An inspirational adventure journey of a Girl and Ganesh, her 1996 Specialized Rockhopper. A self-proclaimed adrenaline addict and recovering attorney, Julie resigned her 6-figure phat ass career for a 3-year, 18 country, 17,000 km challenge around-the-world
Predictably, I was on the road early this morning. 5:45 to be exact. My mass times velocity was not squaring in this stupor and, consequently, moved at an all time slow. One small hill and the road curves around yet another series of coves before reaching the next substantive town -- Porticcio, just 14 kms south of Ajaccio. Out of the corner of my eye I see a sign for the 4-star Soffitel, a rarity on this island (there are only 5 4-star hotels on the entire island and most independently owned). And then it hit me! All 4-star hotels worth their rating have nice amenities, nice bathrooms, nice buffets! Pulling out my comb and a fresh coat of lipstick, I stroll into the lobby like I owned it. English is a requirement for the Chef de Reception so it was time for my 'tour operator' routine.
I looked at a room, asked about group discounts and, to my intended purpose, was invited to look around. I beelined it for the large bathroom -- brushing my teeth, washing my face, a little mascara -- all visible signs of the sand gone. Looking like a million euros but still feeling a bit lethargic, the poolside breakfast buffet was all too tempting to pass by. Surrounded by guests in their pink terry hotel robes and slippers, I read the newspaper, feasting on fresh fruits, selection of grains, warm dishes, cold drinks and an unlimited carafe of cafe. I could barely keep myself from laughing out loud. Arriving in Ajaccio with plenty of time to spare, I picked up my backpack from one hotel, my books from another, before immersing myself in the Mediterrean Sea.
The 3:00 o'clock train to Calvi was not without its events. Too many people, not enough seats, overheating, forwards, backwards.......you couldn't help but enjoy every hour of it. The cyclists tended to stick together. Comparing maps and medals, it was a time to be proud. The single most rewarding moment of my Corsican cycling tour was when the train chugged past the Vizzavona station along the valley that marked the start of my climb up Col de Sorba. Cranking my head all the way back, I could see the vertical switchbacks I had climbed, I could see the pass where I celebrated and I could feel the adrenaline all come rushing back! Tonight, I slept under the sheets.
Today was not the typical day at the office. Nope. Today was different. It was one of those days where the negotiations are negotiated, the research complete, the contract signed -- the deal done; one of those days where all you really have (or want) to do is show up to work, perhaps linger a bit longer with colleagues, go out for a real lunch, if the mood strikes, and disappear shortly after. And so I showed up. I let the luxury bus liner take me from south east Corsica, around the southern most tip of Bonifacio and up the south west coast to Sartene. Neither charming or quaint, Sartene's unenviable notoriety lies in the 18th and 19th century vendettas between neighboring families. So serious were these vendettas, that people were prisoners in their own homes, schools were closed, shops didn't open, doors locked. Trapped by the logistics of bus schedules, a solo female hiker from Montreal kept me company over a long cup of coffee in Sartene until I had her convinced her next trip needed to be on bike.
Later than normal, I start to ride. The route from Sartene to Porto Pollo is no more than 40 clicks and mostly downhill. The N196 turns into the D155 in Propriano and then hugs the coast as it forms a giant crescent shaped bay, too large to call a cove. An easy day, my pace is more than leisurely. The small turn-off for Porto Pollo almost passes by. It leads me another 3 kays to a tiny blip of a town: one market, 2 fruit stands, a few restaurants, 3 hotels, a small port and a lovely little cove boasting half a dozen beautiful bareboaters. Although Porto Pollo is my scheduled 'destination', I'm uninterested in finding a hotel. That's a vendetta I don't want to fight today. Instead, I park my loaded velo next to the market on the beach and change into my swimsuit -- my sarong serving as the changing room. My senses are piqued as I hear first, and then see, a windsurfer tap across the water. I hardly noticed the wind picked up. The older than usual cabana boys are as charming as you'd expect them to be. Working the sailing center in summer and the French ski slopes in winter......entertainment is their avocation. Allen's English, blended with original French Brittany tongue, persuade my soft ears (and typically tight wallet) to take a board for a spin. Not that I needed any persuading. Exchanging my bike helmet for a seat harness, I'm on what the French refer to as a 'fun board' -- a Bic Techno-something with enough liters of volume to easily tack, still spunky enough to carve a slalom jibe. The wind picks up to the height of the day, calling the only other 2 sailors off the beach. On a reach, we're able to sail from Porto Pollo across the crescent shaped bay to the north facing shores of Propriano. Practicing my jibes, I prefer the shorter course over the coral reefs, past the enthusiastic boaters and around the man-made buoy, my bum nearly skimming the turqouisee sea. The only thing better than a good day cycling in paradise, is a day sailing in paradise.......today, I have both! I sail until my arms fall off and my jibes get really sloppy. I haven't worked these muscles in ages. Allen and the boys are enjoying speaking English with me and me them, so I become a groupie for the afternoon taking advantage of their sunscreen, chairs and showers. I ask about local accomodations hoping they'd volunteer a sofa, but no one bites. As much as I like Porto Pollo, instinctively I know I'm not staying the night.
