Tours, Ville Arrivé/Départ

I wasn't the only one scouting the 135-mile Fougéres to Tours stage yesterday in the rain.  Six members of the Belgian Lotto Belisol team, wearing bright red tights, trailed by a sponsor-plastered team car, flew past me as I negotiated my way through the large city of Laval in mid-morning.  There was no chance of sticking with them, especially since my load has gained about five pounds thanks to Andrew.

Besides the three pounds of stove and cookware and fuel canisters he left me with, I am also carrying nearly two pounds worth of mint syrup in a steel can that I added to my load at his suggestion.  A week ago before we reached cold and wet Brittany we had a brief spell of summery 80 degree temperatures.  I needed to flavor the warm water in my water bottles to make it more palatable.  There is no Tang or other powders to be found in French supermarkets, just various flavored syrups.  Andrew knew from childhood experience in Australia, that such syrups have so much sugar in them they don't need to be refrigerated, as I had thought.  I should have realized that, as French bars often have a row of such syrups on a shelf with all their liqueurs.  A mint-flavored drink, menthe à l'eau, is my preferred drink when I watch a Tour stage in a bar.

Before I could even drink up half the bottle of syrup the weather turned cold and I no longer needed to flavor my water.  Andrew didn't care to help me drink the menthe a l'eau, turned off not only by its ingredients, but also its bright green color.  To some it is most attractive and to others rather ghastly.  He thought it looked like anti-freeze and didn't think it smelled much better, though not as disagreeable as my favored lunch meal of pâté.  He is not alone in his regard of the drink.

Coincidentally, the day I bought the syrup, the narrator of the book I'm reading on France, the best-selling and National Book Award-nominated novel "Le Divorce," mentions that someone introduced her to the drink.  She thought it tasted like mouth wash.  Such prejudices have not undermined my enjoyment of this popular French beverage.  I was slightly concerned that if I drank too much of it, I might no longer appreciate it.  But it still dazzles my taste buds and tastes as refreshing as ever.  I am slowly finishing it off to make more space in my panniers and also to lighten my load.

I will be adding a t-shirt to my load tomorrow compliments of The Tour de France when I join Florence and Rachid and hopefully hundreds of others on La Fête du Tour ride here in Tours celebrating the 100th edition of The Race.  Each of the Ville Ètapes will be conducting such a ride on a portion of The Tour route entering or exiting their town.  It is free and the first 500 to register get a t-shirt.  That will be a souvenir I will gladly carry for the next 3,000 miles before I return home in six weeks.

None of the round-abouts I passed yesterday or today were bicycle-decorated, at least yet.  But many still offered up some interesting art.  On the outskirts of Tours a round-about had recently been dedicated to DeGaulle with a most distinguished looking statue and fine landscaping. 

A round-about thirty kilometers before Tours advertised sites to see in the town ahead.

The day before a round-about celebrated the popular French game of boules.

None of these were as striking or has stuck with me as vividly as the flamingoes in a round-about in a small town outside of Nantes that I passed five days ago.

Fougères, Ville Dèpart

There are those who make art the point of their travels.  When I'm on my annual Tour de France quest, I am one of them, though it is bike art that is my focus.  It is no different than art found in museums.  It uplifts and gladdens and inspires and amazes and gives hope.  There is an astounding quantity and variety of bike art along The Race route, almost beyond imagining even for a veteran such as me, particularly in those towns that host a stage start or finish.  This may be my tenth Tour de France, but I am still often left agape by the many different and original ways the bicycle, "man's most noble invention," can be portrayed and celebrated.

That was once again the case in two more of Brittany's Ville Ètapes.  Fougères offered up a pair of mini-round-abouts in its city center each decorated with a trio of elegantly designed arches with bicycle wheels attached.

One was in the process of being erected.

A larger round-about at the town's entry also featured wheels.  And in the background was one of the many of the banners around town mounted on towering poles announcing the coming of The Tour.

And above the narrow streets of the old part of the city fluttered mini-versions of the yellow, green and red polka dot jerseys.

From Fougères it was 28 miles north to Avranches, start town for the time trial that will end at Mont-Saint-Michel.  I had intended to bypass it and head south from Fougères, following The Tour route to Tours, to begin my return to the Mediterranean for the start of The Tour.  With the need to be in Nice in two weeks to catch the ferry to Corsica, I have been eager to start my migration south.   But I couldn't resist the lure of another Tour Ville Ètape and what art it may have to offer, so decided to squeeze in an extra 70-mile loop up to Avranches then over to Mont-Saint-Michel following the 20-mile time trial route along the English Channel and then back to Fougères.  One of the lures was that Fougères had a new four-story library (mediatech) with lots of electrical outlets.  Libraries aren't so easy to come by in France, and only those in larger cities are open more than a few hours a week, so I was eager to take advantage of it a second time, and maybe a third during The Tour when I return, as the stage from Fougères will start in the plaza in front of the mediatech.

