The village festival was a success. I spent the evening with a few old-timers and the mayor’s wife, herself a florist by trade. We chatted about the weather and, before I left, these kind souls had the charming idea of offering me a triple portion of cherry clafoutis, as well as freeze-dried coffee for my breakfast.

This morning, I am therefore savoring this delicious meal in my little mobile home, which crackles under intense rain. Because yes, the forecast was somewhat optimistic: in reality, ten millimeters of rain are going to pour down on my poor head.

Faced with this sorry state of affairs, the campsite manager offers me the most comforting words: I can stay one more night in Pleaux for free! Given such a kind offer, any reasonable person would immediately have accepted spending the day lounging with a book or attending the local rugby match.

That is why I hit the road a few moments later. It is undoubtedly the wrong decision, but the idea of not moving today is unbearable to me. Especially since it is the day for Puy Mary, which I have dreamed of climbing for years: I am fidgeting with impatience.

So here I am, well served. I ride under dense rain that chills me to the bone. In less than an hour, all the layers of my outrageously expensive outfit have been soaked through by this perverse drizzle, and I pedal hard to avoid freezing on the spot.

Arriving in Salers, I nevertheless treat myself to a small coffee with the locals, who smoke inside; an old childhood memory I never thought I would experience again.

After this well-deserved break, here at last is the climb, the famous one, more than eight kilometers long, which I obviously tackle from its hardest side. I think back to Pogačar’s attacks on these same slopes in 2024, under a blazing sun, while I drag my misery up them in pouring rain. The streams roar and multiple waterfalls burst from the banks.

At the summit, the rain intensifies and the wind is dreadful. I have to steady my bike for a quick photo, so it does not blow over. No time to waste: once the photo is taken, I have to go back down, fast! Up there, it is only five degrees.

Is it a coincidence? As soon as my front wheel finally finds a semblance of a downhill gradient, a proper rock song kicks in on my playlist! The rain whips my face like a thousand thorns, but I let myself glide at full speed on the asphalt turned into a river. My tire throws up an immense spray of water that comes right back into my face, but who cares; with enough self-denial, I rediscover the true pleasure of cycling.

In Murat, I am frozen by this endless descent. I stop to eat, but I am hypothermic: I devour my fries while trembling like a leaf. No point in lingering; I have to ride.

The wind and rain will give me hardly any respite until Chaudes-Aigues, where, this time, a hotel awaits me. Burning shower, dry clothes. A little tour of the village is in order, quick but pleasant, before dinner, reading, and rest.

Decidedly, this day reminded me of the most Dante-esque stages on the road to the North Cape!