I rode two cols in the Chartreuse that I had not done before. The first one, the Col de Coq, is impressive. Over an intensely steep 12.8km, the road climbs 1100 meters from the floor of the Grésivaudan valley, through two tunnels and later high above everything else. A beautiful ride, very quiet, and great road surface. Unfortunately, the descent on the other side can’t quite compete. The road is narrow, winding and covered with pot holes. Oncoming cars provide strong challenges. Suicide material. The road through the Gorges de Guiers Morts is much better, freshly repaved. Right before St Laurent du Pont at the end of the gorge is a sharp turnoff to the left, where the forest road to the Col de la Charmette starts. 700 meters of climbing over 10km shouldn’t be too challenging, but then it’s not only the average pitch that makes climbing hard. I had no idea what kind of epic I was in for.
While the noise from the main road was still fading away, the surface of the forest road already had. The climb was much steeper than the average seven percent, and I was left with ample time to contemplate the science of pot holes. It seems there are an infinite number of holes that can fill one square meter of road. Further up I added archeology to my studies. At least three layers of tarmac were visible on top of one another and sometimes next to each other. Some prehistoric Chartreusians must have built this road when no one was imagining cars. From there, more blacktop was added in fits and starts over the years. My bike was hopping over the bumpy surface like a horse in a military event. I had long stopped trying to avoid the holes. My goal, more sensible for sure, had become to navigate them sustaining as little damage as possible. With the state of roads here in general, and this pathetic example in particular, I’m really amazed I haven’t got a flat yet. 110psi in the tires is none too gentle to my backside, but it beats walking home after the second flat any day of the week.
After four kilometers of climbing the monastery of the Sisters of Notre Dame de Chartreuse rewarded me with a smooth surface and a very manageable gradient. Both lasted for half a kilometer, after which the gradient picked up again whereas the road surface simply disappeared. I was riding through gravel, over remaining bumps of tarmac and between rocks. Where the hell was my mountain bike?
Then came the tunnels, five of them, crudely carved into the rock before the advent of power tools. The fourth is about 200m long and completely dark. After ten meters, I saw nothing but a tiny bright circle in the distance that marked the end. I was going slowly, it was still steep, and I was hoping I wouldn’t hit a rock and fall off my bike, or fall into a hole. I didn’t see a thing. Riding completely blind, with no idea of pitch nor sense of surrondings or what was below me was one of my weirdest road biking experiences ever.
When I thought I had reached the top, after the gradient had leveled off anew and I was giving my big chain ring a workout for a change, the mountain hit back with a vengeance. The last kilometer and a half must have been quite a bit above 10%. It was a fight that I nearly lost. Nearly, but not quite. From the top at 1262m, it’s 20km back to my apartment, all downhill.
I’m taking another sip from this concoction the French call beer. It’s very similar to what Utahns called beer. Not only does it taste foul, it also leaves an offensive aftertaste in your mouth. To top it off, it has 4.2% alcohol, just like in
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