08.06.21: Bordeaux-Paris, à vélo

In the cold dark grey of winter, it's easy to commit to anything.

So there I was, surrounded by a bunch of french guys, all talking all at once, way too fast for me to understand, and then the president looks at me and says: You wanna do Bordeaux-Paris with us don't you Pat (or something reasonably equivalent in French). My history is that the president looks out for me. He tells me when to pay attention; he invites me to participate in events that he thinks I will enjoy. So of course I said: Yeah, sure, why not. I am thinking of Bordeaux wines, sunny days in the south of France with a pleasant migration north.

Later, like a month later, I asked the president what is this Bordeaux-Paris thing anyway, like a 5-day bike ride, enjoying the scenery and good wines of france? No .. it is a 620 km bike ride in a week-end, non-stop. By this time, I had already said I would do this, and I don't back out of anything them frenchies challenge me to do. I do my part to sustain some national pride; there are not a lot of north americans in these parts.

So off to training, which turned out to be a bad experience this spring. Every cold grey damp sunday morning I got in line with everyone else in the club, and nearly every week I blew up. Some sort of strange behavior of the cardiac under stress. Never seen before by me, but rather unpleasant to limp home every sunday, the last 80 km or so, with a heart rate unregistreable by my heart monitor. Good intentions, slow moving legs. What a pisser.

I already said I would do this.

Off to the médecin generale, eye-nose-throat specialist (oh yeah, had a bout of laryngitis in the mix), then cardiologist. Lots of wires hooked up for stress tests EKGs and probably some other stuff I didn't understand. I only blow up on the road, in public, apparently. Best the cardiologist could say is I probably have a sort of arrhythmia that can manifest itself under some forms of extreme stress.

And, I already said I would do this.

Next several weeks, every week-end, trying to extend the distance I can do comfortably. One Saturday, 230 km, no problem. Following week-end, blew up 80 km into 120 km ride. Following week-end, hard ride on Saturday of 180 km, followed by blow-up on Sunday 30 km into 150 km ride. I watch the other guys in the club regard me with doubt and suspicion. I use the language barrier as self-protection. I cannot explain what is going on, and I am not going to back out of this.

Cardiologist recommends I cancel the plan. But, I already said I would do this. He gives me a fancy heart recording box; tells me to keep with me on the bicycle, when (not IF) when I blow up again, I am to calmly dismount the bicycle, sit on the ground, relax, take the magic recording box out of my pocket, and then register my heart movements through my fingertips in this box. OK, why not. He can use it later for a diagnosis, he says.

Friday, 20-juin, am. We assemble at Michel's load up the bikes and equipment. Drive to Bordeaux. Uneventful. Michel is 67. Today is the first day in his life that he has driven on the auto-route. He knows every back road in France; doesn't like to drive too fast. We check into Kyriad; assemble at Buffalo Grill for early dinner. I chuckle. I am in France, with all french folks and we are eating in a resto with red vinyl seats, pictures of cowboys and indians on the wall, and Budweiser and buffalo burgers on the menu. They ordered the red wine from California, just to give me a hard time. For dessert, I ordered a ' crumble', tried to pronounce it like I thought a french guy should; the waiter did not understand me until the third try; they in fact pronounce closer to how we would say it anyway; he then starts to tell me the origin of the word is english and the meaning; he takes it pretty good when I tell him I american. Have to be careful about correcting french in public, they really really really don't like to be embarrassed in public.

Sat, 4:30 AM. Chanon's alarm watch goes off. Light breakfast; leave the hotel at 5:30; pedal the few k, to the starting line. 6:00 AM sat AM, 21-jun, 1500 bicyclists are lined up to begin a non-stop ride to Paris. What the hell is wrong with this?

Nothing. I said I would do this, after all. The friendly french meteorologist promises nothing but sun & warmth, nothing but sunshine on this longest day of the year. Also, in France, it is la fête de la musique. I am expecting little break-outs of music all along the travel route.

