Friends: I'd have a movie to see tonight if I'd been granted a press pass, as the press gets first viewing of "Da Vinci Code," 24 hours before it opens the festival tomorrow night with its World Premiere. Milos of Facets will be there and says he will be reporting on it for WBEZ tomorrow. If he can figure out a way to work it into his commentary, he'll mention how Air France lost his luggage. Its the fourth time he's had such ill-luck with them.
My first screening will have to wait until tomorrow afternoon. Among my choices are a documentary on Leonard Cohen, a comedy about high school seniors learning to surf so they can show up the surfer dudes at their school in some competition, a Czech rafting movie, something from Russia about a boxer who suddenly finds himself on Mars and a Japanese movie about a former star high school baseball player who is in the doldrums. And that, of course, is just the start of it. I have hours of digesting the schedule to go. I have yet to find anything about bicycling.
After being assaulted by multiple billboards of Tom Hanks in just about every town I passed through in the 900 miles I've biked from Paris, I feared Cannes would be overloaded with "The Da Vinci Code" hoopla. But other than a giant pyramid promoting the movie at the corner of the harbor, about the only other promotional device I've seen is a pair of giant, slightly doctored posters of the Mona Lisa.
The past two years I have descended into Cannes via Grasse, perfume capital of the world, eleven miles inland to the north up on a high ridge. This year I took a more sedate route from the west. I thought I'd follow the coast, but I took a very quiet, shorter inland route. There were more cyclists on it than motorists.
The traffic had become considerably thicker and irritating for the first time as I came within 25 miles of the congested Cote d'Azur. I also began to see luxury cars and villas and other trappings of the beautiful people who congregate here. There is a non-stop parade of them along the croisette, and others going topless on the beaches adjoining it. Saturday, as I biked south of Grenoble through the Alps on National Highway 75, a route right up there with the circuit of the Grand Canyon de Verdon as a ride to die for, I had to share the road with almost bumper-to-bumper traffic of Grenoblians fleeing the city, as the French are programmed to do on the weekend. But the beauty of the dramatic mountains surrounding me was so consuming, nothing could distract from my joy of being where I was. Besides, the sanely-sized cars that predominate on the roads here are hardly a nuisance compared to the grotesque, absurdly over-sized, vehicles that run amok in the US. It is so rare to encounter an SUV here, that it is a shockingly traumatic experience whenever one appears, reminding me that such beasts exist. "What in the hell was that," is my initial spontaneous reaction. Then, "What is wrong with them driving such a monster. How selfish and irresponsible and immoral!"
But for 80 miles Saturday my thought was spared any such outburst. All I had to contend with was a little precipitation and a long climb over the 3,700' Col de la Croix Haute before a gentle 40-mile descent to the town of Sisteron, a delightful cross-roads city with a medieval citadel on a promontory overlooking the countryside. I will be happy to return to Grenoble come July when the Tour passes nearby, as it is the gateway to L'Alpe d'Huez. It is the largest city, other than Paris, I've been through on this ride, with 150,000 inhabitants, about a quarter of which are students. The city has a very useful network of bike lanes that begin well outside the city. It was Friday rush hour when I made my arrival and the bike lanes were utilized by people of all ages. The lanes took me through the car-free heart of the city.
Grenoble has always treated me well. Two years ago I was there for two stages of the Daphine-Libere race and had Lance and his body guard brush past me on the way from his hotel to the starting line. This year, its streets provided me with a fold-up umbrella. It could prove invaluable at Cannes if the rains persist. Last year all I had to keep me dry was my hooded rain jacket and whoever I could snuggle up to in line who had an umbrella. There were only a couple such occasions, and not so bad that I would have lugged an umbrella all this way. But when the road provides, I figure there must be a reason. I always feel as if it is looking out for me.
With the umbrella in reserve, I am as well-prepared as ever for the next two weeks. Besides a few films by favorite directors, I am most looking forward to all the French films with their commonplace subtleties that have been a part of my life the past two weeks and two summers and will remind me that they are just outside the theater doors for me to appreciate. Something as simple as a road sign will trigger a rush of fond familiarity.
It is not uncommon for a French film to include someone out biking, and not just as a throw-in as in American cinema, but as a genuine part of their culture. I will be happy to be reminded of the genuine bonhomie of Yvon's cycling friends and everyone involved in the rainy day's ride I mingled with. I marvel still that anyone would turn out and ride in such conditions, especially since the cyclists in that region have a choice of at least two such rides every Saturday and Sunday from early spring until late fall, hosted by one of the many cycling clubs in the area. The list of rides is published in a booklet at the beginning of the year. Each ride has a short, medium and long distance and may have an off-road option.
There are even rides strictly for women. Francoise had ridden one the day before I arrived. She and 27 other women rode 100 kilometers and they stuck together in a comradely pack. For members of the French National Cycling Organization most rides cost two-and-a-half euros while non-members pay four-and-a-half. One inducement to have ridden in the rain is that each club gives out awards at the end of the year to its members who have ridden in the most rides and ridden the most miles. Yvon and Francoise have a closet full of trophies and medals. I could have come back with a trophy myself, but instead was given a fanny pack and a glossy eight euro year-in-review magazine to honor me for having cycled from Paris. Thinking of the French and their devotion to the bike already has me eagerly anticipating the Tour de France. I know I will meet devotees of the sport such as I rarely encounter at home. But for the next two weeks I get to immerse myself in the world of cinema. I will be on the alert for signs that I do not have to despair for the future of the human race.
Later, George
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Monday, May 15, 2006
Draguignan, France
Friends: Fifty miles north of Cannes, just off the Route de Napoleon, the road I was following, though in the opposite direction of the diminutive corporal's march to Paris from Elba in 1815, lays the Grand Canyon du Verdon. I had to bypass it last year when I was pressed for time, but this year I had a spare day and could divert from my route for the 60-mile circuit around what is Europe's largest and, no doubt, most spectacular canyon.
