A cold, quick ride on my mountain-side loop. Bundled up against the below-freezing temperatures, introspection is easier, anything to distract from the numb fingers and toes. In Sorede, an older couple is out for a early morning promenade. I meet them on the bridge; they are dressed in long wool coats, colors muted to match the greys and tans of the village. This is what I love about France: the focus on the personal, the couple taking time to walk together; the pace of life is like the even ticking of a clock, or footsteps on a bridge.
Initially we were out of step with the rhythm of the place we put ourselves into. The American idea of getting what you want, when you want it was in conflict with the regularity of getting your baguette before the afternoon and evening mealtimes. The boulanger closes his shop when he has no more baguettes. There’s no sense in trying to go shopping on a Sunday afternoon when we should be doing something in the park together like other French families.
The creak that comes from my crank as I climb a small hill reminds me of some of my frustrations with living here. I’m still waiting for packages sent weeks ago. The charger for our phone, ordered from a French company when were still in Paris nearly a month ago, still hasn’t arrived. Parts that would fix the squeak in my crank, a new roulement de pedalier, ordered from a shop in Italy would take just a week to get to Iowa from Treviso; here, 15-20 days isn’t unusual, I’m told.
The descent from Sorede to Argeles takes me past the old maison that Janet and I have talked about. A wrought iron fence surrounds the house and grounds on one side and the barn and stone sheds make the other border. The entire property is ‘avendre’, for sale, and is central to the village of Argeles and the plages of Argeles sur Mer. In it’s time, it must have been a grand residence. The two story main house has a lovely tiled staircase to a large entrance hall. There is a small ‘grandparents’ quarters at the rear of the house and the grounds, if mowed, weeded and landscaped, could be very nice. We’ve written down the number, but haven’t taken the next step of actually calling it.
I know the route through the centre ville of Argeles now and take the left turn back to St Andre, gliding over the Autoroute and onto the flats of the D618. The blood is flowing, life moving back into my limbs and my brain and a quick ‘Salut’ to another rider heading the opposite direction. Life is good.
1:02, 15.2, 540ft
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Col de Fourtou
Drop, plink, drop, and then nothing. Five more drops and then, a few more, then a constant pattering on the roof tiles outside my window. It’s still dark and the lights of Perpignan out on the plain are still blinking against the blackness of the sea. The club in Amelie les Bains has a long ride planned for today and, although my legs are still aching from the last run on Sunday, I’m excited about the chance to see some new country.
The forecast hasn’t been hopeful, strong winds, rain and cooler than the past two weeks. It’s six thirty and there’s time for the rain to stop, so I get the bike ready, pressuring the tires to about 120psi, a bit less than usual for more traction on the wet roads, filling the bidons with the foul athletic drinks available locally in France, and locating the assortment of leg warmers, underlayers, insulated booties, vest, gloves and hat, most not needed much the past two weeks. I’m supposed to call Geoff at five minutes to 8:00, but he beats me to it at 7:45. He’s not hopeful that many members will show up, but if I’m up for a ride anyway, let’s meet at the rondpoint. And I’m out the door in fifteen minutes.
The scene is biblical. Towering grey clouds are streaking across the sky. Snow has fallen on Le Canigou, leaving the upper faces white. Even the Alberes behind me have a dusting of snow. The rain has stopped, but the road has a wet sheen, and I slow in the turns through Villelongue dels Monts on my descent to the valley. The wind isn’t up yet, but I know it’ll be coming later.
Geoff and I meet and hurry up the road to Amelie. We’re fifteen minutes later than our usual time, but we get to the club meeting spot just a couple of minutes after the hour.
No one.
A quick trip around the block, scanning the ground for tire tracks in the road and we decide to head out to Palada and up the climb to the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou. I have no idea where we’re going and ask Geoff how long the climb is. “28 kilometers, so no heroics. Just keep a steady pace.” A bit outside of town, we see the paint marking the start of the club’s annual time trial to the top.
We’re on a nice tar road with very little traffic. The cork oaks pass as we keep a nice tempo, staying just inside my aerobic threshold, meaning I can keep this up for a while. After 13k we reach the town of Taulis, a few houses and a World War One memorial. I confuse the town’s name with Taillet, the town we climbed to on Sunday, but Geoff corrects me; we’re actually only about 4 kilometers from the other town, as the crow flies, but much farther away in road miles and altitude. And we’re still going up. Another 6k of switchbacks and we’re in St Marsal and then we crest the col at Xatard.
I’m developing a familiar pain in my lower back, a spasm that shoots down through the right leg. I will it away and it comes back. I ask my riding partner for advice, does he experience back pain on these climbs. “I hurt everywhere; sometimes I even go blind slits.” Not much help. But then he offers that I’m not ankling enough, leaving my heel up ala Armstrong. Initial stubbornness from me, but then I try it. The pain disappears. Hmm. We climb on.
The false flats between the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou screw with my head. The road looks flat, but my effort is still up and I’m only doing 14mph. I comfort myself with the strain on Geoff’s face, a strange and heartless act common in cycling, and we plug on to the top.
The climb has taken more than an hour and there is a sense of relief when I see the blue sky coming up on all three sides in front of me. We roll over the top and then take a tiny road directly in front of us. Large for a cowpath, but just about the width of a mid-sized American car. The vistas on all sides of us are mind-numbing. Ok, the 35 degree air is also numbing. The road is wet but the traction is fine until the asphalt changes from black to red. My rear wheel slips about 6 inches on a turn and it occurs to me that I could drop for a long ways if I slide off this road. Full brakes and then a few minutes later, my front wheel slides a bit. Full brakes again!
Descending a cowpath/road in the Pyrenees is not like descending a country road in Iowa. I seldom have reached beyond 50kph on my descents here, while I can hit 50mph pretty easily on a steep road in Dubuque or Clayton county. The roads twist, turn, offer black ice on blind corners, have the occasional driver taking over your lane. The result is that the descent can be as slow as the ascent.
Can Baills is passed and then the road to Caixas, Les Hostalets and finally Fourques. Legs numb and stiff, the climb up to the town is hard but needed to get the blood flowing again. The Plains of Rousillon stretches out in front of us and we cruise along at 21mph with a strong crosswind hitting us from the side. Geoff’s Corima wheels are a little jittery, but we keep a good pace all the way to the sea at St Cyprien when the wind begins to push us from behind.
Four hours and we reach Argeles and the familiar road along the mountain to Sorede, Laroque and Villelongue. When Geoff punches it up to the village center in Villelongue, there’s no gas left in the tank. He shares a jam sandwich and shake hands. Good ride, see you on Sunday.
72.2, 4:26, 3720ft
The forecast hasn’t been hopeful, strong winds, rain and cooler than the past two weeks. It’s six thirty and there’s time for the rain to stop, so I get the bike ready, pressuring the tires to about 120psi, a bit less than usual for more traction on the wet roads, filling the bidons with the foul athletic drinks available locally in France, and locating the assortment of leg warmers, underlayers, insulated booties, vest, gloves and hat, most not needed much the past two weeks. I’m supposed to call Geoff at five minutes to 8:00, but he beats me to it at 7:45. He’s not hopeful that many members will show up, but if I’m up for a ride anyway, let’s meet at the rondpoint. And I’m out the door in fifteen minutes.
The scene is biblical. Towering grey clouds are streaking across the sky. Snow has fallen on Le Canigou, leaving the upper faces white. Even the Alberes behind me have a dusting of snow. The rain has stopped, but the road has a wet sheen, and I slow in the turns through Villelongue dels Monts on my descent to the valley. The wind isn’t up yet, but I know it’ll be coming later.
Geoff and I meet and hurry up the road to Amelie. We’re fifteen minutes later than our usual time, but we get to the club meeting spot just a couple of minutes after the hour.
No one.
A quick trip around the block, scanning the ground for tire tracks in the road and we decide to head out to Palada and up the climb to the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou. I have no idea where we’re going and ask Geoff how long the climb is. “28 kilometers, so no heroics. Just keep a steady pace.” A bit outside of town, we see the paint marking the start of the club’s annual time trial to the top.
We’re on a nice tar road with very little traffic. The cork oaks pass as we keep a nice tempo, staying just inside my aerobic threshold, meaning I can keep this up for a while. After 13k we reach the town of Taulis, a few houses and a World War One memorial. I confuse the town’s name with Taillet, the town we climbed to on Sunday, but Geoff corrects me; we’re actually only about 4 kilometers from the other town, as the crow flies, but much farther away in road miles and altitude. And we’re still going up. Another 6k of switchbacks and we’re in St Marsal and then we crest the col at Xatard.
I’m developing a familiar pain in my lower back, a spasm that shoots down through the right leg. I will it away and it comes back. I ask my riding partner for advice, does he experience back pain on these climbs. “I hurt everywhere; sometimes I even go blind slits.” Not much help. But then he offers that I’m not ankling enough, leaving my heel up ala Armstrong. Initial stubbornness from me, but then I try it. The pain disappears. Hmm. We climb on.
The false flats between the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou screw with my head. The road looks flat, but my effort is still up and I’m only doing 14mph. I comfort myself with the strain on Geoff’s face, a strange and heartless act common in cycling, and we plug on to the top.
The climb has taken more than an hour and there is a sense of relief when I see the blue sky coming up on all three sides in front of me. We roll over the top and then take a tiny road directly in front of us. Large for a cowpath, but just about the width of a mid-sized American car. The vistas on all sides of us are mind-numbing. Ok, the 35 degree air is also numbing. The road is wet but the traction is fine until the asphalt changes from black to red. My rear wheel slips about 6 inches on a turn and it occurs to me that I could drop for a long ways if I slide off this road. Full brakes and then a few minutes later, my front wheel slides a bit. Full brakes again!
Descending a cowpath/road in the Pyrenees is not like descending a country road in Iowa. I seldom have reached beyond 50kph on my descents here, while I can hit 50mph pretty easily on a steep road in Dubuque or Clayton county. The roads twist, turn, offer black ice on blind corners, have the occasional driver taking over your lane. The result is that the descent can be as slow as the ascent.
Can Baills is passed and then the road to Caixas, Les Hostalets and finally Fourques. Legs numb and stiff, the climb up to the town is hard but needed to get the blood flowing again. The Plains of Rousillon stretches out in front of us and we cruise along at 21mph with a strong crosswind hitting us from the side. Geoff’s Corima wheels are a little jittery, but we keep a good pace all the way to the sea at St Cyprien when the wind begins to push us from behind.
