Pas de Problème

The weather here changes on a dime. This morning at 9am Janet has a sky, misty with clouds over the mountains, but no rain. The pavement is wet around St. Andre but it's dry and about 55 degrees.

We do the switch at 10:30 and almost immediately, the rain begins. Lightly at first, but by Sorede it's coming down and I can feel rivulets of cold rainwater running down the skin of my back. Just after Sorede, I start my sprints, fifteen seconds on with a five minute spin in between, not max, but getting there, helping the legs understand the cadence and effort of sprinting again.

Just after the first effort, I'm on the downhill into Argeles and it occurs to me that I basically have no brakes. Pas de problem, I don't brake much anyway and after a few grabs to clean the rims, they come back in a squealing stop at the feu in the centre ville.

Next sprint happens outside of town on the flat, straight valley road to St. Andre. The wind is behind me now, the rain a tad lighter and the legs are feeling good. 15 hours this week, over 250 miles. Just inside of St. Andre, the road narrows and there are elevated speed bumps under the platanes. There's a lot of traffic today, maybe people out to go to the market or get that baguette for lunch. Just outside of the town center, a small Fiat slams it brakes on to avoid someone backing out into the road. I grab my brakes. Nothing there. A quick look to the left lane and there's traffic coming, to the right a parked car, ahead the bumper of the Fiat. Thump and I hit the ground.

The Fiat driver, a woman in her fifties with wild hair and a friendly face, gets out. She asks me if I'm alright in a heavily accented French that I get the gist of. "C'est bonne. Beaucoup de pluie et pas de freins." Her husband looks over my bike, me and the bumper of his thousand Euro car. Smiles as I spin my front wheel and indeed there is pas de problem and we're both on our ways, me a little shaken, but thinking of the next sprint in 45 seconds, them probably relieved not to have to explore the murky depths of my Franco-American interlanguage patois.

55:40, 15.2, 580ft