Col de Vergio

Here's the thing about Corsica: The only place that is flat is the sea.

After yesterday's challenging journey, I was not convinced I would ride today. But then, what would I miss?

Our host pointed to a lake on the map; it seemed impossibly far away. "First we follow this white road, then we take this yellow road ..."

From sea level, there is nowhere to go but uphill. Take a glance at a topological map, and this will be abundantly clear.

We inundated the tiny local market in the town of Ota. Shortly thereafter, our group of eight began to shrink.

The first two riders were determined to turn back after we had climbed 2,000 feet. Methinks it can be a bad thing to have too much data.

We stopped for lunch in Évisa. I took one look at the enormous serving of pasta in front of me and pronounced it too much to eat.

I then proceeded to eat it. All of it.

Three more riders turned back. I got a short-lived head start on the remaining two (our host, and one of our most hard-core cyclists), and then settled into my own comfortable pace. We would all turn around at the summit; the distance to the lake was too great.

I was startled when a small wild boar scrambled out of the brush and ran across the road; they're fast! On the way down, I paused when I met a small group of them. Two youngsters were engaged in a circular romp in the middle of the road, while the adults foraged in the roadside grass. Like the wandering cows and sheep, they ignored me and I continued on my way.

After stopping to marvel at a spectacular gorge, I noticed a tour bus edge around a sharp bend on its way up the hill. The stretch of road between us was little more than a single lane wide, and I definitely did not want to be squeezed against the low stone wall at the edge of the gorge. I tucked into a wide spot and waited for the bus to pass. The driver was attentive and waved to me in appreciation.

With today's climb of 5,015 over 44 miles, I have climbed nearly 10,000 feet in two days. Evidently I am stronger than I thought.

Porto

As I was climbing out of St. Florent, a fighter jet swooshed overhead. That confirmed it—we did hear a sonic boom yesterday in Nonza!

I met the first raindrops twelve miles into the ride. I donned my rain jacket and did the only thing I could do: keep moving forward. I prefer not to ride in the rain, but today it was necessary.

When the rain became steady, I took shelter under a tree and pulled a shower cap over my helmet. As soon as I got back on the road, the cap slipped and flew off.

Water pooled in my shoes, as I had regrettably elected not to bring my shoe covers along. On the outskirts of L'Île-Rousse, I found an overhang for another break from the rain. I poured the water out of my shoes, squeezed what I could out of my socks, and ate the demi-baguette I had saved from breakfast.

Oddly, I did not feel miserable—cycling makes you wet, rain makes you wetter. If the weather injects "cold" into the equation, that adds up to a different result.

As the traffic in L'Île-Rousse inched along, I considered dismounting and walking on the sidewalk—it would have been faster. As I approached the far edge of town, traffic began to flow and I pulled aside to let the vehicles pass.

Then, just as I reached the end of town, I heard a voice ... the voice of a guardian angel, calling my name! Our host knew that I would call if I got into trouble; his wife was more pragmatic. She also knew to utter the magic words: that she had already sagged two of my friends forward. (No need for me to be stoic and ride the whole distance.) We loaded the bicycle into the car, and she boosted me forward 16 miles.

The Up Side: I was out of the rain for a while, and now ahead of the rest of the group.

The Down Side: I was transported forward along the flattest part of the route, through the only towns where I could have found lunch.

The rain let up, and I soon entered a wide, beautiful valley. The Corsican countryside is a very quiet place. Miles later, when I reached the summit of the pass, I paused for some photos. Just as I prepared to descend, the first riders from our group came around the bend.

Continuing ahead of them was a lucky move; a few miles down the road, the silence was suddenly broken. Pffft...BAM! Fortunately, I was not on a curve. Fortunately, I was not moving all that fast. I came safely to a stop; my front tire was flat. I edged it off the rim and started searching for the cause; my pit crew caught up to me in no time.

Did you find the hole?
Where's your tube?
Forget the pump, here's a CO2 cartridge.

The tube had poked through a slice in the tire and blown out; I had clipped a rock miles earlier but thought no harm had been done. I supplied a tire boot and we were soon on our way.