Four hours and we reach Argeles and the familiar road along the mountain to Sorede, Laroque and Villelongue. When Geoff punches it up to the village center in Villelongue, there’s no gas left in the tank. He shares a jam sandwich and shake hands. Good ride, see you on Sunday.
72.2, 4:26, 3720ft
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Le Col de Fourtou
23 January 2007
Drop, plink, drop, and then nothing. Five more drops and then, a few more, then a constant pattering on the roof tiles outside my window. It’s still dark and the lights of Perpignan out on the plain are still blinking against the blackness of the sea. The club in Amelie les Bains has a long ride planned for today and, although my legs are still aching from the last run on Sunday, I’m excited about the chance to see some new country.
The forecast hasn’t been hopeful, strong winds, rain and cooler than the past two weeks. It’s six thirty and there’s time for the rain to stop, so I get the bike ready, pressuring the tires to about 120psi, a bit less than usual for more traction on the wet roads, filling the bidons with the foul athletic drinks available locally in France, and locating the assortment of leg warmers, underlayers, insulated booties, vest, gloves and hat, most not needed much the past two weeks. I’m supposed to call Geoff at five minutes to 8:00, but he beats me to it at 7:45. He’s not hopeful that many members will show up, but if I’m up for a ride anyway, let’s meet at the rondpoint. And I’m out the door in fifteen minutes.
The scene is biblical. Towering grey clouds are streaking across the sky. Snow has fallen on Le Canigou, leaving the upper faces white. Even the Alberes behind me have a dusting of snow. The rain has stopped, but the road has a wet sheen, and I slow in the turns through Villelongue dels Monts on my descent to the valley. The wind isn’t up yet, but I know it’ll be coming later.
Geoff and I meet and hurry up the road to Amelie. We’re fifteen minutes later than our usual time, but we get to the club meeting spot just a couple of minutes after the hour.
No one.
A quick trip around the block, scanning the ground for tire tracks in the road and we decide to head out to Palada and up the climb to the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou. I have no idea where we’re going and ask Geoff how long the climb is. “28 kilometers, so no heroics. Just keep a steady pace.” A bit outside of town, we see the paint marking the start of the club’s annual time trial to the top.
We’re on a nice tar road with very little traffic. The cork oaks pass as we keep a nice tempo, staying just inside my aerobic threshold, meaning I can keep this up for a while. After 13k we reach the town of Taulis, a few houses and a World War One memorial. I confuse the town’s name with Taillet, the town we climbed to on Sunday, but Geoff corrects me; we’re actually only about 4 kilometers from the other town, as the crow flies, but much farther away in road miles and altitude. And we’re still going up. Another 6k of switchbacks and we’re in St Marsal and then we crest the col at Xatard.
I’m developing a familiar pain in my lower back, a spasm that shoots down through the right leg. I will it away and it comes back. I ask my riding partner for advice, does he experience back pain on these climbs. “I hurt everywhere; sometimes I even go blind slits.” Not much help. But then he offers that I’m not ankling enough, leaving my heel up ala Armstrong. Initial stubbornness from me, but then I try it. The pain disappears. Hmm. We climb on.
The false flats between the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou screw with my head. The road looks flat, but my effort is still up and I’m only doing 14mph. I comfort myself with the strain on Geoff’s face, a strange and heartless act common in cycling, and we plug on to the top.
The climb has taken more than an hour and there is a sense of relief when I see the blue sky coming up on all three sides in front of me. We roll over the top and then take a tiny road directly in front of us. Large for a cowpath, but just about the width of a mid-sized American car. The vistas on all sides of us are mind-numbing. Ok, the 35 degree air is also numbing. The road is wet but the traction is fine until the asphalt changes from black to red. My rear wheel slips about 6 inches on a turn and it occurs to me that I could drop for a long ways if I slide off this road. Full brakes and then a few minutes later, my front wheel slides a bit. Full brakes again!
Descending a cowpath/road in the Pyrenees is not like descending a country road in Iowa. I seldom have reached beyond 50kph on my descents here, while I can hit 50mph pretty easily on a steep road in Dubuque or Clayton county. The roads twist, turn, offer black ice on blind corners, have the occasional driver taking over your lane. The result is that the descent can be as slow as the ascent.
Can Baills is passed and then the road to Caixas, Les Hostalets and finally Fourques. Legs numb and stiff, the climb up to the town is hard but needed to get the blood flowing again. The Plains of Rousillon stretches out in front of us and we cruise along at 21mph with a strong crosswind hitting us from the side. Geoff’s Corima wheels are a little jittery, but we keep a good pace all the way to the sea at St Cyprien when the wind begins to push us from behind.
Four hours and we reach Argeles and the familiar road along the mountain to Sorede, Laroque and Villelongue. When Geoff punches it up to the village center in Villelongue, there’s no gas left in the tank. He shares a jam sandwich and shake hands. Good ride, see you on Sunday.
72.2, 4:26, 3720ft
Drop, plink, drop, and then nothing. Five more drops and then, a few more, then a constant pattering on the roof tiles outside my window. It’s still dark and the lights of Perpignan out on the plain are still blinking against the blackness of the sea. The club in Amelie les Bains has a long ride planned for today and, although my legs are still aching from the last run on Sunday, I’m excited about the chance to see some new country.
The forecast hasn’t been hopeful, strong winds, rain and cooler than the past two weeks. It’s six thirty and there’s time for the rain to stop, so I get the bike ready, pressuring the tires to about 120psi, a bit less than usual for more traction on the wet roads, filling the bidons with the foul athletic drinks available locally in France, and locating the assortment of leg warmers, underlayers, insulated booties, vest, gloves and hat, most not needed much the past two weeks. I’m supposed to call Geoff at five minutes to 8:00, but he beats me to it at 7:45. He’s not hopeful that many members will show up, but if I’m up for a ride anyway, let’s meet at the rondpoint. And I’m out the door in fifteen minutes.
The scene is biblical. Towering grey clouds are streaking across the sky. Snow has fallen on Le Canigou, leaving the upper faces white. Even the Alberes behind me have a dusting of snow. The rain has stopped, but the road has a wet sheen, and I slow in the turns through Villelongue dels Monts on my descent to the valley. The wind isn’t up yet, but I know it’ll be coming later.
Geoff and I meet and hurry up the road to Amelie. We’re fifteen minutes later than our usual time, but we get to the club meeting spot just a couple of minutes after the hour.
No one.
A quick trip around the block, scanning the ground for tire tracks in the road and we decide to head out to Palada and up the climb to the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou. I have no idea where we’re going and ask Geoff how long the climb is. “28 kilometers, so no heroics. Just keep a steady pace.” A bit outside of town, we see the paint marking the start of the club’s annual time trial to the top.
We’re on a nice tar road with very little traffic. The cork oaks pass as we keep a nice tempo, staying just inside my aerobic threshold, meaning I can keep this up for a while. After 13k we reach the town of Taulis, a few houses and a World War One memorial. I confuse the town’s name with Taillet, the town we climbed to on Sunday, but Geoff corrects me; we’re actually only about 4 kilometers from the other town, as the crow flies, but much farther away in road miles and altitude. And we’re still going up. Another 6k of switchbacks and we’re in St Marsal and then we crest the col at Xatard.
I’m developing a familiar pain in my lower back, a spasm that shoots down through the right leg. I will it away and it comes back. I ask my riding partner for advice, does he experience back pain on these climbs. “I hurt everywhere; sometimes I even go blind slits.” Not much help. But then he offers that I’m not ankling enough, leaving my heel up ala Armstrong. Initial stubbornness from me, but then I try it. The pain disappears. Hmm. We climb on.
The false flats between the Col de Xatard and the Col de Fourtou screw with my head. The road looks flat, but my effort is still up and I’m only doing 14mph. I comfort myself with the strain on Geoff’s face, a strange and heartless act common in cycling, and we plug on to the top.
The climb has taken more than an hour and there is a sense of relief when I see the blue sky coming up on all three sides in front of me. We roll over the top and then take a tiny road directly in front of us. Large for a cowpath, but just about the width of a mid-sized American car. The vistas on all sides of us are mind-numbing. Ok, the 35 degree air is also numbing. The road is wet but the traction is fine until the asphalt changes from black to red. My rear wheel slips about 6 inches on a turn and it occurs to me that I could drop for a long ways if I slide off this road. Full brakes and then a few minutes later, my front wheel slides a bit. Full brakes again!
Descending a cowpath/road in the Pyrenees is not like descending a country road in Iowa. I seldom have reached beyond 50kph on my descents here, while I can hit 50mph pretty easily on a steep road in Dubuque or Clayton county. The roads twist, turn, offer black ice on blind corners, have the occasional driver taking over your lane. The result is that the descent can be as slow as the ascent.
Can Baills is passed and then the road to Caixas, Les Hostalets and finally Fourques. Legs numb and stiff, the climb up to the town is hard but needed to get the blood flowing again. The Plains of Rousillon stretches out in front of us and we cruise along at 21mph with a strong crosswind hitting us from the side. Geoff’s Corima wheels are a little jittery, but we keep a good pace all the way to the sea at St Cyprien when the wind begins to push us from behind.
Four hours and we reach Argeles and the familiar road along the mountain to Sorede, Laroque and Villelongue. When Geoff punches it up to the village center in Villelongue, there’s no gas left in the tank. He shares a jam sandwich and shake hands. Good ride, see you on Sunday.
72.2, 4:26, 3720ft
La Bourne Michelin
Failure is not easy to write about. There are ways to write about something with a positive spin: I rode 120k; I stayed in the front group most of the time; I climbed 3200 feet—all successes. But the moment I lost the wheel in front of me on a 9 kilometer climb, I came face to face with a limitation. The grade to the top of the climb at Taillet pushed past 9% and I quickly gone into the red. It was a bit like drowning, breath going from easy to labored gasps, no longer able to talk, my awareness begins to narrow to the rear tire tread in front of me and the long fibers of my quads. Halfway up the climb, I lose the wheel. Either you have the wheel or you don’t; it’s a black and white reality and I don’t. I’m falling off the pace. I focus on recovery and increase the cadence to ease the pressure on the legs. Geoff and a friend come up from behind and I briefly join them. I’m not yet recovered and say goodbye a kilometre from the top.