We roll out together, I join a peloton of about 100 riders doing about 30 km / hr. It feels good. We stop 100 km and a little over 3 hrs later. I have not blown up; my legs, lungs and heart check good. Mr. President decides we should ride a little slower; we have yet a long way to go. So we let the peloton go, us following in a smaller group rolling a little more casually until we hit the region 'vallonée', then I continue as a small group of 1, doing what I can, knowing I can usually catch the others when the route flattens out a little. The day remains sunny, the temperature climbs, the route continues the next 200 kms of 1 km ascents followed by 1 km descents. I gain no net altitude, but I work hard to do it. Early afternoon, full sun, 35 deg C, longer gradual climb of 5 km and I think I am going to blow up. But, I said I would do this, so I tell myself to continue until I really do blow up. When that happens, it is all over. I am fatigued, but my heart retains its rhythm, elevated, but not unstable. 9:00 PM I stop for pasta re-fill, simple road-side self-clean, rest for an hour, and decide if I want to continue. I am cooked, but the heart beats steady, I continue. The sun sets, the temperature drops, we mount lights on our bikes, and reflective vests, and continue in the dark. It is stone quiet except for the pedals, the chains, and the wind, and breathing. We are 4, together, rolling at 25 km/hr in the dark with merely our small handlebar lights to see, on french country roads in the middle of france. I recover, slowly. This is some of the most enjoyable bicycling I have done. 8 wheels, 8 pedals, 8 legs, all in sync, in the quiet, in the dark. No thoughts but pedal rotation in a steady manner. Temperature perfect, copains also.

There are 3 levels of participation in this event: slow, medium, fast speeds. The slow group leaves Bordeaux on Fri AM, the medium group leaves Bordeaux on Sat AM and the fast group departs on Fri afternoon.

We enter the southern region of the Loire Valley after midnight. At 1:00 AM the leaders of the fast group pass us. They are in the same darkness as we, except they have a chase vehicle directly behind them with spotlights lighting the road. They appear to be rolling at about 40 km/hr, in a peloton of 30 or 40, in the dark. They will ride the 600 km in less than 15 hours. We will not.

4:00 AM, Romorantin, 435 kms down, supposedly less than 200 to go. I stop for tea and ramen. My legs are unstable. My heart beats steady, if still elevated. I have been awake for 23 hours, and mostly on my bike for the last 22. I am not thinking very clearly, I am fatigued. I have this thought: if you fall in the dark, you will break your collar bone. This is not a good thought. Fear creeps in, in my fatigue and wins the moment. I put my bike in the van, crawl in, and fall asleep un-wake-able for the next 4 hours.

I did not finish. I am OK with that. I said I would do the best that I can. My first attempt at a long-distance ride. I enjoyed it; I did not blow up; I did not get hurt.

I will be back.

07.07.23: Les Alpes, Ups and Downs of life in France

About 20 years ago I went to Colorado and climbed a few mountain passes on my bicycle (Rabbit Ears and Loveland still stick in my mind), and at the time I said (to myself): "wouldn't it be cool to go to the Alps and climb some of the cols that comprise the Tour de France." I never said I was in a hurry about it, so there you have it, last week I did a few of them alps. Col du Télégraph, Col de le Croix de Fer, Col Galibier most notably. Just a week after Le Tour passed by.

Here is what I remember:

Saturday...

We roll out of the hotel at 7:00 AM, the eight of us, after a breakfast of baguettes, marmalade, a little OJ, and café au lait ... we might have a long day ahead of us. I am nervous. No, I am scared. J'ai peur. I have no idea of the magnitude of the climbs ahead. Like I said, it's been a long time since I rode a bike in the mountains.



I ride alongside Robert, usually steady and very strong. About 15 km into the day, I notice he is sweating profusely and breathing hard. Robert, who kicks my ass every Sunday morning is looking a little peaked. It's not even 8:00 AM. J'ai peur. I am not sweating; either I am on form, or I am completely dehydrated. I take a drink. It's all I can do. I regard my heart monitor; I seem to be OK, or it's not working. Nothing to do about it except spin the pedals. Perhaps today is the day I kick Robert's ass. Or not. A few km later, Robert kicks it up a notch. I do not respond. I do not know what is ahead. La peur ne cesse pas. I maintain my pace.

