The Danger of Covered Bus Stops

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can almost feel my finger tips now.