France - Boulangerie Truck, Pierremonds and Wine

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50 miles, Saturday, August 6

We left Paris this morning, working our way northeast across the city, eventually leaving behind busy roads of Denis before the congestion abated. The hazy sunshine beat down on us again. I thought about how useful a simple compass would be, taped to the handlebars, especially for general directions in metropolitan regions.

I believe this is Francois Mitterand, president of France in 1994.

Before the days of cell phones...

Most payphones in France require a Telecarte card, purchased at a La Poste or post office. 40 Francs for 50 units gave me 7.4 units per minute, calling the United States. I checked in with my father who promised to contact Andy’s family. He said it sounded like I was just next door.

We feel lethargic. The roads north of the city are flat. Maybe it’s the heat, or that we’re older than previous trips, or the bikes are heavily laden with hiking and cycling gear. Probably it’s a combination of all three. By 3 p.m. the slightest rise in the road causes burning in our thighs. With heavier mountain bikes versus lighter touring bikes I’d known that we couldn’t cover as many miles as our cross country trip, but Andy feels let down, wondering if he’ll make it through the Alps. What’s clear is that there are more logistics traveling in foreign countries: exchange of money, buying food, fuel, the language barrier, and locating camping is a daily ordeal. Any bike tourist knows they’ll be good days and bad days. I thought it best to lower expectations, at least as far as distance covered.

36 miles, Sunday, August 7

Photo credit: Sejour Travels

At 9:30 a.m. just when we were ready to push off, a white truck comes into our campground near Creil, blasting its horn. Andy and I perked up because we’d observed this before. A bakery vehicle makes its rounds, selling everything from baguettes to croissants – a rolling boulangerie. We were the first ones in line. Andy was so overcome by the aroma and sight of the golden loaves that his request for a baguette didn't come out correctly. I smiled. The seller knew what we wanted though, 5.30 Francs for a grande baguette, s'il vous plait. I strapped it to my rack for our lunchtime break. I thought, now that’s service we could get used to…

This is one of my favorite photos of our year-long trip.

By afternoon we entered Pierremonds and spied tall grey turrets above the treetops. And soon the entire chateau presented itself, standing like an armed fortress above the town. Castles evoke medieval scenes: chainmail clad knights on horseback, trumpets, and flags. We investigated the grounds. In the rear of the building two cannonballs sunk into a wall. The estate was mostly destroyed in the 1500s, but later Napoleon had it rebuilt. Now, the community holds summer concerts and plays in its courtyard. It was a perfect spot to rip into the baguette.

Castle at Pierremonds.

52 miles, Monday, August 8

It rained lightly all morning – a welcome relief from the hot past few days. We travel the back roads again through a cereal growing region. In fields the grain is cut and left to dry. It looks peculiar, as if someone laid all the stalks by hand in neat rows.

We’ve been told that northern France is flat, and for the most part it is. The towns are situated in tree-lined gullies. We spend the days struggling up from the villages resupplied with food and water; rolling across golden fields; coasting again, repeating the process several times. Often gusty headwinds accompany us.

A current La Poste bike. I don't recall if this was the style we saw in 1994. Photo credit:  Pendore

We exchange greetings with cyclists who tote a flat handlebar bag and leather rear panniers. They are out at 10 a.m., on the early side for the ordinary French person. Today we discover they are La Poste mail carriers.

We stopped at a World War I German cemetery. The crosses stick up in the landscape like thousands of black swords. There is an entrance shelter that houses a metal box. Inside is a neatly kept book, listing all the interred soldiers and their graves. It is a grim reminder of the French occupation in both world wars. I presume this will be common site as we move toward Belgium.

The flat farmland and former battle fields. Arrow at bottom of photo identifies cemetery.

Pushing on we made it to St. Quentin and are camping in a municipal park (least expensive). I’m worried about my bike. The crank area is grinding and clicking, signs that it could be a pedal, the chain, or the bottom bracket. Though we carry a comprehensive tool kit, we’ve forgotten a pedal wrench. But the bike is operable and we’ll take care of it when we locate a bike shop.

