Lavail

Just east of the village of Sorede, a small tarmac turns off the main Alberes road and heads into the hills. We've passed the road many times, on our way to Argeles to buy groceries, on club runs, but I'd never taken the right turn up the one way road, an inoccuous piece of pavement promising a dead-end and a climb, two things cyclists don't get excited about.

Yesterday was an easy, easy recovery spin with the boys at the piste cyclable outside of Llupia. Picture a proud father with his two boys riding with vineyards on both sides on a perfectly smooth bike trail. The occasional walkers, mostly elderly people, but even a group of middle-aged women jogging together to lose weight, would look and smile at the earnestness and joy of my two sons on their bikes.

So today my legs are rested and ready for something a bit more, a tune-up climb in preparation for tomorrow's longer excursion into Spain, so it gets added to my loop to Argeles and back to Montesquieu. Should be about 90 min with a bit of climbing for intensity.

Vineyard lies on right and left for the first 500 meters or so, the road rising slightly to meet the valley in front of me. Soon I'm in high desert/low mountain forest, twisting away on a road that is sometimes 8 feet wide, sometimes a tad bigger or smaller, and climbing an easy grade. With the hard climbing effort Sunday and the active rest yesterday, my legs feel terrific, turning circles, feeling power feeding into the pedals. A slight increase in grade takes us towards 8 or 9 percent, but the speed stays constant.

On the right a sign, Eglise, XI siecle, a very old church, 1000 years waiting on this road for me.

The road bends back and forth, now following a rushing stream on my right. The sun is bright on the oaks and hemlock along the river and cool air pockets sit in the shaded parts of the canyon. Then the church is there, non-descript, squatting behind a gites d'etape, small country inn. More buildings and the road lurches up and I stand on the pedals for the first time. A left and up a wall of road to a cute creperie. Do tourists really come here to eat crepes? And then past, down an equally steep road of broken tarmac to cross the stream and the church is back and I'm descending.

A glance at my watch: just 40min into my ride. 17 minutes from now I'll be coming back from Argeles on the valley floor, leaving St. Andre. 35 minutes from now I'll be climbing into Montesquieu, ready for a rollercoaster ride through the cork oaks to my village. But just now, I'm content, listening to the stream, feeling my mass leaning into corners, peaking through the trees on the next bend and satisfied with my quick loop through Lavail.

Montbolo

On paper, or on the webpage, today's club ride from Amelie les Bains looked kind of short, just 60k once we started in Amelie. With the extra 60k to and from the ride, the day promised a leisurely 120k or so, a modest number for one of my big rides of the week.

The ride up the valley to Amelie would be sans Geoff; Janet answered the phone last night while doing dishes downstairs and talked to a Geoff in a lot of pain. Les calculs billaire, gallstones, had forced him into the hospital for a few hours and cancelled his weekend training. I checked anyway as I wound through the rondpoint in Le Boulou. Nope, no Geoff, the pain must have been pretty bad.

The day had come in sunny and a bit windy, but far less windy than the gales blowing the past three days. Our Lonely Planet guidebook defines le Mistral as a constant wind from the mountains that drives people crazy; after a few days of constant howling winds gusting to 70mph, this 10-15mph seemed pleasant. The sun patches on the road warmed my arms and legs and I took time to soak in the scenery. Many trips up the valley over the last two months, and I still hadn't completely absorbed the scene. The sense of size and space, the long horizontal vistas of the plain of Rousillon, the vertical presence of le Canigou; colors and sounds, mimosa yellows, almond whites, peach pinks against a canvas of desert browns and greens; and the sounds of water, birds and wind; a sensory symphony.

Around the rondpoint at St. Jean pla de Corts and the long stretch to Ceret, and, voila! a new road surface. It's been two weeks since my tires last touched this asphalt and the old bumpy tarmac has been completely replaced with a velvet smooth surface. If only they could do this to Hwy 3 in Colesburg so quickly! Alas and alack, the truly terrible section in Ceret, the one that mimics the worst sections of my highway back in Iowa, is still there, potholes and cracks and crevases uncovered and unfettered.

8:55am and I've the first one at the meeting point in Amelie's centre ville. A moment of doubt; in the states daylight savings time started two weeks earlier than usual, today, did the French follow suit? Another rider rolls up and then another, shaking hands a salutory salut and the worry fades. David, the fellow I met and rode with on Wednesday, arrives from Ceret and we're soon off, back down the valley for a climb up the Col de Llauro.

The pace down is always a bit of a frustration for me. After 30k on the false flats of the Tech valley, I'm warmed up and ready to go. Coasting back down hill, using up my brake pads and cooling off takes some patience. Not that I'm feeling too squirly today with a chest cold in full bloom (did I hurt myself at last Sunday's race?), but I miss the constant pace of my Wednesday rides. On these club runs we're either going too easy or too hard, but it's not peculiar to this club; our Dubuque club has the same issue: how to be most things to most riders. And they've come to a similar solution: easy, easy pace for the first part of the ride and then the group splits for the second part into fast and less fast. As with most compromises, it's not perfect. As a new rider in the group and a non-native speaker of French, my strategy is to wait and watch for the group split and follow wheels.

We take the split in the road right at Ceret and head towards Maureillas, another smooth, newly paved section of road. A loud bang at the rondpoint and everyone rolls to a stop. 'C'est le tourist,' one of the club riders says. Sounds like a sidewall blowout. The fellow has a cellphone and calls for a pickup; we all continue on our way. Just before Maureillas, we take the left turn to St Jean, crossing my route up, then it's the very familiar climb up past Vives and the Col de Llauro. The group is splitting on the climb and I follow the best climber's wheel, Veronique, and we're soon 7 riders spinning up to Vives, the midway point on the climb. Just before the village, the road levels and I spin lightly on the pedals, letting the legs recover and get used to the effort before we climb again on the edge of town.

Veronique, the top finisher in her age group at the Marmotte last year and one of the top women finishers overall, is putting it on today. Geoff and I normally use this climb as a warmup for our Wednesday rides, letting the cranks turn over and keeping it around 11mph. At 11 my heartrate stays just inside the aerobic zone, a perfect spot. At 13mph, my heart is pumping like crazy, 160, 165, 170 and levels out at 173, deep inside my anaerobic zone. I take a kind of detached awareness of this and wonder how long I can climb at this rate. About a kilometer from the top I get my answer and slowly lose the wheels of the five riders in front of me, led by Veronique and her husband, a rider down from Toulouse, a fellow from Le Boulou and a couple of other grimpeurs. There's no honor lost and I didn't push too hard. David is just behind me and I spin the rest of the way to the top and the group recongeals.

'This is a real pin in the neck, this,' David says as we feel our legs stiffening at the roadside of Llauro. We're soon rolling through the village, over the col and down to Ceret. Our group isn't very big now. The triathalon guy that was pushing on the col is gone, so is the little spanish guy on the yellow bike. Seven of us cruise back towards Amelie.

'Have you been up Montbolo,' David asks. I think I have, but I quickly learn I haven't. I'm sure if I had been up it on a bicycle, my legs would have remembered it. We follow a small sign for Montbolo, and Veronique's husband, a former gendarme, barks at us to follow him past a big red sign that says 'Danger'. It's just a short cut next to a slope that occasionally litters the road with chunks of granite. We 'save' maybe 50 meters or so.