Drunk from the heady scents of the surrounding maquis and satiated from the sailing, I cycle almost aimlessly. Today is not about the destination. Indeed, I have none. The road jumps up and down, in roller coaster fashion, the views from the top warranting several photos. It's about 5:00 pm and the sun is still sweltering. After an hour it becomes apparent the 'towns' on the maps are not really towns --no services, no hotels, no nothing. Pedal on. I've been flirting with the idea of sleeping on the beach ever since my first night on this beautiful island. The weather is warm and the beaches idyllic. Best of all, it's free. I find a small little market in Acqua Doria and buy a cold drink and fresh fruit. It's too hot to eat anything else. The shop owner directs me to a hotel 7 kms away in Plage Portiglio. I'm off. The hotel is 800 meters on top of a steep hill in a plush residential neighborhood--vacation homes for the wealthy Italian and French tourists. At the hotel, I'm greeted by a mini-bus load of French tourists who passed me earlier. Wonderfully warm people and eager to help, unfortunately, the hotel is now complet. I could have kept going, but something told me to stay. There was no town, per se, no market, no restaurants -- just vacation homes, a private tennis club and a small little bay serving as home to half a dozen boaters anchored just offshore. This is the perfect place!! I'm sleeping under the stars. Excited about the proposition, I use the well-equipped hotel bathroom while I can. My thoughts turn to my campsite. My options are three: share a bench in the bus with the all too eager bus driver; enjoy a semi-secluded upcountry view on the grounds of a large abandoned estate, or; do what I've beenwanting to do, sleep on the beach. I jump the fence of the abandoned estate and poke around. Tempting...... but I'm thinking Napoleonic Law would not afford me too many civil rights if I'm caught trespassing. Beach it is.
At first I make many mistakes. It's still light out and several people are arriving at the beach for a late evening snorkel or dip. I unpack and pack my panniers and play a game of hide-go-seek with a little old man who I'm convinced is the dock master. I can't be too obvious just yet. A crevice between 2 flat angled rocks serve as my sunset bench as I'm serenaded by the guitar stroking sailors on the 45-foot monohull anchored just to my right. When the songs stop, it's pure and utter serenity -- the sound of the water softly lapping ashore, an occassional bird flapping its wings, I struggle to keep my eyes open. Getting out of the crevice was not as easy (or as graceful) as getting in.....but it's finally time to pick a spot. I move my bike, panniers still attached, onto the beach against a small bush. No one from the road can spot it. For the occassion, I wear all black. Black patagonia top, black designer cargo pants and, an after thought, black socks.
Dining was rather modest starting with a fresh fruit selection of peeled a la orangè, followed by the plat du jour, a la amande mueslix bar accompanied with a rouge apple and, finally, completed with a breath freshner. I settle in -- finding the flattest patch of sand, intentionally hidden behind beach brush and small pile of boulders. It's 11:00 pm. Thirty minutes felt like a life time. The involuntary beach slumber that can happen any given afternoon is not forthcoming. More padding, more cocooning is required. I walk to my bike and pull out as many useful pieces of clothing and bags (of course) that I can find, placing them under the sarong, over my head, between my legs and around my body. Still nothing. Eventually, I give up and walk 300 meters around the cove, away from my bike and belongings and onto the trampoline of a Hobie 16. Infinitely better, I sleep long enough for one dream -- someone is stealing one pannier. It wasn't so much the wild dogs, the all too curious cats or the dream that kept me up, for the first time it got darn cold out!
With sweeping views of the Tyrrheanian Sea and a descent of nearly 1,000m, the ride to Porto-Vecchio rewards at every turn. Following the signs to the Citadel, I find the bustling tourist office inquiring about budget accomodations and beach activities. Forewarned, I booked a hotel room a day in advance. I knew before I viewed, however, that it would not meet my highly unscientific, unmathematical 'price to value' principle. Somewhat akin to Chancellor Brown's formula for the UK-Euro conversion -- noone may understand the formula, but it makes sense to me. Principles aside, low budget options are slim to none. Tossing my bags into the dirtier than usual hotel room, I throw on appropriate swimming attire and set off for Plage de Palombaggia and Santa Guillia (i.e. the beach). Postcards of Corsica's two most famous beaches teased me from the day I landed on the opposite coast. After a week in the interior, I was ready for a soak.
Although I am one, there's something about tourists that send me running the other way. Take me to a tourist attraction (vs. activity) and I break out in hives; put me on a tourist bus, and I go into seizures. As an independent cyclist for over 5 months now, I've somehow convinced myself that I am a traveler first and tourist, a distant second. A rash appeared upon my approach to the Palombaggio beach parking lot. Admittedly, it was postcard perfect with velvety white sand and turquoise water. Admittedly, I enjoyed the swim. Admittedly, I even took a few photos. Regretablly, there were too many tourists and I raced back to the village bus terminal to plan my next day's escape..
