From Frejus to Nice

by Daniel Heesch

The coastal road involves a seemingly endless succession of short and steep climbs. So gruelling and unexpectedly hard the route becomes in the middle of the third night, that I begin to think about renaming the trip to "Paris to Cannes" or "Paris to Antibes" - "Paris to Nice" seems farther away than ever before.

I had thought that once I was near the coast, I would find it hard to tell night from day, that people would be out and partying along the entire stretch of coastline between at least Marseille to Nice. Dream on! I was completely mistaken, and thus entered what proved perhaps the most exacting part of the whole trip. Since the mountains reach very close to the sea, the villages are mostly confined to the few sheltered bays where they don't. After midnight the area is totally deserted, not even a single service station could be found. Whilst possibly very inviting during the day, at night the area turned into a rather hostile battleground for someone as ill-prepared as I was.

The problem was the water. I had already run out of water by the time I reached the coast at St Raphael. There I would have found a few opportunities to refill - had I made a little effort. Once beyond St Raphael and the time well past midnight, it dawned on me that my state would soon become precarious were I to cycle on. And becoming aware of the imminent problem of dehydration seemed only to double my thirst.

Half-way up another steep climb I stopped, rather high above the sea and right next to the cliffs. I lifted myself onto a small rocky plateau that separated the road from the precipice, and lied down. Deep down to my right I could hear the waves crushing against the rocky shore, otherwise silence. One car every thirty minutes. The urge I followed was not tiredness or fatigue. In fact, I was not particularly tired and did not sleep at all. Rather, my thirst had completely seized my body's attention and made me very alert. My thoughts were surprisingly clear.

After half an hour of lying motionless on the rocky top of the cliff, I began to accept that my state wouldn't change for the better if I stayed there much longer. In fact, my chances of getting anywhere were quickly evaporating. I had to get back onto the road.

I was barely fifty kilometers away from my destination after 1,000 kilometers, but dehydration, sleeplessness and the moist and cool air near the sea all together fuelled my desire to call it quit in Cannes. I was determined to leave it to the next train to cover the remaining kilometers.

My dehydration turned into a blessing as I had to stop half-way between St. Raphael and Cannes, at the lodge of some luxury holiday resort to ask for water. This gave me not only the chance to warm up, change clothes, wash myself, and wait for the sunrise but also to chat with one of the porters about the road ahead. From Cannes onwards, so I was reassured, everything was "tout plat". Flat? It was hard to believe but it gave me some hope. Perhaps no train in the end?

It is astonishing how much easier the ride became as soon as I had stocked up on water. In fact, the last kilometers towards Cannes were actually enjoyable although my physical condition may not actually have improved by much. My spirits were soaring and I felt for the last time that nothing could now stop me (a dangerous sensation).

The sky was so overcast that one could not actually make out when the sun had risen. Unlike the previous morning, it remained uncomfortably chilly, and more than ever before I longed for the all-consoling warmth of the morning sun.

In Cannes the N7 appears for the first time from the other side of the Massif de L'Esterel. If you arrive in Cannes in the early morning hours as I did, you will find plenty of Cafés and P\âtisseries just opening. As worn out as I was, there was little hope that another coffee would have any measurable effect on me, so I had two. The last coffee from the Australians seemed very long ago. Indeed, everything seemed long ago, the happy departure in Paris, the long dinner on the first evening in Nevers, the nocturnal lightning, the smell of the fresh bread in Marcigny on the first morning, the breathtaking descent from the Massif Central and the first encounter with that stately river, the Rhône, the heat of Valence on the second evening and the relentless power of the mistral, my first and unfortunate encounter with the French Alps during the second night and my rebirth on the second morning.

Once past Cannes and with Nice moving ever more closely into my focus, I became increasingly concerned about my physical condition. Although I felt splendid, I was aware that I might well overlook subtle signs I would normally have noticed. Besides, there was no reason why I should feel good. In Antibes, the next town after Cannes, I therefore decided to take another break. By that time the sky had cleared and the temperature was increasing by the minute, so I shed my nightly armour and was soon back on the road.

Dozens of cyclists of all calibres were now heading in the same direction. Nice seemed quite a popular destination that morning. I connected to one of those groups and at greatest speed finished the last twenty-two kilometers between Antibes and Nice. With the torquoise sea on the right and the French Alps to your left, this was a fitting finale which I could not have imagined more beautiful.