Then the road lurches up. By lurch, I don't mean a paltry 8% like the Col de Llauro. Lurch means more like Potter's Hill. I'm quicly into my red zone, pumping away, trying to be smooth, letting the three in front roll off at their own pace. David soon passes me, looking good, a grimace on his face. Two riders are behind me and when I stop for a photo (and a breather) Veronique coasts back down. 'Ca va, Chris?' 'Oui, ca va. Je prende un photo. C'est tres jolie.' Gasp, gasp. My lungs are wheezing with the phlegm of my chest cold and I think either I'll get pnuemonia from this or all the gunk will get burned out of me from the inside out.

Veronique stays with me and asks about Geoff. I tell her about gallstones, very proud to be understood with this new word (les calculs billiare) but soon we're stumped when it get's to describing the treatment. The French knack for inventing new words for technical things (computer=ordinator) stumps us both. What is the word for ultrasound? (Ultrasons!) This is where the language learning hits the road. We get to the top and David is there next to the fountain. A quick refill of the bottle and we're flying down through the hairpins the back way to Amelie.

75, 4:45, 4200ft

Peach trees in bloom

Geoff and I met David, a scottish architect and longtime friend of Geoff's, at the rondpoint in St. Jean Pla de Corts this morning. Just in time for our weekly climb up from Vives to the Col de Llauro. The morning was sunny and brisk, temperatures in the low 50's and we could see the snows on the Pic de Canigou were receding with the recent warm weather. The wind was stiff again coming down the valley to the sea and the almond trees were losing their flowers, dropping them in a snow shower of white petals in the wind.

Geoff had received an email the night before from Caroline: Mark, Steve and herself would not be coming out today. Caroline will be in El Salvador next week for the Vuelta Ciclista Femenina a el Salvador, a women't pro event and I don't think I'll see her again before we leave at the end of the month. She needed to do some interval work today and this brought out a 'hmmph' from Geoff, not a believer in such work, when there were miles to be had on a day as brilliant as this one.

We crested the Vives climb and descended into the valley, I moved from back to front of our trio, my 20kgs of extra mass giving me an advantage on the downhill run to Fourques. For the rest of the ride, we'd shuffle the trio; two breaking the wind and one riding shotgun. Following our normal route to the outskirts of Thuir to meet our erstwhile riding partners, we pass Terrats, it's large cave and spaceship-like fermenation vats marking the turn to St Colombe and then the downhill run to Thuir and the turn to go up to Castelnou, one of my favorite roads.


Past the quarry, and onto the long drag of a climb for six kilometers, until the watch tower and church swing into view and then the ancient town and towering castle. I'm not working that hard on the climb, and when Geoff accelerates away, I jump, too. 'What did you do wrong?', he queries as we reach the flat. I think, the only thing I did do was accelerate. 'Accelerate?' 'That's right. What you do is slide over and grab that wheel. Get in behind.' I ponder the difference as we begin our descent towards the peach orchards north of Castelnou.

Coffee in Millas at the Cafe du Midi on a busy street corner; three cafe cremes for the three anciens courers. I always feel better after a bit of caffeine, jam sandwich and leg rubbing. We talk about the recent UCI/ASO squabble (that threatened to tear apart pro cycling until UCI completely caved in and allowed the race owners to ban two Pro Tour teams). The war in Iraq and Afganistan, the right way to repair the top tube of a carbon Giant frame (or whether it's possible to repair one at all), the house around the corner from the cafe that Geoff and his wife almost bought, topics surface, submerge, resurface and merge into others in a millieu of ideas. Just before the cafe as we left Illes sur Tet, Geoff and I debated whether badminton and cycling were major sports, or mightn't we be living in a bubble. Snooker was more popular in Scotland by at least 1000 to 1, Geoff said, but I noted that a doctor would never tell his patient to take up snooker as a way to combat heart disease and hypertension.

These are the things that enliven cycling. We earn a spot at the table of ideas by training hard enough to stick and then, once we do, we have a voice to use as we wish. There's still a pecking order, a status earned with racing and riding prowess, but these two group rides each week rid the training week of the sameness of riding with one's own thoughts mile after mile, hour after hour.

From Millas, we head towards the sea, crossing the A9 and the D900 and the wind is shifted now from the west to directly out of the south. A strange wind that I can't seem to get out of when I'm following Geoff's wheel, swirling and coming round him. My heart rate is moving out of the easy aerobic zone more often as tackle a false flat or a 'heavy' road with rough tarmac. When we hit both, just north of Brouilla and the one-two of the wind and another false flat, I'm very close to anaerobic. Geoff shoots past. I spend a hard effort chasing up to him, take a breather and pull in front. We're holding 21/22mph into the wind now and I know we're just a few miles from my turn past St. Genis and I'm not going to leave anything on the road. A little farther and the bridge just before St. Genis, the normal sprinting point. My brain knows this, but there is nothing left in my legs at all.

Geoff sprints by again. I stand up and go through the motions, but I'm empty. 'Bastard,' I say to no one in particular, but I'm laughing. 'Not fair, that,' Geoff says when we catch on again. 'You were pulling for awhile. Kind of like passing someone on a hill when you've been following them all the way up.'

We soft pedal through the village and reach my turn. My watch says 12:45. I suppose I could add on Montesquieu's climb and come back through the cork groves on the mountainside; afterall, I told Janet I wouldn't be home until 1pm.

4:35, 76.3, 3200ft

Into the wind

Looking out the window this afternoon in our rented perch on the side of the Alberes mountains, the sun is reaching towards us, making it almost to Ortaffa, with the shoreline of the Med stretching north of Argeles fully sunny. The Canigou is shrouded completely in cloud and my intention, as I descended into the valley at 30mph was to ride to the sun.

What is it that determines one's mind? That makes a person roll out of bed at 6:30 and cycle for hours in misty gloom? Whatever it is, it makes me turn left at Brouilla, heading into a stiff wind. When I reach the main road from Perpignan to Le Boulou, a similiar resolution crystalizes: why not ride up to the Col de Llauro today? So, I turn towards Fourques, following the intimate road through vineyards and forest.

I feel guilty today. Sunday's race went badly and I ended up spending only an hour on the bike on a day I normally spend four or five hours on the bike. After a week of low volume, high intensity days, I should be rejuvenated. Instead my legs ache and I feel like I'm coming down with something. The cure? A climb. Is this punishment for my lapse? Perhaps it's A kind of hairshirt to atone for my sins.

The traffic is light today. Cyclists have been enduring lots of tourist traffic lately as school districts around France take turns sending their students on holidays. It's about 3pm as I turn into Fourques. Some older folks are talking outside a boulangerie and watch me approach in slow motion on the steep grade in town. Smiles and I hear an 'allez' as I roll past. There is definitely a generation gap among cycling fans; over 60 and you see them paying attention to passing cyclists, under 40 and we seem to be more of a nuisance. Karl and Johann, my two cycling prodigies, get lots of looks from les vieux on the beach promenade. Karl on his racing bike, getting out of the saddle; Johann right behind or right in front, smiling away, a manifestation of the joy we all feel riding our bikes.

