When the Good Lord begins to doubt the world, he remembers that he created Provence.”

 Frederic Mistral

Provence and the South of France will forever be associated with the good life. 

The great impressionist painters, like Cezanne and Van Gogh, have imprinted on our global conscience images of sun-kissed stone villages surrounded by olive and cypress trees.  For our new lost generation such timeless images are paired with those of the glitterati, hip-hop stars and Russian oligarchs, whose super yachts bob along the Cote d’Azur.

But long before the majestic Provencal summer Sun announces the arrival of endless tourists, in the quiet days of winter, the locals have their world famous playground to themselves.

Our dear friends came to visit in those last days of winter.  The clouds hung low.  The famous sun was nowhere in sight.   We opened a family cottage from its winter slumber; turning on the heat, making the beds, and stoking a roaring fire.  We exchanged hugs, toasts, and laughs, and caught up after a long absence. 

Earlier that week, our generation’s cycling hard men had started an eight-day stage race far away in Paris.  The iconic Paris-Nice bicycle race has been held annually since 1933.  Dubbed The Race towards the Sun, it starts in the cold wet climate of Northern Europe and aspires to end in Mediterranean warmth.

The arrival of the race heralds the true beginning of the summer cycling race season in Europe.  To win at Paris-Nice is to announce your ambitions for glory at that year’s Tour de France.  The greatest heroes of the sport have won here, among them Jacques Anquetil, Eddy Merckx, and Miguel Indurain.  In 1966, the legendary French rivalry between the icy blond champion Anquetil and his everyman craggy faced competitor Raymound Poulidor played out in the race.  Anquetil won his fifth and final Paris-Nice, when he passed Poulidor on the last day in Nice, cementing Poulidor’s status as the “eternal second.”  The tough Irishman, Sean Kelly, won the race a record seven times from 1982 to 1988.

A new generation always has its new contenders.  Today, a crop of rash young aggressive riders like Julien Alain Philippe, Wout Van Aert, and Mathieu Van der Poel (the grandson of Poulidor) has swept across the sport and delighted fans.  Perhaps none more spectacularly than the trio of riders, Primos Roglic, Tadej Podgacar, and Mateo Moharic, from the small mountainous country of Slovenia. 

Roglic, a former ski jumper who arrived late to the sport of cycling, seemed destined to dominate the great Grand tours such as the Giro d’Italia, the Vuelta a Espana, and the incomparable Tour de France.  His impressive climbing skills, iron will, and powerful supporting team suggested a new uncontested era.  Then, in 2020, on the second to last day of the Tour de France; Roglic exploded spectacularly on a time trial up the Planche de Belle Fille, and his young upstart countryman, Pogacar, stole the victory; the first for Slovenia.

In the 2021 Paris-Nice, after an impressive start Roglic crashed on the last day, and lost his yellow leader’s jersey.  Another crash early in the 2021 Tour de France also put him out of contention.  In the meantime, unruly blond haired Pogacar, not yet 23 years old, stamped his authority on bicycle racing with two back-to-back wins in the Tour de France, and victory in a host of other races.

The questions inevitably followed.  Was Roglic truly destined to be a historic champion?  Or would he remain cursed with bad luck, bad timing, or bad nerves in French stage races?  Would he be, instead, his generation’s “eternal second”; playing “Poulidor” to Pogacar’s “Anquetil?”

Such sports drama felt far away from all of us in Provence.  We shared bottles of wine and stories.  We reminisced about our time together in Italy.  We dissected the tremendous tragic geopolitical events occurring to our east.  The closest we probably got to bicycle racing itself, was the board game we played called Flame Rouge which craftily simulates the strategy and luck needed to win a bicycle race.  Huddled around the fire, we watched our friends’ eldest daughter beat all of us on her first try.  

