Heading South - Alpine Misadventures

Logically and chronologically, I should be writing about my experience racing The Gralloch in Scotland next—but I think I’ll come to that at a later date. I have a few thoughts and feelings about racing that I’d like to sit with for a while. With another race in Germany just over a week away, I suspect those thoughts will have evolved somewhat by then.

At the beginning of June, we set our sights south, but not before I showed Louisa the incredibly strange feeling barren wasteland that is Dungeness, Kent. Touted as the UKs only Desert (although I do doubt the validity of this claim), this oddly flat outcrop of shingle on the south coast is a truly fascinating place to take a camera and have a stroll. Full of old fisherman's shacks, maritime equipments in various states of disrepair and an ominous power station on the horizon, it has distinctly post-apocalyptic feel. The perfect way to wave goodbye to our home country for three months.

Easily the most post-apocalyptic feeling place there is in the UK: Dungeness

Originally, the plan was to spend a couple of weeks making our way across Belgium and the Netherlands in the lead-up to a race we’d planned in Luxembourg. We hadn’t heard a word from the organisers and had completely forgotten we’d even entered. It took us ages to find any proof that we’d paid for it. During that process, it became pretty clear that neither of us would have been particularly upset if we hadn’t entered.

As we searched for this elusive confirmation, the idea began to surface that we were free to go wherever we wanted—not tied to Northern Europe for the next three weeks. So, when we finally did find proof of our entry, we were both a little disappointed. The gloomy weather forecast for Northern Europe at the time didn’t help either.

So, we reacted with our guts rather than our heads and decided to head south—really south—and start our European leg where the whole idea had first taken root: Annecy. The thinking was that three to four weeks riding big hills would be the best preparation for our race in Germany in July.

Rather than beeline it down, we staggered the journey with a few stops in two national parks: one just south of Reims, in the heart of the Champagne region, and the other in the least populated national park in France, just outside Dijon. Both were especially lush thanks to recent rainfall. These little introductory rides—back to riding on the right side of the road (note to American readers: I mean right in the literal sense)—reminded me exactly why I love riding here so much: quiet roads, charming hamlets, and communities proud of their local culture and heritage.

Louisa and I tend to prefer quieter places, but we were drawn to explore the city of Troyes due to its medieval centre. I was particularly keen after our visit to York’s historical centre was somewhat ruined by scaffolding. Troyes certainly delivered—and while I’m sure we only scratched the surface, what we did see made up for York being under construction.

Although we could’ve spent more time soaking in each stop along the way, we were eager to play in the mountains.

The picturesque medieval buildings of Troyes, France

We reached Annecy by the weekend and quickly started planning our rides for the week. We had some great riding days—and one particularly terrible one.

First, the good: climbs like Forclaz, Semnoz, and the linking routes were absolutely incredible. Although Annecy is usually pretty busy, our visit coincided with both an international volleyball tournament and an international animation festival—so “busy” was an understatement. Still, once we escaped the Zwift-like chaos of the lake cycle path, we found ourselves back on blissfully quiet roads.

We mixed up our days on the bikes with slow-paced explorations of Annecy’s old town. I enjoyed a relaxed street photography walk while Louisa browsed the local shops. Being creatures of habit, we even rediscovered our quiet lakeside spot from last year and spent an afternoon dipping and swimming. The lake, stunningly blue and brilliantly refreshing on the hot days, was perfect—except for one personal downside: the silt at the bottom makes my skin crawl. I know—it’s a texture thing. It just gets to me.

Even though we like to find secluded park-ups for the night, we inevitably end up with neighbours. One evening, we met a French woman who’d broken her ankle and was living in her van. We helped her reposition her van out of the sun so she could heal in peace. On the flip side, we also encountered some fellow UK travellers who did everything they could to avoid eye contact—let alone a conversation. Was it us? We were the common denominator, after all. We asked ourselves this a few times, but since then we've had some absolutely wonderful encounters. So no—it’s not us. If you're travelling abroad and see a fellow countryman, just say hello. It really does go a long way.

Anyway, on to the bad ride…

I have a love/hate relationship with Instagram. I love it when it fosters genuine connections through a shared passion. But I hate how the platform increasingly runs on one currency: your attention. Sensational content, clickbait opinions, and curated aesthetics now drive the feed—far more than authentic photography, storytelling, or community. Those pockets still exist, but they’re harder to find in the noise of the modern social internet.

It was beautifully scenic on the ascent to the plataue

Every now and then, though, something cuts through. In the lead-up to this trip, I saw some absolutely stunning gravel riding tagged near Annecy. The photos were breathtaking—so I set about finding those routes. And, unfortunately, I succeeded.

We set off on Friday the 13th (I’m not superstitious, so this didn’t faze me) aiming to explore the plateau on the east side of Lake Annecy. We climbed Col des Glières with the intention of riding across the top and descending via gravel tracks that Komoot assured me were rideable. I cross-referenced them with Google, and everything looked okay.

Red flags were waved

The warning signs came when Louisa and I both lost our sense of humour trying to decide on the best route forward once we reached the top. Do we turn back or persevere? We chose to push on. After a bit of hike-a-bike, we reached some lovely champagne gravel at the summit. It felt like we’d made it through the worst and were in for a glorious descent.

It started well: over 15km of spectacular mountain views. But the terrain slowly changed—steepened—and turned into a 30% descent on loose rubble and giant boulders. It just. Would. Not. End.

My bike handling is solid, but no part of me enjoyed that descent. Louisa, sensibly, walked most of it. She later admitted she shed a few tears on the way down. Meanwhile, I was further ahead, shouting into the wilderness in frustration: “WHEN WILL YOU END?!”

Utterly ridiculous in hindsight. But maybe I unintentionally ticked off a bucket list item: Argue with a mountain. Who knows?

Being lulled into a false sense of security on the initial descent

Once we were back on stable ground, we made a beeline for the van, cleaned up, and consoled ourselves with a trip to Buffalo Grill. We planned to leave Annecy the next day, hoping for a restful night. Instead, we were treated to a 33°C van at 2 a.m. Desperate for air, we flung the doors wide open—robbery be damned.

Looking back now, I genuinely laugh about shouting at a mountain. It was brutal, but memorable. And now it’s time to really ramp up the altitude training. Next stop: Alpe d’Huez and the surrounding peaks.

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