Tour of Alps - Part 4

Stage 11 - La Condamine-Châtelard to Cuneo
The morning greeted me with the sound of drizzle drumming against my tent fabric. The forecast had shown a possibility of rain for the day, but it’s always disconcerting to actually hear it. This made my morning long, slow, and sleepy. I hadn’t had anything of substance for breakfast yet, so I finished off the snacks from the day before, still reveling in the comfort of my warm sleeping bag. But I was slowly running out of time, and to have one spare day in case of an emergency, I knew I needed to ride at least one pass — regardless of the weather.
I packed as much as I could while still sitting in the safety of my shelter, but eventually, I had to get out. Lazily and reluctantly, I folded my tent. When the bike was all set up and ready to go, I noticed my front tire was totally flat. Damn! It didn’t make any sense, though — just two days ago, it was perfectly fine. I headed to the campground’s gazebo to investigate.
I took off the wheel, tire, and tube. The tire seemed intact, and I couldn’t hear or feel any air leaking from the tube. So bizarre. After triple-checking both, as well as the rim itself, I blamed it on ghosts or some other unexplainable, absurd force and proceeded to reinstall and inflate the setup.
Inflating the wheel to a comfortable pressure took some time. In the meantime, I chatted with a Polish motorcyclist, who also slept on the same camping, sharing our experiences and views on riding in the mountains, comparing the struggles and benefits of our respective means of transport. But soon, the tire was fully inflated, and I was hungry. I bid her farewell and lazily rolled toward Jausiers.
I stopped at a bakery, bought some sweet pastries and a sandwich. It was 10 degrees Celsius — quite cold, especially for me — and it was still drizzling. Not exactly ideal weather to take on my personal Souvenir Henri Desgrange, or Cima Coppi, if you prefer — Cime de la Bonette, standing at 2,802m. But as I mentioned, I only had three days before my flight back, so I wasn’t in a position to postpone it. I ate my breakfast and started toward Bonette.
Clad in shoe covers, leggings over my bibs, and a Shakedry jacket over my summer jersey, I spun carefully and comfortably, climbing out of town. The weather progressively worsened, with views close to non-existent. The only visible parts of landscape were the nearest valley and the fuzzy silhouettes of distant mountains. Most part of the lower segment of the climb, I focused solely on riding and enduring what had now developed into steady rain. I passed a couple of other connoisseurs and silently thanked myself for my last-minute decision to pack the waterproof shoe covers.

After about half an hour of climbing, I heard the first rumble — then another — both reverberating through the valleys. They were distant, with no lightning in sight. But a thunderstorm in the mountains creates an unmistakable sound if you know it. I stopped, pulled out my phone, and checked the storm radar. Sure enough, it confirmed what my ears had already picked up — two lightning strikes near the top of Bonette. Just perfect.
Uncertain how the situation would develop and absolutely uncomfortable with riding straight into a storm, I upped my power. With every thunderclap, I would stop and check the radar, trying to assess the risk. Normally, I’d just use my phone while riding, but with the rain getting heavier, I had to reach into my back pocket under my rain jacket, wipe the screen a couple of times, and then wrestle with the Shakedry fabric to put it back.
Then, I spotted a shack on the side of the road. I turned toward it, seeking shelter. It was abandoned. Peeking inside, I saw that it looked like it could collapse from a single gust of wind — gaps in the floor, burnt weight-bearing beams, crumbling walls. Everything seemed sketchy. I propped my bike against a wall in a way that would keep water from falling on the seatbag. Standing in the doorway, careful not to step even a centimeter inside, I nervously refreshed the rain viewer and lightning maps to track the storm’s progress.
But the storm cloud didn’t seem to move. After less than ten minutes, I decided that getting hit by lightning seemed less likely than misstepping and falling through the rotting wooden floor. Cold was another concern — standing still, it was starting to creep in, and I didn’t want to reach the point of shivering. I was at about 1,700m, and I knew that just 300m higher, there was a chalet. I abandoned my makeshift shelter and rode back into the rain, which by now was nearly a downpour.
Highly anxious, I started pushed. I rode purely by feel, but as I kept checking my elevation, I couldn’t help glancing at power data. It had been a long time since I’d seen myself holding a steady threshold effort! I just wanted to get to safety and warmth as quickly as possible.
It took me precisely 20 minutes to reach Halte 2000. I was already soaked, and the only thing keeping me from shivering was the intensity of my effort. With the gain in elevation, the temperature had dropped further — it was now just 7 degrees. The restaurant welcomed me with the warmth of a lit fireplace, a circle of roadies and mountain bikers, and a sign that read No credit card, cash only. There went my dream of a hot tea. I hung my jacket near the fireplace and sat with the others to dry off a bit.
Unfortunately, after some time — since this was a restaurant and not a mountain shelter, and most of us had no cash to buy anything — we were politely asked to leave. My jacket was nearly dry by then, and I was warm enough not to dread stepping back outside. The rain hadn’t stopped, but at least it hadn’t gotten worse. There was no cell service here, so I couldn’t check the storm status, but I hadn’t heard a rumble in a while. I took that as a good sign.