Avranches more than rewarded me for my efforts.  It was easily the best and most innovatively decorated of the dozen or so Ville Ètapes I have scouted out so far this year.  The main round-about into the city though had no bicycle theme.  It was taken over by a tank and a monument honoring Gen. Patton and the American D-Day troops.

Facing it was the Patton Hotel.

But further into the city I was gladdened to see a digital count down on its Town Hall of the number of days until The Tour's arrival. Not too many Ville Ètapes have a count down, though all should. That is always an indication of a heightened appreciation for the monumental honor of being a Ville Ètape.  The Town Hall faced a large plaza where the racers will be launched down a ramp beginning their solo ride against the clock.

The nearby tourist office had an exhibition space devoted to The Tour.  Three panels had newspaper clippings from the three other times Avranches had been a Ville Ètape--1990, 1993, and 2003.  Display cabinets were filled with old magazines and Tour souvenirs.

A panel paid tribute to long-time voice of The Tour, Daniel Mangeas, who lives in the vicinity and is beloved by all.

 

The artist who goes around to Ville Ètapes painting bike art on shop windows had left his mark.

Perhaps Avranches' most original feature was yellow, green and red polka dot jerseys painted on the cycle figures designating bike lanes, something that every Ville Ètape ought to do.  Each brought a smile to my face as I biked around the town. Like the bike wheels in Fougères, they were a simple, but fine tribute.

There was also a magnificent cluster of green-painted bikes forming a tree in front of the city's cathedral.

It may have been another typical misty, rainy day in Brittany, but it didn't detract in the least from my excitement at seeing the many manifestations of bike-love in Avranches, nor make me regret in the least that I hadn't chosen to plunge south to escape Brittany's inclement weather.  After several days of it, I hardly noticed the wet.  It was negligible enough that the road was still dry under trees, though it had me dripping.

Mont-Saint-Michel will only be visible to the racers the last few miles of their ride, that is if they dare take their eyes off the road ahead.  Luckily I had that luxury and privilege.  This was my third time biking past this monumental shrine, France's most visited site after the Eiffel Tower, but it still took my breath away.  I stopped at a picnic area for some paté, even though there were no electrical outlets, to prolong my time in its majestic presence.  

 

While I ate and gazed I was joined by a 50-year old German on a recumbent.  He immediately launched into a spiel as if I were the first non-French speaker he'd encountered in days--"I've come 1,500 kilometers from Hamburg but this rainy weather is too much.  The forecast is for days more, so rather than going all the way to Brest I am going to take a train to Nantes where the weather is supposed to be better."  As he ranted on and on I figured this had to be his first touring experience.  No, he'd biked around  Poland three summers ago.  "Remember how hot it was that summer?" he asked.  "It was worse than this rain." Then he asked, "Are you Dutch?"

"No, I'm from America."

"America!  That's impossible.  I never meet Americans on bicycles."

When I told him a little about my travels, he asked if I had written a book.  He said if I were German, I would have written many.  I've biked with a handful of Germans over the years, though all were a generation younger than he, and none had his braggadocio.  He had the same demeanor as the 60-year old German cyclist Andrew, Craig and I encountered more than a week ago, perhaps a new species of cycle tourist or perhaps a symptom of older Germans. It will certainly make me wary of older German cyclists.

Andrew left me the stove he bought when he arrived in France, as it requires fuel canisters that are unavailable in Australia.  So for the first time last night I cooked up a meal in France, some bacon that Andrew also left me and some eggs.  I was camped in a small forest surrounded by farm land, so I had no worries of the frying bacon attracting wild boars.  It was a fine meal, but delayed my eating, which I am always eager to start in on after I set up my tent.  I'll have to decide whether it is worth the effort or the added weight.

Saint-Gilda's-des-Bois, Ville Départ

It's a month until Saint-Gildas-des-Bois hosts the start of the tenth stage of the Tour on July 9, but it is already fully decked out for the occasion with bikes mounted and dangling everywhere, bringing joy to anyone who has an affection for the "Petit Reine," as the French affectionately refer to the bicycle.

The roundabout to the town's entry was decorated with bikes.

Bikes adorned the sides of buildings all over town.

Bikes graced bushes.

Bikes formed a pyramid.

Lone bikes were attached to poles.

Shop windows featured paintings of bicyclists promoting its wares.