We are often parched, and drinking enough water is paramount, so consuming alcohol is far from our thoughts. But it would be sacrilege to leave France without experiencing a taste of local wine. For 8 Francs for a whole bottle (1.50 USD) we sipped a smooth red table wine with dinner. I must admit, it’s a welcome finish to a long day.

Cold Toes Remedy

What to do when your toes are like ice? Check out this short video for my quick solution. If it makes you laugh or spit out your coffee, let me know.

In the future I'll try adding toe warmers to my hiking shoes. These shoes are pretty versatile in cold weather and with the stiff Vibram sole they also provide the support I need on a long commute. While the warmers didn't work last year inside my tight-fitting cycling specific footwear, there might be sufficient space in this pair for the chemicals to circulate.

O'Neil Road Loop

Circumstances were such that I was able to pedal for an hour from my workplace. At 5 p.m. I scrambled to get out the door. First I navigated the mile of wet, squishy dirt road back to the main highway—as main as can be between two rural towns. It only means that traffic might scream at 50 m.p.h. past your bike—yikes. The scenery makes up for it though. I spun up this hill in my granny gear.

Long shadows followed me as I coasted and continued on the flats until the turn onto O'Neil Road.

Oh happy day! With fat tires, I especially enjoy dirt roads. There is less traffic and it's a great excuse to slow down. Plus, it was 50F and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to explore roads I don't often ride.

I went by an organic farm. The road is a roller coaster. You can see the dip and rise just past the barn.

Holding the camera above my head...

As a cyclist I can avoid the potholes.

Ah, a moment of respite as the sun goes down.

Then I high-tail-it to continue the loop before darkness sets in. This weekend we set the clocks ahead. That will be a boon for us commuters who otherwise would race the sunset.

Courtesy on a Bike

As soon as the temperatures sneak above 40F the racers come out in droves along the roads of my commute. University of Vermont teams practice pace lines. And Green Mountain Bike Club members of all ages ride the straights of Spear and Dorset Streets. Sometimes there's a group, other times single riders, some obviously trying to catch the pack. Thankfully, there's a growing number of commuters too.

I've ridden these roads for 10 years and a strange phenomena never fails to emerge early in the season: lack of communication. You see, I have to train the riders to be polite. To verbalize. By that I mean to acknowledge my humble presence. Whether they're coming toward me or passing, they're mute. No "hi" or "howdy" or even an "on your left" warning. Heads are bent. Tighly knit forms bobbing, intent and introspective.

So I take a different tact. I make it my personal quest to initiate the exchange. Blast 'em with kindness, so-to-speak. And I persist, time after time, until a month goes by and I begin to get feed back.

It's not like we're isolated behind the wheel of a car. We all enjoy the weather, the simple pleasure of a ride. Spinning wheels. Alone or with friends. Fast group ride or slow commute. Bikes are bikes. There should be a baseline of camaraderie. Speed is no excuse; if you breathe you can say "hi". We're talking Vermont here, not New York City.

I have a license plate that reads "Annie" prominently displayed beneath my seat. It's my signature. My message to those behind, a simple sign of bike love. And when they pass—as they invariably do because I'm slow—many will say, "Hi Annie, nice day huh?"

But as I said, it takes time. One person will respond. Then another. Pretty soon the results astound me. Though for whatever reason, there will be holdouts who can't utter a word. For those, a hand wave or wagging finger will suffice. I'll take what I can get.

Mission accomplished for another year.

Snowman in a Tree

Oh the things you'll see
high up in a tree.

A snowman for you and me.

A basket for a hat.

A bit of snow on my ride, but it was soft and not too difficult to get through.

A basket on a rack.

Green bike and feet. Sam I am not. (Nor am I Dr.Seuss—sorry about that.)

Isn't it amazing what you can see by bike?