I rolled
out of Loudeac sometime after 10pm. Originally I had wanted to get to
Carhaix before sleeping. Now the goal was to get there in the early
morning and take another short sleep break. I also knew that my
friend Lane had a hotel room reserved there. Lane and I run the exact
same tires, so it was my hope that I could find him and bum a tube.
Riding
on this second night was a quite different than the first. It was
much lonelier. There were times, albeit short, when I couldn't see
another rider on the road. The ever present hills were now bigger as
well. Without company, I was having trouble fighting off drowsiness.
So I was much relieved to reach St. Nicholas-du-Pellem.
St. Nick
turned out to be the secret checkpoint. A lot of riders were just
getting their cards stamped and heading back out, but I was hungry
again, and cold. I'm glad I stopped, because I had a bowl of Boeuf
Bourguignon there that was so good! I immediately started looking
forward to eating there again on the way back.
After
the midnight snack, I was still feeling the sleep deprivation and the
cold. I asked one of the volunteers for the dormitory. It was a weak
moment. He pointed at a large open sided party tent, where a couple
riders were getting situated under space blankets. I don't think I'd
ever seen anything look so inhospitable. Thus motivated, I continued
on to Carhaix.
This was
a tough stretch, staying awake was difficult at times. But often
there was some hill to climb or descend, and occasionally other
riders around. I stopped at a lonely house along the road where a
family were serving hot coffee and treats, and tending a
fantastically welcoming fire. They had a few mattresses laid out in a
shed, which were occupied. I handed the kids each a patch, which they
thought was pretty cool. Then I continued, feeling a bit revived.
By the
time I got to Carhaix, I was pretty cold again. I suppose I ate but
the only thing I remember is how damned far away the dormitory was
from the bike parking and the cafeteria. It was getting quite cold at
night, I've heard down into the 40's. With the high humidity, there
was heavy fog every morning which made everything wet, and added to
the chill. I remember just wanting to go to sleep, but having to walk
what seemed like a mile across a dark icy swamp to get there.
It was a
nice surprise to find in one corner of the dorm check-in, a big
medusa's head wad of every USB cord known to man. I had brought the
wrong cord for my phone along, and it was now long dead. I wouldn't
be able to get a hold of Lane without a phone, so that problem was
seemingly solved.
I asked
for two hours of sleep, but the disposable paper sheet I was issued
had about as much insulating power as you would expect. I was able to
sleep some, but when I woke I was cold again and shivering. It was
almost time to get going anyway, and I figured the only way I was
going to get warm was to get moving. I stumbled out to the bathroom,
then retrieved my phone, which had been unplugged sometime earlier.
Great.
Anxiously
I pressed the power button, and was relieved to find it had gotten
most of a charge. I found out later that I was probably supposed to
get permission to use the cords. In fairness, that makes sense.
It was
early morning and just getting light. I made the trek through heavy
fog over to the cafeteria and had a quick breakfast before hitting
the road again. I had burned up a lot of time with the flats and the
stomach issues. And I hadn't been very quick through the controls
either. I calculated that I would be able to make the time cutoff at
Brest, but only if I hustled. I would not have time to track down
Lane either.
The sun
was just peeking above the hills, and it was still raw, cold and
damp. I think it was around this point, having experienced a couple
such mornings, that I decided that these hours just before sunrise
would be the best spent in a warm bed. Once the sun came up, it was
easy enough to stay warm working on the bike.
The fog
did make for a dramatic setting though. This morning in the forests
around Carhaix and Huelgoat were especially beautiful. The largest
climb of the entire ride, the Roc'h Trevezel, was just ahead but I
was riding strong, better than my expectations really. So it was
great fun, riding that misty two lane road at sunrise, in and out of
the sun, at full tilt.
It was a
tough climb to the top of Roc'h Trevezel, but presented no real
problem. Then it's downhill all the way to Brest. I tried not to
think about going over it again on the return trip.
-----
<=Brest=(Elorn R.)=Paris=>
A
popular souvenir with PBP riders is a selfie on the Albert Louppe
bridge, just outside of Brest. A lot of riders recall how emotional
they were on reaching this prominent symbol of the halfway point. I was having such a good time, honestly, that I remember remember feeling pretty low-key, and even sad to think it was half over. I
stopped to take a picture of my bike, but almost didn't.
The
route through the town itself was labyrinthine and featured some near
vertical streets that seemed just diabolical at the time. I got my
card stamped well within time. I waited in line for food with a
gentleman with nothing positive to say. I ate by myself.