The climb itself to the Col de Llauro isn't extreme, about an 8% grade, sometimes more, sometimes less, for about 6k. The reward is a long view of the valley stretching to the Alberes and a snug road lined with cork trees.

During the descent and return with the wind on my left cheek, I realize my legs are feeling pretty good, the crap from the previous day rinsed clean and I take the hairshirt off. But maybe I'll add that little climb to Montesquieu...

1:52, 28.4, 1580ft

GP de Armissan

'Never raced this course before.'

Geoff and I are driving in his black Peugeot north on the N9 to Narbonne. Janet, the kids, my sister and her friend and my bike are trailing some meters behind in our Espace. Today is my first race of the season, a strange season for me, much earlier than past years when I would be getting ready for the Great Bear Chase ski race in northern Michigan.

The arid scenery north of Perpignan and the Salanque plain pass outside the window, olive trees, vineyards, cactus, vineyards and more vineyards. Mussle beds spot the Medeterranean shoreline as we approach Narbonne and we hit the first rondpoints coming into town. The race is being held in Armissan, about 10 kilometers from town; the registration is at the cave cooperative. We've given ourselves an hour to register and warmup, but we take a wrong turn and end up at the Narbonne plage. Beautiful, but no bike race. We retrace our route back towards town. As we discuss the relative merits of each tiny tarmace heading into the hills, I'm aware of the minutes ticking away.

We find our wrong turn and head into Armissan. An ancient stone portal looms over the right side of the road, the three story face of a church missing it's other three walls and roof. Newer, cinderblock houses line the road before we reach the cooperative and the jungle of bikes, cars and people. Geoff noted earlier how strange it is to drive to one of these events and not see a single bike before reaching the starting area. Of course, we have about 30 minutes before the race starts and we hustle into the line of riders to register.

I don't have my blue UCI license in hand; USACycling ignored my request to send it to France and, instead, it has meandered its way to Iowa, Milwaukee and points east. I hand the elderly official my USCF license, 'Qu'est-ce que c'est?' 'C'est ma license domestique aux Etats Unis. J'ai cette lettre de permission de UCI aussi.' Grunting, huffing. I throw in my foreign permission letter as well, for effect. Geoff is next to me, having problems with his license. He usually races UFOLP races instead of FFC events and a new requirement for a more expensive license wasn't mentioned on the race form, but seems to be in effect anyway. Geoff's strategy is to become non-fluent in French. Quite effective at exasperating the old man holding my letters and license. 'You need a letter of permission for this department as well.' I don't understand this and smile at the woman with the numbers. 'Pour les deux? Dix quarant Euros.' 'Tres bien, merci.' We now have about 20 minutes before the race start.

In line, a fellow dressed in the green of the Narbonne club, explains that there is a 'hill' in the course. Driving in we noticed that there was a small mountain seperating Armissan from the coast. Surely, they wouldn't route the race up the hill.

After a pee in the bushes and various and sundry activities related to getting ready to race, I bid adieu to the family and warm up for eight minutes before we're called to the line. I look at the odometer, 2.3 miles. Not good, but I feel comfortably enscounced in the peloton grouped at the line. About 120 of us, a few older, but most young. Two elite woman are entered as well. My goal is to warmup on the first of the eight laps and try to stick in the pack, sucking wheels.

The fellow on the mike talks for about 10 minutes, his unintelligble words mangled by the squawks on the speaker system. And we're off. The course snakes it's way through the centre ville, compressing the peloton. I'm in the middle and grab the brakes hard several times. We're like a large sausage begin stretched and shaken on the broken streets and then we're spit out the other side of town.

Voila, the 'hill'! My legs have that odd feeling when they're asked to do something they're not ready to do, like climb a 10-15% percent grade at speed in my big chainring. I make it with the group to the first plateau and then get shat out the back when the climb shoots up again. I keep turning over the pedals and my heart rate shoots far into the red zone. I must be a spectacle; a fellow with a camera sits in the road in front of me, waiting until I fill his frame perfectly with my agonized grimmace, before scooting out of the way. A fast downhill with speeds approaching 45mph gets me within spitting distance of the commisar's red car, but I'm alone in the wind going back into town and slowly lose the group.

One lap. Ok, I'll pedal within myself and hitch on with some of the other fallen riders. But there are no riders in front and those in back have quickly withdrawn and I pedal another lap by myself (damn that fellow with the camera!), feeling slightly better on the hill this time. There's a rider a hundred yards in front of me as we approach the town in the wind. Pick up the pace and reach him... and he pulls into the parking lot. OK, one more lap. The sour taste of my stomach pushes up as I crest the hill again. I'm done, not really racing anymore, broken.

It's been a long time since I've been dropped like this in a race and Geoff and I are philosophical about it on our drive home. 'Not a course for no-uppers like us,' he says. I don't think there are many races in the midwest that have a climb like that in their route. Snake Alley comes to mind, but it's not two miles long. Having a propper warmup would have helped, but we were both doomed from the start. We leave Narbonne a bit wiser, and a lot more interested in our training regimen over the next few weeks.

The Hardest Week

After three weeks and 800 miles of riding, this week has been a lower volume week, a chance to consolidate fitness, scrub fatigue and recharge the batteries. For me, not going on a ride is much harder than riding. Sunday's four hour ride marked the last high volume day until Sunday's race. In between, Monday-rest, Tuesday-1hr intense ride, Wednesday-rest, Thursday-1 hr with cruise interval, Friday-rest, and today a good pre-race warm-up, a few 30 sec sprints and cool down.

What I know: It's not always about the miles. The time on the bike, like all exercise, actually breaks your body down. It's the time between rides when the body repairs itself and becomes stronger. Without the downtime, whether the rests between rides while you sleep, or the day off in the training week, or the half-volume week thrown in once a month, we need these rests to avoid the fatigue trap.

So I tell myself as the temperatures are hovering around 75, the sun is shining and the bike sits in the corner.

'Round the loop

Morning dawns on the bike, the sunlight sliding up the backside of Neulous behind our village, lights up Le Canigou in pinks and reds. The temps are in the single digits again and as I descend the village road to the valley, they drop a bit more.

The miles are starting to pile up. Since I arrived here on January 6th, I've pedalled 1612 miles, burned 75,000 calories, climbed more than 70,000 feet and spent exactly 100 hours in the saddle. For serious riders here, these aren't big numbers. For me, they are a complete departure from my typical skiing and roller riding this time of year and their effect on me physically and mentally is interesting.

I've lost weight, not sure exactly how much (there's no scale in the rental house), but it's been significant. My bike skills are slightly improved, ability to hold a line, read a corner, descend a crappy mountain road--better, better, better. But the most marked improvement has been in my ability to focus on the minutia of a ride under physical stress. Riders know what I mean. Sometimes at a critical time things can just get foggy, while other moments, time can stand still and everything is in sharp relief. In a race, the slight movement of a wheel or the clicking of a gear two riders in front of you tells you to be ready for an acceleration. But that's when you're sharp. Sometimes things can happen and you have no idea why, or what, or who and you're sitting on the ground, or off the back scratching your head.

