Route de Arnouville

Two things to know about Terminal 2E's boarding gate area at Charles de Gaulle aeroport: the baguette avec thon is pretty good and the café au lait is really bad.

Other notes to self: do not take Air France again unless they drop their ridiculous bike fee (150.00 from the US and free back--due to a flim flam of a new check-in person. I figure it was a karmic break even). As far as I know, British Airways still flys bikes for free, as a piece of baggage, but I won't take that for granted anymore.

Eight hours on the flight back is plenty of time to think about the fabulous ride to Thoiry and Mantes I had yesterday. Seems like a week ago already, must be the effect of all of that couscous, wine and rugby last night.

And where are those stewardesses now? Plotting some new form of subtle torture for all of us strapped into our tiny seats? Sure, fill us with saumon and truffle and yoghurt and baguette and a couple of tiny bottles of vin rouge and then make sure there's no toilet paper in the toilet with the impossibly small door. (Oops, I was just trying to wipe; I didn't mean to call for help).

Lots of folks on the roads after Chavenay, but none that were friendly or going my speed, so it was a pass and a wave and a 'Salut' or 'Bonjour' depending on the mood. The temps had dropped a few more degrees into the wear-long-sleeves range and I got to try out my new, black Campagnolo Retro Next jersey. The man in black! Not Johnny Cash (or Johnny Holiday, the ubiquitous hybrid of Cash and fat Elvis looking so french and so stylish in those new glasses from Optique, 2 pairs for 79 euros), no not those guys in black, but maybe Vinoukorov in black... Would anyone confuse me with that dude?

Not if they saw me climbing out of the Seine valley at Mantes. Just to the top of this hill and then... the road continues upwards. Just around this town square and up this 22 percent climb on cobble stones and... this is just ridiculous. The wind climbs with me, now out of the northeast and the combination of elevation gain and wind drop me down to a robust, buy thigh-burning 13mph. Vinoukorov I'm not.

L'Ille de Noirmoutier

A morning good-bye to my friends at ICES and I'm off in the rent-a-car to the coast and a jaunt to the Ille de Noumoutier. Four years of visiting and I have not been to one of the more popular tourist destinations in the Vendee. Fog is thick as I approach the coast, and the landscape flattens until the the road flatlines into a misty horizon line.

About noon, I reach the bridge to the island. Some pave, literally paving stones, bread and a small block of cheese make a nice lunch. I'll save the the bottel of Pouilly fume for apres ride when I'm back in L'Etang la Ville.

Pines line the route on both sides and I park in the rest area. There is not a single car there; this is definitely the off-season. Unpack the bike, change into bibs and jersey ,like Superman, in the bushes, unlike Superman. An older couple pulls in and the old gens regards me suspiciously as I emerge from the forest in my lycra getup.

Warming up by climbing a tall bridge isn't recommended, but I do ala Dr. Conconi's advice, and spin slowly, standing up to stretch out the flexors stiff from sitting in a Peugeot 207 the past couple of hours. And I'm on my way up.

The view of the tidal zone between the island and the 'continent' is beautiful. Terns and seagulls, small boats and sand, take turns capturing my attention. My map is limited, a simple tourist map of the Vendee. The main road is a busy, four-lane highway running 16k to the ville of Noumoutier.

I try the sentiers or piste cyclable on the right. It's paved for about 500 meters and then turns to packed limestone and then, after another kilometer or so, to just plain gravel. I'm not into experiencing a gravel ride right now, not on my tubulars and not miles from my car, so I take the double track on the left and soon I'm back in the fast lane on D355. Not where I want to be. There are bicycle signs, but they have a yellow caution square, not a red line, but the next worst thing.

I try another side road and soon I'm at a dead-end on a farmer's road with no choice but the 355. At the next rondpoint, a bicycle lane appears and guides me to the west side of the island where it encourages me to ride my road bike through the sand dunes. I'm on my own; I can't depend on these silly bike routes and choose the Route de Pins which takes me a few k's until I'm again on the four lane highway.

Soon, a sign for the Chateau de Noirmoutier and I find the center of town. The chateau has scaffolding on its walls where workers are removing the concrete plaster over the natural stonework: the 17th century making way for the 12th. The only thing the ride is missing is a grande café. "Nice bike." The waitress either knows bikes or says this to every cyclist that stops. When she brings me my order I learn that a grande café in Noirmoutier means a 'duble' shot of espresso. In Perpignan it meant a large café au lait.

Oyster beds, sailing boats on their keels, the smell of salty air and the sound of the wind, I roll back to the continent, caffeine pumping through my veins, legs refreshed and hungry for more miles. I intend to take the Gois, the alternate road to the mainland that is only traversable during low tide, but an altercation with a guy on a moped makes me miss my turn.

Guys on mopeds are obnoxious, weaving in and out of traffic and moving between lanes of traffic, so when the tiny white moped flipped me off as he passed too close, I returned the favor. My blood really started to roil when he stopped at the next rondpoint on the highway with his eyes in his mirror. OK, let's go buddy.

I'll say this right now to you, Moped Dude, 'Je suis tres desole.' You didn't need to stop and you certainly weren't angry that I flipped you off and when you realized I was an American butcher of the French language, you didn't drive away. You smiled and tried to explain that the road was too busy for bikes and that I should take the bike route instead. You smiled at my attempt at being angry in French, pointed to the bike path and drove away.

That's how I missed the amazing Gois, as seen in the 1999 Tour de France. I had big plans for pictures of the Gois, but instead have some of the bridge from the reverse direction and some interesting flowering plants. And that will just have to do.

La Vallee Verde

Two days of traveling and meeting students and administrators and a completely screwed up sleep schedule, one day 12 hours the next zero, has left me with a burning need to get on the bike after lunch today. The normally cold and wet Vendee weather is just cool today, with clouds and sun taking turns. Lunch is a wonderful fruits de mer pizza with shrimp, clam, oyster and other indeterminate seafoody things baked in the mozzarella and camembert. A small flask of vin rouge and a lunch companion from ICES and the table is set.

Later, on the bike and wandering the road through the Vallee Verde, our conversation comes in and out of mental focus, like the light squeezing in between the clouds and canopy overhanging the road. Andrew is an avid cyclist himself and much of our conversation touched on his cycling routine over the summer, old tours I've taken in the states and, of course the current issue with doping in cycling. This is the third or fourth time the issue has come up, and although many cyclists take the same line, 'I'm just concerned with my own riding now and really am not interested in the pros,' deep down we're all vested in all of the levels of the sport.

The road climbs and drops on the road to St Martinet. Beaulieu sous la Roche is gorgeous. I stop on the bridge crossing the river Yon and by chance catch sight of a chateau through the branches. Quelle suprise! Then the road climbs for good out of the Yon valley and I'm twisting on the D42 onward to St. Martinet and Les Chapelles.

I defend Floyd. Not because I think he's innocent exactly, but because I think that professionals today have to sell their soul to a system that at once gives them an amazing lifestyle while exposing them to the possibility of total ruin. There is no union to allow cyclists to assert their rights and now they even have to sign over a year's wages if there is a positive test. What other sport does that? Are the tests fair? Is the process just? If the USADA is now 36 and 0 in its cases against athletes is this telling us how perfect their system is or how weighted against the athlete things have become?

At La Chapelle, I turn briefly north, change my mind about going all the way to Apresmont, and take the Commune road, barely one lane wide, to Aizenay and the Sentiers cyclable, the railes to trails route to La Roche sur Yon. Today and tomorrow will be shorter rides; I'm planning a longer one on Saturday.