I took a
shower and changed my shirt and socks and drawers. Reaching the
control inside the time limit was a relief, but nothing to celebrate.
I had to get back to Paris.
I rode
sometimes on my own, sometimes with groups, but never alone on
Monday. Between Villaines and Fougeres I rode in a huge peloton of
50, maybe more. It's somewhat nerve wracking to be in such a large
group. There was constant jockeying. You can never completely relax.
A big part of me wanted to get out.
But at
the same time it is a massive thrill to be so swiftly carried along,
barely pedaling, in a huge current of humanity. So with 500 miles or
more still ahead, I stayed in the current.
I
can't recall exactly why or where I let that big peloton go, or if it
just sort of dissapated. But at this stage of the ride it wasn't hard
to find another. Although they were never as big, they were just as
effective for saving energy. So in this way, I wheel-sucked my way to
Fougeres and beyond, all the way to Tinteniac.
The "quick" meals at Fougeres. Hot meals were elsewhere
Fougeres
was a puzzle for me. I guess the cafeteria was somewhere away from
the control. Anyway, I never figured out where it was. So it was a
quick sandwich here, jambon et beurre, and back out on the road to
Tinteniac.
At
Tinteniac, the Breton culture was becoming more evident. There was a group playing music for us at the control, which was cool. Some
riders feeling an excess of energy or bonhomie joined the locals in a folk dance.
From
Tinteniac, I still felt great. The weather was perfect, and the
riding pleasant. The big groups now seemed to have all dispersed, and
I was riding mostly solo. Time always gets a little warped on these
long rides for me. After awhile, an hour can pass in what seems like
minutes. Anyway, people do tend to remember the hardships better than
the good times. So I don't remember a lot of specifics about this
stretch.
At
Quedillac, I had the pleasure of meeting Betty Jean from Georgia.
After talking for a bit about our pets back home, I realized I
recognized part of her story about her dogs from an article she had
written in the American Randonneur magazine. It was great to
chat with another American, but listening to her southern drawl,
familiar yet strange, while sleep deprived and immersed in so much
foreign-ness, was particularly surreal.
Out
in the parking lot I tried, but most failed, to talk with a trio of
older French gents about my bike. My bike attracted some attention. I
think a lot of the French, who believe they know something (and do)
about cycling, are still a bit puzzled by the reappearance of the
fat-tired “gravel” or “all-road” bikes that so many of the
Americans seem to be on. But at the same time, they love to see
Americans on French bikes, as a matter of national pride. So I
fielded a few questions along the way, but I doubt I cleared anything
up. Anyway, if I had roads like they do, I'd probably be puzzled
about it too.
Event photographer caught Paul & I (Maindru)
From
Quedillac the endlessly hilly terrain became more so. Somewhere along
in here I met Paul from Dorset in the UK. We chatted some about our respective hometowns, and told all the bad jokes we could remember, among other things. He was a
super riding companion, and we had a great time chatting. Along here
on a forested climb we had a little rain shower, the only rain on the
ride I remember.
A few
miles outside of Loudeac we caught up with an acquaintance of Paul's
and the three of us rode into Loudeac together. I started sagging a little through here, I think I was running on fumes. They really helped keep my spirits up and pedaling.
Once we had parked,
they were off to look for their drop bags or something, and I was
looking to eat. We exchanged souvenirs just in case, but I assumed
I'd meet back up with them in the cafeteria. But as it happened I
never did.
There
was a bit of a line for food here, but I was hungry and had time. I
might not have felt totally well, but I did not expect to get
nauseous as I entered the vestibule of the cafeteria. Just smelling
the food inside made me feel like I could puke. I tried to continue,
hoping it might subside. But no dice, I was going to vomit if I got
any closer to the food. Escaping out into fresh air resolved the
nausea, but not the hunger. I needed to eat, but couldn't, and I
wasn't totally sure what to do next.
Drop bags by the hundreds
I milled
around a bit, used the bathroom, checked messages. I went and gave
the cafeteria another try, but still no go. More stalling, back to
the cafeteria, but the third time was not the charm. For awhile I felt pretty hopeless and was at a loss as to what to do. But the evening air was cool and felt good, so I sat down outside to do some thinking.
The received
rando-wisdom in this situation is to
sleep on it, if you have time. Or put another way, don't abandon the ride until you've rested. It was now seven or eight in the evening. I had been
shooting for Carhaix for my first sleep stop, but what
choice did I really have? I was not optimistic, but with nothing to
loose and some time in hand I headed for the dormitory.
