Boarding the Metro back to Gare du
Nord, I was again feeling pretty worn out. It had been a long day of
walking, I hadn't eaten much, and still had a long way to go. I
needed to get something to eat, retrieve my bike and bag, get the
train to Saint-Remy, then, assemble the bike, and ride the four miles
or so to the AirBnB with a giant bike bag on my back, all before I
could rest for the day. And it was well past 7 already.
-----
The Five Guys Burgers in the Gare du
Nord was a nice, greasy taste of home after my previous night's
disappointing foray into French cuisine. As a bonus, you can get a
beer at fast food places in France, and a beer and a burger was just
the fortification I needed. I was not looking forward to lugging that
bike around the station again.
 |
| USA! USA! |
But I had planned this stage of the trip
pretty well. I knew what train line I wanted to be on, so I bought my
ticket and scouted the best route from the luggage lockers to the
platform. I stopped at a little Carrefour market and picked up a few
breakfast things for the next day, and went to collect my bags. The
scouting paid off, and so with a little effort, I was
standing on the platform, ready to board the next train to
Saint-Remy-les-Chevreuse.
Without getting to technical, because
Saint-Remy is the end of the line and fairly rural, not every train
goes all the way out there. Most are serving the Paris-metropolitan
area, and then coming back. So at first I wasn't worried that
Saint-Remy wasn't coming up on the board.
After a while though, as many trains
and ever more precious time passed, I grew concerned. Was I on the
right platform? Yes, I think so. It's making the right stops, just
not all of them, never going far enough down the line. I must have
waited 45 minutes before I noticed a posting on the wall that finally
solved the mystery. The line was closed past Orsay for maintenance.
But there was a bus service that should take me from Orsay to
Saint-Remy. Only 15 minutes to wait now, for the next train to Orsay.
By chance another randonneur showed up
on the platform, a woman from Japan I believe, also traveling alone.
So we tried at communication a little, but I don't think much aside
from the basics survived translation. The trains were still busy with commuters at 9
at night, so we went to the end of the train where
there is space for large luggage to stow our bikes. I found a seat
facing the rear where I could watch my bike, among a garrulous group
of women.
-----
The buses were waiting for us at Orsay,
just as promised, and so with another obstacle overcome I arrived in
Saint-Remy. My new Japanese friend had a ride waiting, which I was
quite envious of. I set up shop under a street light, and got to work assembling my bike.
If you read the previous chapter on the
bike, you might remember that I had made a few modifications to allow
the bike to rinko, a
system originally developed in Japan to 'fold' a full-size bike up for transport
on trains. Now was the true test: had it survived the trip over?
 |
| Ready to roll at Saint-Remy |
As the bike started to come together,
things were looking up. I found one part, a fender stay, had been
bent. Easy enough to straighten out. Just needed to put on the chain,
pack up the bags and go. Finally, something going to plan!
Earlier, out of the corner of my eye I
had noticed a man jog by. As I finished up with the bike, I noticed
that he was now walking toward me. Uh-oh.
It wasn't so much that I was afraid of
this stranger. There were still people around, in the station and
buses coming and going every five minutes. It was
mostly that last thing I wanted was another delay.
Turns out, I should have been afraid. He was a talkative fellow. He spoke good english and had many
questions about the bike, where I was from, and how the bike
disassembled, among other things. On one hand, I was anxious to get
going, knowing that by this time my hosts must be wondering where I
was, or gone to bed. But on the other hand, I can't resist a chance
to talk bikes. Besides, he turned out to be an interesting guy and
shared a lot of good local information, which was nice to know.
Pierre was his name.
By the time I said au revoir to Pierre
and got going it was after midnight. I spent awhile going down the
various roads leading away from the station till I was sort of
confident I was going in the right direction. One or two cars passed
me as I rode, and one gave me a flash of the
headlights. I figured that the bike bag was probably hanging down
over my taillight. Nothing to do but try to hike it up and keep
going.
