Route des Grandes Alpes… kinda – Originally Published Marseille, June 2021

So here I am. Starting to dry out now after the downpour, changing into t-shirt three of the day. I’m sitting side saddle on the bike eating some nuts. Two marmots are looking at me, motionless except for their whiskers, what might be bewilderment on their faces. The three of us are the only visible life around. This is col d’Allos, one of the awe inspiring mountain passes that snake through the French Alps. It’s my first mountain pass. And it’s closed. A single route barrée sign challenges me. Do I chance it? What could possibly lie ahead? It’s a two hour ride back the way I came, and longer still from there to the next pass. From the north-west menacing grey clouds envelope the snowy slopes on the other side of the valley. Perched up here at an altitude of 2,200 meters, I do not have to look up to face the approaching storm. I watch it smother the mountain and seep down into the valley. My better sense takes hold. I turn for one last look at my marmot friends but they have already vanished. Helmet on, rev up, and back down the pass.  

Six o’clock. To the east a beautiful evening, to the west a heavy expanse of grey. Anxious glances in my mirror. I see it reach the deserted ski-village at the bottom of the pass. The wind starts picks up. Kicking into fifth gear as the road straightens out, I fly back through the town of Allos that gives its name to the col. It’s quiet, the summer tourism obviously reliant on the opening of the pass. Twenty minutes later and still just ahead of the seething mass, I stop at the entrance of Colmars. There’s no way I can sustain this. I must either find a place here to stay the night, or resign myself to a wet, windy ride back through the valley to Saint Andre les Alpes. A quick google yields no affordable places in the vicinity. Saint Andre it is.  

The start of Col des Champs to the right of the statue 

A sigh of resignation to my soon to be soaked and miserable fate, I start up the BMW and turn to check the coast is clear before rejoining the road. And there it is. Right behind me the whole time, hidden in plain sight, the answer to my prayers. Not the statue of a rather religious looking man, but the gravel road over which he keeps vigil. And the sign I couldn’t believe I missed: Col des Champs – Ouvert. Doubting my eyes, I sweep the water off my map and locate myself. Yes, it is real. A single thin line camouflaged against the mountain colour twisting over the ridge and into the neighbouring valley. That would easily save me two hours. My eyes swivel from road to storm to road. A rush of excitement, and away.  

The first drops of rain fall on my visor, unwelcome emissaries from natures unstoppable hoard. It had arrived. The wind blows against my back for fifty meters, a hairpin turn, and it blows against my face. Fifty meters later, repeat. At least the gravel had given way to tarmac, and suddenly surrounded by forest there was some shelter to be had. It’s growing dark. Elevation brings with it a steady decline in temperature. Rising above the forest now, the rain was gaining momentum. It crackles upon the plastic of my helmet and tank bag. Higher and higher, but impossible to judge exactly how high against a sea of grey below. Dodging patches of snow and gravel I was glad I had heeded the route barrée sign at the top of the last pass. Not a single soul to be seen. Through occasional gaps in the ridge of rocks and ice that had been relegated to the edge of the road when bulldozers had forced the snow to give up the tarmac, I caught glimpses of the sheer drop below. A rush of adrenalin. The brilliance of it all. I power the bike towards the summit. Together we round a turn and suddenly the wind and rain cease. We had done it. The other side.  

As though transported into another reality, we descend into the valley. The sun had set behind us and sky ahead was a calm blue. All was still except for a herd of goats, their bells clonking dryly to the movement of their heads. I pause to let my surroundings sink in. Down in the valley a river cuts its path, visibly strong but too distant to be heard. Around me the pines sway with ease, and beneath me the twin cylinders of the BMW chug away unperturbed. But the mountains wouldn’t contain the storm for long, I must press on. The road here is gentle and smooth, and the cool evening is intoxicating. 

The smells are rich and full, the mountainside a chatter of birdsong. A deer leaps across the road – too close. Wake up Ferdia. The days riding was catching up now, and the exhilaration of outrunning the storm over the mountain pass was wearing off. This is where mistakes are too easy to make. But finally rejoining a road, and passing through a deserted Saint-Martin-d’Entraunes, I see a sign for a campsite. Five minutes later, as the first dregs of grey cloud appear over the peeks, I am setting up the tent. A young guy comes over, another biker, and offers me a drink. Plus tard, I promise him gratefully. Bundling everything into the tent, the first drops begin to fall. Good timing.  

