Results for "Rouen+|+127"

Bonjour, Je suis habitué à suivre les canaux, c'est plat et agréable, mais quand malgré tout se présente une côte raide, j'ai quelques difficultés. Si je mouline trop, l'équilibre devient précaire, à 5 à l'heure en côte, les écarts sont importants. Je roule avec des sacoches, j'ai essayé la remorque, c'est encore plus dur et suis revenu aux sacoches. D'après vos récits vous ne semblez pas avoir trop de problèmes? J'ai, dans ma tête, imaginé une solution: mettre une petite roue amovible sur le côté pour transformer le vélo en tricycle le temps d'une montée importante, col par exemple et l'enlever dès le sommet. Quelqu'un a t'il expérimenté cette idée, ou une meilleure idée, ou une technique à apprendre???? Jules

Bonjour a tous, je vis en Californie depuis 5 mois, je n'ai pas le permis francais donc je l'ai passe ici.(Tres facilement d'ailleur) Maintenant mon probleme c'est qu'a la fin juin je pars bosser sur un projet touristique pendant 2 ans en Amerique Centrale, j'aurais donc besoin de conduire, malheureusement, mon permis Californien expire FIN JUIN 🙁.

Je suis donc pris au piege, il me faudrait le permis international, que je ne peux avoir qu'en france, mais je ne peux absolument pas me permetre de perdre 3 ou 4 mois a passer mon permis en france, ou bien mon projet tombe a l'eau, surtout que je sais deja conduire(25 000km sur les routes americaines)

Mon seul moyen serait un echange, mais ils ne le font pas en californie, il faudrait alors que j'aille passer le permis en Floride la ou l'echange est possible, mais je ne sais pas vraiment comment ca marche, il me semble qu'il faut prouver que je suis reste plusieurs mois la bas ? ou bien puis je juste le passer et revenir en californie ?!

J'ai vraiment besoin d'aide, ca me deprime completement, je ne sais plus quoi faire..... surtout que j'ai des problemes de jambes qui font que je ne peux quasiment pas marcher, avoir eu le permis californien fut une liberation pour moi, je ne pourrais jamais me passer de cette magnifique boite en metal a 4 roues... !

Bonjour à tous,

Mon départ approche à grands pas et il me reste encore quelques questions, dont celle-ci : Mon séjour (et 2011 !) s'achèveront sur Koh Lanta. Je poserai sac et fatigue pendant quatre jours à Klong Nin. Jusqu'à présent, j'envisageais de me promener seule et sagement via tuk-tuk. Mais des âmes impétueuses me disent que rouler en mob est à la porté de tout le monde. Là, j'en appelle à vos sages conseils. Car, premièrement, la Thaïlande et Koh Lanta ne sont pas les vertes routes nationales de nos contrées. Deuxièmement, je ne suis pas "tout le monde" mais une version féminine de Pierre Richard qui n'a jamais conduit de deux roues à moteur. Bon, en ma faveur, la royale maîtrise du vélo à Paris, ce qui n'est pas rien, mais cela n'a sans doute rien à voir. Sachant qu'il ne s'agit pas de jouer les Easy Rider les cheveux dans le vent mais de se déplacer pépère de manière autonome (de jour, les yeux grands ouverts, avé le casque itou) et que nous serons fin décembre (pas -trop- de pluie), la location en solo d'une mob (et non d'un scooter, qui est un tout autre bestiau, si j'ai bien compris) vous semble-t-elle tout à fait envisageable, plutôt envisageable, surtout pas envisageable pour la blonde que je suis ?

Merci et à très bientôt !

Bonjour,

Je lance une discussion sur les expériences vécues (les pépins en fait) aux Etats-Unis, en voiture (de location). Ceci montrera que les incidents n'arrivent pas qu'aux autres, et c'est toujours sympa d'avoir un retour d'infos pour savoir que faire dans ces moments de grande solitude.

Je vais donc commencer :

Pépin n°1 : dans Séquoia NP, on roulait tranquillement dans l'après-midi vers notre dernière destination (un grand séquoia surement), quand tout à coup : crevaison. Je passe le changement sur roue de secours avec l'aide d'aimables touristes suisses (d'autres voyageurs se sont également arrêtés, merci à tous). Retour donc direct à l'hôtel situé à Tulare (c'est à dire pas la porte à côté) en ne dépassant pas la vitesse autorisée (avec la roue de secours) voire un peu moins on ne sait jamais (le voyant roue sous-gonflée clignotait dangereusement, c'était pas le moment de crever un autre pneu). A cette vitesse on n'a pas osé prendre l'Interstate/Highway. Donc on a pris de très jolis chemins bucoliques de derrière les fagots indiqués par notre gps. Une campagne de toute beauté à la vitesse d'un escargot, on a mis 2 bonnes heures pour rentrer.

J'ai tenté un numéro inscrit sur le contrat de Budget : mon anglais de française moyenne n'a pas été compris par l'interlocuteur qui m'a conseillé de faire rappeler quelqu'un qui pouvait tenir une conversation. J'ai donc demandé aux réceptionnistes du best western : l'un m'a dit que ce n'était pas dans ses attributions, et la dame qui a eu pitié de moi a bien voulu m'aider mais pas du téléphone de l'accueil ($$$), donc de celui de ma chambre, elle a hésité en me demandant qui était dans ma chambre (prudente la dame).

L'histoire s'est bien arrangé puisque Budget nous a proposé de changer la voiture à l'aéroport de Fresno, ouf c'était pile sur notre itinéraire. Donc Tulare- Fresno pour la route qui longe l'autoroute, le tout à petite vitesse, on ne sait jamais. On a perdu du temps mais ça ne nous a rien coûté (et on n'avait pas d'assurance crevaison, juste les assurances conseillées par notre carte de paiement + "celle si on écrase quelqu'un")

Pépin n°2 : on était tranquillement garé dans un parking à touristes au LakeTahoe. On revient de notre ballade : on avait on joli gnon dans le pare-choc arrière de la voiture qu'on avait récupéré 3-4 jours avant à Fresno, avec un petit mot sur le pare-brise (sorry, I hit the back of your car). OK, c'est pas grand chose, mais qu'est-ce que ça peut gâcher un peu les vacances (penser qu'il faut repasser des coups de fil in english, remplir des papiers d'accident in english). Là le gars de l'accueil de l'hôtel (best tahoe inn) a pas tergiversé 2 secondes et a passé tous les coups de fils utiles (merci Sean). Nous n'avions qu'à appeler l'assistance de la carte de paiement pour connaitre les démarches (plutôt simples et à faire en revenant de vacances).

Donc nous revoilà partis sur la route de nos vacances avec le stress du "jamais 2 sans 3"

tout s'est bien passé jusqu'à la fin. Mais en voyant les pneus éclatés, et les camions en surchauffe sur le bas-côté, on en menait pas large.

Sinon, budget ne nous a pas tenu rigueur du gnon à l'arrière de la voiture. Nous n'avons jamais reçu de facture (nous avions quand même fait une déclaration d'accident).

Je passe le relais

Vini

Bonjour à tous Je pars dans 4 semaine pour le LAos à vélo avec ma petite de 6 ans dans la charette (c'est sa deuxième expérience après la Thailande il y a deux ans). Je fais une boucle de 3 semaines depuis Pakse: plateau des bolovens jusqu'à Donchan/sekong- descente jusquà Attapeu- Champassak_ région des 4000 iles- retour Thailande puis train pour BKK.

Ma grosse interrogation concerne le tronçon Attapeu- Champassak, via Sanamxai. J'ai lu que cette partie était vraiment difficile (piste chaotique, nombreuses rivières à traverser), voire impossible avec une charette. Qui aurait des infos? Est-il possible, au cas où je me retrouverais coincé sur ce tronçon, de mettre vélo-charette sur un camion? (ou plutôt y a-t-il des camions qui empruntent cette piste?)