Opinions on the repair ran the gamut from "you need a new tire" to "looks completely rideable, don't worry about it." Now that we were heading downhill, I backed off on aggressive cornering, and speed. I lagged behind the group, but arrived in town to find them backtracking in search of our hotel.

For the day: 4900 ft of climbing and 69 miles (16 in the rain). No regrets about the additional 16 (rainy) miles I skipped.

Nonza

For most of us, it was time for a day off the bike. We decided to return to the town of Nonza, which we had seen briefly on yesterday's journey up the coast.

We visited the historic Tower of Nonza and the church of Sainte-Julie before descending the ancient stone steps and rocky path to the beach. Deceived by the distance, we had expected to find a black sand beach. The town is perched on a cliff more than 300 feet above sea level; the beach is a wide expanse of smooth black stones.

The road traversing the hills was fresh in our minds from yesterday's ride; from the beach, it looked quite daunting. Yes, we climbed that! We celebrated with a picnic lunch and a dip in the Mediterranean, relishing the chance to relax.

Tomorrow morning we would move on from St. Florent to the town that would serve as our next home base; tonight there would be much plotting and planning. I had agreed to accept a ride forward (over the first climb), to avoid falling too far behind the rest of the group. During a quiet discussion at dinner, I recognized the need to abandon this plan. Although we now had two cars, only one carried bikes. Unlike some of my fellow riders, I was in good health—merely slow. The rack, and the cars, would already be full.

Our route would take us into the mountains, and the weather forecast showed a 20% chance of thundershowers.

A long, challenging day on the bicycle loomed large.

Pino

I could have asked our host to intervene with the hotel staff; instead, I asked Google Translate.

Le lavabo de ma chambre est bouché.

My accent must have been passable, for they not only understood me—they assumed I could understand them. I imagine they apologized, and context helped me recognize that they needed my room number. [Of course.] Luckily, it was a number I knew: onze. Best of all, when I returned to my room at the end of the day, my sink was no longer clogged!

The plan for today was to ride north along the west coast to Baragogna, cut across the island and ride south along the east coast to Santa Severa, then head back to the west coast to return to St. Florent.

Our group of riders was shrinking day by day; two guys were sick, one with a frighteningly severe case of (suspected) food poisoning that would ultimately require an antibiotic.

When we reached the town of Pino, we had already traveled 30 miles. The planned loop would add another 30. Reality set in for two of us: we were not up for a 90-mile day, without even factoring in the additional climbing this loop would entail. We declared victory over lunch and headed south. Would the other four riders get back in time for dinner at eight?

The rugged coastline reminded me of the views along our own Pacific Coast Highway, and I was more than content to gaze out at the Mediterranean for a couple of hours as I returned to St. Florent.

The roads are often narrow, with tight blind curves hugging the cliffs. As a rule, I found motorists had the skills to drive safely and were also courteous to cyclists. Twice, I heard a driver accelerating to pass me when I could see an oncoming car; in both cases, the driver understood and immediately backed off when I thrust out my left arm to hold him off.

Along the way, I stopped at a boulanger et patisserie for the treat I had earned by climbing some 4200 feet over 59 miles. Our four intrepid explorers climbed more than 7,000 feet over 93 miles, and they did make it back in time for dinner.

I made it back in time for two scoops of ice cream before dinner (praline and Nutella).

St. Florent

Shortly after dawn, the ferry docked at Bastia, on the northeastern shore of Corsica. Geared up for the day's ride, we pedaled off the ship and found breakfast at an open-air café on the edge of a park. Workers were busy setting up canopies for a sports festival; cycling did not seem to be represented.

We had ample time to reach our destination on the other side of the island, our hotel in St. Florent. Once we were on the route, I relaxed and slipped behind the group to enjoy the spectacular views. Armed with data (a paper map, and Google Maps on my GPS-savvy smartphone), I was not concerned about getting lost.

I caught up with the group at a roundabout, where they had stopped at a salon de thé. I chose a juicy pear galette, and surprised myself by requesting une serviette. With my pathetically limited vocabulary, how did I remember that word?

At this crossroads, the group was divided. Some wished to follow the planned route, along D62; others wanted to cut it short, following the more direct D82. One rider pointed authoritatively toward another road (D5), saying that was the way to follow the long route. A glance at the map showed a turn from D5 onto D62.

