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