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.

08.06.06: D-Day, Birthdays, 9-11

I met a super nice french couple when I was in Senegal about a year and a half ago. We try to stay in touch with some e-mails, an occasional phone call, and an infrequent visit to their place in Normandy. This June, they both are turning forty and decided to throw a big party in their own honor. As it turns out, the same week-end as the anniversary of the D-Day landings on Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword, and Juno beaches.

Before going to the birthday party, I had the afternoon to do a little exploring, so went to Le Mémorial in Caen to see the French national WWII memorial. This week-end was the opening of a new exposition at Le Mémorial ... Where were you on September, 11 2001 at 8.46 AM? which is a display of objects found in the rubble of the World Trade Center, displayed to accentuate the very personal side of the tragedy.

A piece of an exit sign from the WTC, a fireman's boot, a laptop computer, a payphone. Normally mundane objects all, but each carrying a small piece of a tragic story forward to remind us of the day that everything changed.

A badge found from a police officer, next to a 10 foot banner displaying her photograph, her previous acts of heroism as an officer, words of remembrance from her colleagues and family. Next to similar posters of a financial advisor, a fireman, a flight attendant, and a nurse. Each story personal, real, unforgettable.

There is a life-size poster of several people walking down the streets of New York in the moments after the collapse of the World Trade Center, the sky darkened by the airborn remnants of 2974 deaths, survivors covered with soot permeating every pore of their grey-ed skin, and the backdrop is the carnage depicting the day the world ended.

All of this, in a memorial in France, for gods-sake, that commemorates the heroic deeds of the UK, Canadian, and American forces 64 years ago to bring the beginning of the end to WWII.

There are also videos of George Bush speaking to the United Nations the day after. And a video of Osama Bin Laden, speaking to persons united against the US.

Here is what I thought:
Osama Bin Laden is still making videos, and Al-Qaida is likely planning another attack on the US.
And $500B of our military resources is being squandered in Iraq.
And it is 6 1/2 years later.
Our president and his administration are a national disgrace.

Bush's birthday is July 6.
I think I'll send him a birthday card this year. Or 2, 974 of them.

Our government's primary duty is to protect the citizens of the US; they have failed to bring an end to Al-Qaida and Osama Bin Laden, the group that committed the most serious attack against US citizens on US soil.
And we are complicit in our complacency.

08.05.31: No skirts, please

So I was in our cute little town last month running a few errands when I saw Mr ImSuperior Newspaper man on the sidewalk in front of LaPresse in a kilt. Really. I didn't have time to stop and say anything at the time, so I just looked at him as if to say: Why are you wearing a skirt? and kept on about my business.

This past week-end I went into LaPresse to buy my usual copy of the week-end edition of LeMonde (you know, the one with the New York Times section hidden in the middle) and Mr ImSuperior was working the cash register. He had on a white t-shirt that said in very big bold black letters: "Je suis à côté un con" and a big black arrow underneath the words pointing to his left, i.e., in the direction of all his customers when he is at the register. The catchy little slogan translates roughly like: I am standing next to an asshole.

When I enter the news shop, I read his tee (and it probably took me a few more seconds than your average french guy, admittedly), he points to the word 'con' and says: "it means asshole", 'con' being the only word on the tee that he assumed I might need a little help with.

Well, as it turns out, the famously gracious current french president was at the Salon d'Agriculture earlier this year (a big damn deal state fair) when he said to one of his impudent french citizens: "Casse toi, pauvre con." This became a big deal, because Mr Sarkozy's phrase, roughly translated, means: Get out here, you poor bastard (or asshole, if you prefer). So, that is when I learned the expression "Casse toi" and also the word "con".

So, I said, in french, heavily accented, to be sure, "Thanks to your president, I learn all of the most polite french expressions", which brought a small smile to the only other customer in the shop at the time, a seemingly pleasant middle-aged french woman.

And then, of course, I attempted to buy my week-end journal, when he of course harassed me somehow in french I didn't understand.

So I got real close to him, and I looked him right in the eye, and said:

What's the matter, d'ya lose your skirt today?

He said, VERY defensively in a little tiny voice, a few octaves higher than normal: I didn't LOOOse it, it's just in storage until the next event.

