October 6, Last loop through Chambourcy

Hard, bright sunlight breaks through the clouds blowing in from Brittany. The wind is in my face as I roll past the market and down Rue de Guerrines and onto the Route de Bailly. It's a ten minute ride to the top, a nice way to warm up, but my legs are feeling it today. I need the spin, though; I'm spending tomorrow locked in a metal tube at 30,000 feet.

The downhill run through the Bailly and D307 rondpoints is smooth and I feel like I'm cheating the wind, rolling along at 20+. Rennemoulin speeds by for the last time; me, negotiating the sharp turns on pave, and the white Renault behind me pressing a bit too close. He turns left at Villepreux, perhaps some shopping in on the strip of Walmart-like stores?

After Villepreux, there is little traffic. At Chavenay a rondpont offers a shorter ride to St Nom, but my legs are feeling better and I head on to Feuchrolles for a longer loop coming back through the bigger towns of Poissy and St Germain. Feuchrolles is another quiet, upscale village, within commuting distance of Paris, yet with some fresh air. There is no sign for Poissy, except on the busy departmental road coming into town, so I trust my instincts and head through on the main street, past the Mairie (city hall) and the old part of the town. I'm climbing again, the legs feel good and I'm rewarded with a small sign, Rue de Poissy. I've bypassed most of the busy road and begin the descent into the Seine valley.

I'm thinking of my conversation with the American couple I met in Chinon the other day. The husband was concerned about the highway number for the road to Aiznay. I tried to explain the pattern of roads in France, but I don't think he understood and I'm sure I wasn't clear. Just like in Iowa, where Graf Rd takes you to Graf, the Route de Noissy takes you to Noissy, 90 percent of the time, successful navigation requires a big picture of the surrounding towns, their direction and an idea of the rivers in the area. Then you can travel like a Frenchman, that is you can be not lost, but not exactly sure of where you are.

October 5th, The Valley of the Kings, Part 2

The climb from my hotel on the banks of the Loire in Chinon, Hotel Agnes Sorel, takes me up a mile-long climb past the old city and out of the valley. Caves advertizing their local wine line the road. I can see the new construction off to my right, cranes on the horizon and modern buildings, but I head straight, preferring to leave Chinon a medieval memory. A couple of rondpoints and I'm riding to Huisme and back down to le Loire.

The sun is up a bit and we're looking at a high of about 16, cool enough for arm warmers. Steam is still rising from the river as I speed through Huisme and promptly miss my turn. I'm looking for the Route du Pont and I'm convinced it doesn't exist. The small departmental I'm on is fine, beautiful pavement and wonderful woods and river scenes. Small boats lie anchored in the river and I can't believe how good it feels to be on the bike today.

Rigny-Usse comes up just a few k's down the road and I discover the road to the bike route I was looking for. I stop and look over my shoulder and there is the Chateau Usse. Amazing, a cinderella castle rising about the Indre River and forests of the Loire.

The road is completely level, riding on the bank of the river. Some distance down the road, I see another cyclist with a high cadence, very thin and I tuck in to catch him. I'm doing about 22 and the catch is taking some time. Finally, I'm on his wheel. He's in a Caisse d'Eparne (literally--chest of savings) outfit and he must be 70 years old. Incroiable! He is all smiles when I joke about his 'club' and he asks me if I have Armstrong's legs in addition to his bike. I get stuck when he asks how much it costs, mixing up mil (french) with millionen (german). We laugh and he is off to Langeais and I keep going tout droit to Villandry.

The wonderful thing about travelling is it's ability to change the traveller, if the traveller is willing. Being alone and being on a bicycle seem to help the process. The bicycle is also a shared passion that connects our cultures. Breaking the wind for the group, waiting for someone to catch your wheel, offering to help fix a bike, are universal gestures that create goodwill and further connections. It's the initial mindset that is important, that willingness to be vulnerable. And it's something that comes with time and energy, but the results are worth it.

Another chateau in Villandry drives home the point the disparity between the royal and peasant classes. Each chateau rises above the cold, stone hovels that comprise the villages. I'm imagining how the revolution changed things here, wondering what happened to the owners of the chateau; were they dragged out and killed immediately? Did they face jail and trial and guillotine? Did they escape? Seeing the splendor now makes all of the dry history a bit more real.

