Cycling to the Tour de France Finale in Nice 2024

My journey commenced under the shadow of Belfort’s monumental lion, as I left behind the plains of Alsace and ventured into rolling green hills. The first day’s objective was La Chaux-de-Fonds in Switzerland – a fitting start through the lesser-known Jura Mountains before the big Alpine passes. Pedaling out of Belfort, I was immediately embraced by countryside roads that wound through fields and neat villages. In the morning light, wisps of mist clung to the meadows of the Sundgau region, and I felt the thrill of setting off on a solo bike tour that would last many days.

Crossing the French-Swiss border was subtle; one moment I was cruising past a French farmstead, and the next a sign welcomed me to Suisse. The terrain grew hilly as I delved into the Jura. A series of small passes led me deeper into forested valleys, each climb a bit higher than the last. I paced myself, mindful that this was just the first of many challenges cycling across France to the Mediterranean. In the afternoon I followed the silvery ribbon of the Doubs River, a tranquil interlude with cliffs rising on either side. The road then kicked up steeply into the Franches-Montagnes highlands – a remote region of pine forests and pastures dotted with horses. This ascent was my first real test, and I climbed in low gear, heart pounding, until the plateau opened up to reveal the Swiss town of La Chaux-de-Fonds on the horizon.

La Chaux-de-Fonds greeted me with late-afternoon sunshine and the satisfying rattle of cowbells from nearby slopes. This mountain city, sitting at about 1,000 m elevation, is celebrated for its watchmaking heritage and distinctive grid layout – a curious urban geometry amid the mountains. After checking into a quaint hotel, I wandered the orderly streets, marveling at how such a city thrived in this lofty setting. In the golden hour light, ornate clock faces on buildings seemed to pay homage to the town’s precision craft. I savored a hearty Swiss rösti for dinner, reflecting on the day: only one day in, and already I had crossed an international border and tackled untamed Jura climbs. As the sun set over verdant ridges, I felt both fatigue and exhilaration. The first stage of my Belfort to Nice cycling route was complete, and the Alps proper still awaited.

Dawn broke crisp and clear in La Chaux-de-Fonds, and I set out with a gentle chill in the air. Today’s route would take me across the remainder of the Jura Mountains to Nyon on Lake Geneva – effectively leaving the Jura behind and setting the stage for the High Alps to come. I rolled through La Chaux-de-Fonds’ outskirts and descended into a valley, the road cutting through rocky gorges. The morning light slanted through spruce trees as I sped past sleepy villages, and soon I entered the Val-de-Travers, a storied valley known for its absinthe distilleries and green fairy legends. A faint anise scent seemed to linger in the air as I cycled by vineyards and old stone houses, imagining the 19th-century bohemians who prized the “green fairy” liqueur from this region.

From Val-de-Travers, a long uphill awaited – one of the Jura’s larger passes. I climbed towards a ridge called Col de la Givrine, which forms part of the Swiss Jura Route. The ascent was steady, not too steep, allowing me to enjoy the scenery of chalky cliffs and thick forests. Near the top, patches of pasture opened up, and suddenly I was granted a breathtaking view: far below lay the shimmering expanse of Lake Geneva, and beyond it, the snow-capped peaks of the French Alps soared into the sky. This was a pivotal moment. I paused at a lookout point, catching my breath and absorbing the panorama of the cycling the French Alps dream made real – the distant Mont Blanc massif glowing white, and the lake’s surface mirroring the morning sky. The descent into France towards the lake was pure exhilaration: hairpin turns and straight stretches where I whooshed past terraced vineyards and chalet hamlets, the air warming notably as I lost altitude.

By midday I reached the elegant town of Nyon on the lake’s shore. The transition from quiet mountain roads to the bustle of Swiss lakeside life was striking. I weaved through Nyon’s streets lined with cafes and promenades, the waters of Lake Geneva lapping gently against the quay. Here I allowed myself a leisurely lunch – crusty baguette sandwiches and patisserie – basking in the sun with a view of sailboats on the water. This wasn’t just a bike tour, it was a cultural journey too; the French-speaking Swiss town had a relaxed Mediterranean vibe that hinted at what lay ahead. In the afternoon I checked into a small inn. The second day had been long in distance but kinder in climbing, and it ended at the low altitude of about 400 m. I took a sunset stroll along the lake, legs grateful for some flat ground. Tomorrow, the real Alps would begin. I felt a mix of nerves and excitement knowing the high passes were drawing near on my solo bike tour France odyssey.

