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10 Wrong Route Quacking ducks woke us. We went to a bike shop to procure a new pneu for my fair lady. I asked the worker for a 700 by 35C. He pulled out a dusty cobwebbed tire from the back of the shop. I bet he had thought he was never going to get rid of that tire. Sharon put it on. It was so huge it wouldn't turn under her brake arms. Removing it, I went back in and explained I needed a smaller size. The owner came out to see why it wouldn't fit, checking Sharon's old tire to make sure I wasn't feeding him a bunch of hooey. Yep, it read 35C. He gave me a 28C Michelin Select and it fit no problem. We dropped a thousand feet. Crossing a river we found a closed camping area and ducked in for a picnic. A view of the forest peeked through the bridge arch. Another loaded cyclist on a mountain bike with multicoloured panniers waved as he rode past. Later, we passed him as he changed a flat. The hills were alive with the sound of dinging cow bells. The rain had made the hills brilliant green. On D2 a series of hairpins, with no guardrails, greeted us, first downhill (maybe I would have to tighten my brakes), then uphill (maybe my brakes were rubbing). Sharon's speedometer read 107 kilometers per hour! No wonder those Tour de France cyclists were cult heroes. We stopped in La Roquefort to pick up two baguettes. I liked the taste of baguettes better than the larger pain loaves. In Québec stop signs read: Arret. In France stop signs read: stop. Go figure. La Roquefort had a castle ruin, a crucifix statue, and a lionheaded water fountain. Stopping on the bridge we noticed an entryway under the town where water spilled out. The still high water covered the river edge sidewalk. Hotels hung laundry. Red flowers overflowed a wooden donkey cart in centreville. A cartwidth street composed of flat mosscovered rocks ran alongside the church. In a patisserie, across from the spewing fountain, I requested water. She pointed to the fountain, but took my water bottles anyway. Apparently the water from fountains was safe to drink. France had been full of surprises for us. It wasn't at all what we expected. Our preconception, based on conversations with others-was that we wouldn't like it much. But not so: France was marvellous. It was impossible not to like with all its small paved roads tailormade for cycling. The people and the scenery had been our biggest surprise. Everything was much better than we ever could have imagined. The other touring cyclist, wearing headphones, made his entrance and came over to introduce himself. He was studying English as he cycled along. He was from Switzerland and heading to the Pyrenees. Hoo boy. We chose our route to avoid the Pyrenees. One of us was heading to the wrong place and I had a pretty good idea who it was. Travelling roads with no advance knowledge where they went led to constant discoveries. But it wasn't flat! We had picked a hilly route trying to avoid the mountains. Great views though. To Alley, D33 was the smallest road we had been on in France. Camped in the forest, I made a candle lantern out of a two liter juice bottle. The candles I had bought were so drippy they coated my candle lantern. Neighbouring farm dogs barked nonstop. Eau de Cyclist? Did dogs ever wake up with a sore throat and wonder: Why the hell was I barking so much last night? |
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