I climb out of the valley, passing a cadre of older, British cyclists on the way up. On top, the land levels out into farmland and I can see the awful D751, the straightline back to the car in Chinon. I had planned to take it 21k back, but decide to slip back into the valley at Aznay and do a longer return loop on the quiet roads of the Loire.

October 5th, La Vallee des Rois

Yesterday I left La Roche after a nice lunch get together with former students at an Italian restaurant and headed north, towards Paris. With the good weather and some time today, a stop in the Loire seemed like a good idea and the fortified city of Chinon was the perfect place to eat, sleep and ride.

The chateau at Chinon is the place where Joan d'Arc tracked received an audience with the Dauphin and where she picked him out of a crowd where he was dressed as a lower noble in order to test her. The English were overrunning the countryside and God told Joan, a peasant, to convince the Dauphin to assume the throne in Orleans and unite France against the invaders. He does, they do and, if it was an American made-for-tv movie, they would fall in love and she would become queen. Alas, this France and the king betrays her and she's burned at the stake.

Flash forward a few centuries and I'm standing in the medieval section of the town, across from a church built in the 12th century and looking for 21st century restaurant to eat in. A small pizza place, tucked into the wall of 800 year old buildings beckons. I'm the only one and I sit in a corner with a perspective of the entire establishment. A pizza oven sits opposite a fireplace and a small bar has a sign that says, 'Bois de maison, 3€', I'm curious what the drink of the house is, but I order a glass of red wine instead.

Le menu consists of choice of pizza and a tomato salad and a caramel creme brule for desert. Not bad for 12€. Life is good as I work my way through the salad and then the door swings open and three Americans walk in. How do I know they are from my country? They are loud. They attempt no French, not even hello and they assume that the hostess will understand them if they speak loud enough. C'est la vie, my quiet French meal is not so quiet anymore. Soon about 10 more come in and I could be in downtown Chicago, instead of this ancient French city.

Since my exchanges with the waitress have been in French, the others have no idea what nationality I am. It provides me a certain amount of cover and the waitress and I seem to have an understanding about this. While the other American tourists are treated to quick service, getting their food quickly, and then a bowl of ice cream with the menu and finally their checks, without even asking. I'm allowed the time to savor, consider and observe. The French way to eat is to absorb everything, savor each flavor and appreciate the efforts made by the cook, the waiter, the owner to create an eating experience. Rushing that experience is a great affront to the people providing the service. Everyone leaves and I'm left with my creme caramel. Delicious. The waitress has a huge smile on her face as I tell her how much I appreciated her patience. Out in the street, I call Jean Marc to check in and he laughs when I tell the story. "Now you know how the French feel!"

The morning petite dejeuner is similar. A couple from Seattle are eating at a nearby table; I'm spread out at mine with maps, guidebook and pda (complete with French dictionary and gps) and I greet them first in French, (polite nods) and then in my Wisconsin-accented English (enthusiastic hellos). We talk and discover we're headed to the same place, Aznay le Rideau, but via very different paths. They will be driving in a straight line for 22k on a four lane highway, and I'll be snaking my way a velo between the Indre and Loire Rivers on a road barely 5 feet wide. I suggest my route and show them the maps. The say something about being in a hurry... C'est la vie.

October 4th, La Piste Cyclable

After two days of actual work and incessant rain, and after actually sleeping completely through the night, I have the entire morning to do what I want. And that is to ingest several cups of dark cafe au lait, two yogurts, three croissants, a container of compote (strawberry and applesauce) and two mini-baguettes. And go for a ride.

I've ridden the roads around La Roche sur Yon for several years, enough that they are familiar to me, yet somehow I'm on the departmental road, direction Les Sables d'Olone. It's four lanes of traffic during rush hour and very unpleasant. I take a first turn off, but it's just a loop through a new subdivision, reminiscient of the Asbury sprawl, and it spits me back out onto the D road a mile back towards La Roche.

Another two kilometers of terror and there's an exit for a smaller D road heading north. The sun is all the way up and the air is moist and dew glints on the grass. Just a short ways up the road, a sign indicates a piste cyclable, I hadn't planned on taking the trail, but it's paved and there aren't any diesel belching cars on it, so west I go.

The good thing about a cycling trail is that there is not traffic, the bad thing is that it's exactly like a cycling trail in the States, so there isn't much to learn from the ride. It's time to think and reflect.

