Results for "Rouen+et+vélo+|+127"

Bonjour a tous, je m'appelle Anthony j'ai 18 ans et je me suis remis a faire du vélo car j'avais une envie folle de rouler! Je me suis inscrit sur ce forum pour demander quelque renseignement (et me faire quelques connaissances) je n'y connais rien en accessoires vélo et je souhaiter installer des freins a disques pour mon vélo... Ne sachant pas ou m'inscrire pour avoir une réponse correcte je m'en remet a vous... 🙂 J'accepterai bien quelque petit conseille de votre par car je suis nul...

Penser vous que changer de fourche me sera plus utile pour une utilisation un peu plus pousser pour rouler dans une foret sachant que celle d'origine arrive a parfois a taper ou vaudrais mieux que je change de vélo..?? Merci a l'avance pour vos futur réponse. Bonne routes a tous! 😉

(Excuser moi pour la qualité de la photo...)

Bonjour,

J aimerai collecter quelques avis pour m orienter sur le choix de ma futur acquisition pour partir en trek.

J ai 3 vélos en vue: - cannondale Bad Boy - bianchi Métropoli - specialized crossover expert Pro

Certes les prix et le matériel est bien différent entre chaque modèle mais que choisiriez vous a ma place?

Aujourd'hui le crossover me semble pas mal. La fourche du crossover est elle vraiment fiable ou me conseillerez vous de choisir un vélo sans fourche?

Y a t il sinon un vélo plus orientée trek que le crossover chez Specialized?

En remerciant par avance celles et ceux qui souhaiterai échanger sur ce sujet.

Yann

Bonjour,

J'ai un projet en tête et je suis à la recherche de conseils/d'avis. J'ai 23 ans, un budget de maximum 5000$ et 4 mois libres de août à décembre 2014. J'aimerais me rendre en Louisiane à vélo, mais je n'ai aucune expérience en cyclotourisme. J'ai cependant un peu d'expérience pour les longs voyages seule.

À 8 mois de mon objectif, est-ce réaliste? Est-ce qu'une jeune femme seule peut relever un tel défi? Quelle préparation physique devrais-je faire (je fais déjà beaucoup de randonnée, course à pied et ski de fond)? Quel vélo me procurer? Quelles sont les plus et les moins de cet itinéraire?

Je lirai vos idées, conseils, témoignages avec plaisir! Merci, Sophie

Bonjour Je prévois faire le trajet Paris -Londre a vélo en Aout.

Pour mon départ de Montréal- Canada a Paris j`ai pas de problème pour le transport de mon vélo.Mon vélo est dans une boite.

Pour mon retour je serai à Londre alors comment faire pour retourner mon vélo? Ou et comment me procurer une boite ou un sac pour retourner mon vélo au Canada.

Merci Etienne

Bonjour, Mon projet actuel est de revenir en asie (japon, asie du sud est) et peut-être continuer ma route depuis là, vers d'autres pays, voire peut-être usa entre autres, si ça se passe comme je veux; Seul dilemme, j'hésite comme d'autres entre y aller sac au dos comme précédemment, et sur place louer pour de courtes distances ou acheter un vtt d'occasion (pas cher mais pas trop pourri) et le revendre si j'ai envie de continuer sans m'encombrer d'un vélo en cours de route; J'ai déjà fait en France quelques périples à vélo (vtt préparé et équipé plus sérieusement, avec du materiel assez fiable, sacoches ortliebs, Portes bagages tubus, roues renforcées, fouche rigide, pneus schwalbe etc), mais ce n'est pas quand même un vélo de voyage haut de gamme; Comme j'ai du temps, pas de délais fixe, je me pose donc la question s'il peut être plus interessant, y compris pour économiser sur place et donc rester plus libre et plus longtemps sans dépendre toujours des transports sur place, d'embarquer son vtt et sacoches, ou y aller "les mains dans les poches" et opter pour un vélo loué ou d'occas sur place suivant les endroits ou pays (vélo d'occas sur lequel je fixerais mes deux sacs à dos, un 60 litres au PB AR, et un 30 litres fixé au guidon, ou sur mon dos, ou en bricolant un PB AVANT, ou avec un panier guidon pas cher); Tous les pays ne sont pas "adaptés" aussi bien au voyage à vélo, surtout si on veut combiner en prenant pas mal de transports pour les plus longues distances, donc je n'aimerais pas qu'un vélo et bagages me bloquent dans mon trajet ou soit trop galère, ; Si certains veulent donner leur avis, j'en prendrais note ! Merci