The city hall had displays promoting The Tour.  One featured the four French teams competing in The Race with Tom Voeckler's Europcar team at the forefront.  Jerseys and water bottles from each team were part of the display.

There was also a display of stories on some of the more legendary Tour events, particularly those that involved riders from the region.

The Tour fervor came as no surprise, one of the reasons why I wished to bike 400 miles up from Yvon's, even though I will have to bike over 800 miles back to The Tour start in Corsica.  Brittany has a rich Tour history and fully embraces The Tour whenever it visits, perhaps more than any other region of the country.  The Tour doesn't always visit Brittany.  When it does, its citizens hold nothing back.  It missed last year, so The Tour went out of its way to include it this year,  shoehorning it into the route by making a gigantic hop all the way up from the Pyrenees at the bottom of the country during its first rest day to the top of the country along the English Channel.  Brittany will host three stages.  One will be a time trial that will conclude at Mont-Saint-Michel, perhaps the most dramatic backdrop of this year's Tour. 

I was sorry I couldn't share Saint-Gildas' Tour mania with Andrew,  as he bowed out of our travels at Nantes with depleted legs, just forty miles from Saint-Gildas, taking a train to Paris for a flight home one week earlier than he had planned.  Brittany's notorious wet and sultry weather were a contributing factor.  Our Sunday ride ranged from sudden downpours to misty drizzles and oppressive, low-hanging clouds.  We were even forced into a McDonald's, about the only place open on a Sunday afternoon. It was packed.  Mcdonald's in France caters to a middle class crowd with prices double what they are in the US.  The cheapest item on the menu was a small fries for two dollars, the same price of the smallest drink.  A Big Mac was five dollars and combo meals were around ten.  But at least I could charge my iPad.  Still, we had a marvelous two weeks, and anticipate many more travels together in the years to come.

Our final campsite was ten miles south of Nantes alongside a pasture of eleven very curious cows. Their noses particularly perked into the air when Andrew began cooking his steak.

Another site Andrew missed today was the house where two-time Tour winner Petit-Breton was born in Plessé,  nine miles east of Saint-Gildas.  Both were small towns without a tourist office, so I went to the Plessé Town Hall to ask its whereabouts.  The receptionist brightened with delight at the question I had for her after looking quite leery as I approached her desk.  She pulled out a map and showed me its precise location across the street from the locked-up cathedral, and one door down from the bakery.

And on the way out of town was a side street named for him.

Though it was still dank and misty when Andrew and I parted in Nantes shortly after crossing the Loire,  the miserable weather gave way to sunny skies and I had a joyous day of cycling.  A tail wind kept me on the bike until eight p.m., quitting with two hours of light left and ten miles short of 100 miles.  It was hard to resist a century, something I will have to do day after day once The Tour starts, but I don't wish to overdo it just yet.

My longest break of the day was in Vay, where I started in on my dinner of couscous and causolette while my iPad was recharging in the town cathedral.  It was just the second of five cathedrals that I stopped at during the day that I could get into for some electricity.  The day before I was struck by a sudden brainstorm that I might be able to charge my ipad at small town cathedrals, as they are often open so anyone can duck in for a peek or a prayer whenever they have the need.  I checked on a couple that day and was able to confirm that even though they were built centuries before electricity was even imagined I could find an untended socket, though it could take some searching.   Suddenly my usual style of taking breaks at picnic areas would be replaced by taking breaks at cathedrals. While I started in on my dinner I regained 20% of my power in 45 minutes, enough for two hours on the iPad.  Touring in France now takes on a much more religious overtone than it ever has.  It has always been cemeteries for water, but now it will also be cathedrals for electricity. 

Velodrome of Dreams

If the French were ever to remake "Field of Dreams," the movie about a farmer in Iowa who builds a baseball diamond in a field of corn to entice his heroes to come and play, their version would be called "Velodrome of Dreams" and would be about someone building a velodrome in his field.  There would be no need to create a set for the movie as someone has already built such a velodrome in a field on the outskirts of the small village of Champagnolles in 1922 and it is still there, seemingly waiting to be used.  And it too is in a region where corn is a prominent crop.

I first heard about it ten years ago from Yvon when we first met at the cycling chapel Notre Dame des Cyclists while he was engaged in his dream of riding his bicycle around France.  He had earlier visited the velodrome on his trip and said it had been one of its highlights. I have wanted to visit it ever since, but it never was on my route or a little too far out of my way when I was pressed for time.

