Brioude, France

It wasn’t until I’d pedaled 319 miles on my sixteenth annual Paris to Cannes ride that I intersected with this year’s Tour de France route in Brioude south of Claremont-Ferrand and Vichy up on the Massif Central.  I didn’t encounter a single Yellow Vest the entire way other than one I spotted laying in the back window of a car.  There was no indication if it was the garment of a protester or just the standard article that every motorist is required by law to have in their possession in the event of a breakdown.

There may be outbreaks of protest in Paris and elsewhere in France, but my ride through La France Profonde has been as peaceable as ever aside from a brief hail storm to go along with a couple of days of rain.  I’ve had one glorious sunny day of 70 degree temperatures, but otherwise it has been cold.  My first day on the Massif Central I awoke to a temperature of 37 degrees and an incensed dog.  I was camped in the woods off a dirt road that was the Sunday morning trekking route for an older guy and his canine.  The dog sniffed me out and approached in a tizzy.  I could see he was wearing a halter and could just barely make out his owner in the distance through the trees.  I’m not sure if the owner could see me, but he didn’t call off his dog.  He finally retreated after I threw a few sticks at him, not caring to play fetch.

Otherwise the camping has been uneventful and as idyllic as one could want in forests with such thick and soft layers of leaves a sleeping pad is hardly necessary.  It is camping as it’s meant to be, unlike my recent ride around California, when nearly every night I was scrounging like a desperate rodent looking for a nook to burrow into when it got dark.  With it light until nine o’clock here the hardest part of the camping is passing up one perfect spot after another.  Not needing the cover of dark to make my disappearance into the woods allows me untold flexibility.

Brioude, population 6,670, is the first of three Ville Étapes on this year’s Tour route that I’ll be able to scout out on my ride to Cannes.  It has the honor of hosting the finish of the Bastille Day stage on July 14.  It’s City Hall had a giant Yellow Jersey over its entrance announcing the coming of The Tour.  Otherwise there were no decorations yet around the small city other than a couple of storefronts who had their windows painted with some scene relating to The Tour.  Brioude was a Ville Départ in the 2008 Tour. I was happy to renew my acquaintance with the cobbled narrow streets of its medieval center and to discover the rare amenity of a row of electric outlets outside an auditorium across from the toilette publique.  Though my generator hub is helping keep my iPad charged, its always nice to know where auxiliary charging can be found.

I may not have time to linger in Brioude come Tour time, as it is 32 miles to the start of the next stage in St. Flour through very demanding up and down terrain.  I’ll probably want to start riding it before the peloton arrives in Brioude.  It won’t be of paramount importance to get a good start on the next day’s stage before dark as the day after is a Rest Day.   If I fall a little behind, I can make it up while the peloton takes a day off.

Not even ten miles into my ride I had my first spontaneous “Wow” moment when I came upon a giant dragon sculpture in a roundabout.  Roundabouts alone are a pleasing amenity, and their art even moreso.  Nothing personifies the aesthetic-sense of the French more.  Signs preceding towns announcing a vide-grenier (town-wide garage sale) or a blood drive or the circus coming to town are unique to France. I also know I am in France when I come upon gypsy encampments on the outskirts of towns and also stray white vans (portable bordellos) in a pullover by a forest and the stone-walled cemeteries with their water spigots.  The occasional smoker reminds me I rarely see one in America anymore.  I do not look forward to having to inhale cigarette smoke while waiting in line at Cannes.  But there are plenty of other things at Cannes I do greatly look forward to, not the least of which is the World Premier of Quentin Tarantino’s latest—“Once Upon A Time in Hollywood.”   My ten-day ride through La France Profonde is cleaning my palette for the twelve days of Big Screen art to come commencing next Tuesday.  

My favorite French meal, caussolet, tastes a little better this year after learning from a book I read just before I left, “A Bite-Sized History of France,” that this meaty bean stew is so revered by the French that a law was passed mandating the percentage of meat in the canned version so that manufacturers couldn’t dilute it.  That hasn’t prevented them from reducing the larger canned version from 850 grams to 840 grams, but it is reassuring to know they can’t start skimping on the hunks of meat that comprise a quarter of the volume of the can.  

The book, which narrated the history of France as it related to food, devoted a chapter to cassoulet tracing its origins to over five hundred years ago.   Three nearby towns in the southwest of the country all lay claim to it.  The recipe has evolved over the centuries, as the present white bean used in the stew was brought over from the New World. The three or four times a week I end my day with a can of cassoulet in my tent I supplement it with couscous, which also received mention in the book.  It too is popular with the French, who eat more than anyone else in Europe.  

There was no commentary though on menthe à l’eau, the drink made from mint syrup that for me is one of the great joys of France and that I drink continually as I pedal along.  Wine so dominates the attention of visitors to France that this fabulously refreshing drink doesn’t get the attention it deserves.  Those who don’t appreciate it are prone to ridicule it for its bright green color, likening it to mouth wash or battery acid.  Another book on France I read pre-departure, “Notes from the Cevennes,” by an English poet who has made the Cevennes his home for a couple of decades, alluded to and semi-blasphemed menthe á l’eau without naming it when he mentioned the row of “lurid-colored bottles of sirop” in his local bar, as if he wouldn’t dare drink such a thing.

Neither book paid tribute to The Tour de France or the bicycle despite their strong presence in French culture.  I continually receive affirmations of respect and longings to be doing what I’m doing from people I encounter, whether friendly toots from motorists or people warmly engaging me expressing interest in my travels.

Even before I arrived in France an older French man in line with me at O’Hare waiting to check in at the Air France counter front of me asked if I had a gravel bike in my box,  and then waxed on about the joy of biking in rural France.  One of the movies I watched in flight, “Nobody’s Perfect,” a French comedy starring Catherine Deneuve and Gerard Depardieu, included a scene with a pair of Middle-Aged Men in Lycra (MAMILs) stopping to ask Deneuve directions.  I see many of the species out riding on weekends and they are all happy to see me.  A large group of them who were stopped along the road all bowed as I passed.

I am especially attuned to the contrast of touring in France compared  to the US with my 2,500 mile ride around California a month ago so fresh in my mind.  Besides the ease of camping and the positive reaction from motorists here in France there is the dramatic difference in the size of the vehicles.  Americans drive tanks compared to the dainty, reasonably-sized vehicles of the French.  And for better or worse, the roads of France are litter free, so I’m spared scanning the roadside for things to scavenge, including coins.