It was only minutes after Peter called me that Leah and I were comparing flight options. His wedding in Mâcon gave us the options of either flying into Paris or make our way to France from Geneva. Between the two of us, we had been to Paris several times and found the idea of a new city exciting. Seeing how close we’d be to the Alps quickly inspired a plan to ride our bikes around Mont Blanc after the wedding.
This was our second time traveling with bikes, the first time being a three week tour of Corsica and Sardinia. Before that trip, the idea of traveling with a bike seemed daunting and led to an endless spiral of worry regarding getting a mechanical. Now, it just seemed like the most obvious thing to do in a new country.
Chamonix, France to Orsières, Switzerland
After partying at Peter and Sonya’s beautiful chateau wedding, we returned to Chamonix where we stashed our gear. The friendly folks at Zero G were kind enough to hold on to our bikes and would continue to keep our bike bags and wedding clothes in storage while we rode a loop around the Mont Blanc massif. In return, I gifted them a range of craft beers from the brew shop next door which put a smile on one of the employee’s face and garnered an ooh-lala from another as he walked past.
Chamonix was in a beautiful setting but we were both eager to leave. We happened to be there during UTMB, one of the biggest ultra-races in the world with close to 3,000 runners trailed by their family and friends descending on the town. There was a chaotic and nervous energy in the air, which was cool to witness. Unfortunately, it also meant that lodging was four times more expensive than normal.
On the morning of September 2nd, we started east on a gently sloping climb. The cars were few in number and all were polite, as I’d expected. Several cyclists passed us, and I wondered how many of them were doing the same loop as we were. Our planned 200mi ride is typically done by cyclists in 2-3 days, and there’s even a race where elite riders complete the entirety of the 27,000ft of elevation in just a day.
Leah and I were taking it at a more leisurely pace, loaded with a few layers of clothing crammed into bike bags, a few comfort items, and overnight essentials. We planned for five days of riding and opted for lodging instead of camping each night.
The tour would take us into three countries, starting with France. Shortly after cresting Col des Montets, we dropped into Switzerland. Besides a few Swiss flags, it didn’t feel any more unique to be in a new country. It was as notable as walking into a different neighborhood back home. As we pedaled, I wondered what the currently very minimal border crossing was like before the Schengen Agreement, which reduced crossing-friction between 29 European nations in 2008.
Alpine sensations
It soon began to feel different a few miles in, and I assume this had more to do with escaping the touristic gravitational pull of Chamonix. We made our way steadily to Col de la Forclaz and the soft clanging of cowbells followed us, just as audible at the bottom of our climb as they were at the top. Dozens of cows ambled below, getting smaller with each switchback we turned.
The air was thick with humidity and the sweet smell of grass. I wondered if we’d get a downpour on our first day of riding.
We dropped into our first big descent, losing nearly 3,400ft over 8 miles. We stopped several times to stretch out our necks from being in the drops for so long. Once we arrived in the surprisingly sprawling city of Martigny, Leah stopped at a gas station where she’d find a new favorite chocolate brand, Cailler.
Eau non potable
Orsières was our destination for the day and the more direct route from Martigny was quieter and more scenic, so we started up our final climb.
I had read that carrying extra water was unnecessary on the entirety of the route, since there were so many municipal water fountains. While sweating my way up the switchbacks, I made a decision that I’d try one of these fountains.
I saw a picnic table in a meadow by the road, and filled up my bottle, drinking greedily. Even though I had plenty of water, I filled up with the intention of being well-hydrated. Leah came by a minute later and pointed to the sign saying “Eau non potable.”
Damn. I emptied my water bottles and pedaled ahead even faster, nervously unsure when the symptoms would hit.
I quickly forgot about the bad water, getting lost in the magic of the forested village road I was now biking. I made it to a crepe shop that was still open and got myself a meal while I waited for Leah.
We saw lots of mountain bikers around Champex-Lac, and it was clear that we were in another hub of tourism. I wondered how the riding here would compare to the pristine hero dirt I became used to in the Pacific Northwest. If we had a rest day here I’d have loved to find out.
Our descent into Orsières felt like we were falling into the heart of the mountains. With our wheels humming fast, we were flying down into the dramatically different landscape. Rather than a valley floor of concrete blocks, as with our descent into Martigny, here we could only see the few short buildings clustered around the church tower of Orsières.
We biked through the narrow and uneven streets of the town, trying to get a sense of where our home for the night was. I wasn’t at all surprised that Google Maps had some errors.