At last I had the opportunity to give it a look.  As Andrew and I closed in on it, we were hoping there might be a locker room that we could slip into for a shower. I knew the velodrome had a grassy surface, the only one in all of Europe, but I did not realize how primitive it was.  Not only was there no locker room, there were no stands nor accompanying buildings of any sort, not even a shed for changing clothes or a refreshment stand or water spigot or toilet.  It was surrounded by a fence with one lone gate, a rather rickety affair that took two hands to lift.

When we first arrived we could barely make out the track, as it was surrounded by waist-high grass on its outside and the interior looked like an overgrown field. The track itself though had been recently mowed, but bore no tire tracks to indicate it was being used.  We had been concerned that it might be clogged with racers and we wouldn't be able to give it a ride.  We had it all to ourselves and could have even camped there if we wished. 

It was a genuine track with  slightly banked turns and two good long straightaways.

The first straightaway was between a pair of trees.

It was 350 meters around and had not a speck of commercialism, no sponsorship whatsoever on the fence around it or at its entry.  There was a small restaurant/bar across the street, but with no outdoor seating.  The only activity we saw in the town were a handful of boys kicking a soccer ball in the town park a couple of blocks away just behind the cathedral.  It was an out-of-the-way, tranquil town, not much different than it had been when the track was built nearly a century ago, a perfect setting for a movie about a bicycle racing fanatic who dreams of luring his cycling heroes to his small town by building them an idyllic velodrome to race upon.

The track though could use some smoothing.  It wasn't as rough as the pavé Andrew and I rode on last June in Belgium before The Tour de France, but it wasn't as smooth as the dirt road we cycled later that evening to our campsite.

The other highlight for the day was being able to recharge my iPad at the community center in the small village of Condeon.  Andrew and I were eating lunch on a bench by its locked entry when a woman drove up in a van to drop off some tables and chairs.  I had earlier checked the door to see if it might be unlocked so I could slip in and avail myself of a socket.  It's not so easy to find a socket when one is wild camping and not eating in restaurants.  Andrew doesn't have the same challenge as I to keep his iPad charged, as he has a generator in his hub that he keeps his iPad attached to all day. It only charges seven per cent per hour, just barely enough to keep him even, so he has no spare generating time for me.

When the woman opened the door beside us, I showed her my iPad and its cord and asked if I could plug it in.  She unhesitantly replied with a "Oui."  As she energetically bustled in and out of the building, I was sorry Yvon wasn't along, as he would have eagerly chatted her up.  She looked like a most interesting sort--an attractive 50-year old who dressed with flair, clad in a short skirt and low-cut blouse revealing a tattoo on her left shoulder and wearing calf-high boots.  She was lightly tanned and had a worldly look and strong self-assurance.  She oozed personality.  When I observed to Andrew that she no doubt had to have some entertaining tales to tell, he, as a 42-year old more interested in younger women, replied, "In Australia we'd call her a rough old bird."  He added that it wasn't necessarily a derogatory term, but just meant that she was a bit weathered and no longer as attractive as she once was.  I didn't necessarily agree, but was glad to have increased my Australian vocabulary.    Later when he had an encounter with a white-haired lady in a bakery, I asked if she too was a "rough old bird."

"No," he replied, "She was a batty old lady."

Table Tennis Days with Yvon

The small village of Degagnac, home of Yvon, was directly on our route from Albi to Saint-Gildas-des-Bois in Brittany, our next Ville Étape nearly 400 miles away, the longest transfer of this year's Tour and many a Tour. No distance would be too great to travel for a visit with Yvon, perhaps the most friendly guy in all of France, so even if Degagnac wasn't so well placed for us, we certainly would have made an effort  to get there.

Unfortunately, Craig was no longer part of our merry band, as he had to return to his home town to keep a hard-to-get appointment to replace the brakes on his Deux Chevaux, the first work he has had to have done on them since purchasing this relic of a car fifteen years ago.  He regretted having to withdraw from all the good times of our jolly trio, especially since he too knew Yvon and his many charms, and as a table tennis enthusiast would have been especially thrilled by all the table tennis Yvon had in store for us.

The day we arrived in Degagnac happened to be the final day of the season for the Professional B Table Tennis league in France.  The team in Villeneuve, 45 miles from Degagnac, was hosting a team from St. Denis, a suburb of Paris, noted for its cathedral where many of the French kings are interred.  It was a crucial match for Villeneuve, as it could win the ten-team league and advance to the A division next year, quite an achievement for this town of 9,000 that already competes against teams  from much larger cities, such as Nice and Rouen.

 Andrew and I weren't  particular table tennis fans, but we were happy to go along with Yvon and his girl friend Colette, who are both passionate players and fans of the game. Yvon had just attended the World Championships in Paris and is the coach of the local Degagnac team.  It is a much more popular sport in France than I had ever realized. 

