Pouillon

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

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

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

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

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

1:17, 20.2, 1120ft

Toulouse Peripherique

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1:31, 26.1, 740ft

Aurevoir Villlelongue dels Monts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4:33, 64.5, 4020ft