I hopped back on my bike and found my rhythm again. Quickly, I stripped off my soaked gloves — they felt disgusting and cold. The landscape had turned gloomy — pale green grass intertwined with gray rocks against a fully overcast sky. The air was thick with rain, hazing the view of the mountains. It was yet another completely different type of environment from any of the previous valleys. It wasn’t exactly barren, but it certainly felt raw, desolate, and unwelcoming — especially in this weather. As I passed 2,200 meters, the terrain became even more rugged, especially when climbing the valley steps. Above 2,500 meters, with each turn, the grass grew sparser, turning from green to a muted brown, with patches of exposed ground breaking through.
I was steadily gaining elevation, conquering the road — one turn after another, one switchback after the next. I got passed by one cyclist and passed probably two or three others. There weren’t many of us on the road that day. The conditions were somewhere between hard and extreme. The higher I climbed, the colder it got. On top of that, the wind picked up — moderate at first, but soon it was blowing so hard that I had to fight not only the gradients but also to stay within the road. In headwind segments, I felt like I wasn’t moving forward at all. I was so miserable that I stopped paying attention to the rain entirely. It simply didn’t bother me anymore. At some point, my hands got painfully cold — so much so that I had to stop to put my soaked gloves back on. I flipped through the pages on my Wahoo. The temperature had dropped to 4 degrees. No wonder my wet fingers felt like they were about to fall off!
Riding in the rain is an art of suffering — but of a different kind. You’re not fighting for a better time or pushing to shave off a minute on the climb. You’re fighting for survival, especially in the mountains, where the temperature drops and the wind tries to blow your head off. Time seems to flow differently. The landscape feels unwelcoming — like the mountains themselves are saying, “We don’t want you here. Go home!” But you persevere. It takes a gargantuan effort, both mental and physical, but you keep going. You don’t focus on the near non-existent views — you concentrate on staying warm with a consistent effort. And when you spot another cyclist, you both know you’re badasses — you hardened the fuck up and rode your bike despite the miserable, foul weather.
While battling the elements, I hadn’t even noticed when the rain stopped. The wind was still going strong. Soon, I passed a ridge and Faux Col de Restefond, and for the first time, I saw La Bonette — a dark pyramid hovering in the distance, with a clear path cut through its slopes. Here, the road flattened, and I could drop my power a bit to recover, still battling the howling wind.
Col de la Bonette is a narrow pass at 2,715m — just 59 meters lower than Col de l’Iseran. It lies below the peak of the same name. I arrived at its tiny crossroads, carved into the rocks, and began the final push to the top of the ascent. Bonette is the highest paved road in France — a small loop built around the summit, peaking at precisely 2,802 meters. The final kilometer of the climb is also the steepest one. The whole loop consists of a narrow, one-way road. The pyramid-like peak of the mountain — a barren, black, lunar heap of stones — stood in stark contrast to the greenery of the surrounding valleys.


I fought hard to reach the top, getting out of the saddle from time to time. Thanks to the wind, I was already completely dry, and the rain was now just a memory, lingering only in the wet tarmac beneath my wheels. I almost sprinted the last few meters, stopped, and let out a huge sigh of relief. What’s worth noting — after nearly two weeks at altitude, riding through the highest-paved roads in Europe — I didn’t feel the effects of low oxygen here, unlike on l’Iseran. The magic of acclimatization.
There was one other cyclist at the top, and we greeted and congratulated each other. I had originally planned to hike up the mountain, but the wind was too strong, and with temperatures still around 4–5 degrees, I abandoned the idea. I quickly snapped a few pictures and decided it was high time to escape the unwelcoming Alpine zone.

