A Transcontinental Architectural Tour As seen through the eyes of #TCRNo6Cap109, aka Manivelle.cc aka Matthieu Lifschitz

Madone beats The Golf-Drouot in the 9th arrondisement in Paris is roughly 1,000km north of the Col de la Madone. One was once a temple of rock 'n roll, the other is perhaps the most famous climb that has never featured in the Tour de France. One man and two passions brings them together. To the beat of the drum. The Golf-Drouout poured fuel on the fire burning inside Michel. He was born in mid-west France but he quickly emigrated north to the capital to find work. Michel had already fallen in love with the music of Elvis and his French counterpart, Johnny Halliday. He found himself selling haute-couture to the rich and famous on the Champs-Elysees. Living beside his work was, well, no bad thing. Reverberating through the floorboards was the music from the Go-Go dancing nightclub below. To the beat of the drum.The Golf-Drouot began its life in 1955 on the Champs-Elysées as a tea-room with a miniature golf club. That’s right. Miniature golf. On the Champs-Elysées. In 1960 the owners realized their gimmick was a bit slow for the Parisian way of life and so they installed a jukebox that held 100 vinyl records. They stocked coke-a-cola and set the age limit for under-18s only. Miniature golf was put in its place. After that, for twenty years, more or less, the Golf-Drouot burned bright. It was to Paris what the Cavern was to Liverpool. David Bowie, Free and The Who all performed on the tiny stage. To the beat of the drum.The Golf-Drouout : 'C’était le temple du Rock and Roll '. The Rolling Stones used it as their press conference site whilst in Paris in 1965. It was Bowie’s first gig outside England. It was the place to be and Michel was in the thick of it. The impression lasts long enough to motivate a 50 minute commute from the Grande Corniche on the outskirts of Nice to 925m above Menton, the Pearl of France that lies at the end of the French Riviera. To the beat of the drum.The Golf-Drouot was a different time and a different place compared to home. Once a week, Michel packs his drums into the back of his car with one intention : to let loose up high without fear of being evicted by his wife. He candidly admits, “Je ne joue pas comme eux, je ne suis pas le batteur des Rolling Stones !' (I can’t play like them , I am not the drummer of the Rolling Stones !”). But what does it matter when your audience is wild boar, the odd shepherd and his flock and a brace of cyclists that occasionally includes a peloton of pros like Chris Froome? To the beat of the drum.The Golf-Drouot was down the street from where Michel's career selling haute couture to the well-heeled started. He found he had a natural talent for it. Being friendly but not too-friendly, helpful but not pushy. After four years in Paris he moved to the Croisette in Cannes where the customers were just as rich and just as famous. The clothes, if good enough, sold themselves, he said. And to be good, they must have colour and vitality. 'We need things that are bright, we are in a country of sunshine'. In a country diverse as France, with places like the Côte 'Azur, in Michel's opinion 'we miss nothing'. Therefore the clothes have to be special and colourful, as good as their surroundings. To the beat of the drum.The Golf-Drouot is closed now but in 2014 the Parisienne authorities erected a plaque in memory of it’s cultural significance. The original, traditional col sign on the Madone isn’t there anymore. The local marie got tired of replacing it every time it was stolen, such was the post-Lance lure of this climb that still, to this day, has never featured in the Tour de France. That doesn’t matter to Michel. He goes to the Tour almost every year, but more as an excuse for a journey across France to ride in the Alps and the Pyrenees. His principle is to have a good time and to ensure others do the same. From time to time, when cyclists stop on the Madone to chat, he gives them a cap from the collection he’s gathered from his trips to the Grande Boucle. To the beat of the drum.The Golf-Drouot started with sport (of kinds) and ended with entertainment. Michel first discovered the Col de la Madone when he rode it. The first time he thought it was never going to end. At the top he found a wild place, a complete contrast to the hustle and bustle of the Croisette, a place he only had to share with the sanglier and the shepherds. Up there Michel mounts his drums, inserts a CD into his stereo and rediscovers the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and Chuck Berry. Nearly at opposite ends of the country, a bit of the Golf-Drouot lives on and will continue to do so for as long as Michel is able. “Je pense jusqu'à la fin de mes jours de monter là-haut et je jouerais de la batterie rien que pour le plaisir.” (I think for the rest of my days i will go up there to play the drums, simply for pleasure) To the beat of the drum.  Footnotes: Photography & Video : Matt Wragg

The garden of Èze They say a Col d’Eze a day keeps the doctor away. The fruits of your labour are borne in the legs and they will take you deep into l’arrière-pays niçois when time permits. A ten kilometer climb straight from the city, it’s used by locals as a training ramp before or after work. Scores of cyclists can be seen staring at their stems – some because they are going for a time, others (who are new to the region) because they underestimated what is a ‘proper’ climb.But look up and you’ll find a not so forbidden fruit. The figs of the Grande Corniche. Actually, they are first noticed on the ground. The premier stage of the hunt is to scope the road edge for a semi-circle of smashed green and purple mulch. Some pre-ripe green figs remain in shape, but not for long.The second stage is to understand your orientation and elevation. The first two kilometres of Col d’Eze face west so only get the sun in the afternoon and early evening. It’s a beautiful view across the city but it’s not the prime spot for fig maturation.You must make the cross-over that comes by looping around the back side of the Observatoire and transition almost instantly from mountain vistas to coastal views as you pass through the Quatre Chemins. Face to the south, the sun rays and sea breeze are your soigneur for the rest of the climb, just as they are for the mother tree that is the fountain of fig on the Grande Corniche.The location of the mother tree is not secret and it is not hidden. It lives somewhere within the final four kilometres of Col d’Eze. Like cyclists, the fig tree likes dry and sunny climates and can cope in amongst the rocks, but isn’t suited to cities because of its aggressive root structure. The mother tree is there to be found but we are not about to tell you where or how. Because you have to ride for your figs.And now is the time. Like the legs, figs ripen in late summer and into autumn. A whole season of sun packed into one juicy punch. A time when main objectives have most probably been ticked off and riding is freeform and fun. So you can pack your figs in your musette and go long, or you can take a seat and savour the moment. Whichever way you want to do it, just go fig.See more about Col d’Eze

The last ride #8 Imagine for a moment that there was only one more A single day, a final chapter, a last ride. Of all the miles covered and all the roads ridden, which would draw you back to experience them one more time?EVENING DELIGHT WITH DADMarshall Opel // Podcaster & Fly Fisherman // @marshallopel It’s just past six p.m. and the breeze pulls at the puffy white seeds from the cottonwood trees along the street. The work day is done and these extended June days mean evening bike rides and barbeques. I’m the first home and get the bikes ready. Air in the tires and a cold lemon drink in our bottles. We clip in and roll down the hill, still relishing in the fact that no extra clothing is required this time of year. A right turn takes us through downtown Whitefish where tourists are starting to fill the bars and restaurants. Pickup trucks pulling boats and families piling out of their minivans, wearing the unmistakable look of relief, they’ve reached their destination. We remark on the annual influx of out of state licence plates that will populate our little town in the coming months. Our route crosses the train tracks and heads north toward the alpine skiing destination of Big Mountain. Aspen trees, and their radiant green leaves flutter in the breeze. Hungry young deer break from devouring the yet to be cut grass to watch us pass. The Lodge on Whitefish Lake is buzzing with activity, a full parking lot signals the weddings and parties to come. Any traffic dissipates as the road follows the north shore. Lake air fills our nostrils, drawing up nostalgia of one form or another in us both. A short rise in the road allows us to stand from our saddles and stretch our legs. The work day fades as the miles tack. The ride undulates along the shoreline. Dappled sunlight and a mellow evening breeze steady the temperature. A rich blue sky has us dreaming about possible weekend adventures in Glacier National Park. We chat and joke, sharing stories about our work day, catching each other up on world events and local news. My dad is past his athletic prime, so we ride his pace, it’s leisurely for my young legs and lungs. Towards the end of the lake road, we slow to examine any new houses being built. Gordon is always one to appreciate interesting architecture and good design. We stop at the end of the road and drink from our bottles. However, the sound of buzzing mosquitoes has me back on my bike in no time. My dad is slower to clip back in. Maybe additional rest is required, but I think it’s him, taking an extra moment to appreciate the setting in its fullest. The pace is slightly faster on the ride back. My dad drafts my wheel and somehow it doesn’t feel long ago that it was the other way around. Me, staring at his rear wheel straining to ride a straight line. I reflect on the multitude of lessons he bestowed on me, the pleasures of relaxed evening exercise remains a cornerstone. Our route brings us back to town where wafts from grills permeate the evening air. We wave at familiar faces and smile at strangers. It’s summer in Montana, a time of plenty, a time of celebration. Our conversation shifts to what belongs on our grill. Burgers, sweet potatoes, salad, and a cold beer on the deck. This is good living and we are lucky to be alive. Long live the evening summer rides. WHY LIMIT YOURSELF?Jake Schuppe // Cycling Enthusiast & Advisor // @jake.schuppe I believe the idea of your “Last Ride” should be an exercise in creativity, not dissimilar from a “pipe dream” or “bucket list”. Ideas you build and develop in your mind to motivate you to continue your own adventures. You may never achieve your “last ride” but that dream has undoubtedly lead you to other countless adventures. With that being said here are my last rides. #1 Gravel Adventure I am riding on a coastal gravel road, warm air blowing off the ocean and the full moon is lighting the landscape. I have been riding this road most of the day working my way down the coast over climbs and descents. Each town I pass has its own character and I stop to appreciate the local coffee. Now I am riding down the coast again, tired and hungry. My last stop for the night is the final town along this road, it is lit up in front of me and although it’s not my final destination it feels like home. #2 Downhill for life I am at the top of the mountain, it has taken me several hours of climbing to reach the top. The air is cold and dry but refreshing. My bike is new and free of any creaks, the suspension is supple and reactive with the perfect tune. After adjusting my gear and appreciating the view one last time I drop in. The trail is flowy and picks up speed quickly, one berm after another winding through a large sloping field. Each berm is a little larger and each time I exit a berm I exit with more speed than the one before. The trail leads me into the trees where the terrain quickly changes from high speed berms to technical rocks, mud, and roots. The trees are tight, and I am on the limit of control. With each second my arms become tighter and tighter and it is becoming harder and harder to manage this technical terrain. The trees give up their density and open into a clearing with a buttery smooth pump track, untouched from any other riders. Each jump becomes a bit more progressive, I have never been the best or most confident on jumps but the feeling of flying through the air and following the momentum of my bike on the downside of the jump is one I will never forget. At the end of the jump line I stop to catch my breath, shake my arms out, and laugh at the ridiculous beauty of this trail I have found. When I look downhill I see where I started and the flowy trail I first dropped in on. #3 The Team Imagine crossing the finish line after the hardest, longest, most difficult race you can. When you step off your bike who do you imagine being there to congratulate and welcome you home. Those people are your team and who are most important to you. My team is my family, my wife, and my parents. No matter what “Last Ride” I come up with my team is always there with me putting me back on my bike when I can’t myself or congratulating me every time I cross a finish line. #4 The Real Ride – The Race Across Minnesota The Race Across Minnesota is held once a year near the end of summer on August 18th. Covering Approximately 240-miles (486km) from the small town of Gary South Dakota and ending in Hager City Wisconsin. For those of you not familiar Minnesota it is located in the Midwest of the United states, nestled between South Dakota and Wisconsin with Canada sitting above it. This area is known for its agriculture, abundance of lakes, winters, and small-town feel. Because there is so much agriculture in Minnesota you can find beautiful gravel roads for hundreds of miles. In this case 240 miles all the way across the state. The race starts at Midnight Saturday August 18th, you have 24 hours to complete the distance to cross the finish line in Wisconsin. From previous results you will find that this race has a very high attrition rate, with the best of the best finishing in roughly 13 hours. What makes this race unique is that it is a 240-mile point to point race with only 3 checkpoints. When starting the race, you are only given enough direction to get yourself to the next checkpoint. If you are able to arrive to the next checkpoint before time cut off they will provide the directions you need to move forward. Outside of these checkpoints this is a completely self-supported race, no outside aid from your support crew (Team) is allowed. I grew up in the Midwest just east of Minnesota in southern Wisconsin. The area (Not dissimilar form Minnesota) is covered in rolling hills, green grass, and farms with big red barns for miles. The lifestyle here is slower, and vastly more simplified than what I have become accustomed to in the Bay Area of California. Near the region where I grew up, I will be able to find that simplicity again. Take the moment for what it is and enjoy the suffer, the quiet, the stars, and the adventure. ALPINE REDEMPTIONLori Nedescu // Chef & Dietician // Elite Cyclist // @cadencekitchen Asking my friends to join me on a trip to Briançon would be the beginning of my last ride. Little did I know, that they would all agree without hesitation. After having watched Le Tour on my computer screen from my couch in Ohio (where the roads are as flat as crêpes), we would set off for a Last Ride of redemption to settle a score with the Alps. It would be exactly as before. Our group barely settling into the mountain top rental house before assembling bikes. Maps scattered across the kitchen table, flowing local red wine and big plans being discussed. The next morning, the 5 of us Americans from central Ohio set out filled with gleeful exuberance and cappuccinos to tackle the day’s route. The route that we were about to tackle once more was nothing less than 90 miles and 13,000 ft of climbing, including about 40 miles of ‘rolling hills’ (8 category 4 climbs and 1 category 3) before reaching the start of Agnel (HC). We’d climb Europe’s third highest col before retracing our steps back down then up and over the Izoard to Briancon. It was a daunting plan but seemed doable given that we were all fit cyclists. Kitted up, pockets stuffed with snacks and arm warmers, we clip in and take off. We chase each other around the beautiful rolling mountainside scenery for hours, taking it all in. Every mile is a spectacular departure from the corn field views of midwestern USA. We pedal through Saint Martin de Queyrières to Les Vigneaux, along la Durance and stop for a long, leisurely coffee ‘pit stop’. Time isn’t a concern to those working in the mountains and why not just embrace it? Roughly 45 miles down and approaching Agnel, this time the fatigue doesn’t come. No one turns around but on the climb we separate to find our own pace for the huge task ahead. The rain falls but only to keep me cool as I find my climbing rhythm . I know that this climb can get you at the end. I’m ready for when my mind starts playing its tricks as the air gets thinner and tries to tell me I’m closer to the top than I actually am. I surf the adrenaline bursts served up by views of the summit and weather the deep fatigue that threatens to bubble over as the road turns the other way to wind its way up the mountainside. Alone in the rain, I would be happy with my place in the world. And arriving at the summit with a sense of accomplishment, I’d move up from 11th fastest women to take the Strava QOM. Recovering from the effort I would re-group with Luke and take another selfie at the French/Italian border. This time we’d be better prepared for the descent. The sun would shine and we would float down the mountain. There would be no shivering and sheltering half way down the road – we would only stop for photos of the beautiful vistas. As a result we would reach the bottom of the Izoard with plenty of time to enjoy the climb. There would be no last ditch rescues from friendly French men like the previous attempt at this ride. We would climb Izoard and summit just as the sky was turning to dusk before descending with the sun to Briançon for a regroup and more of that great local wine.