The Canigou's lower ridge lines are still covered in pink snow as I crest the little rise to the rondpoint. Geoff rolls up in a few minutes and we're off to the club run, a repeat of the route I just did, and down to Argeles and back along the Alberes road.

As riders we often break down our training on purely physical terms. So many miles, so many feet climbed, so many hours in the saddle, but what we are really doing is trying to guage how long we can keep that fog of exhaustion from creeping in during a hard effort. The more fit we are, the longer it stays away and the more likely we are to have success. Again, like most things related to training, once you put it into words, it seems idiotically simple.

We get to the meeting place in Amelie a few minutes early, no one there, so we head up the hill a bit and roll back through the village center on the parallel road. People are waking up and a few are on the sidewalks with their dogs, or their baguettes. At least the baguettes aren't crapping all over the place.

More riders have arrived and we're soon coasting back down the hill. My first time up in January seemed like such an effort; climbing the valley grade all the way to Amelie. Now the villages roll past with an easy familiarity and I look forward to the uphill route as a source of warmth in the cool morning. Coasting down towards the sea, my heartrate is in double digits and I'm zipping up the jersey and tucking in behind the biggest rider in the bunch for a bit of shelter.

My legs are heavy today. The run up the Madeloc on Friday, the Wednesday near-century with the pros and yesterday's hike with the kids back up the Madeloc all combine to this slight feeling of tiredness. As Geoff says, when the legs are aching, it means your getting stronger. And he's essentially right. The hurt comes from the torn fibers of muscle that, once mended, will be stronger than before. The systems running food and oxygen to those muscles will become more efficient. Too much damage and the system goes down, too little and nothing gets stronger; the essential zen of training.

On the flats at St. Genis, the pace picks up and we're flitting along at 21mph. This isn't hard for me and I stay just behind the front guys. This is more than me not taking a pull in the front; there's a pecking order in the group and I won't be allowed on the front until someone needs a blow from the effort. That's alright, I'm wondering how my legs will feel once we climb again.

After today's run, I'll be taking a reduced week, maybe 8 hours, to recover and consolidate my fitness. Next Sunday is my first race of the season in Narbonne. A 95k rolling circuit and a chance to see where I'm at right now in my fitness.

The road climbs past Sorede and the two leaders pull off for nature's call. The pace slackens but then jumps back up as a fellow goes on the front to drive the pace towards the first climb. He's not a great climber himself, and Geoff thinks he just wants to get to the hills first so he doesn't get left behind once the effort goes up and the paceline goes taut. We go up and I'm feeling OK. The little guy falls off the front and I'm setting the pace now, up past Villelongue. This is good for me, I put it right at 12.5mph and leave it there. Another fellow is next to me and we effectively put off the huge acceleration that will inevitably come. A kilometer before Montesquieu, it comes and Blaze, the big fella that can climb, shoots by with Geoff on his wheel. I try to lift the pace and stick, but get gapped in the process and fall off. I watch as the five riders twist up the serious grade before leveling off at the village.

Geoff offer some advice when we reconnect. 'Don't try to accelerate like that when someone's coming by. Keep your eyes open and ease off just as they come through and then accelerate to grab their wheel.' This is a huge insight for me. Again, simple, but something true. At Montesquieu I'm in that fog and Geoff holds out a plastic bag. For me to puke in? A candy falls out and the fog clears.

The rest of the run up the valley whittles our group down to about 8 riders. I'm feeling a bit squirrely just past Ceret and make an acceleration at the front to see how folks are doing and Blaze comes right up to my wheel, but breathing hard. I fall back and decide to watch. It would be nice to take a sprint today, but I don't know if my legs will let me. I rest and then find my way back to second wheel behind the big guy. He seems strong today.

I know Geoff will contest a sprint, always will he contest a sprint, but Blaze blocks a lot more wind than Geoff does. At the sign for Amelie, still 2k from the 'line', Blaze falls back. I'm on the front. This isn't good, but then I remember the ride two weeks ago when no one sprinted. Nothing more foolish than winning a sprint that no one is contesting. I keep the pace up, and sure enough, Jean Marie, Geoff and a young rider come by on my right in full sprint mode. I tag along, but I'm done and they strike out for the the bus stop, Geoff winning by a bit. There's a heated discussion about Geoff squeezing through a gap left by the youner rider, soon joined in by other members of the club long since dropped in our approach, but we're all happy deep down, satisfied in our effort.

4:15, 75.2, 2560ft

Training

On the surface there would seem to be little in common between the training philosophies of my friends Randy and Geoff, beyond the need to ride a bicycle to be fit enough to race. Geoff is 'old school', a fellow who cut his teeth on roadracing in the 50's, raced internationally in the 60's, and raced professionally for Peugeot in the 70's. Sixty one, he now races against riders a third of his age and wins. Miles, bricks, whatever you call it, Geoff says there are no shortcuts, and a shortcut is anything short of long hours in the saddle, some fast, but most safely in the aerobic zone.

Randy is half Geoff's age. A new coach, he's a former category 1 eltie rider who's had success of his own and, unlike Geoff who's retired, Randy is working full-time and has a young family.He is an advocate of power-based training and interval work. Geoff insists that the only time to start doing sprint training is after you've been beaten in a sprint.

What occurs to me as I warm-up for some spin-ups this morning, is that these two fellows have more in common that they might think and I begin to articulate my own ideas about training (still have 17 minutes till the first spinup).

First, you have to spend time on the bike. You aren't going to be a better cyclist, racer, whatever, unless you ride the bike. Thinking about it, planning for it, shopping, reading online blogs will not make you a better cyclist. Doing these things might motivate you to get out and ride, but nothing will happen until you start turning the cranks (13 minutes).

Second, it takes time to develop the fitness to train, race and excel. Each week, each month, each year, leaves a mark on you, provides a platform to reach higher from. I can say without a doubt that I'm a better cyclist than I was two years ago, and will be better two year from now, unless I stop training. De-training happens so quickly; a rider can lose fitness in a matter of a few weeks that he struggled a year to achieve (5 minutes).

Third, whatever motivates you to get on your bike is good. It might be the half-naked lady glued to Geoff's Cinelli stem or it might be the new PowerTap wheel that Randy has on his ride, or it might be the thought of seeing some old friends or escaping housework. If it gets you excited about turning the cranks, more power to you.

(My polar watch beeps and I shift down and increase my cadence to about 120rpm, smooth, relax those toes, are you ankling, 25, 22, 19 seconds... and done. Three minutes soft pedalling.)

Fourth, once you're on your bike pedalling, pay attention. You will learn and re-learn something about you and your bicycle on every single ride you do. Put emphasis (for me) on re-learning. Whether it's ankling, how you're breathing, the stiffness in your lower back, there are so many things to pay attention to. And here's the radical part, HR monitors (like the one I'm using right now) help you pay attention; so do watt meters. Which one is better? For what? and who cares? Are you on your bike?

(The second spinup and the legs are much looser, 45, 44... 43 seconds, why does time move so slow, focus on relaxing the spin, still tightness in the hamstring from the climb, 19, 18... jeez! And done.)