The live concert that night outside my hotel window entertained tourists until the morning street sweepers arrived. I took the opportunity to cull through my increasingly swelling panniers. In the dim of the early morning hours, perspiration still dripping from my pores, it struck me -- I am a bag lady. The only true distinction being the number of wheels on our carts. I'm not referring to the 2 panniers serving as the frame to my house on wheels. No. I'm referring to the 19 other bags of various sizes and fabrics that help me organize, compartmentalize my precious few belongings: 9 ziplocs for clothes and pharmaceuticals, 2 Eagle Creeks for make-up and toiletries, 1 backpack for books and food, Patagonia fanny pack for my valuables, handlebar bag for maps and pens, seat bag for spares and tools, 2 grocery bags for miscellaneous electrical supplies, camera bag and, by all means, the Glad lawn and leaf bag -- just in case. Tomorrow, this bag lady is off to Porto Pollo!
I fell asleep last night reviewing the map for the umpteenth time. Despite the glowing guidebook review of Zicavo, the 20 or so permanent residents offered little in the way of entertainment or dining opportunities. No longer looking for routes, distances or villages, I searched the map for elevation and mountain passes -- details that escaped my due diligence the day prior. Not that I had any other options to get to Zonza, it was merely for mental preparation.
People are creatures of habit, particularly when it comes to morning routines. I've also fallen victim to routine -- tip-toeing out of my Gite at dawn, I pack the bike and cycle through town pleading the owner of the nearest cafe to open early for a petite Cafe au Lait. With a s'il vous plait or two, I squeeze a dab of fresh milk from a good-hearted cafe owner and linger ever so briefly over breakfast and coffee. Now, it is time to ride.
Greeting me just outside of Zicavo is the Col de Vaccio, a mere 1300 meters at it's highest point. A long and gentle approach, my legs easily carry me to the summit in the second chain ring without breaking a sweat. With the cheers of hikers ringing in my ears, I begin to lose the altitude I had just gained. Cautiously manuevering around the potholes, I shift my body weight back alleviating any unnecessary weight on my cracked head tube. The day continues with a series of undulating hills -- all relatively moderate -- and I reach Zonza unexpectedly early just as the digits on my computer clock flip to 1200.
Zonza is a mountain town with a resident population of 2,600. It's proximity to Col de Bavella and its distinction as a stop-over town on the GR 20 hike, spikes its temporary daily population to twice that. The bars and cafes center around the junction and prominent statute of a former Corsican hero. After assessing the buzz in town, I head straight for a hotel. The hotel is full but I'm given some instructions in French: go back down the road to the cross street, up the side street and past the bakery, at the church turn left and look up. Across from the church an elderly woman, dressed in Corsican black, is waiving from the top floor of a 3-story stone mansion.......'Julia, Julia'. Today is my lucky day -- I'm given the keys to the entire second floor flat -- valley and church views, 1200 square feet, kitchen, living room, antiques, family heirlooms galore and even a locked garage for my bike. A combination of premature Parkinson's and double dose of Cafe au Laits kept me from fully relaxing -- just yet.
Reputed to be the most beautiful passes of all the Corsican cols, I head north on Ganesh on the D268 for the 20 km out and back, up and down to the Col de Bavella (1218m). The pass itself is not remarkable, marked most noticeably by clumps of day hikers shading themselves under the few trees still breathing at this altitude. The real attraction of the pass lies in the panoramic views of the Aiguilles de Bavella, with its spiny granite rock formations soaring high to the heavens from earth -- a natural rampart for the town of Zonza and location for several day hikes. I soak in the scenery, taking a horizontal position on the subalpine meadow and watch a cloud transform from hawk to elephant before it fades completely........ finally, my muscles relax. My brain continues to churn, plotting the next week, month and year for a future Ride Strong Bike Tours trip.
Geographically challenged, I decide to ride a route I read about in reverse -- starting with the loop day first, the last day second, busing half of the penultimate day, skipping the optional side tour and combining Days 2 and 4 -- giving me just enough time to bike Day 1 last and pick up my excess belongings in Ajaccio.With any luck, I could then catch the afternoon train back to Calvi for the International Jazz Festival. It is settled -- tomorrow the coast awaits.
Back at the flat, I prance from room to room, taking the rare opportunity to do some much needed grooming -- tomorrow is a beach day after all! Feeling sexier than usual, I exchange my Teva's for my jeweled thongs and enjoy a balmy evening dining al fresco on the first Salmon fillet since San Diego and a half bottle of Corsican rouge wine.
I could not begin to describe today's ride and do it justice. Instead, I'll give you just the hard facts: Blue skies, temp 32 degrees celsius; 75 km from Gite to Gite; The climbs: Col de Vizzavona, Col de Sorba and Col de Verde -- the first pass starting 50 meters from my hotel and the last ending a few km before Zicavo; 1,500 meters (4,920 feet) of climbing; lots of cursing; median speed - 24 km; minimum = 7 kms per hour; Scenery: lots of Laricio pine and beech forests; slumbering pigs; very few cars; 2 chain sucks; shade; 10 bottles of water; 1 Berroca; wild boar; cherries and rotissierie chicken for lunch; 6 other cyclists (road bikes and no panniers); sweat; avg. heart rate 175 beats per minute, total time = 6 hours. Was I sorry I did it? No way. It was, perhaps, the most epic day of riding all year!