The last ride #7 Imagine for a moment that there was only one more A single day, a final chapter, a last ride. Of all the miles covered and all the roads ridden, which would draw you back to experience them one more time?THE RETURN TO WALESCreative Director at MR PORTER // @onebhp Obviously there are bigger rides, there are more exotic, more exciting rides, rides I’d love to experience and others that I’d be gutted if I couldn’t have another go at, but if you insisted that I had only one to choose as a last excursion it’d hard not to be go back to the home lands - the bleak, steep, slopes in the foot hills of the Welsh mountains where I used to go for days out as a kid and the first place I really got a taste for the independence and beauty of cycling in mountains that has become an ever increasing draw for my escapes. It’d always start on a cold grey damp Sunday morning, my folks would send me off from a random municipal carpark (I’m not cycling miles along the A49 if I don’t have to) on the outskirts of Rhayader, a pretty-ish touristy town just inside the Welsh border, full of old people, cups of tea, Welsh cakes and charity shops. It always cold and damp at the start, but that’s just how Wales should be, you roll down the slight slope away from the tea-cups and cakes and into the damp mist, within half a mile you turn off the B-road and immediately uphill. Sharply reminding you exactly where you are. Lungs & legs start to burn all too quickly as it's just you, a few dumb sheep ambling around and the single track road in front of you. Passing places, cattle grids, and high-teen-percentages take you up through the low-lying clouds for a few km until you break through the clouds and look across the hills and valleys above the Elan & Claerwen reservoirs that supply most of middle England with water. This beautiful stretch of road, sweeps across the top of the hills, rising and falling with the landscape, short sharp climbs, sweeping descents and more dumb sheep to test your reflexes and grip levels. About 20km on you rejoin a b-road and race the holiday traffic down from the hills into Aberystwyth to finish with a seat on the seafront and a portion of fish and chips. That'll do me thanks.THE IRISH ADVENTURISTEvergreen Adventurer // PR & communications at Komoot // @fiolafoley I come from a generation that has so much to choose from we can’t choose at all. So this is the overwhelming dilemma I’m faced with when forced to choose just one last ride. I like to ride all sorts of bikes, in all the wrong places, for all the right reasons - mostly to do with adventure and exploration. But more important than the kilometres, the height metres, the speed...are the people. It's the people who make every ride memorable and my last ride will be spent with those who have been intrinsic in the growth and cultivation of my love for cycling. (And maybe a few drunken rides home through the empty streets of Zurich at night!) They live in Switzerland. They aren’t afraid to take a train. They like to drink beer and wine, preferably clad in lycra. They love more than anything to go up and down ridiculously steep mountain passes. We set off through the city of Zurich early on a Saturday morning to a long warm-up along the lake of Zurich and into the hills of Horgenberg. These dumpling-shaped hills with single trees sitting distinctly and lonely on their mounds, always remind me of Teletubby land. Our legs feel great and we work well together as a group. We are well-matched and our banter ranges from deep ponderings about the meaning of life, to the state of the world, to what we’re going to have for dinner. We ride through the hills of the Canton of Schwyz, and past its Riviera, the Sihlsee, before veering right to climb up the first mountain pass of the day, the massively underrated Ibergeregg. A gentle introduction to the day ahead, Ibergeregg’s meandering road lets us test our form to predict what the rest of the day has in store. Treated to views of the Lake of Lucerne, Rigi and Mount Pilatus on the descent, it’s hard to keep your eyes on the road. Although feasting on views makes us hungry, at the bottom of the pass we continue to pedal until we reach the tourmaline blue lake of Kloentalersee for a quick bite to eat before butting horns with Pragel Pass and its 18%-gradient ramps. Pragel is listed somewhere as a ‘dangerous Pass’. Its tight switchbacks and sometimes jagged cracks from the weight of the past season’s snowfall means there’s not much looking up and enjoying the view. It's through this pass that the Russians retreated back to their homeland in 1799. The road has been closed for motorized traffic on the weekends since 1981 so its one of the most peaceful Alpine climbs you’ll find in Switzerland. By now we already feel like just two passes would have been enough for the day - but the sense of accomplishment we’ll feel at having conquered three...keeps us going. We take a very deep breath before we begin to grind up the cobbles that mark the beginning of a Swiss epic: Klausen Pass. Don’t let her fool you - she comes in threes. Klausen’s 136 curves are divided into three sections so you pedal one.curve.after.the.next until you look up and see the last 8 switchbacks and a restaurant glowing in a halo at the top. As a collective, we are done. Sitting lightly on our bikes and winding our way down a thrilling descent, its not long before the adrenalin rustles us out of our exhausted state and before we know it, we are rolling into the train station and on our way back to Zurich. We gather our wits and shake out our legs for one last surge of power all the way through the city of Zurich to our favorite hang-out: the green grass of Backeranlage. Basking in the evening sun, surrounded by my friends, drinking the most delicious beer, eating everything in sight - if this is my last ride I’ll go to the grave content. Fiola's Last Ride on Komoot.ONE FINAL SPRINTGravel connossieur // all-road rider // director at Focal Events // @paule78 I like to consider myself a well-rounded rider. I have no objection to riding any bike or any surface and am always keen to explore. So my last ride would have no bias to its medium or geography, it could be merely a few hours from my door stop or a multi-day epic in some far flung corner of the world. For me the only constant I seek and one that would be paramount on my final day in the saddle would be the company. I can track back through my 25 years of riding and most often when I look back to a memorable ride the defining factor is always the individual or individuals who were present. If I was pushed to make a choice though for the final foray on 2 wheels I would choose something distinctly familiar. A local loop of any distance but one that would present its own challenges. The pre-defined sprints for the signs, prior knowledge of when to attack on the climbs and the flow of knowing every inch of a fast descent… this is how I would want to remember riding. After moving back to my hometown of Newcastle in my late 20’s I got to know the local riders through a road club. Soon after joining though it was apparent that there were a few individuals within it that I preferred to ride with, so a breakaway faction formed. Mid-week rides were frequently organised as we all lived in proximity. The weekend plans were often set to involve long road rides in the summer and more off-road adventures come winter. The success of any group is always diversity in the dynamic. You need the climber, the descender, the rouleur, the joker and of course the group has its strong and the weak. Fitness is a fickle beast seeing riders periodically peak and fall in fitness forever shifting those on the front. The shifting paradigm of the fastest rider of course always dependant on the nature of that day’s ride. Through riding together, a familiarity and trust are formed and as outlined above roles are naturally adopted. It would be this now disbanded by life group of individuals that would accompany me in a fond farewell to cycling. The dynamic changed by time and circumstance, Adam having never stopped riding hard now would be delivering the hurt. Rob having survived his time in London traffic back to challenge the climbs. Rich, house now renovated, proving his worth on the descents and Neal ... well Neal has always been too stubborn to concede on any level regardless of fitness. The last ride would have to feature the age-old cycling tradition of the cafe stop, maybe here more thought would be afforded as to the last mid ride plate of beans on toast or slice of Victoria sponge with a strong coffee on the side. Obviously, my selection of mid ride cafe would be one that offered me fair chance of winning the obligatory cafe sprint. I would look for the long flatter run in, no steep gradients, maybe just a small rise initially to leave the group hard down the right. Out the saddle to break free from the following wheel then seated on the rivet with heart in mouth and legs burning just hoping to see the fictitious finishing line before the wheel of a friend coming around me. The sprint that originally brought this group together I think would be my choice. The long run in to Belsay café. A series of sweeping bends, short ups and a final raise to finish. Some of the hardest fought baked goods ever consumed. A ride surrounded by friends, flowing banter, well natured ribbing and constant probing of others fitness levels... this would be the last ride I ever did.