Fifth, your body works in cycles. It needs stress and then rest to compensate for the stress and get stronger. Too much stress and it breaks down (and you don't get stronger), too little and you become a couch potato. How much stress? What kind of stress? How much rest? This comes with time on the bike. A coach who cares would speed this learning process as well. At this point, we're well down the road of riding your bike and these little differences about what stress to apply and when will vary by the rider and coach. For myself, I can do three hard workouts in a week, hard being relative to how fit I am, but I need two recovery days and I throw in a couple of skill days, spinups, form sprints, depending on how good I feel.

(Third one is great, goes fast, I'm fast and feeling good, 15, 14, will have to check if I broke the 120 barrier on this one... done!)

Every fourth week I need to reduce the load by about half to rest and consolidate fitness. If I'm doing 15 hours a week, this week will be about 7, maybe do some real intervals but keep the hard workouts short. Maybe two days off the bike. It's good to get reacquainted with the family, get something done around the house, take the kids to a ballgame...

(Last spinup, but two fellows come about behind me and try to blow by. Hold on, guys and I do my spinup in their draft. What the heck, I'm feeling good, and pull through and drop them. Not in the plan, but it's fun.)

'Is racing fun for you?' My sister-in-law last night asks Geoff last night. 'No, it's not fun. When it's fun, I'll stop.'

Ahh, grasshopper, what is the difference between the good and the pleasant? Between what's good and what is fun? Stay tuned.

Col de Madeloc

Mark Knoppfler is playing on the iPod, creating a surreal musical backdrop as I glide through the villages on the side of the Alberes, old women walking back from the boulangerie with baguettes in arm, the sun playing through the mountain mist above Laveil.

'... just lay me down in marble town...'

After an easy spin yesterday from the beach on tiny backroads and the hard ride to Montpins the day before, my legs are feeling... odd. I decide to take a run down the Cote de Vermeil, turning around at Cerberes on the Spanish border if the legs don't feel good, or turning uphill at Banyuls sur Mer if they are. That's the beauty of this area and the attraction for many top Euro riders; one can do mountain cols or spin in the flats within a space of a few miles.

I dip down to Argeles sur Mer and skip the first two Collioure signs, before choosing the last, a C or Commune road that hugs the sea. With new pavement and little traffic, I roll under palms, oak and chestnut trees until the rondpoint above Collioure when the Mediterannean spreads out in front of me. Legs feeling good now, I climb out of town and towards less touristy Port Vendre on the D114. Ok, I'm going to do the Madeloc.

My first time up the Madeloc, we took the middle road, just south of Collioure. This time I decide to do the longer route leaving Banyuls centre ville. Immediately after turning away from the sea, the road lurches up, pushing me into my lowest gears. The sky at the bottom is sunny, but a vapor of cloud obscures the tower at the top of the climb. Might be cold up there.

As the road rises, it narrows, dodging almond trees in full bloom and blending into the vineyards terraced by Romans two thousand years ago and again by the Knights Templar a thousand years later. On a tight hairpin, I slow enough to hear bees and detect the sweet scent of almond nectar on the breeze. An older mountainbiker pulled over on a turn, admiring the view, looks up and smiles. 'Bonjour, ca va?' I ask. 'Oui, ca va!' he shouts. The road continues up. A woman with her dog, eating lunch hunched by her car and a quiet 'Bonjour'. A taciturn shepherd with his goats eating the lower leaves on some cork oaks. And then after 4.7 miles, the road flattens enough that I can coast, stretch and shift to the upper ring.

The mist shrouds the view and lends an ethereal quality to the scene. Or is that just the effect of climbing 1500 feet? The road from Port Vendre rises to meet me and I'm briefly tempted to descend right now. The feeling that I've earned this ascent and don't want to give up those vertical feet so quickly. I spin a bit more and then follow the 'Hermitage de Consolation' sign. Now the road is familiar both visually and in the pain seared deep into muscle memory.

The top comes quickly and I stop to look around. Ribbons of road draped over the terraces, bursts of white and pink blossom against the stony earth. A moment of absorption and reflection and then the descent. In fifteen minutes Argeles returns with it's tourist shops and restless people moving on the sidewalks, talking on cellphones and honking their horns, but the memory of the Madeloc is now burned a bit deeper.

Montpins

After a rained out club ride on Sunday and a spirited but short 47 mile ride with Geoff on Monday (the last 7 miles of which was a race-like cat and mouse at about 24mph over 'heavy' roads), I took a nice ride on the loop to Montesquieu and over to Argeles yesterday. Today I looked at my odometer for the week and it read a miserable6 65 miles, and it was already Wednesday!

The temps were cool but the sky promised some sun as soon as it got about its business of burning the morning mist off the Alberes. I'm feeling good right now, very good and I got to our meeting spot in Le Boulou a bit faster than usual. I made a mental note to really focus on riding within myself; it's sometimes too easy to feel good and go hot and then melt down before the real riding begins. That's where Geoff comes in.

'No heroics on this climb,' as we're riding out of St. Jean Pla de Corts and up our 'warm-up' climb to Llauro. 'Just nice and steady.' This is where I'm really learning from this veteran road racer. I've read a boatload of books, watched numerous videos and have stacks of Velonews, Cycling, etc piled around the house, but to get a gentle nudge this way or that from this 'old fart on a bike' (Geoff's words) is priceless and sinks in with the muscle memory of a long slow burn up towards the Col de Llauro. He is Socrates on a bike, not pretty to look at, a gadfly in your eye when it's useful, wandering the streets on his bicycle offering nuggets of wisdom.

'Don't give an inch.'

'What do you do when someone in the break says ease up? Attack!'

And after today's epic ride with a few pros, 'Well this is better than sitting on your arse watching the tele.'

This week we meet Steve Lampier, leaving next week for ten days with his team in Brittain and then for the balance of the season in Belgium. He hopes to get some results and get in with an upper division team as a stagiare; his coach Mark McKay, three times top professional rider in the UK (check out http://www.markmckaytraining.com/); Caroline, a professional rider with an Italian team getting ready to head off to El Salvador for a stage race in a couple of weeks; and of course Geoff, our guide, wit and gadfly to motivate us along.

We head north from our meeting place in Thuir, cross the Tet river and industrial wasteland of Baho and wind our way around the outskirts of Rivesaltes. The day is still a bit cloudy and cool, gloves are still on as are the leggings and the pace is a bit hotter than past Wednesdays, just hovering around 20. With the larger group we get to move around, meeting people, exchanging stories, and letting the miles roll under the tires. I ask Mark where we're headed and he demurs, 'Geoff knows.'

We meet a couple of riders from Le Boulou's racing club heading the other way, 'Hey Boulou!' Geoff shouts. Past Rivesaltes, we cross the Agly river. and climb a bit in the headlands of the Serra d'el Clot. A tiny road turns off and now we're climbing. Caroline is a wonderful climber, elfin, maybe 90 pounds (Mark has threatened to turn her loose on Geoff earlier when he needled her a bit) and soon there is a small gap, maybe 50 yards between Geoff and I and the others. They ease up at the top and we tag back on and we start our descent. The road is nearly straight and Steve comes by me on the left. I took it easy on the climb and have something left and pedal a bit, passing him at 41.9 mph, the terminal velocity of me pedaling a 50x12 gear. But I'm bigger by about 35 pounds than Steve and fly by. He comes up along side at the bottom and glances at my gearing.

