Yesterday I woke up at 7am in Albertville, France and took three, well actually four, trains back to Florence. I left Jon with the rental car so he could do a crazy bike race today. For the two days prior we had been chasing a completely different bike race, this one you may have heard of.
The full story starting from where I left you all last week. Sunday night we got to have a precious evening with Axel. He met us at the Theater Odeon and we all watched Thor, with Italian subtitles. The movie was very funny, my favorite kind of action movie. The whole theater would erupt with laughter prior to the line being spoken, because of the subtitles. We found ourselves in the second wave of laughter most of the time.
The fam at the Odeon.
Monday morning Jon and I rented a Fiat Panda and drove to a town near Lake Garda called Rovereto. Jon wanted to do a hill climb touted as the hardest road cycling climb in the world. We got to Rovereto in time to work. At lunchtime, aka dinner, aka 7:30pm (I am working on US hours here) I did get a chance to walk around the town. It was a chill village with people chatting and drinking in the square, the kind of place I could see myself settling down one day.
Jon and the Fiat Panda.
I love how these buildings go right over the narrow streets.
Piazza on the way to pizza.
Jon woke up early Tuesday to climb the hill (it had grades of 40%!!!) while I checked us out of the AirBnB and drove to the finish of his ride to meet him. He really wanted to get King of the Mountains on the climb but he missed it by two places. Maybe if his legs were not stale, he said.
A screenshot of his Scanuppia bid. Note the elevation gain is not in "freedom units" as Jon likes to say. That is 4600 feet of climbing taking place in just four miles.
Here is a photo of the climb I found on the Internet, for reference.
After I picked up Jon we set off for the French Alps, aiming for the Tour de France, Stages 11 and 12. The drive was scary for me. Something about the big trucks and the teeny tiny car. I am a wimp when it comes to driving. Things to take my mind off it were: many castles in varying states of grandeur, shocking ads for Austrian brothels emblazoned on the backs of trucks, sweeping views of the Dolomites and the French Alps (which are apparently the same range), and deciding if we were "Auto Grille" people or "Chef Express" people over the course of several roadside stops. The answer was Auto Grille.
Sweeping Dolomite view, with castle.
Sweeping French Alps view.
Six hours, numerous tunnels, and nearly 100 euros of tolls later we were in the little village of Lacets de Montvernier. Somehow we managed to score a last minute AirBnB that, for two nights, cost less than the tolls to get there. And it was literally on the race course at the foot of the Category 2 Tour de France climb! The catch was we were staying in a windowless stuffy basement, but for the locale and price it was worth it.
The foot of the climb, steps from our place.
At my "lunchtime" from work I walked up the climb. Here you can see TDF staff have put up colored flagging and fans have painted the roadway with the names of their favorites.
I took this photo from the driveway of our place, you can see how the road switches back impressively, 18 hairpin corners in all. Lacets is French for laces. I presume the climb is called lacets because it looks like shoes laces (or corset laces, oh la la).
Here is the Strava recording of my walk up the laces, complete with detour at the top to the chapel.
Little chapel at the top
Selfie on the grounds of the chapel.
The next morning we plotted our race watching, which, with the TDF, there are two components. One, watching the caravan and two, watching the racers. The caravan did not go up the laces, and actually no one was even allowed to stand on the laces, too dangerous. So we walked on down the street to the road on which the caravan was bypassing.
The thing about the caravan that I did not understand was the free stuff; they throw stuff to you from the caravan. I was so excited to see the yellow jersey float come by that I did not notice it was led out by cars that were tossing out yellow hats. One landed at my feet and the man next to me snapped it up before I knew it.
Me, watching the yellow jersey float as the man next to me dons the hat I was too distracted to grab.
We did get some stuff- sausages, cereal, candy, and French agricultural postcards with pigs and goats on them. The remote, glasses, and other coffee table detritus were not included in the caravan haul.
Regrouping after the caravan came through, we hung out in the basement and watched the live race on our TV. We could tell the race was getting close, both by the kilometers to go on the TV and by the sound of helicopters approaching!
The riders about to go up the laces. Mom took a selfie of the race paused with Jon and I on the screen. Jon is in the pink shirt on the right and I am behind a bush on the left.
The next day we checked out of the basement and Jon went off to climb the Col du Galibier. He spectated Stage 12 from there and I watched from the foot of the more accessible Col de la Croix de Fer.
Having checked out of the basement, I had nowhere to go. It was just me and Fiat Panda at loose ends, and because July 14 is Bastille Day lots of stuff was closed. Eventually I found myself at a McDonalds, where I could work and sample items I had never seen on a McDonalds menu before.
This is, clockwise from top left, a cup of cold water, a Viennese Espresso, a packet of sauce made from crème fraiche, a wrap of fried goat cheese, and some funny looking fries. Vive le difference.
The is the cheese case at the local grocer. I have found my people.
After chilling at the McDonalds it was time to go take another crack at caravan watching. This authentic Frenchman had a quality wool beret, a leather wrapped cow bell, and a bright red umbrella. He was so clever, as he would extend the inverted umbrella toward the parading vehicles and the people tossing out the goods would aim for his umbrella. This was not his first caravan.
Despite being uphill from the yellow jersey of caravan attendees, I managed to get more stuff than the day before. Cork Cofidis coasters, more cereal, more candy, laundry detergent, team Arkéa–Samsic trading cards (also stickers), a shopping bag, and a lucky FDJ keyring.
After the caravan, the riders came through. I had goosebumps as the tour thundered past; it is quite the spectacle. Jon was following them back down off the Galibier and eventually made his way to me. From there we drove to Albertville, where I would catch a train back to Axel and Jon would stay one more day in order to race in the Tour de Mont Blanc.
Me, 7am, Albertville train station. The vending machine cappuccino was 9/10.
Jon's bike race. Take a moment to consider these numbers. Note the 8000 units of climbing- that is not in feet it is in meters. He is an animal. He is my hero.
Jon got ninth on the day and reported that he was "too cracked to understand" any of the French the people around him were speaking. He also said "Je suis faim" and reported a strange but delicious menu of couscous and oranges, mozzarella and tomatoes with tarragon, and some kind of crab meat pasta. He is driving all the way back to Florence and I will buzz him in at 1am.
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