Grinduro: The race to party ratio How do you stage a bike ‘race’ that delivers the correct party to race ratio ? Answer : mix a ferry ride, a small but beautiful Scottish Island, 260 rad, open-minded individuals from around the world, whisky (the correct Scots gaelic spelling is ‘whisky’, Irish and Americans say ‘whiskey’), a big dose of rolling mixed-terrain and some lung-busting timed stages. Welcome to Grinduro. Special-stage racing is well established if you ride mountain bikes. In the drop bar all-road world, it has refreshed many riders' love of competition with an attractive format of all day group riding with friends, spiced up with starting a stopwatch every few hours. I’ve had my eye on Grinduro ever since the first one popped up in California in 2016. One year later, the team behind Grinduro felt it was too good not to share…so they searched long and hard and found the perfect second location. Somewhere remote enough to feel like a true adventure, yet with good enough infrastructure to make it accessible for a long weekend of dirt roads, lunchtime whisky shots and high fives. My level of anticipation was high before I’d even arrived at the ferry from the mainland. Stories from the previous event were still ringing in my ears about sinuous fireroads weaving through forests high above shorelines and twisty, smooth singletracks that begged you to go faster and push harder than you might usually dare whilst on the drops. Arran has a mystical aura. It’s a natural playground, outlined with an ever-changing coastline, dense forests and imposing peaks, not dissimilar to Jurassic Park. This year we were blessed with tropical weather but you can only imagine the toughness of the residents in the depths of winter. Maybe this is partly the reason for their famed malt whisky and creamy Arran Gold liqueur. On the Saturday morning after a night of camping at the race HQ there is a notable excitement to the crowd gathered around the coffee wagon. Those flames of excitement are fanned by bolting a strong espresso and the sounds of a local bagpiper who serenaded the waves of riders off into the hills. Party to race ratio check one.With the number of people starting together and lack of end to end timing, the rollout was relaxed and chatty. Some riders come from enduro and gravity sports, with their skill evident, they were comfortable popping wheelies rolling down the road still holding conversations and taking photos. I could tell this was going to be an entertaining day in the first 1km. We soon hit the first special stage which is a short climb leading into a fast gravel descent. This stage was more a test of nerves than fitness. Which riders would be comfortable sprinting as fast as they dare whilst trying to stay upright in sandy, loose corners. After a regroup at the bottom we rode on to the first feed zone at Brodick castle. It was 10.30am but no one was saying ‘no’ to the heady mixture of locally made ice-cream washed down with a stiff Arran gin. Party to race ratio check two.Next up a liaison stage and a chance to take in the scenery before the next timed segment. An undulating, gravel hill climb. It was bumpy and you really had to be on your toes the whole way up to spot the best line. Some bits were so steep that if you stood up you would spin out and lose traction so a clear run was important for a good time. With two stages in the bag, the figure of eight route brings you back to base to grab some food, coffee and refill bottles before setting back off for the next timed sections. Wolfing down a hot home-cooked meal mid-ride was a mega bonus and exactly what we needed. After the ice-cream and gin, no whisky shots were included, presumably to maintain the right amount of ‘race’ in the ratio. Knowing there were still two stages to go we took it easy through the liaison. The third stage was also a gravel climb, not so steep this time, but long and winding, with the numerous hairpins giving it an alpine feel. Part way along, one of the other riders, Rachel, came past me. I wasn’t going to lose her so we played cat and mouse the whole way kicking up the dust off our wheels. That was a tough stage and I could now really feel my legs tiring, but just on cue came the afternoon feed zone at Café Vélo. It’s an awesome spot and with no real time restrictions people relaxed in the sun sharing their experiences of the ride and even having time to watch the last few km’s of the day's Tour de France stage, where no whisky or gin shots were witnessed. Here we also discovered the Scottish tablet – not a handheld touch screen but rather a fudge-like snack which I think is close to 100% sugar. It was the perfect pick-me-up to provide some oomph for the final stage.The final stage delivered a true mix of everything - a rutted grass section was followed by a technical single track through the woods. This was the most varied segment of the whole race, it had it all and to succeed you needed to be fit, brave and have some ninja handling skills. Crossing the timing pad people were gathered at the bottom, recounting tails of almost losing it here, or getting pinged offline by a root there. Thankfully the organisers had made the finish a short ride away. With weary legs and big smiles, we rolled down the road to the race village, ready to re-balance the ratio with some party. It had been a big day out on bikes, seeing some stunning places and exploring an island that many have never been to. But what I think will get people coming back for more next year will be the after party. The whisky was flowing, the dance moves were going off and it starts getting wild after the awards ceremony. No doubt there were sore heads and sore legs the next day…not that people will be put off. I’m signing up for next year already. If you fancy signing up for next year’s edition you can eye up the route on Komoot. This will help you prepare for the distance, elevation profile and importantly, in this case, the different terrain types. There are also user photos to tempt you, get excited about what to expect and get a feel for this great event which has something for all who are prepared to commit to this new style of riding.

The sound of provence "Il ne fait pas bon de travailler quand la cigale chante"   Provençal proverb: it’s not good to work when the cicada is singing.When the heat hits in Provence, the countryside sings. It's a tune beaten out from the belly of the famous cicada (cigale in French) - those small insects that click and clack with relentless continuity. But only if the temperature reaches at least 22 degrees, when it begins to be hot work for a velocipede.It adds another sensory experience to riding, and pausing, in Provence. Close your eyes for an instant and know that you're in an Occitan atmosphere, with full surround-sound. The purpose of that sound? To call to mating partners.Such a deserving cause demands volume. Cigales are amongst the loudest insects in the world. As loud as a motorbike? As loud as your breathing during the final kilometres of the Giant of Provence in oppressive heat? Louder actually. Nothing overcomes the cigales.Folklore states that angels visited Provence and were disturbed by the laziness of the peasants. They reported to God who sent the cigales to keep them awake. You could say they were sent to remind everyone to make hay while the sun shines. 'Happy lizard drink in the sun, because time passes too quickly and tomorrow might be rainy.'“Lou soulei mi fa canta”A phrase coined by Frédéric Mistral, founder of a society to protect Provençal language and traditions of the region which translates to 'the sun makes me sing'. Dolores is a lightweight cycling jersey made to make your legs beat to the tune of the sun all summer long because, when the cigales sing and the soft light shines, it shouldn't feel like work at all.Photographer; Matt Wragg

The last ride #6 Imagine for a moment that there was only one more A single day, a final chapter, a last ride. Of all the miles covered and all the roads ridden, which would draw you back to experience them one more time?THE MONGOLIAN MYSTERYCycling shoemaker extraordinaire // @quocphamshoes A few years ago I was at a cycling trade show in Germany and met a man from Mongolia. I first saw him in my peripheral vision while talking to another retailer. Or rather, my eye was caught by the quick movements of his hands as he nervously flicked a business card back and forth between long, fluttering fingers. At one point he even dropped the card and spent long moments trying to pick it up off the floor where it had caught between the legs of two tables. My conversation over, I turned to meet the man just as he presented the now recovered card. “My name is Narnaa” he said, pausing to make sure I had caught his name correctly. After a few moments of polite conversation about the show, he told me that not only was he from Mongolia, but that his company would greatly desire to become our distributor. “In Mongolia?” I asked, a little taken aback. After three days of unforgiving indoor lighting, I would have struggled to locate Germany on the map. “Yes,” he answered, “of course!” Not wishing to seem impolite, and to buy precious thinking time, I asked if road cycling was a popular activity in Mongolia. “No, not road, urban - the city!” he replied, bouncing cheerily on the balls of his feet. I frantically tried to recall what I knew about Mongolia, but for the life of me, I could not imagine that there was enough of a market in Mongolia to warrant a retailer, let alone a distributor of city cycling shoes. Although we never managed to meet up after the show, Narnaa proved to be an engaging conversationalist. His descriptions of Mongolia and its many opportunities for cycling, not the least of which were the ancient network of trade routes known as the Silk Road, left a deep and lasting impression on me. Since then, whenever a free moment presents itself, I revisit links and tourist information squirrelled away in a web folder simply called ‘The Ride’. Whether it will be my last ride or not, I don’t know. I certainly hope it isn’t, but then, the Silk Road is long, wild and clearly a good career choice for ambitious highwaymen looking to broaden their horizons. Luckily, the internet offers a wealth of information to the curious cyclist looking to ride all or part of the route that once stretched from the Korean peninsula and Japan to the Mediterranean Sea. Of particular note is the book, Lands of Lost Borders: Out of Bounds on the Silk Road, by Kate Harris, which details the author’s journey travelling Marco Polo’s Silk Road by bicycle. Although, unlike the celebrated Italian traveller, I do hope to complete my ride in slightly less than the 24 years he spent journeying through Asia. So between work and family commitments, with furtive clicks in darkened rooms, I continue to plan my adventure. Whether I take the Pamir Highway to the ‘roof of the world’ or ascend the smooth-packed dirt roads of the snow-capped Altai Mountains, sleeping in yurts beneath blanket skies, trading energy bars for a place to rest, I know that one day soon I will get tired of planning. One day I will ride the Silk Road.MOONSHINE & GOOD TIMESGrassroots Bike Builder, Writer & Cat Herder // @money_melon Although I am a natural introvert and one of the reasons why I love cycling is that I can do it alone, for my final ride I’d do the Dunwich Dynamo. The Dun Run is a mini audax, a 190km night ride on the Saturday in July closest to the full moon, where people ride their bikes from East London into the dawn of the slowly eroding Dunwich coast. It’s not for anything or anyone, except for shits and giggles. The Friday evening before, I join my closest friends and loved ones to carb load, eating a mountain of whole wheat pasta and drinking not a few bottles of solid red wine. We are merry but serious about the ride ahead of us, and so I go to bed at a reasonable hour. In the morning I eat French toast, do some laundry, listen to a podcast, and then take a nap. The weather is balmy warm - joy of joys, I can wear my short shorts! There are thousands of people gathered at London Fields park for the start. We have a half pint of local craft beer to celebrate, and when 8pm rolls around we set off. I love, absolutely love the swarms of people that leave the park, bustling about me, taking over the roads, becoming the dominant form of transport for one day a year. All kinds of people on all kinds of bikes do the ride, from your typical MAMILs and hybrids, to the more peculiar Penny Farthings and cargo bikes. It feels exactly as cycling should be, where everyone is welcome, where we all belong, and we are all starting out on an adventure together. Riding away from London feels liberating - I know it’s my home, but it’s also the source of stress, and this night I am joined by a whole gang of people who have something in common with me: we are silly enough to forgo sleep in order to ride 120 miles away from the city. Some are playing energetic music through speakers, some have fairy lights attached to their bikes, and as the sun steals away to set, a sea of red flashing lights appear before me, hypnotically drawing me into the night. The crowd starts to thin as the moon rises. Some friends have left, their cadence a bit higher than mine - I have never been a racer and prefer to cycle to the beat of my own drum, whatever that may be at that point in time. But my lover stays with me, our hearts entwined. I know his legs are stronger than mine, but that’s not what this ride is about. I do push myself at this point though, because once the sleep sets in my thighs will become sluggish. Time will start to feel like it is running out, because it is. There are rest stops along the way, and even bystanders that cheer us on - their enthusiasm to encourage a couple thousand weirdos is touching. Round midnight I turn my own music on. I’ve made a playlist of cheesy 80’s montage music, the kind that you’d find in a Rocky film, and much of the night feels like said montage. Snapshots of certain spots remain - the pub that offers us free chips, the car that slows down and asks us why on earth are we riding at this ungodly hour, (why on earth are you driving at this ungodly hour!?), the wrong turn that ended up becoming a shortcut. But the tiredness is creeping in around 3am, and I take another swig of coffee and bite of my homemade coconut pekmez energy ball. My wheel lights seem to be flashing in time with Van Halen, and I just keep pedalling, keep wondering, keep asking, where am I? When will I get there? Why am I doing this? Why must this be my last ride? I rise from my saddle to get myself up a hill, and the sun also rises. We catch up with friends who have become delirious from lack of sleep and have decided that whiskey will save us. Close, so close, I tell myself. Don’t look at the Garmin, it lies. Just when you think you’re there, you’re not. Another hill awaits. And another. And in my zombie state I catch a glimpse of…the sea? Is that the sea? I can smell it, and I can’t pedal any harder than I already am, but my heart swells as I see the tide rolling in, the smell of salt water filling my nostrils, and I silently pray that the crying gulls don’t poop on my head. There are people on the pebble beach already, bib shorts off, SPF on, sprawled out snoozing in the sun, and diving into the water. Discombobulated yet happy, I walk my bike across sand and stone, the most ready I’ve ever been to rush into cold briny goodness, to feel goose bumps rush up my back, my hair wet and heavy, and the yellow sun balancing on my face. I am at the end. We all are.