All the
checkpoints have dormitories where a small fee gets you a bed. You
check in, they record your bed number and wake-up time, then usher
you to your bunk. When the appointed time comes, they come and wake
you up. The dormitories have hundreds of beds, and accommodations
range from yoga mats and disposable paper sheets on a gym floor in
some, to mattresses and wool blankets in the nicer ones.
This
dormitory was busy and loud, which was not unexpected. Loudeac is a
popular control for layovers, being at about the 1/3 and 2/3 point of
the ride. The accommodations were nice though. My bunk was familiar,
a comfortable army surplus cot just like the one I'd slept on many a
night in hunting camp, and a thick wool blanket. I hoped that a
couple hours downtime would be enough for my gut to sort itself out.
I remembered of all the folks rooting for me back home. I did not
want to disappoint them. It was a galvanizing thought, and I resolved
to try to keep going no matter what should happen next.
-----
Two
hours later, and right on time I was awoken. I must have fallen
asleep quickly, and slept hard. I felt surprisingly well rested,
which was in itself a blessing. But it was impossible to tell how I
would fare in the cafeteria. My stomach felt basically OK, just as it
had before. I gathered up my junk and headed for the mess hall.
I passed
the smell test, and tentatively sampled some easily-digested-looking
things. They stayed down, and I started to feel better about my
prospects. Misery loves company though, and looking around the
cafeteria, I noticed another solo American sitting one table over. He
was looking a little forlorn too. I introduced myself, and we
commiserated about the problems we both were having. By the time we
were done eating, I think we'd both decided we had the better hand
after all. Funny how these things work out!
My start time was
7:15 pm. It was raining again Sunday morning when I got up, after
having slept surprisingly well. I wanted to get to the start area
early to see my friends off, and get some idea of how it all worked
for when my start time rolled around. There was plenty of time to do
that, and the rain was supposed to quit in the afternoon, so I wasn't
too concerned.
Il y avait de la pluie le jour du depart.
After breakfast,
checking and double-checking all my gear, I was satisfied that I was
as ready as I was going to be. The rain alternated between steady
drizzle and occasional heavy downpour. Several times I started to
leave when another deluge would pass over. Around noon a lively and
talkative carload of picnickers arrived, along with the heaviest rain
yet. So while Ina and Laura made coffee for everyone, I got to
explain what I was doing standing on the porch of a fishing lodge in
cycling costume.
With help from Ina
and Laura I was able to explain what I was up to. They were suitably
impressed, and wished me good luck. It was nice to hang around the
porch with warm coffee and good company. But eventually the rain
quit and the sun started peeking through, so I said au revoir and I
set off toward Rambouillet.
I
reunited with my friends from Montana at the hotel Mecure, the center
of much activity. Everyone staying there was either riding PBP or
knew someone who was. It was quite the scene. Over a late lunch we
traded tales of our time in France thus far. We all seemed to be in
good spirits, well rested and ready.
The Montana crew, minus Karel; Me, Jason, Lane, and Ken (photo credit to Darcy)
Riders
in waves of roughly 300 departed every 15 minutes all afternoon and
evening, and again Monday morning. There was a large crowd of
spectators on hand cheering them on. The grounds of the chateau were
crawling with bikes and riders, lounging under trees or expending
nervous energy in anticipation of their turn to go. The waiting
sometimes is the hardest part.
Ken & I at pre-ride lunch. I had the "ham" (JK)
Lane
would be the first of us to depart at 5:15, with Karel and then Jason
following a little later. I would be the last of us to start Sunday,
Ken would depart early Monday morning. and The skies were now clear
and temperatures cool, just right for riding. A little headwind was
blowing in from the east, but overall I thought conditions were
nearly ideal.
Lane & I in the hotel lobby. (Darcy)
After
seeing Jason depart I gravitated toward a few other Americans in the
crowd. I don't remember their names unfortunately, but one was from
San Luis Obispo and one from Seattle. A guy from San Francisco
wandered by, looking for a tire pump bigger than the mini pump he
packed for emergencies. I lent him my frame pump. We watched him
work, restraining that innate male instinct to provide unsolicited
advice. But the pressure became too much, and as relief, I remarked
on how I hadn't checked my tires.
“With
my luck, I'd break a valve stem or something,” I reasoned, to nods
of agreement.
