resorts in winter. Both are dead as doornails. Rather than the howling of the wind as it swirls around empty beach huts, you just get the hum of those pesky flies - reminiscent of the opening scene of Once upon a Time In the West. Le Claux was all but deserted. The ski lift chained up, the disco nightclub boarded up. A family, carrying tennis rackets, walked by kicking up a dust. Somewhere in the distance we heard a solitary mouth organ as vultures circled above. There was one cafe. We watched a mismatched couple drinking Rose at one table while at another, an odd looking character with a joke shop moustache tapped away at a laptop.

After that encounter with Purgatory, we rose up above the tree level for the last few twists and turns up to the Col.

We both consumed huge baguette style sandwiches at the handy cafe before meeting our next remarkable bike warrior. Didn't catch his name, or maybe it was Reiner. He was doing two or three cols a day on a bike he'd fallen hopelessly in love with - unnecessary to do under normal circumstances. He was cheating, of course, as he stayed in hotels. He was also by himself. He ate a huge blackberry covered piece of cheesecake. I was trying to avoid that kind of thing myself.

A fort

Down the other side to Jausiers. Another dice with death as we hurtled down towards Saint-Paul-sur-Ubaye. A very beautiful valley accompanied this full on river - we caught sight of a family in kayaks also hurtling down. (The kids must have loved hearing that that was this year's holiday). We stopped on a bridge and cooled our feet in the liquid ice. We discussed the benefits of staying in a hotel instead of camping: in case it rained; we'd get up earlier; we'd get some sleep; we'd do all the showering and toilet stuff in somewhere decent as a treat.

We got to Jausiers after another of those endless afternoons cycling against the wind. It seemed a very nowhere kind of place but would, in three weeks time, be flooded by cyclists as it served as a stopover on The Tour de France. We found the Bel Air and paid 57 euros for a twin. They had a bike garage so the steeds were safe.

Jausiers townhouse

We met some more madmen. A father and son double act from the mid west - not Swindon - Minneapolis. Dad was 90 (OK, 69 ) or so and the son about 45. Both had as much fat on them as a carrot. They didn't have anything to say about anything other than their cycling feats and other great feats. We also met some German motorcyclists who were also nuts. They had scant regard for hairpins and scary drops it seems and had been backwards and forwards over the Col de la Lombarde and other routes into and out of Italy that day. I got the sense they were trying to kill themselves - or just see what it might be like. Over beers D and I shared our fears, apprehension and excitement about the following day. Whatever we had done so far in terms of hills was only half of what we'd be doing the next day. The heat was a killer and we didn't expect rain - so the early start would compensate. But the biggest unknown was what happens at the the point at which the air pressure drops so as to mess up the availability of oxygen - 8000 feet. Apart from that, I just didn't know if I could haul my ass and my shit up 5250 feet over a distance of 77,099 feet approx, a 1 in 14.68, a 6.8% gradient. And it might be a bit nippy, brrrr. But, we'd done all the stuff before and all you got to do is just keep on keeping on going.

Town mouth organ player and some other locals, Le Claux

Never did see no tennis court.