We met our Airbnb host, Joachim, and he showed us around the house. It had been the home of his grandparents that he and his wife beautifully renovated. He told us that it was the oldest building in the town, and showed us a wood beam in the bathroom with 1564 carved into it, before Shakespeare was born and before tomatoes were accepted in Italian recipes. Just before Joachim left, we asked him what he did for work. He said he doesn’t actually work because he’s in politics, clarifying that he was the mayor of the town.
Ride stats: 4hr20min, 41.8mi, 6200ft (map)
Orsières to Aosta, Italy — Over Grand Saint Bernard
I woke up early, relieved that I still wasn’t sick from the alleged “eau non potable.” While Leah slept off the rest of her night, I stepped out to visit the one bakery in town to gather breakfast. I was paying just as 30 high schoolers showed up and lined up behind me. I awkwardly remembered just enough French to fumble my way through the transaction.
We both stared into the clouds hoping to get a read on whether luck was on our side again. Today’s ride would be a simple up and over the Grand Saint Bernard Pass. Half our mileage would be climbing, mirrored by another half of descending.
We stopped at a gas station to snack on ice cream we pulled out of a freezer. An Italian family pulled in behind us, and also figured ice cream was the move. The father curiously looked over our bikes and started chatting with us. They were on a road trip from Turin so I mentioned that I had been learning Italian through podcasts during our riding. I exchanged the very few phrases I knew, including “dov'è la spiaggia?”
Sharing the road
We tried to avoid the main road whenever we found a path that ran parallel to the highway. At a certain point, it became impossible and we found ourselves on a covered roadway.
Fortunately, the cars were extremely few and there were several opportunities to step off the road onto adjacent clearings overlooking Lac des Toules. These little escapes between the bursts of pedaling let us leapfrog between waves of cars.
There was a moment where the highway would become a tunnel, one that bored under Mont Mort and emerged in Italy. We made sure to take the last exit out onto a road that would allow us to bike over the pass. We didn’t go far before a set of construction vehicles blocked any traffic from continuing through. Fortunately, they waved us through.
We quickly found out what was going on with the road we were on. It was closed to cars because they were pressing down a fresh layer of asphalt. Our tires stuck to the pavement like glue and needed to be peeled off with more torque on our uphill pedaling.
Our bikes left thin, barely perceptible, imprints that embedded into the tarry surface, but none of it stuck onto our tires. Eventually we met up with a crew of active workers, busily managing the roller-compactors flattening the new road. One of them shouted frantically towards us over the din of the machinery and we got the signal that he wanted us to walk our bikes.
We pushed our bikes along the narrow strip of lumpy dirt shouldering the road. It was only for a half mile before the road work ended and we were free to pedal our way up smooth tarmac.
The last section of the climb to get to the pass was the most scenic of the day. Despite the obvious road cutting through the mountains, it still felt like we were in deep wilderness and reminded me of the backpacking trip we did in Gates of the Arctic. It was incredible luck on our part that there wasn’t a single car in sight due to the construction.
We crossed over the Grand Saint Bernard Pass, where hundreds of tourists had driven up to from the Italian side. We stopped at Lac du Grand Saint Bernard by the site of a dozen Valais Blackneck goats, a breed known for their long, flowing hair and coloration of black in the front and white in the rear.
After officially crossing the border into Italy, we stopped at a hotel restaurant. Leah excitedly pointed to the menu, thrilled at how cheap everything was compared to the pricey and subpar meals we’ve had so far in Switzerland. A downpour started just as we set our bikes along the hotel’s stone walls. Inside, we waited out the passing showers with warm soup and pizza. It was all downhill from here, so there was no reason not to appreciate a substantial meal. We made the fortunate decision to get their fior di latte gelato, made in-house, and it was more than good enough to warrant biking up 5,000 feet of elevation for.
If you look closely, you can see Leah
The rain-soaked wind pelted us as we pointed ourselves downhill towards Aosta. We’d have 21 miles of descent, losing 6,200ft of altitude. I tried to find the edge of how fast I could rip downhill without losing my tires on a slippery turn. Leah was more careful, primarily thinking about all the peaks we couldn’t see that were obscured by the storm.
My clothes were soaked through, but I wasn’t cold despite moving at between 30-35mph. After dropping just a thousand feet, the rain let up. I wasn’t wet for long though; the remaining descent dried every layer I had on down to my socks.
We pulled into Aosta at sunset, thrilled to be spending a night in Italy. It seemed nearly everyone spoke French, unsurprising given how close we were to the border. Whenever I tried to engage with shopkeepers in my less-than-basic Italian, they’d switch to French in an effort to help me out. Although Aosta was fairly large, it felt comforting and old. I wished we had an extra day, but we had mileage to cover.
