An hour and a half before sunrise and the alarm on the Polar watch goes off. Kept in a corner of the bedroom so I have to get out of bed to turn it off, a tiny light flashes on and off in the dark. Throw some clothes on and stumble down the outside stairs of our mas to the kitchen below, start water for coffee and assemble a bowl of muesli and fruit and dig in. The water comes to a boil and I let it cool for a bit before filling up the French coffee press. Mastered through trial and error, it's an efficient way to brew coffee, but too steeping too long or too short, or putting in too much or too little, leads to bad coffee. Pressing too hard leads to a mess on the counter.
At 7:45 I'm gliding down our hill on Cami del Vilar through Villelongue dels Monts and down to the valley. The sky is gray blue and clouds hug the Alberes behind me. The customary wind is blowing down the valley at about seven miles per hour, but it and the false flats to Le Boulou and beyond have become de rigeur. Usually I meet my British cycling companion in Le Boulou, but he's gone this week on his 41st anniversary trip to Roma with his wife Maureen. They were last in Italy in 1966 on their honeymoon. Later, when I'm with the club in Amelie les Bains, I get to explain this about five times in French to different people. Good practice for my underdeveloped fluency.
I greet and drop several riders on the way up the valley to the rendezvous. Coming the other way are several team vans and cars. They were in Amelie yesterday for Les Boucles Catalanes and are headed for the second stage today near Perpignan. Each beeps it's horn in greeting as it passes; these are the ambassadors for their sponsors and it's good to be nice to the amateur racing customers.
I arrive early in Amelie, just three others and it's ten to nine. Soon, though, a larger bunch shows up and we have about 20 or so and head down the valley. As each rider rolls up, he or she greets every person already there with a handshake and 'Ca va?' or the double kiss for members of the opposite sex. Our route today is down to the plain; north to Passa, then east to Bages and south to St. Genis des Fountaines before heading back up the valley. The sun is out and it's starting to warm up a bit from the 7 degrees we started out with. By the end of the ride it will be almost 20, summer temps! The ride down is more of a coast and it gives me the chance to say hello to people. First is Veronique, one of the better riders in the club, smooth and predictable in the group and a steady climber, she often finishes the alpine cyclosportifs in the top 100 or so, an amazing accomplishment for a woman of a certain age.
Later a fellow in a bright yellow jacket asks me what I'm drinking. I know all of the words he's using, but it comes so out of the blue, I ask him to repeat. 'Jus de fruits,' I tell him. He then pulls his own bidon out and tells me to taste it, 'Goutez, goutez.' A quick swig won't kill me. 'Ah, miel!' And he tells me about the wonders of honey and that his doctor recommended it to him to lose weight. I told him I was a beekeeper myself, but I'm not sure he understood. He went on to tell me about his racing exploits back in the day and we reached the point in the conversation where I get lost, the other speaker gets frustrated with l'Americain and we move on to different riding partners. More than once today I explained that I was not Anglais, but Americain. The word passed quickly, on a climb near Passa, I pulled out a banana and ate it as we crested, tossing the peel off to the side of the road. '... l'Americain mange la banane!'
The club hangs together for about half the ride and then the speedsters motor away, usually on a climb, but today on the flats from Brouilla. We were cruising around 22mph or so and by the turn for my village, our group was down to ten. I always feel a need to break the wind for the group once in a while, sometimes to maintain a consistent speed and after a surge I move easily to the front. Irritatingly, no one follows and I'm by myself. I know the way back and could probably TT myself to Amelie, but why the heck am I riding with the club then? So I soft pedal and let the group come up on my left. Curious, but I'll be content to follow them if they wish... and take them in the sprint at Amelie.
Before Le Boulou, we pick up a father and son. Both club members and excellent cyclists, I'd assumed they were out on the VTT (mountain bike) today. The son, ten or eleven years old, has no problem working in the bunch at 20 up the valley, but he is a bit jerky and brakes a lot, so I move around and up to the big fellow in the Penta jacket. He's as big as I am and a better climber. Thinking like a coureur I'm figuring he'll be the man to beat in the sprint. The towns shift by, quicker than this morning and we make the run up to Amelie, just seven of us left. But there is no sprint today, just a quickening of the pace and a motion to stop at the bus stop that marks the sprint finish. The big Penta guy smiles and asks me how tall I am and how much I way, brother Clydesdales, and then invites me to continue up the road a bit with him and a couple of mates. Why not?
