Charles de Gaulle Airport

 

Rain and headwinds on my final three hundred miles in France from the Vosges to Paris derailed my hopes of getting to the velodrome to the west of Paris that was the Départ for the final stage of The Tour.  My slackened pace allowed me to dwell instead on the many features of France that make it a touring cyclist’s paradise.

The pastoral scenery could not have been better designed to offer an ever pleasing backdrop.  The roads are ever twisting and undulating constantly offering a new vantage of forests and pastures and fields of grains.  The towns are as picturesque as the countryside, all maintained in a pristine state with meticulous care.  There is no litter to speak of and rare is it to come upon a decrepit, deteriorating building.  

The outdoors is ever inviting.  Picnic tables at rest areas are a regular feature.  Camping is a fact of life.  Nowhere else is it so easy to come by, whether at designated sites or those one can improvise.  One has no concern of being run-off, as traveling by bike is a respectable enterprise.  Camping is almost as popular as picnicking.  

In addition to municipal and private campgrounds, farms offer camping as well.  Needing a shower before my flight I took advantage of a “Camping á la farme” outside of Chenoise.  The shower didn’t provide hot water and there was only one electrical outlet to be had, but it met my meager needs.  A rooster awoke me at dawn, but fortunately didn’t persist in his crowing, allowing me to return to sleep.  I had a patch of trees all to myself other than the nearby ducks and chickens and cows and horses of a legitimate working farm. 

My route took me past Colombey-les-Deux-Eglises, the home of Charles de Gaulle.  A museum and large cross were erected on a hill outside of the town.  I had previously visited it so didn’t need to stop.  A legendary stage of the Tour de France in 1960 passed through the town after de Gaulle had retired and was living there.  The peloton paused to greet him, but one rider took advantage of the lull to speed ahead taking the stage to the chagrin of all. 

My route also took me through the medieval city of Provins.  It was teeming with tourists walking around the fortified old city, many taking advantage of a train chugging around town to its many sites.

My final campsite was five miles from the airport in a patch of woods.  Ordinarily I camp right by the airport along one of the runways.  This was distant enough that I wasn’t subjected to the roar of jets landing and taking off.   My flight wasn’t until one but I wanted to get to the airport as early as possible to get my bike box and avoid the traffic.  I was on the bike at 6:15 right at dawn.  There was more traffic than I anticipated, but I was still able to make a quick dash on a mile segment prohibited to bikes, arriving at the terminals just as another drizzle resumed. 

The terminal was already packed with people at 6:45, but I only had a short wait to speak to an agent for the bike box.  I’m always a little nervous that I might be told they had run out, so was relieved that she didn’t flinch at my request nor feel bad about having to pay twenty-three euros for it, twice as much as two years ago.  It was a fifteen minute wait though for someone to bring me the box, which had me a tad nervous again that I’d be told there were none to be had.  

In the past the box is accompanied by a roll of tape.  I was told this time I’d be provided tape at the check-in counter.  I had some for an emergency, but probably not enough.  The agent couldn’t find any in her cabinet, but calmly went to get some, another slightly nervous, but shorter interlude than that of waiting for the box to appear.  

The Air France box is big enough that I don’t need to remove my front wheel or front rack, just the pedals along with lowering the seat and turning the handlebars and letting air out of the tires.  The box was also large enough to leave the front panniers on compressed with nothing in them. And the final bonus was only being charged sixty euros for the bike. 

All was well and I was ready to board with four hours to spare, time for a final dispatch with a few madeleines and couscous to munch on before my Air France fare.  And as can be found everywhere in France there were small amenities making it most bearable.  There were electrical outlets flanking every seat in the waiting area and a room for a smoke, which was packed.  There was actually air conditioning in the distant terminal requiring my sweater that I’d only had need of the past few days.  I was cold enough one day, thanks to the rain,  I almost needed the puff jacket I’ve been lugging all this time.

And thus another grand time in France comes to an end, nearly 2,500 miles from Paris to Spain and back past the Pyrenees and into the Alps, riding all or bits of fifteen of the stages of The Tour.  I’ll have a blast of humidity awaiting me in Chicago for my ride home from O’Hare, but it will be a glorious ride as well looking forward to reuniting with Janina and seeing the state of the yard after the tornado of two weeks ago.