I don’t know this climb, this road, and have no idea when the grade decreases. It flattens just before Taillet. Seven club members are sitting in the square, helmets off, chatting. My legs are burning, lungs ache and I need an energy bar in the worst way. I haven’t found a good one (meaning one like I’m used to in the US, a good ol’ Harvest bar, or even a pop tart) yet, but the facsimiles in my pocket will have to do. Worse yet is the local varieties of energy drink. My recommendation for anyone in a similar predicament, looking for energy drink in a foreign land, get the unflavored kind. The first try at the Decathlon in Paris netted me Hydro, a drink allegedly tropically flavoured. Didn’t know the tropics tasted like baby powder, but you learn something new every day. The second batch of drink, Born, at least came with a bottle (now on Karl’s bike) and tasted vaguely like lemonade. Geoff swigs straight water and eats jelly sandwiches; I think I know why.
We head down the mountain towards Amelie les Bains. The road dives right and left, and we keep shedding speed on the hairpins, never really getting past 30mph. Then a flat stretch and down again. We climbed a long time and my hands ache with braking. I keep my distance from some of the club members in front of me, better to come down in one piece slowly then be taken out by a yahoo careening across the road.
At the bottom, we recover and then climb again towards the Bourne Michelin, a crossroads on top of another 2k climb marked in the past by a Michelin milemarker. It’s not there anymore, but everyone still calls it by the name. My legs are still hurting, but I stick with a second group of riders slogging it up. At the crest, Geoff is munching a jam sandwich and a couple of local gentlemen with staffs are shaking hands with the riders re-assembling at the crossroads. I’m introduced as l’Americain, and I get lots of smiles in return.
Our numbers for the descent are greatly reduced with most of the riders off to their homes on this side of Amelie. Geoff and I coast down with the president of the club and we briefly discuss the weather forecast for Tuesday’s longer, 135k, ride through the plain of Rousillon and the cols of the Aspres and Vallespir ranges. It might actually rain, and I’ll need to call in the morning. I don’t hope for a rainout, but the way my legs feel right now, it might not be a bad idea!
68.1, 4:19, 3520ft
I don’t know this climb, this road, and have no idea when the grade decreases. It flattens just before Taillet. Seven club members are sitting in the square, helmets off, chatting. My legs are burning, lungs ache and I need an energy bar in the worst way. I haven’t found a good one (meaning one like I’m used to in the US, a good ol’ Harvest bar, or even a pop tart) yet, but the facsimiles in my pocket will have to do. Worse yet is the local varieties of energy drink. My recommendation for anyone in a similar predicament, looking for energy drink in a foreign land, get the unflavored kind. The first try at the Decathlon in Paris netted me Hydro, a drink allegedly tropically flavoured. Didn’t know the tropics tasted like baby powder, but you learn something new every day. The second batch of drink, Born, at least came with a bottle (now on Karl’s bike) and tasted vaguely like lemonade. Geoff swigs straight water and eats jelly sandwiches; I think I know why.
We head down the mountain towards Amelie les Bains. The road dives right and left, and we keep shedding speed on the hairpins, never really getting past 30mph. Then a flat stretch and down again. We climbed a long time and my hands ache with braking. I keep my distance from some of the club members in front of me, better to come down in one piece slowly then be taken out by a yahoo careening across the road.
At the bottom, we recover and then climb again towards the Bourne Michelin, a crossroads on top of another 2k climb marked in the past by a Michelin milemarker. It’s not there anymore, but everyone still calls it by the name. My legs are still hurting, but I stick with a second group of riders slogging it up. At the crest, Geoff is munching a jam sandwich and a couple of local gentlemen with staffs are shaking hands with the riders re-assembling at the crossroads. I’m introduced as l’Americain, and I get lots of smiles in return.
Our numbers for the descent are greatly reduced with most of the riders off to their homes on this side of Amelie. Geoff and I coast down with the president of the club and we briefly discuss the weather forecast for Tuesday’s longer, 135k, ride through the plain of Rousillon and the cols of the Aspres and Vallespir ranges. It might actually rain, and I’ll need to call in the morning. I don’t hope for a rainout, but the way my legs feel right now, it might not be a bad idea!
68.1, 4:19, 3520ft
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Bicycle Days
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My son learned to ride his bike yesterday. There was a moment, on our tiny road sided by French vineyards and tiny paths for the workers tending the vines, there was a moment when the last push came and my son rolled away by himself. He didn’t look back; he looked ahead, rolling with a big smile into the future of his life.
I was flooded with feeling. Tiny fears about potholes in the road, traffic, the thorn bushes we had already found a couple of times, these tiny worries were completely overcome by the elation that my son had found something in himself, the joy of riding a bicycle, that the rest of his family had discovered some time ago. He had been left behind and cycling had been one of those things he couldn’t do. Was it because of his disability? Should we find a tricycle to make it easier, should we enroll him in a special school to learn to ride?
His brother, younger by a year and a half, had just gotten the bicycle of his young dreams at a bike shop in Perpignan. The joy on his face a few days before made me proud. I rode with him on our narrow streets in our village and taught him about his new Giant TCR Junior. Brakes first, but they were difficult to reach from the hoods and he rode on the drops. A stone wall and a deep drainage ditch, not to mention assorted traffic, were narrowly avoided. Yesterday we explored the mysteries of the rear derailleur, changing gears on the valley flats between Villelongue dels Monts and Montesquieu des Alberes..JPG)
My wife has been riding as well. I built her a lovely Orbea Onix to celebrate the completion of her doctoral studies (and give her an escape from her dissertation during our travels) and relieve us of the heft of her Trek 1000. She rides with my riding mate and his wife on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
These are French days, when we’re exploring the milieu of country around us, immersed in the sometimes alien, sometimes confusing, every friendly and challenging culture. These are family days, a time of building our relationships with each other, making new patterns in our lives, building a reliance on each other, escaping the separating influences of modern life, if even for a short time. And these are bicycle days: long rides in the mysterious light of the Alberes and the Cote Vermeille, ascending past ancient churches, descending switchback roads and groves of cork oaks, making new friends, exploring limitations, leaving oneself open to perspectives and ideas not yet considered.
Bicycle days. I raise my arms and shout as Johann rolls to a stop at the end of the road. He smiles and rides back to me.
I was flooded with feeling. Tiny fears about potholes in the road, traffic, the thorn bushes we had already found a couple of times, these tiny worries were completely overcome by the elation that my son had found something in himself, the joy of riding a bicycle, that the rest of his family had discovered some time ago. He had been left behind and cycling had been one of those things he couldn’t do. Was it because of his disability? Should we find a tricycle to make it easier, should we enroll him in a special school to learn to ride?
His brother, younger by a year and a half, had just gotten the bicycle of his young dreams at a bike shop in Perpignan. The joy on his face a few days before made me proud. I rode with him on our narrow streets in our village and taught him about his new Giant TCR Junior. Brakes first, but they were difficult to reach from the hoods and he rode on the drops. A stone wall and a deep drainage ditch, not to mention assorted traffic, were narrowly avoided. Yesterday we explored the mysteries of the rear derailleur, changing gears on the valley flats between Villelongue dels Monts and Montesquieu des Alberes.
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My wife has been riding as well. I built her a lovely Orbea Onix to celebrate the completion of her doctoral studies (and give her an escape from her dissertation during our travels) and relieve us of the heft of her Trek 1000. She rides with my riding mate and his wife on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
These are French days, when we’re exploring the milieu of country around us, immersed in the sometimes alien, sometimes confusing, every friendly and challenging culture. These are family days, a time of building our relationships with each other, making new patterns in our lives, building a reliance on each other, escaping the separating influences of modern life, if even for a short time. And these are bicycle days: long rides in the mysterious light of the Alberes and the Cote Vermeille, ascending past ancient churches, descending switchback roads and groves of cork oaks, making new friends, exploring limitations, leaving oneself open to perspectives and ideas not yet considered.
Bicycle days. I raise my arms and shout as Johann rolls to a stop at the end of the road. He smiles and rides back to me.
St Jean de Alberes
18 January 2007
Sixty-three degrees and sunny. It’s amazing how fast I’ve adapted to days without snow and ice and concern about windchill. In the normal course of my Iowa winter life, I would be getting ready for the Noquemenon ski marathon in Marquette, Michigan, scanning snow reports and searching for the closest skiable snow in my area. That would have been hard this year with the warm temperatures and limited snow. Instead I’m debating whether I need to use the arm warmers this afternoon.
Today will be a climbing day. In cycling parlance, at least in the states, I’ll be ‘training my weakness’. I turn left at the base of my village road and head toward Montesquieu des Alberes, our neighbour to the west on the mountain. A warm-up climb through the cork trees on mountain switchbacks and I’m wondering if my legs have it for what I’ve planned, a run up to St Jean des Alberes, the tiny village and 11th century church tucked in the Alberes above our valley.
Things get better when I make the downhill run back to the D618 and my legs are warmed up. The short leg to Le Boulou seems short now, after two weeks of cycling it every other day but it feels a bit strange to take the Le Perthu exit towards the Spanish border instead of continuing on to my rondpoint rendezvous with Geoff.
There is limited room for the bike between Les Thermes du Boulou and Les Cluses, two kilometres of dodging bits of broken bottles and roadside junk dropped carelessly by tourista drivers. I see more than one pulled over to urinate on the side of the road, and wonder what the locals think. The road is climbing at about a 7 percent grade, not too bad for me, and I’m able to keep a decent tempo. My heart rate seems to be a little low, likely a holdover from yesterday’s harder ride with Geoff. Heart rate is just additional information for me; I don’t limit my effort because of it, but it’s good to know how my body is responding to the work.
After Les Cluses, the traffic thins out and I’m able to use more of my lane. The 6 kilometers to Le Perthu goes quick and I turn onto the D71, a tiny mountain road snaking up past the Col del Perthu towards the Col de L’Ouillat. The one lane road gets steeper and stays that way, passing an occasional bench (do people walk this?) and a spigot piping spring water from the rock. The valley opens up below and a middle range is slowly sinking below me, exposing the outer peaks seen from my village. In just over an hour into my ride, I’m at the crossroads, eating a banana, and considering the vast differences in the landscape I’ve pedalled through. I haven’t seen any cars on this road, there is total silence. I push on the pedal and begin my way back.
2:03, 29.8, 2320ft
Sixty-three degrees and sunny. It’s amazing how fast I’ve adapted to days without snow and ice and concern about windchill. In the normal course of my Iowa winter life, I would be getting ready for the Noquemenon ski marathon in Marquette, Michigan, scanning snow reports and searching for the closest skiable snow in my area. That would have been hard this year with the warm temperatures and limited snow. Instead I’m debating whether I need to use the arm warmers this afternoon.