About halfway into the 1st climb I realize I have forgotten my food / energy bars for the day. I am in France. Either this is a problem without solution, or this is a problem easily solved. There is no middle ground here. It's a food related question ... this should be easily solved. 10 km from the summit, there is small resto by the side of the road. I stop for a café, tarte tatin, a re-fill of my water bottles and a few sweet breads to-go. Food supply question easily solved. I'm finishing my café, Jacques, Jean, and Michèle pass. I re-mount and re-join the climb. The clouds hang low; there is no noise; the view is supressed; la peur ne diminue pas.

A few km later I feel a strange rotation pattern developing in my right pedal. I am 5 km from the 1st summit of a 2-day/4 summit week-end and my right pedal has backed out of the crank arm, lodged itself askew and misaligned in the threads. The pedal is not rotating about the same axis as the crank-arm. It is now causing my knee some pain. I un-clip from the pedal, and push the pedal pad with the center of my shoe. Very in-efficient, but at least it doesn't twist my knee on every rotation. I cannot give up in the face of these frenchies. 2 km from the summit, the pedal has nearly liberated itself from the crank arm. This is good news. I can now extract the pedal,and there are just 2 threads remaining in the crank - but it's enough to re-attach the pedal. I torque it down with all the little allen wrench has to offer. J'ai peur, mais je persiste. The pedal holds; I do not quit.

Le col de la Croix de Fer. Altitude: 2068 m (6800 ft). Not too bad on altitude, but the climb is 4800 ft in 20 miles.

The view at the top is very pleasing. Robert was waiting for me at the summit.




I ask another cyclist to take my photo next to the brag sign. Apparently, I forgot to turn the camera on. He is trying to take the photo and he says out loud: "Hey, does this thing work?" They were the first english words I had heard all day. Turns out, he is from Calgary. Speaks english pretty well. Can apparently ride a bike also.

I'm thinking the hard part of the day is over. Not much is as it seems here. Next little climb, having received no significant advance billing, Col du Mollard, is a nasty little climb, not long, not high, but steep and after lunch, was not pleasant. I nearly cracked 100m from the peak.

After, it's all down hill, 50 km, practice high speed turns. How fast do you dare? Noone passed me on the descent. Being overweight is a bonus on a descent.

Evening ... cheap pasta meal in a 2nd rate hotel 5m off the main highway. Two glasses of whine and I am ready for bed.

Sunday ...

I ride out of town with Michel in the early morning fog. The fog deadens the sound, clouds the road ahead in mystery, intrigue. The only sounds are those of mine and Michel's quiet breathing, our calm conversation as we begin the ascent. We can not see ahead 100m. On a bicycle, climbing, that is enough. I know the road rises; beyond that, I do not need to know. We breathe; we chat about nothing; I regard my heart monitor. I am in better condition than yesterday, or the battery is slowly dying. We will see.



My heart monitor has 4 levels: (1) u woose, (2) u r not a woose, (3) r u sure u know what u r doing?, and (4) exploding!exploding!exploding!

I am on level 2. This is good.

I read the names of the all the TdF riders that climbed this pass the week before, painted in the road, encouragment for the pros with big fans. I do not find my name among them. I have no rabid fans with spray paint cans. I am alone. I push the pedals.

About 30 km later, the fog lifts, the sun shines, I believe, in fact, there is a slight breeze on my back. The normal gods who punish people that ride bicycles uphills have taken the day off.
I turn right past the treeline; I look up; yesterday was nothing; today we have a climb. I continue. All the guys with shaved legs pass me. I pass the old ladies with super granny gears. At any rate, I continue. I pass a sign that indicates 500m to the ravitaillement (refueling stop). About 500m later, I pass another sign that says 500m to the ravitaillement. 500 m later, a third. This is a cruel joke. French sense of humour is lost on me. The wind is picking up; the road steepens. 100 m later, I reach the summit.

Col de Galibier. Altitude 2645 m (8678 feet).

This was a climb. This is a view. In the distance, glacier peaked summits. The valley stretches out below me in every direction. The sun is shining. There is a local cheese producer selling artisanal Tomme cheese. All is good and right in the world.