I said: Like a dance or a ball, or something?
He said: Yeah, like that.

I gave him the 2€30 for the paper, said: happy dancing, and left.

The journal was more fun to read than usual this week-end.

Thought you might wanna know,

07.10.23: To each hexagon, six points

French folks like to refer to their country as the Hexagon (l'hexagone), easily associated to the geometric, geographic shape of the land. They are, in fact, quite proud of this and refer to it quite often as though this is either clever, or at least, quite fashionable.

In any case, as of October, and after 2.5 years of casual, travel when I can, exploration, I finally completed a trip where I can now say I have touched each of the six points.

Equally french-y, the double meaning of every word is always fun to exploit ... so in that word game point of vue, I offer six points of traveling and living in France. Not in the order in which I visited the six corners, but nevertheless, here we go counter-clockwise from the SW corner ...

1. Cheese, cerise and wine are not the same as french, spanish and basque

• Oct07 - Pays Basque, Biarritz, St-Jean du Luz, Bilbao-Espagne. If you go up in the Pyrenées mountains you can find a lot of sheep, and those sheep provide a nice supply of milk that ends up in brebi cheese. Add a light sauce from local cherries, and accompany with a glass of very nice Irouleguy red wine. All very complementary and enjoyable. This comes from a region of the country where the local language, Basque, is one of only 3 languages in Europe that does not descend from the vast indo-European family of languages. Apparently, doesn't mix well with french or spanish.

• Lack of communication sometimes results in bomb-making.

2. Pushing on a rope is not usually pleasant, unless you really believe in what you are doing

• Oct07 - Banyuls-sur-Mèr. A little spit of land on the Mediterranean coast, all the way in the southwestern corner of France, just next to Spain. A beautiful landscape of very steep hills completely covered with grape vines and stone, overlooking the Mediteranean Sea on a beautiful sunny week-end in October, long after the large majority of tourists have departed until their return next summer. Hills steep enough that you can only imagine goats would be happy on these hillsides. Having said that, the Romans planted the first wine grapes here, and after about 3, 000 years of practice of working these hillsides, vine by vine, all by hand in between small hand built dry-laid stone walls to stabilize the steep slopes, they turn out a rather nice desert wine, and an ever-increasingly reputable series of red wines that recall the Order of Templars that used to hide out in this part of the country.

• Practice often makes plenty good enough.

3. Every week has 4 1/2 days.

• Apr05 - Nice, Antibes, Mediterranean coast near Monaco and Italy. First experience I had with recognition that the rhythm of life here is completely different than the US. Lunchtime is lunchtime; dinner is later; in between - well, too bad you missed lunch. Tues the museums close, as well as Sun afternoon, and well if Monday is a holiday, why not close all the basic tourist attractions for a three-day week-end. It can be that way. There is no 24-hr Walgreen's or Kroger's. Get your work done during the work day, plan ahead for the time off, no one else works just because that is a convenient time for you to shop or visit.

• The other 2 1/2 days, you might as well enjoy with family and friends and with whatever supplies you have on hand.

4. Not everything in France is French

• Dec05 - Strasbourg. In the face of a true architectural marvel of a 15th century cathedral, sipping hot spiced wine in the Marché Noël crisp winter air after having enjoyed a traditional choucroute (sauerkraut) dinner in a restaurant that has been in business for about 400 years, you can reflect on the fact that the soil here has changed owners and languages every hundred years or so for several hundreds of years. French, German, French, German, loves-me .. loves-me-not. My great-grand parents exited from Alsace-Lorraine in the late 19th century in the face of conscription into the German army for my great-grandfather. He decided chances were better in the USA. Spoke German; came from France. Strong signs of non-french-y influences everywhere. Napoléan decreed that French would be the spoken language in his France; Austria marched into Paris on his watch. Beer, sauerkraut and auld-long-syne all around. Static is nowhere ... today in france, there is the basque country, return of the language Bretagne-ic, and significant immigration from Africa.

• We all need to update our definitions of ourselves on a continuing basis, or speak Latin, I guess.