My friend and I being who we are, however, meant we actually did have to ride our bikes that weekend.  We fortified ourselves with croissants, set up a spare bike, and set off into a blustery day.  After pushing through suburban sprawl that surrounded the town, we soon found ourselves in the terrain for which Provence is famous.  We passed gnarled olive trees, crumbling stone farmhouses, and rosé vineyards.  After a lengthy climb through the hills above the bay of Saint Tropez; we were caught by a ferocious Mistral wind that almost knocked us off our bikes.

For although less well known for those with only a passing knowledge of Provence its strong winds are just as defining.  Named after the bard of the region, Frederic Mistral; they howl with terrific strength into the Mediterranean, reaching speeds of up to 185 kilometers an hour.  The winds are strongest between the transitions of winter to spring.  In other words, they were the strongest when we had chosen to ride. 

We fought our way to the approaches of Grimauld Castle, before turning back towards the bay; alternatively being pushed along or pedaling to a seeming standstill, depending on the whims of the Mistral.  We entered the once quiet fishing village of Saint Tropez that is now synonymous with luxury. 

We found our families enjoying an apero or pre-meal drink at a cafe next to the weekly market.  Then together, we walked through the cobbled streets of the town, and climbed creaky stairs to a restaurant where we washed down fish soup, mussels, and fries with an excellent dry white burgundy.

Somewhere, not far, those racers who had survived the preceding stages from Paris were battling high in the mountains in the penultimate stage.  Not far in distance from us, maybe, but infinitely in lived experiences. 

Earlier in the stage rage, Roglic and his Jumbo teammates had demonstrated their trademark dominance.  On stage 1,  the team took all three podium positions. Then they did it again on the stage 4 time trial.  On both occasions Roglic and Wout Van Aert were among the three Jumbo riders.   By stage 7 in the mountains,  while we sheltered from the wind with our bottle of white in St. Tropez, Roglic’s victory seemed assured.

The next day, we woke up to rain.  Another croissant run sustained us; as we packed up and locked the cottage.  Our friends were going skiing; we were returning to work and school.  Somehow, but admittedly not a coincidence, our path would take us first to Nice where the race was scheduled to end that evening.

When we arrived in Nice, layered in rain jackets, the excitement of the race was palpable.  Team buses, mechanics, and chase cars were everywhere in the city.  We walked through the city, before holing up in a Corsican restaurant.  Many courses later, we emerged to find the race had yet to arrive.  A long drive, and work week awaited us.  The return voyage couldn’t be delayed for much longer, but surely we couldn’t leave before the finish, after getting so close?

In the hills around Nice, beneath the rain; the riders pushed each other on the final eighth stage.  Suddenly, the British rider Simon Yates attacked and Roglic couldn’t follow.  The time gap grew bigger, and improbably (or inevitably); Roglic’s overall victory was once again threatened.

We walked the famed promenade des Anglais along the coast willing the racers to arrive before we had to depart.  We concocted a mad scheme to walk to the outskirts of the city in order to see the riders and then depart before the finish.

Roglic tucked behind his teammate Wout Van Aert, and they chased after Yates.  Together,they struggled to regain the precious seconds needed to ensure Roglic’s victory. 

In a steep old alley, a Frenchman ran out of his house shouting that the cyclists would arrive in any minute.  We abruptly turned around, and our children led us in a wild dash through the city streets, as we blindly followed the Frenchman.  We arrived on the boulevard just in time to see Simon Yates go screaming by us.  The children laughed in  giddy excitement.  The seconds slowly ticked by…until suddenly Van Aert and Roglic flew by in hot pursuit. 

Yates took the stage but for Roglic, the curse had been broken.  In no small part thanks to Wout, he had minimized the gap and finally had his overall win at a stage race on French soil.  The race had been brutal; only 59 finished out of the 154 cyclists who started.

Of course, Roglic’s greatest competitor- Pogacar -was far from Nice racing elsewhere in Italy.  Only time will tell if the Poulidor/Anquetil analogy applies to the two Slovenians.  

On that day, the good life in Provence for Roglic was a hard earned victory.  For us, it was great company, food, and excitement.  Sun optional in both cases.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.