This was the moment I had feared most about the entire trip. The road was still wet from the rain. My experience with braking on wet carbon rims was… less than ideal, to say the least. But I reminded myself of two crucial lessons I had learned since then — plan the descent and braking points more carefully than usual, and remember that higher speeds help rims respond to braking more effectively. Armed with that knowledge, I started the descent.
At first, I took it very carefully — my biggest concern was the wind. With my lightweight body and the frame bag acting like a sail, I struggled to keep a straight line. Fortunately, the lower I got, the lighter the wind became, and I could start speeding up.
I passed a guy descending at what looked like 15–20 kilometers per hour, shivering, gripping his handlebars for dear life. That’s when I realized that, despite still wearing only a summer jersey and a wafer-thin Shakedry jacket, I was just slightly chilly. And my "conservative" speed of 30–45 kph? Maybe it wasn’t the snail’s pace I had perceived it to be.
Passing the destroyed remnants of the old military camp, I noticed that the wind had completely died down. I could finally relax a little. Still careful and mindful of the wet road, but no longer cold, I started enjoying the descent — and the views — again.
I arrived in Saint-Étienne at 1 p.m. — still early. It was warm and sunny, and suddenly, everything felt nice again. No more rain in the forecast. Climbing Bonette, I had felt good and fresh, and despite the absolute worst weather, I hadn’t struggled physically. So, I decided to send it. I began the descent to Isola, and soon after, I was climbing again — this time toward Isola 2000, and beyond, to Col de la Lombarde.

The beginning felt steep — for a while, at least. A few switchbacks, almost hidden between the forest and the ravine, helped me gain elevation quickly. Occasionally, the road crossed an MTB trail. It was hot again — just how I liked it, around 28 degrees Celsius — and once more, I was having the time of my life. I rode steadily, not overexerting myself. Of course, I felt the exhaustion from the entire trip, but the climb felt comfortable. I chatted briefly with another bikepacker — he was on a gravel bike — about the differences in gearing, then continued on.


Approaching Isola 2000, I noticed the painted road markings, reminding me of how, less than a month ago, Pogačar had dominated here. That’s when I realized — my bottles were empty. With six kilometers still to the summit, I frantically started looking for water. But there was none. No tap nearby, no accessible stream, no open bar or shop. There was no one to ask.


After passing the village, the road steepened again. Soon, my body started sending warning signs. No water left. Twenty-seven thousand meters of elevation gain over the last two weeks. I had to work really hard not to blow up — both mentally and physically.
The road climbed under ski lifts, winding through open terrain with magnificent views. During these last 200 meters of elevation, one thought kept me going — I was really, really glad this was my last pass of the trip.


Originally, I had planned to end the day after the descent, somewhere between Vinadio and Demonte. The next day, I intended to cross Col de Fauniera, descend to Stroppo, and then tackle Col de Sampeyre to the village of the same name. But with my stamina dangerously dwindling over the last few days, I had to give up and leave those two climbs for another time. Of course, part of me regretted cutting the route short and missing the opportunity to see more of this incredible terrain. But one look at the climb profiles made me realize that I would either fail to reach the summits or destroy my muscles beyond imagination.


Closely before the pass I turned my head unit to elevation profile and started counting meters left. With that in sight, I rolled onto the Col de la Lombarde.
I stop, take a deep breath, and look around, taking in the landscape. And then, suddenly, I feel the emotions flooding me. I feel joy of standing in such an indescribably beautiful place. Happiness of conquering yet another climb. A bittersweet sadness, knowing this was the last ascent of my journey. And above all, I feel gratitude - for the strength and health that allowed me to take on such a monstrous challenge, for the privilege of experiencing it fully. I give in to all these emotions, all at once, and feel free. Free and liberated.


But the day was far from over. It was getting late, and I still had a descent to ride!
The very narrow, winding road, with its occasional hairpins, was unexpectedly busy, which didn’t exactly encourage high-speed riding. In the upper sections, a couple of kind drivers let me pass, but below the tree line, the road surface was rough. I had to slow down considerably to slalom around potholes. Despite the tarmac quality, I really enjoyed the descent — it was challenging and technical, but also beautiful and varied. The road initially twisted through the open subalpine zone, then, below the upper part of the forest, it followed a deep ravine, with occasional switchback sections. The whole time, I kept thinking how nice it would be to climb it from the other side…
Not long after, I arrived in Vinadio. But once again, the campsite was full, with absolutely no way to convince the staff to squeeze me in. I remembered there were one or two other campsites in Demonte. So, I turned back onto the main road and started the descent.
It was a main road, and because I was now back in Italy, I experienced multiple close passes in just ten kilometers. Italians drive as badly as Poles when it comes to overtaking cyclists.
Somewhere between Vinadio and Demonte, in a small village, I finally spotted a water tap! I had been so focused on descending, then on finding a campsite, that I had completely forgotten how thirsty I was. It had been over an hour and a half since I had drained the last drops from my bottles! I drank as much water as my stomach could handle, filled the bottles to the brim, and then turned my attention back to accommodation.
I fired up Google Maps and started searching for a campsite. Since I was still high in the valley, I had an idea — why not ride as far down as possible to shorten the next day’s route? I found a campsite on the outskirts of Cuneo and called them. They had free pitches!
Without hesitation, I hopped back into the saddle and pushed on, determined to reach it in good time.
I arrived in Cuneo a little after 6 p.m., after my biggest day in the saddle — 145 km and 3,200 meters of climbing. Completely exhausted, I checked in at reception and followed the path to my pitch.
The campsite was overcrowded.
I had landed in a party holiday destination — such a stark contrast to the small, cozy, and quiet campsites I had stayed at high in the mountains. I barely found a space to pitch my tent, then headed straight for a much-needed shower. Later, I grabbed a pizza at a local bar, refueling after the grueling day.
It took me a long time to fall asleep — thanks to the loud music, the noise, and hordes of drunk, singing Italian teenagers.
Stage 12 – Cuneo to Torino
When I woke up around 6:30, the entire campsite was still deep asleep — most likely recovering from the previous night’s partying. As I packed up, I topped up my front tire, which had gone flat again. I didn’t bother checking it this time — if it had held the previous day, it might as well hold for one more, I reasoned.
I ate my last freeze-dried meal, ordered an espresso and a can of Coke, and received a disapproving look from the barista. Unbothered, I rolled out onto my final route toward Turin — a flat, easy ride after days of endless grinding through the mountains.
Since I had abandoned my original plan about 30 km earlier, I asked a friend to plot a new route from my campsite to the hotel — so the ride would be a surprise. My only request? It had to be flat. The route followed the foothills before turning through the plains toward my destination.