I arrived in Castellane, at its gateway, early Sunday afternoon after descending from the 3,700' high Col des Leguas. It was my second prolonged climb of the day and after five-and-a-half days in the Juras and Alps I was ready for some leisurely leg-pumping along the rim of this canyon. There were swarms of campgrounds around Castellane and companies offering river trips. The cafes around the town's square were packed with hikers, many with walking sticks propped against their chairs. This was more like the American West than France.
The tranquil, luscious blue-green River Verdon didn't seem big enough at first for rafting or to have been capable of carving out much of a canyon. Fishermen casually stood in the middle of the river in hip boots. It was a pleasure to glide along as if I were drifting down the river myself with no rush to be anywhere and scenery more appropriate to Montana than France. But I've well-learned from the past two years of cycling around France that it is a country of much more than vineyards and cathedrals and chateaus and the Tour de France. There is genuine, rugged scenery, even apart from the high Alps, that would please the soul of any outdoors person.
I was enjoying the scenery so much I didn't mind when the road began to climb. I should have expected some climbing, since the road started at the level of the river, but I didn't anticipate there'd be so much. And I'm glad I didn't know, as I might have declined making the full circuit and doubled back after making it to Point Sublime, about twelve miles into the circuit.
There were two prolonged climbs on the north side of the canyon and then four on the south side with about as many cumulative feet as Mont Ventoux and L'Alpe d'Huez combined, including one of eight miles and 2,200' to nearly 4,000', the highest point I'd been in the 800 miles I'd cycled from Paris. But the views were stupendous, especially from the south side. One could look down at the sheer 1,000' walls of the canyon from many vantage points. My camera finger was very itchy.
The circuit of the canyon could well be among the top ten one-day cycle rides in France. The canyon is a bit less than 25 miles long and not much more than half a mile wide at any time. At times it narrows to not much more than a chip shot from the road on one side of the canyon to the other. There were a couple of small towns on the north side. The river empties into a large man-made lake that has the same sumptuous blue-green color. It was early enough in the season that there wasn't much traffic. There were signs forbidding wild-camping, even in English, but that didn't prevent me. The bridge across the river, just before it empties into the lake, was wall-to-wall with camera-toting tourists waiting for a raft to pass underneath.
With so much climbing, I continued on to my usual 7:30 p.m. stopping point, trying to get as much of it behind me as I could. I was lucky to find a place to camp on a flat spot at 3,000' about two-thirds of the way into the circuit. I had no idea I had nearly another thousand feet to climb when I resumed in the morning. But I was rewarded with one fabulous vista after another, and then at last a long long descent into Draguignan.
I'll camp tonight somewhere along the Mediterranean within twenty miles of Cannes. And then tomorrow, Tuesday, I'll register for the festival and regain my cinematic bearings. I'm eagerly looking forward to that first movie Wednesday afternoon, something in the market that will most likely be most forgettable, but that I won't forget as my first film of the festival.
Later, George
__________________________________________________
I arrived in Castellane, at its gateway, early Sunday afternoon after descending from the 3,700' high Col des Leguas. It was my second prolonged climb of the day and after five-and-a-half days in the Juras and Alps I was ready for some leisurely leg-pumping along the rim of this canyon. There were swarms of campgrounds around Castellane and companies offering river trips. The cafes around the town's square were packed with hikers, many with walking sticks propped against their chairs. This was more like the American West than France.
The tranquil, luscious blue-green River Verdon didn't seem big enough at first for rafting or to have been capable of carving out much of a canyon. Fishermen casually stood in the middle of the river in hip boots. It was a pleasure to glide along as if I were drifting down the river myself with no rush to be anywhere and scenery more appropriate to Montana than France. But I've well-learned from the past two years of cycling around France that it is a country of much more than vineyards and cathedrals and chateaus and the Tour de France. There is genuine, rugged scenery, even apart from the high Alps, that would please the soul of any outdoors person.
I was enjoying the scenery so much I didn't mind when the road began to climb. I should have expected some climbing, since the road started at the level of the river, but I didn't anticipate there'd be so much. And I'm glad I didn't know, as I might have declined making the full circuit and doubled back after making it to Point Sublime, about twelve miles into the circuit.
There were two prolonged climbs on the north side of the canyon and then four on the south side with about as many cumulative feet as Mont Ventoux and L'Alpe d'Huez combined, including one of eight miles and 2,200' to nearly 4,000', the highest point I'd been in the 800 miles I'd cycled from Paris. But the views were stupendous, especially from the south side. One could look down at the sheer 1,000' walls of the canyon from many vantage points. My camera finger was very itchy.
The circuit of the canyon could well be among the top ten one-day cycle rides in France. The canyon is a bit less than 25 miles long and not much more than half a mile wide at any time. At times it narrows to not much more than a chip shot from the road on one side of the canyon to the other. There were a couple of small towns on the north side. The river empties into a large man-made lake that has the same sumptuous blue-green color. It was early enough in the season that there wasn't much traffic. There were signs forbidding wild-camping, even in English, but that didn't prevent me. The bridge across the river, just before it empties into the lake, was wall-to-wall with camera-toting tourists waiting for a raft to pass underneath.
With so much climbing, I continued on to my usual 7:30 p.m. stopping point, trying to get as much of it behind me as I could. I was lucky to find a place to camp on a flat spot at 3,000' about two-thirds of the way into the circuit. I had no idea I had nearly another thousand feet to climb when I resumed in the morning. But I was rewarded with one fabulous vista after another, and then at last a long long descent into Draguignan.
I'll camp tonight somewhere along the Mediterranean within twenty miles of Cannes. And then tomorrow, Tuesday, I'll register for the festival and regain my cinematic bearings. I'm eagerly looking forward to that first movie Wednesday afternoon, something in the market that will most likely be most forgettable, but that I won't forget as my first film of the festival.
