Postscript-Le Blaire Sorciere Projet

During our adventure crossing the country lane on Race Day afternoon, Rick, Todd and I came to a fork in the trail.  We were some distance ahead of our companions, and, after scouting the options, we decided to Go Left.  Being men, we knew it was up to the others to make their best guess when they came to the fork, but being thoughtful men, we decided to leave them a sign.

They got the turn correct, but they insisted they never saw our sign--which resulted in the following email exchange some days later.  Note that Rick has cleverly arranged not one, not two, but THREE arrows in the middle of the trail.

Rick: Speaking of Notre Dame, for Markham, Rich and Charles, I have included a picture of our arrows pointing you up the mountain.  Now tell me how it is that you all missed them again!!!




Charles: Oh, those!  Yes I saw those.  I just thought they were some of those strange woodcraft signs like in the Blair Witch Project, and I didn't want to mention them for fear of upsetting everyone.  

Postscript-The Wayward Backpack

Markham and Charles extended their stay in France with two days of poking around in the small towns of Provence.  They had a little incident on their return to the Geneva airport, as recounted by Markham below:

In bed at 10:30 and fell immediately into the deepest sleep of the entire trip.  Around 11 receive a call from Charles telling me that our rescheduled flight actually is leaving an hour and a half earlier than we thought, so we need to meet in the lobby at 4 AM.  Reset my alarm for 3:45 PM.  3:50, awakened by birdsong and the rustle of the fading mistral, I look at my watch, what the heck, why didn’t my alarm go off.  Luckily, I have everything laid out; brush my teeth, slip on my pants and shirt, take a call from Charles at 3:55, grab my bags and head to the lobby with two minutes to spare; still a little groggy.  Charles is waiting and decides to retrieve the car himself rather than rely on the night attendant who seems more interested in what we will take in our coffee which I must admit given my state of semi-consciousness held some interest for me as well. Unfortunately, I have to call an audible on the coffee when I discover that ‘to-go cup’ is not in the French lexicon.  Charles pulls up and we hastily load the car.  I get in the driver’s seat with Charles in the navigation position and we speed down the road toward the motorway.  But not too far, as we soon realize neither of us has a firm grip on the exact route to the A7 which requires negotiating a number of local roads for the first 30 miles or so toward Avignon.  Passing a fork in the road we are somewhat perplexed by the towns listed on the diminutive signage and decide to pull over and get a map out of my day pack.  Navigation instruments in hand we u-turn and speed back to the afore mentioned intersection.  Charles is not exactly his bubbly morning self at this point and I am feeling a bit anxious with thoughts of dashing back and forth across the pitch black of the predawn Luberon  creeping into the back of my mind.  To make matters worse, I had inadvertently left the rear door on the driver’s side wide open which prompted Charles to exclaim with a measurable degree of concern, “ the door is open!”, immediately followed by, “and something just fell out!”.  As would be typical of me, I attempted to pull the door closed while still in transit, prompting an additional entreaty from Charles; at which point I pull over to confirm that my pack had in fact taken to the road of its own accord and I close the door. By this point the anxiety level was downright palpable, but I manage to maintain my somewhat ruffled cool outer shell, whipping the car around and retreating in pursuit of the errant valise.  Not far down the road we spotted the truant grip, looking lost and lonely, adrift in a dark asphaltic sea. Pulling alongside at a wide place in the road, I prepare to make yet another u-turn and a slow rolling retrieval.  Suddenly, as if sprung from the dark depths of hell a panel truck roars up out of nowhere and past us as we gaze on in stunned amazement, a ring side seat to the attempted assassination of my little chicken bag.  Kathunk! (or Whump! as Charles would later recount) and just like that my pack disappears down the road.

........this is no joke, my bag disappearing into the dark of night, taillights fading in the distance as Charles and I sat momentarily dazed.  What the f…?  Where did that truck come from?  It must have been pulled off in the woods just waiting for the opportunity to slaughter some poor innocent luggage.  Fortunately, the young French couple driving the truck turned out not to be so dastardly and they stopped down the way to inspect their new found cargo.  By the time we arrived both of them where underneath the truck attempted to dislodge their unexpected passenger.  I scrambled around the front and underneath to push as they pulled, finally springing the package free, a little road weary and exhibiting a severe case of road rash but otherwise relatively intact all things considered; the worst damage having been suffered by my poor little Swiss riding cap which was carabinered to the outside of the package, it rode the pony to a complete stop, and my loaf of fresh fougasse which had been generally pulverized back into dough.