'Just a compact with a 12,' I say. He smiles. I know he was out in the mountains yesterday for a 160k spin, so I'm not thinking too many big thoughts about myself, but it does feel good to hold my own once in a while. We turn south again, crossing the Agly and heading through Baixas. As we start a new climb out of town, it occurs to me that I'm a bit tired. Where will we stop for a cafe creme?

Calce. A small village perched on the edge of the range leading to the peak at La Forca Real. There is one cafe, but it looks closed. Crap! Mark tries another door and it opens. Right, we park our bikes and barge in. The owners are gracious, noticing the Anglais argot bandied around between the riders, they use rough English with us, smiling. In the traditional communities, and especially among older people, les coureurs de cyclisme is still a respected person. Either that, or the snot dripping from Geoff's nose and the wild, decafeinated look in our eyes, made them super friendly.

Another climb waited for us as we left Calce. A gentle 6 or 7 percent, it still hurt my stiff legs, but around a couple of bends and we were greeted with an a panorama of mountain and desert vistas reaching miles to the north. The road drops to the Col de la Dona and we begin the wonderfully long descent to Corneila la Riviera. The road is crappy, but the desert scenes around us are magnificent.

Not far along, Steve asks me how I'm feeling. I've got about 80 miles in along with several thousand feet of climbing, but I'm still feeling good. 'Great.' We take a sharp left onto what Mark calls Paris-Roubaix. Steve surges ahead with Mark and me following. The road reminds me of home; broken pavement, potholes and gravel. I know from experience that going faster over broken pavement actually smooths out the ride and step up the speed and nearly catch Steve before the end.

I'm feeling tired but good; the body hum that comes after a long workout provides a warm glowing feeling, but I know that there isn't much left in the tank. However when we reach a downhill past Thuir and Steve once again shoots by me, I say goodbye to the last of my glycogen and sprint after him, overtaking him on the short climb until he comes by again. It feels good to work hard on the bike, or play hard. We stop at a fountain at Terrats, fill our bottles and bid our friends adieu. They're off to meet two more riders arriving from the UK and will spend a couple more hours on the bike with them.

Geoff and I head towards the Alberes and St Genis. A few miles down the road, it's apparent to me that I'm empty, completely empty, and I take a big breath to clear my vision and move to Geoff's rear wheel. I'm sure he knows what's up and I play on the edge of the bonk for the next 8 miles. We're moving along at 21mph or so but soon I'm recovering a bit. I'm running on fat and every effort up a hill immediately puts me back in the red zone. I survive, though, and am thankful that Geoff doesn't sprint into the village. On our spin to my turn-off, we both understand we've had a wonderful ride, the kind of ride that changes something deep inside and we're happy in a the profound way that only a hard workout on a bike can provide.

5:26, 94.5, 3720ft

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

Small steps

I was one year old when Geoff was offered a professional contract to ride in Holland. This is an astounding idea to me. We're talking about the paths our lives have followed and the choices we've made.

"Do you have any regrets?" "Naw, well maybe not coming to France to ride professionally or taking that pro contract in Holland." "What year was that?" A pause

"1965."

After my initial thought, my second; I have almost 20 years of good riding left in me. This is what occurs to me when I check the results every year after the Birkebeiner ski marathon. My first year completing it, I was proud of my 4:20 time. Until my brother called to congratulate me with "Nice job, Chris. But I see an 80 year old guy from Houghton beat you by 10 minutes."

Getting fit seems to be a game of great gains at first, highly motivating to be able to ride faster and faster, farther and farther. But soon, the gains are more incremental until they are so slight as to be imperceptable. The cruelest reality is how quickly the body 'detrains' if there is some kind of layoff. What I've learned and Geoff seems to underline by example is how much fitness can be kept over time if training is regular and continuous.

He says that racing for a young courer is 90 percent physical and 10 percent mental. But as the physical strength subsides with age, racing becomes 40 percent mental. Races are still won, but on wit not brawn. His roomful of cups and medals is a testament to this.

We ride on, talking, dodging traffic, dogs and other cyclists. No one passes us and that's not an accident.

2:09, 41.5, 1500ft

Mimosa

Today the temperature on my watch read 75 degrees as a I coasted down to the coast from Sorede. Seventy five. There was a subtle scent of mimosa blooms on the breeze and the air was so clear I could see the fine details of the mountains north of Perpignan, the layers of foothills and smaller ranges below Le Canigou and snow covered crags of Le Pic itself. The blue of the sea sparkled and dazzled and I enjoyed the sensations of summer, the easy warmth of the air on my skin and I laughed at having put on arm warmers earlier.

Today was an easy ride, recovering from yesterday's harder ride north of Perpignan in the Salanque Plain. It was fitting that it was warm on my easy day as yesterday at this time I couldn't feel my toes and was glad that I'd put on the long sleeve Craft shirt under my jersey. Yesterday was also solo: I was picking up Geoff in the evening at the Girona airport after his one week hiatus with his wife in Roma and the fellows I was supposed to ride with didn't show at our scheduled time and place on the outskirts of Thuir. It was cold and threatening rain, but there was likely another reason. Steve had raced over the weekend in Les Boucles Catalanes, finishing 23rd or so on Saturday but not showing up on the finishers list on Sunday. Crash? Something else? I'll leave it to Geoff to sleuth out and end up leaving the rondpoint after 20 minutes and heading north. It was a good ride and the rain never materialized, just damp cold, the bane of someone trying to kick the last vestiges of a cold out of their system while putting in 250 miles.

Today I could feel the sun baking the germs right out of me. My legs were ivory-white, an embarassement at races in May, but normal in February (I tell myself). The easy coast to the sea ends at the promenade and a meeting with Janet and the boys. I ride twice down the promenade with Karl and Johann, proud of each. Karl, with his velo de competition (overheard from a older man explaining it to his wife) standing on the pedals, learning to maneuver his way through people, around dogs and soccer balls, in pursuit; Johann on his Decathlon single speed bike with hand brakes and freewheel, pacing his brother and occasionally taking jaunts across the grass, or turns down side paths, looping through a soccer game in the plaza, twice. People look. I know they notice Karl's kit, his bike, smile at his obvious desire to be like dad, but they also look at Johann.

What do they see? A boy, obviously with Down's syndrome, but a boy laughing, riding a bike, feeling the freedom that all cyclists crave. Johann far from being a captive of his diagnosis, is soaring beyond it. I wonder if that is what people see?

A quick good-bye and I'm heading for home and a shower. Just an hour on the bike today and off with Geoff tomorrow morning. One thing for sure, he's never late.

4:10, 65.7, 1480ft
1:16, 17.4, 600ft

Sur le Mer

The light is different here, as Henri Matisse said when he was living at Coulioure a few miles down the road. It could be the combination of humidity from the sea and the high desert climbing the eastern Pyrennes, or perhaps the way the light comes off the sea after a light shower clears the air, but the light is different and the waters of the Mediterranean seem bluer.