Later, George
__________________________________________________
Friday, May 12, 2006
Aix-les-Bains, France
Friends: My two days with Yvon and Francoise enhanced and enriched my appreciation of all things French in many ways. It improved my pronunciation and vocabulary. I knew the word "bis" on road signs meant secondary or alternate route, but Yvon explained that it was also what the French shouted at a performance when they wanted an encore or seconds. I knew the word "marche" meant walk, but when I saw it on a multitude of billboards in Colmar promoting a Paris-Colmar marche, I didn't know that this event was the Tour de France of walks, a competitive event that had been held for over 50 years. It would be staged later this month, attracting participants from all over the world for a 300-mile non-stop race which would take less than four days. Thousands would watch it on TV and in person.
Yvon and Francoise couldn't have been more hospitable. They drove out to meet me at the cathedral in the small town of Belfort, thirty miles from their apartment. Yvon and I biked the rest of the way. It was an easy ride as I put my fifty pounds of gear in their car. As I was showering, Yvon mounted my bike on his repair stand to check if all was well. He discovered my front brake was sticky, evidently from the day of rain I experienced from Paris. It was a simple operation to remove the cable from its housing and apply some lubricant, something that Craig and I had done countless times this past winter.
Yvon offered to drive me back to the cathedral where we met to save me a couple of hours when I resumed my ride, but I would have none of that. But still he insisted on guiding me out of the metropolis of Mulhouse when I left, even in the rain. He said it would toughen him up for his Paris-Roubais ride, known as the Hell of the North. Yvon had the best rain gear I've ever seen, but still it is never much fun to ride in the rain, especially when the temperature is only 50 degrees. He had a heavy duty poncho that attached to his brake levers, effectively forming a canopy over his legs keeping the rain off. I once had a flimsy similar version, that was only marginally effective. I long ago abandoned it in favor of a simple Gore Tex jacket. He also had a nice pair of booties. I do too, but I only put them on in dire conditions. I wasn't going to bother today, but since Yvon was putting on his, I followed suit and within an hour I was as thankful to him for my toasty feet as I was for any of his many kindnesses.
Yvon could have turned around after several miles, once I was safely on my route, but he wanted to put in 50 miles for the day, so accompanied me all the way to the Swiss border, due south of Mulhouse. I could have taken a flatter route and repeated my route of last year through Lyon, but I was curious to ride through the Jura Mountains and have a taste of Switzerland. I only nipped off a 30-mile bite of Switzerland before I slipped back into France, but I skirted its border for the next 100 miles. When we parted, Yvon told me to keep an eye out for Charley Moreau, the highest placed French rider in the Tour de France the past couple of years. He trains in the area. I did see his name painted on the road a couple of times by his fans, but I was the only other bicyclist out in the rain.
Before I left, Yvon, the travel agent, gave me a list of hotels that charge less than 30 euros a night along my route, including a chain called Formula l. He knew that not once in the past two years had I resorted to indoor accommodations except when staying with friends. Not even when I stayed at the cycling hostel in the Pyrenees last year did I sleep inside, sticking to my tent. Still, in these cold, wet conditions, I was happy to know I could stay somewhere semi-affordable if I and my gear needed drying out.
I had been hoping to entice Yvon to accompany me, if not to Cannes, at least for several days. But he's not a camper, staying in hotels every night last year when he made his 2,500-mile circuit of France. Plus he had a strict training schedule for Paris-Roubiax that touring would disrupt. The rain persisted for two days and the temperature never rose above 50, so Yvon made a wise choice. I remained at an altitude of 2,500 to 3,500 feet for most of that time, but with the low ceiling, wasn't much able to enjoy what views there might have been. Still, it was nice to be on the bike and I stayed dry enough that I could remain faithful to my tent.
Aix-les-Bains is a popular resort on a lake with thermal waters. It is down out of the mountains. The rain has stopped, and it is spring, nearly summer, once again. Grenoble is less than 50 miles away, where I will return to familiar roads. The snow-covered towering Alps are in the distance, which I will skirt. I have a couple of passes to climb between here and Cannes, but the worst is behind me. I ought to arrive a day before the movies start and will have time to rest up before the 12-day movie-marathon commences.
Later, George
Thursday, May 11, 2006
St. Hippolyte, France
Friends: Among Yvon's pitches enticing me to Mulhouse was a nearby monument to the Tour de France. Yvon knew I'd go well out of my way for such a thing. My original plan for this year's ride from Paris to Cannes was to pay a visit to the Puy de Dome in the heart of the country, another of those storied climbs steeped in Tour de France lore and about the only significant Tour de France climb I had missed the past two years.
The Puy de Dome is a majestic isolated mountain in the Massif Central so dramatic that one of France's departements (states) is named for it. Like Mont Ventoux it is a long extinct volcano. I wanted to make the climb to channel the many heroics and legendary events that occurred on its slopes--Merckx being slugged hard in the kidneys by a spectator, causing him to lose the race, Anquetil and Poulidor jostling each other hard in perhaps their most memorable battle, Bahomontes winning a critical stage to its summit that led to his lone Tour victory and on and on.
Yvon gave me the bad news me that the Puy de Dome is a toll road and is closed to bicyclists except one day of the year and on those occasions when it is included in the Tour. He offered as an alternative a visit to the Ballon d'Alsace, about 30 miles from him. At its summit is a monument to the first Tour rider to cross it in 1905. It was the first time that the Tour route had ventured into the mountains, the Vosges, one of the five mountain ranges in France.
The first two editions of the Tour in 1903 and 1904 followed the same route of six stages linking France's largest cities--Paris, Lyon, Marseille, Toulouse, Bordeaux and Nantes--and avoiding the mountains of the Alps, Pyrenees, Massif Central, Vosges and Jura. It wasn't until 1910 that Tour director Henri Desgrange dared to subject the riders to the high, high mountains of the Pyrenees. When they managed to survive that, the Alps were included the following year.
May 8 is a holiday in France, celebrating the end of WWII. One of the many cycling clubs in the area was hosting a ride near the Ballon d'Alsace that day, my first full day with Yvon and his wife Francoise. We awoke to a drizzle. Yvon could ordinarily see the Vosges from his sixteenth floor apartment, but they were lost in the clouds.
