Stage Thirteen

The bike decorations on the Massif Central reflected the isolation of this relatively uninhabited and undeveloped region of France, the bikes old and rusted and the even the flags from eras ago. The roads through this thickly forested, mountainous region were narrow and rough and untrafficked.  I was having a fine ride, though it was hard to predict when I could reach a town with a bar, because most towns were too small for such a thing, and all the climbing was slowing me considerably.  

At least I had the yellow markers to once again guide me as I was now just one stage ahead of the peloton rather than two.  Camping vans were once again parked along the road and a few other cyclists, though none with panniers, were also riding the route.  I had joined up with the stage route after my detour to Barjac late in the morning too late to cross paths with any of the supported groups who ride the route a day ahead of the peloton, as they leave very early in the morning in their attempt to ride the entirety of each stage.

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I was hoping to encounter a group of women called Tour de Pants, because The Tour is a men’s only event.  I’ll have no chance to see them tomorrow, as I ended the day forty miles from the Stage Fifteen start in Millau.  With luck I’ll reach Carcsssone and the Rest  Day by Sunday night.  If I get a ways down the route Sunday night and get  an early start Monday morning on Stage Sixteen, I ought to see who all has been riding The Tour besides me and Skippy.  So far I’ve seen none.

A six-mile Category Two climb had me worried about making it to Florac in time for the end of today’s stage.  It was twenty miles from the summit to Florac, which I hoped was all downhill.  After the climb I passed through the small tourist town of Le Pont-de-Montvert.  There were clusters of cyclists hanging out in the shade of the plane trees through the town above the river that had carved out this gorge.  Along one stretch were a couple of outdoor cafes.  I could see The Tour on a large screen in one of them.  I checked to see that there were 57 kilometers left in the stage and the break had just a 54 second advantage on the peloton.  

It appeared to be the anticipated uneventful flat recovery stage for the peloton after three hard days  in the Alps.  Not much would happen in the next hour until the sprint, and with all the top sprinters out of The Race, it wasn’t must viewing, as Sagan would no doubt gain his third stage win against the remaining pretenders. It would be a pleasure and sit and watch the peloton riding roads I had ridden two days before, but tie was becoming precious if I wished to accomplishnall I wished.  So I risked riding the thirteen miles to Floric hoping to make it in time to watch the final few minutes of the stage.  After an initial climb out of the town, the road turned downhill.  If it continued, as it looked it would following a river, I would arrive in Floric with ample time.  

And I would have if I hadn’t been hit by a sudden downpour that came out of nowhere after I was within nine miles of my destination.  The road was a sudden river of water.  I had to squeeze my brakes hard to keep my speed to six miles per hour.  I feared going much faster and gaining more speed than my brakes could handle on the drenched steep road.  The road was steep enough that I had to at times unclip my left shoe and use it to stomp on the road to control my speed. A great descent was being ruined.  The rain wasn’t letting up and my sprint-viewing was history.  I was just glad this hadn’t happened any of the previous three days, though with them I had made allowances to see the final two hours of action.

I hadn’t passed a supermarket all day, so was happy when I saw a Carrefour on the outskirts of Florac.  It was still pouring down rain.  A handful of people were clustered inside its entrance, including a guy on a motorcycle and a couple of backpackers.  After I bought my food I stood with them waiting for the rain to abate.  A woman pulled up in a car and asked me if I was the one who called.  It was the backpackers who had contacted her for a place to stay for the night.  It had been raining for better than an hour. It had to stop.  

The sky was lightening, though one could not be certain what storms more might be lurking behind the mountain ridges in all directions.  As the rain dwindled I made a dash for the tourist office a few blocks away, arriving just before it closed at six.  The attendant couldn’t tell me who had won the day’s stage, but I could use it’s WiFi to find out.  Unfortunately I couldn’t sit in the warmth of the tourist office, so put on my sweater while I sat outside.  No surprise at The Tour other than the news that Sagan revealed that he was in the midst of a divorce, and not from his team, but his wife.

I learned from the tourist office that the rain would abate by eight.  I had to keep riding as I was nearly fifty miles from Millau and the start of Stage Fifteen.  I needed to get an early start on this second demanding stage on the Massif Central, as I couldn’t manage it in one day.  It would be a slight climb out of Florac following a river upstream, so the exertion would keep me warm and the incline wouldn’t necessitate braking.  The rain was a mere drizzle.  I hadn’t had much to eat all day, so I ate some yogurt and cornflakes before resuming my ride.  

When the rain stopped shortly after eight I rode another fifteen minutes to let the wind dry my legs and shorts and rain jacket before finding a place to camp up an unused Jeep trail that led to a row of bee hives.  As I was erecting my tent the rain resumed, though not as hard as it had.  It had been another nine plus hours on the bike, but only an eighty mile day.  I was in position to reach Millau by noon,  several hours after the course markers had been put in place.  I had a good day of riding ahead.