5. The best beers are made in the USA

• Sep07 -Lille. I drank a few (hundred) beers in the US. Love a good IPA or pale ale. Traveled all around France; always heard talk of Belgian beers as the finest. Went to Lille; hooked up with a group of americans in search of the finest; sampled a few (tens) of the finest northern france/belgian beers that the connoisseurs could barrel up. Give me Snake Dog from Flying Dog or a Commodore Perry from Great Lakes, or just the next IPA off the shelf at Dutch's Pony Keg any day of the week.

• Never question that the new school can beat old school at it's own game.

6. Magic still happens

• Nov06 - Bretagne, La Forêt de Brocéliande. I didn't make it all the way out to the point at Brest, but nevertheless, had a nice long Thanksgiving week-end '06 to explore a nice portion of Bretagne. Deep in the center, from the heart of the country that brought us the Knights of the Round Table, chivalry, and Merlin, (yes, from France - see point #4) if you have the fortune to follow a mysterious trail deep in a an enchanted forest, you can collect some water from a spring that marks the location where Merlin met the mysterious Lady of the Lake and persuaded her to give the magical sword Excalibur to King Arthur. Today, it is said that the water from the fountain provides some mental health stability. Worth a try, after having traversed l'Hexagone and lived in France for 2 years.

• I have drunk from the fountain; I feel all the better for having done so.

07.10.18: Tourisme et Religion

When I was a kid, I went to a school called Our Lady of Lourdes for about six or seven years. We had a grotto out front of the building with a staute of Mary in it, and every year, one afternoon in May for about an hour, we had a religious ceremony of some sort (I seem to have forgotten the details) where I presume we commemorated some sanctity characteristics of Mary the Virgin, and also Bernadette the young woman who had visions and the shakes associated with close encounters of the religious kind in a cave just outside of Lourdes, France.

So, obviously, in heading south and west in France, I was drawn to Lourdes like a little catholic boy to recess.



Drove until it was time to quit for the day; found an interesting chambre d'hôte about 20km from Lourdes in a hamlet called Saint-Pé-de-Bigorre. For the evening, we had dinner with two couples, one French, one South African. The French couple, who lives near Paris, was visiting the husband's hometown, where he had in fact been enrolled in the seminary as a teenager, but thought better of the situation; left; ended up working for an international construction company and lived most of his life in Asia, Africa, and the Mid-East; married a delightful woman with whom he had a few daughters. Said he didn't regret leaving the seminary. The S. Africans were visiting some family in France for a cousin's 60th birthday party and couldn't really get the french concept of terroir (i.e., why Champagne comes only from Champagne, why Roquefort only comes from Roquefort, and, god love us, why Bourbon only comes from gen-u-wine Kentucky sour mash). At any rate, made for some lively and interesting 5-course dinner discussion in a several-hundred-year-old farm house, around the corner from the seminary, in view of the Pyrénées mountains, not that far from Lourdes.

Went to Lourdes in the morning.



There is a lot of opportunities there to purchase rosaries, statues, candles, Jesus bracelets, Mary necklaces, Bernadette postcards, and water bottles. A lot of opportunities. Really. It's transcendantal. Hundreds of little shops in the ville, all with the soul intention of selling you some sort of religious artifact with which you can cherish and mark your moments spent in Lourdes, a place of miracles in the 19th century.

I will say this... walk past the tourist shops (OK, pick up a rosary or two if you like), continue on past the 20th century model of a 18th century gaudy Romanesque sort of church/cathedral and you eventually end up at the spit of land associated with the miralces of Bernadette and Mary. Hallowed ground.

The real grotto.



And for me, I will also say this ... a sense of calm, order and peacefullness reigns at the shrine. Truly. It was very pleasant. I didn't see any miracles.
I did see groups of people who had traveled from Eastern Europe in buses to pray together, a group from Hawaii on a 'greatest religious sites in France' sort of tour, and just regular folks, likely from all over the world, lining up at the water fountains, saying some simple prayers, perhaps hoping for a miracle, but more likely perhaps just looking for some minutes of peace and calmness, and a forget-everything-else for a few minutes sort of tranquility. You can find that there, next to the water fountains, just a few meters from the real grotto, in which, of course, there is a statue of Mary.

I lit a candle for Mom. She would have liked that.

As she always said: "You never know."