Still, we loaded our bikes in his van and drove over, hoping the rain would let up. It didn't, but the ride still attracted 170 participants. Yvon was so eager to join his friends that as we pulled up to the gathering he released his seat belt a block away so he could hop out pronto, just as he swings his leg over the bike well before stopping to quickly dismount, with a delightful boyish enthusiasm.
There was a scattering of miserable riders having cut short their rides, but none of Yvon's friends. He confirmed with the organizers that they were out on their bikes, so we decided to visit the nearby city of Colmar, the Venice of France, and return at noon when there would be lunch and an awards ceremony. Among the sites of Colmar was a 30-foot tall replica of the Statue of Liberty, as its sculptor was a native of the city. There were buildings over 500 years old along the network of picturesque canals, and a handful of tourists walking about under umbrellas, but no one at the many outdoor cafes.
When we returned to the ride, Yvon's friends had arrived. There was a lot of kissing on the cheeks, including mine. Yvon was delighted to regale them with our meeting last year when he was making a circuit of France on his bike, and telling them of my exploits. After lunch, awards were given to the oldest and youngest participants of the ride and to the club which had the most participants and who had traveled the furthest to participate. And they even gave me a special award of a cycling magazine and musette bag. It was a most convivial occasion as everyone shared in pastries and the local Alsacion wine, which the locals claim is as good as
the Champagne that comes from a nearby region.
The drizzle persisted, so we declined to bike to the monument, allowing my legs a welcome full-day of rest. Even though the summit was only 3,500 feet high, there were patches of snow along the way. Yvon was eager to help plot my remaining 500 miles to Cannes. He would have much preferred working for a travel agency than in the postal service. He asked me when I expected to retire from the messengering. I said I liked it too much to think of retiring. I was surprised when he said he hated his job and hated going to work every day, as I'd only seen his joyous, exuberant side.
He was eagerly planning a three-month trip to Chile and Argentina in November with his wife. He said he was hoping to like it so much that he might want to move there. "Everyone here says how bad things are in the United States and Italy, but things are bad here too. The young don't want to work and people are always protesting. I have stopped trying to understand people. I only want to travel and forget," he said, as he slashed his hand across his forehead, as if he were annulling such thoughts. It was just a brief outburst over breakfast, but otherwise he seemed the happiest man I'd ever met.
Later, George
The Puy de Dome is a majestic isolated mountain in the Massif Central so dramatic that one of France's departements (states) is named for it. Like Mont Ventoux it is a long extinct volcano. I wanted to make the climb to channel the many heroics and legendary events that occurred on its slopes--Merckx being slugged hard in the kidneys by a spectator, causing him to lose the race, Anquetil and Poulidor jostling each other hard in perhaps their most memorable battle, Bahomontes winning a critical stage to its summit that led to his lone Tour victory and on and on.
Yvon gave me the bad news me that the Puy de Dome is a toll road and is closed to bicyclists except one day of the year and on those occasions when it is included in the Tour. He offered as an alternative a visit to the Ballon d'Alsace, about 30 miles from him. At its summit is a monument to the first Tour rider to cross it in 1905. It was the first time that the Tour route had ventured into the mountains, the Vosges, one of the five mountain ranges in France.
The first two editions of the Tour in 1903 and 1904 followed the same route of six stages linking France's largest cities--Paris, Lyon, Marseille, Toulouse, Bordeaux and Nantes--and avoiding the mountains of the Alps, Pyrenees, Massif Central, Vosges and Jura. It wasn't until 1910 that Tour director Henri Desgrange dared to subject the riders to the high, high mountains of the Pyrenees. When they managed to survive that, the Alps were included the following year.
May 8 is a holiday in France, celebrating the end of WWII. One of the many cycling clubs in the area was hosting a ride near the Ballon d'Alsace that day, my first full day with Yvon and his wife Francoise. We awoke to a drizzle. Yvon could ordinarily see the Vosges from his sixteenth floor apartment, but they were lost in the clouds.
Still, we loaded our bikes in his van and drove over, hoping the rain would let up. It didn't, but the ride still attracted 170 participants. Yvon was so eager to join his friends that as we pulled up to the gathering he released his seat belt a block away so he could hop out pronto, just as he swings his leg over the bike well before stopping to quickly dismount, with a delightful boyish enthusiasm.
There was a scattering of miserable riders having cut short their rides, but none of Yvon's friends. He confirmed with the organizers that they were out on their bikes, so we decided to visit the nearby city of Colmar, the Venice of France, and return at noon when there would be lunch and an awards ceremony. Among the sites of Colmar was a 30-foot tall replica of the Statue of Liberty, as its sculptor was a native of the city. There were buildings over 500 years old along the network of picturesque canals, and a handful of tourists walking about under umbrellas, but no one at the many outdoor cafes.
When we returned to the ride, Yvon's friends had arrived. There was a lot of kissing on the cheeks, including mine. Yvon was delighted to regale them with our meeting last year when he was making a circuit of France on his bike, and telling them of my exploits. After lunch, awards were given to the oldest and youngest participants of the ride and to the club which had the most participants and who had traveled the furthest to participate. And they even gave me a special award of a cycling magazine and musette bag. It was a most convivial occasion as everyone shared in pastries and the local Alsacion wine, which the locals claim is as good as
the Champagne that comes from a nearby region.
The drizzle persisted, so we declined to bike to the monument, allowing my legs a welcome full-day of rest. Even though the summit was only 3,500 feet high, there were patches of snow along the way. Yvon was eager to help plot my remaining 500 miles to Cannes. He would have much preferred working for a travel agency than in the postal service. He asked me when I expected to retire from the messengering. I said I liked it too much to think of retiring. I was surprised when he said he hated his job and hated going to work every day, as I'd only seen his joyous, exuberant side.