I awoke in Nyon to the gentle sound of lake waves and a pastel dawn sky. Today’s route would carry me out of Switzerland and deep into France, past two famous lakes and towards the foot of the big mountains. It was a transitional stage – moving from the pre-Alps into the true Alps. I pedaled off early along the shores of Lake Geneva, keeping Mont Blanc’s distant snowy crown in my peripheral vision. The route hugged the lake for a time, passing through Geneva’s outskirts as commuters whizzed by on their way to work. Soon I crossed back into France, leaving Geneva’s international bustle behind and entering the serene countryside of Savoy. A moderate climb through vineyard-carpeted hills took me over the Col du Mont Sion near Cruseilles, a small pass of about 785 m that once served as a strategic route between Geneva and Annecy. Cresting it, I sped downhill and suddenly the turquoise jewel of Lake Annecy lay before me.

Lake Annecy’s beauty was a welcome midday reward. Often called one of the most beautiful lakes in France, its waters sparkled an almost Caribbean blue, framed by mountains on all sides. I followed a cycling path along the shore, joining local cyclists and families out enjoying the sunshine. Passing through the town of Annecy, I glimpsed its famous lakeside promenades and the medieval old town with canals. The ambiance was lively yet relaxed. I pressed on, as I still had ground to cover to reach Albertville by evening. The road gently climbed out of Annecy’s basin, offering a backward glance at the lake nestled among peaks – an image I filed away in memory.

The final stretch followed the Isère River valley toward Albertville, the host of the 1992 Winter Olympics. Though surrounded by towering mountains, the route cleverly threaded through low passes and valleys, keeping the day’s climbing mild. I arrived in Albertville by late afternoon under a hot sun. The change in climate was palpable – warmer, drier air flowed from the south. I found a small hotel in the old town of Conflans (the picturesque medieval quarter above modern Albertville), where narrow cobbled streets and stone archways spoke of history. From the terrace, I could see the outline of distant peaks turning pink with alpenglow. The prologue was over: tomorrow I would enter the realm of the giant cols, and the thought sent a flutter of excitement through me. I slept early, knowing that cycling the French Alps in earnest would begin at dawn with the ascent of the Col du Télégraphe and beyond.

Morning in Albertville found me both eager and anxious. This stage marked the gateway to the high Alps. My goal was Valloire, a village perched partway up the colossal Col du Galibier. Getting there, however, required scaling the Col du Télégraphe first. As I left Albertville, the road led into the narrowing Maurienne Valley. Steep mountainsides loomed overhead, and the Arc River rushed alongside the road. The approach was a gradual ascent through a string of mountain towns – St. Jean-de-Maurienne, then St. Michel-de-Maurienne – each with bakeries tempting me to carb-load. I obliged in St. Michel, fueling up and gazing ahead at the challenge to come: the Col du Télégraphe, which would take me up to Valloire.

Shortly after St. Michel-de-Maurienne, the road pitched upward into a series of switchbacks. The Col du Télégraphe is a climb of 11.8 km, gaining 856 m in height at an average 7.3% grade. It’s often overshadowed by its bigger sibling Galibier, but today I gained a new respect for Télégraphe’s relentless gradients. I settled into a low gear and a steady rhythm, mindful of conserving energy. Tall pine forests provided shade, and occasional clearings offered views back down the valley – the ribbon of road I’d climbed and the Maurienne far below. Each kilometer was marked by a cycling milestone indicating the remaining distance and current elevation, a typically French touch that at once motivated and taunted me. Near the top, the gradient stiffened to nearly 10%, and my legs burned with each pedal stroke.

Finally, I crested Col du Télégraphe at 1,566 m, greeted by a small stone fort and panoramic alpine views. I paused to catch my breath and snap a mental picture: wildflowers along the roadside, blue sky, and the rugged silhouettes of peaks in every direction. A swift descent of a few kilometers brought me down to Valloire (1,430 m), my destination. Valloire is a charming alpine village stretched along a valley, bustling in summer with cyclists and hikers. I arrived by mid-afternoon, which left time to wander its streets and soak in the atmosphere. The scent of woodsmoke and sounds of cowbells filled the air. Over dinner – a hearty Savoyard fondue – I chatted with fellow cyclists who spoke in excited tones about tomorrow’s giant, the Galibier. In my cozy hotel that night, I felt a mix of apprehension and exhilaration. Télégraphe was merely the warm-up; the real climbing test of this bikepacking French Alps trip awaited with the sunrise.

