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The Parpaillon saga

Un col de légende, le Parpaillon - Bernard Weulersse CC n° 6304 - revue n° 45, 2017

 »Among the centcolists, there are those who made Le Parpaillon and the others.

Reading this statement, a pithy sentence from a blog, was like a galvanic shock.

Suspendant ses palpitations l’espace d’un instant mon cœur se serra, ma gorge se noua, tous mes sens se troublèrent… Foutaises ! Je n’ai jamais fait ce col et je ne me sens pas moins centcoliste pour autant. De dépit je fermai la page de ce blog et éteignis mon ordinateur. Je pensai en rester là. En fait, je fus touché au vif.

Throughout the winter, this assertion insidiously distilled its venom, sowing doubt and reminding me of my self-esteem. So from time to time I found myself consulting a few websites about this mythical pass, looking at an IGN map to pinpoint its exact location, looking through books and reading blogs by cyclists who had conquered this Alpine giant. After all, it's a singular, extraordinary pass, one of cycling's sacred monsters.

The figures speak for themselves: separating the Ubaye and Durance valleys, it culminates at 2637 m. It's an 18km ascent, with a 1,400m vertical drop on the south-facing slope, and a trail that winds its way up impressive switchbacks to the summit tunnel, 468m of which you have to negotiate in near-darkness, with your eyes riveted on the bright spot at the exit. All this in an imposing setting with a high mountain atmosphere. So I got to know it, to tame it and, gradually, the idea of adding this pass to my list of achievements soon gave way to an irrepressible desire; then the desire was followed by the imperious need to tame it. The idea had taken hold, I was trapped, the Parpaillon had drawn me into the meshes of its net.

Reste à organiser ce défi : mes jours de congés sont comptés, ce col est somme toute dans une région reculée de France, difficilement compatible avec un déplacement professionnel !

Convincing your wife and children - who only dream of the sea - to spend their holidays at the bottom of the Ubaye valley (a little-known valley which, on the face of it, hardly attracts summer visitors) doesn't seem to be an easy task. It's an arduous task, and you're going to have to play it close to the vest, using clever tactics and Machiavellian stratagems: first of all, to arouse my wife's curiosity by regularly leaving the PC carelessly switched on on a site presenting the treasures of this valley (the picturesque and sumptuous Mexican villas of Barcelonnette, the forts suspended from the rocks overlooking the valley...), slip in from time to time the idea of healthier Alpine holidays for children's physical activity, praise the soothing climate of the mountains, sing the praises of the spirit of authenticity specific to rural regions contrasting with the glitz and glamour of the Côte d'Azur, argue the more reasonable rental prices... six months. Six months of work. Six months of manipulation (or my wife's generous capitulation). Then, one day in June, by a providential coincidence, I clicked on a booking confirmation in Jausiers, a cycling sanctuary at the foot of the Parpaillon (and incidentally the Bonette).

It's a done deal! With the base camp now established, all that's left to do is draw up the plan of attack: reconnaissance of the route on the IGN map, mountain bike hire (I'm just an unconditional road centcolist), consulting websites, reading blogs...

Every adventure, every journey and, a fortiori, every conquest of a legendary pass is experienced three times over:
- before, i.e. during preparation,
- on the day of the event,
- for the rest of his life.

An unforgettable memory. The preparatory phase is a delectable moment during which we savour the climb in advance. In the months leading up to it: dreaming about the climb, consulting the maps, studying the contours, the switchbacks, the remarkable points, the gradients and the difference in altitude... and then the day before: meticulously preparing your bike, choosing your outfit, filling your bag with a hearty snack, making clever mixes for a magic concoction that's supposed to give you the boost you've been waiting for... a climb like the Parpaillon takes as much mental preparation as physical.

How many times had I ridden it in my dreams over the previous spring: in bed before falling into the arms of Morpheus, at the wheel of my car on the depressing, perpetually jammed ring road to work, or even smiling blissfully during soporific business meetings?.

To dream of climbing a mountain pass is to have already mentally climbed it. To borrow a phrase from Marek Halter: «Of course, a dream of a doughnut is a dream, not a doughnut. But a dream of a journey is already a journey», a phrase that can easily be transposed to cycling, which would be «a dream of a mountain pass is already a mountain pass».

The members of the Cent Cols committee will appreciate the idea, but I leave it to them to discuss it at the next General Meeting.

16 août 6 h 30 : départ dès potron-minet de Jausiers. Quelques kilomètres sur une nationale, déserte à cette heure ; aux Condamines, village encore paisiblement endormi sous l’œil protecteur du fort des Tournous, je bifurque à gauche direction Sainte-Anne. La route s’élève progressivement en lacets dans un silence que seuls viennent rompre le grondement du torrent du Parpaillon, les cris perçants de quelques geais matinaux et des cloches au loin annonçant 7 h. Peu avant Sainte-Anne, j’emprunte une petite route forestière, petit répit pour se refaire la cerise dans une odeur de foin séché de fin d’été. Enfin la chapelle Sainte-Anne. Le temps d’ingurgiter quelques barres de céréales et de compléter ma gourde à la fontaine, l’ascension reprend sur une piste serpentant les mélèzes.

Suddenly, as you approach the Parpaillon hut, the panorama opens out onto a magnificent valley. The sun is already flooding the peaks, but the valley is still bathed in shadow. «There, all is order and beauty, luxury, calm and pleasure» *. And I'm alone.

It's in this sumptuous setting that things begin in earnest, with the endless switchbacks on the side of the Parpaillon setting the tone for what's to come. The ascent is peaceful, intoxicating me with the solitude, the reigning silence, the smell of the dawn, the peaks that are revealed as the climb progresses. With all my senses awake, I'm living! Some people cycle to give meaning to their lives, others to give life to their senses. As I climb, I reach the first rays of the sun, which caress me with a benevolent warmth, a few marmots perched on the rocks encourage me with their whistles before slowly disappearing. A bird of prey circles around me, hoping for my demise?

Suddenly, at the bend in the road: there it was! The entrance to the famous tunnel! A few more hectometres and the Parpaillon has been conquered. I salute the genius of the military engineers who made it possible to cross this inaccessible pass. I venture into this dark and damp tunnel. 468 m, a crossing with only the bright spot of the exit in my sights, pedalling as best I can, and above all not putting my foot down, judging by the feeling of mud and water under my wheel.

Sur l’autre versant un panorama à couper le souffle également, « la vie ce n’est pas respirer, c’est avoir le souffle coupé ! » Je doute que ce soit à l’issue d’une ascension de col qu’Hitchcock ait prononcé de telles paroles, néanmoins elles sont à propos. Au loin les sommets enneigées des Écrins, je me repais de ces paysages et emmagasine toutes ces émotions vitales pour mon année laborieuse au boulot. Un aller-retour rapide au col de Girabeau histoire de grossir la liste des plus de 2000 m et de profiter de la vue plongeante sur le lac de Serre-Ponçon, puis j’entreprends le retour.

In Jausiers, the bell tower of the church of Saint-Nicolas-de-Myre welcomes me with its twelve strokes of noon as I reach the birthplace of the Arnaud brothers**. Just in time to set the table (to ease my conscience), enjoy a «Sauvage», the local beer brewed on the slopes of the Col de Vars, and promise my children a cheerful father for the rest of the day.

People make a mountain out of the Parpaillon, when in fact it's just a pass! But what a pass!

* L'Invitation au voyage‘ by Charles Baudelaire.
** The Arnaud brothers were at the origin of the Ubayan emigration movement to Mexico and Louisiana in the 19th century.^e and early XX^e century.