The table tennis specific stadium in Villeneuve was packed when we arrived just in time for the introductions of the four members of each team.  Colette had driven like a Formula One driver to get us there on time on the narrow, windy roads, going hard into every curve in a most impressive display of driving, though nothing compared to what we would see from Yvon the next day.   From the very start the fans were cheering the home town players with a vociferous chorus of "allezs," and none more so than Yvon, using a term that I thought was unique to bicycle racing.  But no, it applies to other sports besides cycling.

A player on the St. Denis team won the French national championship seven years ago.  But the most impressive play came from a Chinese player on the local team.  Each team is allowed one Chinese player.  He was so relaxed and dominant, he was the only player all night who didn't go towel himself off, as is allowed,  after every sixth point.  The most popular player on the Villeneuve team was a 19- year old, who grew up in Villeneuve and is ranked 44th in France and promises to be a potential champion.  The fans chanted his name "Stéphane" along with the "allezs."  The support didn't hurt, as Villeneuve won four straight best of five matches, sending everyone home quite happy, with the team claiming the league championship and elevation to the top division.

After breakfast the next morning, Yvon took us out to one of the out-buildings on Colette's farm to size up Andrew and I at the game.  Neither of us had played in years, but were happy to bat the ball with Yvon, a certified coach as well as runner-up in this year's master's division for the departement of Lot where he lives.  Andrew had retained a little more of his skills than I, but we acquitted ourselves well enough that Yvon invited us to the local team's training session that night.

But next on the agenda was a visit to a neighbor's vineyard to purchase a couple gallons of wine straight from the barrel for a euro a liter.  One of the family members was in the local cycling club, another activity that Yvon is deeply involved with.  Yvon had invited the club's two American members for lunch.  Bob and Mary were awaiting us when we returned.  Yvon had to ask Bob to move their car.  Bob didn't seem surprised at all.  "It's impossible for you to park your car in France without someone telling you to move it," he grumbled.   But that was about the only negative thing he had to say about France during our four-hour long lunch on Colette's patio. 

He and Mary were won over to France when they first visited in 1983 on a bicycle trip that Mary rewarded herself with for earning a Phd.   They flew to England first and biked there a bit.  Bob was reluctant to continue on to France, harboring the typical American aversions to the French, but agreed to accompany his wife since that was her desire.  He soon realized that all his dislikes were unfounded and has been happy to return innumerable times, eventually buying a house in a town near Degagnac and then retiring there and making it their full-time residence.  

That 1983 trip was their first bicycle tour and that won them over too bicycle touring as well. They have biked in quite a few places around the world on their tandem or Bike Fridays.  Their latest trip was to Kerala in southern India for 43 days this past winter.  A narration of that trip and several other of theirs can be found at http://crazyguyonabike.org   "Bobmary" is their author name.  We had so much to talk about that Yvon  had to drag us from the table at three as he had more plans for us.  Not only was it hard to stop talking, but eating as well.  Colette prepared a magnificent feast starting with olives and sausage followed by a fish and avocado salad that could have been a meal itself.  The main course was duck with a potato and mushroom dish, the mushrooms harvested in her forest.  There was the usual lettuce salad and a variety of cheeses and several wines.  It was easily the best meal of the trip for Andrew and I, surpassing also anything he'd had in China and Thailand before coming to France. 

Yvon wanted to take Andrew and I to Rocamadour, a village built into the side of a mountain that is one of France's premier tourist attractions, twenty-five miles away.  He took us on a route of narrow mountainous roads, driving as if he wished to prove that he was as good behind the wheel as he was with a table tennis paddle going the maximum speed the road would allow, driving even a little more aggressively than a typical  Frenchman.

After several minutes I was regretting that I hadn't followed Bob's suggestion to bring along my bike to ride back, as I would have asked to escape the car then and there and bike the rest of the way.  I didn't ask Yvon to ease up, as I only wanted to get this drive over with as I concentrated on keeping my lunch down as I was jerked from side to side in the front seat.  By the time we reached Rocamadour, all I wanted to do was lay down in the back of the mini-van.  I nearly fell down when I got out before crawling in the back.  I had no desire to take a stroll down the town's one street packed with post card stands and gift shops and tourists.  I had gotten a good enough view of the town's beauty from several vantage points.  

Yvon mercifully drove back at a moderate speed as I lay curled in the back without being tossed around like the sack of potatoes I felt I had become.  I still needed a couple hours in my tent to recover when we got back.  I didn't feel like eating even though it was after seven when I emerged from my tent, but I was able to bike a mile into Degagnac with Andrew to attend the town's table tennis team practice session that Yvon conducted.  He said that not all the players could make it and there would be an open table.  