Merci d'avance pour vos réponses

James

Cycling Through Provence's Big Climbs

In the autumn of 2011, Provence was hit by apocalyptic weather—torrential rain and a particularly violent east wind, reaching 130 kilometers per hour, whipping up waves as high as seven meters. It wasn’t the best time to venture outside. Yet, I told myself that after the storm, calm would return. I kept an eye on the weather forecast and noticed that starting November 10th, a favorable window should open for a little 600-kilometer cycling trip across Provence. The weather reports promised a high-pressure system that would keep the bad weather at bay over these highlands. That was all I needed to decide to set off. The planned route would take me through Provence’s biggest climbs: Mont Ventoux, Montagne de Lure, the Verdon Gorge, the Massif des Maures, and Sainte-Baume.

And so, despite my doubts, the call of adventure was stronger. The train pulled away, and once again, a journey began at Part-Dieu station. This time, I headed toward Haute-Provence for a cycling adventure. It would be my first solo bike trip. I was a little nervous—cycling with panniers makes you feel vulnerable to theft. I’d already been robbed while traveling in a group in Peru, and that experience left me deeply shaken. Alone, I hesitated. But no need to panic—I’d read accounts from long-distance cyclists who hadn’t been robbed, even if it does happen sometimes. I was particularly thinking of a young schoolteacher who had taken a sabbatical to cycle around the world. Her students had remarked, "Teacher, you’re not sporty—how will you manage to cycle around the world?" This young woman was full of resourcefulness. In South America, before flying to China, she locked her bike to a post to take care of a natural need. When she returned, the post had been torn out, and her bike—along with all her gear—was gone. It was a shock for many, but not for her. She boarded her flight to the Middle Kingdom, bought the essentials (including a new bike) once there, and continued her journey! Remembering this story, I almost felt ashamed of my cowardice. These were the thoughts running through my mind as the Rhône Valley rolled by toward Orange, the starting point of my Provençal adventure through the big climbs.

Day One: Orange to Sault via Mont Ventoux – 90 km

9:30 AM, I stepped off the train. With all my gear, I had to navigate the underground passage—no easy feat, given that my bike and luggage weighed 35 kilos. At this time of year, I expected some areas to be deserted, so I’d packed enough to bivouac comfortably. Once outside the station, the southern light flooded over me. I understood why people dream of retiring in these sun-drenched regions. As always, after disembarking from public transport, I had to get my bearings and decide which way to go. The sun, still low on the horizon, pointed east. The roar of fighter jet engines helped me locate the Air Base 115. That was all I needed to "reset the gyros."

As soon as I started pedaling, all my apprehensions vanished. The joy of discovery and physical effort took over, and euphoria washed over me. It’s amazing how emotions can shift from one moment to the next based on seemingly minor circumstances.

The weather was splendid—the forecast had predicted continuous showers, but it was completely wrong. I quickly left the city behind. Mont Ventoux loomed mysteriously, its dimensions hard to gauge. It was even more enigmatic with its summit hidden beneath swirling, mottled clouds clinging to the ridges. It reminded me of a great South American volcano. I struggled to imagine that in a few hours, I’d be up there under that blanket of mist.

The countryside was shaking off its autumnal nighttime dampness. The vineyards, interspersed with tall cypress hedges, confirmed I was in the magnificent Côtes du Rhône wine region. The distinctive Dentelles de Montmirail were very much in evidence. The air force base wasn’t far. I passed the runway’s end markers. A Mirage 2000 flew overhead in a tight turn, followed by another roaring into takeoff. It came straight at me before climbing sharply with a thunderous roar. Thirty years spent in that captivating world came rushing back. I recalled countless extraordinary human and technical experiences from my time in the service. But the purpose of this post isn’t to promote the air force—though I might post some articles one day about travels among men at war.

I continued on my way, leaving my past loves behind. As I pedaled, delightful names rolled by: Violès, Vacqueyras, Gigondas, Beaumes-de-Venise—the crème de la crème of the Côtes du Rhône Villages appellation. I let myself be enchanted by the vineyards and the little paths crisscrossing them. I started to doubt my route, though the imposing mass of Mont Ventoux in the distance acted like a giant beacon. At a crossroads, a car appeared. I approached to ask the driver for directions, but she didn’t even look at me and sped off, clearly frightened. I’d almost forgotten what a fearful world we live in, no doubt traumatized by all the horrors we see in the news and on TV.

The kilometers started adding up, but was my day’s goal too ambitious? It had been two months since I’d last ridden my bike. True, my last trip had been good training—the Route des Grandes Alpes—but that was two months ago. I can’t just take my bike out for a day trip; I need that sense of adventure to find the courage to exercise.

Two cyclists overtook me. Intrigued by my load, they struck up a conversation. They were skeptical when I told them I planned to cross Mont Ventoux that day. One of them pointed out a small chapel near the summit where I could bivouac sheltered. That motivated me even more to reach the top on this first stage. The chapel also had a mythical name for me—Sainte-Anne, the name of my parents’ villa. It was already noon, and I’d covered 50 kilometers. Malaucène appeared—the sacred village of Ventoux’s mad cyclists. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any other cyclists today. I remembered this place in June, teeming with aspirants for the king of summits. Before tackling the climb ahead, I needed to refuel. I enjoyed a pleasant gastronomic break at Max’s. At 1 PM, I started the most famous climb in cycling—21 kilometers, which would actually be 23. I knew it would be tough, especially with two handicaps: 50 kilometers already in my legs and 20 kilos of luggage. But I was counting on my tiny chainring, which let me climb trees to tackle the steep ramps.

I set off at a brisk pace along a deserted road. My speed held up for the first few kilometers. I quickly rose above the valley, the horizon widening. I was surprised to see no one on this world-renowned route among cycling enthusiasts. During the climb and descent, I’d only see five cyclists—but I’ll come back to that. I passed a sign explaining that the effort would be roughly equivalent to climbing the Col de la Bonnette. Having done the latter in September, I figured I’d be fine. I crossed paths with my first cyclist—a woman speeding downhill. After 12 kilometers, I hit slopes averaging 12%. I don’t know if the number 12 is cursed, but I got such a "bamboo" hit that I’d never experienced before. I thought I wouldn’t make it to the summit today. I stopped. My thighs burned so much I could barely walk—lactic acid overload. I looked for a relatively flat spot to pitch my tent. It was 3:30 PM, with two hours of daylight left. But I found nothing.

I got back on my bike, intending to stop as soon as I found a good bivouac spot. But nothing came up. However, my strength slowly returned, perhaps because the slope eased, though it remained around 10%. I entered the summit mists. A cyclist overtook me. I was in the zone where I had to pass the summit. Dusk caught me in the final difficulties. The atmosphere was downright austere. In the twilight, a kilometer from the summit, a cyclist was fixing his bike. I asked if he needed help. He made it clear he didn’t understand. So I asked, "Do you need some help?" His answer was clear: "No, thank you." He showed me his new inner tube. Inside, I thought, "Phew!" If I’d had to stop, sweating in the falling night with the cold intensifying, I’d have struggled to get going again. But he managed, and I continued into the twilight fog. I could barely make out the summit’s large antennas in the clouds, like immense ghosts trying to evade sight. The bike delivered sensations worthy of mountain racing. My goal was to quickly find the famous chapel in the descent to take shelter. As I glided down the southern slope, two cyclists without lights crossed my path in the night—probably heading to the station above, its lights visible in the fog.

I scanned the roadside in the dark for the chapel but saw nothing. After a kilometer or two, I lost all hope. I stopped to put on more clothes as the cold became intense. I had no idea where I could stop on these steep slopes to set up camp. Between the swirls of mist, I could intermittently see the Rhône Valley below, dotted with illuminated towns and villages. The sight was striking. What was I doing on this mountain at night? Then the miracle happened—the clouds parted, and from the ridge above me to the east, a beautiful full moon emerged, casting enough light to consider a nighttime descent to Sault, 26 kilometers away.

