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The Parpaillon saga

Peur au Parpaillon - Freddy Anceschi CC n° 2344 Cyclos de Moirans - revue n° 15, 1987

20th July 85. The alarm goes off. A glance out the window suggests a beautiful summer's day. It's the sweet excitement of departure, in the cool of the morning...

Avec Pierre, nous avons bien préparé notre affaire. Il s’est enfin décidé à monter un triple plateau (32×26) et, hier soir, dans notre gîte de Saint-Sauveur, j’ai changé nos couronnes pour une 24 dents et équipé ma jante arrière d’un boyau de cross ! Les 10 km de chemin non goudronnés nous inquiètent un peu et nous partons avec deux boyaux de rechange chacun ! Il est des cols qui ont leur réputation !

What a pleasure it is to be pedalling in the freshness of a beautiful day ahead. We climbed the first few kilometres in the shade of the valley dominated by the Méale forest. On leaving Praveyral, we caught up with a shepherd leading his sheep up the mountain. We strike up a conversation... and have a snack, because we're going to need all our strength later on in the rocky terrain. We left Crévoux on the right. It makes more sense to sign the visitors' book there on our return... A bridge spans the torrent. The tarmac gives way to pebbles. And here we are! Derailleurs to the left, hands on the pedals, we start off cautiously in a dancer's stride. Altitude 1660 m - Gradient 12 % - Target 2645 m.

Assis, la roue arrière adhère mieux, mais comment trouver un équilibre sur ces pierres ? Le funambule n’est-il pas debout ?

The heat was beginning to show, and combined with our efforts, we continued our ascent shirtless. We laugh at the thought of the spectacle we could offer passers-by... if there were any: shorts, black braces and white torsos to match the bob! Pierre does a few somersaults to get his front wheel out of the rut. Clusters of butterflies fly off as we pass.

To get away from the stones, I tried a jaunt across the fields. Unfortunately, my narrow rims sink into the soft grass and slow my progress. A few stray sheep graze silently. Higher up, we meet the shepherd, his flock and his black dogs. «We'll pick them up this evening on the way down», he tells us, not at all worried about letting them wander several hundred metres away.

At around 2300 m, the meadows give way to rocks. The brisk air means we have to put our swimming costumes back on. We follow the Crévoux torrent. A marmot runs along the other side. We surprised another at the ford crossing. The gentians make their appearance. We think the tunnel is near, and every time we turn a corner, we think we see it.

It's finally here! It's all over. The Parpaillon has been conquered. With our bikes resting against a firn at the entrance to the tunnel, we contemplate the panorama.

Pierre suggested we cross the tunnel to admire the other side. It's cold in the dark. And the exit, a small ball of light, dazzles us. Our feet waded through the icy water. I give up and turn back.

Regardless of the panorama on the other side, the objective is achieved... Pierre persists and reaches the end of the tunnel. But what does he do? Why is he closing the heavy gate? Well, this time I'm in total darkness! But what is he shouting? For help? What on earth! He's pulled another prank,« I tell myself as I continue on my way towards the sun. My doubts are rekindled by the persistence of his calls. I turned back towards the blocked exit and shouted: »Open the gate! I can't see!" But he just kept calling for help. I finished running, pushing the bike through the cold puddles, at the risk of falling.

«My arm is stuck between the two gate leaves! Free me!» he shouted. I pulled, I pushed, but it wouldn't open! Pierre was in pain, his watch had broken and his wrist was swelling. «Do something!» he exclaims.

I tried in vain to wedge a stone between the two doors! Use the frame of the bike for leverage,« he shouts, »but do something!.

I kicked his front wheel into the gap in the gate, taking the pressure off his trapped wrist. But I can't free him, his hand is still on the other side. He's cold now. We're alone in the dark. What can we do?

Suddenly we discover a door in the gateway. I open it and step through to the other side of the mountain, bathed in sunlight. I run around looking for a solution. This big flat stone will do. Too heavy for me, I pull it up to the tunnel, wedge it in the gap and lever it open with all my might. The portal opens a millimetre or two and, before Pierre can get his hand out of the way, the stone breaks, causing the portal to move back... and a cry of pain. Several more attempts, and... deliverance!

We passed into the sunshine and his wrist was bloody. It was about time, Pierre was about to faint. We went back through the tunnel by the small door. Pierre's wheel is barely veiled! With one hand, he slowly climbs down, while I run down to get help. Further down, a camper van slowly rises. He agrees to go up and get it, then back down to the tarmac.

A few days later, Pierre, his radius broken and his arm in plaster, returned to hospital for a check-up. He met the Belgian camper who had brought him down from the pass and asked him what he was doing there; our Belgian replied: «While I was with you, my daughter cut her knee waiting for me!»
Holy Parpaillon! When you've got us...