|
April 18 Tuesday Bicycle touring France from Draguignan to Gorge du Verdon Our bicycle touring camp spot above the Canyon du Verdon would be very peaceful if it weren't for the bombs exploding in the military range next to us. We see a flash as bright as lightning and then a few seconds later there is a tremendous boom. A few seconds after the initial explosion we can hear the echo rolling through the canyon rumbling along for ten seconds. The sound of no dogs barking. We are back along the gorge's hiking trail. It is totally rocky. We found a little patch under a leafless tree between some of the outcropping rocks. We had to put extra air in out Thermarests tonight. We've been cycling along the military range all day. The road actually passes through the range for part of the way. Numerous signs advise one not to wander off the road. They read: Danger of Death. Besides that, the scenery we saw as we cycled along has been beautiful from Draguignan. Spectacular from Comps sur Artuby when the Verdon Gorge comes into view. We had little traffic from Comps. Great cycle touring. It was a lot windier cycling outside Madeleine's house when we started out this morning than inside it. After swooping down her road we climbed continually on our fully loaded touring bicycles for 30 kilometres to Comps, save for one short bit downhill. We passed two lightly loaded tourers going the other way. From Comps we cycled downhill to a long bridge spanning the gorge. It is way down to the river. The trees by the tent look like scrubby Charlie Brown Christmas trees, decorated by a star here and there in the inky blackness. It is very dark tonight with about two thousand stars brightly shining. We see lots of falling stars. From the signs along the road we thought there was a town ahead and we were going to wait until there to get water for tonight. It turned out to be a scenic pullover at the bridge. I asked a passing motorhome for water and they obliged with about a whole liter. At least we had enough to cook our boil-in-a-bag rice. Sharon asked if I had ever noticed that a lot of my bicycle touring journal was about food. No, I replied, I hadn't noticed. The other day we had spinach so Popeye would have enough strength to climb the hills. I thought something was wrong with my innards when it came out green. But then I remembered eating that darned spinach. Popeye didn't ever say anything about that. Supper one night at Madeleine's was pastry shells in a triangle-shape, filled with mashed potatoes, egg, and herbs. A recipe from Tunisia. All this stuff takes so long to prepare. Sharon thinks it is amazing that there is a whole nation who has the patience to spend so much time cooking. (There is even a game show on TV that features three chefs who compete against one another, answering cooking questions for prizes. Only the French.) No Kraft Mayonnaise from a jar for them. I'll just whip up some fresh stuff on my own in half an hour. When Sharon went shopping at the market with Madeleine the other day they looked for asparagus to buy. At the first table they found asparagus, Madeleine said, "Too old. Not good." At a second table she said, "Too expensive." At a third table she thought the asparagus looked good and the price was okay. Did she buy it? No. They check a fourth table and with a "Hmmm," looks over the asparagus. They return and purchase the asparagus from the third table. "Now we're looking for eggs," Madeleine says to Sharon. With a quick survey of the market, Sharon notices that only one table has eggs on display. They pass by it, and go to another table. Madeleine asks the vendor, "Eggs?" "No. All gone." They pass by the display of eggs again and go to another table. "Eggs?" "No, all gone" They now go back and buy at the display they have passed numerous times. Interesting. It takes a lot of time to buy groceries. And they do this everyday, buying for just that day's meal. Egads. At home I used to go once a month to buy non-perishables and I hated even that. I thought it was terrible enough going once a week to buy fruit and vegetables. These markets aren't exactly passive restful places either. Lots of people squished together, milling around, smelly (both the people and the produce). Noisy. Money going back and forth. I thought it was neat to go once. After that.... Anyway, after telling Sharon I hadn't noticed my journal consisted mainly of that day's menu I told her that the meals brought back good memories for me when I read about them. "Besides," I said, defending my journal's entries, "have you noticed your journal is mainly about bathing? Like the fantastic long hot shower at the train station in Nice; the wonderful soothing shower at Iole's and Bruno's garden house in Arbatax; the tremendous dirt and sweat removing bathtub soak at Helene and Paul's? I never knew it was possible for anyone to write so many pages on having a shower." "Ahhh," she blissfully replied. As we left Madeleine's the downhill was so steep and bumpy that the rear tire on my bike would skid with each application of the frequent braking. Not only did I notice the strong wind in our faces as we left town, but also that our bikes seemed sluggishly overladen as we labored uphill. My calves tightened and began to protest the ascent. And my bicycle chain is skipping. Sharon says I should be called a bike monkeys, after those infamous monkeys who didn't fix their leaky roof when it is sunny, but play instead. I am the same way with my bike. I just let it sit in Madeleine's garage for the past two weeks without giving it a moment's thought. And now, cycling out here on the road my bike chain is skipping and my crank arms are clicking away in protest. I think I should have visited a bike shop in Draguignan. We pulled our touring bikes to a stop for lunch behind a little knoll, out of sight of passing traffic. A sign said "No fishing." I looked down to see a dry river bed and thought there was not going to be a problem with anyone stopping to fish. Unless they were fishing for rock cod, I suppose. After eating, we decided it was too hot to go up the hill into town. The stores would be closed anyway and we have to buy supper there. Sharon lay around in her cycling