Ride stats: 4hr29min, 39.7mi, 5300ft (map)
Aosta, Italy to Bourg-Saint-Maurice, France — Over Petit Saint Bernard
A thick overcast hung above us when we set off, riding alongside but opposite the flow of the Doro Baltea river. Along the gentle ascent, we stopped often to sample grapes of the many vineyards we pedaled through, all fed by the meltwater of Mont Blanc. All looked ripe, but some were sweeter others more tart. On either side of us we caught glimpses of stone castles perched on the edge of a cliff.
At the town of Pré-Saint-Didier, we’d be heading south to begin the steeper ascent to the Petit Saint Bernard Pass at over 7,000 feet. We stopped for lunch, disappointed that the only place open in Pré-Saint-Didier was a restaurant that by all accounts looked like it’s only reason for existence was to extract money from desperate tourists. It was as bad as I expected it to be, but it was also entertaining to see how poor the service was to the tables around us. The owner gently yelled at me for mispronouncing a word in Italian repeatedly. I was actually grateful for this, since no one else had cared enough to correct me.
Within a few minutes of ascending, we were enveloped in a heavy cloud of rain. I didn’t bother putting on a rain shell, figuring I’d get soaked either way. We had 4,000 feet of climbing to do, and I was nervous about how cold we’d be at the top if this didn’t let up. I waited for Leah to catch up in a sheltered area. A curtain of water was falling a few feet away at the mouth of the cavernous tunnel and I was grateful for the reprieve.
It seemed we had waited out the storm with our short break, but whenever I looked up it seemed just as likely the clouds would tear open again within minutes.
We quietly pedaled onward either way. Home tonight would be in Bourg-Saint-Maurice in France, on the other side of this chain of mountains. Neither of us spoke much. I could tell Leah was losing steam. She didn’t speak much when we’d regroup, and she also made it pretty clear she wanted to stop for the night somewhere sooner.
Three miles before the top of the pass, Leah wanted to stop at a hotel to get a meal. She was bonking hard and needed some fuel. She had been reluctant to eat any more of the sweet snacks we were carrying in abundance.
A ham and cheese sandwich paired with tea broke the spell and she charged up the rest of the climb. The sun was low in the sky, and the clouds were tattered around the peaks, this time revealing more than they obscured.
No one else was up at the pass at this hour. There was less than an hour of daylight left and we had close to 5,000ft to drop before we could rest for the night. We didn’t linger for long.
Despite the limited daylight, we couldn’t resist stopping after every other bend to admire the valley below bathed in the soft wash of the setting sun. We made it to our Airbnb in the dark, only a few minutes after my bike light was spent.
Ride stats: 5hr47min, 54.5mi, 5900ft (map)
Rain day, rest day
We slept in the next day, having a lazy Thursday of exploring the small town and stocking up on snacks for the remainder of the trip. We were more than halfway done, and neither of us fretted about today’s unplanned rest day. The fat raindrops were falling hard and I wouldn’t have minded an umbrella walking through Bourg-Saint-Maurice.
Bourg-Saint-Maurice to Beaufort
Both of us desperately hoped the forecast of clear skies was accurate, as we’d burned up the only rest day that had been baked into our plans. Fortunately, the skies were open and we headed north with the many other cyclists who had taken shelter from yesterday’s storm.
We had 13 miles of climbing ahead of us to cover today’s elevation gain, all at a gentle grade and we had no reason not to stop and admire the mountains. Throughout the day, I found myself stopping in the middle of a switchback wondering whether I’d get a look at Mont Blanc, entirely unsure what it looked like.
The valley we pedaled through looked to be pulsing with energy, but it was just the lush glow from new sunshine reflecting off the recently soaked greenery. It was our first truly bright day and we were in a daze of pure joy. We were far from any car traffic, a world away from the anxious riding through low-visibility tunnels of a few days ago.
The blissful climb became almost meditative. No other cyclists were behind us; we had stopped for long enough that they were far ahead beyond sight. The quiet road continued to switchback and take us around massive bends, each time granting us a new perspective on Vallée des Chapieux. I’d later learn this road is closed in the winter and becomes a popular ski touring destination in the spring. Of the entire tour, this most remote section would be our favorite and we happened to catch it on the best weather day.
At the top of Cormet de Roselend pass there was a Frenchman with an elaborate table filled with an assortment of fromage wheels, slices of jambon, sticks of saucisson, and a sack of baguettes. The array of snacks he had was more impressive than some cheese shops I’d been to. We considered snacking before our descent, and I wish I had, but we were eager to get a meal by the lake a few minutes ahead.