It rains. Inside the tent I asses the sleeping situation: half the sleeping bag is wet but no problem, the dry half will serve as welcome bedding. I lay out my clothes, dry to be used as a blanket, wet to be draped over my helmet and boots. Maybe they’ll dry out a little by the morning. I am hungry now and wolf down some nuts and a cereal bar before emerging into the rain in search of an Africa Twin and a drink. I spend an enjoyable evening with this young French couple, sharing pictures of our adventures and welcoming the warmth of the rum. The company is a comfort, and I bid goodnight feeling content. Back in the tent I pray the tiredness and rum will take hold before the chills set in. Punching my tank bag into a surprisingly comfortable pillow and pulling my bike jacket over me, I push away any thoughts of yearning for home, warmth, and my bed. This is what we came for.  

I awake with the dawn and listen to the sounds of the valley. The river gushes, the birds sing, and fat heavy waterdrops plop from the tress onto the wet grass. Six o’clock. Outside the sky is clear, the air is cool. Although the sun has risen, down here in the north-south valley all lies in the shadow of the mountains. I start to pack up, today putting the sleeping bag inside one of the paniers, protected from the elements. Experience or common sense, either way I am kicking myself for not having thought of it sooner. I strap up my dangly indicator, pull on my wet leathers and boots, and shatter the silence igniting the dual cylinders. She starts up without complaint, and we speed off in search of coffee.  

In Entraunes coffee is found in a bar. There are some bikers inside and we talk while the coffee is being made. One advises me to be careful with the weather, it can change rapidly in the mountains. Who’d have thought? But the morning had brought blue alpine skies and warm June sun. I could feel my gear drying as I rode to the end of the valley and began the  

climb of Col de la Cayolle. The road belonged to those of us on two wheels, cars were very few. Cyclists and bikers have one thing in common – when it rains, we get wet. It’s amazing how that alone is cause for comradery up here in the peaks, and we salute one another as we pass in equal delight of the day that had dawned. The high green pastures are divided by a fast flowing stream that grows in ferocity with the descent before cascading off a cliff face in a magnificent waterfall towards the valley below. Some marmots watch the road, ducking every time a motorbike or cyclist pass their outpost.  

I stop in Barcelonnette to stock up on food before pressing on north-east to the second pass of the day, Col de Vars. At the bottom of the pass the fuel light blinks. Fantastic. Once again I pull out google to locate the nearest petrol station: Barcelonnette. But halfway through the pass lies the town and ski resort of Vars, and a little outside of that I see a self-service filling station. A mere 26 kilometers away. But 26 kilometers of mountain pass, climbing to an altitude of 2,100 meters. Pinning my hopes on the help of fellow bikers should I run dry, I decide to ascend the pass. Easy on the throttle, keeping revs low, the BMW tiptoes up the mountainside. She feels light, sounds thirsty, but never stutters. The lush pastures give way to snowy plains which fall away from the road before rising steeply into towering grey massifs. From the summit I see Vars in the valley, a clear straight road lies before me. Kicking into neutral I let gravity pull me towards the village, the rush of the wind drowning the ticking of the idling engine. Finally, I see the petrol station ahead of me, the holy grail, and not a moment too soon. Five minutes and a full tank later, a very happy BMW flies down into the valley singing in contentment.  

A fortress catches my eye from the road and I make a quick detour. Mont-Dauphin, an impressive 18th century fortress built upon a high plateau overlooking the entire valley. Cliffs support imposing stone walls which shelter a picturesque garrison town. So much history to explore and revel in, but no time. With a groan I pull on my helmet and try not to look back as I rejoin the main road towards Briançon, the highest town in France. The last pass of the day lies just behind: Col du Galibier, the highest yet. The road to the pass hugs the foot of the mountains, and rises with them when the valley floor tumbles away. Suddenly a barrage of chopping, a whoosh of air, and then sweeping down from above and behind in a blur of red and white a rescue helicopter disappears below the road. Around the next corner a host of police cars and ambulances are parked, some police stand by the side of the road watching two jeeps pick their way down the steep valley. An unfortunate hiker perhaps? I reach the opposing side of the valley and stop to watch the helicopter ascend from this unusual perspective, a couple hundred meters above the action. But it doesn’t take off so I leave to tackle the last pass of the day.  