salut je vais du 16 mars au 16 avril au japon , je n'ai rien défini et pense PEUT ËTRE amener un vélo pliant pour pouvoir circuler comme je le sens à tokyo et kyoto (une semaine chaque) notamment , mais est ce sécurisé , y a t'il des pistes cyclables , sachant que ça pèse près de 15 kg (bagage en soute ) j'aurai un sac cabine de 6 ou 7 kg , cela posera t'il un problème dans les petits hotels auberges de jeunesse et surtout dans les transport entre ville (train) , je pensais aussi rayonner dans d'autres endroits dans les environs de ces 2 coins , peut etre pouvez vous m'en conseillé qui serait propice a une vingtaine de kilometre par jour (sans trop de cote!!!! et la mer pas loin de préference ) voila voila peut etre cela vous parait compliqué et en fait il ya pleins d'endroits ou on peut louer un velo pour 1 jour ou un peu plus ?? je ne suis pas du tout arrété par rapport a cette possibilité et je serai ravi d'étudier touts vos bonnes idées et choix d'itinéraires j'ai une annonce dans la rubrique co-équipier .merci MAX de BRETAGNE

bonjour,

je prépare un voyage à vélo en direction du portugal et plus exactement à guarda. je pars de bordeaux et je souhaiterais donc avoir un peu d'aide concernant un itinéraire adapté au vélo, principalement en Espagne, car en France, le trajet est plutot bien balisé à priori jusqu'à hendaye, le long de la cöte, à moins de me conseiller de passer par Mont de Marsan. en Espagne, je pensais suivre le long de l'autoroute par Burgos, Valladolid et Salamanca, en tentant de trouver des petites routes accessibles. si parmi vous, certains ont déjà fait ce trajet, je suis preneur de toute info sur le trajet, les hebergements (je pensais essentiellement bivouaqué)

merci de votre aide cali

bonjour, je viens de traverser le canada a velo et je prepare mon depart pour un tour du monde (toujours sur mon velo)

j'aimerai simplement discuter avec d'autres cyclotouristes, pour en apprendre un peu plus et echanger nos expériences !

A bientôt peu etre !

E.P

Bonjour

Nous partons en juillet pour une semaine (groupe de 6 personnes) Ados et quinqua🙂 et souhaitons parcourir le canal du midi de Toulouse à Sètes. Nous aimerions avoir des conseils de personnes ayant déjà fait cet itinéraire. Des endroits où il est possible de s'arrêter pour dormir sous tentes ou autres. Faut-il réserver ou y a-t-il de la place prévue pour accueillir les randonneurs? Les difficultés rencontrées sur les parcours. Pour le retour nous aimerions revenir en bateau sur le canal. Quelqu'un l'a-t-il déjà fait? Y-a-t-il possibilité de prendre les vélos et remorques à bord? Les tarifs sont-ils abordables? Merci à tous pour votre aide et votre expérience. Gigicaliméro

bonjour, je souhaite installer un porte bagage nice rack de chez surly afin de bénéficier de la plate forme au dessus de la roue avant, est ce que quelqu'un a un retour d’expérience a proposer notamment sur la distance entre cette plateforme et une sacoche de guidon, je souhaiterais y installer la tente, bien sur cette distance dépend des dimensions du vélo et de la sacoche de guidon mais en règle générale vous en pensez quoi de ce prote bagage???