In this eerie atmosphere between the moon’s pale rays and patches of fog, I began my descent through a hazy, almost unreal world. The Ventoux’s characteristic white scree reflected the moonlight faintly, dimmed by the mist. In places, entire mountainsides were plunged into complete darkness, and I lost all sense of the road’s path. Then, around a tight bend caused by a land shift, the light returned. It seemed extreme compared to the darkness I’d left behind. I could once again clearly see the road’s contours, though not its potholes or gravel patches. Still, I let the slope carry me, and the speed felt significant, though the low light prevented me from reading my speedometer. In these moments, concentration was at its peak—all senses alert, reflexes ready to react to the slightest incident that could lead to a fall.

I was relieved to see Sault’s lights growing closer. In less than an hour, I reached it, considering the final little climb that required one last push. This village, bustling in summer, was deserted at this time of year—almost dead. The first hotel I came across was closed. A quick shadow passed in a small sloping street. Before it disappeared into the darkness at a house corner, I chased after it and asked about accommodation options. Very kindly, I was directed to what was probably the only hotel open in November. I quickly found it, and the reception was open. I entered wearing my black balaclava, bought in the Ayacucho region—the birthplace of Peru’s Shining Path. At this late hour, I saw questioning glances directed at me. I prefaced, "This isn’t a hold-up." Clearly, the owners had a sense of humor—they started smiling. I took off my balaclava and asked for a room. No problem, and from that moment, the pressure eased. I really didn’t feel like going back out to find a spot to pitch my tent in the biting cold.

The stage had been nearly 100 kilometers, and it was the first. It had been two months since I’d touched my bike, and I probably lacked even minimal training, even though my last bike trip had been crossing the French Alps. I really had to dig deep to overcome my weakness on Ventoux’s steep section. I don’t remember ever having to search so deeply for the energy to keep going. I knew the stage I’d set for tomorrow was significant, with the climb up Montagne de Lure’s northern slope—Ventoux’s little sister, whose ascent is reputed to be endless, over 25 kilometers. I hoped this first day wouldn’t leave me too sore to avoid suffering excessively tomorrow.

For now, relaxation—a hot shower did me a world of good, followed by a good meal. I ate a delicious andouillette from Troyes, very fine, with a particularly successful herb seasoning. I loved it, and yet I’m from Lyon and pride myself on knowing a thing or two about andouillette—not just a sausage but a whole category! A bit chauvinistic, I had to admit, though reluctantly, that I found it better than the ones I usually eat in the Lyon region!

Day Two: Sault to Forcalquier via Montagne de Lure – 116 km

This morning, the weather was magnificent—the air clear, still, very fresh, and invigorating, as only the late season can offer on these Provençal highlands. In summer, they’re known for their scorching heat and drought, but often overlooked is how harsh they can be with cold and storms. Authors like Giono or Bosco described them and their inhabitants wonderfully in books like "Les Âmes Fortes."

The miracle of the night had worked. I wasn’t sore anywhere and felt in great shape. I set off well-equipped, but the effort and sun soon made me sweat. It was time to shed some layers—hat and gloves. A gentle warmth replaced the cold, making for excellent cycling conditions. On the road to Trinit, there was no traffic—only the occasional hunters’ cars parked in the distance. These vehicles were recognizable by their large cages, used to transport hunting dogs. Sometimes, the silence was broken by a distant gunshot. The deciduous forests were losing their foliage, taking on that dull brown hue of late autumn, though here and there, a tree or shrub still resisted, displaying vivid yellow or red. The meadows, their grass already scorched by the cold, were damp from the night’s heavy humidity. The low sun highlighted thousands of spider webs that had trapped insects during the warm season.

Behind me, Mont Ventoux dominated these vast spaces. As often, its imposing, stony summit was crowned with a blanket of clouds. What an impressive mountain—it’s always so hard to gauge its dimensions. I struggled to realize that last night I’d been at the summit and descended its immense southern ridge in the dark. I hoped to return one day in favorable conditions—daylight and no clouds—to enjoy the vast panorama from this unique summit.

Leaving the very Provençal village of Trinit, I tackled my first climb of the day—the Col de l’Homme Mort. The road rose moderately for five kilometers in gentle warmth. The view over the region widened, and I felt the sheer joy of pedaling. At a good pace, I overcame this first little challenge. Once at the pass, I couldn’t resist the ritual of photographing my bike in front of the sign, giving the name and altitude—1,213 meters.

The northern slope was austere and still in shadow. The cold bit again. The road was wet and covered with leaves in places. It wasn’t impossible that some treacherous patches of black ice lurked around a bend. I descended toward the Jabron Valley with caution. Suddenly, around a bend in a forest clearing, the freshly snow-covered Alps, gleaming in the sun, leapt into view, blocking the horizon. I thought I recognized the distinctive silhouette of the Écrins’ south face above a multitude of jagged peaks.

This snow and these mountains awakened a flood of memories of great joys, but I also thought of the guide and his client who had just lost their lives on the Grandes Jorasses’ north face, at the top of a route called the Linceul. The name comes from the face’s appearance—a great ice slope bordering the Grandes Jorasses’ north wall. It was first climbed by René Desmaison in 1968. He passed away a few years ago and, in his final wishes, asked that his ashes be scattered in the Dévoluy Massif at the foot of Pic de Bure, not far from here in these immense pre-Alpine folds.

At my feet, the Jabron Valley stretched almost endlessly east toward Sisteron. In the distance, the dark mass of Montagne de Lure’s north face loomed. This mountain shares similarities with Mont Ventoux. It has the same summit scree of bright limestone, the same forests climbing up to the final rocky stretch, and that blanket of clouds adding a secretive, austere touch to the scene.

I turned left past the town of Séderon and headed toward the little Col de la Pigière, which in a few kilometers allowed me to truly plunge into the beautiful Jabron Valley. I passed through several villages with charming local names—Saint-Vincent, Noyer-sur-Jabron. The river offered lovely views of its narrow gorges with clear, cold water. Autumn seemed less advanced here than on the plateau I’d just left. Many trees still wore brilliant colors, some revealing extraordinary hues—mixes of crimson, pink, and bright red.

Arriving in Noyer-sur-Jabron, I took a tiny road on the river’s right bank, leading in a few kilometers to the foot of Montagne de Lure. In the village of Valbelle, I picnicked on leftovers I’d brought from home—an old cheese and a somewhat stale loaf of bread. It was 1:30 PM. I began the long climb of about 25 kilometers. According to a friend who’s a cycling expert in the region, this section is tough. No wonder it’s called Ventoux’s little sister—the Mont Blanc of cyclists. The elevation gain on this side is still 1,200 meters, while Ventoux via Malaucène is nearly 1,600 meters.

I hoped to reach the summit before nightfall and avoid reliving a nighttime descent. The route wound through a vast forest, following the terrain’s folds. There was activity—mushroom hunters were busy searching for the coveted chanterelle. The climb, though never very steep (only one kilometer at 9%), was interminable. Though traffic was practically nonexistent, I was overtaken by a group of Harley bikers—I counted about forty. Perched high on their machines, hands in the air on wildly shaped handlebars, some with their feet nearly in the sky due to the high footpegs, they didn’t even glance my way. What’s this idiot doing, unable to ride a motorcycle and forced to climb these mountains on a bike with big bags! I wasn’t offended—real Harley purists often see other motorcyclists as renegades, so bikes are even lower on the totem pole! But I didn’t want to start a debate about motorcycles. In my youth, when I was a wild motorcyclist (22 accidents on two wheels), clans were divided into Japanese, German, Italian, and British bike owners. The latter, on their vibrating, oil-leaking machines, considered themselves the purest. But let’s not fight—there’s a statute of limitations, and it’s been nearly forty years.

As yesterday, a few kilometers below the summit, I entered the fog, and the light dropped suddenly. What a hostile mountain in these conditions! It heightened the sense of living an incredible experience. The conditions we encounter play a major role in how the adventure imprints on our memory. I realized once again that in France, you can feel like you’re very far away. Finally, after this very long climb, the Pas de Graille sign suddenly appeared out of the grayness. Strange! Below the sign, a kilometer marker indicated this same pass was over three kilometers away. Clearly, the climb continued. In these final kilometers through the scree, I gained another 130 meters of elevation. Finally, the road’s high point was reached—1,720 meters. It was cold and damp. I quickly covered up, added my balaclava under my helmet, and put on warm gloves. As I was about to start the descent, a car stopped at the summit, and one of the passengers was surprised to find a bike there in these chilly, twilight conditions.