The sign next to the candle says: "This flame continues my prayer." I like to think the candle is still burning.



Oh yeah, just so I don't forget ... the Pope (the current one, Benoit XVI) has committed to going to Lourdes in the fall of 2008 to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the visons that Bernadette had of the Virgin Mary near Lourdes. Tourism and Religion and the Pope. Should be something.

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.

07.06.29: Portuguese mystery mash, Mirabelle, Poire William, Moonshine

This is my level of sophistication: give me a beer, or I'll have a glass of wine. I don't much care.

This is not an attitude or behavior pattern that is much shared here. Before dinner, we have an aperitif, with the entrée, we might have a little white wine, unless the entrée is foie gras, in which case there is a very limited and special selection of wines to choose to accompany (Juraçon seems to work pretty well), with the plat then we have a little red wine, and then after dessert, we can have a little digestif. Add to this, each region of France seems to have a slightly different version of a local apéro and digestif specialité. This is a lot of different alcohols to keep up with. I'm doing the very best that I can.

Before I came here, I think all of the alocholic beverages I consumed came in bottles with official looking labels from real companies. Don't think I had that moonshine kind of stuff. But, then I'm a Yankee, and all that, anyway.

In the last 3 weeks, I have now had 3 home-made alcohols. Like I said, I'm doing the very best that I can.

Went for a bike ride on Sunday with the group into Paris. Had a picnic in Bois de Vincennes in the early afternoon. Full spread of all the frenchy pique-nique items. After the picninc, went back to the 'hood for a little dessert specialty ... came in a 2-liter plastic softdrink bottle, plastic cap and all. Pass the bottle around, pour a little into your little plastic cup. Toast the day. Wow. That was some tough stuff. Apparently a portuguese family recipe for home made digestif. Careful what you drink.

Went to some new friends house for dinner later in the week. Had a super nice dinner, initiated by canteloupe and very thinly sliced italian ham (together), finished off with a little putting lesson on the living room carpet, and a family specialty mirabelle digestif. Apparently, in former times, certain regions of France retained the right to make distilled alcohol for family use. At any rate, the right to distill certain quantities is retained by the family as long as they continue to own the farm. The grandfather of our hosts for the evening makes his own special blend of mirabelle (a small plum, regional speciality) every year, and distributes to the family. Strictly medicinal. I did putt better afterwards.

Went to borrow a bicycle from Daniel in the cycle club. He invited us to stay for dinner. Very simple, yet elegant salad followed by beef, at the backyard patio table on a very pleasant summer evening. Turns out, it was their wedding anniversary, which they were going to celebrate more formally the next evening, so decided to share the evening with us. After dinner, Daniel said that his father makes a traditional family recipe of poire william (pear based eau de vie) if I would like a little digestif. Why not? This was something. He pulled a bottle out of the cooler that was labelled 1976 and we sipped a little homemade in the garden, long after the sun had set, just the four of us, sharing some conversation about the difference in life between US and France, and which boulangerie has the best baguette in town. Very strong stuff, served chilled, goes down very easy with friends of an evening.

Moonshine next?

07.05.17: Pilgrims, pelerins, pinot noir, past and present

In the middle ages, apparently there was a lot of sin. There was also a lot of anxiety about how to get absolution. Depending on income bracket and political connections, there were options for re-arriving in a good state of grace, before, well you know, an accident happened and you were standing at the gates for a final accounting. Wear clean underwear, you know.



One popular method, open to all income brackets, was to make a pilgrimage. One very efficient pilgrimage route was to make the trek to San Juan de Compostelle (or St-Jacque, if you are still in France, headed towards the Spanish border). For those with the fortitude to make the journey, all sins (up to that point in life, at any rate) were absolved. Starting over. Clean slate. Guaranteed by the Pope.

All of this was based on the fact that St John (allright, english version name) the apostle's body washed up at this spot in Spain, after having drifted at sea for like 400 years, and so the miracle happened, we have a church, and we have the promise from the pope that if you make the pilgrimage, all sins are wiped clean and a ticket to heaven is tucked safely in your pocket.