bonjour

je suis à la recherche d'un vélo de randonnée de bonne qualité pour faire un aller et retour en Géogie avec un départ en septembre2013 et un retour en décembre 2013 avec des étapes de montagne et de route de macadam et certaine non

j'aurais besoin de vos conseil pour cela qu'elle velo vous me conseiller et qu'elle matos

j'ai un budget de 1000 à 1200 euro ce la vous semble correct

de plus je voudrais savoir qu'elle matériel a prendre de rechange (pneu et chambre à air je me doute) et qu'elles sont les pièges à éviter si il y des gens qui veulent me suivre contacter moi

voyagesement votre

J'ai quelques projets cyclistes mais aussi un gros souci : mes fesses sont décharnées et je souffre très facilement sur une selle.

Je suis donc ici en quête de solutions afin de pouvoir un jour me remettre à pédaler.

Bonjour,

Sur le site de Colissimo International il est écrit que la somme des dimensions (L+l+h) d'un colis ne doit pas excéder 150 cm. Il est ajouté que si cette somme est comprise entre 150 et 200 cm, on doit payer un petit supplément de 5-6 €. Quand je lis ça je comprend que les colis dont la somme des dimensions est supérieure à 200 cm ne sont pas acceptés. Or le carton dans lequel je souhaite mettre mon vélo fera probablement près de 250 cm (L+l+h).

Je suis donc allé au guichet du centre d'expédition de La Poste le plus proche de chez moi et on m'a dit que mon colis serait quand même accepté malgré le dépassement des dimensions limites ?!!

J'aimerais donc savoir si quelqu'un a déjà envoyé un vélo au Japon ou ailleurs dans ces conditions de dépassement des dimensions et si cela s'est bien passé ?

Suis-je assuré que le transporteur japonais qui prendra le relais au Japon acceptera mon colis et l'amènera à bon port (en l’occurrence à Hokkaido) ?

Merci 🙂

Baptiste

Voilà , j'ai passé pas mal de temps à lire comment vous réglez la sécurité du vélo! N'ayant absolument aucune expérience j'ai voulu savoir comment vous agissez... J'ai pioché ici dans différentes rubriques de ce forum, et ma façon de faire sera la suivante... J'aurai un système de U ou câble solide...chacun à sa façon de faire et c'est très bien.. Mais j'aurai aussi un grelot de pêcheur pour me sécuriser la nuit..et une housse de moto pour la rosée du vélo et la dissuasion et s'il on bouge le vélo ou la housse ...le grelot est là!

Pour ce qui est de faire ses courses je pense qu'en + de sécuriser le vélo (tout dépend ) ou l'on se trouve.. J'aurai toujours cette housse sous la main que je pourrai passer par dessus le vélo et les sacoches pour éviter la tentation et les mains baladeuses...

Pour les visites des villes , je ne me vois pas passer près d'une grande ville sans aller dans le coeur de la vieille ville voir son musée ou autre chose intéressante sous prétexte qu'en vélo c'est très dangereux pour y circuler ou autre... Je pense que j'arriverai dans la périphérie Bordeaux , Nantes ou autre....et je m'arrêterai dans les zones commerciales..a l'entrée de la ville.. Il y a assez de terrasses de bar ou autre Norauto Speddy pour pouvoir demander à poser son vélo quelques heures pour pouvoir se déplacer tranquillement l'esprit dégagé... Même certaines grandes surfaces ou grands magasins ont des agents de sécurité avec lesquels ont peut s'arranger........