He was eagerly planning a three-month trip to Chile and Argentina in November with his wife. He said he was hoping to like it so much that he might want to move there. "Everyone here says how bad things are in the United States and Italy, but things are bad here too. The young don't want to work and people are always protesting. I have stopped trying to understand people. I only want to travel and forget," he said, as he slashed his hand across his forehead, as if he were annulling such thoughts. It was just a brief outburst over breakfast, but otherwise he seemed the happiest man I'd ever met.
Later, George
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Mulhouse, France
Friends: Challenge number one of this, my third annual Cannes/Tour de France bike adventure was escaping the four-lane highway exiting Terminal One at Charles de Gaulle Airport and finding a way to the airport's back roads more friendly to the bicycle. As frustrating as it was, backtracking and circling about, I was at least relieved that my first challenge hadn't been dealing with a lost or damaged bike, a dread that always haunts me, especially when my travel involves a connecting flight, as it did this time.
The past two years British Air Lines has deposited me at Terminal Two. I knew how to go the wrong way down an exit ramp from there that provided access to the freight terminals and the two-lane road that links them to the outside world. This year I made the hour hop from London to Paris on British Midland, a lesser airline that is relegated to Terminal One, well-isolated from all the other terminals. Eventually I made it to Terminal Two, violating all sorts of laws, crossing and riding the hazardous network of four-lane super highways choked with speeding traffic.
It was Thursday afternoon, three p.m., when I began this ride. The next challenge was making it to Mulhouse, 314 miles to the east over by the German border, by Sunday evening, where I was to meet Yvon, the French cyclist I met at the Notre Dame des Cyclists bicycling chapel last year. If I could knock off forty or fifty miles this afternoon, I would only have to average ninety miles a day the next three days to make it. Even though I had flown through the night, leaving Chicago at six p.m. and not sleeping too much on the seven-hour flight, I felt no fatigue with the prospect of getting to ride my bike.
My chief concern was my conditioning. Since I took a sabbatical from the messengering this winter, the first winter I had missed in sixteen years, I wasn't sure how adequate my training had been. A large part of my conditioning had been biking to Chicago's seventy-six branch libraries, the most distant twenty-five miles from my apartment. My longest day of library-hopping had been seventy-five miles. It was a wonderful way to see the city, taking me to neighborhoods I had never visited. It was an exploration in many ways and a quest I had long wanted to make.
It was one of several neglected projects my sabbatical finally allowed me. Libraries are an integral part of my travels, little oases that bring me much pleasure. I felt like I owed it to my city to pay homage to all of its libraries. Each gave me a jolt of satisfaction to visit, just as those I come upon in my travels, and there isn't a one I wouldn't want to return to. That alone made forgoing the messengering worthwhile.
Visiting the libraries also allowed me to catch up on my reading, which included some thirty-six books on bicycling. I hadn't realized there were so many. Some had been on my to-read list for years, nagging and nagging me. There were books on Lance and The Tour de France and touring and the history of the bike and various memoirs. I didn't read all that I hoped to, but I can't be dissatisfied with what I managed to accomplish.
It was surprising to see how Tour de France illiterate many of the books were. The autobiography of Lance's mother misspelled "peloton" as "peleton.". David Herlihy's tome on the history of the bike had a photo of Lance with the caption "Lance on the Champs Elysees" when he was clearly in the mountains riding past the berserk, orange-clad Basque fans. Even Phil Liggett's edited "Tour de France for Dummies" was full of mistakes. One of the more egregious was placing the Tourmalet, the most famous climb in the Pyrenees, in the Alps. But they were all still good reading.
My winter of non-messengering also allowed me to tackle my basement full of donated and abandoned and semi-abandoned bikes I've accumulated over the year's, meaning to repair and get back into circulation. It was a great opportunity to spend an afternoon or two a week with friend Craig playing bike mechanic. With the mild winter, there was enough of a demand for bikes we were able to sell nearly one week for three months from the middle of January to the middle of April. We were thrilled to discover such demand and had so much fun repairing and selling we had to restrain ourselves from becoming a full-time bike shop. We owe thanks to the phenomenal web-site coincidentally named "Craig's List" for the bulk of our sales.
I've sold bikes here and there over the years, but not in this quantity. We made quite a few people happy, including several Valentine's Day customers who wanted a bike for a mate. Thinking of each bike we overhauled and revived and the person who ended up with it has already brought me much pleasure. We hadn't realized how satisfying it was to sell a bike, especially to those who hadn't had a bike in a while. They often rode off with their new bike as excited as a kid receiving their first bike.
It wasn't as exhilarating as the messengering, but it was still time well-spent. One of the bonuses was learning so much from master-mechanic Craig. And another bonus was going to God-of-mechanics Joe, down the block at Quick Release, when we were stumped over figuring out how to get something to work. We always delighted in watching Joe so easily solve a problem. He had an array of special tools that amazed us almost as much as his expertise.
We became quite adept at wrapping handlebar tape and straightening forks and steel-wooling rust. We had the satisfaction of straightening frames and solving bottom bracket mysteries and reviving a very stubborn cottered crank. We tinkered with a wide variety of derailleurs and brakes.
I have been looking forward to reflecting back on all these winter-doings in the hours and hours and hundreds of miles of biking I have ahead of me in the next three months. It was a wonderful winter, even if it didn't include the messengering I so much enjoy. The break from the frenzied miles of messengering may have actually been good for my body, as I gobbled up fifty-four miles my first day here, then twice that the next day, without significant soreness and was able to meet up with Yvon early Sunday afternoon in front of a small town cathedral about thirty miles from Mulhouse. We biked together the rest of the way to his home, mostly on a bike path beside one of the many canals that crisscross France. There was the threat of rain, but still the path was full of cyclists.
Yvon was as exuberant and enthusiast as I remembered him from the hour we spent together sharing a picnic table outside the Chapel Notre Dame de Cyclists last summer. When we met he was three-fourths of the way into his dream trip of a bicycle tour around France. Unfortunately, we were headed in opposite directions at the time. But we forged an immediate bond and have stayed in touch promising to meet up again, a promise we were thrilled to be fulfilling. As we biked along on the way to Yvon's apartment, he maintained a non-stop commentary, liberally spiced with "voilas" and "fantastiques".