Today will be a climbing day. In cycling parlance, at least in the states, I’ll be ‘training my weakness’. I turn left at the base of my village road and head toward Montesquieu des Alberes, our neighbour to the west on the mountain. A warm-up climb through the cork trees on mountain switchbacks and I’m wondering if my legs have it for what I’ve planned, a run up to St Jean des Alberes, the tiny village and 11th century church tucked in the Alberes above our valley.
Things get better when I make the downhill run back to the D618 and my legs are warmed up. The short leg to Le Boulou seems short now, after two weeks of cycling it every other day but it feels a bit strange to take the Le Perthu exit towards the Spanish border instead of continuing on to my rondpoint rendezvous with Geoff.
There is limited room for the bike between Les Thermes du Boulou and Les Cluses, two kilometres of dodging bits of broken bottles and roadside junk dropped carelessly by tourista drivers. I see more than one pulled over to urinate on the side of the road, and wonder what the locals think. The road is climbing at about a 7 percent grade, not too bad for me, and I’m able to keep a decent tempo. My heart rate seems to be a little low, likely a holdover from yesterday’s harder ride with Geoff. Heart rate is just additional information for me; I don’t limit my effort because of it, but it’s good to know how my body is responding to the work.
After Les Cluses, the traffic thins out and I’m able to use more of my lane. The 6 kilometers to Le Perthu goes quick and I turn onto the D71, a tiny mountain road snaking up past the Col del Perthu towards the Col de L’Ouillat. The one lane road gets steeper and stays that way, passing an occasional bench (do people walk this?) and a spigot piping spring water from the rock. The valley opens up below and a middle range is slowly sinking below me, exposing the outer peaks seen from my village. In just over an hour into my ride, I’m at the crossroads, eating a banana, and considering the vast differences in the landscape I’ve pedalled through. I haven’t seen any cars on this road, there is total silence. I push on the pedal and begin my way back.
2:03, 29.8, 2320ft
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Sur Mer
There’s a slight chill in the air this Wednesday morning as I roll up to the rondpoint in Le Boulou. The sun is just breaking on the Le Canigou; last week I saw the reddened peak on my way up the D618. We seem to be losing quite a bit of light in the morning, adding it to the end of the day.
Geoff is right on time, his new carbon Giant gleaming underneath him. While his bike is the latest model, full of carbon bits, his kit is a bit of an anachronism. He wears a yellow foam helmet and large mittens and an old pro jersey from the 80’s. Beneath the yellow helmet, he beams a ‘Bonjour!’ and we’re off on our 100k Wednesday ride.
Today’s route will take us over the now familiar climb through Vives and Llauro, north to Thuir and then east to Perpignan and coffee in Canet en Rousillon, then south along the Med to St Cyprien and Argeles and then up the Alberes range to our village of Villelongue. My legs feel a little tired yet from Sunday’s hard ride up the Vallespir, but a day off yesterday did wonders.
Geoff and I again pace each other up the Vives climb. The rises in the road are familiar now, and I know where there’s a bit of respite around this turn, or a mind-blowing panorama to distract me from my sore muscles around another. I notice more of the desert flowers are blooming this week, long slender green plants with lavender flowers. A slight fragrance is on the wind and it’s quiet enough to hear the echoed breathing of me and my riding partner. The descent comes just past the right turn away from Llauro. Geoff warns me of the sweat on the roads, condensation from the moist air and warmer road surface. Some days this can lead to black ice or ‘verglas’ but today is not so bad. One fast turn, at speed, is blind and particularly moist and it gets filed away for future caution. Just a couple taps on the brakes and I’m sailing into the flats between the vineyards, direction Thuir.
Between Thuir and Perpignan there’s an old rail line that’s been converted to a bike path, beautifully paved and offering a diversion from some of the broken pavement and pave in the villages. We jump on the path at Thuir and cruise along at 20mph, roughly abreast except when passing a jogger or slower cyclist. This is vineyard country and the dry stumps stretch in rows away from us, sometimes an old man or woman pruning the new growth away or just out for an inspection with a dog. The town of Canohes comes and goes. It seems like new road construction is happening in every town here, a testament to the rapid growth the area is experiencing.
I’m feeling good today and we keep the pace above twenty, steaming along the flats towards the sea. Geoff is a champion time-trialist, something that seems to be in the blood of British cyclists, and I try to glean bits from his form and technique. Once the basics are mastered, cycling is a nuanced art. It’s hard to pinpoint the necessary moment to accelerate, ease up, push through a pain, try to relax a muscle. Or the art of perception, of self, of others, of how to present yourself to others. In a peloton, riders are constantly looking at each others’ faces, looking for weakness, exhaustion, listening for hard breathing or watching for jerky movements on the bike. I know I’m being schooled a bit and enjoy the experience.
Our coffee stop is in Canet en Rousillon, a seaside suburb of Perpignan. Geoff scans futilely for an outdoor café, but we settle for a PMU on the main street. It’s smoky inside, a couple of patrons are into a second beer at 11am. The PMU is a state-run betting café, but the large screen tv on the wall is dark and it’s quiet. Geoff and I talk about travelling to the states and his idea about buying a 49 Buick with a straight 8. He saw one on Ebay in Iowa with 50,000 miles on it for 500 bucks.
The caffeine from the café crème moves me like a slow electric shock and we move our pace up to twenty-two on the seaside bike path. If you don’t look at the road signs, the scene is a carbon copy of the road between Laguna and Newport Beaches. The broad expanse of the sea, the grasses growing thinly in the sand and the misty grunge of salt and sand on buildings. St. Cyprien comes fast and a rear portion of my brain realizes I haven’t been eating much, so I now begin feeding. I’m sure that Geoff picks up on this right away; I’m not very fluid now, waiting for the carbs to get my blood sugar up, but he’s been following my wheel since Canet, so maybe he’s feeling the effort as much as I am.
Soon we’re in Argeles sur Mer and things are familiar. I’m feeling good again as we zip through rondpoints past closed tourist shops and the internet café, Web Mania. We pass the ‘feu’ and turn onto the D2 heading for Sorede and I point out the old Maison de Village sitting there, courtyard overgrown, but still projecting a gentility that comes with being over a hundred years old. A Vendre reads the sign and my visions of running a cycling gite in France come back. I’m sure the land alone is out of my price range, but who knows…?
The climb up the Alberes is hard, Sorede didn’t seem like it was this far before on my recovery ride the other day and Geoff has decided to pound away now. There’s a tiny muscle in my back that is spasming, stretching out into a time-trial position seems to help it, but that’s sends exactly the wrong signal to Geoff and our pace increases. I just about lose his wheel into Sorede, but the climb eases in town and I gain some recovery. There’s an adage in cycling that if you’re hurting, the other guys are too. This is helpful to remember and I chant it to myself as we attack the final climb into Villelongue.
I crack, the temptation of easing off on the pedals is too much, the shooting pain in my back too intense that they offset the concern I have for losing Geoff’s wheel. It’s just 50 meters and I coast up to him at our turn. He asks me for the ride numbers for today. “Not bad. That’s about 30k an hour. Most riders around here would think you were a star if you told ‘em you did that for a ‘undred k.” Then a pause. “You’ll fit.”
61.0, 3:20, 1940
Geoff is right on time, his new carbon Giant gleaming underneath him. While his bike is the latest model, full of carbon bits, his kit is a bit of an anachronism. He wears a yellow foam helmet and large mittens and an old pro jersey from the 80’s. Beneath the yellow helmet, he beams a ‘Bonjour!’ and we’re off on our 100k Wednesday ride.
Today’s route will take us over the now familiar climb through Vives and Llauro, north to Thuir and then east to Perpignan and coffee in Canet en Rousillon, then south along the Med to St Cyprien and Argeles and then up the Alberes range to our village of Villelongue. My legs feel a little tired yet from Sunday’s hard ride up the Vallespir, but a day off yesterday did wonders.
Geoff and I again pace each other up the Vives climb. The rises in the road are familiar now, and I know where there’s a bit of respite around this turn, or a mind-blowing panorama to distract me from my sore muscles around another. I notice more of the desert flowers are blooming this week, long slender green plants with lavender flowers. A slight fragrance is on the wind and it’s quiet enough to hear the echoed breathing of me and my riding partner. The descent comes just past the right turn away from Llauro. Geoff warns me of the sweat on the roads, condensation from the moist air and warmer road surface. Some days this can lead to black ice or ‘verglas’ but today is not so bad. One fast turn, at speed, is blind and particularly moist and it gets filed away for future caution. Just a couple taps on the brakes and I’m sailing into the flats between the vineyards, direction Thuir.
Between Thuir and Perpignan there’s an old rail line that’s been converted to a bike path, beautifully paved and offering a diversion from some of the broken pavement and pave in the villages. We jump on the path at Thuir and cruise along at 20mph, roughly abreast except when passing a jogger or slower cyclist. This is vineyard country and the dry stumps stretch in rows away from us, sometimes an old man or woman pruning the new growth away or just out for an inspection with a dog. The town of Canohes comes and goes. It seems like new road construction is happening in every town here, a testament to the rapid growth the area is experiencing.
I’m feeling good today and we keep the pace above twenty, steaming along the flats towards the sea. Geoff is a champion time-trialist, something that seems to be in the blood of British cyclists, and I try to glean bits from his form and technique. Once the basics are mastered, cycling is a nuanced art. It’s hard to pinpoint the necessary moment to accelerate, ease up, push through a pain, try to relax a muscle. Or the art of perception, of self, of others, of how to present yourself to others. In a peloton, riders are constantly looking at each others’ faces, looking for weakness, exhaustion, listening for hard breathing or watching for jerky movements on the bike. I know I’m being schooled a bit and enjoy the experience.
Our coffee stop is in Canet en Rousillon, a seaside suburb of Perpignan. Geoff scans futilely for an outdoor café, but we settle for a PMU on the main street. It’s smoky inside, a couple of patrons are into a second beer at 11am. The PMU is a state-run betting café, but the large screen tv on the wall is dark and it’s quiet. Geoff and I talk about travelling to the states and his idea about buying a 49 Buick with a straight 8. He saw one on Ebay in Iowa with 50,000 miles on it for 500 bucks.
The caffeine from the café crème moves me like a slow electric shock and we move our pace up to twenty-two on the seaside bike path. If you don’t look at the road signs, the scene is a carbon copy of the road between Laguna and Newport Beaches. The broad expanse of the sea, the grasses growing thinly in the sand and the misty grunge of salt and sand on buildings. St. Cyprien comes fast and a rear portion of my brain realizes I haven’t been eating much, so I now begin feeding. I’m sure that Geoff picks up on this right away; I’m not very fluid now, waiting for the carbs to get my blood sugar up, but he’s been following my wheel since Canet, so maybe he’s feeling the effort as much as I am.