It's about six in the evening when I hit the trail at Aizenay and find the evening couples out for a stroll, groups of elderly hikers out for a club stroll and many single parents, riding without helmets, paired with tiny french cyclists wearing helmets and astride tiny bikes. The future peloton.

Vers Enfer

Rallye Voltaire

Sunday morning darkness. Not yet seven, I air up the tires, give the brake levers a squeeze and ease out of L'Etang la Ville on quiet streets. The night before Les Bleus, the national rugby team, had upset the New Zealand All Blacks in an exciting quarterfinal game of the World Cup. An American equivalent might be... I really can't think of one. All of France had been celebrating into the night and now they were sleeping.

Climbing up to the Place Royale in St. Germain en Laye, the air is warmer and completely clear. Light shimmers on the newly washed streets and the rondpoint itself, its cobbles a tad slippery as I bounce through and take the first exit and descend to the Seine. The lights of Paris sparkle through the trees lining the road on my right and a monolithic stone wall rises to my left. With no cars, I let loose and feel the bike lean into the hairpin turns until the road runs out into a straight to the bridge.

The Pont Georges Pompidou is one of the gates into the city of Paris. Two large women recline in granite splendor on each side and a confusing array of traffic furniture and concrete islands sort the traffic as it enters the bridge. Just a bicycle on the bridge and the fog coming off the cool river water. Across the bridge, the city begins, a succession of shops one after the other, lights or feus (fires) as French call them. I take the first hard left onto Avenue Jean Jaures and continue through the melee to Sartrouville to meet my friend and his club from Houilles.

The rallye is hosted the local cycle club in Sartrouville, Ass Cyclo, and begins at the RER train station. I arrive early and knots of riders have assembled around the entrance. A registration table is set up and a some older gentleman wearing ASS CYCLO jerseys and jeans are busy registering riders. The start is from 7 until 9, and the Houilles club is ready to go at eight. Jean Manuel greets me and introduces me to his club members. The only rider not in a yellow and blue kit, I'm a bit of an ugly duckling, but I count in their club's attendance numbers and they pay my inscription.

To be an etranger (foreigner) in France, still learning the language, can be difficult, but JM and his club welcome me. And they wait for me as well. A few miles into the ride, my front tire goes soft and JM yells 'craivasson!' and the whole Houilles group pulls to the side of the road. I hope it's just an intermittent problem with the valve, and we reinflate the tire with a pump and continue. In a kilometer, one of the other members yells 'craivasson!' again, and this time I pull out my spare. The slower riders continue, we'll catch them up the road. Several people are handing me pumps and advice as I pull off the tubular. 'Boyeaux!' It seems I'm a constant source of fascination, as is my CO2 inflator. Five minutes and we're back on the road and I move towards the front to break some of the wind and pay back something for the comradery I've been shown.

There are three routes today: 50k, 75k and one ominously labled 100k+. Ominous as well in the first direction on this route, 'Continuer vers Enfer', 'Keep going towards Hell.' But we're not there yet, we're busy climbing out of the Seine Valley on a road that is pitching 15%. JM told me yesterday on a ride that there really wasn't a need for a compact crank here in the north of France; there were no hills. But as we labor at the front of the group, he admits that a compact might be nice.

I'm feeling good. Two days of spinning, a few hours of sleep (damn that jet lag), and the excitement of riding in a group, put me on the front with Jean Pierre and Gerry, two grimpers (climbers). Each might weigh 140lbs. Maybe. The air is still cool, just pushing into the 50's as the sun begins clearing the trees. The roads flatten after a few more rises out of the valley and we reach another climb at Boisemont.

Mont means mountain, but mountain is a relative term. In the Paris area, there are no mountains, but if one is used to flat riding, or if you're riding with two miniature hellions on carbon Giants, you might as well be in the Alps. The sound of quickly receding gasping told me that we were by ourselves half of the way up the climb. I followed with my front wheel just off of Jean Pierre's left shoulder, knowing that we had a long way left and that sometimes I couldn't trust the positive reports my brain sent me from the legs. After the crest, the club regroups. We've long since rejoined, and then dropped, the slower riders that continued after my flat, but all of come together again in time for the first Ravitaillement (refreshment stop) at Damply.

Paper cups with a foul tasting lime drink have been placed in rows, dense bread, square chunks of cake and pieces of chocolate have been placed on the tables. Again, there are more non-cycling volunteers, dressed in jeans and wearing the sponsoring club's long sleeved jerseys. Warm smiles and encouragement from the support people, joking and comments about the climbing amongst the riders and JM nudges me when he sees the 'fast guys' mount and depart. We follow toute suite.

The warmth of the sun removed my vest before we left and now I'm considering the arm warmers as well. There's not much room in the pockets; my three jam sandwiches still uneaten, so I resolve to eat one, make some room and then take off the warmers, a nice mental project as the road levels out and we are rolling through the french countryside towards Nucourt. The towns and villages come fast, one every six or seven kilometers it seems. Le Bellay, Bercagny, Moussy, Gouzangrez, Villeneuve St. Martin, Jambville. The village of Enfer isn't so terrible as it might seem and I make a note to check it out on wikipedia.fr when I get a chance. It's impossible to focus on much besides the movement of the body on the bicycle, the rear wheel or our fast friends, or eating a sandwich while travelling at 25mph.

At the second ravitaillment (RAVITO, on the map), I remove the warmers and tightly roll everything again and cram my pockets full. The remaining two sandwiches are perched in the middle pocket on top of a vest, cell phone and cleat covers. Do the French carry so much on their rides? The camera stays in its own pocket on the right and the arm warmers join the keys, money and hat in the left. JM has a waist pack on as well and now I understand why. I grab a cake and have a mouth of dry crumbs when we scramble again to catch on with the first group.

The group accelerates to climb and as I stand up, my sandwiches break free and tumble out of the rear pocket. A split second as I weigh retrieval of the sandwiches with chasing back on to this group, and the sandwiches lose. "Da rien," I shout, "It's nothing," and don't find out until later that JM didn't hear me. He was busy running over the sandwiches, stopping, putting them in his jersey and then unsuccessfully chasing our group for the next 20 kilometers. My attention is glued to the front riders who are taking turns trying to put the other seven or so riders under pressure. They are succeeding; as we are soon down to five or six.

I follow in the wheels, sometimes third, sometimes fifth or sixth. There isn't much draft behind the two tiny guys trying to inflict the pain, but a larger rider from the Houilles club is still in there, (he's been on my wheel most of the morning) and the his draft is like relaxing in a soft breeze.

The sun is warm now and we're heading back to Sartrouville along the Seine, dodging large concrete planters, old people, children, dogs and cyclists going less than twenty-five. I'm rested, and decide to inflict pain on the little climbers. JM has rejoined us, inadvertently taking a short cut and popping up suddenly. I apologize for his effort and he hands me my sandwiches, one sliced in half by his front wheel. He and I and the other Houilles rider who is larger, ride on the front, taking pulls and keeping the speed high, occasionally shouting, 'Attention, les enfants' or 'deucement, deucement' when a stoplight interfered with our pace. We dropped the grimpeurs a couple of times and at the end, one slapped me on the back, 'Vous roulez bien aujoudhui!'

Indeed, it was a good roll today.

4:54, 82.4 miles, 3300ft.