I exited the roundabout straight onto D62. Thinking I had mistakenly followed the "direct route" riders, I turned back and chose D5. I should have (but did not) study my map.

Merrily I rolled along, stopping to admire the distinctive 12th-century Église Saint-Michel in Murato (currently under restoration). Had I studied my map, I would have turned here to return to D62.

I did not study my map.

D5 followed the ridge line, heading ever-so-gently toward a summit. The wide vistas were stunning. I paused to let a small herd of shaggy sheep pass, as they headed for an opening in the fence along the road. The large and vocal males were in charge; the rest trotted dutifully along. Unlike me, they knew where they were going.

At the top, I found an elderly couple enjoying a picnic—complete with table and chairs. They were eager to offer me some water, and happily snapped a photo of me when I asked. They heralded the descent ahead; I replied that I loved descents.

The road on the other side of the summit was a bit steeper, and in poor condition; I descended cautiously. I passed a cluster of houses at a crossroads, continued along D5, and (finally) thought it might be a good idea to look at my map.

At this point, I was about seven miles off-course. And downhill, having summited at the Col de Bigorno.

Uh-oh.

I returned to the summit and retraced my path to Murato. On the climb, some passing motorcyclists saluted me with a thumbs-up. I was not concerned about being alone, or being lost; but I was concerned that the rest of the group would fret about my whereabouts, since I was now lagging more than an hour behind any expected arrival time.

According to my excellent IGN map (No. 175), I was looking for D162. Back at the church, I was convinced I was standing at the intersection—but there were no signs.

There was, however, a middle-aged French couple picnicking (you guessed it, with table and chairs) under a tree. "Bonjour, excusez-moi," I approached them. I pointed to the map, and to the various roads. "Ici?" They confirmed my hunch. "Merci, merci beaucoup!"

Having learned my lesson, at each subsequent intersection I studied the map for good measure. I rolled into St. Florent before anyone got seriously worried. My route covered about 52 miles, with some 4,720 feet of climbing.

A day to practice orienteering, to be forced to communicate in French (however primitively), to be self-reliant.

I am glad I got lost.

Aix-en-Provence

Our journey today would take us from the heart of Provence to the harbor in Marseille, where we would board the ship to ferry us to our next destination: Corsica.

For this there was a plan, and the plan was this: By the time we load the luggage into the trailer and get going, it will be 9:30 or 10:00. We will bike to Aix-en-Provence, where we will catch the train to Marseille. There is no reason to hurry; it is only 40 miles, and trains run all day. We can take four hours to get to Gare D'Aix-en-Provence. Pack a small bag for the overnight ferry; we will not have access to our luggage.

Plan? Was there a plan?

Suddenly, everyone rushes to load their luggage before breakfast. After scarfing down the usual croissants and yogurt, everyone rushes away from the table. Expecting to carry my small bag all day, I learn that it should go into the car. Now. The car is ready to leave. Away it goes, taking with it my passport, money, documents for the ferry. Anxiety is mounting.

Next we rush to get on the road, and we are on our way before 9:00—earlier than we leave on a normal day. The group takes off at a brisk pace; I am rolling at 16-17 mph and they are pulling away from me. We need to stay together; we are taking a fairly direct route to Aix-en-Provence, but it strings together a series of tiny roads and bike paths that are loaded into the lead rider's GPS.

I appreciate the anxiety about not missing our transit connections. But I am working so hard to keep up I can't even grab a sip of water.

I realize that I should probably give up the idea of future trips with this group. It is not fair to expect them to wait for me if I can't match their pace, and struggling to keep up is not fun for me. I wanted a cycling holiday, not a stage race.

On the narrow exit from a roundabout, the group heads onto an adjacent path. In my haste to follow, my front wheel catches the side of the low curb and I go down. Of course, the main impact hits the same spot that took the hit two weeks ago. The bandage on the still-raw spot on my right elbow (mostly) contains the bleeding from this fresh impact, and now I have a skinned knee.

A concerned motorist stops. "Ça va," I wave him off.

We make it to the train station in 3.5 hours. And I am really not happy.