Soon we’re in Argeles sur Mer and things are familiar. I’m feeling good again as we zip through rondpoints past closed tourist shops and the internet café, Web Mania. We pass the ‘feu’ and turn onto the D2 heading for Sorede and I point out the old Maison de Village sitting there, courtyard overgrown, but still projecting a gentility that comes with being over a hundred years old. A Vendre reads the sign and my visions of running a cycling gite in France come back. I’m sure the land alone is out of my price range, but who knows…?
The climb up the Alberes is hard, Sorede didn’t seem like it was this far before on my recovery ride the other day and Geoff has decided to pound away now. There’s a tiny muscle in my back that is spasming, stretching out into a time-trial position seems to help it, but that’s sends exactly the wrong signal to Geoff and our pace increases. I just about lose his wheel into Sorede, but the climb eases in town and I gain some recovery. There’s an adage in cycling that if you’re hurting, the other guys are too. This is helpful to remember and I chant it to myself as we attack the final climb into Villelongue.
I crack, the temptation of easing off on the pedals is too much, the shooting pain in my back too intense that they offset the concern I have for losing Geoff’s wheel. It’s just 50 meters and I coast up to him at our turn. He asks me for the ride numbers for today. “Not bad. That’s about 30k an hour. Most riders around here would think you were a star if you told ‘em you did that for a ‘undred k.” Then a pause. “You’ll fit.”
61.0, 3:20, 1940
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
The loop
15 January 2007
Today is cooler; the thermometer in my bike computer says 58 degrees, so I ride without leggings, wool socks, gloves and insulated hat, my usual outfit for early morning rides, but keep my thicker long-sleeved jersey. The afternoon sun is lower in the western sky, moving over the northern edge of the Alberes, so we get more sun here than farther up the road where it’s blocked by the Vallespir range.
The light here is beautiful. One of ma belle soeur’s neighbors in L’Etang la Ville mentioned that. She was from Marseilles and told us we would love the light here. The land is high-desert, similar to Flagstaff in Arizona or southern Utah, but the air is moist from the Mediteranean, so the light is a diffused and the landscape is diffused. On days like today, I can understand the Impressionists fascination with the area.
I’ve found a nice loop to do on a recovery day like today. Our village has three ‘main’ roads entering it, the D60a coming up from the valley floor and the D11 transecting it east to west. The village to the east of us, Laroque des Alberes, is just 2 kilometers down the road and is rumoured to have the best baguettes in the area. This has been unconfirmed as the damned Boulangerie never seems to be open. So far that honor has been claimed by the Boulangerie in Fourques, with its most amazing baguette longue, crunchy, almost pastry-like crust, with soft inside.
I pass the Boulangerie/patisserie in Laroque and it is indeed closed. The D2 comes up from the valley floor here and offers a tempting descent. I follow the sign for Sorede, the next town on the mountainside just a few more kilometres along. Sorede’s developing vacation homes have almost reached Laroque. A short descent and climb and neat, stucco homes with creative names pop up. ‘Terre de Chien’ strikes me as an appropriate description of what has happened and is happening to this place. As I approach the sea, the intensity of the development increases. Pizza places, pony clubs, culminating in a sea of trashy little shops in Argeles sur Mer. I’ll avoid that today, just touching Argeles before heading back on my loop.
Sorede presents a complicated tangle of bridges, small roads and twists in my route. Here the D11 decides to go north to the valley floor and the omnipresent D2 takes over as the mountain road to Argeles. If one isn’t careful about following the sign to Argeles, the road begins to quickly descend towards St Andre below. On a bike, this means an added bit of climbing to get back to the village and the road to Argeles.
The 6.5 k between the villages is filled with a mixture of pine, cork-oak, older houses with messy yards and vacation villas with security systems set. What will this place be like in 5 years? 10? The TGV is burrowing through the Spanish side of the mountain and Parisians will be able to whirr to Barcelona in a few hours, and the new, multi-lane D618 will open up more of the surrounding areas to Perpigan commuters wanting to live out in the rural areas. Geoff first came through the Perpigan area in 1965 when it was just a small, two-lane road linking the cities of the coast.
I turn at the light, direction St Andre and avoid traffic seeking the Autoroute and the 618. The platane trees line the old 618 and there’s little traffic here. The road appears flat, but it’s a false flat, the road rising with the river Tech nearby. Le Canigou squats in the distance, and the Aspres hills rise on my right. I can see Villelongue on the mountainside, just below Laroque. It’s been a nice ride today.
1:01, 15.1, 540
Today is cooler; the thermometer in my bike computer says 58 degrees, so I ride without leggings, wool socks, gloves and insulated hat, my usual outfit for early morning rides, but keep my thicker long-sleeved jersey. The afternoon sun is lower in the western sky, moving over the northern edge of the Alberes, so we get more sun here than farther up the road where it’s blocked by the Vallespir range.
The light here is beautiful. One of ma belle soeur’s neighbors in L’Etang la Ville mentioned that. She was from Marseilles and told us we would love the light here. The land is high-desert, similar to Flagstaff in Arizona or southern Utah, but the air is moist from the Mediteranean, so the light is a diffused and the landscape is diffused. On days like today, I can understand the Impressionists fascination with the area.
I’ve found a nice loop to do on a recovery day like today. Our village has three ‘main’ roads entering it, the D60a coming up from the valley floor and the D11 transecting it east to west. The village to the east of us, Laroque des Alberes, is just 2 kilometers down the road and is rumoured to have the best baguettes in the area. This has been unconfirmed as the damned Boulangerie never seems to be open. So far that honor has been claimed by the Boulangerie in Fourques, with its most amazing baguette longue, crunchy, almost pastry-like crust, with soft inside.
I pass the Boulangerie/patisserie in Laroque and it is indeed closed. The D2 comes up from the valley floor here and offers a tempting descent. I follow the sign for Sorede, the next town on the mountainside just a few more kilometres along. Sorede’s developing vacation homes have almost reached Laroque. A short descent and climb and neat, stucco homes with creative names pop up. ‘Terre de Chien’ strikes me as an appropriate description of what has happened and is happening to this place. As I approach the sea, the intensity of the development increases. Pizza places, pony clubs, culminating in a sea of trashy little shops in Argeles sur Mer. I’ll avoid that today, just touching Argeles before heading back on my loop.
Sorede presents a complicated tangle of bridges, small roads and twists in my route. Here the D11 decides to go north to the valley floor and the omnipresent D2 takes over as the mountain road to Argeles. If one isn’t careful about following the sign to Argeles, the road begins to quickly descend towards St Andre below. On a bike, this means an added bit of climbing to get back to the village and the road to Argeles.
The 6.5 k between the villages is filled with a mixture of pine, cork-oak, older houses with messy yards and vacation villas with security systems set. What will this place be like in 5 years? 10? The TGV is burrowing through the Spanish side of the mountain and Parisians will be able to whirr to Barcelona in a few hours, and the new, multi-lane D618 will open up more of the surrounding areas to Perpigan commuters wanting to live out in the rural areas. Geoff first came through the Perpigan area in 1965 when it was just a small, two-lane road linking the cities of the coast.
I turn at the light, direction St Andre and avoid traffic seeking the Autoroute and the 618. The platane trees line the old 618 and there’s little traffic here. The road appears flat, but it’s a false flat, the road rising with the river Tech nearby. Le Canigou squats in the distance, and the Aspres hills rise on my right. I can see Villelongue on the mountainside, just below Laroque. It’s been a nice ride today.
1:01, 15.1, 540
Monday, January 15, 2007
La Tech
14/01/2007
Six more k’s to Le Tech. My legs were burning, my heart rate was way into my anaerobic zone and my back was screaming at me to sit up. How long was six kilometres in miles? It took me a minute or so in my foggy head to figure that one out, enough time to do about 750 meters; how many kilometres did that leave? Could I keep this up long enough to distract myself? The big unknown was what the road would do. Would it continue pushing up at 8-9% or might it settle down into a more gentle grade? Would the grimpeur sitting on the front ease up; was he at his limit, pushing us along at 18mph?
How many k’s to Le Tech? Maybe three and the fellow in front of me loses his wheel. We’re gapped and there is no way I can climb over him to catch that wheel. The voices win and I ease up on the pedals. I have been climbing with the club since Le Boulou, about 30k down the road. Earlier this morning I met Geoff at our rondpoint in Le Boulou and we road the 15k up to Amelie les Bains to meet the club. From Amelie, we rode BACK down to Le Boulou and turned around at the rondpoint and headed back up again. Soon the club was strung out and by Amelie we were a front group of six riders being led by a big rider with an unending supply of climbing power. Geoff assured me he only rode once a week, with the club. The guy had fresh legs.
As we powered along the river Tech, the gorge we were in narrowed to a typical mountain road, switchbacking up and up. I focused on spinning at a higher cadence and holding my wheel. Geoff was just behind me, churning away and the trees began changing from cork-oak and small desert scrub to pine forest. Spring water was running from pipes in the rock. Arles sur Tech comes and goes, another collection of resort buildings.
When Le Tech finally arrives, I’m about two minutes behind my mates. I get a big smile from the leader and we roll down to meet the rest of the group farther down the mountain, and then turn around and ascend more slowly as a complete group. Smiles, slaps on the back and conversation and then were heading down the mountain road. Finally my 100 kilos are put to good use and I take turns on the front of a smaller group of descenders swooping though turns at 30mph. It’s not an overly technical descent, like the run from Vives that Geoff and I have done, but it’s still a rush and we begin to work harder to gain position for the sprint to road sign at Arles sur Tech. Of course I don’t know exactly what we’re sprinting for and mention this to Geoff later, after he wins it. “That’s Ok, you wouldn’t have won it anyway, “he says with a smile.
4:33, 76.5, 2940ft
Six more k’s to Le Tech. My legs were burning, my heart rate was way into my anaerobic zone and my back was screaming at me to sit up. How long was six kilometres in miles? It took me a minute or so in my foggy head to figure that one out, enough time to do about 750 meters; how many kilometres did that leave? Could I keep this up long enough to distract myself? The big unknown was what the road would do. Would it continue pushing up at 8-9% or might it settle down into a more gentle grade? Would the grimpeur sitting on the front ease up; was he at his limit, pushing us along at 18mph?
