A Bridge in the Sky
We ’ d set our sights on the Millau Viaduct , the impressive Norman Fosterdesigned structure that spans the valley of the river Tarn , just up from the French coast . Bob had seen a documentary about it and we were both keen to experience it first-hand on the return leg of our journey . But Millau was at least a four hour ride away , probably more given the horrible conditions which put paid to any kind of enthusiastic riding . As we strapped our sodden belongings to the bikes Bob suggested that , as our journey was drawing to a close , we should perhaps swap rides , at least until we made our way down the mountains and onto the autoroutes .
I looked at his skinny front tyre , the best part of a day ahead of the rest of his cumbersome and unwieldy machine . Like the rear , it was practically bald ; his chain looked like it had been recovered from a shipwreck and I knew from experience that his brakes were treacherous in the dry , let alone in rain .
No , I didn ’ t fancy trying to muscle that thing round the serpentine roads that lay ahead , made greasy by the summer downpour and flanked as they were with savage drops . “ I don ’ t think we should be experimenting in these conditions ” I explained cautiously .
Our descent was not a rapid experience and more than once I grimaced as Bob drifted across the road in front of me , feet down , arms locked in a deathgrip on the bars ; on one occasion I even heard him scream , which was impressive because he was behind me at the time . Eventually however , the gradient began to ease , the bends opened up a little and the roads widened . We ’ d barely seen a soul all morning , but now as the signposts pointed us in the direction of Toulouse and the lanes increased , so the big articulated trucks swelled in number , their long trailers momentarily blocking the cross winds which hit us hard at every overtake . The isolation of the mountains , the Tolkienian views and the pure , crisp air was quickly forgotten as we piled back into the frantic malaise of everyday life . Just another couple of bikers , weaving in and out of traffic as the rain steamed off the glistening road and the sun began to break through the clouds .
A Bridge in the Sky
The Millau Viaduct had loomed into view like the gateway to some fantastic alien city , its huge masts piecing the cloud base like great sentinels at the gates of a secret world . Six hours of largely uneventful riding had rewarded us with what must be one of the great architectural feats of our time ; a true wonder of the modern age .
Spanning 2.5km , with a height of 280m , the viaduct is officially the tallest bridge in the world , linking the limestone plateaus of the Causse du Larzac and the Causse Rouge and allowing traffic to bypass the Tarn river valley and the – previously heavily congested – town of Millau . That ’ s what it does ; but what is represents is something truly awe inspiring . Its vast pylons and cables – which to the right kind of eyes could be the sails of some mythical armada – seem to float above the traffic deck , providing the structure with an extraordinary delicacy . And it ’ s huge ; really , really massive . Looking at it up close you can imagine how a medieval serf must have felt in the shadow of some great cathedral . How can it be so big ; so beautiful ; so personal yet , so remote ? A massive unknowable thing that ’ s somehow comforting and intimidating in equal measure .
We ’ d approached the viaduct in high spirits , fooling around as we rode along in the late afternoon sunshine ; standing up on the pegs and doing Rossi impressions , saluting an imaginary crowd ; playing violin and ‘ adjusting ’ our leathers like the Doctor leaving the pitlane . Two bikers tearing up the motorways , all thoughts of rain and jobs and mortgages tucked nicely out of reach , along with our ferry tickets at the bottom of our panniers .
Now we sat on a hillside near our campsite , overlooking the Millau valley a mile or so out of town . All was quiet except the constant chatter of the crickets and the lingering hum of passing trucks in the distance . The bikes rested on their sidestands , ticking now and again as the engines cooled in the evening breeze .
Maybe it was tiredness after the long ride , or maybe it was the tacit knowledge that we ’ d soon be back in London , riding through the smog on the way to work , but neither of us had much to say as we gazed out past the viaduct , out across the lush green hills that would soon be just another memory .