A 20-kilometer descent led me to the village of Saint-Étienne-les-Orgues. I hoped to find a place to stay for the night. No such luck! Everything was clearly closed—no chance of finding shelter. Tonight was getting complicated. I already had exactly 100 kilometers in my legs and didn’t feel like pedaling anymore, especially at night. But I had even less desire to sleep outside. What to do to avoid it? The town of Forcalquier was 16 kilometers away—I hoped the road would descend. I set off in that direction. The first third was along a beautiful, lightly trafficked departmental road with a slight downhill—I pedaled hard. But it got tougher. I joined a busier road, and night had fallen. A several-kilometer climb finished the journey. I knew my magnetic lights weren’t very powerful—hence the danger. They were even less so on the climb because the slower I went, the less they illuminated. Cars coming the opposite way often saw me late and blinded me with their high beams. After passing, I was plunged into total darkness for a few seconds while my pupils readjusted to the night. I imagined those coming up behind me saw me with little warning, despite my slightly fluorescent jacket. When the roadside was clear, I always positioned myself to quickly jump off the road. But unfortunately, in this long final climb, a guardrail prevented any escape to the right in case of sudden braking behind me. That was even more anxiety-inducing since I was stuck at a snail’s pace. Time seemed long. I pedaled as hard as I could, on the verge of asphyxiation, trying to escape this dangerous situation as quickly as possible. My only reference point was the vehicles in front of me, letting me know the climb wasn’t over. Then suddenly, the ordeal ended—the road’s high point was reached. The town and its lights emerged from the void, and clarity returned. Phew! I glided down toward this little town bathed in light. On November 11th, I hoped to find an open hotel since I’d clearly exceeded 100 kilometers, and the idea of having to leave town to find a bivouac spot somewhat frightened me.

I arrived in the town center. Activity was low. The first hotel was closed, but I spotted a lit sign for another establishment further on. I headed there, got off my bike, and entered. The welcome was immediately friendly—a big cat came to rub against me. For me, that was a very good sign, and the first impression was confirmed. I still had to go out to eat. I covered the minimum distance. A restaurant advertised "Mom’s Cooking." I expected Provençal specialties, but they were Moroccan. I chose a delicious tagine with lime and olives, followed by almond and honey ice cream. Exhausted after this 116-kilometer stage, I returned to my room. As often after intense efforts, it was hard to fall asleep.

Day Three: Forcalquier to Moustiers-Sainte-Marie – 58 km

On this third day, due to the progress made yesterday, the stage would be short. I’d call it a transition between two mountain ranges. Indeed, the next big climb is the Verdon Gorge. I planned to position myself at its foot this evening in preparation for a tough stage tomorrow. I made a few purchases—bread, bananas, and medicine for stomach burns (the midday sausage wasn’t always kind to me). The weather was still perfect. The route began with a long descent toward the Durance. It’s always nice to start a cycling day with a downhill—it boosts morale and allows for a gentle warm-up.

I quickly reached the town of Oraison. Just at its entrance, I crossed the Durance, which still bore traces of last week’s heavy rains along its sandbanks. Indeed, numerous stumps and trunks were scattered along its vast gravel bed, along with less ecological debris like old tires.

A little south of Oraison, I took the D907, a small road heading due east between scrubland and meadows. There it was—the Provence we imagine. This stable autumn weather, with still air, neither hot nor cold, just a fresh feeling when emerging from a shaded valley or a slight warmth under the sun, was ideal for a cyclist. After about ten kilometers at the bottom of a small valley I quickly passed through, the village of Le Brunet appeared on the right. It clung to the slopes leading to the Valensole Plateau. A few steep kilometers along a tiny winding road, and suddenly a vast panorama unfolded as the climb ended.

What a magnificent plateau! Though known for its wind, luckily today was completely calm. Far to the east, the Verdon’s great cliffs blocked the horizon. This allowed me to contemplate part of tomorrow’s stage. This place is full of mysteries—many UFO and extraterrestrial encounter stories are associated with it. Moreover, for about thirty years, France hid its ground-to-ground nuclear ballistic missiles here, grouped in the 1st GMS (Ballistic Missile Group), under the air force. Naturally, these rockets fueled fantasies, and pacifist groups settled in the region to protest this type of armament. This gives many reasons to shroud this austere, deserted land in mystery.

I took a dirt path leading to the heart of this zone and stopped at the forest’s edge for lunch. The silence was total, the view stretched very far. But nothing strange or bizarre manifested. No Martian came to share my frankly moldy cheese, very peppery sausage, or bruised banana—sniff! I resumed my route, and as often when crossing places with strong character, I tended to slow down to enjoy them longer. The immense lavender fields stretched endlessly, not very fragrant at this season. I arrived at a group of truffle oaks protected by a fence, with large red signs warning "Firearm." Clearly, the war for the black diamond was raging in this region. I remembered a novel where an old farmer made buyers believe nothing grew on his land. Every year, he secretly stole the mushrooms from the unsuspecting owners. Then one day, they discovered the truth, catching this "polite" neighbor trying to hide a basket full of beautiful, large truffles!

In these vast spaces, I felt good—a sense of plenitude. It’s strange that I only conceive of cycling through wandering. I struggle to plan a day trip. And if I do, it’s highly likely I won’t get up. I need that sense of adventure to fully appreciate my physical effort. Maybe one day I should get psychoanalyzed, but at my age, it’s probably too late! Today, I had all the time in the world—the stage was half as long as yesterday’s, with very little elevation gain. Not a sound, an impressive calm, a beautiful landscape—I pedaled in a wonderful place. That’s probably happiness!

I reached the village of Puimoisson on the plateau’s eastern edge—only 12 kilometers left to Moustiers. I took my time, sat at a café terrace in the sun, and leisurely enjoyed a coffee while listening to the village come to life. I was delighted by these melodious southern voices, bursting into great laughter. There are places where, despite the anxieties caused by our debt-ridden, dysfunctional societies, some have decided to take life on the bright side and show a saving insouciance.

The rest of the journey was a simple formality—I let the slope carry me toward the pretty little town of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, clinging to the cliff and famous for its faïence. Arriving early for once, I went to the tourist office to choose a comfortable hotel. Indeed, the Hôtel des Restanques was very comfortable and admirably well-located. But at this time of year, I’d have to return to the village center for dinner. The very kind receptionist reserved a table for me at La Treille Muscate, a restaurant with a magnificently arranged room on the church square. It was only 3:30 PM—I continued to take my time, showering and relaxing in front of the TV. Then I set off to explore—or rather, re-explore—this village I’d visited several times before. But I’d never climbed to its chapel perched in the middle of the great cliff towering over the houses. A stony, aerial path led there. The first mentions of the Notre-Dame de Beauvoir chapel, known in ancient times as Notre-Dame d’Entre-Roches, date back to the 9th century. It’s one of the rare "respite" chapels found in Provence. These are chapels where stillborn children were brought to be revived for a few moments, just long enough to baptize them. They could then be buried religiously, ensuring the salvation of their souls. I was also very moved by reading some ex-votos, like the one from "A mother for her three children returned from the war."

The place was impressive, especially as night fell. I was alone and watched the shadows fill the great cliffs above me. With an old climber’s reflex, I looked for possible climbing routes among these slabs and cracks. But climbing is probably forbidden here, too close to the houses. Then I descended to stroll through the village, admiring the magnificent, finely crafted faïence patterns found in many shops. Finally, dinnertime arrived, and I joined my restaurant, which had been highly recommended. I was delighted by the foie gras ravioli and the pieds et paquets—the chef’s specialty. I’ll come back with family.