Jean, le président of our local cycling club, asks me to ride a supplementary 6 km with Robert. He assures me there is a great view to be enjoyed, and it is only 6 km extra. I agree. They are always playing jokes on me, those frenchies. The route is steep, hot, and about a 20 km detour. It is afternoon, I have already had a beer, I am tired, I perservere. At one point, I watched another cyclist actually fall over as he couldn't make a turn; don't go too slow. He fell from exhaustion. I redouble my efforts. The view to talk about was to after the mini-col was crested. We descended along a cliffside ... lean too far to the left and it's about 1000 ft straight down. Did I mention that I am afraid of heights? Every km that passes, I have more respect for the TdF riders. And then, and then, it was 50 km of descent. 50 km is a long way to go down. Fast. Perhaps the detour was worth it.

Evening .... much celebrating, as we have proven once again that, although we are human and old, on a good day, we can still push a bicycle up a long steep hill. The good weather in the afternoon was a special bonus. Another cheap meal in a 3rd rate hotel (look up Turkish toilet in your french travel guide sometime, and then share among 5 hotel rooms). I will be happy to make these climbs again next year, but I might try to throw my 2 centimes in when it comes to picking the hotel accomodations. Two glasses of cheap red wine, and I am again down for the count.

07.03.29: Age rules!

Merci à tous for the highly appreciated birthday wishes.

I greatly enjoyed all of them, even the one that had the audacity to remind me of a partial educational failure of mine from nearly 20 years ago. Yes, I am getting old(er).

So, what does a birthday look like from here?

Well, Thursday AM is my french class session. I have been accusing my french teacher of changing the grammar rules every week for about the last three weeks. Of course, in true french-y fashion, she completely denies it. It actually reached a peak last week, when, in a fit of passion for learning (er, perhaps just frustration), I actually vigorously, forcibly, enthusiastically, demonstratively scratched out an entire rule on pronoun usage in my text book, looked at her and screamed: "Vous n'êtes pas d'accord? moi, non plus!" (you don't agree? I don't either!).

It made me feel better.

Future french students ... you have me to thank if them frenchies can decide amongst themsleves the propoer usage of the pronoun 'en' in regards to referencing non-human, yet sentient beings.

At any rate, she didn't quit; she came back for another laugh at my expense this week. Must need the job, or more likely, just the entertainment. Well, I know she changes the rules just to force me to conjugate into a hypothèse, but there is no way a french person will ever admit to making an error.

Today, she bought the coffee during our coffe break. Bon anniversaire (un).

This afternoon ... meetings, phone calls, e-mails, blah, blah, blah, saved humanity from itself. Listened to a guy say that 50 years of data is not sufficient to claim that global warning is happening. Kept my mouth shut .. I work for that guy. BUT, it is performance appraisal season in the big factory, so I had the pleasure of giving an appraisal to one of my employees. Talk about changing the rules. Either EVERYTHING I was told in cultural awareness training was completely incorrect (strong possibility) or la employée du jour is an exceptionally unique française (just as likely, a very strong possibility). Well, as usual, I know I am right.

I am the boss. See rule #1. If you don't like that one, see rule #2. Bon anniversaire (deux).



Ahh ... this evening ... I had une petite experience at the local cycle club meeting. OK, so I was out on my bike a few weeks ago, ran across a group that had the name of my ville on their jerseys, so I rode with them for about 50 miles. Very pleasant experience. They invited me to their monthly meeting, which I attended this evening. Meeting scheduled to start at 8:15. I arrived at 8:10 (Only had to ask for directions once to find the address). Noone. 8:25 ... a few people arrive. 9:00 ... meeting actually starts. So, we start the meeting about 45 mintues late, which bothers noone. Although, it can be noted that I noted the time. Perhaps I should say: noone was concerned about the time, except for l'américain. Meeting begins with an acknowledgement of the new person in the room (Yes that would be me ... please introduce yourself in french please ... don't forget to say thank you). About 25 people, almost all of them older than me, and all of them in better shape than me. A few people who run in the New York City, Chicago, and Rome marathons every year. . Discuss who will participate in which upcoming rides, the usual request for volunteers to help with coordination (I acted like I completely did not understand). After the regular business, the club president has a welcoming one-to-one chat with me so that I understand what they do, chastises me for using 'vous' instead of 'tu' ... afterall we are kindred sportive kind of guys; several people introduce themselves to me to make it very clear that I am very welcome to join their club, but only if I want, and then, in true french-y fashion, we popped the corks on several bottles of cidre - a kind of fermented apple based cider - and had a few rounds.