The pilgrims returning home would bring a seashell with them as a remembrance of the trek to the Spanish coast (and perhaps a reminder about their state of grace). The route is now marked with bronze shells embeded in the roads along the route throughout France, and you can usually encounter a few folks walking along the route most days.



Vézelay was an important stop along this route of pilgrimage. The day I visited, there were two men on a tandem bicycle who were making the pilgrimmage from eastern France and planned to make Compostelle a few weeks later. Don't know if you get full marks for taking a bicycle instead of the foot path. There was also a guy walking down the highway in the rain, red poncho, seashell necklace, heading west, 1500 km to go. Vézelay also makes the UNESCO list, as the orgin of the highly successful 2nd crusade, launched from here in 1146 by St-Bernard, and the launching point for Richard the Lion Heart for the 3rd crusade in 1190, the town continually providing alternate paths to forgiveness.

If you drive down the highway about 120 km east and south, you can find a modern day pilgrimage of another sort in full swing. Arriving in the heart of the Burgundy region, France's answer to the question: What to do with some Pinot Noir vines? Make Burgundy wine. Lots of it.

Divide up the land into very tiny parcels of mini-hectares; give each hectare a different fancy french name, and then invite the California pilgrims to traverse the Route de Vin. Gevrey-Chambertin, Nuits-St-George, Morey-St Denis, Chambolle-Musigny - all grand crus.

The pinot pilgrims, nicely tanned from sunny californie du sud, travel the route in BMWs, driven by their french drivers/guides, with their long hair, speaking impeccable english, smoking Marlboro Lights, and retaining enough of their strong french accent, so you always know just whose country you are in. Make some appointments at some of the grand crus, superior class wine houses, deguste a little wine here and there, pack up some cases at 600€ per, discuss shipping to the US, and seek coronation back home by having the well stocked cave. This pilgrimmage is not open to all income brackets. Not so obvious you leave in a state of grace, but you can certainly arrive at an altered state of consciousness with enough degustations.

Me ... I bicycled a little along the côtes (steep, dry, scenic) and bought a few bottles of Gevrey-Chambertin for the cave from a very pleasant vignoble, whose son is living/working in California in the field of software.

To each, their own pilgrimmage. To each, their own salvation/salivation.

Bonne route.

07.04.12: Round and semi-round

Apr 12th, 1961 – Yuri Gagarin became the first human to orbit the earth. He went around in a big circle, and became an international hero. He simultaneously represented, to the East, all the best that human minds can bring to demonstrate technological innovation, and, to the West, all the fears realized of world domination by an evil empire. And it was just 46 years ago today.

Just for going around in a circle. But he did go all the way ‘round. I guess that was the key. No points if you don’t make it back.

I celebrated by having lunch with a bunch of Russians. Really. Why not?

I don’t remember 1961, but my lunch mates of today did. They spoke with great pride of Yuri, but also equally respectful of Mr. Shepard and Glenn’s similar accomplishments within the following year. Mr. Armstrong, too. As for circles and orbits and pendulums … I was having lunch with a bunch of Russians, just like any other business meeting, working for future shared successes. No evil empires, no world domination. Just trying to close the loop on some open action items, and have an enjoyable lunch or two in the process.

Apr 12th, 2007 – Also the birthday of a good friend, so we had dinner in Montmartre, on a balmy spring evening, sitting at a little bistro table that sloped with the hillside, on a terrace that overlooks all of Paris, with a nice view of the golden dome atop l’Hôpital des Invalides in the distance, the final resting place of Napolean Bonaparte. He, who also, completed a few orbits of his own between France and banishment.

The crème brulée wasn’t bad; the English translations on the menu were. Pavé de boeuf was translated as cobblestone of beef. A sauce, jus de viande, was translated as ‘dishwater.’ Sort of a half-English translation. Just read the French; it seems more appetizing. No points for half a translation.

So, Pascale is 45 today, also a number that seems like half-way to something; one can imagine that 45 years represents a half-life, human size. She is optimistic to continue the journey.

Apr 12th, 2007 – Half-way around for me. I signed a 3-year contract for this position, and today marks exactly 18 months to the day from which I landed my American feet on this foreign soil. Half way around. No points if I don’t make it back, I suppose.

I’ll be back; I need all the points I can get.

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,