He had regularly emailed me all winter enticing me to visit, even though swinging over to Mulhouse would add a couple hundred miles to my ride to Cannes. Yvon was extra bubbly, as he'd just retired from the post office eight days ago. He was presently training for a citizen's ride of Paris-Roubaix June 11. He will be one of 2,000 entrants following that most famous of routes through all the cobblestones. He was already looking forward to that moment when he would arrive in the velodrome Roubaix with arms up-raised.
Later, George
The past two years British Air Lines has deposited me at Terminal Two. I knew how to go the wrong way down an exit ramp from there that provided access to the freight terminals and the two-lane road that links them to the outside world. This year I made the hour hop from London to Paris on British Midland, a lesser airline that is relegated to Terminal One, well-isolated from all the other terminals. Eventually I made it to Terminal Two, violating all sorts of laws, crossing and riding the hazardous network of four-lane super highways choked with speeding traffic.
It was Thursday afternoon, three p.m., when I began this ride. The next challenge was making it to Mulhouse, 314 miles to the east over by the German border, by Sunday evening, where I was to meet Yvon, the French cyclist I met at the Notre Dame des Cyclists bicycling chapel last year. If I could knock off forty or fifty miles this afternoon, I would only have to average ninety miles a day the next three days to make it. Even though I had flown through the night, leaving Chicago at six p.m. and not sleeping too much on the seven-hour flight, I felt no fatigue with the prospect of getting to ride my bike.
My chief concern was my conditioning. Since I took a sabbatical from the messengering this winter, the first winter I had missed in sixteen years, I wasn't sure how adequate my training had been. A large part of my conditioning had been biking to Chicago's seventy-six branch libraries, the most distant twenty-five miles from my apartment. My longest day of library-hopping had been seventy-five miles. It was a wonderful way to see the city, taking me to neighborhoods I had never visited. It was an exploration in many ways and a quest I had long wanted to make.
It was one of several neglected projects my sabbatical finally allowed me. Libraries are an integral part of my travels, little oases that bring me much pleasure. I felt like I owed it to my city to pay homage to all of its libraries. Each gave me a jolt of satisfaction to visit, just as those I come upon in my travels, and there isn't a one I wouldn't want to return to. That alone made forgoing the messengering worthwhile.
Visiting the libraries also allowed me to catch up on my reading, which included some thirty-six books on bicycling. I hadn't realized there were so many. Some had been on my to-read list for years, nagging and nagging me. There were books on Lance and The Tour de France and touring and the history of the bike and various memoirs. I didn't read all that I hoped to, but I can't be dissatisfied with what I managed to accomplish.
It was surprising to see how Tour de France illiterate many of the books were. The autobiography of Lance's mother misspelled "peloton" as "peleton.". David Herlihy's tome on the history of the bike had a photo of Lance with the caption "Lance on the Champs Elysees" when he was clearly in the mountains riding past the berserk, orange-clad Basque fans. Even Phil Liggett's edited "Tour de France for Dummies" was full of mistakes. One of the more egregious was placing the Tourmalet, the most famous climb in the Pyrenees, in the Alps. But they were all still good reading.
My winter of non-messengering also allowed me to tackle my basement full of donated and abandoned and semi-abandoned bikes I've accumulated over the year's, meaning to repair and get back into circulation. It was a great opportunity to spend an afternoon or two a week with friend Craig playing bike mechanic. With the mild winter, there was enough of a demand for bikes we were able to sell nearly one week for three months from the middle of January to the middle of April. We were thrilled to discover such demand and had so much fun repairing and selling we had to restrain ourselves from becoming a full-time bike shop. We owe thanks to the phenomenal web-site coincidentally named "Craig's List" for the bulk of our sales.
I've sold bikes here and there over the years, but not in this quantity. We made quite a few people happy, including several Valentine's Day customers who wanted a bike for a mate. Thinking of each bike we overhauled and revived and the person who ended up with it has already brought me much pleasure. We hadn't realized how satisfying it was to sell a bike, especially to those who hadn't had a bike in a while. They often rode off with their new bike as excited as a kid receiving their first bike.
It wasn't as exhilarating as the messengering, but it was still time well-spent. One of the bonuses was learning so much from master-mechanic Craig. And another bonus was going to God-of-mechanics Joe, down the block at Quick Release, when we were stumped over figuring out how to get something to work. We always delighted in watching Joe so easily solve a problem. He had an array of special tools that amazed us almost as much as his expertise.
We became quite adept at wrapping handlebar tape and straightening forks and steel-wooling rust. We had the satisfaction of straightening frames and solving bottom bracket mysteries and reviving a very stubborn cottered crank. We tinkered with a wide variety of derailleurs and brakes.
I have been looking forward to reflecting back on all these winter-doings in the hours and hours and hundreds of miles of biking I have ahead of me in the next three months. It was a wonderful winter, even if it didn't include the messengering I so much enjoy. The break from the frenzied miles of messengering may have actually been good for my body, as I gobbled up fifty-four miles my first day here, then twice that the next day, without significant soreness and was able to meet up with Yvon early Sunday afternoon in front of a small town cathedral about thirty miles from Mulhouse. We biked together the rest of the way to his home, mostly on a bike path beside one of the many canals that crisscross France. There was the threat of rain, but still the path was full of cyclists.
Yvon was as exuberant and enthusiast as I remembered him from the hour we spent together sharing a picnic table outside the Chapel Notre Dame de Cyclists last summer. When we met he was three-fourths of the way into his dream trip of a bicycle tour around France. Unfortunately, we were headed in opposite directions at the time. But we forged an immediate bond and have stayed in touch promising to meet up again, a promise we were thrilled to be fulfilling. As we biked along on the way to Yvon's apartment, he maintained a non-stop commentary, liberally spiced with "voilas" and "fantastiques".