shorts, enjoying the sun. A couple of hours later her legs were a lovely shade of pink. She had burned. With the cool breeze blowing, it hadn't felt that hot. We started cycling up the last five kilometres to Comps. We followed along the Canyon de L'Artuby. The river below was an amazing dark aquamarine luscious green. The sky was a fantastic clear blue. We bought groceries in Comps. Sharon went in, as I had just put rhubarb extract on my lips and felt self-conscious of my lips bright yellow hue. As I waited beside our bikes in an alleyway (which was about the same extremely narrow width as the main road through town), two girls zipped by on a scooter. I marveled at how carelessly they zoomed along, ignoring the entering side street where traffic could suddenly appear. Sharon reappeared from the grocery store as a volunteer fireman dashed out of a nearby doorway, pulling his arms through a reflective jacket as he sprinted down the street, rubber boots clapping madly on the pavement. Seconds later a fire truck flew past. "Must be a fire," I mused. We cycled out of Comps. At a gas station on the outskirts, we stopped to get water. We noticed the fire truck ahead where two roads split off in a Y. There was a line of traffic. At the intersection were three cars. One was off the road in the grass. Then I saw the two girls from the motor scooter. They were crying as one examined scrape marks on her helmet. The water at the station was non-potable, so we turned our fully loaded touring bicycles around and cycled back to get water in Comps. At a parking lot, a dozen cyclists clad in matching racing jerseys were sitting atop a low rock wall or standing by their lightweight machines. We pulled in to ask if there was a fountain nearby. The racing cyclists looked at us curiously and asked how much our bikes weighed. "Sixty kilos," I told them. "No," they say. "Yes." "No." I get off my bike and invite them to lift my fully loaded touring bicycle to see for themselves. The guy with the biggest arms comes over. He struggles to lift my fully loaded touring bicycle an inch off the ground. He walks away, shaking his head. The other racing cyclist fellows with the skinny arms decline to give it a go. Sharon points at their each of their bikes and says, "That one plus that one plus that one plus that one equals one of our bikes." Yes, they now agree and continue shaking their heads in disbelief. We didn't tell them how many kilometres in total we had cycled so far -- we just hit the 15,000 kilometres mark today. Their pride looked wounded enough already. No sense in letting all the air out of their tires. Sharon told them that we could give them each a little of our gear to carry. They laughed and said, "But we're going the other way." They don't live here and are waiting for a bus to come and take them home. They rode their racing bikes around the gorge today. "This way has the best views," they say as they point in the direction we had planned to go. As we cycle off, I turn and wave. My chain skips on a little incline with a brrrrt sound. "Bike monkey," I mutter under my breath. The gorge is fantastically deep, surrounded by mountains and steep cliffs. A grand canyon, indeed. At a viewpoint, we cycle up to see a guy pissing over the edge. Probably some German trying to see if he can hit the river below. Just adding a little water. If the sun hits it just right, is it called a pee-bow? Europeans seem very uninhibited about peeing in public. They just whip it out and go. Maybe that's where the term European comes from? At lunch Sharon asked me what I was thinking about. She was stretched out dreamily with her gorgeous bod in the sunshine. "Sex," I happily replied. "You have a one track mind," she said. "No. It's two track," I corrected her. "Oh?" she said brightening, "What's on the other track?" "That's where I think: When are we going to do it next." Madeleine said that one time a cyclist had shown up at her door in the cold rain and asked her for something to eat. As she was preparing food for him in the kitchen, she had left him alone in the other room with a tea. She walked in unexpectedly and caught him stealing her sugar, putting it in his pocket. "Finish your tea and get out," she told him. The phone rang as Madeleine finished her story. She got up to answer the phone. When she returned to the living room after the short phone call, my slice of cake was gone. "Did you eat it already?" she asked. "No," I told her, "I stuck it in my pocket." Hey. Pocket cake. A new product from France. Great for cycle tourists. Sharon was really getting into this French pronunciation bit. However Madeleine said a word, Sharon would try to imitate the same sound -- like a human parrot. I knew she was carrying this Madeleine French pronunciation thing a bit too far though, when this morning, she called me "Nail," the same way Madeleine pronounces my name. Our names were foreign to Madeleine. She had never met anyone before who was named Neil or Sharon. They were so foreign to her that she didn't even know which name was male and which female. She had us write them down when we arrived, so she could see how they were spelled. Then, she got them mixed up and thought my name was Sharon, and Sharon was Neil. That's how uncommon they were to her. It feels a little cool tonight in our cycle touring tent. Sleeping inside has turned me into a wimp. The racing cyclists we met earlier in town asked, "Are you practicing camping?" "Yes," I replied. "Isn't it cold?" In reply I gave Sharon a hug. "Ahh." they nodded knowingly. "Chauffage," (heater) one said. I sure liked Madeleine's place. Quiet. Peaceful. Birds singing. The noise from town didn't carry up the hillside; it was probably blocked by the trees. Good view. We could see the lights of Draguignan at night. Lots of trees. A large yard. Lots of space. Sunlight. In contrast, I hated the house where Helene and Paul lived. Busy road. Noisy. The stinky road rumbling right past their doorstep. I don't know how they could have stood it there for twelve years. It wasn't even close enough to town for Paul to walk. And it cost $1000 a month. I think they could have bought something for that price and paid a bit of the mortgage off. |
