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”
The courtyard of Hôtel Le Mosaïque promised a warm sunny day, but having exited the sheltered streets of Narbonne I was greeted by a strong cold wind against my side Accessible by a rough dirt track, or had I known of it, a road from the far side, three windmills sit on the ridge separating me from Nissan-lez-Enserune. That hardly a breeze blew up there felt something of a slight given the structures at hand and the cold sweeping through the valley below. Like windmills on a ridge, a medieval castle in the middle of a town warrants investigation. Visible over the tremendous ramparts, a handful of new windows have been installed on the top floor. Lights are lit within. There is no name, nor historical record, on any of its four sides, just a simple “PROPRIÉTÉ PRIVEE”. Above the roofline, a canon points over the village. Emerging from a patch of forest, a man stands smiling, eyes my panniers, and watches me pass. On my right: A fifteen foot tall fresco on the side of a barn depicts a woman and her cat.
Olive trees, cypress, almond blossoms and vineyards. I grabbed a handful of rosemary to enjoy the scent. A woman walked along the road with a handful of wild asparagus. I paused in Tautavel, near the bottom of the gorge for a coffee. I didn’t need the caffeine, but the cafe is lively and I could savor the morning a bit longer. The gorge is cold, but the sun here is warm Sunday is no day to arrive early to a French city. I spied a small road warning large vehicles to steer clear. My small vehicle would be fine. I’d gain 10km and the Col du Canteloup. Below, in the vineyards, the boar hunters in their orange vests and caps. They wave, I wish them “Bon chance!”. The Garmin will ensure I’m not lost, but I can turn off the screen and pretend. Approaching Narbonne, the village of Bages perches on a hill, small boats dragged ashore below, and just out of reach of my lens: Pink flamingos.
So yeah, I’m relocating from Instagram. It was all bike stuff over there anyway… I departed late this morning having visited the market for fruit, and a chicken thigh to pair with the chunk of bread my host had packaged as fortification. She also supplied a bit of sour jam made from the bright yellow Mimosa trees that dot the hillside, and are indeed related to acacia Cars, bikes, and medieval, are the bridge options for leaving Ceret. I chose the medieval bridge as it would take me under the bicycle bridge and into the hills. The snowy peaks would loom around every corner of the day. Three cols before lunch, though 2 unmarked as the dirt road passes are rarely signed. The road down from Col de Puig is steep, rocky and rutted as it ducks in and out of the forest. But it’s also quiet. It’s just me and the boar hunters out here today. I paused for lunch in the park at Montauriol. Unwrapping my still warm chicken made me exceptionally popular with the band of feral cats that had taken up residence behind the mairie. Another dirt spur took me through Col de La Roca, not far from Castelnou, one of France’s many “plus beaux villages”. And beaux it was, but as I’d neglected to change shoes, I chose not to wander too far up its steep, cobbled and cleat incompatible lanes.