He had regularly emailed me all winter enticing me to visit, even though swinging over to Mulhouse would add a couple hundred miles to my ride to Cannes. Yvon was extra bubbly, as he'd just retired from the post office eight days ago. He was presently training for a citizen's ride of Paris-Roubaix June 11. He will be one of 2,000 entrants following that most famous of routes through all the cobblestones. He was already looking forward to that moment when he would arrive in the velodrome Roubaix with arms up-raised.
Later, George
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Back home
Friends: Yesterday was the 42nd anniversary of the assassination of JFK and it wasn't overlooked in Dallas. An organization was hosting a program entitled "JFK--The Assassination Remembered," featuring three of the particulars from that day--one of the neurosurgeons who treated Kennedy, a former Secret Service agent who protected Oswald's family in the days after the assassination and the man who was handcuffed to Oswald when Ruby shot him. Unfortunately, I was aboard Amtrak speeding home and missed it.
My final hours in Dallas were spent eating a picnic lunch on the grassy knoll, just four blocks from the Amtrak station, watching the many tourists, mostly families with children, coming for a look, taking photos either with the sixth floor book depository window in the background or the white X painted on Elm Street where Kennedy was shot. There were several assassination aficionados hanging out acting as freelance tour guides, some with placards that had diagrams and newspaper stories.
When I visited the site the day before on a quiet Sunday morning I initially had the place to myself. It took a few minutes to orient myself. At first I didn't think there was anything there to commemorate the spot other than that eerie white X in the middle of the road way. It is in a small park on the fringe of the downtown dedicated to the first settler in Dallas. Kennedy was shot where the first house in Dallas once stood. After some exploration I discovered a plaque acknowledging the assassination. There was also a map indicating a memorial three blocks away designed by New York architect Philip Johnson, who also designed the 190 S. LaSalle Building in Chicago, one of my favorites. Its lobby was featured in the Costa Gravas movie "Music Box." There is also a museum at the book depository devoted to the assassination. It includes a free exhibit in the lobby chockful of extraneous details. It reveals Jackie cadged a cigarette at the hospital she and the President were taken to. For $10 one can go up to the sixth floor and gaze out the window Oswald shot from.
For a city of one million, downtown Dallas was surprisingly sedate for a work day. It boasts a handful of 50-story buildings, but I saw no bike messengers and no hubbub of traffic. I could peaceably bike its streets as if it were a Sunday morning. There were parking lots with all-day parking for four dollars, barely enough to pay for half an hour in Chicago. There was a pleasant mix of the old and the new, glitzy skyscraper and old west.
I was searching for a loaf of bread to finish off the last of my peanut butter and honey. Someone at the Amtrak station told me a grocery store had just opened up in the downtown. It was significant enough news to have been featured on TV recently. That gave me a nice little exploratory mission and the opportunity to have a few last conversations with the locals. The friendliness and openness that had been the hallmark of rural Texas held true in the urban. I was in no rush, as my train didn't depart for several hours. Whoever I stopped to ask about the whereabouts of the grocery store was happy to engage in a little extra conversation, offering a tidbit of two about their city. Not a one was abrupt or in a hurry to be on their way or wary at all of being approached by a stranger. It was a good final dose of what made Texas such a pleasure and will have me eager to return.
Though my friends Mike and Jill, who moved down six months ago, naturally miss aspects of Chicago, they are finding plenty of things to like about Dallas. The dollar buys a lot more down here than in Chicago. Their mini-mansion with a swimming pool cost them less than a one bedroom condo in Chicago. I had arrived in time to be able to enjoy it and their company for a couple of nights. They were the last of my eight sets of friends I visited along the way. All welcomed me with such great warmth and hospitality, it hardly seemed as if I'd been away.
Later, George
My final hours in Dallas were spent eating a picnic lunch on the grassy knoll, just four blocks from the Amtrak station, watching the many tourists, mostly families with children, coming for a look, taking photos either with the sixth floor book depository window in the background or the white X painted on Elm Street where Kennedy was shot. There were several assassination aficionados hanging out acting as freelance tour guides, some with placards that had diagrams and newspaper stories.
When I visited the site the day before on a quiet Sunday morning I initially had the place to myself. It took a few minutes to orient myself. At first I didn't think there was anything there to commemorate the spot other than that eerie white X in the middle of the road way. It is in a small park on the fringe of the downtown dedicated to the first settler in Dallas. Kennedy was shot where the first house in Dallas once stood. After some exploration I discovered a plaque acknowledging the assassination. There was also a map indicating a memorial three blocks away designed by New York architect Philip Johnson, who also designed the 190 S. LaSalle Building in Chicago, one of my favorites. Its lobby was featured in the Costa Gravas movie "Music Box." There is also a museum at the book depository devoted to the assassination. It includes a free exhibit in the lobby chockful of extraneous details. It reveals Jackie cadged a cigarette at the hospital she and the President were taken to. For $10 one can go up to the sixth floor and gaze out the window Oswald shot from.
For a city of one million, downtown Dallas was surprisingly sedate for a work day. It boasts a handful of 50-story buildings, but I saw no bike messengers and no hubbub of traffic. I could peaceably bike its streets as if it were a Sunday morning. There were parking lots with all-day parking for four dollars, barely enough to pay for half an hour in Chicago. There was a pleasant mix of the old and the new, glitzy skyscraper and old west.
I was searching for a loaf of bread to finish off the last of my peanut butter and honey. Someone at the Amtrak station told me a grocery store had just opened up in the downtown. It was significant enough news to have been featured on TV recently. That gave me a nice little exploratory mission and the opportunity to have a few last conversations with the locals. The friendliness and openness that had been the hallmark of rural Texas held true in the urban. I was in no rush, as my train didn't depart for several hours. Whoever I stopped to ask about the whereabouts of the grocery store was happy to engage in a little extra conversation, offering a tidbit of two about their city. Not a one was abrupt or in a hurry to be on their way or wary at all of being approached by a stranger. It was a good final dose of what made Texas such a pleasure and will have me eager to return.