The highest point of Galibier is 2,642 meters above sea level. At this height, level with the peaks, the Alps spread out into the distance, east into Italy, north towards Switzerland. They rise majestically, seemingly infinitely skyward as far as the eye can see. It is an awesome sight to behold, almost otherworldly. As is riding through chiseled canyons of snow, walls of ice looming two to three meters high on either side of the narrow road. A cyclist passes, hand outstretched to touch the structure as he pedals. Shavings of ice fall from his fingers. I stop and turn off the engine in one of these snow tunnels. A sliver of pale blue sky above, and all around white. There is complete silence. Until another motorbike rounds the corner. A wave and he’s off, and the silence is restored. When the road rises above the snow drifts I am in a world of white. The road cuts a solitary black line through the monochrome, and I follow it, barely able to keep my eyes straight ahead. Two weeks previously heavy snow fell in the region, throwing into question the opening of the pass for the beginning of June. But the army of monstrous bulldozers, some of which are still by the roadside just in case, cleared the pass in a single week. Two hundred meters a day per machine. Stressful work I’m sure when you rely on photographs and the feeling of stability or sinking to determine where the road lies beneath the thick duvet of fresh snow. What a wonderful time to witness the majesty of it all, before the snows melt and the passes become clogged with cars and busses. For now however it is mine, a place where eagles dare… or motorbikes… or cyclists. Nevertheless, the soundtrack is fitting. 

An hour after descending the pass I am setting up camp in Aussois. I hang the clothes still wet from yesterday to dry in the evening sun. I am surrounded by snowy peeks, but the air is warm. I unroll my dry sleeping bag in the tent, looking forward to a dry night and some solid sleep as I begin to open a bottle of sparkling wine, a regional specialty. Life is good. BANG. The cork explodes from the bottle, a gushing of wine erupts from the neck spraying the sticky, sour smelling liquid all over the tent, my clothes, but worst of all, my sleeping bag. I pour a bottle of water on it to wash the wine out, but the sun is setting behind the mountains as I hang the soaked material over the bike. The air is rapidly becoming colder without it’s warming light. Inside the camping services I find a washing room, complete with dryers, but it’s nine o’clock and the reception which provides the tokens is closed. But the drying room is warm, so I hang the bag there. Inhaling deeply, pressing my face into the wet, I blow. For thirty minutes. Until high from too much oxygen, I emerge into the night to recuperate.  

The campsite is quiet now, so I decide to snoop around. The service building is a block with four floors: showers, washing, and bathrooms occupy the first three. To my amazement, the fourth floor is a recreational area. There are couches and a TV, some elderly men are watching a match. It’s warm here. I sit down on one of the couches. Comfy. Very comfy actually, almost mattress comfy. Above I notice a little loft, with banisters almost reaching the roof. I search for the stairs, it’s a narrow spiral affair tucked away in the heart of the building. I don’t need an invitation. I return to blowing dry the sleeping bag while the men finish their match. They leave and the lights go out. Five minutes later I have stripped a couch and am settling into my hidden bed in the loft. The sleeping bag is dry. Its warm, and I’ve found a plug to charge my phone and camera. Let it never be said that wine is not the answer to life’s problems. Even if it’s also the cause. That’s probably not sound advice, so heed at your own risk. Anyway, I nod off comfy and warm, a drastic improvement on the previous night.  

Morning breaks, but I don’t stir. At seven thirty I hear someone come in, walk around below, and leave again. Time to get up. Returning everything to its prior state, I leave the building and take the morning air. Another glorious day in the Alps. I take my time disassembling the tent and preparing the bike. No need to rush, today will be easy going. In my despair at the prospect of another cold, sleepless night upon the emergence of a spontaneous wine fountain in my tent, I had booked an Ibis hotel close to Geneva to conclude the three days riding. Now I felt energised and rested; I didnt need a hotel, but I also wouldn’t complain if yesterday Ferdia had already booked it, which he had, so there it is. A day of thrilling riding lay ahead, followed by a night of the finest Ibis Budget luxury – what more could you want? 