4:37, 80.2, 2620ft
At 7:45 I'm gliding down our hill on Cami del Vilar through Villelongue dels Monts and down to the valley. The sky is gray blue and clouds hug the Alberes behind me. The customary wind is blowing down the valley at about seven miles per hour, but it and the false flats to Le Boulou and beyond have become de rigeur. Usually I meet my British cycling companion in Le Boulou, but he's gone this week on his 41st anniversary trip to Roma with his wife Maureen. They were last in Italy in 1966 on their honeymoon. Later, when I'm with the club in Amelie les Bains, I get to explain this about five times in French to different people. Good practice for my underdeveloped fluency.
I greet and drop several riders on the way up the valley to the rendezvous. Coming the other way are several team vans and cars. They were in Amelie yesterday for Les Boucles Catalanes and are headed for the second stage today near Perpignan. Each beeps it's horn in greeting as it passes; these are the ambassadors for their sponsors and it's good to be nice to the amateur racing customers.I arrive early in Amelie, just three others and it's ten to nine. Soon, though, a larger bunch shows up and we have about 20 or so and head down the valley. As each rider rolls up, he or she greets every person already there with a handshake and 'Ca va?' or the double kiss for members of the opposite sex. Our route today is down to the plain; north to Passa, then east to Bages and south to St. Genis des Fountaines before heading back up the valley. The sun is out and it's starting to warm up a bit from the 7 degrees we started out with. By the end of the ride it will be almost 20, summer temps! The ride down is more of a coast and it gives me the chance to say hello to people. First is Veronique, one of the better riders in the club, smooth and predictable in the group and a steady climber, she often finishes the alpine cyclosportifs in the top 100 or so, an amazing accomplishment for a woman of a certain age.
Later a fellow in a bright yellow jacket asks me what I'm drinking. I know all of the words he's using, but it comes so out of the blue, I ask him to repeat. 'Jus de fruits,' I tell him. He then pulls his own bidon out and tells me to taste it, 'Goutez, goutez.' A quick swig won't kill me. 'Ah, miel!' And he tells me about the wonders of honey and that his doctor recommended it to him to lose weight. I told him I was a beekeeper myself, but I'm not sure he understood. He went on to tell me about his racing exploits back in the day and we reached the point in the conversation where I get lost, the other speaker gets frustrated with l'Americain and we move on to different riding partners. More than once today I explained that I was not Anglais, but Americain. The word passed quickly, on a climb near Passa, I pulled out a banana and ate it as we crested, tossing the peel off to the side of the road. '... l'Americain mange la banane!'
The club hangs together for about half the ride and then the speedsters motor away, usually on a climb, but today on the flats from Brouilla. We were cruising around 22mph or so and by the turn for my village, our group was down to ten. I always feel a need to break the wind for the group once in a while, sometimes to maintain a consistent speed and after a surge I move easily to the front. Irritatingly, no one follows and I'm by myself. I know the way back and could probably TT myself to Amelie, but why the heck am I riding with the club then? So I soft pedal and let the group come up on my left. Curious, but I'll be content to follow them if they wish... and take them in the sprint at Amelie.
Before Le Boulou, we pick up a father and son. Both club members and excellent cyclists, I'd assumed they were out on the VTT (mountain bike) today. The son, ten or eleven years old, has no problem working in the bunch at 20 up the valley, but he is a bit jerky and brakes a lot, so I move around and up to the big fellow in the Penta jacket. He's as big as I am and a better climber. Thinking like a coureur I'm figuring he'll be the man to beat in the sprint. The towns shift by, quicker than this morning and we make the run up to Amelie, just seven of us left. But there is no sprint today, just a quickening of the pace and a motion to stop at the bus stop that marks the sprint finish. The big Penta guy smiles and asks me how tall I am and how much I way, brother Clydesdales, and then invites me to continue up the road a bit with him and a couple of mates. Why not?
4:37, 80.2, 2620ft
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