Then again it could be all of the wine I'm drinking.

Today I was looking for a 2 hour aerobic jaunt through the Rousillon Plain along the coast, something scenic and something to loosen up my legs after a day off yesterday. But not too much as tomorrow I have a date with Steve and his coach and maybe a couple other better cyclists than I. But today is a nice run to Argeles on the mountain road and up the coast via St. Cyprien to Canet de Rousillon, then back south to Saleilles and Elne and then up to our village.

These roads are becoming very familiar, but each time I ride them I have a sense that what I'm seeing is changing rapidly and will likely be gone in a few years. The expanses of saltwater marshes and sandy flats and unobstructed beaches spreading to the sea are being covered by condos. Very St. Petersburg. Florida, not Russia. I rode there less than a year ago with some local clubs and the experience is shockingly similar. Not until one leaves the coast and heads inland and then leaves the large departmental road for a tiny tarmac with a faded sign for Mas du Moulin, does the Florida imprint fade and the Languedoc-Rousillon and the Cote de Vermeil reassert itself.

Reigning over everything is the Pic de Canigou, rising 9000 feet over the valley, covered in snow despite the spring temperatures and sun in the plain. My compass on clear days when the Alberes have receded too far to be of help and alien ranges lurch up north and west of Perpignan. Sand, sea, mountain, wind, snow and rain; there's an elemental reality that creates a link to the earth. My sweat and pain is mixed in as I ride circles in this mystical place, full of light and thought and the whispers of ten eons of men toiling in pain and bathing in this beauty.

2:15, 38.1, 820ft

I lost my first 20 workouts or so last night when I vicariously experienced a 'memory fault' through my pda. 'Push this button to erase all memory on your computer.' There being nothing else to do, I pushed it and was back at square one with my data. Of course, it doesn't really matter. My legs, lungs and heart know exactly what I've been doing and I remember as well, no memory fault there. So I'll be using these pages to hold a bit more of my data, figuring that the likelihood of Blogger losing it's memory are smaller than mine.

Chaque Dimanche

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

Singing in the Rain

From our perch on the mountain the sky to the east, over the Mediterranean looked clear of the clouds hovering over the Alberes, so I headed towards the sea for a two hour base-building ride. Soon after passing through Laroque, the rain started, first with a few drops and then in earnest. I moved out into the lane to avoid fragments of glass, normally not an issue, but lubricated with water, almost a guaranteed stop on the side of the road. I checked the temp, 42 degrees. At least I was able to warm my legs up a bit before it started.

In Argeles, I turned right on a little road that passed underneath the busy street headed for the centre ville, a great discovery Janet made last week, and headed north to St. Cyprien. The rain fell harder and the wind picked up out of the north. Quick check of the temp: still 42 degrees. I was getting wet and cold and starting to wonder why I needed to be on the road a full two hours.

In the west the sun came out over the Canigou and in that transendent moment I turned away from the sea and headed towards the sun shining on the Vallespir. By St. Andre the rain had stopped and by Brouilla I was cycling in the sun and started to dry out. On the north side of Ortaffa, I found a little road and, ignoring the 'Route Barree' sign, cycled through vineyards and up a long hill overlooking the valley. Sun splashed the Alberes and Villelongue dels Monts in the distance and the blue, blue sky was spreading towards the sea.

La Forca Real

I felt a little sorry for him. "Are you knackered, or what?" "I guess I'm just too tired." He shifted on his cleats, eyes on the pavement. "Too tired? Are you a racer or a poser?" He didn't look up, "Poser, I guess." "Right, we have no room for posers." Geoff turns his back on the fellow and pedals away. Steve laughs at the interchange and follows. I give a 'See you later" and head off, regretting not having another riding mate to work with on what I was sure was going to be a hard effort.

Chris, the fellow all kitted up with eyes on the pavement, was in town for ten days and wanted to get the miles in and race this weekend in the big Elite 2 Les Boucles Catalanes. He has plans to cat up to Elite 1 this year and made a show of being on a strict diet; no cheese or breads. But here, with the riders that are never passed for long on the road, who plan to figure in each race they're in, what matters is the miles and being on the bike. It's cruel, but Chris would have been better to try and fail, then to not try at all. Doing that betrayed a lack of heart and dedication to his declared goals and that is the only real sin a bike racer can make. Geoff really wanted him to ride and make the committment, but he couldn't.

Ah well, our threesome headed north. I wasn't going to mention that I flatted on the way to Le Boulou and was running an unglued tire and had no spare. Carpe diem and beware being perceived as making excuses (but I was going to take it easy on the hairpins today). Our meeting place was on the road from St. Colombe de Comanderie to Thuir and we now turned back to catch the road to Le Soler. The Rousillon plain is south of Perpignan and we now were riding on the edge of the Salanque plain north of the city. The road was smooth and flat as crossed the Tet river.

"What's that," I point out a small peak with tower and a hermitage. La Forca Real was going to be figuring big in our immediate future, but first we needed to cross a small col. The Col de la Dona was only 200 meters high, but the long drag on the rough road made it seem much taller. Steve wasn't working too hard, he was racing Saturday and Sunday and just wanted to turn over the cranks slow and easy, but Geoff and I were breathing hard.

Estagel came and we turned south to Montner and started climbing again, this time to the Col de la Bataille. My legs felt great after a day off and a recovery ride on Monday. The downhill run in to Millas and our coffee stop was more problematic, no letting it loose with an unglued tire, and I let a gap grow between us until the road straightened out a bit. We pulled into the Cafe du Midi and ordered three cafe cremes, set up a table and chairs and talked about the day's ride, the coming race and the bloke who crapped out back in Thuir.

The climb to Castelnou from Thuir is a lovely 6k or so, with the last 2k being switchbacks. My first time up a few weeks ago had been hard, this time the road has somehow flattened and I crested fresh. "You're getting fitter," Geoff offered as we descended through the scrub oak and rocky outcrops. Another rider had the timidity to pass us on a slight rise before Corbiere and I watched Steve get the go ahead from Geoff, the catch and the brief absorption of the rider into our group before he was dropped. Our pace on these long rides is 'tranquil' but when someone makes a motion to upstage the Alpha rider, the response is quick and decisive. Catch, draft, pass, drop. In so many ways the cycling culture seems complex and subtle, but the base reality is harsh and unbending. Either you can ride with us or you can't. If you can't, don't pretend you can. If you can't, but want to and are willing to work, you'll get help, but all respect is earned.

Respect on a bike can't be bought in the boutique bike shop.

Les Briques

04 February 2007

A brick is what Geoff calls them. Bricks in a wall. Building the foundation for a racing season with miles and miles, or divinding by .6, kilometres and kilometres. With Geoff’s help, I’ve been back on the road with an Octalink bottom bracket and a carbon Weyless crank. Not perfect, but the small chainring, a 39, has been sufficient to spin out 200 miles in the last week and chug my way to the top of the Col de Madeloc, and the Col de Llauro.