Quite by accident, I met a student last night from Rennemoulin, the town near L'Etang la Ville. He was surprised I was familiar with the town. I was surprised by the actual derivation of the town's name. Renne does mean reindeer in French, but renne is also short for Rennet, a small frog. Thus Rennemoulin=Small Frog Windmill. Not quite as mysterious or interesting as Reindeer Windmill, but I can't wait to tell my misinformed in-laws. I also learned that it was built my Marie Antoinette. One of her hobbies, before losing her head, was to build pretty, little villes in the countryside. This must have pleased her starving peasants to no end.

The paved trail intersects an unpaved trail in the forest outside if Coex, 35k, time to turn around.

Last night I had an amazing dinner with the president of the college, Mr. Bouletreau and a visiting Philosophy professor from La Sorbonne, who was married to an American and spoke English with a New Hampshire accent. Wonderful conversation, mixing Zeno, Socrates, George Bush, the naval battles of the Civil War, South African apartheid and the joys of fresh corn on the cob and butter. Corn on the cob is very rare in France, almost unknown, but can be had at a small market in Paris for only 1€ per ear, about $1.30.

We didn't eat corn, though. Francois is a bit of a gourmand and he insisted we go crazy-his treat. First up was some moules (mussles) in light reduction of muscat. My bowl must have had at least 100 mussles, and they were outstanding. Claude had moules as well, but steamed with a spicy vinager and chorizo. The main course was saumon fume, smoked, raw salmon on toast. Also superb. There is little spice in much of the cuisine I've sampled here, just enough to bring out the flavor of the food, delicate layers of flavor that are easy to savor and highlighted by light wines. For dessert, a creme brule aux fruits flambee. Hard to describe this... a light cream pudding, with sliced fruit and flaming liquor on top. Sweet, toasted strawberries with creamy pudding. Wow.

The creme brule is nearly burned off as I enter La Roche on the north side, following the Centre Ville signs to La Place Napoleon. I need to leave my room at the Hotel de la Vendee by 11 and I'll just make it.

Oct 1, Route S2

The Houilles club has a carte de routes they put out each year with a detailed guide to many, many routes they do each season, along with a schedule of rides. Today, they're riding right past ma belle soeur's house in L'Etang la Ville and heading on a 95k jaunt west of Paris to Thoiry and Moule, a route I rode last year by myself with the help of Jean Manuel's carte. This time we have 7 club members; the others are still recovering from yesterday's effort. I head down Route de St Germain to the rondpoint we've set as our meeting point. The sun is just coming up and the sky appears to be cloudless, a surprise since, once again, Meteo.fr has forcast crappy weather. My cell phone rings and Jean Manuel tells me they're running late and will be about 20 minutes. Two minutes later the group comes cruising through; turns out he confused the rondpoint in St Germain with the one in St Nom. Like I said, I have a feeling that the French are perpetually in a semi-lost state.

I'm informed that we'll just be spinning on today's ride as we have all several levels of ability represented in the small group, which is perfectly fine with me as I can feel my quads a bit more than usual this morning. That idea is quickly put to rest as we climb into the forest. Jackie, the tiny climber in our group spins away, Jean Manuel catches him and I keep my eyes open and stay in teh middle; are we really going to leave the others behind? Near the top, Jackie and Jean Manuel turn around and come back.

We pass by my regular landmarks, Rennemoulin, Villepreux and Chavenay, and then head further west towards Thoiry and Beule. As we approach and leave each ville on tiny, local roads, a pattern emerges: descent into town, rumble strips of pave, blind alleys merging with our route and a steep climb out of town. In Jumeauville, the other 100 kilo rider in the group, snaps his chain on the climb. The group pulls to the side and lean their bikes against a stone wall. I pick up the chain laying on the cobbles as Jean Pierre vents a bit. It has a twisted link, probably a link not properly connected.

Jean Pierre begins futzing with his tool kit and pulls out a chain tool and attempts to reconnect the chain with the twisted link in place. Jackie, meanwhile as offered a Wipperman Connex link to JP, but is being ignored. I offer to help, and am ignored. The others pull out some energy bars and settle in. Jean Manuel rolls his eyes and says in English, "This happens all the time and he wants to do it himself in his own way." Eventually we get going again and I make a point not to ride behind Jean Pierre when we're climbing.

The weather is beautiful now and the French countryside slides by on a quiet Sunday morning. From last year's ride, I know there's a climb coming from Maule to Les Allouettes, about 5k at 7 to 8 percent. I take turns at the front and occasionally the other riders let me. Most of the time, they accelerate to get in front of me immediately. Maybe they're not comfortable having the guy in the Freeflight outfit leading their ride? I'm ok with that, and take the time to snap pictures and follow wheels.

