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April 28 Friday Bicycle touring France along the Saone River I immediately got my socks wet as we trundled back with our fully loaded touring bicycles along a path along the edge of an orchard. I hate wet socks. Once my socks are wet, they seem to stay wet for the whole day. We cycled back across the double arch bridge, noticing that the high level water marker set in the stream is almost submerged. If it is gone I guess that means a flood? Back to cycle touring along the Rhone. Trees are still submerged in the water. A woman passes us in a car and the air behind her reeks of perfume. It is better than cigar smokers though. I cycle past a sign advertising "ball trap." I have no idea what that is, but it sounds awfully painful to me. We pull our touring bicycles to a halt and buy two baguettes before cycling to a park with tables. It is terribly noisy. There are two train tracks, an auto route, and two national highways running past the so-called park. A small house sits marooned on an island of land between the freeways. The train track could practically be touched out their window. To imagine, someone is slaving away to pay the mortgage and taxes on that place. I can see the real-estate listing: "Close to major highways and train." Sharon is depressed. "We don't have to be bicycle touring so far from home to see this," she laments. "I don't mind when we are seeing new and different things. But this...." It feels like we are bicycle touring on the prairies, but with more traffic. As we left the park, there was even a bumpy bike path which reminded us or ours at home in Edmonton Alberta with all the frost heaves. I ate some more of the horrid prune jam. It is fermenting, so it must be getting better. I hope I never buy prune jam again. I could throw it away and be done with it, but it has become a quest to finish the stuff. We cycle along the park's bike route into town and then bicycle across a walkway over an arm (or is it a leg?) of the river to a well tended quieter park. Sharon, in the spirit of a true cycle tourist, washes her clothes under a faucet. We are the only ones in the park until two park employees stop for lunch, eating a sandwich on a bench while watching the mallards. Even the two fishermen on the opposite bank put down their rods and stopped for lunch. As we are leaving, a fellow sets his lunch bag on a table and pulls out the all important bottle of wine. He has a baguette and cheese too, no doubt. We decide to try cycling the road that runs toward the other end of the park. It turns out not to be a dead end for us. Across the bank a sign depicts a car hanging by its rear wheels and tipping into the water. It warns of the river to unobservant drivers. The park road we are blissfully cycling turns into an industrial area. Being lunch time there is no traffic. Things are looking up. We cycle along peacefully until we hit a dead end in a coal yard. We turn our little touring bicycles around and have to backtrack a few hundred metres to a quiet side road. We cycle past a house that has a high water marker mounted on its side. This is a flood plain. I can see the For Sale description: "Indoor swimming pool. Water beds, water chairs, and water couch included. Comes with canoe. Private boat launch from second floor. Close to fishing." What a salesman. Did you hear about the salesman who sold a milking machine to a poor farmer. Yep, took his only cow as down payment. Grocery shopping for ten items at the Intermarche became a frustrating experience today. I can't find any deodorant, only eau de toilette, toothpaste and shampoo. Sharon asked if I checked the pharmacy. She say they don't use deodorant and they figure if someone needs it they must be sick. Would one have to go to the doctor to get a prescription? It is really sad when one has to use underarm deodorant. I never did find any. Sixteen people were in line for checkout and only two cashiers were on. The store has conveniently mounted a TV above the cash register for your viewing pleasure. Seriously. It is no wonder. It took nearly half an hour to pay for my little amount of groceries. A woman ahead of me bought 800 francs (over $200) worth of groceries and then she had to pack them all herself. The cashier sat on her chair and stared off into space while she did so. She was probably contemplating the same space that was between her front teeth. The customer didn't pay until she had finally finished packing all her groceries and then she asked if it was okay to pay with a cheque. A guy behind me has one item. Get this, after I got through I had to go and stand in another line to buy a baguette. They have the bread as a separate