Stage Ten

 

It was so baking hot today that when I unrolled my tent the poles wrapped in the middle of the bundle were almost too hot to touch.  Often they are still cold being so thickly insulated, but not today.  The heat had penetrated to their very marrow, as it was doing to me.  I was happy to retreat to a bar way earlier than usual, ninety minutes before the day’s uneventful racing ended, to get out of the heat, though the bar wasn’t all that cool, as air-conditioning is not so common nor turned very low.  I’m always amazed how uncomfortably warm Charles de Gaulle airport is at the end of The Tour in the oppressive July heat with the air-conditioning barely noticeable.

The bar may have had no chill to it, but I was pleased to have my menthe á l’eau served in the traditional manner with a carafe of ice cold water and a glass with an inch or so of mint syrup, allowing me to gradually dilute it over a couple of glassfuls.  And it had the added bonus of a couple of token ice cubes, a not so common luxury over here.

Today’s breakaway stayed away for the second stage in a row with a Spaniard finally getting a stage win, Pello Bilboa, their first in five years and ninety-nine stages.  His efforts also moved him up to fifth overall.  None of the sprinters were in contention as the heat and several climbs did them in relegating them to the back of the bunch.  But tomorrow could be the Philipson show for the fourth time and the last for awhile as the peloton nears the Alps and the climbers will take center stage. 

I didn’t get a hoped for break at the mediatheque in Montluçon, as it didn’t open until two.  That had me out on the road sooner than I expected enabling me to cross paths for the third time with a bikepacker following The Tour, a guy without panniers, just a bag in the triangle of his bike and another small one on a rod extending from his seatpost and a small handle bar bag, less capacity than one of my rear panniers.  It is very minimalist and lightweight, but a current trend away from panniers—bikepacking rather than bike touring.

Our two previous encounters came when I was stopped along the road, once when I was off in the bushes preparing to do a number two.  He saw my bike and stopped to ask if I was okay.  It was no time for a conversation so we just learned where we were both from.  He said Colorado, but had a thick Eastern European accent.  Our second encounter came the next morning when I was breaking camp and he zipped by not noticing me. 

Today we were both riding at a reduced speed negotiating the stops lights and traffic of a sizeable city, and we could ride along for a spell.  He asked if I was going to Paris, a euphemism for following The Tour.  He was more intent on riding the entire route and had managed the Pyrenees.  He was camping with a bivy sac and a sheet to wrap himself with.  

I’m prepared for every eventuality with winter clothing and spare parts and tools and plenty of food along with a genuine tent and sleeping bag.  He was roughing it much more than I am prepared to do.  I’d be worried about running out of food or water or snapping a cable and being incapacitated to be doing it in such a manner, but it does allow him to ride much faster and manage the climbs with considerable less effort.  

As light as he was traveling, he said he could probably do without a couple things he had brought, but we didn’t have enough time together to find out what.  I’d sure like to camp with him some night and see how he does it.  This was his first Tour de France, though he had done other trips in such a manner.  He said he thinks there are a couple of other guys riding The Tour as he is, but he hasn’t spoken to them.  

He had but one water bottle on his bike along with a camelpack on his back.  I have three water bottles on my bike and a fourth in a pannier and still worry at times that might not be enough at night after a hot, hot day.  I have one pannier full of food and have no concerns of running low.  If I were him I’d be very nervous about waking at night thirsty and hungry.  But he’s doing fine.  I know I could pick up a few tricks from him, but he’s riding much faster than me and not really seeing any of the race, just the race course.  And he’s been riding far enough ahead not to experience the race day ebullience of the French along the road that is the essence of The Tour.

Not long after we escaped the city and he sped away, a group of seven middle-aged French guys in matching jerseys and with a lead and following vehicle passed me and an hour later the six Dutch guys I’d seen a. few days ago rode past as well.  The large group of women with a smattering of men that have ridden the past few Tours rode by a couple hours later while I was sitting in the bar.  They were riding at a relaxed enough pace that I would have been able to keep up with them, at least for a spell, as I’ve previously done.

One of the cemeteries I stopped at today to soak my jersey and douse my head was getting a makeover as a community project enlisting a squadron of children.  They were painting its wall and doing some landscaping and seemed to be having a fun time despite the heat.  Pride in one’s town is reflected in many such ways with flowers and other embellishments.  Every town seems to be auditioning for Pretty Village status.  Never am I struck by the thought, “Who would want to live here.” It is quite a contrast to the run-down semi-abandoned towns of a lot of the US, but there is no Walmart here driving small businesses under and leaving their stores shuttered.