No rules. Bon anniversaire (trois).

Here's to no rules (except mine) for the rest of the year...Merci à tous,

06.07.23: Le Tour -- Out-Landis-h!

Usually, I watch the Tour on television in Tom's very worthy basement, with a few beers. He has TiVo and an OLN cable package, and for the last few years, with Lance on the hunt for setting some victory records, there was plenty of cable coverage available in the US. This year, alas, je suis ici en France, donc, I have a different view of the Tour ...

From my conversations, here is what I gather ...

All French people believe that ALL cyclists use dopage for performance enhancement. All French believe that it is not humanly possible for a non-dopaged human to complete the Tour with the average speed that is actually maintained over the three week period. Thus, since the speed is achieved, all cyclists are dopers. Hence, the Tour is not really a test of cycling skill, but a test of mad doctor cleverness. And, lastly, Lance Armstrong need not be considered among the greatest cyclists of all time; his unknown wizard behind the curtain happens to be the luckiest and most skillful mad scientist of the current era.

Thus, the race that carries their name is mostly denigrated by the french. I assume, this carries until the next French cyclist wins the race; in which case I suppose the victory will indeed be a demonstration of skill, tenacity, strategy, and preparation. But, with the current crop of french riders, we wait for some time.

Alas, un Américain a gagné Le Tour, encore, cet an. Merci, Floyd Landis.

For my part, I had the opportunity to watch the Tour speed by twice, so why not?

The first time, Stage 14, a transition stage between the Pyrenees and the Alps, with a few medium size climbs enroute from Montélimar to Gap. We targeted Col de Perty as the most interesting climb of the day and set up camp about 1 km below the summit. How to watch the tour .. take cold drinks, arrive early, take a book (or in our case, french verb conjugaison charts since we were in between sessions from our course intensive), camera and binocs. Find a spot on the climb where you can see the route down the valley for a few kilometers, preferably under a shade tree, and camp next to a German family or two. Wait, wait, wait, and then wait a little more. Share a few german words with El Diablo. Just when you think you have that subjunctive verb form memorized, along comes the caravan. Beacoup de choses tossed out the car windows ... hats, key chains, noise makers, big hands for cheering on your favorite, etc. Wait, wait, wait, encore. How about some plus-que-parfait verb forms? OK, en fin, les cyclistes. Have your camera ready. Even on a climb, these guys are moving pretty good. George Hincapie was trailing in the rear of the peloton today. The maillot jaune for George was a brief moment of two weeks ago, now a memory, filed for the glory day tales. The peloton passes; the team cars in pursuit, le flamme rouge passes to signal the end of the course.

Next viewing ... à Paris for the finale. We took the Metro 8 to Place de la Concorde, and were effectively blocked from walking across the street or any closer to l'Arc de Triomphe, as we arrived only 2 1/2 hours before the race. Up and down the Rue Rivoli, tens of thousands are lined up to watch the Tour parade the Champs-Elysées, even if an américain is destined to take top podium spot again this year. How to pass the time? A nice family from Nice was willing to chat together as we leaned on the barriers, in view of the Place where Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette lost their heads. Or, you can choose to be accosted by an 88 year old French gentlemen, who speaks no english, is happy to bash americans, and it is not such a bad way to practice some french with a guy who won't leave as long as you promise him a cigarette (Gaulois, s-v-p). The caravan passes, this time without gift items for the crowd. The peloton approaches. Quick with the camera, but this time knowing that the race will complete 8 circuits of Paris before the finish. Floyd looked quite content, tucked in behind the Phonak train, bringing the man home for the victory. For me, stroll down to the Marais for a falafel and a beer.

It wasn't Tom's basement, but it wasn't too bad either.