I was quite relieved when the sign for
the AirBnB appeared in my headlight. It wasn't far but had taken
another hour on the bike to achieve my destination. As I pulled into
the driveway, the anticipation of a warm bed and good night's sleep
was all I was thinking of. The lights in the house were out. They had
gone to bed. I couldn't blame them.
I leaned the bike and bag up against a shed. A little dog in the yard was not happy to see
me, but wasn't making any noise either. But as I set to looking for my hut, the dog decided he'd seen enough and
started barking. At first I didn't care. I even hoped it might wake
the house and they might come out and show me the hut. After a few
minutes though, I began to have doubts. Was I at the right place?
There were a few other houses along the driveway. Uh-oh. Maybe I should
retreat and take stock.
A little explanation might be in order.
I had booked a little hut at a fishing 'resort' just outside of
Dampierre-en-Yvelines. I had passed the gate to the office a little
way back up the driveway. I knew that was the right place, but the
gate was locked. I'd assumed the next closest house belonged to the
owners. But did it really?
I schlepped my junk back to the gate,
and assessed the situation. Stating the obvious, I had spent far too
much time in Paris. I knew where I was, but not sure where my hut was
on the property, and I didn't feel right lurking around at 2 am. In
Montana, that would be a good way to get shot! But the night was warm
and I did have an amply padded bike bag at my disposal. I decided
it was time for the first ditch-nap* of my randonneuring career.
I actually was able
to catch a few hours rest there by the gate, curled up on the bike
bag with my backpack for a pillow. But after awhile, arms and legs
were going asleep frequently, and I started shivering. It was still a
good four hours before the gate would open. How to warm up? Jump on
the bike of course! As long as things are totally out of hand, why not?
I rode up over a
little hill just a little ways back toward Dampierre, and to a place
called Maison-de-Fer, (Iron House) then on along the road, generally
Westerly. There was a nearly full moon and I could see some animals
out grazing in a field of stubble. What sort of European wildlife
could they be? After a bit I rolled through a roundabout on the
outskirts of Les-Essarts-le-Roi. This was a handy find, because
Les-Essarts was where I needed to ride to, to get the train to
Rambouillet, which is where PBP will start. Cool.
I pulled off
outside a Peugeot dealership, and called up their complimentary wifi.
I sent off a few emails and pictures while watching a little herd of
hedgehogs grazing the landscaping. Cool.
Back on the road to
Dampierre, I round a corner. There's stubble on my left and tall corn
on my right. Suddenly, I'm startled when a big pig standing on the
side of the road squeals and darts off into the tall corn! That must
be what I saw in the field earlier. Cool!
At this point, I am
thoroughly enjoying this early morning ride. I get back to Dampierre
but I still have a few hours to kill. So I continue riding, take a
left and head toward Versailles. There is a little light showing now
on the Eastern horizon. It's a fairly hilly road, climbing in steps.
I can hear a highway but I never see it. As I get near the city,
traffic is picking up a little. I finally figure that it's time to
backtrack to Dampierre. But when I get there, I've underestimated the
time it would take, and I still have a bit to wait. So I climb back
up the hill where I started, and bide my time at place overlooking a
small field. I'm just in time to listen to the dawn chorus of birds,
and hear what I assume are the wild boar calling across the forest
that covers the hill. Way cool.
Do you know how in
the movies, when the good guys are sneaking up on the bad guys'
hideout, and they imitate bird calls to signal each other? And
sitting there, you think to yourself that nobody would fall for that,
because no bird sounds like that? Well, the birds in France sound
like that.
-----
To wrap up this
tale, I showed up at the gate just as the first fishermen were
arriving. Of course the hosts were totally gracious about the
situation, told me I should have knocked and got them up. Which is
what I should have done. But instead I drifted off to sleep after
another 24-hour day in France, dreaming about an experience I
wouldn't have traded for the world.
*In randonneuring, there is a
time-honored tradition of taking a sleep break on the side of the
road whenever and wherever you're feeling too sleepy to go on. At
PBP, cyclists taking a ditch-nap is a very common sight, especially
as the ride wears on. In the USA, someone is likely to call 911 if
they see you ditch-napping, so it's more rarely practiced stateside.