Pour se rendre au centre de la ville ....les transports en commun , métro , bus ou autre.... et on peut revenir assez tranquillement , je pense.... Qu'en pensez vous????? Vos idées m'intéressent...et sont toujours autant appréciées. Si cela peut faire avancer "le schmilblick " de la sécurité de l'esprit

merci de vos commentaires et ce qui ne va... pas par rapport à vos expériences personnelles..

salut a tous

j'ai cherché un peu sur le forum et j'ai pas trouvé de discussion sur ce sujet !! lors d'un voyage a vélo, y a forcément un moment ou on est pas sur son vélo (achats, invitations visites, rando ou autre...)

le vélo ca parait plus simple, on l'attache, mais les saccoches ??

et je suis sur que chacun a une petite astuce a partager pour laisser son vélo et ses affaires (sans risquer de se les faire voler)

alors faites tourner !!

a bientôt

simon

Retour d’expérience. Nous avons réalisé mon fils (Robin 13 ans) et moi même un premier et petit périple à vélo de 9 jours au mois d’avril sur la côte Atlantique entre Nantes et Royan. Après avoir glané des informations et conseils divers sur ce site et considérant celui-ci comme un lieu d’échange, à mon tour de partager mon expérience, aussi modeste soit elle.

Vélos / Equipement : Sirrus Sport de chez Spécialised, un vélo entre le course et un VTT, disons un VTC équipé de 2 sacoches Vaud à l’arrière + 1 sac par-dessus. Je suis entièrement satisfait de ces équipements si ce n’est un problème de voilage de la roue arrière, probablement du au poids supporté par le vélo (97 Kgs + 20 kgs de bagage) Pour mon fils, son vélo de course Peugeot avec lequel il à l’habitude de rouler, peut être un peu limite pour certaine pistes cyclables mais il est passé partout et, sans dommage pour le vélo. Il sera simplement équipé d’une sacoche au guidon et d’un petit et léger sac à dos.

Hébergement : Pour cette première expérience à vélo, nous avons opté pour un hébergement en chambre d’hôte et auberge de jeunesse sur La Rochelle pour un cout moyen de 55€ / nuit pour 2 avec petit déjeuner. Nous avons emmené un réchaud et le nécessaire pour « cuisiner » le soir, les repas du midi étant pris sur le pouce (sandwichs etc..)

Itinéraire L’essentiel du parcours se fait sur des pistes cyclables (sauf étape 1), un peu monotone parfois, plates et avec aucune difficulté particulière. Le parcours est superbe. Les vents dominants sont d’Ouest mais parfois violents. Ci-dessous le détail du parcours avec quelques infos pratiques.

Etape 1 : Nantes/La Barre de Monts 68 Kms

Etape 2 : La Barre de Monts /Ile de Noirmoutier /La Barre de Monts 80 Kms Passage du Gois. Une « route » unique en son genre de 4,5 Kms, praticable qu’à marée basse entre le continent et l’île. La traversée est un peu anarchique, les touristes en voiture s’arrêtant n’importe où et n’importe comment pour des pauses photos. L’attention est de rigueur mais le décor est superbe, un passage obligatoire !!!

Etape 3 : La Barre de Monts / les Sables d’Olonne 96 Kms

Etape 4 : Les Sables d’Olonne / La Rochelle 118 Kms Une étape difficile, je cherche encore la voie verte indiquée sur ma carte Michelin entre la pointe de l’Aiguillon et la Rochelle (elle contourne l’anse de l’Aiguillon) Existe-t-elle ? ou, je ne l’ai pas vu ? Si un membre du site à la réponse, je suis preneur. Nous sommes remontés au nord pour contourner les marais.

Etape 5 : La Rochelle / Ile de Ré / La Rochelle 68 Kms Le pont pour l’accès à l’île de Ré est très bien sécurisé avec un parapet entre la piste cyclable et la chaussée principale. Tout est fait pour que la circulation sur l’île à vélo soit optimale même si d’après les autochtones les pistes sont sur fréquentées en été et les accidents fréquents.