A Trip to Maule

Jean Manuel arrives just past two, "I'm always a little late, but just a few minutes." It's good to see him, and the first time we've ridden together in a year. We met one morning two years ago when I went to the forest outside of St Germain to meet a group of riders for an early morning ride. Some time passed and then a group came through and I decided to tag on the back, using friendliness and bad French to make friends.

That ride has led to others over the past two years and I now count Jean Manuel among my friends. Today we're heading out for a short jaunt retracing the first and last parts of my ride yesterday and adding a bit in the middle. We'll follow the route to Maule and then return via Les Alleuettes and St. Nom. Tomorrow we're meeting at 8:00 in Sartrouville for a longer club rallye, so today's goal is to loosen up the legs and put a few miles in.

Of course, my legs are so loose by the top of the climb out of L'Etang la Ville that I can hardly breathe. When I ask about Jean Manuel's family, it comes out as a croak. We back off and descend into the valley.

The trees are slowly dropping leaves now, bits of gold falling in the air. One of those things happening around us all of the time that we don't notice. Fascinating how riding a bike can sharpen the focus, my awareness of the beautiful mundane. Remember that crack in the road? That skunk carcass and it's smell? The little girl's smile as she rides her bike with ther dad? The steel, glass and speed of the automobile erase all of that, shrinking our world in the process to a list of places, appointments and itineraries. Our protection? The bicycle.

We crest the climb at Chavenay and avoid making the easy wrong turn at the Stad sign. Many cars are on the road today, yet only one seems to be upset that we are, beeping as it passes. Young kids. They still give us an entire lane. Vive la difference! In the US, they'd try to put us in the ditch.

The weather is cool, a high of 18 today. With the mild climate of northern France, the weather seems to intersect with Iowa's twice a year, in spring and fall.

We're climbing out of Maule to Bazemont and Les Alleuettes now. I feel good, the legs are fully back and as we climb I feel I could accelerate if I wanted to; a good feeling to know there is something in the tank. "I'm just getting my base fitness back again," I explain to Jean Manuel. The racing season took so much out of me that I actually felt out of shape a month ago. Riding longer at lower intensities seems to have helped. Now I feel the bike leap forward, as if it has some life of its own.

In Les Alleuettes we see markings for tomorrow's ride: S's in white with arrows pointing the way. Nevertheless, we are bound to refer to our maps and stop to ask an older couple for directions once we are on the road to St Nom. We descend a narrow road and suddenly we're in fields with views of the valley again. St Nom's church is in the distance and we return to yesterday's route in the forest.

1:51, 31 miles, 1260 ft

First Day Back

A rhythm has developed over the past four years of travelling with my velo to France. Of course there's the drive to Chicago, the black hole that is sitting in a 747 seat for seven hours when one is normally sleeping (just a step above sitting on a Greyhound on a cross-country trip).

The food is pretty good on the Euro airlines I take, mainly British Airways and Air France, and a couple of bottles of vin rouge can make things much better. Arrival at Charles de Gaulle can be an adventure, riding on a bus for 15 minutes after landing to get to a gate, waiting for the velo bag that doesn't come on its own, or trying to shake that over-friendly couple from Texas that befriended me while sitting across the aisle in 24A and 24B.

Inevitably, I land; I get my luggage and bike; I pickup the rental car and enter the Peripheric, the wild, unpeeling onion of lanes that make up the Autoroute encircling Paris. And then the drive to the western suburb of L'Etang la Ville to stay with my inlaws for a few days to get my euro legs.

So today is a bit of a fog, four hours of sleep in a 36 hour day, but the fog dissipates with a short one hour ride. A quick climb up into the Foret de St Germain, several rondpoints and a dip to Rennemoulin, Villepreux and Chavenay and then a climb up to Feuchrolles. The traffic is heavy with mothers picking up their kids from school, but not one angry horn, yell, or finger salute.

I'm just spinning today, no big effort needed right now, just enough work to flush the system. I take the 307 back towards St Nom de Bretech and take the forest road that dives past the train station back in L'Etang la Ville. As I roll under the turning trees, bright with orange and yellow leaves and feel the contradictory cool breeze and bright sun on my skin, it feels good to be back.

Looking back

This is a melancholy time for me. I love fall; I think most people that sweat a lot in the heat of summer prefer fall. No more being drenched in perspiration after a ride, white salt marks on the black shorts, mounds of wet bike clothes that seem to move on their own while waiting to make a load.

No, I don't miss that. The cool morning breezes, just cool enough to need the arm warmers, but legs still bare in the breeze, the clean smell of rotting leaves, the muted colors that the morning mist paints the Iowa countryside, these are the things that push me out of bed in the morning and get me on the bike in the fall.

The sadness comes from the season already lived. Miles cycled, goals met or unmet. All verbs in the past tense. It's hard to look forward now, over the hump of winter, into the next future tense of my cycling career. Of course, the miles I ride now are for that future, but I'm looking behind now, at the season past.

My main goal, moving to category 3 was met about a month ago. Kind of anti-climatic. I was looking at three more races, two category 3/4 crits in the Chicago area and a finale in Pella as a 3. One morning at the computer, it seemed like a good time to construct my race resume and send it off to UsaCycling for approval to cat up. Sent it in at 11:30 and by 12:05 I was a 3. Like I said, anti-climatic. At 12:10 I went and made myself a sandwich.

I podiumed once this year, at Wheels on Willy, coming within inches of winning. At Kenosha's Superweek race, I had a 5th and was within a bike length of winning again. After that, a bunch of top tens and three 11ths. Why 11th? I crashed once this year (in a race), at Eagle Point in the crit that I direct. Very disappointing as I should have done better. Again dissapointing in a way is my 15th overall at Superweek as a 4. Not bad for starting the series with a flu bug, but still was aiming for a top ten or higher overall.

The racing portion of my season seems like a season of 'could have' and 'should have', but the first 3000 miles spent in France was life-changing. A sea-change in my approach to the sport. The miles put in there provided a long aerobic base to draw from during the rest of the year. I didn't really come down until a couple of weeks ago, when fatigue started to settle in the legs and there was no more 'pop' for the sudden sprints in the Pella crit.

Next year I'll need to take a bit of recovery after the early part of the season before building up again for Superweek. I plan on skiing this year again, but I think that there will be more emphasis on getting miles in on the bike as well to get ready for a steady diet of interval work in March.

So, here's to the off-season and an indian summer stretching to Christmas!

Pouillon

Janet came back this morning a bit damp, a grey mist in the air, but after a day off the bike a little moisture wasn't going to stop either of us from enjoying the beautiful, rural country roads of Pouillon and the Landes region.

The Pyrenees' snow-covered peaks were peaking through the clouds as I started my ride just before noon. An hour to an hour and a half was all for today; perhaps a bit of intensity, but definitely nothing that would qualify as an endurance ride.

Our rental house for the next three days is located on the Route du Bosq, a semi-circular lane about 7 feet wide, perfectly smooth save for the bit in front of the house, that leaves the Route de Pouillon (D22) briefly just north of Labatut before returning about a mile later. I rolled down the tiny tarmac to the main road and turned towards Pouillan. Janet had warned me about the truck traffic she'd encountered earlier, and it was the same for me. People were heading back home for their lunch hour, or three hours, and I took the right turn on the Chemin de Coulet and cut off the centre ville. The road twisted north and south before diving down to meet the Route de Misson. The rain was falling steadily and I passed a woman riding with an umbrella, no small feat in the increasingly strong wind. 'Ca va?' I said as I rolled by. 'Oui.'