Die beste Charcuterie der Welt Die beste Charcuterie der Welt findet man natürlich auf Korsika.Die beste Charcuterie der Welt wird serviert in dem einzigen Restaurant, verbunden mit dem einzigen Gasthaus, das in Porto Centuri, einem idyllischen Fischerdorf, außerhalb der Saison offen hat. Es liegt am Ende eines schmalen Weges drei Kilometer von der D80 entfernt, die um den Cap Corse führt.Die beste Charcuterie der Welt wird auf einer enormen Silberplatte gebracht. Diese Servierplatte ist belegt mit Coppa, einem korsischen, rohen Schinken, Prissutu, einem würziger Schinken, Lonzu, einem besonders gereiften Schinken aus Schweinefilet und Figatelli, einer Wurst, die aus Schweineleber besteht. Die Scheiben sind nahtlos, leicht übereinander geschichtet und sorgfältig abgezählt, so dass niemand den Tisch enttäuscht verlässt. Die beste Charcuterie der Welt wurde von hungrigen Radsportlern aufgespürt, die die Hälfte der Tour du Cap Corse geschafft hatten und das mit der gleichen Leidenschaft wie die Chasseure, die Jäger, die diese einzigartigen Schweinemischlinge in den wilden Bergen der Insel gejagt haben. Die Berge bieten diesen Tieren ein gesundes, organisches, kastanienreiches Futter. Die Beste Charcuterie der Welt wird von einer Frau mit einem zarten Lächeln serviert, die seit zwei Jahren verwitwet ist und die anscheinend viel Freude daran findet, vier hungrigen Radfahrern Essen zu servieren, obwohl die Küche seit einer halben Stunde geschlossen hat. Die beste Charcuterie der Welt ist ein Produkt des Pökelns, der Lufttrocknung, der Höhlenreifung und der Kastaniendiät. Man nutzt dieselbe Methode, die seit Menschengedenken überliefert wurde.Die beste Charcuterie der Welt löst die einzigen Sorgen eines langen Radsport-Wochenendes in Luft auf, Sorgen zwischen Vätern und Söhnen, und bestärkt den Willen, die beste Küstenstraße der Welt in den Sonnenuntergang zur Bucht von Nonza zu fahren. Lesen Sie mehr über das perfekte Soul Food für Radsportler in unserer Rubrik the best of series.

The last ride #5 Imagine for a moment that there was only one more. A single day, a final chapter, a last ride. Of all the miles covered and all the roads ridden, which would draw you back to experience them one more time?CANADIAN CAMPFIRES & WILDERNESSWriter, Ultra Distance Rider & Explorer // @laura_scott I wake up to the sound of a loon calling for its mate across the lake. The smell of the fresh pine is everywhere. I pull myself out of my bivvy bag and head straight to the lake for a quick dip before making some oatmeal and coffee over my little camp stove. Well fed and caffeinated I pack up my bike and hit the road, following the Highway 60 through Ontario's Algonquin Provincial Park, one of the oldest and largest wilderness parks in North America. The park is where I spent most of my childhood, canoeing through its, 2,000 lakes with water so clean you can drink it, home to moose, bears, beavers and wolves. It is one of the rare places where you can feel solitude and silence are possible. It was my childhood summers in this park that introduced me to camping and instilled an unquenchable thirst for adventure. In the last few years, I took up bikepacking as a way to recreate some of my childhood adventures. So it seems fitting that my last ride has brought me back to where it all started. There is something special about viewing the Canadian wilderness from your bike. The road winds between many of the park’s pristine lakes as it rises and drops dramatically through the hilly terrain. After a long, tiring day in the saddle, my last ride would end at a campsite with a roaring fire surrounded by friends and family sharing stories of our previous adventures and enjoying s’mores.COLOMBIAN CALLINGRacer & Romantic // @bswh Maybe I’m still dreaming. I only just got home from Colombia but if you told me I only had one ride left, I’d be on the next plane back out. In my top five there are probably two in the UK (more for what they mean than what they are), a huge day in Mallorca and the sublime climbs around Lucca. But in Colombia - just southeast of Medellín, Antioquia - there’s a road, after you’ve climbed Las Palmas to get out of the city (and checked to see if today you got any nearer to Rigo’s ridiculously fast time), after you’ve picked up the group in Llanogrande and ridden out together laughing, fuelled by cheap coffee and an arepa to La Ceja, after you’ve floated up La Union - a dream of a climb - and bombed back down, there’s a road - heading towards Retiro - where it sinks in. This is paradise. You’re spinning freely over the velvet-smooth tarmac. The deep golden-yellow painted line in the centre of the road snakes its way into the distance. You know you’ve still got to climb Carrizales but it’s the last one and you’re ready for the burn. The green trees are so green. Of course there’s a waterfall. You get childishly dizzy with excitement when Fernando Gaviria rides by, but then so do the locals who see him all the time. Even the group - a tight band of Paisas who are always quick to crack a joke and masters at keeping the laughter bubbling, bouncing from one rider to the next - settle down to appreciate this road in silence.That waterfall you passed earlier is called Tequendamita. If you told me I only had one ride left, you’d find me there.BORMIO BOUNDWatts per style // @ben_od I’ll never swing my leg over a top tube in anger again? I quickly realised this ride will be the ride of all rides. The culmination of all my efforts on the bike. The sum total of sweat gathered from after work turbo sessions. The final appreciation for a bizarre physique adorned with tanlines that scare civilian bystanders. At first I was tempted to ride to my favourite café stop with friends once more. However my last ride requires a a change of menu, provided by the Bormio region of Italy. I set about preparing for one last expedition in the usual manner. Quietly layering on lycra in the dark. Before consuming a sizeable quantity of porridge, some fresh fruit and an espresso. My music plays; disco or something equally chipper. I dance like an idiot in my cycling kit. Rolling. The route ahead is one I’ve wished to crack for some time but fate has forced my hand. My sights are set on the Italian high mountains, inspired by numerous overdramatic Giro d’Italia trailers that use, an almost comical, epic voice over. Standing on the pedals I shake my legs out. Hoping to wake them from their slumber sooner rather than later. For a moment I question why I do this? The answer is simple. Cancellara used to do it in the Spring Classics, moments before he would attack. As an amateur cyclist with a very limited palmares, I briefly chuckle to myself about this attempt to imitate my heroes and press on. Cruising down undiscovered Italian roads, friends join. A small peloton of international riding buddies forms. We laugh, we joke. We do as a gruppetto should do. All the while the terrain undulates beneath us. Demanding just the right amount of effort to maintain our two up formation as we flow through the Italian countryside. Picturesque fields on each side fly by. Village after pretty village. The sun blazes upon our backs and necks. Salt stains start to appear on the hides of the group’s ‘more efficient coolers’ as they lose nutrients. Fortunately there is enough wind to break the sweat from pooling on our brows. I look down to check I have brought two bidons. Good. The occasional town sign sprint provides an opportunity for a jousting of egos. A chance to see who has the legs today. And more importantly, who will be buying the coffees later. Following a stop for a quick espresso, which in defeat I pay for, an old Italian friend and ex-pro takes charge of the group. We ride on. Soon the climb approaches, my friends peel off in twos and threes. Each parting with a handshake or jovial pat on the backside. Upon leading me to a signpost stating that the Mortirolo is 12.4 kilometers in length and climbs 1852 m in elevation, my Italian companion departs. Climbing the Mortirolo, I feel the heat rise up from within. My internal engine feels like a furnace working overtime to turn pedal over pedal. Legs like pistons singing in a rhythmic harmony at around 90 rpm. A glimpse between the trees to a scenic outlook or a cool change in temperature being just enough to ease my feeling of pain and suffering. Close to the edge and still climbing metre after metre, I reach with my right hand and remove my helmet. Near the top of the climb a purposeful looking rock approaches. The effort of the climb has begun to play with my head. Not wanting to break my effort, I toss the helmet to the foot of the rock. With my grave now marked I press on the pedals, driving into the fearful descent. Wind blasting through my hair. I feel exposed, naked without that flimsy lid I discarded. I tear down the mountainside. A battle is taking place between nerves and will. While an uncomfortable feeling wells up inside of me. As the temperature and I plummet in tandem, I become slightly braver, daring myself to barely touch the brakes as I round corner after corner. Growing in confidence. ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ plays in my loose head. Until, snap! A slip on some oil! Somehow staying upright, I make a lucky escape. I can’t believe I’m still here. Fate conspires that I make it to my final brutal course. The Stelvio. The 21.5 kilometer climb looms large above me, my heartrate barely dropped from the previous descent. I gaze upon the endless hairpins disappearing into the clouds. I climb and begin to feel free. My mind washes clean. Eventually the images of serenity that had just washed over me are now replaced with images of cycling champions locked in fraught battles with each other and the elements. Visions of Nibali flanked by tifosi or Coppi climbing solo despite the conditions are now etched in my skull. Before I know it, snow surrounds me. It is deeper than head height, but with a clear road ahead my mind can see the finish line. It is at this point, lungs ablaze, I am reminded that climbing alone is one of the purest things you can do on a bicycle. A window into your soul and a chance to reacquaint yourself with who you truly are.