How many k’s to Le Tech? Maybe three and the fellow in front of me loses his wheel. We’re gapped and there is no way I can climb over him to catch that wheel. The voices win and I ease up on the pedals. I have been climbing with the club since Le Boulou, about 30k down the road. Earlier this morning I met Geoff at our rondpoint in Le Boulou and we road the 15k up to Amelie les Bains to meet the club. From Amelie, we rode BACK down to Le Boulou and turned around at the rondpoint and headed back up again. Soon the club was strung out and by Amelie we were a front group of six riders being led by a big rider with an unending supply of climbing power. Geoff assured me he only rode once a week, with the club. The guy had fresh legs.
As we powered along the river Tech, the gorge we were in narrowed to a typical mountain road, switchbacking up and up. I focused on spinning at a higher cadence and holding my wheel. Geoff was just behind me, churning away and the trees began changing from cork-oak and small desert scrub to pine forest. Spring water was running from pipes in the rock. Arles sur Tech comes and goes, another collection of resort buildings.
When Le Tech finally arrives, I’m about two minutes behind my mates. I get a big smile from the leader and we roll down to meet the rest of the group farther down the mountain, and then turn around and ascend more slowly as a complete group. Smiles, slaps on the back and conversation and then were heading down the mountain road. Finally my 100 kilos are put to good use and I take turns on the front of a smaller group of descenders swooping though turns at 30mph. It’s not an overly technical descent, like the run from Vives that Geoff and I have done, but it’s still a rush and we begin to work harder to gain position for the sprint to road sign at Arles sur Tech. Of course I don’t know exactly what we’re sprinting for and mention this to Geoff later, after he wins it. “That’s Ok, you wouldn’t have won it anyway, “he says with a smile.
4:33, 76.5, 2940ft
Veloland
11 January 2007
Veloland is located just west of Perpignan on the N114. Riding on the N114 is a bit like riding on an I94 when it enters downtown Chicago; there’s a shoulder, but not over the bridges. My riding mate signals with his hand to the traffic behind us that we’re moving from the shoulder to the lane, but I don’t think anyone notices at 135 kilometers an hour. This is only a 7k jog from the very quiet D40 from Villeneuve de la Roha and points south and I think I might be the first dad to die attempting to get a roadbike for his son.
We exit at a large rondpoint and I immediately see that Veloland shares a border with another bike shop. We visit the other shop first, riding in the door and unclipping once we’re past the fleet of motor scooters parked inside the door. Geoff needs a front derailleur braze-on adapter for his TCR that he’s building and I find the owner to ask about an Orbea Carrerra avec les roués 24 pouces. My bicycle French is still a work in progress, but we communicate and he shows me a 2006 Orbea hanging at the back of the shop. I feel a sense of relief. My son and I already visited the more local shop to us, Cycles Alberes. Lionel, the proprietor, was very nice, but we discovered looking through the catalogue that Orbea wasn’t making the Carrerra in 2007. Mon Dieu! So off to Perpignan we went.
Basically, small road bikes break down into three groups here. At the gigantic Decathlon chain stores, there’s the 125€ Decathlon bike, with downtube shifters and pressed together hubs. Reminds of my first 10 speed, a Sears Free Spirit my dad bought from a friend. It’s not a great memory. I was in 7th grade and promptly turned a local charity ride into an opportunity to ride a century. The bike promptly fell apart and thus began my apprenticeship as a bike mechanic.
The upper level bikes are made by the likes of Colnago and a few other Italian makers. For about a 1000€ you get a aluminium frame with low end Campy components. While the appeal of having my youngest riding a Pinnarello is attractive, I’m more attracted to having him on a mid-level bike with equivalent frame and Sora components.
The Orbea has older 7 speed Sora and a crank that is pressed together. Alex rims and Zeus bars and stem. I’m not impressed with the vaunted paint work, but maybe that because of the dust on it. He’s asking 639.00 for it, which is above retail. I would think he might deal on a 2006 covered in dust, but no. We move on to Veloland.
The striking thing about Veloland is the dog that protects it. Put a Sharpei’s head on the body of a pit bull and you have an idea of the dog that greeted us at the door. Geoff bent to pet it and got a nice bark. “Don’t be afraid, it doesn’t bite.” Geoff needed another bit that he had ordered and I made my request again, maybe in better French as there wasn’t any confusion, and I was shown two Giants, both with 8sp Sora drivetrains and shorter reach levers for little hands. The finishes were just as nice as the Orbea and there was a reduction in the price!
So on Tuesday, Karl and I have a date to visit Veloland. Johann will be getting a smaller bike from Geoff to ride and we’re envisioning days on the piste cyclable, riding together as a family.
1:42, 29.4, 820ft
Veloland is located just west of Perpignan on the N114. Riding on the N114 is a bit like riding on an I94 when it enters downtown Chicago; there’s a shoulder, but not over the bridges. My riding mate signals with his hand to the traffic behind us that we’re moving from the shoulder to the lane, but I don’t think anyone notices at 135 kilometers an hour. This is only a 7k jog from the very quiet D40 from Villeneuve de la Roha and points south and I think I might be the first dad to die attempting to get a roadbike for his son.
We exit at a large rondpoint and I immediately see that Veloland shares a border with another bike shop. We visit the other shop first, riding in the door and unclipping once we’re past the fleet of motor scooters parked inside the door. Geoff needs a front derailleur braze-on adapter for his TCR that he’s building and I find the owner to ask about an Orbea Carrerra avec les roués 24 pouces. My bicycle French is still a work in progress, but we communicate and he shows me a 2006 Orbea hanging at the back of the shop. I feel a sense of relief. My son and I already visited the more local shop to us, Cycles Alberes. Lionel, the proprietor, was very nice, but we discovered looking through the catalogue that Orbea wasn’t making the Carrerra in 2007. Mon Dieu! So off to Perpignan we went.
Basically, small road bikes break down into three groups here. At the gigantic Decathlon chain stores, there’s the 125€ Decathlon bike, with downtube shifters and pressed together hubs. Reminds of my first 10 speed, a Sears Free Spirit my dad bought from a friend. It’s not a great memory. I was in 7th grade and promptly turned a local charity ride into an opportunity to ride a century. The bike promptly fell apart and thus began my apprenticeship as a bike mechanic.
The upper level bikes are made by the likes of Colnago and a few other Italian makers. For about a 1000€ you get a aluminium frame with low end Campy components. While the appeal of having my youngest riding a Pinnarello is attractive, I’m more attracted to having him on a mid-level bike with equivalent frame and Sora components.
The Orbea has older 7 speed Sora and a crank that is pressed together. Alex rims and Zeus bars and stem. I’m not impressed with the vaunted paint work, but maybe that because of the dust on it. He’s asking 639.00 for it, which is above retail. I would think he might deal on a 2006 covered in dust, but no. We move on to Veloland.
The striking thing about Veloland is the dog that protects it. Put a Sharpei’s head on the body of a pit bull and you have an idea of the dog that greeted us at the door. Geoff bent to pet it and got a nice bark. “Don’t be afraid, it doesn’t bite.” Geoff needed another bit that he had ordered and I made my request again, maybe in better French as there wasn’t any confusion, and I was shown two Giants, both with 8sp Sora drivetrains and shorter reach levers for little hands. The finishes were just as nice as the Orbea and there was a reduction in the price!
So on Tuesday, Karl and I have a date to visit Veloland. Johann will be getting a smaller bike from Geoff to ride and we’re envisioning days on the piste cyclable, riding together as a family.
1:42, 29.4, 820ft
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Castelnou
1/10/07
Dark clouds hang on the Alberes range behind me as I descend to the valley road and take the D618, or one of it's offspring, towards Le Boulou to meet Geoff and venture on a slightly longer, 100k ride today.
I'm there early and so is he so we'll have a few more minutes at the cafe in Millas later. I'm familiar with the D13 now and notice that there are artificial lakes to the left, originally made by the Romans, for swimming. St Jean Pla de Corts arrives and we dip into the first rond point, take the first exit and head towards Vives for a 6k climb.
Feeling good and knowing where the road kicks, and knowing that we have lots of k's in front of us, I relax into the effort and tap out a beat. The clouds have lifted on our part of the valley, but around the Pic de Trois Termes and my village of Villelongue the clouds are still clinging. After the descent, some familiar towns, Llauro, Torderes, Montauriol and Fourques and then we continue north.
Past St Colombe de la Commanderie, we head towards Thuir under two rows of ancient Plains trees and acres of lettuces, peaches and grapes. Geoff shares that during the grape season he brings a plastic bag and some snippers to bring grapes back home and during the peach season he never runs low on food.
In the midst of this beauty and abundance, a row of shanties just over the road's gutter. It's a school day, but kids wander around. "Gypsies," Geoff offers. This leads to a discussion about the right wing politics of the entire Med region of France. Thuir interrupts us as we skirt the larger town single file. It's easier to follow him as we sometimes dodge quickly into an alley or take a sharp exit on a fast rond point. Geoff's been riding these roads nearly every day for four years and knows all of the routes and their variations.
Soon we're in Millas, a gritty and interesting town with older architecture and years of use evident on the facades, much different than the sun-splashed retirement and vacation villages where we're staying. At the Cafe de Midi, I follow Geoff to the outside tables and we order deux cafes au lait grandes and enjoy people watching for a while. I take the opportunity to take off some layers and my hat and leggings. It's warmed up to about 60.
Amazing what coffee does for the soul and the legs, I think as we roll out of Millas, heading south towards home. I see a sign for Thuir and think we'll retrace our route back. Then there is a sign for Castelnou and we take a hard right, heading for an imposing mountain. I look for routes to the right or left, but no, we're going to head up. Funny, Geoff didn't mention this.
Castelnou is a fortress and village dating from before the 12th century and one was one of the main defensive positions of the Albigois or Cathars that rebelled against the Orthodoxy of the Church. The fortress is perched high on the mountain with a lookout tower forward on another hill, commanding the entire route ascending the valley. In 1209, the Cathars were defeated after the Vatican offered their lands to anyone that defeated them.
We're heading up switchbacks now and the road is kicking, kicking. It's almost alive; I can feel the asphalt grabbing my legs, but we're keeping a good pace. A ancient Renault is following us a few hundred meters behind, and beeps when we're on parallel swithbacks. A friendly beep, admitting it couldn't go any faster if it wanted to. How many k is this?
Turns out to be about 7 as we crest one hill and are greeted by one of the most amazing sites I've seen so far, an ancient castle, square with an equally ancient village perched impossibly at it's base on the steep slopes. We descent a bit and then climb for real. I have no idea where the top is, but Geoff does and sprints for the mountain points and I know we're at the summit.