Day Four: Moustiers to Fréjus via the Verdon – 122 km

A hearty breakfast prepared me for the day’s tough efforts. Next to me, four Chinese people chatted animatedly. Of course, I didn’t understand a word—it was a language with strange intonations and sounds. I left the dining room and prepared my bike on the terrace. Seeing the volume of my luggage, my Chinese friends rushed over and asked to take turns having their photo taken in front of this funny setup. All laughing, they took photos in front of what they probably considered a French coolie off on some trading business! When they show these photos to their relatives, they’ll likely be perplexed about what motivates some to travel by bike rather than car. For them, the car is a symbol of success—according to an article I read last year, 14,000 cars are registered in China every day!

This morning, the air was fresh. As yesterday, I started with a long descent, this time leading to the edge of Lac de Sainte-Croix. A strong, biting headwind slowed me down. It wouldn’t last, as it was generated by the gorge’s outlet, which I’d reach in a few kilometers. On this cold morning, the lake’s shores exuded great tranquility. The sun was still hidden behind the Verdon’s mountainous mass. Trees with yellow leaves stood out against the water’s pale blue. The bridge marking the gorge’s beginning at the lake’s edge was an ideal spot to admire this natural splendor. At this early hour, the play of light and shadow on the water and the immense cliffs delivered a grandiose spectacle in beautiful harmony. This first contact with the gorges, which I knew well, amazed me.

Once past the bridge, the wind calmed. A little further on, I began the long climb that would take me to the top of this immense natural gash, which water had taken millions of years to carve. I was in good shape and highly motivated by the splendors to come. First, I reached the village of Aiguines, which offered a magnificent viewpoint over the lake. Then I continued toward the Corniche Sublime, where countless breathtaking panoramas unfolded as I progressed. But the climb was sustained and long, requiring effort—though my small chainring worked miracles. I first passed the Col d’Illoire, already 500 meters above the lake. Seeing all these great cliffs, countless climbing memories came flooding back. The classic routes of the Escalès cliff, over 300 meters high, flashed by. Routes with legendary names—La Demande, Les Écureuils, Luna-Bong, and many others. The one that left me with the best memory was ULA—a crack, vertical or even overhanging, of sheer beauty rising above a 40-meter slab in one go for 280 meters of sustained, beautiful climbing on extraordinary rock. It made me want to return to climb there, to immerse myself in the atmosphere of those past times. But climbing habits have changed—now routes are accessed from above by rappel, and people don’t always bother to do these great climbs in their entirety, focusing instead on shorter but technically much more difficult enterprises.

At almost every bend, I stopped and scanned these great cliffs, searching for memories of past experiences and emotions in these secret rock folds. The road climbed well above the pass, exceeding 1,200 meters. It was cool, especially since I was sweating. Finally reaching the high point of the Corniche Sublime, I couldn’t gain speed on the descent—my gaze was always drawn to this astonishing canyon. Around a bend, two cyclists with funny small-wheeled bikes. Wow! It was a couple of Australians doing a year-long tour of France. We chatted passionately about our two-wheeled experiences for a moment. But time was passing, and if I wanted to reach Fréjus before nightfall, I’d have to pedal seriously.

I stopped at the Pont de l’Artuby, where bungee jumping was in full swing. But I quickly set off again toward Comps. The wind was against me, and it was climbing. I started to doubt whether I’d make it to the coast that evening. At 2 PM, I was in Comps-sur-Artuby. I didn’t stop, knowing that before reaching the coast, I’d have no alternative to bivouacking, and I had 70 kilometers left to cover. Sure, it should be downhill, but a few climbs were on the program. After a descent out of the village, I crossed the Artuby River again on the Canjuers military camp. A several-kilometer climb followed, fortunately not too steep. I took the D19 toward Barjols. From there, despite the late hour, I opted for a tiny road passing through Claviers, a small perched village. Time passed quickly, but the kilometers added up. I regained hope. Fifteen kilometers after this last village, I reached Saint-Paul-en-Forêt via a magnificent forested route. I had plenty of time to observe mushroom hunters. I asked one who clearly had some in a plastic bag. He gave me this hilarious answer with a magnificent southern accent: "I only picked the bad ones." No reply was possible. I moved on with a smile. A little further on, another hunter carried a basket. As soon as he saw me, he quickly hid it—just in case I saw what it contained. Arriving at the village involved a steep climb, and I was close to 100 kilometers. I still had a little over 20 kilometers to go before reaching Fréjus. The race against nightfall had begun. Over there to my right, I saw the sun setting behind Roquebrune-sur-Argens’ distinctive rock. The sea appeared. There it was—I was in Fréjus’ industrial zone. On this Sunday evening, traffic was heavy. Indeed, many had taken advantage of the return of good weather after very heavy storms to go for a walk. After quite a few detours, I arrived at the seaside just as night fell. My odometer showed 122 km for the day. I quickly found a simple hotel, ate just as quickly, and went to bed.

Day Five: Fréjus to Solliès-Pont – 92 km

Once again, the night had done its restorative work, and I prepared to cross the Massif des Maures feeling quite fresh. The weather forecast was still favorable for today, but a deterioration was expected tomorrow. I tended to trust it because the east wind was blowing, and in the region, that’s a sign of rain. For now, in the short term, this wind would be very useful—it would push me generously throughout the day.

I started calmly along the harbor quays, looking at the boats. Then I joined the road to Saint-Aygulf and followed the coast for forty kilometers to Port-Grimaud. All these seaside resorts—Saint-Aygulf, Les Issambres, Sainte-Maxime—reminded me of my youth when we spent all our vacations fishing, whether from shore, underwater, or by boat. Looking at the sea roll by, I knew what the seabeds looked like under that surface hiding them. The marine areas we knew best were now under the parking lots and commercial zones of Saint-Raphaël’s new port. In our youth, these infrastructures didn’t exist, and their construction came at the expense of coastal marine areas. Our wonderful fishing spots were permanently buried. I remember seeing the first big trucks that came to dump their loads of earth and rubble, destroying all those wonderful places—sandbanks, seaweed beds, groups of rocky holes teeming with fish that enchanted our youth. Over forty years later, I can still visualize them in my imagination under those parking lots and stores, with the names we gave them—my brothers and I: le casse-croûte, le casse-pipe, les montagnes, la digue, la grille, la mare à mulets, la petite-plage, le trou, etc.

Let’s not be overwhelmed by nostalgia. I left the coast and took the little road through the Maures to Collobrières. The route led from ridge to ridge following the terrain’s movements. At this time of year, the region was admirable. Due to the heavy storms of recent weeks, water was streaming everywhere. Waterfalls and streams murmured all along the way. I didn’t recognize the Maures, which I knew for their dryness causing apocalyptic fires. Indeed, around a bend, I came across a small rest area where a memorial had been erected for three firefighters who lost their lives here while fighting one of those gigantic fires fanned by the mistral.

This forest holds treasures—first, the cork oak, then the arbutus, chestnut trees, and of course, mushrooms that love this granitic soil:

The cork oak can be found all along the road. It’s the forest’s essential element. You can recognize it by its light bark (before exploitation), which forms large bulges along the trunk. But after exploitation, the trunks are much smoother, less voluminous, and dark in color. The arbutus is a large berry with red skin covered in small protuberances, growing on the arbutus tree. This fruit, common in Mediterranean areas, ripens in November. That means today, there were plenty around me. Its flesh is orange, with the consistency of firm purée, and it crushes softly in the mouth. The taste of this berry is sweet and excellent. I didn’t hold back—I gorged myself on them, which served as my midday meal. Sometimes I had to climb embankments to get them.

The chestnut tree, a true industry of the region, brings wealth to the surrounding villages. They make candied chestnuts, ice cream, and other products derived from chestnut flour. Be careful not to stop just anywhere to pick this fruit, as the tree owners might not agree. They even make this clear with signs and surround their chestnut trees with fences. Mushrooms—saffron milk caps and porcini—are highly prized in the area. I saw a few hunters, but it clearly wasn’t miraculous. Supposedly, there had been too much rain?

There’s no time to get bored along this little road, from which you can sometimes see the sea. I passed the Col de Taillude at over 400 meters. I began the descent to Collobrières, the chestnut capital, whose festival attracts many people. Before entering, about a hundred meters from the first houses, a cyclist—probably an agricultural worker—came toward me. As he passed, he cheerfully called out, "Go on, little guy! It’s almost there!" We both smiled. At the end of November, the village was cold and almost deserted. Dead leaves swept the wet streets of the town. You could feel winter on the way. I continued my route to Pierrefeu-du-Var, on the western edge of the Massif des Maures. So I gave my last pedal strokes in this pretty little massif so characteristic of Provence.