part of the store. Bicycle touring in France. We cycle out just in time to descend upon Lyon during Friday afternoon rush hour. Just to keep our cycling reflexes sharp. Actually, it turns out to be a piece of cake compared to Genova. There's an awesome church with four turrets, one in each corner. To the side of the church is an iron structure resembling a small replica of the Eiffel tower. We cycle along D51 along the river's edge. Buildings are clustered side by side with no space between them. No danger of fire though as they are one hundred percent rock, with the exception of the shutters. We saw one huge building that was metamorphosed as half rock and half building. The building looked like it was assembling itself from the rock. Cycled out of town and even found a bike lane beside the road. We cycled past a large bike shop with a sign for reparations. We actually turned our touring machines around to check it out. Eric was working on a mountain bike when I came in and explained my slipping and skipping touring bike chain predicament. He came out and looked at my bike chain, cluster and rings. "All kaput," Eric said. No problem with translation there. He looked at his watch. It is 5 PM, but he decides it is okay to bring my touring bicycle inside the shop. Eric's dad, Louis, is in a business suit. He is interested in the poor bicycle touring Canadians. He looks at my sad neglected bike. I would have cleaned it, but it would just get dirty again. Soon, business suit or not, he can't help himself. He begins by strapping my touring bike's fender strut back on. Then he tries my bike's brakes. He gets the squirt lube and makes a brake adjustment. He notices the rusty shifter cables on my touring bike and shakes his head while saying something I don't understand. I'm glad. He pushes up his suit jacket arms and gets a can of 3 in 1 oil to rub onto the cables, softly and lovingly caressing the rust off them. Meanwhile, Sharon, left unattended, has discovered new cycling shoes and is trying them on. They fit. They even match the colour of her pants. She must have new cycle touring shoes she decides, even though her toes are barely sticking out of her old ones. Nothing a little duct tape wouldn't fix. The good news is that the new cycle touring shoes are on a special promotion and are on sale for 150 francs less than usual. It's great deal. I might as well get a pair since they have my size. Besides, Eric is busy regreasing my bottom bracket. They don't have a 36-tooth chainring so I get a 34, but now the shift is too great to jump easily onto the 52-tooth large chainring. Oh well, I haven't used it much any. It only gets my pants greasy when I do. The total damage came to 1390 francs (about $400) including new shoes, labour, and new parts. All right! As we are ready to leave, Louis can't resist. He daintily digs Sharon's old cycle touring loafers out of the poubelle trash can where she has disposed of them. He has us pose for pictures with our touring bicycles and old touring shoes outside his shop. "I'll send picture to you house," he says. At 6:30 PM, I reload the panniers onto my sparkling clean touring bicycle and we depart, cycling down the road. A clicking sound still persists from the area of my bottom bracket, so I now think it must be my pedal. As we cycled along, I saw a cigarette package in the ditch with the name Smokes. We think D933 on the opposite river bank might have less traffic, so we cycle across. We are wrong. It has more traffic and it doesn't have a bike lane. After cycling 20 kilometres we see a likely looking camp spot by the Saone River. (The Rhone has departed to the east. So long muddy river.) We push our fully loaded touring bikes across a field of cornstalk stubble and set up our bicycle touring tent with a view of the red setting sun turning the Saone River a lovely pink. "Watch out for the stinging nettles," I say as I push a tent stake into the soft earth and brush a nettle as I do so. Immediately three dots swell up on my thumb. I wash it twice with soap and then apply Stingeze, but I can still feel it. I wouldn't want to squat in that stuff. Brutal. For supper, after spreading our green plastic drop sheet over most of the nettles, we have Supreme pizza with ham, cheese, and mushrooms. Strawberries with sugar for dessert. Wine, Camembert cheese, and bread, too. A touring cyclist's life can't get much better than this. I spread some of the disgusting prune jam on my bread and think, "Gee, that looks like shit." I smell the prune jam and think, "Gee, that smells like shit." I feel the prune jam and think, "Gee, that feels like shit." I take a bite of the prune jam and think, "Gee, I wish this was shit." Shit on toast. |