“If it
ain't broke, don't fix it,” was the sage reply, or something
similar along those lines.
I got my
pump back, and that was that.
-----
Wrangling
6,000-plus high-strung cyclists is no small task, but one which our
French overseers would prove equal to. As an example,
Riders were supposed to find the pen marked with their start group
letter (mine was N), and amass there. From there we'd be lead, in
orderly fashion, to the start. Sounds logical, right?
Jason & I jammed in with Karel in start pens (JK)
Instead
I waited by the “taxiway” until I saw N's filing by, and jumped
in. I was far from the only person to do this. The system works even
when people don't follow directions!
As we
processed slowly forward, I was surprised to hear my name from the
crowd. Who should it be but my pal from the train station, Pierre!
I was glad to see him again. Now I could give him one of the patches
I'd made to hand out along the route, which I had forgotten the other
night, and regretted. It seemed like the stars truly were aligning. I
was feeling very good about the whole thing.
Passing
through the starting checkpoint, still walking in slow procession, I
got the first of many stamps applied to my card. From there the
course widened, we rode over the official timing mats, down a chute,
around a sharp left and out into a fine evening on the French
countryside. It was really happening. Soaking it all in and generally
feeling unstoppable, I could not imagine a better set of
circumstances from which to start such an undertaking.
Predictably
though, a mass-start of amateur cyclists is destined to feature
chaos. On guard to that eventuality, I managed to avoid disaster when
the rider directly in front of me lost his battery pack going around
the first corner. It danced along the cobblestones, still tethered
to the bike by its cord. Meanwhile its owner returned each
enthusiastic attempt to bring this to his attention with equally
enthusiastic waves to his adoring fans.
As the
pack thinned and settled into groups of similar pace, I added a dash
of smugness to my euphoria, as I congratulated myself for avoiding
that embarrassing mishap. Unfortunately, smugness too goeth
before a fall.
At first
my aura of invincibility would not allow me to believe it. I literally hadn't
had a flat tire in years! Nevertheless, it became harder and harder
to keep the bike going straight, and I was forced to accept reality.
My front tire was going flat. Being at the front of a small group, I
dove off the road into the barrow pit.
The full
saga of The Flat Tire is too tedious to recount here in detail, but
rest assured that I will remember it vividly as long as I live.
Things did not go well. The first spare tube I installed in the tire
had a hole. My pump did not seem to be working right. The second tube
mercifully seemed to hold air, but now I was without a good spare. I
had been running the tires tubeless, and so the tire was filled with
sealant. This sealant, combined with brake dust made an absolute mess
of my hands. But it couldn't be helped. I wrapped my filthy hands
around the freshly taped handlebars and set off again, some 45
minutes after flatting.
-----
Rounding a bend (event photo-Maindru)
I am not
one to plan my rides down to the minute as so many randonneurs do.
That might sound ironic to some, considering. Stuff happens, you have
to be adaptable. But I did have a general idea of what I thought I
could get away with. Having never done a ride this long before, I
figured I'd have to play it mostly by ear anyway.
One
thing I did not want to do was let adrenaline get the best of me and
go out of the gate too hot. After the flat, this went out the window
too. Partly it was because my pride was hurt. Partly because I felt I
had lost so much time. I was still feeling pretty upbeat, all things considered. It was evening, my favorite time to ride. I started
jumping in behind each passing group, going faster and faster. Around
sunset I got into a group of a dozen or so riders going suitably
fast. These were my first tastes of riding in a peloton, and it was a
blast.
I hung
with this group until we passed through a village where a bar had set
up shop out on the street. I stopped to go in and try to wash the
brake and sealant grime from my hands. It wouldn't come off,
and I would have that reminder of the flat for the rest of the ride.
Back
outside the atmosphere was pretty chaotic. The sound of many
languages, the sight of headlights and taillights coming and going,
and sometimes getting tangled in doing so. I bought a big sandwich,
and gave my tire a quick squeeze before hitting the road again. Maybe
a bit soft? Nah, probably just paranoia. I jumped on and took off.
Back on
the road, ham and butter baguette in hand, I was flying again. By
picking up or being picked up by other riders, I eventually ended up
in a group of half a dozen, going faster than practically everyone
else on the road at that time. We seemed well matched but in
particular, one rider with a distinctive bike and I were taking the
most and longest pulls on the front. He at one point pulled up even
with me and we had a brief exchange, I think he said his name was
Lionel from Grenoble.
