From Aix to Frejus

by Daniel Heesch

Knowing that time was of the essence, I only stopped in Aix to fill up my water bottles and soon exited the city on its Eastern side after passing the Fontaine de la Rotonde on the "Place de Général de Gaulle". The road first descends for half a kilometer before climbing up spectacularly over two or three bends to level with the motorway. After a few minutes the road splits into the N7 which continues eastwards towards St. Maximilin and the N96 which turns south to hit the Mediterranean coastline after another 50 kilometers. A few kilometers only and you see the Montagne Ste Victoire rising to your left, a mountain that was particularly dear to Cezanne and served him as a favourite motif. To your right between the N7 and the coast rises the Mont Aurelien a green-topped mountain that you can see as soon as you get out of Aix.

It was now late afternoon, the temperature had dropped a little and cycling had again become one of the most beautiful things on earth. The road had become very quiet and the view reached many kilometers ahead. There were hills on either side, most notably to your right between the N7 and the Mediterranean sea but the course of the N7 itself is very benign, not the gruelling terrain I had envisaged on this last third. The few climbs that you find are often long but rarely steep. I remembered that I had initially planned not to go via Aix but to follow instead the river Durance from Cavaillon along a departmental road. This would have turned the final 200 kilometers into something much more challenging.

Around 20 kilometers before Saint Maximin you get to a large mansion, Domaine Sacaron, where you can fill your water bottles and if you so wish to buy some products "du terroir", that is from the local land.

The N7 continues to be very pleasant to ride, rolling hills and a good many flat kilometers. It remains close to the motorway which it crosses exactly four times between Aix and the coast. At 10pm it was still light enough to be seen by the few cars. I had not made any effort to get hold of new batteries for my rear light and so I was very anxious that the traffic might perhaps pick up. I decided to take a short rest at a small parking bay on the left of the N7 where I had just noticed two people in front of a caravan doing just that. After my French greetings remained unrequited, it surfaced that it was an Australian couple on its way from Monacco to Portugal. In addition to offering me from their supply of fruits and inviting me to join in for a freshly brewed instant coffee, they also dispelled my hopes for a quiet third night. According to the radio, this very night promised to be the worst night of that summer as the French holidays had just begun! Now, here is a lesson: no matter how hard you try to get it all right, there will always remain that incalculable risk of missing out something. But let's admit it, this is part of the excitement.

It is one of the characteristics of the tropics, that dusk and dawn do not only occur at pretty much the same time throughout the year, but they do not last very long since the sun goes straight down at right angle to the horizon. The effect is the same in higher lattitudes in summer as the sun is much higher up and the angle at dawn less acute. So, while it was still light enough at 10, half an hour later, I found myself in pitch-black darkness. Being without light on the N7 is an adventure in itself. The street is mostly lit and the traffic is not as bad as expected but only just about manageable: perhaps one car a minute. At first I slow down and sometimes stop whenever something approaches from behind but then I conclude that in this fashion I would never make it to the coast by sunrise. The solution was simple and very effective but also required an unreasonable level of alertness: whenever a car came from behind and none from ahead. I changed lanes and continued on the other side until the car had passed. Often another car would appear in front of me forcing me onto the right side again. I maintained this style for an hour or two but it was only for moments that I enjoyed it.

Thus I cycle around midnight right into a police control that was set up at the end of a steep descent just before the town of St Yan. Not only did I have no lights, I didn't look particularly sober either. And even if the alcohol test had turned out to be negative, they would find other grounds to take me off the road and ruin my trip. Not quite so. Perhaps they were so surprised to see a cyclist at that time of the night that it made them overlook completely that I wasn't streetsafe.

From St Yan to Frejus it is only 30 kilometers. Since you expect to get to the coast at any moment, it feels like taking a lot longer. The approach is memorable. The country opens up, the vegetation becomes sparse and you can view far ahead without seeing anything. Because of the darkness, you imagine the sea to lie just there in front of you but it doesn't. It cannot be seen, but suddenly you smell it. The air smells salty.

It is now past midnight and it starts raining, not much but a little, undecided drizzle of which you don't know what comes of it. I decide that I am not in for rain now, partly because it makes the previously described slalom technique much more dangerous, and because exhaustion had already made itself felt and rain would have cooled me out further. I take the next opportunity to head right off the road into a fruit plantation with young leafy trees that would keep me dry, at least for longer. A few meters next to the road I lied down under one of the trees and dozed for perhaps an hour. Knowing that there were still hundred or so kilometers to ride, I was not in the best of spirits when I woke up. I really had to force myself back onto the road.

But it could have been a lot worse. Remember that although it is not all downhill, you drop down from around 300 metres in Tourves to sea level in Frejus, and there are no major climbs along the way. You eventually enter Frejus on the Avenue de Verdun. From the city centre you now have the choice between the N7 that runs through the Massif de l'Esterel in the north and the coastal road via St Raphael. The latter was the official N7 between 1904 and 1935 but has now become the N98 or more imaginatively, the Corniche d'Or, according to some one of the most beautiful roads in the whole of France. I took the latter. Would I do that again? No.