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28 Have You Noticed? The other day we had spinach so I would have enough strength to climb the hills. I thought something was wrong with my innards when the morning's constitution came out green. Before rushing off to the hospital I remembered eating that darned spinach. Popeye never said anything about that. It was time to hit the dusty trail--Madeleine was returning to work. She had been eyeing my Canadian flag ever since we arrived, so, before departing, we gave her the Quebec flag Hélène had given us. As we pedalled off, Madeleine stood in her drive tearfully waving good-bye. We found the weather to be much windier outside Madeleine's house than when we were comfortably ensconced within. The downhill from Madeleine's was so steep my rear tire skidded with each braking application. Not only did I notice the strong wind in our faces as we left town, but also that our bikes seemed sluggishly overloaded as we laboured uphill. My calves quickly tightened and began to protest the ascent. And my chain skipped. Sharon called us "Bike Monkeys," after those infamous monkeys who didn't fix their leaking roof when it was sunny, but played instead. We were the same way with our bikes. We had let them sit in Madeleine's garage for two weeks without giving them a moments thought. I should have visited a bike shop in Draguignan. We stopped for lunch behind a little knoll out of sight of passing traffic. A posted sign read: no fishing. I looked down to the dry river bed. There was not going to be a problem with someone stopping to fish--unless they were angling for rock cod. We ate and decided it was too hot to go up the hill into Comps. * The stores would be closed and we had to buy food there for supper. As Sharon dreamily stretched out her gorgeous bod in the sunshine she asked me what I was thinking about. "Sex," I replied. "You have a one track mind," she said in that female disgusted tone. "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.'" After lying in the sun for a couple of hours, Sharon's legs were a lovely shade of pink. With the breeze blowing, the sun hadn't felt hot. We climbed the final five kilometers to Comps following along the Canyon de L'Artuby. The river below was a luscious dark aquamarine. Not one cloud scampered across the immense dark blue sky. I persuaded Sharon to go in and buy groceries. Madeleine had bought some liquid medicine made from rhubarb extract for the cold sores on my lips. It worked like a charm, but it made my lips yellow. I had just put the rhubarb extract on my lips and felt self-conscious of their bright yellow hue. As I waited with our bikes in the narrow alleyway, two girls zipped by on a scooter. I marvelled how carelessly they zoomed along ignoring the side streets where traffic could appear unexpectedly. Suddenly, a volunteer fireman dashed from a nearby doorway, pulling his arms through his reflective jacket as he sprinted down the street, his rubber boots clapping madly on the pavement. Seconds later a fire truck flew past. "Must be a fire," I mused. We left town and noticed the fire truck ahead where two roads split off in a Y. A line of traffic was stopped. At the intersection three cars were spilled off the road sideways onto the grass. The two girls from the motor scooter were crying. One was examining scrape marks on her helmet. Youth was not so invincible after all. At a parking lot a dozen cyclists in matching racing jerseys sat atop a low rock wall beside their light weight machines. Looking us over curiously they asked how much our bikes weighed. "Sixty kilos," I responded. "Non," they said. "Oui," I insisted. "Non," they said in disbelief. I swung off my bike and invited them to lift it. The fellow with the biggest arms came over and struggled to lift my bike barely an inch off the ground. He returned to his pals shaking his head murmuring "Mon Dieu." The fellows with the skinny arms declined to give it a go. Sharon pointed at their bikes, "That one, plus that one, plus that one, plus that one, equals one of ours." "Oui," they agreed, still shaking their heads in disbelief, but in the opposite direction, and with greater appreciation of touring cyclists. We didn't tell them how many kilometers in total we had gone to date. Just before town we had hit the fifteen thousand kilometer mark. Their pride looked wounded enough already. No sense in letting all the air out of their tires. They had ridden around the gorge and were waiting for the bus to take them home. Sharon said, "We can give you each a little of our gear to carry." They laughed: "But we're going the other way." "This way has the best views," one said, pointing in the direction we planned to go. As we headed off, I turned and waved. My chain skipped on the incline with a brrrrt. "Bike Monkey," I muttered under my breath. The deep gorge was surrounded by mountains and steep cliffs. It was a grand canyon. At a viewpoint a guy pissed over the edge. Probably some German trying to see if he could hit the river below--just adding a little water. If the sun hit it just right, was it called a pee-bow? Europeans certainly were uninhibited about peeing in public. They just whipped it out. Maybe that was why they were called Europeans We climbed continually for thirty kilometers along the military range. Numerous signs advised not to wander off the road: Danger of Death. That was enough to keep me from taking any leaks in the woods. The scenery had been beautiful from Draguignan and spectacular from Comps sur Artuby when the Gorge du Verdon came into view. We had little traffic and from Comps it was downhill to a long bridge that spanned high across the gorge. From the road signs I thought there was going to be a town ahead where we could get water for the night. The place indicated on the signs turned out to be a scenic pullover. I asked a passing motorhome for water and he obliged with a liter. We had just enough to cook our boil-in-a-bag rice. While waiting for supper to cook, Sharon casually leafed through my journal. "Have you noticed that most of your journal is about food?" "No," I replied, "I hadn't noticed." In truth, my journal looked more like a shopping list or something found in a restaurant, consisting mainly of that day's menu and the food we had bought: the day's events were secondary compared to what I had eaten. "Those entries bring back good memories," I explained defensively. "Besides," I tried girding my position, "have you noticed your journal is mainly about bathing?" I went on to list examples: "The fantastic long hot shower at the train station in Nice; the wonderful soothing shower at Bruno and Iole's; the tremendous dirt and sweat removing bathtub soak at Hélène and Paul's. I didn't know anyone could write so many pages on having a shower." "Ahhh," Sharon replied blissfully. Sharon found a little patch for our tent between outcropping rocks under a leafless tree along the gorge's rocky hiking trail. We put extra air in the camprests. The trees next to the tent looked like scrubby Charlie Brown Christmas trees decorated by a star here or there in the inky blackness. It was very dark with two thousand stars shining brightly--a perfect night to watch the many meteorites with cascading tails. The clear night felt cool. Sleeping inside had turned me into a wimp. The racing cyclists we met had asked us: "Are you practicing camping? Isn't it cold?" In reply I gave Sharon a hug. "Ahh," they nodded. "Chauffage," (heater) one said. "Oui. Chauffage central," I answered. Our camp spot above the Canyon du Verdon would have been very peaceful if it weren't for one thing: exploding bombs. A lightning bright flash illuminated the inside of the tent. A few seconds later, a tremendous boom shook the sides. After each blast, a ten second rumbling echo rolled through the canyon. I should have been thankful: no barking dogs. |
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