1000 miles since we’ve arrived and about 40000 feet of climbing. That’s enough to change a person.

My pants don’t fit again. Janet mentioned she was happy that I was wearing my long sweater yesterday, hiding the depleted butt portion of my pants which are looking more and more like something I picked up on the sale rack at St Vincent de Paul’s.

When you live in the Mediterranean, it’s hard not to eat a Mediterranean diet. Lots of olive oil, fresh veggies, some beans and a nice mixture of seafoods are a contrast to my normal winter diet.

As the weight comes off and I get more miles in, I notice the false flats aren’t so demanding anymore. On yesterday’s ride, after a few hours of easy tempo riding and a climb up a col, I was back on the road leading to Amelie les Bains and feeling recovered! I took a pull at the front of our three man group and raised the tempo a bit. No longer riding on the rivet after hours in the saddle, I felt comfortable with an increase in effort. These are subtle things, but cycling and training is a subtle business, the gains are so slight after hours spent in the saddle. But the difference between 12.5 and 12 mph on a climb might be the habit of having a pain au chocolat every morning, or, as Geoff might say, ‘plunking your ass in front of the Tele every night.’

So I’m making progress, but I still get dropped by good climbers on the cols. This is fine; it motivates me, makes me a tad pissed off and gets me to think twice about desert or excited about the next ride on the bike. Each decision, a brick in or out.

Cassè

Sunday’s club ride was a lesson in the frailty of the human body and the cycling machine. The morning dawned cold, about 28 degrees. A cold front had settled in the past few days, dropping temperatures down about 20 degrees or so. I bundled up was focused on keeping warm as I descended the village road to the valley. It even occurred to me that maybe I should invert my bottles, ala crosscountry skiers, to prevent the tops from freezing closed. Nearing the bottom of the hill, a large patch of water had frozen in front of a business. Lots of brakes and nearly a full stop, I skirt the ice rink and clip in for the rest of the drop down.

This time the ice was dark and had frozen smooth across the entire road. I was only going about 10mph when the reptilian part of my brain signalled the threat. Never use brakes on ice, and I didn’t, but even so both wheels slid to the left and I was instantly transformed from sleek downhill bike racer to gangly bloke sliding on my kiester sans bicycle.

The jersey and shorts made it though relatively unscathed but I could see some blood leaking through the spandex shorts where my hip ached. The cold quickly numbed the area and on I went for the ride out of Amelie les Bains with Geoff.

Today was to be a flat ride back down the valley and then over to Palau del Vidre and then back to Amelie via the mountainside villages of Sorede, Villelongue and Montesquieu. This was fine with me as my crank was making increasingly loud creaking sounds, the bearings were giving up the ghost, but spinning seemed to be OK. La Poste still hadn’t come through with my new stuff from Italy.

Geoff and I met the club and we had a leisurely ride/coast down through the very familiar villes of Ceret and Le Boulou before turning off towards Banyuls del Apres and Brouilla. The road from Ortaffa to Palau was new to me. It starts as a narrow tarmac thread and quickly deteriorates into a chipped but not sealed road with piles of chips lining the tire lanes and then into concrete ‘submersible’ road, crossing the river Tech. From here we headed back towards the Alberes and Laroque des Alberes, the village with the incredible baguettes.

I’m riding midgroup and Geoff slides up on my left, “Time to move up to the front.” We pass groups of riders and snuggle up towards the front. The pace quickens as the climb intensifies and the club splinters. It’s nice not having to close gaps; leapfrogging from group to group takes a lot of energy on a climb, but we’re able to keep a nice tempo pace. On the way to Villelongue, occasionally a rider will get a hair somewhere and jump off the front, but I knew and the better riders knew the harder climb comes on the way to Montesquieu, then there’s a brief rest and then the long, fast slog up river to Amelie. Conserve energy, look for chances to recuperate and save it for the sprint to the rondpoint sign south of Amelie les Bains.

There’s about seven or eight of us after Villelongue. A rider asks me about my wheels. At first I think he’s just asking what kind they are (not many folks have seen Nimbles here) but after some broken French, I understand he’s asking if I’ve a rayon casse. A quick look and the both wheels are true.

The real climb starts and again there’s pressure on the group. Geoff is just in front of me, a good wheel to follow, I know he feels the hills like I do and I can set my pace to his. He’s also thinking of the final sprint at Amelie as well and lets a wild one go without changing his pace.

The bicycle is composed in such a way as to avoid friction. Every part that moves on a bike is sleeved in fine grease and high tolerance bearings, adjusted so that there is no energy wasted in sloppy play. Sound from these surfaces means that there is friction. Friction means that the part is going to wear and fail soon and a rider tunes his ears to listen for the beginning of the entropy. I could have been wearing ear muffs and a turban and heard the last scream of my bottom bracket on that climb. I slowed to a stop, gave it a spin and tried to pedal again. The sound of nails on a chalkboard. One of the female riders, Veronique, coasted up to me. Le boitier de pedalier est casse, I tell her. Dit Geoff, je vais a Villelongue.

Day over, and now I can feel the road rash on the hip.

2:47, 43.2, 1560ft.

Cold Mountain

A cold, quick ride on my mountain-side loop. Bundled up against the below-freezing temperatures, introspection is easier, anything to distract from the numb fingers and toes. In Sorede, an older couple is out for a early morning promenade. I meet them on the bridge; they are dressed in long wool coats, colors muted to match the greys and tans of the village. This is what I love about France: the focus on the personal, the couple taking time to walk together; the pace of life is like the even ticking of a clock, or footsteps on a bridge.

Initially we were out of step with the rhythm of the place we put ourselves into. The American idea of getting what you want, when you want it was in conflict with the regularity of getting your baguette before the afternoon and evening mealtimes. The boulanger closes his shop when he has no more baguettes. There’s no sense in trying to go shopping on a Sunday afternoon when we should be doing something in the park together like other French families.

The creak that comes from my crank as I climb a small hill reminds me of some of my frustrations with living here. I’m still waiting for packages sent weeks ago. The charger for our phone, ordered from a French company when were still in Paris nearly a month ago, still hasn’t arrived. Parts that would fix the squeak in my crank, a new roulement de pedalier, ordered from a shop in Italy would take just a week to get to Iowa from Treviso; here, 15-20 days isn’t unusual, I’m told.

The descent from Sorede to Argeles takes me past the old maison that Janet and I have talked about. A wrought iron fence surrounds the house and grounds on one side and the barn and stone sheds make the other border. The entire property is ‘avendre’, for sale, and is central to the village of Argeles and the plages of Argeles sur Mer. In it’s time, it must have been a grand residence. The two story main house has a lovely tiled staircase to a large entrance hall. There is a small ‘grandparents’ quarters at the rear of the house and the grounds, if mowed, weeded and landscaped, could be very nice. We’ve written down the number, but haven’t taken the next step of actually calling it.

I know the route through the centre ville of Argeles now and take the left turn back to St Andre, gliding over the Autoroute and onto the flats of the D618. The blood is flowing, life moving back into my limbs and my brain and a quick ‘Salut’ to another rider heading the opposite direction. Life is good.

1:02, 15.2, 540ft