Misson was back towards our house, so I pedalled north towards Estibeaux, enjoying the long downhill into a marshy valley. The rain and mist added an ethereal quality to the hardwood forests set in the creases of rolling hills. Estibeaux appeared, a church on top of a hill and I let the road turn me to the east and a major crossing of roads headed to Dax, Labatut and Pouillon. Trucks rumbled, road spray rising from the pavement. A banana and a couple of moments to contemplate the homemade map of villages in its plastic baggy, and the D3 to Habas it is.

I stopped again in the Misson square, contemplating the statue of Jean d'Arc in front of the church. Someone is watching me and I turn to find several classrooms of children gazing out large plate glass windows at the lycra-clad stranger in their town square. I smile and wave and get a few waves back and Misson is behind me. I was telling people next door that this part of Landes is similar to Iowa, except that there are mountains and the wine is better and the roads are paved, otherwise it's very similar. As I navigate back to my house, I appreciate the intricate maze of perfectly smooth roads. I choose one that seems to head in the right direction and I recognize the Route du Bosq. A steep climb and I'm back home, the Trek and I both ready for a good bath.

1:17, 20.2, 1120ft

Toulouse Peripherique

On the road now, travelling with the family through southern France and north along the coast, then over to Belgium before heading back to Paris and a flight home on the 11th.

This is my recovery week and a much-needed one at that. It's been a month of 250 mile weeks, the last couple in windy, cool weather, and my legs need some time to recuperate. Halving my 15 hours per week, leaves 7-8 hours this week for a couple of high intensity workouts and a couple of complete rest days. Yesterday was a rest and travel day so today I'm catching a ride with the family and Matthew and Johnathan, friends living in Toulouse. We're headed to the Canal du Midi south of the city. The canal runs from Narbonne on the Mediterannean to Bordeaux on the Atlantic, a miracle of modern engineering.

The wind is still blowing and the temps aren't much above 55 degrees, but my legs ache from the ride Friday and I REALLY NEED to get out on the bike. Cutting back on the riding is hard; I'm used to the rhthym of the bike, the quiet, the regular effort. I mentioned last month that the recovery week is my hardest week mentally, and it is.

I take the bike off the van, and give kisses to the kids and Janet. Air up the tires, the patch on the rear tubular is holding well, and I hop in the backseat to change. Jersey, socks, warmers, banana, cellphone... where are the shorts? A fevered rummage around the bag reveals that I've forgotten the shorts. A moment of swearing ensues and I'm sure the couple walking by on the promenade along the canal think the man sitting in the backseat of the Renault swearing is insane.

Janet's shorts fit pretty well. The bright purple makes a statement I'm not used to making, but who cares? I'm riding! Up to Mervilla and a 2k climb to warm-up. The legs are strange, but respond to the effort. The whine of a scooter at full rpm comes up behind me and pulls even on the 10% grade. He looks over and points ahead. I laugh and move from 10 to 12mph and drop him. Over the top and he's far behind but gaining. After a rondpoint, I turn towards Vigoulet, and he passes me at the bottom of the descent as we approach the Garonne River. The wind is on my left side, blowing hard, and the clouds race across the slate sky. Just a hint of blue and then a hint of rain in the air.

Another rondpoint in Lacroix and the road crosses the L'Ariege and my scooter friend turns off with a wave. I turn towards Pins Justaret and stop in Roquettes realizing it is the wrong 'pins'; I turn around and head for Pinsaguel and the bridge across the Garonne at Portet.

Crossing the river, the landscape turns industrial and the D24 touches the southern sprawl of Toulouse. The towns are stingy with their signs on this road and in Cugnaux I end up in section of town devoted to sports stadiums. I know the D24 is somewhere to my left and take a small lane towards the city center and, voila!, there is again. I realize I'm actually in Cugnaux as I pass the town's exit sign, Cugnaux with a diagonal red line through it. The wind is right on my back now as I head northwest and the road is deadflat. This is fine, the race with the scooter was not in my plans for an easy spin, and neither was the climb up to Mervilla.

Plaisance du Touch, a great name for a town, and then the Route de Colomier and Pibrac begins to show up on the rondpoint signs. Once in the village the Basilica de St. Germaine dominated the town, sitting up on a hill. My D24, with me since the river crossing, splits here and I follow the D24d towards Pibrac and my friend's house.

1:31, 26.1, 740ft

Aurevoir Villlelongue dels Monts

The woodcutters were on their break, eating sandwiches in the sun, sitting under the cork trees. David and I were riding tempo up the the Col Foutou on the upper flanks of the Canigou.

After a cloudy and cool start this morning, my arm warmers were pulled down and I was seriously considering taking my leg warmers off as well. David was on form today after a few days off due to weather and taking his wife back to the Girona airport yesterday. Bob was some minutes behind, still working on his base fitness. The road had shot up after the last village and we hadn't seen him since before that.

This was my last ride; tomorrow, my family and I were headed for Toulouse to see friends and then on to Dax for a few days, the Vendee and a couple of days in Belgium. We were flying out a week from Wednesday from Paris and I knew everything would happen very quickly.

I'd gotten used to a pace of life here where things didn't happen quickly, a rhythm of cycling and sun, friends and baguettes, laughter and fresh sea breezes. The climb to the col helped me beyond my melancholy for a while, but after waiting for Bob and saying good-bye to my two Scotch friends, I had time to think on the descent through Oms, Llauro and Vives.

The vistas just down the road from Llauro triggered memories of my first Wednesday morning with my new friend Geoff. I was worried about keeping up, needing to prove myself (is this why he still calls me a half-wheeler?). And then we stopped to look at the vista of the Alberes spreading to the sea, the dull green of the cork forest giving way to the red Rousillon plain and I forgot everything.

I rode with Geoff on Wednesday in the rain and we were both sad when we took our last 'team photo' in the small Villelongue dels Monts square. We'd spent enough time in the saddle together, shared enough pain and tested each other so many times that a natural understanding had occurred and from that a deep friendship. Friendship is based on honesty and there is no place to pretend on the bike, every weakness is exposed.

There are enduring images to hold on to: waiting for Geoff in the early morning light at the rondpoint in Le Boulou and watching a older man get off the bus, handlebar mustache, beret, shouldering a backpack out of which a wooden cane handle and large wood saw protruded. Gliding by the young man in Pont du Reynes standing next to his little white car and the light post laying in the commune's flower bed. We would see that lightpost in its reclining position for the next two months and innumerable young men in white cars driving like idiots as well.

There are too many small things that make up the pallette of memories of this trip, but as I cruise the valley floor back to my village, I find myself thinking less of leaving and more of my next visit.

4:33, 64.5, 4020ft

The Danger of Covered Bus Stops

On Wednesdays I meet Geoff for a long tempo ride over the Col de Llauro to sometimes meet some British professionals in Thuir. That was the plan this morning, but as the cold rain trickled into my socks on my ride to Le Boulou and the mercury struggled to reach 45, I pulled under the new TGV overpass and pulled out my cellphone. No answer at Geoff's; he was on his way. There he was at the rondpoint, this time earlier than me, and we had our 'Salut, ca va?' and rolled on in the rain to St. Jean Pla de Corts where David and his friend Bob may or may not be waiting.

The traffic was heavy today and we rode in single file, en train, just outside the white line marking the three foot riding lane. My worry was glass. Not normally a problem on dry days, glass and water were a deadly combination for my tubular tires and I was tired of fixing them. At the rondpoint in St. Jean, David and Bob were waiting for us in the bus stop. We pulled in and I took off my shoes and socks and wrung out a half-cup of water from each sock. A good wring of the gloves and I was ready to ride. David and Bob, on the other hand, had their eyes fixed on the pharmacy clock across the street flashing the current temperature, 6.5 C, and the wipers of the parade of cars coming past on the rondpoint, wipers on intermittent.