Despite a poor sleep from anticipation, I woke before dawn in Valloire, determined and a little nervous. The Col du Galibier had been on my mind for years – one of the most iconic climbs in cycling lore. At first light, I rolled through Valloire’s quiet main street and almost immediately hit the base of the climb. The Col du Galibier looms 18 km ahead, ascending from 1,430 m to a dizzying 2,642 m at an average gradient of 6.9%. A roadside sign reminded me of the task: “Col du Galibier – Ouvert” indicating the pass was open (it’s closed by snow in other seasons). I began spinning my pedals in the cool morning air, the road rising gently at first through alpine meadows.

As I climbed higher, the sheer scale of the Galibier became apparent. The gradient ramped up beyond the hamlet of Plan Lachat, hovering around 8–9% for the final 8 kilometers. Each switchback unveiled a more dramatic view – sawtooth peaks glowing in the morning sun and the valley floor dropping away beneath me. Early Tour de France riders once cursed this pass; in 1911, the first year it was included, cyclist Émile Georget, the only rider to summit without walking, called the organizers “bandits” for daring to take the race over this monster. Today, alone on the mountain, I felt a kinship with those early riders as I battled the same unforgiving slopes. My breath came in gasps at the high altitude, and I had to will myself through the last kilometer – a final sting averaging 9%. At last, I reached the top of Col du Galibier, 2,642 m above sea level. A small cluster of cyclists cheered one another and posed by the summit sign. I joined them, exhilarated. The panorama was beyond words: jagged granite and ice as far as the eye could see. From the summit, you have a magnificent view of the Grand Galibier, the Pic Blanc du Galibier, the glaciers of La Meije and, on a clear day, Mont Blanc to the north. It felt like standing on the spine of the world.

After bundling up for the cold, I plunged down the Galibier’s south side. The descent to the Col du Lautaret (2,058 m) was thrilling – long sweepers and stunning vistas of La Meije’s glaciers shimmering in the sun. Gravity did the work that had taken me hours in reverse. I continued descending along the Guisane Valley, and by early afternoon I rolled into Briançon, brakes hot from continuous use. Briançon, at 1,326 m, is one of Europe’s highest towns and is encircled by Vauban’s imposing 17th-century fortifications. It felt like re-entering civilization after the high alpine wilderness. I found a small hotel within the fortified old town. The afternoon was spent resting my legs at a café, sipping espresso with a view of the mountains I had conquered. Day 5 was short in kilometers but immense in achievement – climbing Col du Galibier was a dream turned reality. As I drifted to sleep, I knew that more legendary climbs awaited tomorrow, but having stood atop Galibier gave me newfound confidence for the challenges ahead.

Briançon’s morning was crisp and clear. I rolled out past old fortresses, ready for a classic Alpine stage: the Col de Vars. The ride began gently, luring me into a false sense of ease.  Vars is a strange pass—not a steady grind but a broken rhythm of steep ramps, flats, and even a descent. It plays tricks on your legs.

The final kilometers hit hard again—steep, open slopes, alpine meadows giving way to scree and stone.

At 2,109 m, the summit of Col de Vars offered sweeping views of the southern Alps. No ski lifts or cafés—just quiet and sky. I took a moment, proud to have crossed another col under my own power.

The descent toward Jausiers was pure flow—fast and framed by cliffs. I skirted the Lac de Serre-Ponçon earlier that day, and now the landscape was clearly changing: drier, rougher, almost Provençal. In Jausiers, I checked into a simple lodge. The air was warmer, the houses older and flatter. I strolled to the village lake, legs heavy, heart full.

This was it – the queen stage of my traverse, albeit short in distance. The Cime de la Bonette loomed as both a physical challenge and a highlight I had eagerly anticipated. Col de la Bonette’s claim to fame is that a loop around its summit (the Cime de la Bonette) reaches 2,802 m, making it one of the highest paved roads in Europe. I departed Jausiers at first light, knowing the day would be dominated by one giant 23 km ascent. The initial kilometers leaving town were pleasant, alongside a rippling river with the road at an easy grade. But soon a sign announced the start of the climb: “Col de la Bonette – 23 km.” I took a deep breath, clicked into a low gear and began the long grind skyward.

