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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 The soldiers have been replaced by skiers, and now they - and we - have a great tourist route to the resort of Sainte-Anne.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...

The Parpaillon is on. Yes we can! Campaign slogans, the promise of a lovely day’s cycling in the mountains. The path is wide, stony but nothing more; the mountains to our right are steep and bare, with a few trees clinging desperately to the most hospitable slopes; the temperature is rising. Below, the Parpaillon stream, a mere trickle at the end of summer, winds its way through its bed of stones. We cross one of its tributaries at the Bérard bridge, a wooden bridge resting on sturdy logs. The marker tells us we are at 1,841 m and 9.995 km from the tunnel. So, to put it less precisely, we have 10 kilometres left at an average speed of 8 km/h.

We drive through the shade of the larch forest; a flock of sheep responds to the shepherd’s call, spurred on by the barking of the herding dog – a peaceful pastoral scene. The road hugs a contour line, offering a final moment of respite. Bathed in light, a wooden bridge on a stone foundation; the torrent is dry… The shepherd’s huts are a reminder of human presence in the now bare landscape dominated by the Grand Parpaillon. Before us, a wide valley criss-crossed by paths and the memory of the Parpaillon stream. Parpaillon, Parpaillon… it’s the landmark of the area! In my opinion, today, a picnic with your backside in the soft grass, a bottle chilled in the rushing water of the stream, a nap in the shade – forget it! Instead, it’ll be a quick bite, lukewarm water, rough rocks, dusty paths and blazing sunshine.

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.

Thoughts, pebbles, pedalling – yes, but as soon as we enter the tunnel, that’s it! And yet, there it is, somewhere, just round a bend. The view opens up to the east; high snow-capped peaks appear – are they Italian, French? The track becomes straighter along the mountainside. Right at the end, a left-hand bend; I can feel the finish line approaching. And there it is: the platform, at the far end of which the black hole of the tunnel entrance takes shape. Not just a common hole cut into the mountain, but a hole set within an elegant stone wall, a work of art… Nevertheless, beyond it lies the gaping maw of the tunnel, exhaling icy air, into which my travelling companions have long since disappeared (re-read the beginning of the text!). Plaques set into the wall bear the names of the military figures who contributed to the tunnelling… my thoughts go out to the civilian and military workers who toiled away at the job with pickaxes and shovels. A few building ruins, a useless structure that will be used by a few helmeted riders perched on their backfiring quads, anachronistic eyesores.

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.

*Read Raymond Henry's article ‘Une cigarette comme témoin!’
(Cyclotourisme, FFCT magazine, no. 619, December 2012).