There was no elitism. Ten times world champions passing the same bread, sharing the same bog, sweating the same climbs. No preferential treatment, this was a tour of riders in the rawest form. Titles counted for little come the end of the day dinner table, united in our daily feed–up from the exceptional travelling hosts. The soup was inspired, the riding tempo of the top guys was merciless. Quite a mix.

All week I kept thinking about the quote, “technically the most demanding mountainbike race in the world”. I questioned it time and again. Probably some of the best stages of racing any of us has done, there were moments to remember and ones to forget. SS 6 was nothing short of madness from Californian Mark Weir…leaving Barel, Vouilloz shaking their heads in disbelief.

Strung–out climbs of various horror, descents of exceptional balance, purity and full–blooded attack. It has it all. Think World Cup racing on tour. A bushwhacking passage of pain and pleasure and only against the clock when there was nowhere left to climb.

Trans Provence, seven days, 30,000ft of climbing 50,000ft descending over 350km of wild, sparsely populated terrain, a free mix of bikes and riders from all parts of the globe, pushing south to Monaco via geological craziness.

Rochebrune – Clamensane

SP1    +100m/-538m

SP 2   +30m/-395m

SP 3   +25m/-545m

SP 4   +20m/-433m

Fresh electric buzzed in the overhead power lines as the Durance hydro electric kicked the Sunday washing machines into action here in south east France. On a small patch of flat land under the many eucalyptus, the boiler houses of the Trans Provence bike race were primed, greased, loaded and ready to exhaust months of preparation into seven days of total mountainbiking. The local cockerel gets the snap on the dawn bell tower, a set of fifty zips intermittently buzz loose to unleash a variety of rider from the engineer in between jobs, the doctor, the former Olympic cross country racer and several World Downhill Champions, all with one goal. The start was no place for slackers…and there were none.

After a quick shuttle out of the valley floor, 500 metres of climbing dumped us into a place high and very backcountry. Having split into a pair of twenty five rider gangs, the start is both cool and calm, hot and prepped, although you sensed a very slight dip in energy levels all round. Now after months of waiting, thinking, preparing I was about to empty my whole ordnance into the 26 special stages.

Around the corner no was no place for the feint hearted to be hanging, as the single track arced violently upwards towards what seemed like the stars. There was a brief respite as the track mellowed into smooth singletrack, picking your way wary of the undergrowth, mild exposure before hammering riders again upwards, this was tough stuff, short but painful at altitude.