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29 Wet Hairpins We met a family from Canada with three kids. The mother had taken a year's sabbatical from her lawyer position with the government to put the kids in German school near Lake Constance. Her husband had been originally from Germany. He had his own business in Sudbury and had flown over to visit while the kids were on spring break. I had to admit--the gorge had some gorgeous views. The depth of the canyon was breath taking--and not just because I was climbing. The road was right along the top of the canyon wall. The canyon was narrow in spots and the river below was a thick strip of turquoise ribbon wending its way through the orange sided canyon with black streaks dripping down. A walking trail along the river looked like a great hike. Parachute in and helicopter out? We went through two tunnels hewn out of the rock. The first was dark, but the second had holes in the side letting in light as well as having scenic pullouts. Contrasting the previous day, not a patch of blue was in the sullen gray mass of sky. We climbed to over four thousand feet. It was cold, rainy, windy, miserable. My left knee ached after going just thirty-three kilometers. Sharon's new combination of gears were too high for the mountains. She had lost a great deal of spin. I could tell from her frowny face she wasn't having a lot of fun. Her legs weren't used to the gearing and her stomach was queasy from the extra exertion. When we were snuggled in Paul and Hélène's feather bed Sharon asked me why everyone didn't travel by bicycle. At the moment, she was grunting, cursing and sweating up steep hills in freezing windblown rain. I think she had her answer. Merde. I waited for Sharon on a little side road at the summit. A car pulled up. They lived near Paris and had toured quite a few countries, as well as the provinces of Quebec and Ontario. I told them the Rocky Mountains in Alberta were great cycling. They gave us their address and said when we got close to Paris give them a call and we would talk and have supper. We passed a couple other tourers and some day cyclists on mountain bikes. It was the most cyclists with packs we had seen. There were many cars and motorhomes with bikes. We passed a tandem coming towards us. They were grinding uphill--we were flying down the bumpy pavement. When I first saw them, I thought it was a single touring cyclist, then, as they passed I noticed the tiny stoker on the back with a toque and no view. That was what my mom and dad would look like on a tandem. We continued our long cold descent. Around a downhill corner Lake Saint Croix came into view. My hands cramped from the constant braking. I was freezing from going downhill so long. And I considered it was a problem when I squeezed my brake levers with all my might and went faster. Yikes! There were dozens of wet hairpin corners, so I didn't want to get too much out of control. I looked over one scenic spot. There was a tire in a tree. Was that a rubber tree? It looked ripe. Lake Saint Croix was huge and a beautiful glacial blue. Sharon wanted to camp. "We worked so hard to get to this view, we may as well enjoy it," she reasoned. We set our tent up with a commanding view overlooking the lake. We were too effete to have supper. With all the climbing and lack of sleep at Madeleine's we had some catching up to do. Sharon said her legs and butt hurt--too many days off in a row. As soon as she climbed inside the tent she fell asleep--so much for admiring the scenery. Maybe in the morning? I had told her it should be flat for a ways since we were leaving Var Provence * and entering Haute Alps. Hmmm. Maybe it wouldn't be that flat. |
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