Day 3: Nyon → Albertville

I awoke in Nyon to the gentle sound of lake waves and a pastel dawn sky. Today’s route would carry me out of Switzerland and deep into France, past two famous lakes and towards the foot of the big mountains. It was a transitional stage – moving from the pre-Alps into the true Alps. I pedaled off early along the shores of Lake Geneva, keeping Mont Blanc’s distant snowy crown in my peripheral vision. The route hugged the lake for a time, passing through Geneva’s outskirts as commuters whizzed by on their way to work. Soon I crossed back into France, leaving Geneva’s international bustle behind and entering the serene countryside of Savoy. A moderate climb through vineyard-carpeted hills took me over the Col du Mont Sion near Cruseilles, a small pass of about 785 m that once served as a strategic route between Geneva and Annecy. Cresting it, I sped downhill and suddenly the turquoise jewel of Lake Annecy lay before me.

Lake Annecy’s beauty was a welcome midday reward. Often called one of the most beautiful lakes in France, its waters sparkled an almost Caribbean blue, framed by mountains on all sides. I followed a cycling path along the shore, joining local cyclists and families out enjoying the sunshine. Passing through the town of Annecy, I glimpsed its famous lakeside promenades and the medieval old town with canals. The ambiance was lively yet relaxed. I pressed on, as I still had ground to cover to reach Albertville by evening. The road gently climbed out of Annecy’s basin, offering a backward glance at the lake nestled among peaks – an image I filed away in memory.

The final stretch followed the Isère River valley toward Albertville, the host of the 1992 Winter Olympics. Though surrounded by towering mountains, the route cleverly threaded through low passes and valleys, keeping the day’s climbing mild. I arrived in Albertville by late afternoon under a hot sun. The change in climate was palpable – warmer, drier air flowed from the south. I found a small hotel in the old town of Conflans (the picturesque medieval quarter above modern Albertville), where narrow cobbled streets and stone archways spoke of history. From the terrace, I could see the outline of distant peaks turning pink with alpenglow. The prologue was over: tomorrow I would enter the realm of the giant cols, and the thought sent a flutter of excitement through me. I slept early, knowing that cycling the French Alps in earnest would begin at dawn with the ascent of the Col du Télégraphe and beyond.