Though my friends Mike and Jill, who moved down six months ago, naturally miss aspects of Chicago, they are finding plenty of things to like about Dallas. The dollar buys a lot more down here than in Chicago. Their mini-mansion with a swimming pool cost them less than a one bedroom condo in Chicago. I had arrived in time to be able to enjoy it and their company for a couple of nights. They were the last of my eight sets of friends I visited along the way. All welcomed me with such great warmth and hospitality, it hardly seemed as if I'd been away.
Later, George
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Mansfield, Texas
Friends: My nine day 800-mile blitz of Texas from El Paso to Dallas is within site of the measly skyline of Dallas. It is ending all too abruptly. I feel as if I've barely gotten a nibble of this state whenever I open up the map and see all that it has to offer. It is two-thirds the size of France, where I have racked up 10,000 miles of cycling the past two summers. That too has been just been a good start for all that is to be seen in France. With its vast empty spaces Texas doesn't compare to the richness of France, but it would still take several months to do it justice.
I wasn't sure what to expect of Texas, though I had biked through its northern parts some 20 years ago. I knew it was now the Land of Lance, but I didn't know if that would make it a bicyclist's mecca or not. I know that Lance trains with motorized accompaniment here as belligerent drivers are not unknown. But he lives in the Austin area, where there is a sizable bicycle activist community Activists sometimes aggravate motorists and turn them spiteful and vengeful toward anyone they encounter on a bicycle. I have experienced no such thing in the predominantly isolated sectors I've biked. Not even in my several hours of night riding did I prompt any horn blasts, curses, swerves, thrown objects or such.
Texans in general, aside from a couple of figures of authority, who were more comical than threatening, have offered a delightful blend of Southern hospitality and Alaskan individualism. Unlike California and Arizona, which are overrun with recent transplants from other states, the Texans are deeply rooted and committed to their state and relatively undiluted by outsiders. Nor do they draw many tourists obliging them to cater to their desires with cappuccino and various phony and contrived attractions. The people here are just living the lives of Texans. They know
their heritage and are proud of it and happy to share it. They are a genuine and unpretentious people. I will be happy to return and further explore their state.
Though most towns seemed struggling to get by, they retained an authentic air of livability, as the locals were adapting to lives without the affluence they might have previously enjoyed. It has been rare to see a large supermarket. The dollar stores have taken over with their perfectly fine non-brand name merchandise. The town of Comanche, with a population of 4,000, had three such competing stores, all part of chains seen throughout the state. Comanche was one of many towns I wish I could have lingered in. It had taken its name from the Indian tribe. A Historical Plaque on the outskirts of the town described the Comanches as "the Lords of the Plains." The local librarian, however, couldn't remember the last time a Native American had been a resident of Comanche.
There were scores of historical plaques along route 67. I was always happy to see another, especially when I had head winds, using each as an excuse to take a stop. Many related to the road, as an original route of the pioneers or the discovery of a pass or a place in the river that was passable for livestock. They also told of the first settlers and how towns were named and of geological sites. Many went on at considerable length.
So I have camped my last unless Mike and Jill allow me to pitch my tent in their back yard. It has been a hard push without a day of rest and less than 11 hours of light each day since leaving Phoenix 13 days ago. My legs were a bit leaden this morning, but for the first time since Monday I've had a tailwind, so I've been romping these last 50 miles, without about 25 to go. I'll be happy to go meandering around Dallas on my unladen bike tomorrow morning, Sunday, before the Bears game. And then my body will welcome the 22-hour train ride to Chicago.
Later, George
I wasn't sure what to expect of Texas, though I had biked through its northern parts some 20 years ago. I knew it was now the Land of Lance, but I didn't know if that would make it a bicyclist's mecca or not. I know that Lance trains with motorized accompaniment here as belligerent drivers are not unknown. But he lives in the Austin area, where there is a sizable bicycle activist community Activists sometimes aggravate motorists and turn them spiteful and vengeful toward anyone they encounter on a bicycle. I have experienced no such thing in the predominantly isolated sectors I've biked. Not even in my several hours of night riding did I prompt any horn blasts, curses, swerves, thrown objects or such.
Texans in general, aside from a couple of figures of authority, who were more comical than threatening, have offered a delightful blend of Southern hospitality and Alaskan individualism. Unlike California and Arizona, which are overrun with recent transplants from other states, the Texans are deeply rooted and committed to their state and relatively undiluted by outsiders. Nor do they draw many tourists obliging them to cater to their desires with cappuccino and various phony and contrived attractions. The people here are just living the lives of Texans. They know
their heritage and are proud of it and happy to share it. They are a genuine and unpretentious people. I will be happy to return and further explore their state.
Though most towns seemed struggling to get by, they retained an authentic air of livability, as the locals were adapting to lives without the affluence they might have previously enjoyed. It has been rare to see a large supermarket. The dollar stores have taken over with their perfectly fine non-brand name merchandise. The town of Comanche, with a population of 4,000, had three such competing stores, all part of chains seen throughout the state. Comanche was one of many towns I wish I could have lingered in. It had taken its name from the Indian tribe. A Historical Plaque on the outskirts of the town described the Comanches as "the Lords of the Plains." The local librarian, however, couldn't remember the last time a Native American had been a resident of Comanche.
There were scores of historical plaques along route 67. I was always happy to see another, especially when I had head winds, using each as an excuse to take a stop. Many related to the road, as an original route of the pioneers or the discovery of a pass or a place in the river that was passable for livestock. They also told of the first settlers and how towns were named and of geological sites. Many went on at considerable length.
So I have camped my last unless Mike and Jill allow me to pitch my tent in their back yard. It has been a hard push without a day of rest and less than 11 hours of light each day since leaving Phoenix 13 days ago. My legs were a bit leaden this morning, but for the first time since Monday I've had a tailwind, so I've been romping these last 50 miles, without about 25 to go. I'll be happy to go meandering around Dallas on my unladen bike tomorrow morning, Sunday, before the Bears game. And then my body will welcome the 22-hour train ride to Chicago.
Later, George
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