Le drame du roi If you've ridden Col de Braus you might know of him. If you are a fan of Tour de France history you most probably do know of him. If you grew up in a cycling family on the Côte d'Azur between 1930 and 1980 you definitely will know of him. Le Roi René. Monsieur Vietto.He inspired so many in our region and, during his peak, many more around the world. Just before the so-called glory years of the Tour, but when the world of cycling was moving towards the tipping point and becoming global news, René found his wings. He never actually won the Grand Boucle; the war took over the world. A symbol of suffering and sacrifice. But it's been so long, why should anyone care? Ask Julien Camy. Monsieur Camy has a personal quest to document the life of Le Roi.A film is a moving memoir. There are stories to be told, people to be remembered, achievements to be celebrated. Vintage footage, scenes and roads revisited, emotional interviews from contemporaries that make the link back to another time, bringing a great era to life for those who missed it.Julien Camy has been searching out friends, competitors and fans. He has been buried in the archives and digging through the online forums. And the objective is an hour-long, in-depth look at one of the most interesting characters to grace the world of professional cycling. The photo on the right is René racing over Col de Nice, a climb we ride regularly to reach L'Escarène and the high moutains beyond. Seeing this photo shows the heritage of the roads we ride on and is part of the reason why we believe Julien's project is important.So if you have ridden Col de Braus, if you take inspiration from cycling's history or if you are simply interested in a great human story, we subtly suggest you contribute to Julien's project HERE

The last ride #4 Imagine for a moment that there was only one more. A single day, a final chapter, a last ride. Of all the miles covered and all the roads ridden, which would draw you back to experience them one more time?VENTOUX ET VINEx-pro, Eurosport Pundit // @nicolas_fritsch The Last Ride would inevitably be a slightly sad affair; melancholic and no doubt nostalgic, but what luck to get to define this ending myself rather than simply have it pass me by unknowingly...I might as well make it a good one. Cycling holds something special for me. It has the ability to add a sense of adventure, born from taking on earth’s elements, to a pure physical and athletic effort. Often riding alone, it’s more in the moments of sharing in these experiences that strong bonds and memories are created. So if I had to go out one final time with my bike, it would begin by loading it into the back of my car with a couple of friends. We’d head off to a meeting point to join up with others, a few kilometres from the foot of Mont Ventoux. Not too close, not too far. At Beaumes-de-Venise for example. Of course, it would have to be during summer: 30 degrees, cap backwards, giddy with excitement and anticipation, music blasting out and sweat beading down my face. We’d be laughing along the first gentle 15 kilometres, riding between vineyards and fruit trees. We’d be laughing, but we’d all know, that a mountain, a true giant, would soon rise up before us. It’s hard to miss it, other than by keeping your head down fixed on the road. As we approach Bédoin, silence would take over, and the impending physical challenge would dim our freewheeling laughter. I’ve always liked nothing more than being alone in the mountains, like Fausto Coppi, “L’uomo solo al commando”, or, from my era, Marco Pantani. I’d like to experience this feeling one final time, something so simple, but that puts man in his natural place, that of an explorer, in a world where we think we’ve discovered everything. Pedalling is like meditation in motion, without the need for books, teachings, gurus or self promotion. It’s natural and simple, if not easy. Mont Ventoux stands above all other climbs, because it’s somewhere I’ve witnessed the temperature suddenly plummet; it’s somewhere I’ve felt the temperature suddenly soar; it’s somewhere I’ve had the wind force me to get off my bike; it’s somewhere I’ve seen lightning strike; it’s somewhere I’ve seen everything happen but at the same time I can’t be sure I have. This is why Ventoux will be where my cycling days will meet their end. But they say that happiness is only worth it when shared, and it’s so true, and so it goes without saying that we’d regather at the bottom of the descent, perhaps in Malaucène, under the sun, around one of its fountains which have quenched many a cyclist’s thirst. And if it really had to be the last ride, the very final one, we’d continue onto les Dentelles de Montmirail, and as a just reward, we’d sit down for a glass of the best thing that these lands have to offer; wine with a higher percentage than even the steepest ramps of the giant we’d conquered earlier, as ultimately there is more to life than the bike…THE ART OF RUNNING AWAYWriter & Soul Rider // @francois_paoletti 280 km around the Monts de l’Espinouse - 'Que l’ai va lo fa' - whoever goes there does it. I don’t remember where I found this Occitan proverb, but I went there one day in July, and that’s where I return for my Last Ride. Setting off for a long day in the saddle, I’d ride across the toes of the Massif-Central, along the watershed between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Alone no doubt, I’d fill my pockets with memories picked up along the way. At night, the road is ours and my most beautiful journey starts under the stars, before the first few flecks of sunlight begin to appear. They say that the night is silent, but fortunately silence does not exist. The night time has its own songs, we simply have to listen for them. Crickets make the perfect companions for such activities. My route turns its back on the sea. Heading through the vineyards of Faugères and the Col des Treize-vent and the Croix de Mounis. Then up to the massif de l’Espinouse in the early hours. Whilst the blue turns to green, the passing kilometres begin to trace a line across the screen of my GPS. One day someone decided that L’Hérault stops where l’Averyron starts. The road markers placed on the side of the road are a throwback to another time, when the département marked out the horizon for most people. Cloudy skies, it’s almost cold. But that's always better than searing heat. I zip up my jersey at least as long it takes for the heat from the sun to break through. I stop at a café on the Place de Lacaune, sitting amongst the flies and the regulars. The smell of my coffee scares away the flies and masks my sweaty odour. My own sense of smell has disappeared, I’m not too sure when. The coffee is bad, who cares. That’s not not what I came to find, I came to find escape. Getting back in the saddle, riding and watching the hours pass by. Life is broken down to the bare essentials : drinking, eating, drinking, taking photos, drinking, eating. All I have to do is pedal and follow the arrow on my screen, whilst rejoicing that my bike can handle the gravel when the road decides to pretend to be a doubletrack. I’m at home here, without any chauvinism. Others prefer the Alps, each to their own, but I learnt to ride my bike on these lower mountains, where cars and people are scarce and things are from a simpler time. Fatigue begins to set in, deep in my thighs and lower back. I know how it works, and the tendency for the feeling to yo-yo within me. The mind wanders. In the Département of Tarn, I can’t help but think of Jalabert. We think about a lot of things whilst riding, we think a lot about nothing too. My ideal route would include a small siesta in the middle of the afternoon. Only a few minutes, in the shade of a tree. A few minutes, without acknowledging anyone. A few precious minutes of recovery. The tourists dream about their beaches, my thoughts are made of boredom, and of epiphanies, doped on endorphins. I’d like to make notes about them for an article or a book, so as not to forget them but it would require stopping. Writing or riding, the decision is always hard.AN AZUR AFFAIRLe Barbu // @fredericgiovagnini 6am. It’s still dark outside and, as I take my bike out of the garage, most are tucked up in their beds, safe from the cold. I give my bike one last check before I mount it for what will be my Last Ride. I’ve decided to follow the coastal rode, heading east to meet the sunrise. Almost on autopilot, I adjust my helmet, position my sunglasses, turn on my bike computer and attach the torch which will light up my path for the first hour of my ride, waiting for the sun to poke its head above the sea line. Then as I clip in my shoe I turn around as if someone wants to stop from leaving. The first few kilometres feel like I’m being sucked into a black hole, the calmness surrounding me accentuates the sound of my chain going around like clockwork, and the small clicks of my gear changes punctuate the undulating road. The light beaming from the front of my bike creates a moving halo on the road, my front wheel eats up the asphalt, and I have the feeling my body is one with the bike, of being alone in the world. Even though I know this coastal section by heart it feels somehow different today, as if I’m discovering it for the first time as I pass each corner. Little by little the darkness lifts. I begin to see the horizon more clearly, and a feeling of excitement begins to swell as I know that soon I will witness the sun rise up in front of me one final time. Suddenly my legs begin to turn faster, my pedal stroke is harder as if a peloton were chasing me down a few kilometres from the finish. The spectacle in front of me doesn’t disappoint. The sun casts down its first rays in front of me, as if it were wishing me 'bonne route' - its reward for all the kilometres I’ve ridden over the years. I can feel the heat on my face and I get the impression each turn of my pedals is making it stronger. I turn off my light; I’m no longer alone. The signs of life become more numerous as the kilometres roll on. I begin to see cars, and as I ride through people’s villages they walk down the streets as if to guide me and I give them a salutatory nod as I pass by. The kilometres pass, and I glance down at my computer to reassure myself of my own state, to check if I am capable of completing this final ride. The fast and slow sections are indicated by how the road is on the landscape ahead of me. I make the most of each moment, taking in each changing view. But as I follow the black band laid out in front of me, I begin to near the moment where I’ll pass in front of the gates to my house. The fateful moment when I’ll hang my bike back up for the final time. I should have gone slower, or perhaps taken a wrong turn at the final junction in order to not arrive back home so fast, as sadly the gates are now in front of me. The end is nigh. I slow down, and I leave my bike by the steps up to the house. A strange feeling overcomes me, a mixture of joy and frustration. I stop my computer for the last time, to ensure I record this Last Ride. I hear the signature beep to indicate my journey has ended and that my ride is downloading. However, the beeping continues, getting louder and louder and it’s at that point I wake from my slumber, it was just a bad dream, and it’s that time again to get ready to go riding with my friends along our beautiful roads and cols of the Côte d’Azur. The Last Ride is fortunately not quite for today, as there still many new roads to discover.