I looked for a hotel in Cuers but without success. I descended toward Toulon and finally found one on the outskirts of Solliès-Pont. It catered to people coming to work in the region, so nothing very bucolic. But if the weather were to deteriorate tomorrow and turn to rain, I could quickly reach Hyères or Toulon station, which was a significant advantage. Indeed, November rains aren’t usually very pleasant on a bike.

Day Six: Solliès-Pont to Cassis via Sainte-Baume – 85 km

This morning, contrary to the weather forecast, the weather was beautiful, and the latest bulletin seemed to contradict yesterday’s. So no escape to Toulon—I resumed my route toward Sainte-Baume. I left the hotel via a tiny road that, through ups and downs, led me via shortcuts to the road to Belgentier. My body had gotten used to intense daily efforts, and I felt in Olympic form. At a good pace, I launched into a long climb with a moderate slope. The road was busy, but fortunately, the side lane for cyclists often made the exercise more pleasant. The villages rolled by—Méounes, La Roquebrussanne. Near the latter, I observed a Tiger combat helicopter in training. It hovered motionless for long periods—perhaps the pilots were training to master their increasingly sophisticated weapon systems, requiring even more learning?

I left the busy road and headed via an almost deserted route toward the village of Mazaugues. The climbs became steeper. A long descent, and there I was in this pretty village. A grocery store, which besides selling a few ingredients also served as a café. I sat near the electric heater—it was cold, and I was sweaty. I watched customers come and go and listened to the shopkeeper tell me about village life. The name Mazaugues comes from "water mass," which is why drought doesn’t usually affect this area. Apparently, you can even find mushrooms here in summer! I had a good time, and as I was leaving, a local cyclist started a conversation and told me about her dreams of long bike trips, currently limited by her situation as a mother of terrible children. She settled for day trips with her club, which was already good in this very hilly region. I told her the story of a man who, at 73, cycled solo around Morocco. So no panic—she still had thirty or forty years to realize her wildest dreams!

I was warned that it would be a tough climb to reach Sainte-Baume’s northern slope. Indeed, over eight kilometers, the average slope was sustained, but the landscape was wonderful. Here too, water was streaming everywhere. I passed one of those famous icehouses that used to supply Marseille with ice throughout the year. This northern slope of Sainte-Baume is very cold, and this characteristic was exploited in previous centuries to produce ice. Large cylindrical structures, well-protected to the north and semi-buried, received large quantities of water in late autumn, which froze during winter and was kept cool for months until the following winter. Ice blocks were cut and delivered by cart to the city. That’s how, in ancient times, ice was available in summer to keep fish fresh in Marseille. Did pastis exist at that time? If not, the ice cubes must have been bored!

Once the climb was over, the long ridge of Sainte-Baume appeared, and I could see its characteristic antennas. Nestled at the foot of the cliffs, the magnificent millennial forest revealed itself with its autumn colors. I stopped at the monastery. I’d been there several times before and had even slept there during a long walking trip. The welcome had been first-rate by the Dominicans, especially the sisters in their long immaculate robes. They radiated a serenity that was very contagious. Don’t hesitate to stop there for the night. I struggled to get back on my way—some places have a special spirit.

I was soon at the end of my journey. I continued along this magnificent mountain to the Col de l’Espigoulier. To the north, another immense wave of white limestone rose—Montagne Sainte-Victoire, a high place in Provence that painter Cézanne made world-famous. Once at the pass, the entire city of Marseille spread out at my feet, the Mediterranean coast revealed itself from the Calanques to La Ciotat, passing by the famous Cap Canaille, Europe’s highest sea cliff. Above me, bathed in sunlight, Bartagne’s northwest face, very popular among climbers, showed all its reliefs. With an old climber’s reflex, I spotted the many climbs I’d done there. I let myself be carried into a steep, winding descent toward the village of Gémenos in a beautiful setting full of cliffs.

A few more kilometers of climbing toward the Col de l’Ange, then toward Roquefort-la-Bédoule. In this last climb, I raced with two cyclists, admittedly not very young. Then, in a six-kilometer descent, I reached Cassis station, the endpoint of my six-day journey through this wild Provençal land between sea and mountain. I experienced great pleasure during these 570 kilometers through these renowned yet wild French massifs. As always, when a beautiful project comes to an end, you feel a bit orphaned by a beautiful dream come true. You have to quickly envision the next one to avoid a vague sense of emptiness taking over. My next adventure is already taking shape in my mind, but that’s another story.

Bonjour à tous, je me permets de solliciter ici l'avis d'aventuriers/randonneurs/mécanos avertis...et d'autres membres.

Je prépare un voyage à vélo à travers l'Europe (et plus loin si affinités). Mon "problème" est le suivant: je dispose d'une randonneuse récupérée en bon état mais dont les spécificités sont les suivantes : pas français pour le pédalier (stronglight 3 plateaux) et pour la fourche, moyeux à bille et roue libre 6 vitesses, entraxe de 120mm pour le cadre à l'arrière. J'ai un groupe sachs-huret pour la transmission avec leviers sur le cadre.

Est-ce fiable pour un voyage au long terme, et raisonnable sachant que la compatibilité en cas de casse (éventuelle!) sur la route va poser problème? Je doute quand même que le pédalier ou le jeu de direction me lâche (j'ai en plus des roulements de rechange) mais je suis moins confiant vis-à-vis du moyeu arrière et surtout de la roue libre.

J'ai donc pensé opter pour une autre alternative: me procurer un cadre demi-course en acier avec boitier BSC pour l'équiper en shimano deore au niveau pédalier, moyeux (ce qui me premettrait de mettre une cassette et non une roue libre) et transmission. Est-ce possible niveau compatibilité ? Que penser de l'entraxe de 130mm sur les cadres route pour accueillir une moyeu VTT généralement en 135mm?

Merci d'avance pour vos réponses. Bien à vous.

Bonjour, pour 2012 on prévoit un voyage avec un tandem Lapierre et une remorque BOB YAK , faudra t il prévoir des problèmes au niveau du cadre du tandem à cause de la remorque .Vaut il prévoir différentes pièces de remplacement sur l'ensemble?Comme cela ce passera en France y a t il besoin de ce charger avec les pièces de rechanges, merci.

Bonjour à tous,

Je n'ai pas trouvé de pistes de réflexion lors de mes recherches donc je vous sollicite.

Je pars en Juin traverser le continent américain de l'Alaska à l'Argentine en environ 1 an. Je suis un adepte du voyage à pied sac à dos et des treks pédestres (je ne suis jamais intervenu dans cette rubrique du forum) mais la lecture de différents bouquins me donnent envie de découvrir le voyage sur deux roues. Je me dis que je me ferai bien quelques semaines en vélo dans un des pays de la liste suivante mais je n'ai aucune idée de ceux qui sont les plus "simples" à expérimenter pour un débutant : - Alaska - Canada - USA - Mexique - Bélize - Guatemala - Honduras - Nicaragua - Costa Rica - Panama - Colombie - Equateur - Pérou - Bolivie - Chili - Argentine

Qu'en pensez-vous ? Quel est votre expérience dans ces pays ?

J'aimerais me déplacer sur les routes et les chemins avec le plus possible de bivouac (j'ai tout le matériel nécessaire). Je ne pourrai pas beaucoup expérimenter ce nouveau mode de voyage donc, malgré ma préparation, je resterai débutant au départ donc je cherche une destination presque idéale.😎

Je vous remercie d'avance pour vos réponses...