I barely made it 10 kilometers before my brain screamed: I’m BORED.
I rarely ride flat routes with little elevation, especially alone, for exactly this reason. With no climbs, descents, or ever-changing terrain, ticking off miles always felt monotonous to me. Pair that with my physique, built for climbing, and my lack of high-speed raw power, and I just couldn’t enjoy it as much as I would have liked.


Still, the route led me through small, picturesque towns and quiet side roads, offering some variety against the never-ending fields. Traffic wasn’t an issue, and I spun gently, keeping my power low. Riding through orchards, I got Komooted and gravelled again! This time, though, it was fun — no gradients to battle, just an enjoyable, premium gravel experience. Eventually, the track merged with a bike lane — an old railway line converted into a cycling path through the vast plains of Piedmont. Surrounded by cornfields, it made for a peaceful, almost meditative ride.


But after Vigone, the path veered toward Pinerolo, and I had to turn toward Turin. With every kilometer, I felt myself drawing closer to my goal — the end of my adventure. I barely noticed when the open fields transformed into a more suburban landscape. Before I knew it, I was navigating the bustling roads of Piedmont’s capital. Unlike two weeks prior, this time my experience in the city was, at worst, neutral — no aggressive drivers, no bike lanes disappearing into the middle of parks. Just a typical urban commute.
Throughout the ride, I could feel my front wheel getting softer — ever so slightly. By the time I was weaving through Turin, it was already bouncy, but I hoped I could roll with it. Finally, less than two kilometers from my destination, I bottomed out on a pothole. Fearing I might destroy my rims, I stopped and pumped it just enough to get me to the hotel.


After a little over four hours of riding, I arrived at Piazza Bodoni just before 1 p.m., closing the loop on my grand Tour of the Alps. I felt a mix of emotions — sadness that the adventure was over, but also relief at having completed it unscathed and almost exactly as planned.
Back at my hotel, I showered and disassembled my bike — knowing that if I didn’t, the temptation to sneak in one last ride the next day might be too strong to resist.
Epilogue
I spent my last full day in Italy playing tourist. I visited the Lavazza Museum, took a long walk through lesser-known green spaces along two rivers, and then turned toward more touristy paths through parks and piazzas. I wrapped up the day with a visit to the Royal Palace and its exquisite painting collection.


Of course, I considered squeezing in a short ride, as expected the day before, but my bike was already disassembled and safely packed away — preventing any last-minute temptations.
The next morning, I researched transport options and, this time, opted for a bus to Porta Susa, sparing myself an hour-long struggle with Turin’s historic yet notoriously uneven pavements.







I sit on the plane, gazing through the window as we turn onto the runway. The Torinese terminal slides past, fading quickly into the blur of acceleration. In the distance, the Alps are veiled by the clouds of worsening weather, almost as if whispering, “Your trip is over. It’s time to go home now.” But deep down, I know I’ll return — sooner than three years this time, I hope. They’re quietly becoming my favorite place.
As the plane lifts off, I rest my hand against the window, a sentimental gesture, as though I could reach out and touch the mountains from afar. The aircraft banks, adjusting its course toward Poland, leaving the Alps behind. I already miss them, carrying their magic with me.

The end.
Strava - Stage 11 - Cime de la Bonette, Col de la Lombarde
Strava - Stage 12 - Cuneo - Torino