I've
been told that there were headwinds that first night and next day,
but I honestly don't remember them. I'd never before ridden that
hard, that far. I was on the verge of cramping at times, which I did
think may come back to bite me later. But I didn't care. It was
exhilarating.
I wanted
to stick with this group until the first stop at Mortagne-au-Perche.
I looked forward to trading some attaboys with Lionel and the others,
but somewhere short of town I lost them. It was dark and getting
cold. There were riders stopping everywhere to put on more layers,
sometimes even in the road. I think we lost our synch and got
separated.
Mortagne
was not a mandatory stop, but I needed a break so I pulled in. I also
wanted to check my tire even though things seemed to be OK. As I
maneuvered into the parking lot I had a suspicion that something was
amiss. The steering seemed a bit soft and squirmy. Not good, but it
was to dark to tell without a close look. Upon inspection I found
bubbles of sealant around the valve stem.
A chill
ran down my spine. I quickly ran through all the implications this
symptom could have. I would ordinarily diagnose it to be Pretty Bad.
But I held out hope. It could just be the expanding tube displacing
sealant through the only hole in the rim, and pretty harmless. Or
not. Probably not. I decided not to panic just yet, go have a snack,
cool off and come back to it.
On
returning to the bike, I found the front tire was now definitely
soft. An attempt to get a suitable tube from the mechanic there was
fruitless, but I was able to buy a tube for a vastly different size
of tire. I reasoned (hoped) this would be better than nothing in an
emergency.
I had
been unforgivably stupid and lazy to not check my spare tubes, and I
was frustrated with myself. But I knew that I would have time to kick
myself later. What was needed now was focus and a complete
determination to make one of these damn tubes hold air. It sounds
stupid but in that moment my whole world was in those two inner
tubes.
The tube
that was in the tire had an extremely small hole somewhere, which I
could not find. It was too noisy to hear and too dark to see. I still
had the first tube and I could easily find the leak in it, but a
patch would not stick, probably due to sealant residue. So I went
back over the other tube again, taking a painful amount of time, but
still could not find the leak. It was looking more and more like the
end of the line for me. I spent a minute cursing my stupid bike, this
stupid ride, my stupid self, pretty much everything in sight.
I
collected myself for one last desperate attempt at patching the first
tube. I cleaned the area thoroughly and applied another patch. This
one, finally appeared to be holding, to my great relief. My pump was
working again also, so I had to take back all the unkind things I had
thought about the guy from San Francisco who had borrowed it back at
the start.
Once
again it was at least another 45 minutes lost. It was around midnight
now. The sky was clear and the moon was bright. So I rode on,
admiring the night sky and the moonlit countryside. Gradually I began
enjoying myself again.
-----
After a
few hours on the road riding solo, a German guy pulled up next to me
me and asked if I was cold. I had not packed any warm gear, and I was
riding with bare arms. It wasn't cold by Montana standards, and I
wasn't cold. But I wasn't exactly warm either.
We got
to talking and chatted away several hours to Villaines-la-Juhel,
covering every topic under the sun. I learned that he's an optical
engineer. Working often in Boston had honed his English to near
perfection. He once almost won a race with an e-bike. We of course
covered Politics. We spent a fair amount of time discussing German
humor. After awhile I looked back and realized we had
attracted a crowd. There were probably a dozen or more riders taking
advantage of our slipstream, while we yammered away at the front.
At
Villaines I got a couple pastries and an infamous coffee-in-a-bowl
and had breakfast with my new friend. After fifteen minutes or so, a
few of his companions had caught up and were ready to go. I wasn't
quite ready, so we said goodbye and good luck. By the time I got
going again, the sun was warming the Eastern horizon.
The next day was
spent in rest and relaxation. I wrapped my bars with new tape, and
got my junk somewhat sorted. In the afternoon I took ride a into
Dampierre to see it in the daylight. The chateau was particularly
impressive, as I had ridden by it twice the previous night without
noticing. I saw painted on the roads proof that the Tour de France
had passed through about a month previous. In the evening I had a
small meal and sat out on the porch of my hut with a beer or two, and
watched the sun go down on this very pretty corner of the world.
The next day was
check-in, where you submit your bike to a safety check, and get your
number and control card. My appointment was not until the afternoon.
It had started raining overnight, I delayed leaving the hut as long
as I could, but ended up riding to the train in a light rain. It was
a nice ride though, with everything so green, and fresh air from the
rainstorm to fill the lungs.