Details of the species Specific (adjective): relating to species or a species - "the differences between them can only be on the specific level" Fons Bikes weren't happy with the 'shrink it and pink it' approach of the most of the big bike brands. Like the best entrepreneurs, they saw a gap in the market, a problem without a solution. So they set out to fix it. And when they advised that our women's collection matched their ethos, we took the opportunity to compare notes on what it means to be female specific.CDC: ARE YOU THE ONLY EXCLUSIVELY FEMALE BIKE BRAND IN EUROPE / THE WORLD? FB: As far as we know, yes! All the other 'female'' brands are just from bigger companies that sell their male bikes in another colour and pass them off as being female bikes or having a women-specific design. That’s why you get lazy geometry, female colours and often cheaper parts. CDC: HOW DOES THAT GIVE YOU AN ADVANTAGE OVER THE BIG BRANDS? FB: By focussing on female bikes only we can do better research and it forces us to make the bikes better as they are our only chance of sales. If our bikes are not good enough or different enough from what is on the market already nobody would buy them. With bigger brands you see often that they regard female bikes as a 'niche market'. We see that half of the world population is female….. CDC: ARE MEN REALLY FROM MARS AND WOMEN FROM VENUS? FB: We discovered this mars/venus thing is true when it comes to bikes. Of course there are women with the exact same approach as men, just as there are men with a more feminine approach to cycling but they are a minority. What we discovered is that women tend to make a more intelligent approach when it comes to selecting a bike. If for instance disc brakes work better, they want them. Men sometimes start to argue that the pro's don't use them….. They all want to look like Peter Sagan. When we ask very active female cyclists about the brand that Marianne Vos is riding, eight out of ten don't know the answer. The world of racing is less important and the choices a female cyclist makes are more individual. Therefore we offer almost 4 million different combinations of set-up for our bikes! The chances are limited that you will see another woman with same bike as yours.CDC: IF THERE IS NOT ONE SINGULAR FEMALE APPROACH TO CYCLING, WHERE DOES FONS BIKES FIT IN WITH THE DIFFERENT TYPES OF FEMALE CYCLING? FB: With our programme right now we cover almost every part of road cycling due to the versatile character of our bikes. We feel you don't need a bike for every occasion (as fun as that is), but you do need a bike that works in the real world where roads aren't closed for you and the tarmac might be less than perfect. Even on cobbles and unpaved roads our models perform. On our Strada Disco model you can use tires up to 30mm which almost makes it a gravel light machine and gives you loads of comfort without losing speed. CDC: HOW DO YOU BUILD A BIKE TO BETTER SUIT THE FEMALE FORM? FB: We looked at the main physiological differences between men and women and how that influences cycling. Based upon these studies we figured out that the bike geometry should be different and that differs from what a lot of others did. We found through testing that other brands have not looked accurately at the difference - if their measurements were true every woman would have the body of a supermodel. Some of us maybe wish that was the case, but it's not. After that we worked with a large development group of female cyclists to understand their demands. This group consisted of very hard cycling women (some who did a 300km day with a hard-riding mens group, eight times up Alpe d'Huez etc) but also on cyclists that we call 'cake riders' - more social cyclists who enjoy the interaction at the café stop as much as the riding itself. Our aim was to develop a frame that would suit almost everyone.CDC: WHAT IS REQUIRED FOR CLOTHING TO BE FEMALE SPECIFIC? We feel that clothing should not only be technically specific to include features like gender specific chamois and bibs. It should also make you feel good. The moment you take your gear out to pull it on you should feel nice fabrics in your hands that not only look good but feel very comfortable and nice on your skin. This is important because that is the moment you get motivated to go out and ride. Of course, like any other garments, during the ride the fabrics need to support your muscles and help you to stay dry by moving sweat away from your body. And it also means looking good on the bike as well as off it. So the connection with fashion and style should always be there. Even when racing with somebody, you can do that better if you look good. Just like Coco Chanel once said 'dress as if you are going to meet your worst enemy today!'. And let's be honest cycling always has been about looking good on your bike.CDC: WHO ARE YOUR FEMALE CYCLING HEROES? FB: Obviously Alfonsina Strada, the only female cyclist who rode the Giro d'Italia and the woman that inspired us so much that even our brand name is based upon her story. When she participated in the Giro in 1924 women where not supposed to ride a bike let alone participate in a race wearing shorts, etc. Showing you ankles led often to over-excited men. Yet, she became the hero of that Giro. Other heroes are: Marianne Martin, Marianne Vos (the female cannibal of cycling with a very impressive victory list), Shannon Galpin and every other girl/woman that rides a bike and enjoys it. CDC: WHO ARE YOUR MALE CYCLING HEROES? FB: Eddy Merckx, Laurens ten Dam, Tom Boonen, Fabian Cancellara, Hinault and of course Tom Dumoulin.

Maximum attack, rallye Monte Carlo When we arrive at the last two turns of the famous Col de Braus switchbacks, gendarmes are stopping the cars. The road has turned into a car park. Above the hairpins, what we thought were crash barriers turn out to be a two kilometre line of camper vans that house diehard fans ready for the day’s action. At the junction where the stage ends, more gendarmes advise us that it's access on foot only beyond this point. We demount, pull shoes out of bags and porter our bikes up the hill to stares of bemusement from other fans. Helicopters circle. Somewhere from up above we hear what sounds like a chainsaw with the exhaust removed being revved to within an inch of its life. The noise of diehard petrol heads. Welcome to Rallye Monte Carlo.The Monte has a special place in rallying history. Just like it’s F1 counterpart, the Principality adds a certain gravitas. It’s the opening weekend of a global calendar, part of a multi-million, petro-dollar sport-turned-business. Like cycling, that business takes place in the great wide open, which changes the dynamic. Swap your sun umbrellas beside the port for wild fires at 1,000m, and exchange your eight figure super-yacht mooring beside La Rascasse for makeshift tents and climbing trees on the roadside.The ace up Monte's sleeve, is our very ownCol de Turini. The Night of The Long Knives is the local name for the stage which, up until recently, ran through the dark from Sospel to Bollène-Vésubie. The long beams of the extra headlamps added to cars appeared like swords from below as they cut through the dark on the way to the Col. It was a pilgrimage for rally fans. During the heydays, the Group B supercar era of the 80’s, the atmosphere there was electric. Partying fans, a snow covered road and red flares to light it up. Anticipation, noise, sideways action and adrenalin.Observing French rally fans teaches you in the way of staying stationary on the mountain. That’s not something us cyclists are necessarily accustomed to. Our first vantage point is in the shadows, out of the sun as the road winds itself around the mountain. On the inside of the corner we count three open fires and one barbeque. The mixture of smoke and the morning light is like an 80's pop concert. There are camping chairs, cool boxes, gas stoves, rucksacks and more GoPros than you can shake a selfie stick at.Amongst the fans are well-hydrated Italians, the odd group of Aussies or Brits and seemingly quite a lot of Finns (Finland claims to be the spiritual home to rallying after all). But it’s mostly locals. And, unlike cycling, the French rally fans have a lot to be proud of. More specifically they have two Sébastiens to be proud of. Sébastien Loeb is known as Le Patron. He’s the most successful driver in WRC history having chalked up nine successive championships. In a Citroën too. Incroyable ! And after he retired, Sebastien Ogier picked up the mantle and has won the last five years in a row.Today Ogier is once more in control going into the final four stages, but he has not been immune to the influence of the fans. On Friday he required the help of compatriots from his hometown of Gap (which happens to be the base for most of the rally) to push him out of a ditch. On this stage today, not all the fans are so supportive. We witness a man come beside us at the entry to a sweeping left hander and light a flare just before Ogier arrives. The smoke completely covers the road, requiring Ogier to employ his lightning fast reactions to avoid ploughing into the bank of spectators on the outside of the corner. The man with the flare is gone but he was clearly either Scandanavian or maybe, like second placed driver Ott Tänak, Estonian. It seems that sometimes rally passion spills over and makes a mess.The good news is that the incident occurs on the first pass of this road before the second and more important ‘Power Stage’. It's an opportunity for extra championship points for those trailing Ogier. A one stage, on-the-limit test against the mountain. We ride up the road in between the fans, observing the tyre marks on the road to judge where will be the best vantage point for the finale. In a simple kilometre journey we go from cold damp shadows to dry tarmac basking in the sun. It’s a perfect example of the challenges of this rally. The drivers have to adapt car set-up and driving techniques that compromise between these perfect conditions and the snow and ice surrounding the Col. From maximum attack to dancing on ice in a couple of turns.The lure of the sun is too much and we pick our spot on the upper outside of a hairpin with a fast entry and exit. The roadside itself is a ‘non-place’ to us cyclists. A location best suited for quiet contemplation and enjoying the view has been turned into a makeshift stadium, of sorts. Rallye Monte Carlo is not a quiet moment. Unless you’re the guy snoring behind the tarpolin that forms the door of the makeshift roadside tent. Pastis overload, at 11am.‘First car due’ is 1218. Our friends from the tent start cooking lunch on their biggest fire (yes, there is more than one) at 1130. The pastis is put away and three bottles of red wine arrive. What to watch, them or the VIP helicopters landing opposite the auberge on the Col de Braus below ?This is what everyone came for. High octane, 380bhp, big downforce spoilers, red hot disc brakes and flat-shift gear boxes that pop like a hunter’s rifle. The aggression, the control, the mechanical force is all consuming and gone in an instant. The noise of the first car fades into the distance, the anticipation for the next one feeds the frenzy. There are many barriers to entry to top flight motorsport. Apparently ten years ago a young driver had to bring three million in sponsorship funds to get a drive in WRC. And with paid subscriptions taking over, watching on TV is not easy. Maybe that's why the fans remain so committed to going roadside. Because it’s not a stadium. If you want to get up and get out, it’s not behind a pay wall. It’s mother nature hosting man and machine in their arrogant attempt to prove they know better. Just like cycling.

Officine Mattio: Prodotte in Italia Officine Mattio are keeping a stronghold on the 'Made In Italy' label and insist on producing their range of fine carbon and steel bikes in their home country, where passion meets design meets experience meets pleasure. Their founder, Giovanni Mattio, explains what drives him.CDC: Italy has a strong reputation for passion and hand-made quality when it comes to frame-building – what is it about your country that breeds such talent? GM: My theory is that Italians have “estro” (inspiration) and fantasy, more than other country and that comes from our great climate and the beautiful landscape. These gifts allow you time to focus on other things. For example: if you live in Greenland you have to live within the limits of the weather to survive. I believe this adds an extra complication and difficulty which reduces your ability to live our your wildest dreams. So I think the climate can determine the development and wisdom of the populations I consider myself very lucky to be born in Italy! CDC: What motivated you to make the leap from rider to manufacturer? GM: I’ve been selling premium bikes for twenty years. Now it’s very hard to find a truly Italian bike brand that produces bikes in Italy. But through my experience and research, I knew that it is still possible to produce top-level bikes on home soil. I saw a gap in the market and I decided to start this wonderful adventure!CDC: What is the key to successfully making your hobby and passion your profession? GM: I think you cannot choose your past but you can build your future. I’m a passionate about the bike, bikes are my pleasure. Why would I spend my life doing anything else? CDC: What is more important – materials or tube dimensions and geometry? GM: To have a top-level bike everything is important: materials, tube dimension, geometry (customized when necessary) and design. Bikes need to be pretty too - don’t forget we are Italian!!! CDC: Carbon fibre choice and layup is often quoted as the secret to a good frame but only in vague terms. Is there a black magic to working with carbon fiber? GM: I think the most important thing is to have a bank of experience and not be stopped by old technology. Carbon is a material used in many areas and we can learn from methods outside of cycling. Every single day we research new sources and compositions of carbon fiber to maintain and to raise quality of our framesets.CDC: Frame building is a competitive business across the world now – what are customers looking for? GM: I think in bicycle world there are 3 kind of customers: Customers that want a good bike that simply allows them to enjoy ride. They want good quality at a certain price point. For them it’s the ride is more important than the bike they are riding; Customers that want to ride, train and compete in races on top-level bikes the deliver a high level of performance. They need something more than an entry or medium level bike; Passionate customers, people who look at their bicycle as if it was a jewel …… Not necessarily the sculpted race-machine but nonetheless its fitness for purpose is very important for them. Also this bike needs to have a good heritage, fine details and quality components. Our range of bikes are built with both the second and third groups of customers in mind. CDC: What lays ahead in the future of frame building? GM: I think disk brakes are the future for road bikes and e-Bikes will continue to grow in popularity with more performance and less weight. CdC: What are you most proud of about Officine Mattio? GM: We are very proud of the feedback we receive from our customers: all our customers seem very happy about their OM experience, from initial contact to riding the bikes.CDC: As a bike manufacturer you must have clear ideas about what makes a beautiful bicycle – can you tell us 5 absolute rules to make a good-looking bike? GM: I think it’s impossible to give you 5 things to make a beautiful bicycle. I think you need to understand where you want to go, imagine in your head your ideal bike and design it from there. It is a personal thing.Aesthetics is not a mathematical calculation. At OM bikes I focus on producing my favorites but I can't say if everyone shares my taste. CDC: Would you ride the Tourmalet on a 1975 Colnago or would you ride the Colle della Fauniera on a 1977 Peugeot? GM: I would have to take the 1977 Peugeot, because I’m born in 1977. CDC: Espresso or grappa? Espresso and Barolo, we are from Piedmont CDC: Dolomites or Alps? For me the Alps offer more diversity and possibilities to explore. But I would also say it is mandatory to spend at least one week in your life in the Dolomites. CDC: Pizza or Pasta? It doesn’t matter, as long as they are PRODOTTE IN ITALIA! CDC: Rome or Milan? Rome and Milan are two amazing cities but honestly, I prefer not to choose either. I love mountains, the sea and little villages where we can do our favorite sport. CDC: Baggio or Totti? Pantanti and Fabio Aru. CDC: Ferrari or Alfa Romeo? Lamborghini!

