The Queen Stage is the hardest day of a multi day bike race, and usually occurs somewhere between the middle and the end of an event. On Breauxdureaux, we conquered the Queen on day one. 40 miles and 7500 feet of climbing. A decent day on a road bike, but on a 30 plus pound mountain bike, laden with a pack full of all-day gear, it’s plain burly.

The first couple hours, descending a chundery fire road then climbing it’s evil sister up the Col de Mont Joly, had me slightly worried that my preconceived notions of riding in the Alps were going to prove true. I’d long known that the Alps possess the world’s greatest road cycling; the combination of huge verticals, beautiful vistas, and charming villages full of churches and chateaus where you can fill your bidons with water and your pockets with croissants is unbeatable. But for mountain biking, I had some major doubts.

No way could it match mountain biking in the Western US. The gentler slopes of the Rocky Mountains covered with purpose built single-tracks had to stand head and shoulders over the steep, rocky goat trails traversing the jagged Alps where I was sure we’d spend as much or more time walking than riding. 

Then we got to Col du Joly and those preconceived notions were crushed. Blaise led us past a small stone farm and onto a pristine un-marked single-track disappearing into a wilderness devoid of human impact as far as we could see. We climbed another 1300 vertical feet into alpine meadows exploding with blooming rhododendrons against deep greens and blues. 

We followed this tiny trace of a trail up through Sound of Music panoramas and finally, five hours after setting out, we topped out on a high attitude plain under the Mt. Blanc massif. Which is where our first proper downhill kicked in. And promptly blew our collective minds. 

A ridiculous, steep, twisty descent above timberline for thousands of feet to a small alpine stream feeding the Gittaz reservoir. Switchback after switchback, the trail at times buried deep within the mountain side surrounding it, worn into the hillside by the impact of people walking this ancient route for thousands of years. Nearing the summer solstice after a healthy winter of snow, the plant life in the Alps was exploding, crowding the trail, whipping our handlebars with flower buds, soaking our hands and legs with moisture from the previous night. The mountains echoed with the sounds of freehubs, hot brakes, and grown men laughing like euphoric children.

We arrived at the stream and plunged our bodies into the water, instantly reviving ourselves for the final miles of the day. Onward we pedaled, climbing through alpine pastures suddenly alive with the sounds of cowbells and the shouts of herders moving their charges to a new valley. From the top of the next ridge a fast descent took us to a small bar along the first paved road we had seen in hours. Beers and a life-saving concoction of potatoes and melted cheese had everyone recharged for a the final push to that night’s hotel in Arêches.  

So off we went, lazily pedaling up the small paved climb to the Col de Pré at 7 in the evening, in full sunlight since summer days last forever in Europe. A truly magical 2000 foot single-track descent through the glow of a setting sun delivered us to our hotel for the evening. 

Nine hours after we set off from Chamonix, we rolled into the village of Arêches where my 73 year old dad, our shuttle driver for the trip, awaited us, a book in one hand, a beer in the other, and in his head, a fabulous tale of adventure from a day on his gravel bike.