Etape 6: La Rochelle / Rochefort / Marennes 87 Kms

Etape 7: Marennes / Ile d’Oléron / Marennes 57 Kms Le pont pour l’accès à l’île d’Oléron n’est pas très sécurisé, la piste cyclable est étroite, aucune protection par rapport aux voitures, j’en garde un mauvais souvenir d’autant plus que nous l’avons traversé avec un vent violent latéral.

Etape 8: Marennes / Royan 72 Kms

Etape 9 : Royan /Nantes par le train S’il est tout à fait possible de voyager en train avec son vélo, son transport n’est pas toujours simple….Obligé de porter le vélo + les sacoches pour emprunter les passages souterrains (ascenseur trop petit quand il existe), accès dans le train « sportif » (2/3 marches, porte étroite), places assises réservées à l’opposé du local à vélo dans le train.

Je repartirai, c’est certain, le vélo est à mon avis le meilleur moyen de locomotion pour découvrir une région. Rouler à 15/20 km/h permet de faire des étapes de plusieurs dizaines de kilomètres tout en profitant au maximum de ce qui nous entoure. Si pour ce premier périple, j’avais tout programmé à l’avance, le prochain sera en mode cyclo-camping, non seulement pour des questions de budget mais aussi par besoin et envie de connaitre davantage l’aventure avec un grand A

A bientôt sur les routes.

salut je voudrai partir 10 jours le long du littoral Pas de calais/somme/normandie. g juste un vélo de ville 3 vitesses décath'. dites moi si vous le voyez possible et réalisable? merci. ciao

Bonjour à tous,

je commence à sérieusement m'intéresser au vélo trekking. J'ai déjà effectué quelques petites balades et un petit tour de 610 Km sur le canal du midi et de la Robine l'été dernier. Cet été, je vais faire le tour de la bretagne. Pour l'instant, j'équipe mon VTT avec un porte bagages arrière et une sacoche de guidon. Ce n'est pas génial; pas assez de place et surtout, les roues du VTT sont en 2.20 si je me souviens bien... Donc l'idée est d'acheter un autre vélo dédié trekking. J'ai regardé un peu partout et j'ai trouvé de belles choses comme par exemple sur un site allemand de VPC des machines ente 1500 et 2500 Euros (je ne suis pas prêt à faire cet effort). J'ai également vu sur des forums, des gars qui équipent des machines "basiques ". Entre les deux, j'ai vu des machines comme le Gitane vision et surtout le Peugeot CT 01. Sur ce dernier, je ne trouve pas d'information / critique mais seulement une description vraiment succincte et une seule photo sur le site du constructeur. Dans ma région, j'ai questionné les deux vélocistes qui ne connaissent pas bien ce type de matériel donc pas de conseil et surtout pas moyen d'essayer quoi que ce soit. Il y a probablement des occasions mais c'est quand même très rare a moins que je ne cherche pas aux bons endroits... Y a t'il des utilisateurs de ce Peugeot sur ce forum ? Quelqu'un a t-il un avis sur ce vélo ? Y a-il d'autre solutions ?

Merci pour vos conseils.

Eric.

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,

Je cherche des informations sur le site trasmediterranea.es pour le voyage Cadix -> Tenerif en bateau avec un vélo. Il ne propose dans la catégorie véhicule que ceux disposant d'un moteur (moto, camping-car, ...), quelqu'un sait comment on fait et/ou combien ça coûte ?

Bonjour,

Je cherche un deuxième vélo pour ma copine qui va m'accompagné dans la traversé de l'espagne en deux mois.

Pour ce faire nous cherchons des occasions dans notre budget de 150€ maximum sur les sites de ventes entre particuliers.

Malheureusement nous ne connaissons pas grand chose dans ce domaine, alors quel sont les particularité importante a respecté dans notre choix ?

Je vous propose de m'aider dans l'achat du vélo en m'indiquant lequel vous auriez pu choisir (avec un budget aussi petit), voici donc ci-dessous les divers annonce que j'ai pu relevé ->

Bonjour,

Je cherche a faire le trajet Nice Ljubljana en vélo, je ne suis pas un grand sportif mais plutôt un casse coup qui se fait des missions hors de l'ordinaire de temps en temps.