A survey of French tour style For 31 years now, the French have been more stylish than successful in their national Tour. But where did French Tour style start? Was it with Henri Desgrange, the Tour’s suave dictator – oh, sorry, director – buttoned up like an ageing gangster in a double-breasted suit? Was it his deputy and successor, Jacques Goddet, who was renowned for wearing a linen safari suit and pith helmet? Or was it Desgrange, when, as a young man in the 1890s, in a dragon-motif wifebeater and with a sharply waxed moustache, he showed he could pose to put any hipster to shame?In truth, it’s always been about the riders: right from first winner, ‘the little chimney sweep’ Maurice Garin, who looks eerily like Brad Pitt’s grandfather, and his contemporary, Lucien Pottier, whose predilection for racing in shepherdesses’ hats did not save him from an untimely demise. After the First World War, cycling entered its ‘Golden Age’ and a new breed of hero emerged, accessorised with tubular tyres, goggles and woollen jerseys. This was when René Vietto had the attitude of James Dean, 20 years before James Dean did himself, and Roger Lapébie made women, men, friends and rivals, all go weak at the knees.In the ‘50s and ‘60s it was the era of the matinée idol cycling star, and during the Tour fans gorged themselves on the pictures printed three times a week in the Miroir-Sprint of the suave Louison Bobet, rugged Raphaël Géminiani and aloof Jacques Anquetil (who was so cool when he was racing he can be forgiven some later style faux pas, like his side parting and shirt collars in the ’70s) The ‘70s and ‘80s served us up some horrors and French riders – and French kit – weren’t immune. Laurent Brochard, perhaps, represented a style nadir, but some of it could (it might be argued) be the forerunner of the postmodern, ironic ‘so bad it’s good’ look. Look at Jacky Durand, for example, pictured in his Castorama ‘dungarees’ kit cycling supersonically away from Saturn and its rings.But it wasn’t all bad: for every Castorama there was a La Vie Claire, and every Brochard was balanced out, perhaps, by a Charlie Mottet rocking amazing shades and a to-die-for lo-pro. And Laurent Fignon, the greatest of them all, could look good in any kit – Renault-Elf, Système U, Castorama, you name it. Really, the best look of all is the winning look. The yellow look. Just ask Bernard Hinault how that feels, and let’s hope another French rider models it soon. Who are your French cycling style favourites?

Le bidon & the French cyclist The humble bidon is an undervalued but essential cycling accessory. This many of us know already. But a dip into the history books shows us that our native countrymen played some crucial roles in the evolution of the water bottle, and created some interesting stories along the way.WHERE TO PUT IT? In a bottle cage of course. But where does that bottle cage go? It was apparently a Belgian rider, Firmin Lambot, who first placed his water bottle in a bag attached to his handlebars. That developed into the accepted technique of eventually having two bottles mounted in cages up front. René Vietto, our local hero, is famous for that photo of him giving his wheel to his team leader, and in one moment showing to the world the sacrifice of a talented domestique capable of winning the race himself. But the man from Cannes, like so many other successful racers, was meticulous about every element of his cycling. This included of course the tool for his job and eventually he questioned the accepted tradition as he noticed how the bidons on his handlebars significantly compromised handling. So he moved one to the downtube during the 1939 Tour de France. And voilà, by the 1950s everyone had adopted the style we know today. (Not the first time a gallic cyclist has lead the way in cycling fashion we might add…..)WHAT TO PUT IN IT? How about Fausto Coppi’s favourite - “Binda Zabaione” consisting of 20 beaten egg yolks and some sugar? Or swap your egg for eggnog, add brandy and advocaat for a bombardino, a favourite of Italian pros when training through the winter. In the early days of the Tour alcohol was favoured rather than taking the risk of infection from roadside springs and fountains. Of course, wine featured heavily – a tradition we would consider reinventing. Lead on the other hand is not an obvious substance for the humble bidon. Jean Robic, like René Vietto, was interested in the effect of the weight of his bidon, but for a different reason. During the 1951 Tour, he worried that his light weight would be a disadvantage on the descent of the mountain trial and decided to add some pounds by putting lead in his bidon. Towards the end of the descent he became unbalanced by the heavy weight of the bidon and fell badly. A few days later he was forced to abandon the Tour.WHEN TO USE IT?All the time. Some say you should drink every 15 minutes on any ride of more than two hours to keep on top of your hydration. If, like us, you have cramped on a big ride (a particular instance during the the last five kilometres of the Col de Turini comes painfully to mind) you will never forget the importance of having liquid supplies with you at all times. Here we turn to another Frenchman for inspiration. In modern times, of course, team cars and domestiques can ensure that stage winners and GC riders will always have a bidon close to hand. So much so that they can dispense with a second bottle - the famous gurning frenchman, Thomas Voeckler, is known to have only one bottle cage on his bike to save weight. That performance gain helps when he attacks, but attacking sometimes makes you unpopular, as M. Voeckler reported - some riders 'threatened to throw their bidons at me if I attacked.” Now there is a use we hadn't considered.

Die beste Daube de Sanglier Die beste Daube de Sanglier ist eine spezielle Art Wildschweinragout, das man nur in Frankreich finden kann, genauer gesagt in der Provence.Die beste Daube de Sanglier können Sie (wenn Sie über die Kontakte verfügen) in einem Maison de Chasse, einem Jagdhaus, in einem abgelegenen Gebiet in den Ausläufern des Mont Ventoux finden. Die beste Daube de Sanglier war für fünf Stunden im Ofen, länger als man an diesem Tag auf dem Sattel war und mit mehr Zutaten, als man sie in den Gärten der Provence erschnuppern könnte.Die beste Daube de Sanglier ist das, was man bräuchte, um sich bei der Abfahrt auf der Nordseite des Ventoux bei -2 Grad aufzuwärmen, wenn die Beine vor Erschöpfung durch den Aufstieg sich zusammenziehen und einen Balanceakt gegen das Eis und den Schnee unter den Reifen vollführen. Die beste Daube de Sanglier gibt es nach dem längsten Tag bei der Rallye Monte-Vélo, am Ende eines langen Gravel-Weges der scheinbar ewig mit der Dunkelheit verbunden ist.Die beste Daube de Sanglier wird in einem Raum serviert, in dem die örtlichen Jagdbestimmungen an die Anschlagstafel geheftet sind und wo Fotos von den vergangenen Jagden der letzten 30 Jahre Sie an eine Zeit erinnern lassen, eine Vergangenheit, die bis heute viele ländliche Gemeinden Frankreichs zusammenhält. Die beste Daube de Sanglier wird mit einer Karaffe voller Rotwein serviert, dessen Ursprung ehrlich gesagt unwichtig ist. Das Brot hingegen ist immer noch so wichtig, dass es eine Revolution auslösen könnte, wenn es nicht das richtige wäre.Die beste Daube de Sanglier wird mit größter Genauigkeit vom netten Riesen Geatan serviert, der ein größeres und besseres Jagdmesser schwingt als Crocodile Dundee. Nach der besten Daube de Sanglier gibt es einen Digestif, einer der stärksten hausgebrannten Schnäpse, der aus einer unbekannten französischen Frucht destilliert wurde, die von einem örtlichen Terroir gepflückt wurde, vor langer Zeit, 1957… Die beste Daube de Sanglier ist ein Wildgericht, das an einem wilden Ort einer Gruppe wilder Pioniere serviert wird, die sich einer wilden Idee verschrieben haben. Lesen Sie mehr über das perfekte Soul Food für Radsportler in unserer Rubrik the best of series.

Moto to Morocco: The map & the roundabout Moto Camille is back with the second part of his reflections from the road during his Moto To Morocco madness. He likes paper maps, he doesn't like roundaboutsI had a photography assignment at the Tour de France to follow a
 directeur sportif of a well known team. First thing in he morning, I 
found him in his standard hotel room. He was stooped over his double 
bed looking at the day's race route on paper maps. Maps laid out on 
the double bed? Was this another fetish of a cycle sport D.S.? I asked 
Freddy (not his real name) what he was up to. After all, he worked 
for a team whose headline sponsor was a very well known Sat-Nav brand.
 Freddy went on to explain to me that the old school paper maps showed 
him things that the Sat-Nav did not. He could plan and plot a race to 
greater effect using the information on the paper.
 Like a fool, I asked if he minded if I used the images. Freddy then 
realised, that his sponsor would not like the images in the press. The 
images, much to my frustration, have never been seen. This brand was 
very controlling of it’s image. It didn’t even let the team use the 
word ‘lost ' as it had bad associations. Now, just a few years later 
people will pay good money to get ‘lost’ if it’s packaged as an
 adventure.Like Freddy, I have real faith in paper maps and maybe have more of a 
fetish with them than he does….nothing to do with laying them on the 
bed. It’s about details, it’s about looking at the map and having a
 flight of fantasy, the paper map being a tangible real thing. Maps are
, like a book, more than the sum of it’s parts. You can draw on it, make
 notes, mark, rip or burn it. It’s a beautiful object. A map gives fire 
to the imagination, unlike Google’a’like maps which fuels the
curiosity (or kills it) or the Sat-Nav which makes you so dull you
 think only of wheel revolutions and energy consumption. The paper map 
is simple and wonderful. Once I found out the Morocco road trip was happening, the first thing 
I did was get a paper map and spend a few hours in a bar looking at 
it. I live in the French Pyrenees, I use paper maps all the time. I find 
the small backroads and underused tracks, the ‘Lost Highways’ away 
from the Péage and the R.N. (Route National). 
In France, the Péage, the mega highway triple lane routes to take you 
across country at 130 KLM/H, replaced the R.N. Parallel to all Péage there is the R.N option, the alternative route. It’s the route
 less traveled and as ‘Robert Pirsig’ would tell you in ‘Zen and the 
Art of Motorcycle Maintenance', it is the only way. However there is a
 problem… the roundabout.I hate roundabouts. I’m a British immigrant to France and I have 
historical issues with the roundabout. They are everywhere in Britain.
The first roundabout was in a ‘New Town' called Letchworth Garden City 
and if ever there was a reason too flee the UK, the Garden City is
 high on the list. The roundabout spread from the UK, filling Europe, 
usurping the dreaded French 'Priorité a droits’ (give way to the
 right) like a nasty rash. Like nasty rashes, I like to avoid them. I spend a good deal of time looking for a good ride without the 
roundabout, and this road trip to Morocco looked like the perfect
 ‘clear' route option. Morocco is like a paper map, it’s from another
 age. There are not so many roundabouts. But it’s changing. The chicken
pox rash of the roundabouts is coming. You can drive from the Pyrenees
 to Marrakech on Peage all the way…dull as f*ck, but you can do it.
 In fact, I think one can travel the world on dual carriageway … but why 
would you? My trip took me on the B roads through Spain. There are less roads and 
roundabouts in Spain than France and nothing is direct and there are
 bad road direction signs. I was wondering if this was a hangover from 
Franco? A totalitarian state not being keen on movement of the people.
 However, Spain was great and once I went over the sea to the next 
continent, things changed.As I left Tangier, a large flock of black birds flew beside me for a
 good 10 seconds… this was the start of the experience. Out in the
 'backcountry' there are no roundabouts. There are roads that are marked on the map that are washed away, some 
just used by locals. There are very few, almost no road signs and 
according to one hotel concierge, the roads that I’ve ridden on and 
that are marked on the map, he insists don't exist. There are many road blocks, police asking for papers, from the locals
 that is - we tourists get carte blanche, we are waived on, the smooth
 route is for us foreigners, to help ease the money from our pockets 
and into the economy. The police are their roundabouts I guess. I like to use paper maps... and Morocco is like a paper map.
 It too is tactile and from another age. Not everything is laid out for
 you... it’s there but you have to look, and if you look... Morocco is
 amazing.