'I don't think we'll ride today,' David said in his Scottish lilt. 'I've ridden six days in a row,' Bob added, 'I can dry off my shoes and ride this afternoon.' His blue and white Dogma leaned against the bus stop, rain beading on its magnificent paint. 'Does magnesium oxidize?' I asked, but Bob doesn't get the barb and launches into the wonderful qualities of the metal, and his frame, and his back problems. Normally, this is where Geoff comes in with his 'Are you man or mouse?' spiel, but I know he's even having doubts right now. 'Ok, let's go. We'll be warm by the top of Vives.'

And we were. If it weren't for that bus stop and the pharmacy sign, David and Bob would be riding with us, I think. On the climb, the rain stops and a stillness is in the air. It again is beautiful. Like the Ancient Greek said, without the sour, honey wouldn't be so sweet. And without the pain and discomfort of life, and rain, and cold, the richness of our lives would be much less. It strikes me that most people spend their lives avoiding discomfort, not just Bob in his expensive Assos foul weather clothing, at least he made the effort to roll down from Ceret to meet us, but the people passing us on the road in their cars, on their cells, bathed in a temperature controlled environment, can't have a clue about why Geoff and I ride our bikes in such weather.

Over the top of the climb and we're into the sour again. The rain starts before we reach Fourques and just before the hermitage at Monastir de Campo, I feel the softness of my rear tire. A flat. A laugh, a squirt of the magical flat fixer from Zefal, a few k's gingerly riding out of the saddle and then a blast of CO2 and we're good. At a critical junction near Brouilla, a right turn takes us home, a left farther into the valley, we turn left and pass through the familiar countryside of vineyards and groves of flowering cherry.

In Elne, we stop at a light. Geoff asks, 'Cafe?' 'Sure.' and we jump out of line and duck into a smoky PMU betting shop and order two grande cafe cremes. Life is good. Life is better when I see a gent sipping a beer nearby pointing at the window: a downpour is coming down, rain bouncing hard on the pavement. I hold the cup in my hands and take a sip.

I can almost feel my finger tips now.

Last ride from Amelie

The morning is cold; dark clouds hang over the Alberes and the ground is wet with rain. The temperature is hanging in the low 40's. Today is my last Sunday ride with the Club du Vallespir in Amelie les Bains, my eleventh ride I think, enough to become a tad nostalgic. Now each spot, village, and landmark is embued with layers of memories from the past months.

The wind is blowing about 10mph out of the northwest, a welcome relief from the 40-50mph gusts of the past week. A new front is moving in and a few drops of rain spatter the bars. The rondpoint at Le Boulou, the meeting place for group rides with Geoff. The first morning in January, fresh from my drive from the north, and I remember the cold pink sunrise on the Canigou, snowless then, but my first view of it.

Geoff rolls up. 'Bonjour. Ca va?' Our ritual greeting and hand grasp. Twenty five times now? We roll on through St. Jean Pla de Corts, passing our Wednesday turn to Vives and the Col de Llauro, David's meeting spot. Ceret comes after a lovely four k's on new tarmac and then a rude reintroduction to broken asphalt. We pass the house where I waited last week for Janet and the kids to bring a replacement seatpost; we pass the turn to the incredible Musee d'Art Moderne with its collection of Picassos and I remember ambling through the hallways with my boys and Janet.

The red-faced drunk, who must live outside, greets just as we turn towards La Cabanasse, Le Pont de Reynes, La Forge, the villages roll past. This climb doesn't feel like much of a climb anymore; 120,000 feet of climbing in the past three months has seen to that, and now the focus is on the place, searing in the sights, smells, sounds, trying to hold on to the memory of it. Geoff and I are talking about cycling in his childhood, his use of the bicycle as both entertainment and escape. We pass the Amelie les Bains sign still three kilometers from the meeting spot in the centre ville.

The ride today is about 70k roundtrip from Amelie with the club, adding in another 60k for me travelling up and down the valley and a few more k's to ride to the Bourne Michelin with Geoff afterwards. Length is one measure of the ride and 140k seems long, but elevation is now more important to me and, outside of the small 6k climb Geoff and I do after the club ride, today is pretty darned flat and the group will stay together for the most part.

David has a couple of friends visiting from Scotland and Bob is out for the ride today. He and I coast down the valley to St. Genis together, passing my village road en route. Bob is on a magnificent Pinarello Dogma, Record-equipped, complete with squiggly carbon forks and dropouts. Later, Geoff will tell me I'm the only one who noticed, but this bike is art and a pleasure to look at. Also later, Bob will shoot out the back when the pace goes from 21 to 25 as we climb back up the valley; there is pressure to perform when you have a 8,000 dollar machine underneath you.

The pace is easy for me and I slot in with Bob and then a French rider for a while as we roll towards the apex of the route at Villaneuve de la Raho. As we approach the town center, confusion reigns for a few minutes as the group completely circles the rondpoint; the front of the group doesn't know the route to Bages. Geoff shoots to the front and guides the point in the right direction.

The rain returns as we cross the small hills of the Aspres, small rises between the vineyards. 'En train,' someone yells as the group negoitiates the potholed tarmac. The brings out the dark brown of the old vines and the crimson of the rocky soil. I move up behind David and Geoff to avoid eating too much of the road spray and we roll on through the edge of Banyuls des Aspres and into St. Jean Lasseille's narrow streets.

The cold rain is starting to soak in now, but my legs feel warm enough. David asks if I'm going all the way up the valley to Amelie; my village is 12k the other direction. This being the last club ride for me, there's no way I'm cutting it short. He shakes his head as if talking to a crazy man. His fellow Scot, Bob, has gone off the back now and he'll wait for him at the rondpoint in Ceret and head home. Of all of the temptations to turn for home, Geoff's was probably the strongest. With the rain pouring down, we passed within a half kilometer of his house. After the ride, I asked him if that was tough and he laughed. It was.

Past Ceret, others turn off and we have maybe eight riders left. Phillipe is leading us now, a good rider with smooth style. Geoff yells for me to grab his wheel and I do. I'm not working too hard yet and if there is a sprint, I feel like I have a good chance today. Geoff is on my wheel and Bernard, a young French rider is on his. We cruise through the villages I rode through a few hours before, faster this time, Phillipe hammering out a tempo. I check, I'm in the right gear, and move just to the left of Phillipe's wheel.

Just inside the town sign, a kilometer from the sprint finish, Phillipe eases off and I have to brake to stay behind him. It's too early to go and I start to wonder if there is going to be a sprint. Phillipe completely eases off and I have two choices. Sprint now and try to open a gap on Geoff, or ease off to and accept there won't be a sprint. There is time for the question to pop into my head, what if I sprint and no one else does? A few weeks earlier, there was no sprint; everyone just eased off. Maybe because of my continued role as a foreigner on the ride, maybe because I'm still lacking confidence, maybe something else causes me to downshift and ease up with Phillipe and in that instant, Geoff reacts and shoots by with Bernard on his wheel. I jump and catch Bernard's wheel, but I'm a long way from Geoff.