Soon we're descending on the D2 and we're back in Fourques for our route home.
Dark clouds hang on the Alberes range behind me as I descend to the valley road and take the D618, or one of it's offspring, towards Le Boulou to meet Geoff and venture on a slightly longer, 100k ride today.
I'm there early and so is he so we'll have a few more minutes at the cafe in Millas later. I'm familiar with the D13 now and notice that there are artificial lakes to the left, originally made by the Romans, for swimming. St Jean Pla de Corts arrives and we dip into the first rond point, take the first exit and head towards Vives for a 6k climb.
Feeling good and knowing where the road kicks, and knowing that we have lots of k's in front of us, I relax into the effort and tap out a beat. The clouds have lifted on our part of the valley, but around the Pic de Trois Termes and my village of Villelongue the clouds are still clinging. After the descent, some familiar towns, Llauro, Torderes, Montauriol and Fourques and then we continue north.
Past St Colombe de la Commanderie, we head towards Thuir under two rows of ancient Plains trees and acres of lettuces, peaches and grapes. Geoff shares that during the grape season he brings a plastic bag and some snippers to bring grapes back home and during the peach season he never runs low on food.
In the midst of this beauty and abundance, a row of shanties just over the road's gutter. It's a school day, but kids wander around. "Gypsies," Geoff offers. This leads to a discussion about the right wing politics of the entire Med region of France. Thuir interrupts us as we skirt the larger town single file. It's easier to follow him as we sometimes dodge quickly into an alley or take a sharp exit on a fast rond point. Geoff's been riding these roads nearly every day for four years and knows all of the routes and their variations.
Soon we're in Millas, a gritty and interesting town with older architecture and years of use evident on the facades, much different than the sun-splashed retirement and vacation villages where we're staying. At the Cafe de Midi, I follow Geoff to the outside tables and we order deux cafes au lait grandes and enjoy people watching for a while. I take the opportunity to take off some layers and my hat and leggings. It's warmed up to about 60.
Amazing what coffee does for the soul and the legs, I think as we roll out of Millas, heading south towards home. I see a sign for Thuir and think we'll retrace our route back. Then there is a sign for Castelnou and we take a hard right, heading for an imposing mountain. I look for routes to the right or left, but no, we're going to head up. Funny, Geoff didn't mention this.
Castelnou is a fortress and village dating from before the 12th century and one was one of the main defensive positions of the Albigois or Cathars that rebelled against the Orthodoxy of the Church. The fortress is perched high on the mountain with a lookout tower forward on another hill, commanding the entire route ascending the valley. In 1209, the Cathars were defeated after the Vatican offered their lands to anyone that defeated them.
We're heading up switchbacks now and the road is kicking, kicking. It's almost alive; I can feel the asphalt grabbing my legs, but we're keeping a good pace. A ancient Renault is following us a few hundred meters behind, and beeps when we're on parallel swithbacks. A friendly beep, admitting it couldn't go any faster if it wanted to. How many k is this?
Turns out to be about 7 as we crest one hill and are greeted by one of the most amazing sites I've seen so far, an ancient castle, square with an equally ancient village perched impossibly at it's base on the steep slopes. We descent a bit and then climb for real. I have no idea where the top is, but Geoff does and sprints for the mountain points and I know we're at the summit.
Soon we're descending on the D2 and we're back in Fourques for our route home.
Vives
1/8/07
The air is decidedly colder today, not much wind, but there's a chill in the air and the early morning sky is cloudy. I'm early to the meeting point at the rond point in Le Boulou and take a stretch. Suddenly, there's a rider going over the bridge, red Vento velo with Spinergy aero wheels; Geoff is early, too.
Today's a climbing day, so Geoff takes me from Le Boulou west on the D115 to St Jean Plat de Cors, there we leave the flat valley road and turn north on the D13 on the Route de Lieges--The Cork Road, direction Vives. The road narrows and twist back and forth a few times up a modest grade and we hit the tiny village of Vives.
The road kicks up and doesn't stop once we exit the village and head on towards Llauro. Geoff keeps the pace constant and the grade never gets much past 9% or so and I'm able to spin without going into the red. This is only our second ride together and I'm concious of that natural tendency for competitive cyclists to test each other's legs.
The road continues to kick and climb and I begin to see the vistas of the valley floor towards my village of Villelongue and the Alberes range. Le Pic de Trois Termes, straddling the Spanish border, is easy to pick out with the mast on top. Le Canigou dominates the north and now I'm beginning to see the azure expanse of the Med stretching to the east.
I'm careful not to dip into the inside of the switchbacks, a temptation immediately paid for with a doubling of the grade climbing back to the center of the road. The occasional car peaks around a bend, keeping me from moving past the center line. I'm always concious of keeping a half wheel on my partner, a subtle statement that I'm fit and holding my own.
We reach the top in about six kilometers. This is the longest climb I've done in quite a long time and I'm invigorated. I can do this, I am a good rider; why do I need to keep proving this to myself? On the descent, I follow Geoff through the turns, some of which are damp with morning dew, and when the road straightens out on the plain, he asks if I have my license with me. There's a semi-pro race in the middle of Februrary, Le Tour de Sol.
I passed my test.
32.3, 1:57, 1540 ft
The air is decidedly colder today, not much wind, but there's a chill in the air and the early morning sky is cloudy. I'm early to the meeting point at the rond point in Le Boulou and take a stretch. Suddenly, there's a rider going over the bridge, red Vento velo with Spinergy aero wheels; Geoff is early, too.
Today's a climbing day, so Geoff takes me from Le Boulou west on the D115 to St Jean Plat de Cors, there we leave the flat valley road and turn north on the D13 on the Route de Lieges--The Cork Road, direction Vives. The road narrows and twist back and forth a few times up a modest grade and we hit the tiny village of Vives.
The road kicks up and doesn't stop once we exit the village and head on towards Llauro. Geoff keeps the pace constant and the grade never gets much past 9% or so and I'm able to spin without going into the red. This is only our second ride together and I'm concious of that natural tendency for competitive cyclists to test each other's legs.
The road continues to kick and climb and I begin to see the vistas of the valley floor towards my village of Villelongue and the Alberes range. Le Pic de Trois Termes, straddling the Spanish border, is easy to pick out with the mast on top. Le Canigou dominates the north and now I'm beginning to see the azure expanse of the Med stretching to the east.
I'm careful not to dip into the inside of the switchbacks, a temptation immediately paid for with a doubling of the grade climbing back to the center of the road. The occasional car peaks around a bend, keeping me from moving past the center line. I'm always concious of keeping a half wheel on my partner, a subtle statement that I'm fit and holding my own.
We reach the top in about six kilometers. This is the longest climb I've done in quite a long time and I'm invigorated. I can do this, I am a good rider; why do I need to keep proving this to myself? On the descent, I follow Geoff through the turns, some of which are damp with morning dew, and when the road straightens out on the plain, he asks if I have my license with me. There's a semi-pro race in the middle of Februrary, Le Tour de Sol.
I passed my test.
32.3, 1:57, 1540 ft
La Premier
1/7/07
The eastern sky over the Mediterranean starts to lighten about 7:15 and I get my bike and body primed for my first club ride in Rousillon. The Amelie les Bains club meets at 9am in the centre ville, about 25 kilometers up the road. I'm going to meet Geoff Smith in Le Boulou, 8k west of here and ride up with him.
Geoff and I got connected on the Internet, through an inquiry I made about cycling in the area. I had emailed about eight clubs with no replies when I found a posting he had made. A quick email and we were connected. He raced professionally back in the 60's, but when I meet him, with his helmet and riding kit on, it's hard to tell how old he is and I found out during the ride, he's still quite capable of making one hurt.
Geoff meets me at the large rond point west of Le Boulou and we head up the road, literally, because the road climbs all the way to the Spanish border. The river Tech flows next to the road and palm trees gradually give way to pines as we pass through small towns and villages, St. Jean Pla des Corts, Ceret, La Cabanasse, La Forge. Geoff talks about the club, his worries about falling membership and the aging of the riders, issues familiar to me and my own club. I'm filled with a combination of excitement, riding in a new place with a new club and the lasting effects of jet lag and interrupted sleep.
We roll into the resort town of Amelie les Bains and Geoff points out where the old Roman bridge used to stand and the old village, up the hillside from the Roman baths. Our meeting place has a couple of cyclists waiting, older men dressed in lycra kits and smiling broadly as Geoff introduces me. He keeps calling me Steve, confusing me with a 22yr old neo pro who soon pulls up. This becomes a running joke, especially when he mixes up our names when introducing us.
The real Steve just accepted a contract to ride with a team based in Toulouse and we talk a lot as we drift down the valley, retracing the ride Geoff and I just did. It's an easy pace, mostly coasting around the corners, not really a warm-up, but a cool-down after pedalling 25k up. Steve will be racing a full schedule starting in early Februrary and continuing until October, including a lot of big races like the Tour de Vendee.
At the sign for Montesquieu les Alberes, we turn up the mountain and climb, my goal is to just stick to the front part of the group, but not work too hard. So I spin away as the group splinters from 20 down to about 6. The climb enters the narrow streets of the village as it's waking up. People off to the boulangerie for the morning baguette and some older folks out walking their dogs. The road climbs past the village before settling in on a series of downhill hairpin turns through olive and cork orchards, descending the mountainside to my village of Villelongue dels Monts.
It feels like fall in the midwest. The air is dry and the leaves are a crackling mixture of rust and greens. The views from the road looking north to Perpignan and beyond are breathtaking as is the immense Le Canigou, the rocky peak that overlooks the plains running to the Mediterranean.
Villelongue comes and goes in a flash of old walls and new construction. We follow the signs for Argeles sur Mer and head directly for the sea.
70.2 miles, 4:04, 2440ft
The eastern sky over the Mediterranean starts to lighten about 7:15 and I get my bike and body primed for my first club ride in Rousillon. The Amelie les Bains club meets at 9am in the centre ville, about 25 kilometers up the road. I'm going to meet Geoff Smith in Le Boulou, 8k west of here and ride up with him.
Geoff and I got connected on the Internet, through an inquiry I made about cycling in the area. I had emailed about eight clubs with no replies when I found a posting he had made. A quick email and we were connected. He raced professionally back in the 60's, but when I meet him, with his helmet and riding kit on, it's hard to tell how old he is and I found out during the ride, he's still quite capable of making one hurt.
