STARTERS

They crawl from the shadows around the station. Thirty-odd scrawny cyclists come together shivering around the ring leaders, searching for their dose of gravel, like flies to the light. They all know why they are there, determined to have it at whatever cost.

GETTING HIGH

The light is brighter and brighter. The addicts roll east, hiding bleary eyes behind sunglasses and tipping the visors of their caps as they face up to the rising sun.

Ever­­­ so slightly the tempo rises after the warm up in the streets of vieux Arles and the smooth roads of the suburbs. The first songs of the birds ring out, changing reflections blur on the marsh waters and the light strobes through the roadside trees.

TRANSE

It’s easy to spot the first of the group to go into the trance – racing like galloping horses, straight-lining through puddles of water, laughing and screaming in English or Italian.

Follow the wheel, take the draft, breathing amplifies and pupils dilate as a drop of sweat pearls on the edge of your helmet.

OVERDOSE & HALLUCINATIONS

Rolling across the desert plain, slapped by the wind, battered by relentless rocks that strain men and machines. The Coussouls of Crau is too much. There are not good vibrations. Speeds drop, legs and bodies become heavy. These flat lands have become a downer.

Post-gravel spinning on paved roads after Entressens and the hallucinations arrive. Some punk in low-rise jeans, an 80s Adidas jacket, sneakers and flat pedals casually rolling along at 35km/h? Further up the road, some goblin on a mountain bike with a laser attached to his helmet and a bell rattling under his saddle, also somehow riding at the same speed. This is crazy, so time out is called at Miramar.

SUBSTANCE

Consciousness regained, other riders come into clear view, in the same state, having the same journey with their bodies, and their own personal voyage in their heads.

Whether you’re crossing the bottom of the sun-soaked valley or in the queue of the boulangerie, you eventually become the journey. Finding strength in a morceau, or the warmth of the mid-day winter sun, the experience becomes more intense, more enjoyable, seemingly eternal…

THE LINE ON THE BOARD

At the edge of the cliff, on the plateau of Vitrolles, a pause. De-mount and just stare at the skyline. The bright, cold sunlight of reveals the landscape in seemingly artificially saturated colours.

From a distance, you do not understand what the riders on the cliff edge are shouting because the wind is too strong. The narrowed eyes, the grin on the lips, facing the landscape they indulge in the mistral, arms outstretched, half-birds half-human.

ANGEL DUST

From the sublime, to the industrial. Commercial zones and their abandoned remains bring you back to reality. The red mud of Septèmes-les-Vallons remind you of the wizards of chemical transformation who in past lawless times have forever impacted this hilltop.

The ashes of a recent fire form a red trail snaking like a vein into the desolate landscape. But your gravel bike, like an angel, sublimates the nightmare and turns it into a dream. The bright red iron ore dust is but dried angel blood.

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

The pain of the addiction comes, in the Vallon de la Barre de Fer. At the end of the trip, your mind has forgotten how brutal these rough and rocky climbs can be. The rear wheel loses traction, the front wheel smacks and bounces on bigger rocks.

But then the long descent into town - to the Vallon Dol basin, the sea view, La Batarelle, Saint miter, Saint Jerome, Malpasse, the Carthusians, then the landing in the heart of the city, boulevard Longchamp.

RELAPSE

You are wrung out, in front of a beer at Longchamp Palace. With a silly smile on your face, there are not yet any withdrawal symptoms because today, you have had your dose.

It’s saved in your body, the physical and emotional experience. Some are buzzing, others are silently stunned. Two or three days later, you’re looking out the train window, planning your next shot of gravel.