The Bonette’s north side gains about 1,588 m of elevation over 23.2 km, with an average gradient of 7%. The climb unfolds in distinct movements. Early on, I passed through a sequence of tiny hamlets – wooden chalets with geraniums in the windowsills – still in morning shadow. The road then cut into a wild valley, the trees thinning as I gained altitude. After about 10 km, I rode past a weathered sign marking 2,000 m; half the climb was now behind me, but the hardest work remained above treeline. The landscape became austere – just grasses and rocks, with distant peaks encircling me. The air was thin and cool, but the sun was intense on the exposed slopes. My progress slowed to a steady crawl through a series of hairpins. At one switchback, a marmot dashed across the tarmac, as if to cheer me on in this high-altitude solitude.

As I ascended beyond 2,500 m, every pedal stroke became an act of will. The last few kilometers were brutal yet beautiful – I ground along at 7–8%, knowing the end was near. The valley ahead narrowed and then abruptly opened up to a windswept plain of rubble and scant grass. At 2,400 m I passed the ruins of the Caserne de Restefond, a deserted military outpost, and still the road climbed. Finally, the Col de la Bonette was in my sights – the col (2,715 m) was now beneath my wheels, the third-highest mountain pass in France, and it was grandiose! I decided to tackle the optional route around the Cime de la Bonette to reach the true high point. A right-hand fork led me onto the last kilometer of paved road spiraling up and around the rocky pinnacle. The profile was scary: the gradient jumping into double digits (around 13%), rising to 12% in the final hundred meters. With quivering legs, I pushed through this steep ramp, and suddenly I was there – the top of the world (or so it felt). At 2,802 m, I was higher than any official mountain pass in France. The panorama was staggering: a 360-degree sweep of the Mercantour National Park’s rugged peaks and deep valleys. The wind whipped cool and fierce. I donned my windbreaker and stood by the cairn marking the summit, letting a wave of accomplishment wash over me. Few paved roads on earth reach this altitude, and I had arrived under my own power.

The descent into the Tinée Valley was long and thrilling. I carefully navigated tight hairpins near the top, then could afford to let loose on the wider lower sections. In what felt like no time, green returned – first hardy scrub, then pines, then entire forests as I plunged back to moderate elevations. By early afternoon I reached Saint-Étienne-de-Tinée at 1,140 m, a village at the foot of Bonette’s south ramp. The climate here was noticeably milder; I’d effectively crossed into the Mediterranean side of the Alps. Saint-Étienne’s stone bridge and café-lined square invited a pause. I enjoyed a simple picnic by a fountain, legs fatigued but spirit soaring. I was now far from the high peaks; the horizon to the south showed lower, gentler mountains. The sea was not yet visible, but I could sense it in the softer air. After checking into a local inn, I spent the rest of the day resting, chatting with friendly locals about my journey. They nodded knowingly when I recounted climbing La Bonette – a badge of honor in these parts. I slept deeply that night, the hardest work of the journey behind me, and the promise of the Mediterranean drawing ever closer.

After several arduous days, Stage 8 was a gentle respite – a shorter day designed for recovery and transition. I rolled out of Saint-Étienne-de-Tinée in the morning light, following the Tinée River downstream. The road cut through a gorge, with limestone walls rising steeply on either side. It felt liberating to descend for a while, hardly turning the pedals as my bike coasted along the winding river valley. Tiny villages clung to the mountainsides – Isola, with its red-tiled roofs, passed in a blur. The bikepacking French Alps experience isn’t all about punishing climbs; at times like this I could relish the simpler act of cruising through magnificent scenery.

At the town of Saint-Sauveur-sur-Tinée, I left the valley floor and headed up a side road towards Valdeblore. The climb was modest compared to recent monsters: around 600 m of elevation gain spread over a dozen kilometers. Still, my legs protested at first, reminding me of the previous days’ efforts. The road to Valdeblore ascended in a series of switchbacks, offering increasingly expansive views of the Tinée Valley below. Wildflowers dotted the roadside, and occasionally a car would pass, giving a friendly honk or a wave of encouragement. The scene was idyllic – sunny blue skies, the sound of cicadas starting to buzz (a sure sign I’d reached a more Mediterranean climate), and the scent of warm pine needles in the air.

