Murat-Drugeac

The Massif Central and the Puy Mary (60km?)

Having spent a week in the Alps, my climbing confidence was sky-high, and I foolhardily believed a half-day ride in the Massif Central would prove a relative stroll in the park. Arriving at Murat train station, I estimated my route to the Gte de France where I was joining my brother Matt at around 60kms with just one major col, the (extinct) volcano of Le Puy Mary.

The small but stunning mediaeval village of Murat is dominated by a watchful white Madonna, perched atop one of the three surrounding hills. After filling water bottles, and eating a banana and a croissant, it was time to struggle up the unfeasibly steep cobbled paths out of the village.

Having negotiated more elevation on a mainish road, I turned off onto a poorly-paved track framed by green fields and haystacks on either side the kind of scenic route Id expected from the Massif Central, Frances most rural and least densely populated area. Sadly, the weather was getting notably worse. The Puy Mary loomed menacingly on the horizon, its summit already hidden under dark clouds.

Farmland and the Puy Mary lurking beyond

The lower slopes of the climb were simple and pretty enough. The luscious green meadows compensated for an increasingly annoying headwind that made progress slower than Id imagined. Still, it was hardly the Ventoux or Alpe dHuez...

With just two kilometres to go, the wind threatened to blow me back from where Id just come from especially with the weight of my panniers concentrated over the back wheel. Whats more, the previously lush greens seemed to have given way to bleak grey rockfaces, and the road had suddenly become extremely steep. A handy caf gave me a good excuse to stop and to curse the weather with someone other than the ubiquitous horned cows whose thick brown coats now seemed to serve a very definite purpose.

The Massif Central: farms, meadows, and not many people

Happy to see the summit in sight

Refuelled on coke, I crawled up the final hurricane-strewn slopes and immediately sought shelter and coffee in the mountain-top shop and caf. An English tourist I approached to take my picture (except she forgot to press the button) expressed her apparently heartfelt concerns about me being on a bike in such meteorological mayhem. No need to worry, I insisted, I only have to descend now. The worst is over. Or so I thought...

Once beyond the highly exposed summit, I was into pleasant pine trees for a few kilometres on a road that seemed much less steep than my chosen path up. As I hit a patch that was once again open to the driving wind (still incomprehensibly against me), I suddenly felt incredibly weak. Even though I was descending, I could hardly find enough energy to keep momentum. I could hardly breathe. In fact, had it not been so damned cold, I would have stopped and laid down by the roadside. I was bonking. Big time.

Reduced now to a downhill crawl, I regretted with a vengeance having eaten but a croissant and a banana all day. And even more foolishly, I had failed to pack any food in my hefty panniers. I mean, whats the point of having voluminous panniers weighing you down if you dont even carry the bare essentials?!

Very happy that's behind me

Several stumbling and interminable kilometres later, I arrived in another pretty, cobbled village, Salers, a place that shares its name with the local breed of cow Id seen on the Puy Mary. Not that I really cared about that. My only immediate concern was hunting down an open eatery. Locating a deserted crperie, I ordered the most substantial item on the menu and impatiently and light-headidly awaited its arrival.

The crpe was just about enough to fuel a low-paced ride to Drugeac, where I tracked down the gte and immediately retired to bed, vowing never again to fall prey to the dreaded hunger knock.

Cobbles and turrets in Salers. But where's the crperie?