We take a lovely 6 foot wide stip of asphalt into Maule. This is a road with an occasional car, but there is no way anything larger than a Clio would fit on it. Just past the downtown, the road begins to climb and our group is overtaken by a team of espoirs with a coach yelling at them every few seconds, "Vite, vite. Allez, allez". A couple of them are rolling their heads a bit and I decide to latch onto the back of their white and green train. There are a few comments, some not nice, as the old man with the obviously American outift pulls through, so I lift the pace to about 16. I'm rested and look over and smile at the lead rider. He groans and falls back. I hear a lot more yelling from the coach as Jackie and Jean Manuel come up from behind.

We crest the hill and receive a beautiful view of Valley below. My legs ache a bit, but spinning in the group as left me fresh and I feel great. The group lets me take pulls now on the flat roads heading into the wind and into Paris.

Sept 30, La Selle en Selle Cyclosportif

Literally, "Saddle to saddle", Maissons-Laffitte to Chantilly and back, a ride connecting the two major horse venues in France. And of course the double entendre, we'll be doing it on selles quite a bit smaller than horse saddles. I'm riding with the club from Houilles, a small suburb near Maissons-Laffitte and the St Germain en Laye area where I'm staying. I met the club last year by chance in the Foret de St Germain and made a good friend in Jean-Manuel, who happens to speak very good English and tutors me in cycling jargon. Now that this has happened twice to me, I really don't think it's unusual. Large groups of riders go out on an almost daily basis and it isn't hard to run into a group and get a place in the peloton. A few friendly words, the realization that you're an American and soon you belong. It helps to be a good rider, familiar with the ettiquette and technique of road riding as well.

I've been looking forward to today's ride, not having been north of Paris except for the ride to Charles de Gaulle airport, but I'm worried about the weather. Meteo.fr has been saying for days that it will be cold and rainy. Of course, the day breaks without a cloud in the sky. A short drive to the hippodrome, horse park, and I'm taking off my leg warmers and wondering about the arm warmers. They stay, but only until I'm warmed up. Jean Manuel shouts a "Hi, Chris" (I guess a 6'6" man dressed in a jersey and shorts with English writing on it really stands out) and we're off to registration. I receive a carte for receiving stamps at the different controls, a map of the route with turn by turn directions on the back and we're off, crossing the Seine and heading north.

The pace isn't intended to be too high, (but we end up finishing the 165 k ride in just over five hours) and Jean Manuel wants to make sure the ten club riders and me stay together. I assure him that's fine; I'm still feeling jet-lagged and not sure how my legs will feel today. The riders run the gambit of experience and age. We have a 23 yr old guy on a Trek 1400 and the 68 yr old president of the club on his Colnago-Ferrari (a very cool bike, by the way, though in the end the bike does not make the rider-the young guy finished with our lead group and we didn't really see the president until the end of the ride).

There are about 200 riders out and they all leave at different times until 9:30. We hit the road at just after 8 and settle into a nice easy pace, right around 19mph or so. There's no wind and the sun is bright and this is exactly why I go through the hassle of bringing my bike to France!

The first control is at the 77k point in a little field before the tiny village of Gouvieux. I get there with Gerrard, a strong rider in the Houilles club, who likes to work hard with his nose in the wind. There are energy drinks that taste faintly of ginger, chocolate, and a kind of honey bread. I taste things, but I still have a full bottle of my own FRS drink and four energy bars, so I'm good. Jean Manuel tells the race organizers that I'm an American and everyone is smiles. A few minutes, my conversational French nearly exhausted and off we go.

Lunch is at the the Hippodrome in Chantilly, the second selle in the name of the event. This is a gorgeous place, an old city with a wonderful Royal Chateau at its edge and lots of woods with riding paths for horses. It's kind of like the castle at Disneyland mixed with Churchill Downs and set in the middle of the woods of southern Wisconsin. Tables were loaded with food, baguettes filled with pate de jambon, ginger drink, beer, lots of honey bread and cheese. The pate is an example of how things in French often sound better than they are. Ham salad is ham salad all around the world.

