The penultimate day almost broke us. This was Saturday, Day 6. People were fried. Bikes and bodies were making disturbing new noises each day, and it turned out the hardest riding of the entire trip was just starting. Riding that would physically tax us more on the downhills than on the uphills. 

We were deep in southern France, less than an hour’s drive from the Med. Also deep in the Alpes Maritimes, so naturally the day started with a 3500+ foot shuttle, from the depths of a limestone gorge to the heights of a ski resort perched on a mountain above. The road to get there was a perfect analogy for what was to come on our bikes. Comically narrow, perched over abysses, the kind of path that you can’t imagine what someone was thinking when they built the damn thing. 

We were also deep in Enduro Territory, the terrain of the legendary Trans-Provence, Trans-Vesubian, near famous riding areas on the Italian coast like Finale Ligure. The riding reflected that and, with our collective fatigue from day after day in the saddle, we had to dig deep to discover new levels of bike handling and poise to deal with what the trails threw at us. 

I suspect that if it hadn’t for our complete and utter faith in Blaise, and our devotion and desire to not let him down, someone might have deserted on the Col de Turini and stayed in the van. We’d already done over 5500 feet of intense, focused downhill that morning, following jagged, ancient trails that dropped from dizzying heights into cartoonishly deep canyons. The sheer technicality of the riding had meant a slow pace, further delayed by mechanicals caused by the demanding terrain. Which meant that after a coffee on the Turini’s heavily motorsports themed cafe we were rolling out to find single-track at 4 in the afternoon in a thick cover of coastal fog which made it seem dark and foolishly late. 

Minutes later any doubts were demolished by a fresh onslaught of ridiculous riding. We were hub deep in leaves, ripping down a sweeping, switch-backing trail that was, like so many of these ancient trails, carved into the mountainside creating this crazy leaf luge for bikes through the forest. The GoPro footage from this trail is accompanied by a soundtrack of pure laughter. 

Soon after there would be more f-bombs than laughter. Below the forest of two wheeled leaf-powder skiing we re-entered the realm of jagged rock canyons the area is known for. Technical riding that picks apart the weary, resulting in tumbles, mechanicals, and frayed nerves. 

The thick coastal fog kept us in our own little world out there that day. Never able to see too far ahead, or too far behind, focusing us on where we were and on each new piece of ever more technical trail we needed to descend. It was a game of risk vs reward and on a 7 day trip, far from the nearest road, it’s always perhaps wisest to put a foot down. But in a group of 7 good friends the temptation is always to take the big line. 

Late in the afternoon with evening approaching, we arrived on a tiny ancient stone foot bridge, in ones and twos, trickling in at the bottom of the gnarliest trail we’d done the entire trip. I glanced at Blaise and could see behind his trademark smile was a look genuine relief we’d all safely made it.