Our tour of France had taken us to several destinations.  We had already been in Tours to see the chateaux in the Loire Valley, Dordogne to see the Lascaux Caves, Arles to see Roman ruins and van Gogh, Avignon to see the seat of the true pope, and Lourdes to get right with God.  Why God wants us to go to a tourist trap is a mystery to me, but it beats being told to sacrifice your son, though the way my son was behaving at times, I was tempted to offer him up. 

Nice on the French Riviera was the latest stop in our tour.  The Riviera is a bit of a cycling Mecca.  Many of the highest paid riders live in Monaco, and many others who aren’t as well paid live in or near Nice.  Because I don’t care much for the beach, and the beach in Nice isn’t actually all that nice, I got a hall pass from the wife to go for a ride, while she went to the beach with the kids.  

Early in the morning before the heat and the traffic set in I hopped on the bus and headed to the harbor to pick up my rental at Cafe du Cycliste.  The goal was Col d’Eze, a 500 meter climb over about 10 km toward the town of Eze.  It’s a road that’s used in the real Tour de France and the Paris-Nice Race (The Race to the Sun) so I could compare myself to the pros.  Once on the Corniche it gives spectacular views of the Mediterranean below.  The first part of the climb leaving town is steep, about a 10% grade, but at some point the grade eases off and views open up.  I felt like James Bond cruising around on a two-wheeled Aston-Martin.  My time up the climb is just a little slower than the pros, but they weren’t stopping to take pictures and admire the view, which I’m sure accounts for the time difference.

I don’t ride that fast even when it’s flat.

After a little downhill I rolled into La Turbie, which is the home of Trophy of the Alps, a Roman monument celebrating their victory over the indigenous Ligurian tribes.  It sounds problematic and probably should be torn down and replaced with a statue of George Floyd or some other hero.  I filled up my water bottle from a public fountain which seemed to attract cyclists like poop attracts flies.  I was literally at a crossroad.  I could turn right and roll back down the Corniche toward Nice, or I could turn left and continue up into the mountains.  As it was still early, my water bottles were full, and I was feeling high on life, I turned left toward the mountains.

Across the Autoroute the climb to Pielle began. The road hugs the cliffs and passes through a series of single lane tunnels.  I probably should have studied the traffic signs to understand who had the right-of-way through those tunnels.  I’m pretty sure I pissed off some drivers by ignoring the signs, but I’m a cyclist and an American.  That’s what we do.  I went from feeling like James Bond to feeling like Otto in a Fish Called Wanda.  The climb to Pielle was 180 meters up from where I crossed the Autoroute, but the gradient was gradual and the scenery was beautiful, so I didn’t even notice the climbing.  While the town is not particularly notable historically, it is picturesque.  


The road back to Nice took me down a series of switchbacks which on the map looked like they would be a lot of fun.  As it turns out, looks were deceiving.  The turns were too sharp, the road was too steep and I couldn’t see around the corners to see if a car was coming the other way so I was always on my brakes.  Now I see why races go up this hill and not down. 


Once down in the valley the riding got easier, and I lollygagged down the road.  All of a sudden some guy on a time trial bike wearing the uniform of a professional cycling team flew past me.  I thought to myself, “Guys who wear team kit are such posers.  And a time trial bike on these roads?  What a maroon.”  A couple seconds later, a car from the same team blew past me.  “Huh, that poser might actually be someone”, I said.  I started pedaling harder to try to catch him.  He slowed down as we rolled into a town, but I didn’t want to get too close behind him.  I didn’t want to be known as the guy who knocked a professional rider off his bike.  That would be tres uncool.  Just past the town he pulled off to the side of the road to wait for the team car.  As I rode by I turned to see who it was.  Holy cow, that’s Nairo Quintana.  Naironman, as he’s known in his native Colombia, was a winner of the Giro d’Italia and La Vuelta a Espana and podium finisher at the Tour de France.  He must have been in town training for the Tour which started in a week.  I can now brag that I passed a Grand Tour winner on my bike.  Sure, he was at a dead stop at the side of the road waiting for someone, but nobody has to know that part.

Naironman trying to catch me.

As I rolled into Nice traffic got heavy.  Navigating by feel I made my way down to Promenade des Anglais which goes along the beach and turned back toward where I began my ride.  Along the way I passed the Monument to the Dead of Rauba-Capeu, which was built to commemorate those from the region who died in WW1.

I returned my bike at the cafe and grabbed a coffee, a croissant and a shower.  I know you’re not supposed to crap where you eat, but I’m unsure of the etiquette about showering where you eat.  Frankly I was a little surprised that they had a shower given that the French don’t bathe, but I figured I’d take advantage of it as I was sweaty and sticky.  

Cleaned and fed, I got on the bus back to our apartment to drop off my stuff and join the family at the beach.  One day I’ll go back to ride more of those roads.

 

Bonus music link.  Bet you can’t guess what it is.