The last ride #3 Imagine for a moment that there was only one more.A single day, a final chapter, a last ride. Of all the miles covered and all the roads ridden, which would draw you back to experience them one more time?BRAKELESS DESCENTS & ASSISTED ASCENTSCafé du Cycliste Co-Founder // Remi Clermont My Last Ride you said ? So you’re sure ? This is really the last one right? Ok then it’s going to be amazing, I can’t wait !For sure Dad is on that ride and this time I won’t worry about him behaving like a nut on the road. You want to go before me dad, then just keep doing those moves. By the way, how many times have we discussed the possibility of descending your local ‘Col des Trois Epis’ without touching the brakes? Only one way to find out if feasible, try to catch up with me if you’re not not already a useless old man… Phone call to Lance A., Jan U. and Richard V. : “Guys, send me each 10 litres of your best stuff '. Distilled in copper alembic, that makes two full bidons of ‘essential rocket oil’ to fuel my Last Ride. Flying to the moon, up Col de Turini at 25km/h average, 3 times in a row… Hey Kong Fùfù and les amis, “vous comptez les paves”? Guys, it’s a long way home but you are so slow. Oh we are in hypoglycemia ? Let’s stop on that terrasse in the sun, drink the beers, eat the bread and cheese that our bonking body is begging us to ingest…for as as long as we still feel hungry. No more beer ? Bring some wine for the cheese. No more cheese? Bring the Choux a la Creme !! Back on the road in weight weenies mode : helmets, pump, tubes, bidons are left at the café as tips - too heavy for our pace. Passed by a screaming Japanese motorcycle, “Christ on a bike !” let’s do something about that. Human sacrifice of a Kawasaki Ninja pilot on Madonna del Ghisallo, wishes are answered : closed, car free and silk smooth roads. Cool winds on the climbs, warm smell of colitas on the descents.I’m with my pretty lycra boys that I call friends. How they dance on the pedals, sweet summer sweat. Some dance to remember, some dance to forget…Last thing I remember, I was running for the KOM, trying to find the passage back to the place I was before. Relax said Eddy, we are programmed to ride. You can ride your last one any time you like, but you can never leave!MY MARBLE HEARTArmchair Eurosport Critic // Gentleman Rouleur // @saddleblaze If you’re ever cycling through the Apuan Alps and towards the Med from Castelnuovo di Garfagnana on the scenic Strade Provinciale 13 then I dare you to hook a right as soon as you exit the kilometre-long Cipollaio tunnel. Defy the no-entry signs, the potholes and loose gravel, not to mention the borderline comedic gradient. Keep on going right to the top and you’ll be rewarded with the wondrous sight of the immense Cervaiole marble quarry scalping the mountain and presiding over the Tyrrhenian sea, its sheer, white, towering walls illuminated by the sun. Since doing this crazy detour a few summers back, northern Tuscany’s little-known Apuan Alps – and in particular, its myriad marble mines – have become my happy place. I first discovered the nearby Garfagnana region on a mammoth touring ride across Europe while researching my book, Climbs and Punishment: Riding to Rome in the Footsteps of Hannibal. Unfashionable, rustic and quite unlike other Tuscan tourist traps, the area keeps drawing me back – most recently, on a hiking (not biking) holiday during which my girlfriend became my fiancée. So it’s no surprise I’d choose the Alpi Apuane as the backdrop for my Last Ride – a jumbo loop combining the Garfagnana and this stunning offshoot of the Apennines. The 235km route would include three major climbs: the brute that is San Pellegrino in Alpe, the more accommodating ascent to Abetone, and the mysterious, isolated Passo del Vestito. It would start in the magical lake-side hamlet of Vagli Sotto – a great base for mountain exploration whether on foot or on Felt. My companions for the first half of the ride would be Robin and Mark, who I met on that Hannibal ride a few years back. We’d gather in Castelnuovo for a caffeine injection ahead of the schlep up San Pellegrino, the climb that cracked Pantani on the 2000 Giro d’Italia (so many riders struggled on its 18% ramps that the race has never returned since). We’d be riding in autumn, when the leaves have turned and porcini pickers head into the woods with baskets to forage for funghi. At the ski resort of Abetone we’d grab an early lunch of fettucini with wild boar ragu before descending through the forest where, riding in reverse, Fausto Coppi made his name in the 1940 Giro. I’d bid farewell to my chums at Bagni di Lucca (where they’d probably angle for a spa and massage) for my Last Ride wouldn’t be complete without some solitary pedalling. The gentle rise from Castelnouvo – alongside the gorge on the SP13, past the eerie ghost town of Isola Santa and in the shadow of the sublime Monte Sumbra – would provide the me-time I crave while in the saddle. After the Cipollaio tunnel I’d give the quarry detour a miss this time. Besides, the view up from the winding descent is staggering enough: to the untrained eye, the mountain appears snow-capped even in summer. Since Roman times mines have peppered these parts. Michelangelo often hand-picked marble from nearby Carrara while today almost one million tonnes of the stuff is removed annually. I find this collision of industry, culture and nature quite mesmerising. Then again, I think the same of gelato – and in the town of Massa I‘d meet my fiancée and her Specialized for some ice cream before tackling the secluded Passo del Vestito together. Its stack of steep switchbacks near the summit overlook yet more quarries (there’s something Tolkien-esque here – like Mordor without the orcs) while the crowning tunnel – long, potholed and pitch-black – is a reminder why the Vestito is shunned by the Giro. At the deserted Henraux quarry we’d rejoin the SP13 before peeling off on the narrow up-and-over “short-cut” back to Vagli Sotto. This final sting in the tail sees the road cling vertiginously to a cliff above the reservoir at Isola Santa and opposite the jagged Uomo Morto ridge on the horizon. Surrounded by a canopy of chestnut trees, the autumn colours here are a wonder. At Caraggine, overlooking Lake Vagli, we’d glimpse the sun setting beyond Monte Pisanino – the tallest of the Apuan peaks – then freewheel down for pizza and plonk at the local family-run restaurant. As for the rest of my Last Ride – it’s none of your business, I‘m afraid.THE RETURN TO LAGO DI COMOCycling Photographer // Milano Resident // @pedaleforchetta A large amount of the kilometers I clock each year are pedalled around the Lago di Como. I really love the place. It is quite close to Milano where I live and even if it is nestled in the middle of the most industrialized region of Italy, in my opinion it is still a wild place. This part of the region is full of surprises for all those cyclists looking for different rides each weekend: from riding close to the shores, especially between Como and Lecco, to climbing over the beautiful mountains - how not to mention the Ghisallo with the famous and sacred little church of the ‘Madonna del Ghisallo’, patroness of the cyclists and the lovely Cycling Museum next to the church? The landscape shows plenty of colours and shades, while offering strong challenges to the cyclist. … yes, exactly… I am thinking about the famous Muro di Sormano which stands out in the area. The ride that I love most is the one that in our cycling community is simply called “Onno”. The Onno ride was the first place, when I was young, where I really started suffering to keep the pace of the pack or, in other words, where I understood what cycling was all about. At that time Onno was the fixed Sunday ride. I wasn't a strong cyclist (yet) and the mileage of the loop looked very frightening to me. As a matter of fact I still remember the helpless glances exchanged between me and my fellow riders as soon as I started to loose ground from them… The meeting point of all cyclists directed to the north of Milano - to the “Brianza” - is in front of the Villa Reale in Monza, a historic building dating back to the period when the region was part of the Austrian Empire. My Last Ride would have to be here, with all those faces of the various seasoned riders who I have shared this road with. Those early rides shaped me as a cyclist and it's where I return. The road from Monza to Onno is not flat. It goes slightly uphill with some muretti to climb during the way - nothing to do, however, with the terrific Muro di Sormano. On the top of one of these muretti, a beautiful panorama unveils in front of you: the Corni di Canzo mountains, the Grigna massif and the beautiful Resegone mountain with its nine peaks of similar height! But the best is yet to come. In fact, at some point, you reach the Lago di Como and after passing through two tunnels you happen to ride along its shores. This road, the road from Lecco to Onno is what the phrase ‘panoramic road’ is all about with the water of the lake on your right along the narrow road and the woody mountains on your left until you reach the small village of Onno, where the climb starts, the same where Fiorenzo Magni, the winner of three in a row Tour of Flanders, used to train. It is not a very long climb, nor very steep and that is why we enjoy it so much… we can pretend to be great climbers … Hey! We are amateurs! The road back to Milano is cycled at full speed and sometimes, when the cars traffic is low, the way back is one of the most exhilarating experience I can describe. During my early days I was dropped by the group, left to make a lonely return to Milan whilst dreaming of impossible revenges on the slopes of the hills and planning more training during the week days. For my Last Ride I would be at the front, taking turns, driving the pace, flicking elbows for the others to come through. This run home is pure cycling. You feel at one with your bike, speed is high but the road is safe, the peloton works like a well-oiled machine. Everything is just perfect. I am lucky: I have a lot of friends that I have known for decades and with whom I share the passion of a ride. So much of the fun and satisfaction that I feel when I ride is due to them. During the years we also faced those common problems and incidents you can encounter on the road as cyclists, but we are together and that is the reason for my loving cycling so much. For sure, they are with me on my Last Ride, eating up the road, sharing stories, providing company until the finish.