Our route would have us wrap around the northern shores of Lac de Roseland, a dammed lake of brilliant turquoise blue. We stopped for a meal at one of the two cafes. Neither of us were hungry so we stuck to frites and gelato. Seated next to us was a German guy named Erhart, who immediately left his friends to chat with us after realizing we were American. He had lived in Los Angeles for over twenty years and took an instant liking to us. He and his friends were on a motorcycle tour, and he’d covered a whole lot of ground in the few days that we had been cycling. Leah asked where we could go to next time to avoid motorcycles. He gave us some tips, but noted that that anywhere worth going to, you can expect motorcycles to be.
After our meal, we wandered into the small Chapelle de Roselend perched at the head of the lake. Although it looks a lot older, it was built in 1962 as an exact replica of the original 12th century chapel that was submerged during the creation of the dam.
Our long descent down to Beaufort left our necks a bit stiff. Leah checked us in to what would be the nicest lodging we’d get all trip, Hôtel La Roche. As with all the stays, we were asked to keep our bikes in a garage although both of us would’ve loved if we could sneak them into our rooms to make unpacking easier.
Today had been so perfect that I forgot to stress out about the possibility that I might have made myself sick by drinking bad water all those days ago. I felt strong during the entire ride, and was riding high until that evening.
Ride stats: 2hr47min, 27mi, 3900ft (map)
Beaufort to Les Saisies
I’ll spare the details, but it was clear from my repeat bathroom visits last night that my luck had run out. I woke up the next morning hoping that whatever ailed me had passed. Unfortunately it hadn’t, and we made our way to the pharmacy. I did my best to explain what I’d done and the pharmacist suggested I head to the urgent care, which was staffed with a doctor for just a few hours that Saturday morning.
There were only a few people in the waiting room. No one looked happy to be there. One at a time we were called in.
In a mix of English and French, I explained again that I drank some bad water and was paying a hefty price for it.
She sent me on my way with a prescription and said she hoped it was just E. coli and not Giardia.
(It was just E. coli! I didn’t know this until a week later.)
The medicine held me together well for the rest of the day, and I was quite impressed with myself for having the stamina to push through as if nothing had happened. I tried to tell myself that in the best case scenario, drinking bad water would make me more immune to bad water the next time I screwed up. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
There were three ways to get to the town of Les Saisies and I’d like to believe Leah chose the most scenic and quiet route. I could count on one hand the number of people and cars we saw. We got our first view of Mont Blanc, a brilliant white mound of snow and rock peeking through a ridgeline that obscured much of our view. It was a strong contrast to the endless greenery we faced in all directions.
We stopped in for lunch at Chez Gaylord in the town of Hauteluce. We were told to ignore the entire menu since the only thing the owner had left was a very cheesy tartiflette of Reblochon smothering potatoes, lardons, and onions. I hadn’t eaten a traditional Savoyarde meal since most of the fondue at local restaurants seemed geared towards entertaining tourists. It was absolutely delicious.
We pulled into the town of Les Saises, immediately noticing the many mountain bikes. The ski lifts in town had been repurposed for mountain biking. We got in just as the lifts were closing up, so we didn’t get to see anyone ripping down the trails.
Ride stats: 1hr54min, 10.8mi, 3100ft (map)
Les Saisies to Chamonix
Today would be our last day of riding. It’d be mostly downhill, but there would be a decent amount of climbing before we could make it to Chamonix.
Most of today felt like a fun roller coaster. We’d be losing almost 5,000ft of elevation gradually. At the town of Flumet we stopped by a cheese shop along the side of the road. Just outside of it, there was a fully stocked 24/7 vending machine of cheese, wine, juices, milk, cured meats, nuts and anything else you’d need for a picnic.
Rain was falling more steadily on us, and we were hungry for lunch. I realized that if we descended just a little faster, we could catch the train to Chamonix. I was more than happy to take the train to avoid biking any more in the rain. For the last hour of our trip, we ripped downhill and made it with just two minutes to spare.
Leah and I were relieved to be in the warm train car, fully done with our bike loop around Mont Blanc. The weather wasn’t always in our favor, and neither was the non-potable water. We left with a greater familiarity of the most popular area of the Alps as well as the surrounding pockets of serene and bucolic landscapes. I don’t think I’d recommend it unless you are doing 2-3 day supported push to complete the loop with perfect weather. Even still, there are so many other routes in the region that have fewer cars and offer more remoteness. As always though, I’m grateful for both the special moments and the challenging ones, and that I get to share this memory with Leah.
Ride stats: 1hr45min, 23.8mi, 1100ft (map)