I get chastised as we eat our food at the bus stop in Amelie. I know what my problem is: I still want to belong to the group and the risk of not following the group outweighed my need to finish first. I'm frustrated with myself. I also think that I should actually have taken Geoff's wheel and not vice versa. 'Bourne Michelin?' Geoff asks? 'Sure.' The short climb will be a good penance for screwing up the end of a good ride.

78.3, 4:38, 3020ft.

A Cold Day in St. Marsal

Today on weather.com it was 57 degrees in Colesburg, Iowa. Here in sunny southern France, on the Cote Vermeil, it was 43 degrees when I left the house and a balmy 47 when we stopped for a cafe at 11am in St. Marsal. With winds gusting past 50 miles per hour.

The winds started on Monday and now, on Wednesday, it's hard to imagine a ride without them. The Tramontane commonly blows out of the northwest this time of the year and so I rely on Geoff's expertise at route selection to keep us on the south east side of things and in the trees as much as possible. I bundled in my winter riding kit and took a very easy ride to Le Boulou into the wind, spinning and remembering the summer breezes of a week earlier. Geoff popped up to the rondpoint right on time, ten to nine, and we collected David a few miles down the road at the rondpoint in St. Jean Pla de Corts, turning our attention then to the Col de Llauro and the blessed sanctuary of the cork trees on it's easterly slopes.

Conversation today turned to the upcoming Milan-San Remo race on Saturday and whether it was possible to get close enough to see it, my creaking seatpost and my weight, the proliferation of watt meters and other devices among riders not dedicated to riding their bikes, and my pedalling style.

The last topic waited for our stop at the crossroads just beneath Llauro, as I begged an Allen wrench off of Geoff and David stripped his windbreaker off and packed it away. 'You pedal like you're chopping wood,' Geoff said. I thought about this. 'Don't take it personally and you can tell me to shut up, but you need to get more relaxed on the bike.' On one level, criticism of anything one does, stings a bit, but on another level, I was pleased that Geoff cared enough to risk sharing it with me. A good teacher is one that is still learning or as Socrates said, you fall off the path of philosophy when you think you've found the truth.

The basis of Geoff's critique were two things: my high cadence climbing style, and my body position. I'm not going to change my pedaling style on climbs as it's what gets me over. Pushing 100 kilograms of mass up a col wreaks havoc on my knees and keeping less pressure on them with a high cadence and shifting to keep it high, means no knee pain after the ride is done. The real underlying issue, as it is with my creaking seatpost, is my weight. 100 kilos is a lot of weight and dropping it down is a struggle. I am way to stiff on the bike and have to constantly remind myself to relax, especially shoulders and hands. These things come with miles on the bike, fatique and more miles on the bike, and pointed criticism from friends.

We roll on towards the Col de Xatard. 'Don't work so hard,' Geoff yells through the wind. But I'm not working hard, my heart rate just on the edge of zone 2, 135bpm, pretty good for climbing an 8% grade. I tell him so, and he mumbles something about turning the monitor off. There's snow on the ground now, in the shadowed areas. It's strange seeing snow, the first time it's been this low since my arrival January 2nd.

The Col de Xatard sits at about 2100 feet. We stop and David puts his windbreaker back on, snap a few pics and we're off towards St. Marsal and what is looking to be a very cold descent to Ceret.

By the time we spot the chairs outside the cafe in St. Marsal, my toes are numb, fingers following suit and the idea of a hot cafe creme is appealing. Inside the cafe, the word rustic falls short. There's a boar's head over a fireplace, leaded glass windows framed in dark oak line the walls, and rectangular wood tables and angular chairs welcome us. We're alone inside and the smiling innkeeper takes our order for three cafe au laits. Life is good. We pull out jam sandwiches and David checks his messages. I stretch out and wonder how they got the boar's tongue to twist in that way.

The Rain in Spain...

The road seemed dry. This line echoed in my head as I slid across the rondpoint, sans velo, and just on the front of our group. We were on the Spanish side of the Alberes, riding with a combination of Bridlington and Club du Vallespir riders. I could hear both English and French conversations happening in the peloton and more than once mixed up languages while addressing someone next to me.

The morning had started out wet, rain was falling and plip-plopping in the gutters when the alarm went off at 6. By the time the oatmeal was ready at 7, the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing over Perpignan to the north. By 8, I was on the road north to Amelie, picking up a little slop on the tarmac down, but the roads were drying. My only worry was picking up some wet glass on the road.

Well that and my legs. I wasn't sure if how they would feel after a fairly hard ride the day before with the club. Overall, my form had been getting better and better. 'Miles in the bank,' Geoff was fond of saying, 'Can't take that away.' Indeed, I did feel the cumulative effect of 2300 miles of riding begin to fill up my bank account. Still, today was a question mark.

The Bridlington Cycle club was visiting Amelie for a week-long training camp and they were joining our Spanish excursion en masse. Geoff had belonged to the same club years ago when he lived in northern England. They were friendly and decent, if querky riders. One of their querks was a reluctance to wear helmets. Reading through the British cycling mags from Geoff, it was apparent that many British riders didn’t wear helmets. When I pressed one of the brits on the ride, she insisted she did wear a helmet occasionally, in competition.

A causal pace up to Le Perthus, left me feeling fresh and more confident for the day. Food wasn't a problem: I'd packed two sandwiches, a banana and some energy bars for the ride. That, and a stop at a café in Banyuls would preclude any bonks, or defaillance, today. And the roads were drying.

I picked myself up and surveyed the damage. A skinned elbow, through my long-sleeved jersey, a nice raspberry on my hip, and... that was it. My bike had slid on the brand new levers I'd picked up two days before. I looked up at Geoff; he put a finger to his lips. There were no excuses; I screwed up, hitting the rondpoint with too much speed, on a line a bit too tight and forgetting about that slippery mix of diesel exhaust and moisture that is like ice.

We rolled on towards the Col de Banyuls, revisiting the same climb we did a few days before on Wednesday. This time, the temperature had dropped with the arrival of the cold front and, as we ascended, the tramantine, the north wind began to blow.

'How are those wheels in this wind?' Geoff used some Spinergy four spoke wheels, carbon and aero, for training. Now I was thinking of aero more in terms of Bernouli's Principle of lift than of slicing through the wind. We were on the front, pacing the group up the col. Every few seconds a gust approaching forty or fifty miles an hour would push our front wheels to the side a foot or so.

A flat on the descent slowed down the group, but we stopped for a wonderful café crème at the same café in Banyuls.

A half hour later, the wind had become biblical. The climb out of Banyuls wasn't too bad, but just past the first rondpoint, the road passed through a cleft in the rock, open directly to the north. It was a wind tunnel and brough everyone to a halt. Traffic was still passing us as if there was no wind and I looked behind me to see Geoff holding on to the top tube of his bike, wheels lifting it skyward.

I wan't sure what we would do now. Ahead didn't look to promising, with a few miles on a heavily trafficked road, wind like an invisible hand pushing us backward, but we weren't going back either. I put the cleat covers on and trudged with the others over the top of the ridge.

Between gusts, we jumped back on the bikes and basically blocked traffic to have enough room to blow from side to side. I could see the surf below on the sea, crashing into the rocks, and decided not to look down again.

Of course, we made it, taking more time to safely arrive in Argeles and ride west along the relative calm of the Alberes. The temperature had dropped into the single digits Celcius, and this had the positive effect of numbing the road rash on my hip and arm.

Turning off in Villelongue, I considered the ride and reviewed my expensive but valuable lesson from the rondpoint in Spain.