Bonjour, je voudrais amener des amis dans le nord début janvier pendant 4j, que me conseillez vous : les chutes Erawan et les alentours (en scooter) ou la ballade en scooter de Chiang mai a Mae hong son ? Merci pour vos infos

bonjour à tous je projette un déplacement au maroc , départ TANGER arrivée ZAGORA en passant , soit autoroute ou nationnal , étant a ce jour seul pour me rendre à ZAGORA avec mon 4x4, au niveau sécurité je risque d'avoir des problemes hormis les pannes voitures, je connais le maroc mais pas dans ces conditions de voyage sachant que c'est mon premier voyage en 4x4 pour me rendre en stage , d'ailleur je recherche un equipier pour début février

merci à tous

Bonjours à vous

j'aimerais visité la France en mai/juin 2012, avec mon épouse nous aimons bien faire du Camping, j'aimerais bien voyager en vélo, puis-je l'apporter en train sans réservation... mon premier chois étais...arrivé à Bordeau ensuite vélo vers Arcachon ensuite vers le sud suivre la mer et remonter le long de l'Italie jusqu'a Chamonix et finir vers Lyon, tous ca en 22 jours, je sais que ce n'est pas beaucoup de temps, mais... et c'est pour cette raison que je voudrait associer vélo et train, pour changer de région sans faire 200 km entre chaque ville.

Bonjour,

nous sommes un couple qui s'envoleront pour cet hotel en mars 2012. Je me questionne à savoir ce qu'il y a comme divertissememt de 18h-22h tous les soirs. Je sais qu'il y a une équipe d'animation pour le jour mais je parle plûtot de se détendre avant ou après le souper en écoutant de la musique local. (musiciens locaux, karaoke...) Nous aimons bien aller se détendre au lobby en prenant un café aromatisé ou digestif en écoutant de la musique local. Je ne parle pas du spectacle de fin de soirée... S'il y a qui ont des recommendations au niveau des restos à la carte alors ne vous gênez pas... pouvez-vous nous éclairer un peu...

Nous avons aussi l'intention d'aller souper en ville dans un resto local. si vous avez des suggestions... merci nancy

Bien le bonjour !

J'explique ma situation :

Majeure (18 ans) et vaccinée J'ai arrêtée l'école (3 ème) pour un problème de santé, suite à cet arrêt qui a duré deux ans (fort longtemps, deux années envolées...) j'allais m'apprêtée à reprendre les études, pour devenir Educatrice Spécialisée (ou dans le domaine du Social), hors il y a un autre problème personnel assez important qui me mets de très gros bâtons dans les roues. Quelqu'un m'a conseillé d'aller faire mes études à l'étranger, j'ai pensée au Canada, sachant qu'il y a des amis de la famille qui vivent là-bas (Montreal pour être précise). Ou alors en Ecosse mais je ne me débrouilles pas assez dans la langue, à mon regret... Damned ! Ou l'Italie, qui m'intéresse fort bien ! Donc, je viens vers vous pour trouver quelques réponses... - Sachant que je n'ai aucun diplôme à part de nombreux stages et mon BAFA que je suis en train de passer en ce moment, est-ce qu'il y a une possibilité d'aller reprendre des études au Canada ? - Est-ce que cet arrêt de deux ans risque de mettre des barrières ? - Cela ne risque pas d'être dur sur le côté financier (études surtout), vu mon jeune âge et mon compte bien maigrichon ? Je sais qu'il y a des colocations ou peut-être, pourrais-je négocier avec les amis... Je devrais trouver un job quoiqu'il en soit pour payer un loyer... d'ailleurs, est-ce que c'est cher ? Est-ce qu'il faut ramer pour trouver un petit job (avec mon BAFA ?) ? Si vous avez autres choses à me dire, qui m'aideront à voir "oun peu plous clair" 😉

Et si vous savez des choses pour l'Ecosse et l'Italie, sait-on jamais... Cela peut toujours m'intéresser, je vais réviser mon anglais au cas où... (italien, c'est OK !)

Grazie, Bacio a tutti !

Bonjour a tous

Voila le pars en velo début janvier... Sachant que je suis bricoleur mais novice dans tout ce qui touche a la biciclette!

J ai passé des heures et des heures sur VF section choix velo et d autres site... Maintenant je suis renseigné, mais toujours autant pommé pour le choix...

Mon budget est de 500 euros environ... Je veux du rustique quand c est possible: par exemple je prefere avoir de bonne roues plutot que des sacoches ultra impermeables...une dynano toute simple pas de panneau solaire... Vous voyez le genre? 😉

Bref, roues de 26, equipement shimano, tout le monde a l air d accord...

Premiere question: En ce moment j ai un velo de type ville ancien GITANE de ce style la:



On me dit " ouai il faut se sentir alaise sur son velo" , "gitane c est une bonne marque"

Je me sens alaise et j ai un gitane Genial nan? En en plus ca me permettrait de bien connaitre le velo avant de partir si c est moi qui le monte...

J aimerais bien si c est possible rééquiper ce velo avec du shimano, des bonnes roues, des porte bagages...

Concretement un cadre ca ne casse pas tout les 5 min? Il est en acier donc reparable...

Mais avec 20 kg de bagages va t il tenir? sachant que moi je fait 62kg...

Voila sinon avez vous d autres idees avec mon budget?

Quel est le materiel velo a emmener coute que coute quand on part pour lontemps?

Est ce que 500 euros c est pas trop peu pour realiser ce que je veux?

Tout les conseils autres sont bienvenus et les gens qui veulent tracer la route en 2012 aussi!

Merci a tout le monde de partager !

Bonne soirée

Aurélien

edit: pour quoi pas partir sur la base d un velo la poste ?🙂

bonjour a tous ... 🙂 ma question et peu etre " idiote " , mais bon je me lance : au cambodge , ect y a encore des mines qui ce balade par la .... vu les inondations importante de cette annéé , y a t il un risque qu avec le deplacement de la boue , terre , ect .. les mines ce soit deplacees aussi , passant des endroits balisees , hors routes , chemin tres empruntees , et etre arriver sur ses routes ou abords , ect ?????? car , pendant mon voyage j aimerais pouvoir me balader en 2 roues comme je le fait ailleurs .. si des expats ou autres personnes on des infos , ou un avis a transmettre , je vous remerci pour votre aide.. 😉

Est-ce possible à vélo ?

merci

Hello tout le monde,

Je suis très interessé par faire la piste cyclable de la Mer du nord et je voudrais savoir si quelqu'un l'a déjà réalisée ?

En fait j'ai lu un bouquin la dessus (Migrations, Guillaume Roux) et ça avait l'air vraiment superbe.

Quelqu'un l'aurait-il déjà empruntée ? Y a-t-il des conseils, des parcours préférés etc... J'aimerais partir l'été prochain, alors je me prépare...

A +

Bonjour à tous,

Je viens sur ce forum car je m'apprête à acheter un J5 4x4 dangel diesel dans 3 jours. C'est une ancienne ambulance des pompiers de 1989, avec 70000 km. Je l'achèterai dans le but d'effectuer un tour d'Europe et d'Asie avec mon amie. Sachant que je n'y connais rien en mécanique, je voulais donc savoir si certain d'entre vous avaient une opinion sur notre projet?

Est-ce bien raisonnable de partir avec ce véhicule? Je sais que les pièces dangel sont introuvable hors Europe de l'ouest, mais je me dis que ne totalisant que 70 000 km, on doit être tranquille pour au moins les 100 000 prochain km non?

Je compte essayer de récupérer le max de pièces de rechange pour les embarquer avec nous, qu'emeneriez-vous à ma place?

Est-ce plus fiable avec ou sans turbo? Le mien est sans turbo, passera-t-il les passages à gué en Mongolie?

Et enfin, j'ai le choix entre ce J5, et un renault B110 turbo D non 4x4, 100 000 km, au même prix. On voulait prendre un 4x4 pour ne pas risquer de s'enliser, sans faire de raid, juste sur de l'herbe mouillée ou de la boue par exemple.. Mais je me dis que le B110 avec son turbo et ses roues jumelée serait peut-être autant efficace pour nous sortir de ce genre d'affaires.. qu'en pensez-vous? Le B110 est plus facilement réparable dans beaucoup de pays en plus..

