It’s hard to avoid Ventoux. The snow cap and observatory loom around each corner and tower over every gorge. This ride was something of a mission to claim mountain passes. Eleven in all, eight novel, one passed twice, using unique roads.
Something to get done in Bedòin derailed previous plans, but still got in a ride past La Roque Alric, a tiny village built into the side of a rocky outcrop like a stony island in the sky.
I can not reason why we waited so long to ride this route. I suppose for the best weather day? 70F+ in the gorge most of the day with a cool breeze. The landscape is typically Provence in places, and dense forest in others. A short section of road was being navigated by several large trains of caterpillars The entirety of the gorge is largely traffic free, owing to the the narrow roads and the holes bored through the rock bearing signs shooing away vehicles exceeding 2.7 meters.
These two minor cols wrap up my Cent Cols, or one hundred unique mountain passes. A few days ago I ran my relevant ride history through the Cent Cols tracker (https://www.centcols.org/membres/cols/tracecols.php), which returned ninety eight of one hundred. I'd been under the weather lately, but wanted to finish that off, so we found the two closest, both unfortunately unsigned, and rode them. Stats breakdown - 41 new cols since January 1 2025 - 21 ridden on the 2024 tour - 7 during the Colorado High Country 1000k pre-ride - 17 leading up to PBP 2023 - 14 others across other random rides - 21 over 2000 meters, 17 of those in Colorado. It helps when most rides start at nearly that.
There’s a road rally this weekend and the hills are a buzz with the burble of race cars. I need to sort out which roads will be closed and route around them. Several new cols and a view of Mont Ventoux. Col de la Madeleine was unsigned, some maps also have Col des Astauds and Col des Gainons on the return to Malaucène.
Into the hills north of Caromb. Through vineyards and villages. Past a fluffy white cat annoyed that I interrupted their mouse murder time. Clouds played ball, even a bit of sun shown through.
Not a day for dirt lanes or twisty mountain switchbacks. Knowing the weather forecast, I wasn’t totally sure we’d be riding at all. The randonneur’s paradox at work. After rendezvousing with Jenn in Aix, we still need to make it to Carpentras. A “sleepy little agricultural village”, Carpentras serves as home until the end of March. The streets out of Aix were wet from the over night rain, and a drizzle set in almost as soon as we departed. Aix is more of a Saturday night city than a Sunday morning one, so while the grades out of town were steep, the roads were quiet all the way to Carpentras. Though that drizzle accompanied us most of the way
Intending to watch the morning mist rise over the hills, I plopped down with a bad coffee outside the Cafe de la Poste in Robion. Instead I arrived just in time for the morning dew to settle, wetting everything within reach. Tracing a quiet route along the base of the mountains and up the canyon I reached Col du Pointu, greeted by a frigid wind. Despite every attempt to divert in search of the morning’s shelter, it would vex me the remainder of the day. Jenn had mentioned traffic into Aix was unpleasant, so I did my best to choose small roads, double tracks and, as I approached the city, neighborhoods. Coming across a wide, smooth, quiet road through the hills outside town I passed one, another and a third cycling peloton, all with team car in tow. A yellow sign indicated this road would be used for a race tomorrow.
After a full day in Uzes, and preparing to leave this morning, the hotelier notes I’ve neglected to fill my water. She collects my bottles and returns with them full, along with a paper sack containing four small oranges and a variety of dried fruit and nuts. A nice surprise, and a fine lunch paired with a sandwich, which I fetch before leaving town. A benefit to bicycle travel is sights that are only accessible to most parties for some of the day. When I arrived at the Pont du Gard, an impressive first century Roman aqueduct, there was no one. When I left, there was no one. A busy road lay ahead, but to my left, a dirt double track with a small sign bearing the name of a village I’d need to pass through. The road climbed steeper than predicted, but through the air, the smell of thyme, sage, and moments of withered lavender’s cinnamon sweetness. Though the only purple flower to be found was the rare wild orchid. At the top of the climb, hunting platforms, but no hunters today. Stopped for a moment I hear the jingle of hound bells, then barking, and two shots. I decide to move along. In the valley below, a rustle in a clearing under an oak tree, I’ve startled a family of boar By lunch I had reached the river Rhône. Unwrapping the sandwich, I sat watching cormorants gather in a tree, a behavior in which I’d never known them to engage. While not a handsome bird, I’ve grown found of their eccentricities, and enjoyed seeing them sun their wings along the canals of Phoenix. Though on a grey day like this, they aren’t having much luck at that.
To the Roman engineer in charge of these things: I must insist you return and fix your bridge. It has fallen into disrepair and is ill suited for bicycles. Further, the track approaching it is muddy and my shoes are quite slippery. Aside from the “pont romaine”, the route was well considered. Concerns of traffic along the D4, through the Gorge Hérault, were unfounded. The gorge, and the medieval village of St Guilhem le Désert, were empty. I encountered perhaps a dozen cars in my first forty kilometers. Concerns of the weather, from my advisors, were also unfounded. A cyclist warned of the wicked winds of Hérault, and the baker said it looked like rain. Weather forecasts are the randonneur’s paradox. We want to see them, such that we prepare appropriately. But looking risks not liking what we see, and dissuading us from starting altogether. Not an option today anyhow. I allotted two hours to “café time”, a category that encompasses cafes, photography, and sitting on stone walls contemplating other stone walls. I had one hundred and twenty five kilometers to cover and, depending on one’s perspective, squandered or deeply appreciated half of it within the first twenty kilometers. The Col de La Cardonille was reached along the only busy road of the day Lunch, the plat du jour requested sight unseen, was a rich, sweet crock of stewed beef, mushrooms, confit onions, and fried lardons. At my request the proprietor noted down the name as “Carbonade Flamande”
