France & Belgium - Obsession and Calamity

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45 miles, Tuesday, August 9

We bucked a strong headwind for most of the day, rolling up and down the ubiquitous farmland we’d come to love. Andy and I comfortably draft one another; we are attuned to each other’s riding styles and moods, and weather the hot blasts from oncoming trucks. Wistfully, we move on captivated by the farm machinery in the golden fields. Haying is underway. Old style balers tie string around the bundles and shoot the cubes into a towed trailer. It was a mesmerizing process and the miles passed by with ease. I’d nearly forgotten about the problem with my bicycle and, in fact, the noise had miraculously lessened.

Boulangerie assortrment. Photo credit: Travelpod

Of special note: Andy had a boulangerie attack during the morning and abruptly stopped, maneuvering his bike onto the sidewalk. I nearly ran into him, but halted just in time. “I gotta have something,” he said. We each gobbled a thick square of bread pudding and in addition Andy devoured an apple turnover. Sometimes these cravings catch us unaware, until the sight of a bakery unabashedly pulls us to their doorstep.

We called an old friend, Hugo, in the Netherlands and made arrangements to meet by the weekend at his home in The Hague. A bed and nice companionship were thoughts that buoyed our spirits. After 6 weeks on the road we needed a break. I longed to make food in a kitchen, maybe homemade pizza. But we needed kinder weather to propel us onward.

We’re fifteen miles short of the Belgium border. I’ve grown accustomed to camembert and baguettes at lunch; I wonder how much will change. And just when I’ve learned enough French to get by we’re moving on. I presume this will be a common thread as we perpetually rove eastward.

80 miles, Wednesday, August 10

A whopper of a tailwind propelled us for most of the day. We purchase two baguettes before entering the borderlands of Belgium. With the European Community in transition, the crossing went unrecognized; we observed license plates and signage colors changing, though we still pedal through the French speaking Belgian farmland.

Annie on her bike. Note the red marked lanes for cycling in Belgium cities.

In Mons we switched currency to Belgian francs – only enough for one day as we expect to be in the Netherlands soon. There is something satisfying about this task–it means another country, and I’ll search for a Belgian cloth patch to add to the growing collection on my panniers.

A mishap with directions waylaid us by an hour, as we struggled with crossing two canals in Mons, before frantically pushing our loads up an embankment onto a busy road. A driver honked and yelled that bikes weren’t allowed. Baffled, we carried the bikes over a pedestrian walkway – the effort breaking my body into a sweat. All the while the putrid canals smell like dirty socks soaking in water.

Belgian farm country is more populated than northern France. We find little privacy and relieve ourselves in cornfields, near a train trestle, or on the curve of a road. The miles flew by and we pledged to make it to a further campground, even with another calamity costing an additional five miles. The clouds moved in, obscuring use of the sun for position. It further endorsed the value of a compass. But still encouraged by the tailwind we are obsessed with forward motion and eat our evening meal on the road.

The little country of Belgium. Photo credit: Belgium Embassy

The traffic intensified as we skirted west of Brussels. Flemish signs are as foreign as the Welsh language in Great Britain. The popularity of bicycles is uplifting. We fit in, riding the red tinged assortment of cobbled, paved, and sidewalks specifically designated for bikes. We were thankful for their assistance through the dinner hour congestion. It was on such a path that I picked up a black Casio watch. Later, in the tent, I discovered it still worked while my current timepiece had recently lost battery power. It was serendipitous.

Rain starts to fall ten kilometers from the campground. By 8 p.m. inner resolve silences the evening, spinning wheels our only companions. The unmistakable hissing sound of a flat tire interrupts our thoughts. And it’s on my bike. It’s times like this that despite groaning and a long day in the saddle, there is nothing to do but deal with patching the tube while rain drips off the brim of my yellow slicker. The patch didn’t hold and I soon replaced the tube. We had to keep moving. Fortunately, the rain stops as a wrinkled elderly gentlemen came out of his house. His blue eyes vibrant, he spoke to us in Flemish until he understood we couldn’t communicate. He lifted his hand and disappeared, but returned a few minutes later with a younger man who spoke French. It turns out to be his son. We swapped a few words about America then learned that the apple orchard nearby belonged to them. This sweet encounter propels us onward.

At 9:30 p.m. we pulled into the campground. We’ve learned to ask directions as we near the town that displays a camping symbol on the map. There is no indication within the village either. But after such a long day we are thankful to have made the comfort and security of our home for the night. Huddled in the tent, the flashlight glow is like candlelight as we consume bread and cheese; dinner on the road had long since worn off.

Procrastination and Maintenance

I'm almost too embarrassed to mention this, but it proves I'm still, after all, only human. A human with a tendency towards procrastination. At least for some things. I'm good at oiling and wiping a chain. Okay, quit stalling. Confession time. I've been riding the Ross around since I've owned it, approximately 6 years, with a wobbly crank. No kidding, it's been forever. Did I think it would just go away and the cogs would magically straighten themselves? Well, I was kind of hoping...

