Two Wheel Blogs

I am typing for the first time on a French keyboard, which makes me realize that I really can touch type. There is absolutely nothing familiar about this keyboard, most especially the position of the A and M - and you must hit the shift key to type a period. I admit I find myself a little bit nostalgic for Spain. I didn't realize it was easy there until it wasn't easy anymore. The landscape of France is truly spectacular, but the people are so much more dour. Those Spaniards are some of the most laid-back, fun-loving folk this side of the Himalayas.

I got a late start in Pas de la Casa, but the sun was shining and it was all downhill to lunch in Ax-de-la-Thermes. I am solidly on the Tour de France route now, which is just as gorgeous as the TV coverage conjures. It was a long flat ride with a head wind from Ax to north of Foix, where I broke off for St. Girons. The Pyrenees are now in the distance behind me or to my left, and I am riding in the rolling foothills. It is almost harder riding because I don't know what to expect from the climbs and headwinds. But occasionally the wind stops and it is so damn hot that I am relieved when it picks up again.

Today was my longest stage, about 130km. The last 27k called up the old techniques of perseverence that I had not used since I was 21 and crossing northern Idaho on a logging road in 104° heat, headed to Banff from Seattle. Stop...eat something sweet (France definitely has a corner on the Patisserie market), drink something cold, put your head down and crank it out, no whining.

But the iPod! What an incredible new invention since I last toured (am I dating myself?) On today's Col near St. Girons, it was "The Bitch of Living" by Duncan Sheik that got me to the top. So much great music to choose from...so few kilometers! Or something like that.

At first glimpse, St. Girons seemed kind of lifeless. I knew it wasn't siesta because I am in France now and the clock said 7:30pm. But it was a just my tired imagination. The town was truly lovely, set off from the main road by the river. It lit up and came alive as darkness fell.

In the absence of a hostel, I pulled up at a hotel that caters, unexpectedly, to bicyclists. More €€€ than I wished to pay, but my legs would not carry me another step. Great meal and wine on the veranda. I ordered dinner using the age-old 'point and hope' technique that Brice taught me in China. Tonight's surprise was fish and pasta, not too shabby.

As it turned out, there was a group of Italian cyclists who, supported by a sag wagon, had just traversed roughly the same route I had. They started in Ripoll but didn't do the dip into Andorra. My daily distances kept pace with theirs (100k a day average) carrying my own gear. I beamed with pride and they just looked flabbergasted (was their own sense of accomplishment slightly offended by plump, pushing 40 me on my mountain bike?) One guy, who spoke no English, just kept flexing his muscles and pointing at various regions of my body. It was nice to have some company nonetheless.

Off to Toulouse in the morning. The Italians confirmed that I would never make it to Bourdeaux in time for my wedding schedule, since it was easily 400k onward. I will ride for Toulouse and catch a short train to Bordeaux. We'll see what I can handle from there.

Bon Nuit!