Soggy line for the bike check
Registration pick-up in the barn
The start/finish
was located at the Bergerie Nationale (National Sheepfold) in
Rambouillet, and the rain turned it into a big muddy mess. I had
brought rubber shoe covers, and they were trashed by the end of the
day. I was glad to have my wool jersey. I tried to catch up with some
of the other Montana Randonneurs but never could connect. There just
wasn't much to write home about today. I retreated to my hut and
turned in early. Tomorrow was the big day and I needed all the sleep
I could get.
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.
There was one more place I wanted to
visit before I left Paris. Among rando nerds, the Alex Singer shop is
famous as the last remaining bike builder from the glory days of
randoneuring. But evening was settling in and it dawned on me that if
I wanted to visit when they were open, I better hustle.
Another short Metro ride deposited me
in Lavallois, the neighborhood where Cycles Alex Singer is situated.
Again I wandered in various directions until I found the right
street, Rue Victor Hugo. Mercifully, Lavallois is a quiet and
relatively new part of Paris, and the streets somewhat grid-wise.
When I did find the shop, thankfully
they were still open. I'm afraid I made a bit of a fool of myself,
fawning over the shop and the beautiful bikes. Olivier, the
third-generation owner, and his family were so gracious though,
showing me the workshop and the bike they were entering into the
builders' competition that was running concurrently with PBP.
The 'Concourse de Machines' bike at the shop.
I wanted to ask a million questions,
and could have spent hours looking everything over. Communication was
proving difficult though, and by now I was beginning to worry about
how late it was getting. I bought a few things, a cap and a jersey,
and promised to be at the finish, one way or another.
I was able to get about 10 solid hours
of sleep and woke up feeling more or less refreshed. The trials of
the day before seemed a distant memory, I was ready to do some
sightseeing in Paris. After getting a shower and finishing off what
was left of the mini-bar, I checked out and headed back to Gare du
Nord to stow my backpack with the bike. My sense of direction only
slightly improved from yesterday, what should have been a 10 minute
walk probably took an hour. No worries though, we're on vacation, and
we have all day! I walked by a couple breakfast places I had wanted
to try, but they were all really busy again, so I just kept going.
Having made the drop and finding my
bike safe and sound right where I had left it, it seemed Paris was my
oyster. I didn't really have an itinerary so I started walking
roughly south toward the Seine and all the famous landmarks that lay
in that direction. Soon though I realized that I had underestimated
the size of the city, and that hopping on the Metro was probably a
better way to get around. I had been avoiding it a little, just a bit
of trepidation. But of course it is awesome. Clean, cheap, and fast.
At the Louvre
At the Louvre.
First stop, Les Halles. Just a big
mall. Back underground to the Metro, I pop back up on Rue Rivoli, and
walked down to the Louvre. I spent some time on the grounds there
watching all the other tourists and marveling at the architecture.
Continuing through the Jardin de Tuileries, I stopped a minute at a
picnic spot overlooking the Place de la Concorde, under threatening
skies.
From there, a walk up the Champs Elysee
produced my best souvenir of Paris: a chestnut from the famous trees
that line that most famous avenue.
I lingered at the Arc de Triomphe for a
bit, watched the tourists take their selfies and the Randonneurs from
Malaysia get a group photo.
I walked over the Pont Alexander III to
the Eiffel Tower and hung around there for awhile, decided the line
was too long to go to the observation deck, watched the tourists
milling around again and left.
Tourists, Tuileries, Obelisk, Arc
By this time it was late in the
afternoon and my coffee and pastry was wearing thin, but I still
wanted to see Notre Dame, or what's left of it. So a walk down the
Seine over the Pont au Change brought me as near to it as gendarmes
would allow. I got a Croque Monsieur and a Coke, then crossed the
Petit Pont to the Quai de Montebello where you could at least see the
cathedral. It was quite sad to see the melted and slumping
scaffolding still in place. You don't get to 900 years old without a
few bumps in the road though, and I had the feeling that I was
witnessing some history in the making, albeit unhappy.
-----
Looking back I have to say, that
although the skill of the architects, builders and gardeners was
evident, and on the whole beautiful, lacking historical context I'm
afraid a lot of Grand Old Paris was lost on me. I really wish I had
taken more time, and had more time, to explore and learn about what I
was looking at. I feel like I really missed out on a lot. Next time.
People watching is universal and always
interesting though, and there was plenty of opportunity for that.
