“Félicitations!” she exclaimed, her accent musical. “Vous avez trouvé le bon galet!”
She handed us our next direction card from a pouch at her side. Ray immediately tore it open while I thanked her in French.
“Head to the next Stop’n’Go at the panoramic overlook of Mont-Boron,” Ray read aloud, squinting against the glare bouncing off the white card. “You must travel there on foot.”
I mentally calculated the distance. Mont-Boron was east of the city center, rising above Nice’s coastline with spectacular views of both the city and Cap Ferrat beyond. It would be a challenging climb.
“On foot? In this heat?” Ray wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “How far is it?”
“About four kilometers from here, but the real challenge is the elevation,” I said, already scanning the Promenade for the right street to take. “Mont-Boron rises about 200 meters above sea level. That’s a lot of uphill walking.”
Ray groaned but squared his shoulders. “Lead the way, language man.”
We set off along the Promenade des Anglais, weaving through tourists who strolled leisurely, completely unaware of our race against time. The famous blue chairs lining the walkway were filled with sunbathers enjoying the spectacular view we had no time to appreciate.
“We need to follow the coast eastward,” I said, remembering the city layout from my pre-race research. “Then cut north when we reach Port Lympia.”
“Port what?” Ray asked, keeping pace beside me.
“The harbor. All those fancy yachts we saw as we came down the hill.”
We maintained a brisk pace, past the famous Negresco Hotel with its pink dome and the sprawling Jardin Albert I on our left. The Mediterranean stretched endlessly blue on our right, dotted with white sails in the distance.
At the eastern end of the Promenade, the landscape changed as we approached Port Lympia. Luxury yachts bobbed in their moorings, their polished surfaces gleaming under the relentless sun.
“We need to turn left here,” I said, pointing to Boulevard Franck Pilatte. “This will take us toward the base of Mont-Boron.”
As we turned away from the sea, the street began to slope gently upward. Ray, with his triathlete’s stamina, easily kept pace, but I felt my calves protesting.
“This is just the beginning,” I warned, switching to French as we approached a local walking her dog. “Excusez-moi, madame. Nous cherchons le chemin le plus rapide pour monter au Mont-Boron?”
The woman paused, her little terrier sniffing at our shoes. “Ah, Mont-Boron! Vous devez prendre le Boulevard Carnot, puis chercher le chemin qui monte à travers la forêt. C’est plus court que de suivre la route.”
I thanked her and translated for Ray. “She says we should take Boulevard Carnot and then look for a path through the forest. It’s shorter than following the road all the way around.”
Ray nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Is that the forest she’s talking about?” He pointed to the densely wooded hillside that rose above the eastern neighborhoods of Nice.
“That’s it. The Mont-Boron forest park covers most of the hill. There should be walking paths that will take us directly to the top.”
As we continued east, the incline became more pronounced. The colorful Mediterranean buildings gave way to elegant villas nestled into the hillside, their terracotta roofs and pastel walls peeking through lush vegetation.
Boulevard Carnot proved to be exactly as the woman had described—a winding road that began to climb more steeply intothe foothills of Mont-Boron. Sweat soaked through my shirt as the physical exertion combined with the afternoon heat.
“There,” I said, pointing to a set of stone steps leading off the main road into a green canopy of trees. “That must be the path she mentioned.”
The steps were worn smooth from years of use, their edges rounded and uneven. They disappeared into a shady forest that promised relief from the sun, if not from the climb itself.
Ray took the first steps two at a time, his natural athleticism making the ascent look easy. “Come on, Jeffrey. After all those training sessions, this should be a piece of cake.”
I followed more cautiously, already feeling the burn in my thighs. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Triathlon. Some of us spend our days sitting at a computer.”
The forest path provided welcome shade, the temperature dropping noticeably under the canopy of pine and olive trees. The Mediterranean was still visible in glimpses through the foliage, a brilliant blue backdrop that grew more expansive with every step upward.
The path zigzagged up the hillside, occasionally intersecting with wider trails or paved roads before plunging back into the woods. Stone walls and the foundations of ancient fortifications appeared, remnants of Mont-Boron’s strategic military history.
“Did you know this whole area was once a military fort?” I asked between labored breaths, drawing on my pre-race research to distract myself from burning lungs. “The French built fortifications here in the 19th century to defend Nice from invasion.”
Ray, barely winded, glanced back at me. “How do you know these things?”