Yvon  founded the club this past November.  He was able to round up six tables for the town's community center.  The club has become so popular in this village of 750 people, its mayor arranged a  3,000 euro grant from the Credit Agricole bank, a former sponsor of a Tour de France team, for a robot-spitting ping pong ball contraption for the team.  The club started as a social gathering, but the players have become so consumed by the game it has stirred their competitive juices.  They asked Yvon if he could arrange matches with neighboring towns.  They had their first a few weeks ago with the much larger town of Gourdon and narrowly lost.  They have a rematch in Degagnac in two weeks. 

 Yvon is quite proud of his players.  He was pleased that when he told everyone they could take a break during the practice session, no one wanted to.  For the sake of our legs, this supposedly a rest day for Andrew and I, we did sit out in the cool for several minutes, though continued to watch the spirited play.  We agreed that we would certainly join the club if we lived in Degagnac, as well as its cycling club.  There was a great sense of fraternity among all the members of both organizations that we met, a strong quality among the French.

That same zest and enthusiasm that Yvon has for everything, has made him a great asset to this community that he has moved to in the past year after meeting Colette at a national cycling gathering nearly two years ago.  And once again, he was the usual extraordinary host.  He couldn't do enough for Andrew and I, even though it was the first time he had met Andrew.  He treated us as if we were the closest and dearest of relatives, and Colette equally so, her face ever adorned with a bright and shiny smile, even though she hasn't been able to ride her bike for some time as she recovers from a shoulder operation.  Unlike last year, she wasn't able to accompany Andrew and I along with Yvon on our ride out of town.  Yvon was only able to cycle with us for less than an hour as it was Colette's birthday.  He left us with the warmest of memories to fill our conversation and thought for days to come.

St.-Antonin-Noble-Val, France

Finding an open supermarket on a Sunday in France can be a challenge, especially in a rural region of small villages, such as where we found ourselves on this latest Sunday.  Even in urban areas, if a supermarket is open at all, it is only open until half past noon.  We knew we were within range of reaching a couple of towns that might have an open supermarket in the morning hours before closing time.  What we didn't know is that the longest and highest climb we had encountered so far awaited us, peaking out at nearly 3,000 feet and throwing occasional grades of ten per cent at us.  We spent more than an hour at it.

It was a rare climb where we stopped for a rest before reaching the summit.  While we sat on a bench in a small village we were joined by another touring cyclist, a German from Bonn, recently retired from the advertising world.  He was radiant with that glow of the touring cyclist thrilled to be doing exactly what he wanted to be doing.  He'd been on the road for forty days and had several more weeks before he returned home.  Last year he had spent six months bicycling across Canada.  He'd previously biked China and Vietnam and much of Europe.  He said he'd saved enough money to be able to bike tour for the next thirty years.  We were hoping we might ride along together for awhile to get to know him even better, but he was carrying a huge load and was much slower than us.  

We had enough food to scrape together meals for the day, but just meager fare--bread, sardines, peanut butter, honey, cheese, madeleines and a few other stray items that had fallen to the bottoms of our panniers.  We also knew we would most likely reach the large city of Castres by the end of the day where we could resort to restaurant food if need be.  But our ace in the hole was knowing the possibility of harvesting some edibles from a supermarket dumpster.  And so we did at the Casino supermarket in Lacaune--a dozen yogurts, some cheese, eight liters of various juices, a liter of milk and a single egg (in Andrew's hand), plenty of extra calories.  We celebrated each additional item we dug out.  If we had been truly desperate we could have dug much deeper than we did and no doubt scored much more.

It wasn't the only bounty of the day.  An hour or so later we stopped in the town of Brassac to partake of our yogurt.  We noticed people streaming in and out of a nearby gymnasium-type building, some carrying an armload of assorted stuff.  We looked closer and saw a "Vide Grenier" banner over one of the doors.  It was the town flea market. It was five o'clock, no doubt closing time.  Though we were overloaded with bottles of juice, we had to give it a look, knowing we might have to resist some end-of-the-day bargains. 

Craig bought a wallet for twenty cents.  I saw a twenty-year old book on The Tour de France packed with classic photos.  The person selling it said I could have it for a mere euro.  That was a give-away price.  I don't know how I said no, but did, not needing the weight of an extra book, even though I had unloaded two of the ten I had brought along at Craig's house.  After I  walked away I thought I could endure carrying it for another day if Craig would take it to his house when we parted ways and then pick it up from him at a later date.  When I broached the subject with Craig, he wasn't interested in lugging it the one hundred and eight miles he would be riding on his own.  