Je ne penses pas passer par les Alpes car il y a surement trop de dénivelées et je penses que ce serais me surestimer pour un premier très long voyage.

J'envisage alors un trajet plus au Sud du style: Nice-Genova-Parma-Verona-Venezia-Trieste-Ljubljana.

Mappy m'indique 865km pour ce trajet et j'ai un peu plus de 15 jours pour le réaliser, je me fixe 15 jours pour me garder une petite marge d'environ 4 jours au cas ou.

Mes questions sont alors: 1-En combien de temps, à un rythme raisonnable, cela est-il faisable selon vous 2- y a t-il beaucoup de dénivelés aux frontières Franco-Italienne et Italie-Slovénie? 3- A part tente, vélo et bouteille d'eau, quel type d'équipement réellement prévoir?

P.S.: je compte réaliser ce trajet à partir du 7 ou 9 octobre avec arrivée maximum le 27 à Ljubljana, si quelqu'un est intéressé, c'est toujours plus simpa a plusieurs...avis aux amateurs...

Bonjour,

je navigue depuis hier sur les différents forums parlant du riverside 7 (ce forum-ci étant le plus complet) et j'ai toujours une question concernant les différentes tailles du R7 proposées par D4. Je sais que cette question a déjà été discutée mais je n'ai pas encore trouvée de réponses satisfaisantes. Mes questions les voici: - le R7 existe en M, L et XL, mais à quelles tailles de cadre correspondent ces tailles? - ayant une taille moyenne basse (1m73,5 (je tiens au ",5") et 76cm à l'entrejambe) la taille M est-elle appropriée?

Merci

Bonjour,

Je pars bientôt pour le Vietnam en circuit organisé par une agence de trek. Dans le programme il y a 4/5 excursions à vélo qui sont prévues tant au Nord qu'au Sud. Le seul problème c'est...que je ne sais pas faire de vélo et que je ne me vois pas apprendre vu mon age canonique...l'agence m'assure qu'il n'y aura pas de problème qu'ils me trouveront "d'autres activités" a faire. Comme je suis néanmoins capable de pédaler (mais pas de "conduire") je me demandais si il y avait dans les vélos de locations qu'utilisent les agences des tandems ? ou des pousse-pousse éventuellement? Même si cela ne me semble pas très "politiquement correct" de se faire conduire !

Merci de me donner vos expériences !

Bonjour,

Je souhaite me lancer dans un voyage à vélo d'environ 15 jours, en alternant vélo et visites. Mais il y a quelques points sur lesquels je m'interroge :

- Quelles sont les routes possibles à vélo ? L'histoire de ne pas se perdre - Comment faire pour partir de Paris (vers Blois/Tours) - Les campings sont-ils une bonne solution pour la nuit ? (Ne faut-il pas plus de confort à cause de la fatigue ? - Côté vêtements, comment fait-on ? - Pique-nique ou déjeuner sur place ? - GPS utile ou non ? - Quels vélos choisir ?

Merci d'avance

Bonne journée

Bonjour à tou-te-s,

Suite à vos judicieux conseils et retours (merci !) concernant l'achat d'un vélo de "cyclotourisme", mon choix s'est porté vers le Trek 7.3 FX ! Mon vélociste local, bien que revendeur Trek, n'avait ce modèle que sur commande. Je trouvais ça un peu bête d'acheter un vélo sans le voir.

J'ai donc appelé le vélociste le + proche (dans une échelle régionale quoi !) qui m'a dit qu'ils leur restaient justement par un modèle qui pouvait m'aller. Je leur ai dit que je mesurais un petit mètre 78 et ils m'ont orienté vers un taille 22,5'' (57cm). Je leur ai dit qu'un taille 20'' (54cm) me semblait probablement plus adapté. Ils ont répondu que les Trek taillaient petits. So...

