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Steam Roller The sky was still leaden. Rain drops fell as I emerged from the tent. Sharon asked if I wanted to wait. A quick survey of the sky told me it could be an all day wait. We packed up and hit the road. Being a holiday it surprised me to find that stores were open. Sharon didn't like not knowing when things would be open or closed. It caused unpleasant surprises at inopportune times. When we waited to buy groceries we found everything locked up tight. When we bought groceries in anticipation of the holiday stores were open. Obviously we hadn't figured out the system -- if indeed there was one. I bought a baguette and flute. I was beginning to like flutes better. They were like giant baguettes, unlike the large "restaurant" loaves that didn't taste the same as a baguette. People seemed to be stocking up and buying more than usual. Quite a few people had bread strapped to the rear carriers of their bikes. Baguettes looked hilarious popping up from saddle bags. Beside a muddy stream I polished off the last of that prune jam. Sharon didn't aid me in the least. I had grown quite fond of it lately -- very tart. I told her, "Jam with sugar is a killer." It must have been like Sardinian wine -- an acquired taste. Around Chalon we grew bored of all the flatland cycling. Tilled brown earth was captivating for only so long. Our road was so far away from the river we couldn't even see it. We chose D2 and the route turned out to be scenic. The small road twisted along a sparkling stream amidst meadows of yellow flowers. Very tranquil. The eight lane freeway on the other side of the hill had, in our world, ceased to exist. Near La Forge Sharon found a perfect camp spot. It was by a stream tucked behind evergreen trees. Alas, it was too early to stop. "Why the long face?" I asked Sharon. "I'm mourning the loss of our perfect camp spot." Our map indicated we were going to be beside forest all day. "Don't worry," I told her as we continued. Some trees, growing round clumps of leaves, had the appearance of having hairballs. People fished. A field of canola had tire tracks on the hillside like a giant slalom course. Mega flowers lined the roadside and the French dwellings all had charming flower gardens to admire as we passed. We climbed, then flew down a twelve percent grade into a little dilapidated mountain town. After getting water we continued on a tiny road along the Borgogne canal. The pavement was new, flat and fast. As it grew later in the day, I began a vigilant lookout for camp spots, but we passed through village after village without finding anything suitable. Eventually the forest ran out. We crossed the freeway heading to Dijon and saw track above a farmer's field. After two girls on horses rode past we pushed our bikes through the field. Unfortunately, the land above the field was neither flat nor accessible. We followed a track until I spotted an opening between two pine trees. It was just large enough for our tent. Fortunately, we had a fine view of the valley and its rows of symmetrically planted trees. But our camp spot wasn't exactly flat and our sleeping bags were sideways to the slope rather than lengthwise. It presented a rolling problem when I tried laying on my Camp Rest. I shoved my substantial book bag under the downhill side of my mattress and almost got it level. Sharon chose the high side and was doomed to spend the night trying not to steam roller me. The pungent scent of blooming canola permeated the air. It was very dark and there were no stars. Did someone forget to pay the power bill? Or were the stars on strike like the rest of France? |
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