Searching for Flow in France: Trans-Provence 2014

As I rounded the sharp left turn, my pedal struck an unseen rock, and in the blink of an eye I was splayed out like a starfish, spinning down a slick grassy hillside towards a small creek. I did everything in my power to bring things back under control, digging in elbows and toes to slow my unplanned descent, finally finding a sliver of traction just a few feet from the watery bottom of the embankment. Disoriented and breathing heavily, I grabbed my bike and quickly scrambled back up and onto the trail. It was less than a minute into the very first stage on day one of the Trans-Provence – not exactly the start I'd been hoping for...

When I first began contemplating heading over to southern France for what sounded like a wild adventure, I tried asking a few past participants for some beta, but as soon as I uttered the words 'Trans-Provence' a wistful look would pass over their faces, the kind that someone who's stuck in an office gets when you ask them about their recent honeymoon in Bali. Still not entirely sure what the event entailed other than six days of riding and racing mountain bikes, I figured that the only real way to find out was to fly over and see for myself. I don't consider myself a racer, mainly because I'd rather ride than train, having figured out years ago that indoor spin sessions leave me feeling like a rat in a science experiment, but that doesn't mean I won't enter a race if the fun factor looks high enough, and by all accounts, the Trans-Provence fit the bill.

At the tail end of September, after close to twenty-four hours of travel from the Pacific Northwest, I arrived in Nice, France, just as the sun cast its last long rays over the Mediterranean Sea. Other athletes began to arrive from all across the globe, flying in from as far away as South Africa and Brazil, and soon the sidewalk outside the airport looked like an open air market, except instead of fruits and vegetables, the ground was littered with frames, wheels, and duffel bags stuffed with helmets and clothing. Once the bikes were built, it was time to drive to the first base camp of the trip in Clamensane, located four hours of twisting and turning roads away.


Race Format

The brainchild of Ash Smith, this year marked the sixth running of the Mavic Trans-Provence. Billed as an 'all-mountain adventure,' the Trans-Provence is a multi-day mountain biking binge, a bender of rock star proportions where nearly every waking hour is packed from start to finish with an incredible variety of riding. By the time it reaches the town of Menton, the course route covers close to 300km on its way from the mountains to the Mediterranean, with 8,355 meters of vertical ascent and 14,731 meters of descending. Those numbers include a total of 24 timed stages (mainly downhill) over the course of six days, and the rider with the lowest accumulated time is the winner. Most days involve a shuttle of some kind, either in the morning or after an afternoon lunch break, but that doesn't mean there isn't any climbing. Far from it, in fact, and there's usually close to 1500 meters of uphill, with a hefty chunk of that being a hike-a-bike. But all of that climbing doesn't go unrewarded, and riders are treated to 500 meters more descending than ascending by time they make their way to that night's campsite.

Due to the inherent logistical difficulties that an event of this scope brings, the number of participants is capped at 80 participants. Not everyone who signs up is a hardcore racer, and finishing relatively unscathed is an accomplishment in itself, but many riders who attend have at least a passing interest in seeing how they stack up against the elite athletes gunning for the win. The fact that some of the top enduro racers in the world take part in the Trans-Provence only adds to its appeal; it's akin to letting your average Joe join the lineup at an F1 race, or being able to get on the court and shoot hoops with Lebron James.


The Trails

A good portion of the Trans-Provence takes place on amazing, flowy singletrack, the stuff dreams and magazine cover shots are made of, while other parts involve the tightest switchbacks imaginable, the kind that make you feel like a complete and utter fool trying to get through them at any sort of reasonable pace. The trails are centuries old, well worn trade routes carved into the steep hillsides that were used to transport goods from one valley to another long before mountain bikes even existed. The growing popularity of riding in this area does mean that you'll find the occasional berm or jump designed specifically for two wheels, but knobby tires are still a relatively new phenomenon on trails that have spent hundreds of years being trod on only by foot and hoof.

Those awkward-as-hell switchbacks were entertaining in their own way, and they were so far removed from the purpose built trails I typically ride that it was quite the learning experience attempting to figure out the quickest way around them. After six days of racing I was able to develop a few techniques that helped, but I still have a long ways to go before I can give the Euros a run for their money. Maybe I'll spend this winter practicing my nose-wheelie switchback technique. Or maybe not.


Don't forget, all of the stages in the Tran-Provence are raced blind, meaning there are no practice laps and no opportunities to scope lines. I often found myself wishing for X-ray vision when confronted with sections of trail that passed through fields of tall grass littered with sniper rocks patiently waiting to grab a front wheel or a pedal. Split second decisions were key, and my mind was constantly working overtime trying to read and judge the terrain, dredging up every single bit of knowledge accumulated from years of mountain biking to try and predict what lurked around each corner or on the other side of a pile of small boulders.