Donc mes deux principales questions si vous n'avez pas le temps de répondre aux autres sont: - Le J5 cité ci-dessus est-il capable de nous emmener et ramener d'aussi loin sans qu'une pièce dangel que je ne pourrais pas emmener avec moi ne pète? - Le choix d'un B110 td est-il plus approprié, plus raisonnable?

Voilà, merci d'avance à tous ceux qui auront pris le temps de me lire, et peut-être même de m'aider. Amicalement, Seb

Bonjour J'ai vécu dans des pays arabes, sans problème. J'ai toujours fait attention à mes tenues vestimentaires. J'ai 66 ans, voyage seule avec mon VW, un chat et une chienne. J'aimerais aller en dehors des sentiers battus, faire un peu de piste et bivouaquer par exemple en partant de Tetouan - Kenifra - lac Iseli - etc .. Est ce possible ? vais je étonner ou choquer ? y a t'il un risque ? Merci d'avance

Je pars pour 15J a Miami pour fin décembre.

Et j'ai fais des devis par elocationdevoiture pour la categorie Standard :

421€ (Dollar) - conducteurs additionnels - plein compris - assurances Bris de glace / pneus comprises 344€(sans les 2 premières options)

429€ (Alamo) - conducteurs additionnels - plein compris 360€(sans les 2 premières options)

Voila je suis parti déjà 2 fois dans l'ouest en passant par alamo (indirectement Autoescape, elocationdevoiture). Je n’avais eu aucun problème alors que la 1ère, on avait un peut ammocher le dessous et la 2ème on a eu un voyant moteur allumé --> echange (on avait mis du 83 au lieu du 85/87).

Dans les 2 cas on avais pris l'assurance pour bris de glace / crevaison et remplacement des clés si perdu.

Est ce qu'il ya une différence notable entre les 2 (Dollar et Alamo) au niveau qualité et problèmes que l'on peut être améné a découvrir sur place (facturation si on abîme la voiture) ??

Est ce que les 2 se valent ou vaut-il mieux assurer et prendre alamo avec l'assurance (pneu/bris de glace/clé) en plus (soit 5$ *15 --> 65€)

Merci.

Salut,

Je voudrai savoir si fin fevrier les cascades d'erawan sont pleines d'eau ou si c'est la secheresse. Combien de temps faut il de l'hotel river kwai botanic garden pour aller à ces fameuses cascades d'erawan. Merci de vos réponse.

Thuan tu l'as peut etre toi la réponse.....

J' ai 30 jours pour visiter le pays et me demande s'il est possible de le faire sans presque pas prendre le bus ; je suis peureuse en voiture et au dires/lires d'anciens post les chauffeurs se prennent pour des rallyes man. Quel parcours (en passant par les coins à ne pas louper) puis-je faire ? Merci.

Bonjour, nous sommes partis trois semaines et demi au Pérou et Bolivie . Notre itinéraire : J1 :avion, arrivée a Lima le soir J2 : Avion pour cuzco le matin, visite cuzco J3 : Cuzco J4 : Pisaq, las salinas (en taxi depuis ollantaytambo), soir train pour aguas calientes J5 : Machu Picchu (montée à pied le matin : ca monte quand meme pas mal!!), ollantaytambo, retour cuzco J6 : Avion cuzco - la paz - sucre (ne circule pas tous les jours), visite sucre J7 : Sucre, apres midi bus pour potosi J8 : Potosi J9 : Bus pour uyuni, recherche agence a uyuni (on a pris l'agence andes salt expeditions, c'etait tres bien, on avait en plus un guide car deux personnes du groupe voulait quelqu'un qui parle anglais; et puis on avait bien une roue de secours puisqu'on l'a utilisé!) J10-11-12 : Salar et sud lipez; dernier soir bus de nuit pour la paz J13 : Bus pour copacabana, bateau pour isla del sol J14 : Isla del sol J15 : COpacabana J16 : Bus pour arequipa J17-18-19 : trek canyon de colca (on est passé par une agence : pas indispensable a mon avis pour la randonnée, y'a pas enormement de sentiers et du monde a qui demandé son chemin. Mais c'est plus facile avec une agence pour ne pas avoir de souci d'horaire de bus) J20 : Arequipa bus de nuit pour ica J21 : Huacachina, Visite fabrique de pisco (en taxi), bus pour pisco J22 : Islas ballestas bus pour lima J23 : Lima, soir départ en avion J24-25 : avion jusqu'à Paris Voila en conclusion, un magnifique voyage. On hesitait au début a aller jusqu'en Bolivie, mais on ne l'a pas regretté car on a pas eu l'impression de faire tant de bus que ca, on a beaucoup aimé la Bolivie aussi, et puis le salar et lipez c'est vraiment magnifique.

bonjour, Qu'en pensez vous?

Vds vélo Cadre h 55 cm en acier Colombus 6/10ème - fabrication artisanale 3 plateaux 52, 42 ,30. - 8 vitesses de 13 à 26. Equipé en Campa Véloce Prix 200 €

Bon je sais ça fait pas beaucoup d'infos...le vendeur est un passionné....roule avec d'autres vélos etc...Et c'est le type de matériel que je recherche... Merci

bonjour a tous

J-4 pour l'indo serais ce possible de louer une voiture en arrivant de java par le ferry a Gilimanuk, pour 5 ou 7 jours, et la rendre a Uub? connaissez vous quelqu'un de fiable? j'ai du mal a trouver sur le net.. merci

Bonjours, je voudrais savoir si vous ou quelqun qu vous connaissez reussit a vivre dans la nature, vivre de chasse, de peche, etc, completement independement ou, a en vivre dans le sens gagner de l'argent...seul ou en communaute.Je ne sais pas si je me fais bien comprendre...bref.Je parle pour nos pays d'occident, en particulier l'europe occidentale.

Bonjour, J'ai déjà eu +sieurs C-CAR, mais maintenant que la retraite est là, et que j'ai enfin vendu (3 ans d'attente) une fermette que j'avais restaurée, je peux me permettre de réaliser mon rêve de voir "grand confort". Notre coup de cœur serait le BÜRSTNER i810 G elegance, Double essieux, 9,60m de long, une merveille (pour moi). Vu le prix là je crois plus judicieux de viser une occasion forcément récente, mais avec déjà 10 à 30.000€ de moins. Dans cette configuration il y a KNAUSS, EURAMOBIL, RAPIDO, BAVARIA qui ont également de la gueule et le confort que nous souhaitons. Donc voilà ce dont normalement ont va s'orienter, avec derrière un engin sur remorque le tout faisant -750kg. -  Alors mon problème il est où ?? Et bin c'est que dans un coin de ma tête, (et pour l'instant je ne veux pas "affoler" ma femme), j'aurais bien l'idée d'envisager le bus, style c-car américain, avec slides etc. Bizarrement je vois des occasions apparemment très potables pour pas plus cher que ce que j'envisage. Qu'est-ce qu'un connaisseur de cette mécanique aurait à ma dire ? ? Je me doute qu'un pneu vaut ??? € mais ne fait-il pas Xfois plus de km ? Combien coûte une vidange ?? et tous les combien de km. Bref quelle est la grande différence avec un c-car "classique" de 10 CV environ, même avec 6 roues, et ce truc XXXL, monstrueux pour les uns, génial pour les autres. Qui connaît les deux formules, traîner une petite remorque derrière un gros bus est-ce pareil qu'avec un c-car classique. Qui pourrait m'éclairer dans mon choix, et par la même occasion persuader ma femme (si le coup du bus c'est défendable). Dernière chose ; l'inconvénient de l'encombrement ou de la remorque çà je m'en fou ; à 10 ans je reculais déjà des remorques, et même à 4 roues (c'est autre chose). Un grand MERCI à l'avance à celui qui a eut le courage de me lire jusqu'au bout ! et qui se creusera pour me répondre...😏

Bonjour, partant aux Philippines en février, nous devrions arriver à Cebu à 4h du mat depuis Singapour. Auriez-vous des suggestions d'hôtel à proximité immédiate de l'aéroport? Nous serons avec deux jeunes enfants et nous avons besoin d'un hôtel ouvert vers 5h du matin. D'avance merci.