Bored with sitting around after lunch but feeling too dejected to do any real exploring, I head off to La Poste for stamps.

Returning to the café, across the street from the train station, I find only two guys waiting for me. "Hurry, we have to catch the 14:30 train!" [It turns out they don't leave every half hour, and the next train will leave at 16:00.] But it's already 14:31?! "No, it arrives at 14:30, it leaves at 14:50."

We dash onto the train, then move forward to find the right car (with hooks to hang our bikes).

The ferry terminal is less than a mile from the train station in Marseille. Piece of cake?

Marseille is the second-largest city in France, and the harbor is a major international port. in the best of circumstances, this gritty neighborhood would not be a place for cyclists. At present, a long section of the road is torn up for construction, reducing access to one-way traffic.

We arrive at the specified gate; they direct us to continue down the road to a passenger terminal. With our bicycles, we are not foot passengers; they send us back to the original gate. And so it goes, a group of semi-frantic, non-French-speaking cyclists, bouncing from gate to gate and mixing it up with port traffic in search of the right gate to board our ferry.

At last, a kind security guard drives slowly ahead of us to lead us to the right place—which involves briefly entering (and immediately exiting) the freeway.

We arrive at the ferry with 1.5 hours to spare. The 16:00 train would have spelled doom. Everyone is completely stressed out.

The ferry is more like a cruise ship. We follow the motorcycles, riding our bicycles up the ramp. Locked together, a crew member ropes them to the wall.

We proceed to our cabins to shower and change our clothes for dinner.

In the morning, we will wake up in sight of Corsica.

Mont Ventoux

A few hardy souls in our group had tackled Mont Ventoux on Wednesday; although they escaped serious rain, they rode in the clouds and saw nothing at the summit.

If the rest of us were to ride this legendary climb, today was the day. After yesterday's winds in the valley, we were prepared to be denied. The wind speeds on Ventoux reportedly exceed 56 mph on 240 days of the year.

Our hosts delivered us to Bédoin; the pass was open. I settled in for a long ascent. It was not particularly windy ... at the bottom.

Some Dutch cyclists on mountain bikes gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up as they passed. There are always cyclists on this route, and I received plenty of encouragement from fellow riders, their support vehicles, and everyone else.

Bonjour!
Allez, allez, allez!

Along the way, pedestals indicate the distance remaining to the summit and the average gradient over the next kilometer. "Reminiscent of gravestones," I thought, and then pushed that out of my mind. These road markers are common in France, absent the gradient details.

Taking a break in the last few kilometers, I was passed by an older Frenchman whose wife was leapfrogging him in their car. After my brief rest, I soon passed him effortlessly. Despite my limited vocabulary, I got the gist of his reaction: Not good for his morale!

I passed a weary couple who were walking their bikes. "Fini," they called out.

I paused by the memorial to Tom Simpson; 45 years later, people are still leaving mementos.

About one kilometer from the top, I rounded a bend and met the full force of the wind. On the barren upper mountain, it had been blowing steadily at 20+ mph, with gusts in excess of 50 mph. Here, I was blown to a complete stop. Stunned, I unclipped from my pedals and gripped the brakes to avoid sailing backward.

The only possible way forward was to walk, and that alone was a challenge. Approaching my French friend's car, I shook my head to express my amazement with the wind. "Col de Tempêtes," his wife explained, pointing to the sign on the stone wall.

After about a tenth of a mile, the mountain offered some shelter from the gale and I remounted the bicycle. The final few meters to the top are steep and chaotic: pedestrians, cyclists, and vehicles moving in both directions along a narrow driveway. To be safe, I dismounted and walked up.

I expected to reach the summit in three hours; excluding breaks, I exceeded that by four minutes, penalized by walking into the wind. From our starting point, I recorded 13.3 miles and some 5,180 feet of climbing.

I descended with abundant care, reaching town in about 38 minutes. Tucked into an aggressively aerodynamic position on the bike, I was mightily buffeted by the gale near the top but managed to compensate for the wobble it induced.

The fastest pro rider has summited Le Géant de Provence in less than 56 minutes; that is, a mere 18 minutes longer than it took me to descend it. Just to keep things in perspective.