I woke to a rosy sunrise peeking over ridges in Valdeblore. There was a sense of excitement in the crisp morning air – today I would cross the last high passes before descending to the sea. I began by climbing out of Valdeblore towards the Col de la Colmiane (also known as Col St. Martin, 1,500 m). The ascent was gradual and peaceful, just a few hundred meters higher from where I’d slept. Reaching the Colmiane pass felt symbolic: it was the final time on this trip I would exceed 1,500 m. I paused briefly at the ski station on top, then began the long descent into the Vésubie Valley. The road swerved down through forests and past rustic hamlets, losing altitude rapidly. Each turn brought warmer air and lusher vegetation. At the valley floor, palm-like yucca plants and oleander bushes appeared in gardens – a clear sign of the Mediterranean influence creeping in.

From the village of Lantosque, I took a deep breath and prepared for the next challenge: Col de Turini, one of the most famous mountain passes in this region. The Col de Turini (1,607 m) is legendary not only among cyclists but also as a classic stage in the Monte Carlo Rally, known for its countless hairpin bends snaking up through dense forests. My route tackled Turini from the west side – approximately 15 km of climbing with a gain of ~1,100 m at an average gradient of about 7.3%. As I climbed, I could see why Turini is beloved; the road was an engineer’s marvel, etching back and forth across the mountain face. I settled into a cadence and let the rhythm of the switchbacks carry me upward. Tall beech and chestnut trees lined the route, providing welcome shade in the strengthening sun. Occasionally, a viewpoint would open up, revealing the deep valley I’d left and the higher ridges looming ahead. About two-thirds up, I passed the famed cluster of hairpins near the village of Moulinet – a dizzying sight of asphalt loops stacked on the mountainside. The higher I went, the quieter it became, save for the chorus of birdsong and my own breathing. At last, I rounded a bend to see the Col de Turini sign. I had made it! I stood at 1,607 m feeling both triumphant and a bit nostalgic – this was the last major climb of the tour.

The descent from Turini to Sospel was pure bliss. I swooped down through dozens of bends, at times riding along a ridge with views stretching all the way to the azure Mediterranean Sea in the distance. Yes – there it was, a faint blue line on the horizon beyond layer upon layer of hills! The first sight of the sea nearly made me shout with joy. The road eventually joined a river and led me gently into the town of Sospel (350 m). Sospel is a quaint Provençal-style town with pastel buildings and a medieval stone bridge over the Bévéra River. Arriving in the late afternoon, I treated myself to a scoop of gelato in the town square – a small celebration of coming off the last big mountain. The evening light turned the surrounding hills golden-green as I checked into a guesthouse. I strolled the narrow lanes of Sospel, reflecting on the incredible passes now behind me. The air was fragrant with jasmine and citrus; I felt almost as if I had already arrived at the Riviera. Tomorrow, a relatively short ride would carry me to the journey’s end at Nice. My emotions swirled – anticipation, pride, even a bit of sadness that this grand adventure was nearly complete.

The final day of my crossing dawned bright and warm. Sospel’s church bells accompanied my early morning departure. Though Nice was less than 65 km away, I knew the route would zigzag through the last of the Maritime Alps, making me earn that first dip of my toes in the sea. Out of Sospel, I climbed the Col de Braus (1,002 m), a fitting last test. The Col de Braus road is an unforgettable piece of engineering, famous for its stacked hairpin turns that scribble up the mountainside. I ascended Braus’s east side, which meant about 11 km of steady climbing from 350 m elevation – the last sustained climb of the trip. My legs, seasoned by now, turned the cranks with a steady determination. Each bend revealed the remarkable pattern of hairpins below; it was like looking at a life-size switchback staircase etched in grey asphalt.

The road to Col de Braus is renowned for its dramatic hairpin bends, fully visible from above as I climbed. The French D2204 road ascends via a series of tight switchbacks carved into the mountainside, resembling a giant staircase of tarmac looping back on itself. Near the top, I encountered an especially steep stretch, with the gradient jumping into double digits (around 13%), and I had to rise out of the saddle to keep momentum. At last, I reached the Col de Braus at 1,002 m, the final pass of my tour, and felt a surge of accomplishment and gratitude.

From Braus I continued along a ridge, descending a bit and then crossing a couple of minor cols. The landscape was now thoroughly Mediterranean: dry limestone hillsides, olive groves, and the occasional palm tree. I rolled through the picturesque village of Peille clinging to a cliff, and then to La Turbie, where suddenly the vast expanse of the Côte d’Azur burst into view. The city of Nice lay below, its urban sprawl framed by the sparkling Mediterranean Sea.