A while later, after his bargain wallet, Craig asked if I would like the book if he could get it for fifty cents.   It was a bargain at a euro, so getting it for even less shouldn't have mattered, but he suckered me into his proposition.  I handed him fifty cents.  A few minutes later he returned with the book, apologizing for taking so long, as the sellers had already packed it up.  The hard-backed, over-sized book weighed as much as any three of the paperbacks I had, but I did feel a sense of delight knowing my pannier would contain a treasure-trove of Tour history.  That was weight I didn't mind.

Our arrival in Castres coincided with a torrent of bumper-to-bumper cars with blue flags flying and tooting horns and celebratory fans streaming along the sidewalks, many with faces streaked in blue.  The local team had just beaten the team from Toulon to win the national rugby championship, an increasingly popular sport in France.  All over the city windows and statues were draped with the team colors.  We were drawn to Castres as it will be a Viille Départ in The Tour de France for the eighth stage on July 6.  I wished to see how it was celebrating this honor.  There was a sign at the entry to the city announcing it, but otherwise all the city's energies were concentrated on its rugby team.  

It was past seven o'clock, so we knew the tourist office would be closed, but I still wished to seek it out to see if it might have a Tour poster in its window or a display inside or out promoting it.  As we paused to study the maps on Andrew's and my matching mini-iPad GPS devices when we got lost in the labyrinth of the narrow streets of the old part of the city, a slightly tipsy older guy asked us if he could help us.  He told us the tourist office was "cerrado," Spanish for closed, speaking a mixture of French and Spanish.  After a couple minutes of Craig trying to make a coherent conversation with the guy, we were joined by the guy's girl friend, a somewhat elegantly attired lady with short-cropped white hair.  

He turned to her and asked if it would be all right to invite us for the night.  She agreed.  When he made the offering Andrew immediately blurted, "That would be fantastic."  Craig and I might have been more hesitant, but Andrew is accustomed to sharing his apartment in Sydney with travelers affiliated with couchsurfing or warmshowers, so had no qualms about overnighting with folks he didn't know and who might be slightly off-kilter.  I knew it would be an interesting experience, so gladly added my assent.  Poor Craig would have to carry the burden of maintaining a conversation, since Andrew's and my French weren't up to it.  The woman spoke enough English to understand, but only to minimally speak it.

The guy, Frank, said he had to run a few errands, so his girl friend, Maryanna, would take us to their house, several blocks away.  As we walked, we learned Frank was an artist and Maryanna a former ballet dancer.  They lived in a compound of artists.  Their building was a two-story former ceramics factory.  The ground floor was Frank's studio and warehouse for all his motorcycles.  They lived upstairs in a very spacious apartment.  They had one large guest room with enough space for the three of us to throw down our sleeping bags. The walls and even the refrigerator were adorned with paintings. The book shelves were packed with books on art.  The bathroom walls were covered with postcards of motorcycles, and there was a stack of motorcycle magazines, porn for those with such a passion.   Maryanna put on some Chet Baker, whose music cleanses her head, she said.

We had time for showers and a plateful of salad from their garden before Frank returned.  Maryanna was increasingly concerned about his tardiness and smoked cigarette after cigarette that she rolled herself.  She said this was typical of him, and why she kept an apartment of her own for retreat.  She said she couldn't call him on his cell phone because he had left it on the kitchen counter. We asked if he was Spanish.  He wasn't, and couldn't explain his lapses into the language.

When he finally arrived, he walked in carrying three pizzas and a bottle of wine.  He then asked if we minded if he smoked.  "Of course not," Craig said, "this is your house."  He continued to be a most cordial host.  He told us how much he respected us and greatly admired our "joli," our strong fellowship.  He said a close relative had attempted a bike trip around the Mediterranean, but  had fallen ill in Italy and had to quit the trip.  He asked if we would write him a note of encouragement.

Craig was able to match all his banter and draw laughs from all, serving as a fine master of ceremonies.  Frank told him he was a poet, making it sound as if it was the highest compliment he could pay him.  Andrew and I certainly appreciated his valor, translating and keeping all in good spirits.  No one was happier though when at ten o'clock Frank said, "You all must be tired.  I should let you go to bed."  He was absolutely correct.  Craig was afraid we might be kept up until midnight.  We weren't  sure if we had gotten enough to eat, but we had certainly gotten enough memorable experiences for the day, the essence of travel.