Col Xatard

The Sunday morning roll up to Amelie les Bains was interrupted by a rifle shot, and then tinkling sound of bolts hitting the pavement. 'What the hell was that?' Geoff thought that maybe a sniper had taken me out. No, just the seat bolt on my FSA carbon seatpost had sheared off, leaving me seatless in Ceret.

'I'll call Janet and have her bring her bike and I'll swap the seatpost out.' Geoff would meet the club 8k up the road in Amelie and come straight back and we'd ride back to St Jean Pla de Corts and meet them on the road. We had a big ride planned today: 3 cols, albeit small ones, in the beautiful Aspres foothills of the Canigou. Now I was sitting in front of a curious woman's house, staring at my shoes and trying to look inconspicuous in my bright orange and red kit.

Janet came along in twenty minutes, kids in the back seat worried about daddy's crash. No crash, just a few too many kilos on the seat yet. A large brocante, or garage sale, was taking place in Villelongue and Janet wasn't sure she'd be able to get the car back to the house.

In a few minutes, the seat was on, post in and Geoff had returned to continue our ride. Once in St Jean, we quickly found the club, having to weave through a classic auto show that was taking place (what happened to people going to church on Sunday morning?) and dodge an imbecilic woman on a cellphone intent on causing a pileup of expensive cars. The club had picked up their pace to 22mph on the flat road to Ceret and our first climb, making our catch a little harder than expected.

For the first time this year, there were more English speakers in the bunch then French. A club from England was visiting for a week-long training camp and eight of their riders had joined the ride. Four quickly dropped off the back on the way up to the Col de Llauro and weren't seen again. This time my big idea was to follow wheels to the top. My legs were still a bit sore from Wednesday's effort in Spain and Friday's three hour ride in the wind. A day off hadn't fixed things and I wasn't sure what they would do for me on the climbs. Moving up wheels till I was third wheel, behind Geoff and Bernard was fine. We were rolling along at about 12mph or so, not bad for the grade and most of the talking in the group behind had stopped. Bernard pulled off on a corner and Geoff led us for a couple of kilometers, churning out a comfortable gear. By the time he wiggled his elbow for me to come through, I was actually feeling rested and picked up the pace a bit. Not going into the red and fully aware of the fact he would expect me to contest a sprint at the top.

Thinking about this I wiggled my elbow and let one of the new English guys through, who promptly pushed the pace again. The game was on and I took his wheel and Geoff, mine. I don't know who else was behind, everything was focused on the road in front. After a bend, Geoff shouts 'A gauche' and I sprint hard to the left dropping the Brit, but not hard enough; Geoff had caught my wheel.

'You didn't give it 100 percent, did you?' True, because I didn't know where the top was exactly (it was a few hundred meters ahead). 'Nope.'

Our smaller group reconvenes at the top and we roll on to the village of Llauro, now following Jean Marie who sets a comfortable pace. We pass through Oms and turn right at the crossroads for the Col de Fourtou. No heroics, just a nice rolling pace. I feel my legs recovering from the sprint earlier and get to know one of the young Brits. I share that I'm training my weakness at this point, hill-climbing. He notes that I must be a pretty good sprinter, but nods when I tell him I had just lost the last one to a 61 year old man. We reconvene again at the col. A hunting party has gathered there, getting ready to call their dogs up from the valley, driving game at them to be shot. After a few minutes the rest of the group arrived and we decided we should leave before the shooting started. Jean Marie heads back down the mountain, leaving the climb to the Col Xatard to us.

The pace heats up quickly and soon it's five or six of us rolling up the slope again. According to the Michelin map, there's actually two more cols on the way to the Xatard, the Col del Rang and the Col del Ram. As these don't actually have road signs and I really can't remember where they would be, I won't count them in my col tally today. Before we reached the Xatard, it was Geoff, me, David, the Brit I beat on the Llauro col and Bernard. I had Geoff's wheel but wasn't sure what the sprint was or if there was one. I would just wait until he let her rip. When he shifted to his big ring, I did too and jumped when he did, passing him before the village. Did I win a sprint from Geoff? I'm still not sure and didn't have time to think about it as we turned the corner and carried on to St. Marsal.

The road dipped and our speed reached 40mph. The Brit was in front, but I moved past him when I had the chance, not knowing how he descended, prefering to crash on my own terms. Geoff, David and Bernard were tight behind and we reached the first of several long false flats that were as hard as the actual cols. Pulling off after two, Bernard offers, 'Vous travaillez.' and we continue down.

With about 5k to go before Amelie, Geoff dives around a corner and I follow behind, finally having an advantage, my weight. We stay together to the bottom and have a cold beer with our new friends from England, after they get arrive a while later.

Pouncing Lessons: Part 2

At the crest of the Col de Banyuls, the smooth pavement of Spain gives way to the rotted and rutted pavement of France and we descend a perilous road the width of one small camion. We were dropping through the ancient vineyards of the Romans and Templars, home of the famous Banyuls appellation of strong and sweet wines, and sharing the tiny road with working vehicles.

The group reconstitutes at the bottom, some had started down already when David's tube gave up its ghost, and we take a leisurely ride down the valley bottom to Banyuls sur Mer and a cafe on the plage. My legs still feel fine. I've done about 55 miles at this point, about normal for a mid-ride coffee. We park the bikes near the chairs by the sand and decide which section is open for business. The cafes across the street each have a grouping of the chairs and tables, in their shop colors, and they send out a waiter to brave the tourist traffic and take our orders. The three English-speaking riders order coffees, as does Veronique, several of the Frenchmen order beers and pull out sandwiches made with half a baguette. The Club du Vallespir generously picks up the tab and we sit in the sun for some time, drinking, eating (jam and cheese for me) and sharing anecdotes.

The road along the sea climbs out of Banyuls and I try to shift down on the front rings on the climb, promptly dropping my chain. 'Attende, attende,' Veronique says and she pulls out her hand cleaning wipes. I'm perfectly willing to wipe the grease on the black of my shorts but accept her gesture. We start the climb and the crew ahead is nowhere in sight, but we soon reconnect at the rondpoint above town.

The pace now picks up and it's again Alain, Geoff and myself riding at tempo up the rest of the climb. Geoff swings out and waves me through. I know we've just shifted back from club comraderie to race training, but misread his arm wave and shoot past both him and Alain, continuing on my merry way ahead of them until I get stopped by a bus trying to negotiate the hairpins on the coastal road. He and Alain catch me there and a furious Geoff asks me what the hell I was doing? And so, the pouncing lessons begin.

My kids were watching Lion King on video last night and there is a scene where the king, Mufasa, is showing his young son how to hunt. The parrot, Mufasa's major domo, is the unsuspecting prey. It occurs to me that this is what Geoff is doing with me, teaching me how to hunt in a race. Identify the prey, wait for weakness and then pounce, and pass, without mercy. I get it, but Geoff is accelerating up the hill before Collioure and I have to push to gain his wheel, dropping Alain in the process. We careen towards the central ville and stop at the public WC at the beach. The other riders reconvene, fill water bottles and make use of something better than a bush on the side of the road. Several are looked a bit peaked. 'He's focked,' Geoff surmises of the fellow on the Trek who had just consumed a beer and a sandwich the size of Pittsburgh. This time Veronique and the rider having the hardest time on the hills don't reappear before we head on; we're officially in competitive mode now.

