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The Parpaillon saga

Mes Parpaillons - Georges Golse, CC n° 124 Montauban (81) - magazine n° 41, 2013

From one end of the tunnel to the other...
It took 33 years for me to discover both ends of the Parpaillon tunnel...

«Have you done the Parpaillon? Yes, with Michel, 33 years ago during a stay in Vars, on a racing bike fitted with tubular tyres.

Why did we go there? For the legend, no doubt... the visitors' book that we didn't see, the cigarette that we didn't find*, the ice, the snow, the mud, the holes, the puddles in the tunnel that I didn't see because I didn't walk, cycle or grope my way through the tunnel, but curled up in the back seat of an R6.

To this day, what remains is the memory of a long climb through the forest, weaving our way through the stones, zigzagging, gasping for breath in a gear that was too big; an interminable climb that ended in front of the gaping mouth of the tunnel, which exhaled an icy air and in which my travelling companion had long since disappeared. It's true that I went a bit overboard in my description of the tunnel... I must admit that I have a holy horror of these obscure things.

On this morning in September 2012, we set off again on the other side of the Ubaye, on the La Condamine side. The mountain bike we've chosen to ride is a little out of place on the road that rises quietly along the Ubaye, whose valley is gradually narrowing. Up ahead, on our left, a church is already basking in the sunshine. Fast-moving groups pass us, but I doubt we'll see them again. Forts and barracks occupy strategic positions, facing the threatening Italy of the 19th century.^e century. The Parpaillon road was designed to play the same strategic role, supplying these fortresses with men, food and equipment from the upper Durance valley. The soldiers have been replaced by skiers, and now they - and we - have a great tourist route to the resort of Sainte-Anne. A different era, a different strategy. The surface is good, the gradient a little rough. At the front, another cyclist. It's the Cent Cols we met yesterday with his wife on the slopes of La Cayolle and to whom we entrusted our project. He knew he wouldn't be alone when he went to pick out the Col and its noble neighbour, the Girabeau.

The end of the tarmac. A tall tree provides a little shade for the chapel of Sainte-Anne, all white and dapper, its single bell housed in a modest bell tower. The fountain and its pipe dug into a curved branch, the last cans of fresh water...

Le Parpaillon, c’est maintenant. Yes we can ! Slogans de campagnes, promesse d’une belle journée de vélo en montagne. Le chemin est bien large, caillouteux mais sans plus, les montagnes à notre droite, abruptes et dénudées, quelques arbres s’accrochent désespérément sur les pentes les plus hospitalières, la température s’élève. En contrebas, le ruisseau du Parpaillon, bien modeste en cette fin d’été, serpente au milieu de son lit de pierres. Nous franchissons un de ses affluents au pont de Bérard, un pont de bois posé sur de solides troncs. La borne placée nous informe que nous sommes à 1841 m et à 9,995 km du tunnel. Donc, en étant moins précis, il nous reste 10 kilomètres à 8 % de moyenne.

Nous roulons à l’ombre de la forêt de mélèzes, un troupeau de brebis répond à l’appel du berger, encouragé par les aboiements du chien de service, scène pastorale paisible. La route flirte avec une courbe de niveau, derniers instants de répit. En pleine lumière, un pont de bois sur un soubassement de pierre, le torrent est à sec… Les cabanes de berger rappellent la présence humaine dans le décor maintenant nu que domine le Grand Parpaillon. Face à nous, un large vallon que sillonnent des sentiers et le souvenir du ruisseau du Parpaillon. Parpaillon, Parpaillon… c’est la marque repère du coin ! M’est avis qu’aujourd’hui, le pique-nique les fesses dans l’herbe tendre, la bouteille au frais dans l’eau bondissant du torrent, la sieste à l’ombre, faut oublier ! Ce sera casse-dalle, eau tiédasse, rocher rugueux, poussière du chemin et soleil généreux.

The stop will be short-lived, the serious stuff hasn't really started yet, and yet we've been on the road for hours, the legend is earned, the legend, not of centuries but of hours... I »pixelate» my companions who are going to look for another pass and leave me to the slope, the rocks, the photos, my thoughts... the solitude of the long-distance runner and his dubious spoonerism.

With my eyes, I scan the ridge in search of the notch that marks the geographical pass; it's somewhere up there, way up there, higher than the laces that slowly approach at the cost of many turns of the cranks, many imperceptible or more violent strokes of the handlebars designed to maintain balance... you wonder whether you need to have attended cycle tourism school or circus school! Here, you have to give a more energetic push, speeding up your pedalling to get over a rut or avoid an unstable rock. There, the slope gets steeper, and you have to ‘wrestle’ on the pedals, as we say back home. And always this landscape without apparent life, the silence which sometimes comes to disturb the passage of a vehicle, shepherd at work or parasite in 4×4 who also wants his share of Parpaillon, and why not the Mont Blanc by helicopter? I think back to the dozens of participants in the Parpaillon Rally, who set off from Gap on simple randonneuses, passing through after a long day's effort... cycle touring has changed a lot.

Des réflexions, des cailloux, des coups de pédales, oui, mais d’entrée du tunnel, point ! Et pourtant, elle est là, quelque part, derrière un virage. La vue se dégage vers l’est, de hauts sommets enneigés apparaissent, sont-ils italiens, français ? La piste se fait plus rectiligne à flanc de montagne. Tout au bout, un virage à gauche, je sens l’approche du but. Et voilà qu’apparaît la plateforme à l’extrémité de laquelle se dessine le trou noir de l’entrée du tunnel. Non pas un vulgaire trou ouvert dans la montagne, mais un trou enchâssé dans un élégant mur de pierre, un ouvrage d’art… N’empêche qu’au-delà, c’est la gueule béante du tunnel qui exhale un air glacé et dans laquelle ont, depuis longtemps, disparu mes compagnons de route (relire le début de texte !). Des plaques scellées dans le mur rappellent le nom des personnalités militaires qui ont contribué au percement du tunnel… j’ai une pensée pour les ouvriers civils et militaires qui se sont tapés le boulot à coup de pioches et de pelles. Quelques ruines de bâtiments, un ouvrage inutile que vont emprunter quelques casqués juchés sur leurs quads pétaradants, verrues anachroniques.

It's time to set off again calmly, to come back down to earth. Near the chapel, the fountain is still flowing, its more or less abundant stream constantly filling the trough dug into a tree trunk.
We all regrouped and our next stop was, of course, at another 25cl watering hole on the terrace of a café in Barcelonnette, where we got to know each other better. A few pages of Le Chauvot were the subject of our conversation.