La Tour sur Orb, France

A warm, sunny Saturday, an improvement in the weather, seemed to have everyone in a good mood today, no one more than Craig, Andrew and I,  delighted to be pedaling down the road together.  We were joined in our blissful state by all sorts of people we encountered.  A motorcyclist after passing us kicked out his legs and pretended to be pedaling for several seconds.  A pedestrian we approached began churning his arms as if they were pedaling and gave us a cheerful "Allez." A motorist slowed to tell us that we were almost at the top of a climb that we had been at for more than half an hour.  On another climb a descending motorist took his hands off his steering wheel to give us two thumbs up.

It was one of three long climbs for the day, each of over 1,200 feet, through spectacular scenery.  One was out of a steep canyon that had a hydro plant, making Andrew feel right at home, as he works for such a firm in Australia managing its computer programmers.  He had been doing such a fine job he learned during the China portion of these travels that he had been given a promotion, contributing to his good mood, his natural state during our three travels together.  

We battled a strong, swirling wind all day.  The wind power interests would like to introduce wind generators to the region.  Graffiti along the road protested.  Andrew said wind generated power doesn't make economic sense and is no threat to hydro.  Solar has much greater possibilities to be a viable alternative.

Andrew and I were challenged to keep up with Craig's fresh legs.  We had yet to fully recover from our hard push to reach his house Thursday night.  We didn't arrive until after ten, completing the final steep mile-and-a-half climb to his small village in the dark.  It was a 94-mile day, mostly into the wind, but we were determined to arrive that night so we could have a full rest day at Craig's.  I was hoping to go for a ride with Craig on his new tandem, but we were so busy with various activities the day escaped us before we had a chance.

Some of the day was spent working on our bikes in Craig's basement.  The French term for it, "cave," could not be more appropriate.  It has a dirt floor, a high wooden-beamed ceiling and solid stone walls.  It could have been used as the town dungeon when it was built 200 years ago.  Craig has ten bikes hanging from one wall.  He hadn't ridden his touring bike since last summer, so needed to give it a good tending to before heading out on a five-day ride, his longest since riding with me to Cannes four years ago. 

One of Andrew's projects was to oil his new Brooks leather seat that he had purchased in Bangkok after ruining his previous seat in China.  Craig too is a devotee of leather saddles and had various lotions to apply.  That was just one of many of their shared interests that gave them plenty to discuss.  Andrew too has ten bikes back home, including a tandem.  He had much advice on how to ease girl friends into being riding companions.  All the conversation made the day fly.

We joined Craig in his Citroen Deux Chevaux for a serious of errands.  We stopped off at the local butcher in a neighboring village hoping it might have horse meat for Andrew, the ardent carnivore.  He told us we could only get it from a butcher who specialized in horse meat, as it is so is similar to beef, a regular butcher who sold it would be suspect of mixing it in with his beef.  Craig knew of such a butcher in Le Vigan, a town we would be passing through the next day.

The butcher was another of the great cheery figures we crossed paths with on Saturday.  Andrew said he was further proof of his theory that meat eaters have a better disposition than vegetarians.  He didn't have a great selection of cuts left when we arrived mid-morning, as he is only open one day a week, on market-day.  He had a steady stream of customers during our brief time there.  Andrew had to settle for a cut with a little less fat than he would have preferred.

Leaving Le Vigan we shortly came to a sign saying the road was closed up ahead.  We knew cyclists could often navigate through such blockades and it being a Saturday, it wasn't likely there'd be a road crew to contend with.  We could narrowly make it through, having to walk our bikes along a narrow ledge with a thirty foot drop.

At the summit of our first climb of the day a magnificent chateau rose above the small village of Montardier.  Andrew and I would have missed it if Craig hadn't stopped us and told us to look back, as  it can't be seen until after one has passed through the village from the side we entered.

We also made a slight detour later in the day in the town of Lodéve to see what Craig called the most unique WWI memorial in all of France by a local sculpture who is also honored by a museum devoted to him in the town.  Most of the more than 30,000 such monuments in every town and village in France feature a soldier holding a rifle.  This showed a downed soldier's relatives grieving over his death.

We had one last climb for the day, smaller than the big three, leading to our campsite at the top of a ridge down a path that protected us from the wind.  It got our total number of feet climbed for the day to 6,000 in just over sixty miles, an extraordinary amount of climbing.  We were all quite tired.

Andrew looked quite dapper wearing an argyle sweater that Craig had given him.  Even though it was the warmest camping since Andrew and I left Cannes, it was still a cool evening.  Andrew had mentioned to Craig back at his home that he was in need of a "jumper," Australian for sweater, and wondered if there might be a place to buy one, as it had been much colder than he had anticipated and was often wearing all the clothes he had brought and was just barely staying warm.  Craig actually had a spare that he had intended to drop off at a local resale shop.