The return loop from Chantilly was very nice for about 40k, passing through the extensive forests between Chantilly and Oise. Small narrow roads twist through the forest, wide enough for maybe one car, people on horseback often sharing the paths. After the last checkpoint at 118k in Porte Baillet, I remember that we are, afterall, riding into the suburbs of one of the world's largest cities. Sprawl, gated communities, a Toys-R-Us, lots of traffic and confusing roads and we're back in Maissons-Laffitte. I should throw in that by this time we have formed a nice and tight group of about 8 riders from different clubs and we're hammering along at about 24mph. There's even a sprint at the finish in the Foret de St Germain, won by a certain American, and the final controle for stamping my carte.


And I drink a lovely, light and cold French bier at the finish. The jet-lag has been rinsed from my soul, I've made some more friends and acquaintances and the president of the club just paid my 5 euro entry fee. Life is good!

Sept 30, L'Etang la Ville

Back in France after a year away. Arrived after a long delay at O'Hare and a crappy night spent playing on the edge of sleep in that twilight zone people experience when riding a Greyhound from Seattle to New York. Sleep is always close, but either your butt has fallen asleep, the stewardess has turned on the cabin lights at 1 in the morning, the woman sitting in front of you (who is only four feet tall and has plenty of room) has decided to put her seat in the lowest position and crush your legs, or the pretty Ukrainian girl who has been relentlessly talking about her summer spent working in Jackson Hole for minimum wage, has covered you with a blanket. Normally, this would be a very nice thing to do, but the cabin on the Airbus A340 is notorious for poor ventilation and row 17 where I'm sitting is 20 degrees warmer than row 27. I wake up wet with sweat. It's now 1:30 in the morning. The sun is starting to come up; it's going to be a long day. Literally.

It's a few hours later and I'm at ma belle soeur's house in L'Etang la Ville, a western suburb of Paris. For hundreds of years, the forests surrounding Versailles and St Germain en Laye were the royal hunting grounds. Then Louis XVI and a bunch of folks lost their heads and now there is mountain biking (VTT-Velo Tout Terrain in French) on a wonderful set of trails within eye-shot of the Eiffel Tower. Of course I'm on a road bike and ride on the twisting climb from the house on the Route de Noissy.

La Foret Dominial de Marly comes up quick, just a few minutes up the climb. The road twists back and forth at about a 6% grade until we cross under the A13 Autoroute heading to Orleans and points south. Noissy is a rondpoint with some houses and a shop or two, the speed drops as there's oil from diesel exhaust on the pavement. Thoughts of Beloki hitting the ground in the 2004 Tour encourage me to use the brakes a bit.

The next ville is Rennemoulin. In French, Renne is reindeer and moulin is windmill. Mon bon frer really has no idea why it's called that, but insists that there really could have been reindeer here. Further research is needed but I'm cruising through the old and narrow streets of pave at 25+ mph and don't have time to ask. The road is now the D161. D is for departmental, one grade below N for Nationale. Both allow bikes, but I'd rather be on a D. Though from past experience, some D's should be N's...

Villepreux is an ugly, industrial town with a confusing array of four lane D-but-should-be-an-N roads witih bypasses to nowhere, terrible-but-cheap socialist housing tenements, gang grafitti and broken glass. On D161, I graze the norther tip of town, the original 17th century houses line the street and I can pretend Villepreux is a nice, typically French place to be.

Rain is threatening and the short route through St Nom la Breteche and past the train station in the middle of the forest. A little Renault beeps impatiently at me but then has to brake hard at the speed bumps. It occurs to me that I don't know how to swear in French.

back for more

In 2003, I made my first visit to France, travelling to the Vendee to talk to a partner school of the college where I teach. Like so many naive Iowans before me, I fell in love with the place, the food, the sounds and the challenge of communicating in an unfamiliar language. Returning with my family and my bike in the summer of 2004, I found my way more directly into the culture, using the bike to move closer to learning and understanding the French. (read some of my ride reports from this year).

Each year since, I've been able to visit for work and cycling. In 2004, I even had the opportunity to race with the Bois d'Arcy club in a couple of races. In January, my family and I have the opportunity to spend three and a half months in southern France, in the Perpignan area. Of course, the bikes are coming and I've contacted a local club a few k's down the roade from our rental house in Le Boulou. Geoff, a former pro British racer and speaker of English, has been emailing and I'm looking forward to many training rides with him and his club.

My seven year-old son, Karl, has convinced his parents that he needs a road bike and has even selected the model, an Orbea Carrerra. And so, an 'educational' trip to the Orbea factory in the Basque country in the Pyrennes is being planned.

So stay tuned,

chris