Je me rends donc chez ce vélociste le week end dernier, le vélo était monté. Pas moyen de le tester dehors mais seulement sur un semblant de piste sur une quinzaine de mètres dans le magasin.

Je leur dit que le cintre me semble un peu loin et le cadre un peu haut. Ils me disent qu'il est possible d'avancer la selle sur le rail du tube de selle (elle est déjà avancé aux 2/3).

C'est un cadre slooping et mon entrejambe passe tout juste sur le coté le moins haut, mon périnée frotte (coté selle donc)... 2 vendeurs insistent en m'affirmant que ce vélo est adapté à ma taille. Je me dis qu'ils connaissent leur métier, que cette sensation doit être normale, que je ne suis pas habitué aux roues de 700.

Une fois réglé, le tube de selle ne dépasse que de quelques centimètres du cadre, alors qu'il semble dépasser de pas mal plus sur les différentes photos de modèle identiques glanées sur Internet.

Il n'avaient pas de modèle plus petit à me faire tester (fin de série, les nouvelles séries arrivent en octobre). Ils m'ont fait une ristourne de 50 euros sur le vélo (j'ai aussi acheté pas mal d'accessoires en plus pour l'équiper en peu pour partir plusieurs jours).

J'ai l'impression d'être un peu trop "penché" sur le cintre, je ne sais pas si cette position est normale. Ca peut être handicapant pour partir plusieurs jours/semaines d'affilée, non ? Un coup a se faire mal au cou et aux épaules.

Je me dis que 2 vendeurs qui doivent vendre des milliers de vélos par an doivent quand même avoir l'habitude de conseiller des tailles adaptées aux "clients" ? Ca a été expédié tellement rapidement que j'ai été un peu pris de court (pas de mesure d'entrejambe, pas de mesure du tout, "emballé c'est pesé"). Bref, je ne sais pas trop quoi faire...

Je reviens de chez le vélociste de ma ville (je sais c'est un peu délicat, mais j'avais besoin d'avoir un double avis de pro), pour me rassurer (ou non). Je lui ai demandé quelle taille il m'aurait conseillée (sans lui indiquer la taille achetée). "A vu d'oeil, un 22''. Il a pris le temps de mesurer mon entrejambe (81 cm, je suis court sur pattes !!), ce qui semble bien coller avec un cadre taille 54". (J'aurais du éplucher les messages du forum concernant la taille des vélos et les liens vers les régles de calcul plus tôt !). Il m'a dit qu'il était possible de changer le cintre par un plus court pour gratter quelques centimètres et rendre la position plus confortable mais pour moi ça reste un pansement pour guérir un mauvais conseil.

Est-ce que les personnes possédant un Trek 7.3 FX (ou un autre Trek) pourraient me transmettre leur taille (éventuellement celle de leur entrejambe) et la taille de leur vélo pour confirmer tout ceci ?

Pensez-vous que dans le cas ou le cadre soit effectivement considéré comme trop grand, un arrangement puisse être trouvé avec le vélociste qui m'a vendu le vélo ? (échange, bon d'avoir, remboursement). Ou qu'à partir du moment ou je l'ai acheté il soit trop tard ?

J'ai l'impression de m'être fait un peu berné... J'avais pourtant bien pris le temps de comparer les différents modèles de vélos grace au forum et à votre aide pour m'orienter vers ce modèle. Je pensais que la taille n'était qu'un détail (de taille, oui !), et que les vendeurs allaient m'orienter vers le bon modèle.

Bref, désolé pour ce paté peut être un peu indigeste, c'est juste que je compte beaucoup sur ce vélo pour passer de chouettes vacances (et bien plus !), et que là je suis du coup un peu frustré...

Merci d'avance pour vos conseils/votre aide/vos avis !

Je pense petit accessoire pas cher en cas de chute ou transport.....