Geoff meets me at the large rond point west of Le Boulou and we head up the road, literally, because the road climbs all the way to the Spanish border. The river Tech flows next to the road and palm trees gradually give way to pines as we pass through small towns and villages, St. Jean Pla des Corts, Ceret, La Cabanasse, La Forge. Geoff talks about the club, his worries about falling membership and the aging of the riders, issues familiar to me and my own club. I'm filled with a combination of excitement, riding in a new place with a new club and the lasting effects of jet lag and interrupted sleep.
We roll into the resort town of Amelie les Bains and Geoff points out where the old Roman bridge used to stand and the old village, up the hillside from the Roman baths. Our meeting place has a couple of cyclists waiting, older men dressed in lycra kits and smiling broadly as Geoff introduces me. He keeps calling me Steve, confusing me with a 22yr old neo pro who soon pulls up. This becomes a running joke, especially when he mixes up our names when introducing us.
The real Steve just accepted a contract to ride with a team based in Toulouse and we talk a lot as we drift down the valley, retracing the ride Geoff and I just did. It's an easy pace, mostly coasting around the corners, not really a warm-up, but a cool-down after pedalling 25k up. Steve will be racing a full schedule starting in early Februrary and continuing until October, including a lot of big races like the Tour de Vendee.
At the sign for Montesquieu les Alberes, we turn up the mountain and climb, my goal is to just stick to the front part of the group, but not work too hard. So I spin away as the group splinters from 20 down to about 6. The climb enters the narrow streets of the village as it's waking up. People off to the boulangerie for the morning baguette and some older folks out walking their dogs. The road climbs past the village before settling in on a series of downhill hairpin turns through olive and cork orchards, descending the mountainside to my village of Villelongue dels Monts.
It feels like fall in the midwest. The air is dry and the leaves are a crackling mixture of rust and greens. The views from the road looking north to Perpignan and beyond are breathtaking as is the immense Le Canigou, the rocky peak that overlooks the plains running to the Mediterranean.
Villelongue comes and goes in a flash of old walls and new construction. We follow the signs for Argeles sur Mer and head directly for the sea.
70.2 miles, 4:04, 2440ft
Friday, January 05, 2007
another trip round
The debate is whether to spend another day here in L'etang la ville or head south and spend a night south of Clermont-Ferrand and split our trip to Villelongue into two shorter moves. In the end, we decide the need to do laundry, pack and get another ride in outweigh the downside of driving 8 hrs on the autoroute.
The wind is stronger out of the west than our ride Wednesday. I'm by myself and need to get some of the rust out of the legs, so the pace is up quite a bit. The sky is more gray than white, but slivers of sun cast shadows every once in a while. I notice more this time around: the ivy is dark emerald, several bushes are blooming purple and white and a slight scent of flowers is on the breeze. All of this is terribly unusual for winter in Paris. They say this is the warmest winter in 500 years, which is incredible in two ways. One that there is yet another incredibly obvious sign of global warming and it's having a direct, observable impact on life all around us. Too often, lately, humans, especially those in the Bush administration, appear to be a bunch of blind men wandering around a huge bull elephant, only this time they don't even bother to feel.
The second amazing thing to this American is the Europeans have been keeping records for this long.
I move quickly through my familiar villes and climb into Chavenay and Feuchrolles, feeling strong. This is one of those rides when everything is clicking and I feel some assurance that I haven't lost all of my fitness.
I ride down the hill north of the ville in front of a truck, 30, 40 and peaking just short of 50. It strikes me that this is like hang gliding, descending on a bike through the forest at speed, the countersteer and lean in the turns and the easy confidence that comes from doing something hundreds of times.
Now I know the route through Aigremont and the high road through Chambourcy. The sense memories of my ride with Janet bubble up. Funny how smell, muscular effort, visuals can be tied to particular places and times and then come back so readily and clearly.
Past the school and down to the horticultural center
The climb up on the Princess Road and I see two mountain bikers, a quick 'bonjour!' and 'agauche!' and I'm by, continuing the long, grade to the crossroads in the woods. A new sign sticks in my head, La Route Forestiere Royale. Beautiful. My sister-in-laws lesson about the disappearing circumflex pops into my head. Foret (imagine the circumflex that's not on my keyboard) becomes Forestiere, with an s instead of a circumflex. A tiny insight into the great mystery that is French for an American.
Cloudy, 48 degrees, Wind WNW 12mph
19.6m, 1:16, HR146/174, 1180ft
The wind is stronger out of the west than our ride Wednesday. I'm by myself and need to get some of the rust out of the legs, so the pace is up quite a bit. The sky is more gray than white, but slivers of sun cast shadows every once in a while. I notice more this time around: the ivy is dark emerald, several bushes are blooming purple and white and a slight scent of flowers is on the breeze. All of this is terribly unusual for winter in Paris. They say this is the warmest winter in 500 years, which is incredible in two ways. One that there is yet another incredibly obvious sign of global warming and it's having a direct, observable impact on life all around us. Too often, lately, humans, especially those in the Bush administration, appear to be a bunch of blind men wandering around a huge bull elephant, only this time they don't even bother to feel.
The second amazing thing to this American is the Europeans have been keeping records for this long.
I move quickly through my familiar villes and climb into Chavenay and Feuchrolles, feeling strong. This is one of those rides when everything is clicking and I feel some assurance that I haven't lost all of my fitness.
I ride down the hill north of the ville in front of a truck, 30, 40 and peaking just short of 50. It strikes me that this is like hang gliding, descending on a bike through the forest at speed, the countersteer and lean in the turns and the easy confidence that comes from doing something hundreds of times.
Now I know the route through Aigremont and the high road through Chambourcy. The sense memories of my ride with Janet bubble up. Funny how smell, muscular effort, visuals can be tied to particular places and times and then come back so readily and clearly.
Past the school and down to the horticultural center
The climb up on the Princess Road and I see two mountain bikers, a quick 'bonjour!' and 'agauche!' and I'm by, continuing the long, grade to the crossroads in the woods. A new sign sticks in my head, La Route Forestiere Royale. Beautiful. My sister-in-laws lesson about the disappearing circumflex pops into my head. Foret (imagine the circumflex that's not on my keyboard) becomes Forestiere, with an s instead of a circumflex. A tiny insight into the great mystery that is French for an American.
Cloudy, 48 degrees, Wind WNW 12mph
19.6m, 1:16, HR146/174, 1180ft
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Le Retour
1/3/07
The contrast between the slate sky and the jade green hills west of L'Etang la Ville brings out the wonder in the day's ride to Feuchrolles. Janet and I coast down the familiar route first climbing into the foret domianale and then descending through Rennemoulin and the quaint edge of Villepreux before climbing up the cobbles in Chavenay.
The wind is blowing out of the west, but the temperature is a moderate 46 and damp air feels much warmer than what we've grown accustomed to on our late December rides in Iowa and Wisconsin. I warn my wife about the rond points, that the accumalated diesel exhaust makes the tarmac greasy, but then realize the winter rain has rinsed everything and the traction is fine.
We are both enjoying the sensation of blood moving through our stiff legs and the feeling of moist air filling our lungs. We've fallen deeply in love with the movement of cycling, a familiar handhold as we venture into an unknown three month adventure to a new place. Bicycle as locomotion between villages; bicycle as movement internally, a cleansing of the self; bicycle as movement together, bringing us closer; and, bicycle as a bridge between cultures, a lingua franca to form relationships in a new place.
We have to endure a less than idyllic sojourn onto the D309 to Feuchrolles, but then jump off to take the Rue de Poissy through the centre ville. This was my big discovery on my last ride in France and Janet loves our narrow road overlooking the Seine and the edge of Paris.
A short reunion with the 309 through the Foret Dominial de Marly and we take a sharp right, leaving the tempting descent to Poissy, and head to Aigremont. 'Eagle Mountain' is a more suburban village, but still has the feel of the traditional architecture. The road climbs and curls and we turn back towards the forest at my nephew's school campus, passing the horticultural center and finding the old royal hunting road, the Route de Princess.
It's curious that just a few minutes from the bustle of one of the world's largest cities, is a forest with numerous paths and small, carless roads, but it's one of the legacies of the French monarchy's need for hunting grounds and their ruthless protection of them for their own hunting pleasure. Now they're a gift to the people of France.
We're past the gare de St. Nom and coast down narrow cobbled streets to my sister-in-laws home. After a long, sleepless flight and 14 hours of sleep in a darkened room, we are recovered, refreshed and feeling a bit like we're coming home.
The contrast between the slate sky and the jade green hills west of L'Etang la Ville brings out the wonder in the day's ride to Feuchrolles. Janet and I coast down the familiar route first climbing into the foret domianale and then descending through Rennemoulin and the quaint edge of Villepreux before climbing up the cobbles in Chavenay.
The wind is blowing out of the west, but the temperature is a moderate 46 and damp air feels much warmer than what we've grown accustomed to on our late December rides in Iowa and Wisconsin. I warn my wife about the rond points, that the accumalated diesel exhaust makes the tarmac greasy, but then realize the winter rain has rinsed everything and the traction is fine.
We are both enjoying the sensation of blood moving through our stiff legs and the feeling of moist air filling our lungs. We've fallen deeply in love with the movement of cycling, a familiar handhold as we venture into an unknown three month adventure to a new place. Bicycle as locomotion between villages; bicycle as movement internally, a cleansing of the self; bicycle as movement together, bringing us closer; and, bicycle as a bridge between cultures, a lingua franca to form relationships in a new place.
We have to endure a less than idyllic sojourn onto the D309 to Feuchrolles, but then jump off to take the Rue de Poissy through the centre ville. This was my big discovery on my last ride in France and Janet loves our narrow road overlooking the Seine and the edge of Paris.
A short reunion with the 309 through the Foret Dominial de Marly and we take a sharp right, leaving the tempting descent to Poissy, and head to Aigremont. 'Eagle Mountain' is a more suburban village, but still has the feel of the traditional architecture. The road climbs and curls and we turn back towards the forest at my nephew's school campus, passing the horticultural center and finding the old royal hunting road, the Route de Princess.
It's curious that just a few minutes from the bustle of one of the world's largest cities, is a forest with numerous paths and small, carless roads, but it's one of the legacies of the French monarchy's need for hunting grounds and their ruthless protection of them for their own hunting pleasure. Now they're a gift to the people of France.
We're past the gare de St. Nom and coast down narrow cobbled streets to my sister-in-laws home. After a long, sleepless flight and 14 hours of sleep in a darkened room, we are recovered, refreshed and feeling a bit like we're coming home.
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