Coffee in Aussois and sights set on the first pass of the day: Col de l’Iseran. This is the highest mountain pass in all the Alps, and is evidently usually tourist infested. At the top, at an altitude of 2,770 meters, a carpark and restaurant prepare for the onslaught. Once again I am thankful for my timing. Only a couple of motorbikes and cyclists pose for pictures next to the iconic sign. Some leave stickers on the back, but as of yet unOrdinaryWorld is stickerless, so I left the next best thing:  

Maybe it’ll start a new trend – who knows. By now the mountains are becoming a familiar sight, the constant hairpins losing their novelty. The cold was invading through my light summer gear, so after a quick look around I begin the descent. Once more through the snow tunnels, over miniature white prairies, past blinding blue alpine lakes. It’s not that I’m becoming bored, or losing perspective of where I am or what I am doing. Not at all. But we are quick to adapt to new experiences and environments, perhaps sometimes too quick. No longer was every jagged peak met with a “wooowwww”, every tight hairpin met with wide open eyes. The excitement of seeing snow deeper and more expansive than I’ve ever seen in my life had given way to a feeling of normality. Of course there’s snow, you’re in the Alps. And there it is. You’re in the Alps. On a beautiful motorbike. This was not boredom, this was pure contentment. The jittery excitement, the incessant need to photograph everything had been superseded by a simple smile. A calmness came upon me. My breathing came deep and natural like every corner, every apex met with ease. As the barrenness becomes forest, and the forest becomes meadow, I feel the energy of new summer life renewing my mind. A certain clarity is revealed. A Triumph Bonneville passes with a wave. The fields are a chaos of colour. A crystal clear river bubbles past a ruined stone house. I know why I needed to come here. The transience is impossible to ignore. Life here is vigorous, purposeful. It’s on a timer. Summer brings a brief respite from the cold and snow lurking omnipresent on the peeks above. How many of these creatures and plants live for but a single season? To fulfill one purpose? And how can you not be affected by this as you witness it all happening for one brief instant before disappearing over the hill on your motorbike? You see it all, you feel it all, and you realise we truly are the lucky ones. The heat of the sun on your black leggings. The chill of the cold as you stand surrounded by snow and ice at the top of the world. The inescapable and penetrating wetness when it rains. The warm scented air blowing on your face. And all around life. The road is empty, I am the only one here and I cant help but wonder if it was to stay empty forever, what difference would it make?  

And so pondering the nature of life and death and human experience I find myself on the final pass. Col des Saisies, after l’Iseran and Galibier has a tough act to follow. But being one of the lesser passes, and it being the off season, the road was practically deserted. Two red Vespa’s struggled past in the opposite direction – they didn’t return my wave. Perhaps you don’t find your place in the universe if you ride a Vespa. By now a strange feeling had set in, I think the constant changes in altitude were getting to me. Slightly dizzy and tired, I welcomed the return of the main road towards Sallanches. I had planned to visit Chamonix, but feeling strangely fatigued I decided to make towards my awaiting bed and a shower.  

Exhausted, I arrived in Sallanches and found the Ibis hotel. A long hot shower, hot food, and the hilarity of seeing a Guinness for €10 made for easy sleeping. Sunday morning arrived, as did the usual desperate need for coffee. Another glorious day. Mont Blanc is indeed white, a vicious mirror glowing blindingly in the morning sun. The lady at the reception makes me coffee seeing my desperation, and upon learning I am Irish treats me to a presentation on all the reasons why she loves my country. Coffee made she winks and waves me off without payment, her present to me for being Irish she says. I am a brief one hour ride from Geneva, but whether I can enter Switzerland is uncertain. Without a Covid test, European borders are technically impassable, although these days this is more a technicality than a reality. What worried me was the Biden-Putin meeting occurring in the city in three days time. Of course they’d want to meet for a coffee in Geneva, who wouldn’t?  

But the day started so well that I was sure it would also end well. The border was open. I entered Switzerland, my first land border crossing since pre-Covid times. It would seem things are finally getting better. It was hot. Very hot. Thirty degrees feels like fifty when walking in bike gear. I found a place to park on a quiet street and changed into my tracksuit. Definitely underdressed for this city’s standards but better than slowing boiling like a lobster in its shell. I stroll around, have an ice-cream, snooze on a bench. At six o’clock my aunt finishes work and it’s time for beers by the lake. We watch the sun sink behind the mountains to the west and the fountain erupts, shooting spray into the sweltering city. It was the perfect end to the trip. Tomorrow I would speed back to Marseille – an uninteresting ride, motorway all the way, but only five hours drive. Anyway, that’s tomorrow.