From that point on things preceded a lot more smoothly.  Eventually, we made our way to the highway and turned up the road into the early morning light toward Geneva. Confident of making our appointed arrival time in Switzerland, but still a little shell-shocked, we rode on in silence for some time.  Then a little chuckle from Charles followed by a bursting guffaw as we were enveloped in a cloud of hilarity; laughing and crying until we were gasping for air.
“Where the hell did that truck come from?”

French Alps - The Video

Just available, thanks to Rick McConnell, are these mpeg video clips of various trip exploits. Above is video of our mountain road crossing from Villard-Notre Dame to Villard-Reymond on the afternoon of Race Day.

If the above embedded video doesn't work, you can find it at the link below, along with 22 more clips. Nice job, Rick!

FlipShare - Limited Viewport

Things We Learned in the French Alps

1. Snow melts late on the Galibier.  Think July.

2.  If you order the Menu du Jour at a nice French restaurant, start with the dessert. Else you will be forced to choose between dessert and sleep.

3.  There’s more gelato in Annecy than in the Dolomite region of Italy.

4.  You get food fast in Switzerland--but do you want to eat it???

5.  In business, the saying goes, there is price, quality and service--pick any two.  In a French restaurant, we say, there is price, quality and service--pick one.

6. Don’t make cycling decisions based on the weather report.  You can almost always get in a decent ride.

7.  You can focus more easily on cycling if you stay in a place more than one night.

8.  Don’t bet on Dad’s credit card working in the ATM.

9.  It’s hard to out-pedal someone 1/3 your age….if you’re over 50.

10.  If you can survive Nel’s warmup ride, you’re probably good for the rest of the itinerary.

11.  2 roommates with 2 cellphones and 2 computers and 2 iPods can survive on 1 receptacle.

12.  In Europe, Garmins and TomToms are not the all-knowing swamis they would like to be.

13.  Even Markham gets tired.  But 2 DNS’s???

14.  Cyclist’s choice:  French fries + beer or foie gras + wine?  Hmm, that's a no-brainer.

15.  How do ProTour riders cross 4 passes in a day?  Bring me a blood bag!

Alps, Au Revoir!

The final day dawned gray and damp, with a light rain hinting that it might quit.  Markham and Charles had decided the night before to pack up their bikes this AM and head for Provence, where they planned to spend an extra couple days visiting small French towns—thereby receiving a second big DNS in two days.  The rest of us hung around the hotel for an extra hour, waiting for the rain to decide.  At 10:30 AM, we saddled up and headed out.  The sky gradually cleared enough for the sun to break through, and we had a beautiful day for cycling with temps. in the low 60’s. 

This was our final day and we were determined to savor it.  Andiamo had designed a fabulous route, replacing Crete de Chatillon, which some of us had climbed the day before, with a meander through the hills and narrow country roads above Lake Annecy.  We hit the point of reckoning about 1 PM—the Col de Forclaz.  This mountain looming over Lake Annecy displayed the steepest clinb profile of any mountain on our itinerary.  I was open to skipping it, given 6 straight days of climbing major mountains would justify a taper, but my intrepid bike mates weren’t wavering.  Up we went.  It turned into a wonderful exclamation point to a week of climbing the Alps, and provided two useful insights:  1) our climbing legs had gotten pretty good and 2) short (9 km, 12%) steep climbs now seem easier than long (25 km, 8%) semi-steep climbs.  

We took some pictures at the top, and Rich toyed with the idea of taking the fast way down, before we remounted our bikes and coasted down the road back to the lake and eventually the town of Annecy. 

We packed our bikes, had the best meal of the trip at an Old Annecy restaurant, and celebrated Todd’s 56th birthday, promising him a new hip joint for a gift.  He thanklessly turned us down, preferring titanium and a US surgeon to the iron and Burmese surgeon we could afford.  Oh well….. And then we toasted Nel and Mike of Andiamo for tagging along with us and keeping us entertained, and Rich—the Ride Commish—for making it happen and raising the bar--the top tube-- on what a bike adventure could be.

Now THAT was QUALITY!