The road to Argeles is flat or downhill and an easy roll. Once we reach the turn at the feus for Sorede, the pace quickens a bit and we settle in behind another club rider for the climb to Sorede. We're all just keeping warm and I'm preparing mentally for the hill at Villelongue and Montesquieu. I've done this so many times now, but when we hit the Villelongue climb, we're still going at a moderate pace, four of us together, now following Alain. He, like the bird in Lion King, doesn't seem to enjoy being the prey and asks me to pull in front. 'Keep on his wheel,' Geoff barks and I do.

Alain picks up the pace and we drop everyone else as we climb out of my village. We're going fast now, I'm in my big ring for the first time on this climb, following Alain and Geoff following me. Alain tries sprinting away and I close the gap. He pulls off and I accelerate through as we hit the road hits a steep pitch. This is the point where I would normally say 'That was a good ride' and spin the rest of the way up, but Geoff is having none of that and sprints past, 'C'mon, get my wheel.' I accelerate, but give up. Geoff yells, 'Are you a man, c'mon, get my wheel!' And I do. I'm way past my threshold now, having a hard time breathing, let alone holding this guy's wheel. I know Montesquieu is just around the bend, when Geoff sprints. Damn it. I try to follow but get gapped. He slows a bit, but rolls into the village 50 meters ahead of me, Alain is far back.

At the fountain, a flash of a smile from Geoff as the riders roll up. I know I've been pushed to a limit and could have pushed past it, but I will next time. There's an anger there; it lies deep in the gut, This is the difference between being really fit and training well and winning bike races.

90, 5:45, 5000ft

Pouncing Lessons: Part 1

The morning is warm, already nearing 60 degrees at 7:30am. That make the dressing easier: no leggings, arm warmers to be removed later, regular socks. A craft baselayer tank and full dew rag for the head are concessions to the morning coolness. Able to leave off the leggings, leaves more room in the pockets to carry food. 'Brings lots of fooooddddd,' Geoff wrote in his email. 'Tell him to bring more than a banana and a granola bar,' he told Janet on their ride yesterday. Food equals fuel for the miles we have planned for today, Catalan sud.

I'm feeling fine, wonderful, as I drift through the village. The mix of birdsong and the sounds of village life and sun blend. The temperature drops just below Villelongue as I drop into the shaded valley. Cold, cold. Hard to warm-up when my knees are turning shades of red. I turn up on the road to Le Boulou and quickly meet another rider heading my way. 'Bonjour. Ca va?' 'Ca va!' The shadows tell me he made an effort to catch onto my wheel. No problem, I don't want to push very hard with these cold temps anyway and we move along the valley road together. Montesquieu, the climb onto the D618, the TGV construction that constricts the road, the descent into Le Boulou consectutive rondpoints going in every direction, Perpignan, Le Perthus, Ceret, Barcelona. The other rider's shadow is gone, dropped, but not on purpose. I ease off on the pedals and stand to stretch on the climb to the large rondpoint where Geoff and I meet.

We meet the other club riders up for our little sportif today, most are familiar, but some are new. One is Alain, a cuisinaire from Amelie. Another is an older fellow on a Trek 5500, the second Trek I've seen in these parts. On our coast down to Maureillas, I catch him checking out my Trek and we talk a bit about our bikes. Veronique is there, savage on the Col de Llauro Sunday, she takes a more maternal role today, tending the slower riders on the climbs. David, the retired Scottish architect rounds out a bunch of about a dozen. I pull a banana out of my pocket and we're ready to roll by the time I toss the peel into a trash can.

I have never ridden my bike in Spain, so this is a first. Geoff explains that this was a common training run for Thor Hushvod, imported local hero who lived and trained here. Often they would do a combination of the Catalan north and south routes, about 180k, have a lunch and a break and then do an afternoon run of 80k. Five days a week. In a training camp of a month, they could get in almost 4000 miles of riding.

We take a turn at Maureillas on the Via Domitia, the Roman road linking Spain and Rome. Again, the age of this place hits me over the head. Romans were taking this same route 2000 years ago. Once up on the national route above to Le Perthus, Geoff points out the original Roman bridge below, still functional, now a small bridge amongst newer homes. The long drag to Le Perthus and the border is about 6k at a modest 6-7% grade. Perfect for me. I just spin away, thinking of the day and riding to come. Soon, I'm behind Alain and notice he's definitely putting an effort in. Fine, I make sure it's all aerobic for me. Before the town sign he jumps. A quick look back and there's no other riders in sight, so I let him go and let the heart rate slip back into zone 2.

Geoff and David catch up in the traffic jam that is downtown Le Perthus. Everyone coming from Spain to buy things in France and vice versa across the border in La Jonquera. The border itself is a thing of the past with the ascension of the EU. A few border police are checking cars for smugglers or illegal immigrants, but most just whiz past the deserted control stations. Geoff is a bit in front of me, catching a draft from a truck. Pedaling with not much force, I can manage 40mph, but he's slowly pulling away. A black Saab pulls next to me, makes eye contact and then eases in front, offering me a draft. Gracias! Now I'm doing 50 and closing the gap. The driver taps his brakes to let me know he's slowing for traffic and I move past to pair up with Geoff.

The route turns off the national highway, direction Capmany, and wait for the other riders. Alain pulls up with several other club members, but they go up the road 50 meters before they stop. This rankles a bit and Geoff goes up to explain to them that we need to stick together. For many riders getting dropped on a climb is a loss of face, and I'm sure a couple are feeling that right now.

The road to Capmany is quiet, groves of olive trees line the hillsides, along with vineyards and a variety of high desert greens. There are no people, no tourists, no cars, no trucks, just the road, the hills and some cyclists. We pass the village and the road climbs a bit, Sant Climent, Espolla, each 5k apart, separated by rolling hills and hugging the south side of the Alberes range. Between the two, there's a military base and they're shelling one of the peaks. Every few minutes a mortar would sound, preceded a few seconds by a poof of black smoke on the peak. At Espolla, we stop and regroup again; the route can take different paths here.

Col de Banyuls, the sign was small and white, indicating it wasn't a large road. No indication of how far it was, or the fact that it marked the frontier of Spain and France. Just a little sign pointing down the road. We start to climb again and again the group is whittled to David, Geoff, Alain and myself. We reach the top of a grade and I ask if that was the col. 'No,' Geoff laughs and points to a mountain in the distance. Alain keeps asserting himself at the front of the group. Funny how this works, this interaction between cyclists. Who is a courer? Who is a club rider? What does it mean when someone goes to the front for no reason but to be in the front? Are they trying to prove something, show someone up, assert their dominance? When these things are said outloud, or written down, they seem petty, foolish, trivial boy stuff. On the bicycle, a primal reality sets in. Dominance. Who is strong, who is weak? Who is alpha? It's something felt in the gut, sub-rational, but everyone feels it.

The critical thing is what you do when you feel it.

Alain on the front for me today meant that I would follow his wheel up to the anaerobic level then let him gap me. This meant I was second by a bit on the Col de Banyuls, feeling the joy of propelling myself up it's 10-14% percent grades. Geoff and David rolled up behind us, the rest of the club quite a ways back, Veronique the mother hen making sure the last of the chicks made it to the top. The vistas were breathtaking. The Mediterannean spreading out to the east, the dry Alberes next to us and the backside of the Tour de Madeloc even with us. Alain shared that he had ridden to the Tour before. I struggled with my past tense long enough to fail to answer that I'd ridden it as well.

A couple bites of sandwich, a picture or two and, just as we set out for the rocky descent, David's front tube blows. A few minutes later this would have meant injury or worse; now it's good for a laugh and not so subtle analysis of his inner tube and it's many patches. David is a thrifty Scot and it looks like his tube died of old age.