Ridden at a casual pace, most of the trails could be classified as upper intermediate, although there was often a high level of exposure that would ratchet up the difficulty level, and when you tried to ride them as fast as possible, things got even trickier. I chose to wear a half shell helmet for the event, since the photos I'd seen before going over didn't make the trails look too difficult, but if I were to do it again I'd definitely bring a full face. High speeds, combined with unfamiliar trails, rocks, and trees certainly made me yearn for a touch more cranial security, especially considering the number of times I managed to take not-so-smooth lines that rattled every bone in my body.


The People

I'm a bit of an introvert, and if I had to choose I'd rather be out in the woods by myself instead of on a gigantic group ride, so I was curious what spending a week in the French Maritime Alps with 70 other riders would be like. As it turns out, it was a damn good time. The mood of nearly everyone throughout the week was so incredibly positive I sort of wonder if our daily dose of porridge was laced with anti-depressants, although the beauty of the land we were traveling through is probably a better mood enhancer than anything a pharmaceutical company could concoct.

Take day two for example. This day began with a climb, and by climb I don't mean a meandering cruise up a mellow 8% grade. No, by climb I mean exactly that – bike over your shoulders, scrambling up, down, and over boulders for 1400 meters, which ended up taking nearly 3.5 hours when all was said and done. I'm no stranger to spending time in the pain cave, and I like to think I have a high tolerance for suffering, but this portion of the day was one of the more grueling bike-related activities I've ever done. The amazing thing was, the amount of complaining was minimal, and aside from a few grumbles here and there, everyone was in high spirits by the time we reached the ridge between the two valleys. Once again, the spectacular weather and breathtaking views probably had something to do with this – it's nearly impossible to be sour when you're deep in the mountains under bright blue skies, with nothing to do but ride. And ride some more.


On mornings where I felt like starting the day with some solitary pedaling it was easy to find a gap in between groups of riders, giving me a chance to spend a little extra time in my own head. The inverse was true as well, and new friendships sprung up as we all chatted about our lives on the long transfers between stages. These conversations revealed that a good number of participants had jobs tied to the bike industry, and there was no shortage of bike shop owners, mechanics, and suspension technicians, while others had 'real' jobs, everything from doctors to airline pilots. The common thread was a healthy addiction to mountain biking, and that was truly what bound us all together, a solid crew of riders who couldn't think of anything they'd rather be doing than ride for hours on end, day after day.

After those long hours on the trail, it was a treat to be able to gorge on a warm meal, cooked by the Trans-Provence staff. Basket after basket of sliced baguettes disappeared into the mouths of ravenous riders, and there was a constant din of conversation, with plenty of good-natured heckling taking place as stories of crashes and near-disasters spread from table to table. Once the caloric deficit was temporarily fixed, we'd all stumble off to our tents with bellies full of food and brains swimming with visions of the day's singletrack smorgasbord. Sleep came easy, and before long it would be time to wake up and do it all over again.




Spinning Down to the Sea

I woke up the morning of the sixth and final day with sinuses so congested I thought my eyeballs were going to pop out of my head. It felt like an elephant was doing one-legged hops on my skull, and I instantly realized I'd caught the nasty cold that had been spreading amongst racers throughout the week. Tired bodies and weakened immune systems were prime targets for this evil bug, and now it had me firmly in its clutches. Still, I figured I could tough it out and make it to the Mediterranean Sea – I'd come this far, and it would take more than a fever and some snot to stop me.

The day passed in a dizzy and delirious blur, with four stages of tricky, rocky riding on hand before the finish line. Fittingly, the final stage ended with a series of extra-tight switchbacks, just in case anyone hadn't gotten their fill of awkward turns, and then it was a short spin through the colorful coastal town of Menton to the awaiting Mediterranean. Plunging into that salty sea was the best part of the day, and as I floated on my back, the cool water washing off the layers of accumulated sweat and dust, I reflected on the week of amazing riding that had just concluded. I still didn't quite believe it was over, and part of me was prepared to get up the next morning and keep the eat, ride, eat, sleep routine going. It wasn't until I was halfway into my journey home, flying 30,000 feet above the Atlantic, that it finally sank in, and I began to process what had transpired. Even now, weeks later, a random memory will float to the surface and put a smile on my face, transporting me back to those tricky trails tucked away in the mountains of southern France.