Page 31 of The Big Race
On The Rocks
C ody was waiting for us when we headed toward our car.
He jumped in the front seat and filmed us as we drove back down to Nice.
When we parked at the designated spot along the Promenade des Anglais, I saw we were still first to arrive.
The iconic walkway stretched before us, but I had no time to appreciate the view.
Unlike the sandy beaches back in Florida, Nice's shore was covered with smooth, rounded stones that shifted and clacked beneath our feet as we hurried down the stairs to the marked-off section.
"The clue said to look for a rock with both our astrological symbols on it," I reminded Ray, already scanning the pebbles. "I’m a Virgo and you’re a Cancer."
“If you say so.”
Above us on the Promenade, spectators had gathered, some calling out encouragement in French.
The beach on either side of our marked area was dotted with sunbathers stretched out on colorful towels, seemingly unbothered by the pebbled surface beneath them.
Locals had clearly mastered the art of comfort here, with many using specialized beach mats or low reclining chairs designed for these unique conditions.
Despite the stones, the beach was packed—the clear Mediterranean waters too inviting to resist.
Above us on the Promenade, spectators had gathered, recognizing us from the red and blue race signage. Some pointed cameras in our direction while others called out encouragement in French and broken English.
“ Allez, allez !” a woman shouted, clapping her hands.
“The Big Race! We watch on television!” a man with a thick accent yelled, giving us a thumbs up.
I was focused on the task and the growing sound of car doors slamming behind us.
"Damn," Ray muttered, glancing back. "The military couple just arrived."
Sure enough, Fletcher and Adrienne were jogging toward the beach stairs. Behind them, I spotted another car pulling up.
"We need to find this fast," I said, dropping to my knees to examine painted stones more closely. "Turn over any rocks that match other teams so they'll have trouble finding theirs."
Ray was already doing that, flipping a stone painted with what looked like Gemini symbols. "Smart thinking."
Twenty minutes in, with sweat dripping from beneath my arms in the Mediterranean heat, we still hadn't found our combination. Fletcher and Adrienne were methodically working their section, while Alex and Ross had arrived and were frantically searching nearby.
"I've got it!" Ray called, holding up a stone with the Cancer symbol. But when I examined it closely, the other symbol was wrong—an M like Virgo, but with a pointed tail instead of the curved one.
"That's not right," I said. "The Virgo tail curves back, like a loop."
"Are you sure?" Ray asked, frustration edging into his voice as more teams arrived behind us.
"Trust me. I used to doodle that symbol in notebooks."
“This is crazy,” Ray muttered after twenty more minutes of searching. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
A small crowd of onlookers had formed on the Promenade, many of them clearly tourists enjoying the unexpected entertainment of watching race contestants scramble along the beach.
Some called out whenever they spotted a painted rock, sending us running in multiple directions, often for stones that had nothing to do with zodiac symbols.
Another twenty minutes passed. The crowd above us had grown, and now most of the remaining teams were on the beach, spreading across the pebbles in a desperate search. The familiar tension between us threatened to resurface—him thinking I was overthinking, me thinking he wasn't careful enough.
But then I remembered Dr. Lieber's advice about making the race a classroom.
"We're learning," I said, catching Ray's eye as Gemini squealed with apparent success nearby. "Together."
Ray nodded, his expression softening. "Together."
Five minutes later, he pulled up the correct rock—both symbols painted clearly on the smooth surface. "Got it!"
We raced toward the race official as Fletcher and Adrienne found theirs just seconds behind us, the elimination pressure pushing everyone to move faster.
The Mediterranean sun beat down on us as we handed the painted pebble—both our zodiac symbols intricately rendered on its smooth surface—to a stunning woman in a sleek black bathing suit.
A bright blue sash across her torso proclaimed “Alpes-Maritimes” in elegant script.
Her smile was as dazzling as the sea behind her as she inspected our find.
“ 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 into the 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?”
“I found a guidebook while I was waiting for you to finish the slalom. The whole hill is honeycombed with old military installations. There’s even a proper fort at the summit—Fort du Mont Alban.”
“Is that where we’re heading? The fort?”