The excuses go something like this:

1. It's just going to be a parts bike.
2. After 2 years both wheels seized up, so I repacked/regreased the bearings. I'm tired. I'll get to the crank later.
3. It needs fenders.
4. It needs a back rack.
5. Neat, I found green pedals to match the frame color. 
6. Year 5. Cool. The front rack is a swell addition.
7. I learned how to add swanky golden lettering and pin-striping to the frame. The Ross definitely needs that...
8. Hmmm. I'll get to the crank maintenance this winter when I stop riding. It's a good project to do in the basement.
9. Egads, what if the axle is bent, or the cogs? It won't be worth fixing and it's currently functional. Leave well enough alone.
10. I'm not planning on keeping the Ross so why get all greasy? Let the next owner deal with it.

You get the picture.

The crank symposium didn't happen because I never stopped riding this winter. At least that's what I tell myself. In actuality, it's not an easy or sexy task that adds a colorful splash, kind of like emptying the dishwasher. I also haven't taken apart a crank in a good many years. I don't recall that it's difficult, per se, but you need the right tools, which we have. When I can get to it. There I go again.

So last week when I drove myself home with the bike on our van's rack, I made a spontaneous detour to the bike shop and paid to have them look at the problem. And just like that, in two hours the cups were greased (no pitting either), the axle straight, beautiful cogs. The bike runs like a dream. And surprisingly the mechanic said I have a sweet bicycle. "They don't make bikes these days with quality components like this one."

Oh brother. After all this I may have to keep this thing.

The Stuff I Haul to Work

Unpacking panniers in my employers' garage.

With the time change I started my 22 mile roundtrip ride to work this week. It's been reasonably mild weather with only one morning in the 30sF. Somehow I escaped the bit of rain that danced around the valley. It's difficult to wake when it's dark outside, scramble to eat with the kids then, en route, ride with our youngest child to his school—not to mention assembling a lunch and packing panniers.

Arriving at work is such a relief and accomplishment!

I lean my bike against a work bench in my employers' garage, conveniently on an old carpet. Rather than haul the panniers indoors, my items have been presorted. I remove each sack, hang my helmet and glasses on the bar end then head for the door. One cotton bag holds a complete change of clothes (shoes and sweater remain at my desk), The white bag contains a lunch, tea for the week, and a baggie of chocolate chips. The colorful tote holds reading material, a date book, comb and various "stuff" I can't live without.

All set for another day in the office! How do you handle your baggage?

Trek 830 Antelope

It seems almost blasphemous that in a year and a half of blogging I haven't paid tribute to my Trek. I recently took it out for a pre-spring ride and marveled at it's lightness and maneuverability, its easy shifting and low 34 tooth freewheel. It's the best of my bikes in so many ways.

It was fall of 1986. We'd lived in Portland, Oregon for a year. Times were flush. Lots of job opportunities. Extra cash. Eating out with friends. Hikes and micro brews. Living the good life. Commuted to work on the Miyata—the only bicycle I owned. My guy and I were ready for the mountain bike craze. The upright ride.

These were the days of only a couple respectable bike shops in Portland. I know, hard to believe. Sales on bikes happened only once a year. A Halloween Sale. The catch: dress in costume and receive 10% off a bike. Hmmm. Picture my lanky husband dressed in a red union suit, homemade cardboard pitchfork, and hat with horns. A devilish partner. I still chuckle when I recall his costume. I've long since forgotten what I wore, but it was enough to score the discount.

We came home with a Specialized Rockhopper and the Trek 830 Antelope. Both were sweet bikes. Stable with upright attitude. Made city rides pleasurable, plowing through leaves, hopping curbs, riding the 11 mile Leif Erickson dirt road in Forest Park, Portland's fabulous west side wonderland.

Then, across Oregon on an organized week long ride. Up canyons, down passes. We rode the Seattle to Portland event—back to back centuries. And the culmination: riding around the world (see Monday posts) with racks and panniers. The Trek was my mainstay until 2008. That's 22 years! This bike can do it all. I'd venture to say I have 30,000 miles on the frame. Most parts have been replaced during it's lifetime. And I hope it'll keep on traveling with me.

I'm currently navigating Vermont's mud season, appreciating the bike's versatility once again. Go Trek!

The Mechanical Pedaling Toy

I am often the recipient of truly wonderful bikey gifts. I've received everything from paper clips, jewelry, and a mug to this unique toy. On first look the faceless pedaler appears to be riding a Segway, yet his legs are moving, so that cannot be. Or maybe it's a two-wheeled unicycle (is there such a thing?). This intriguing contraption comes from Kenya. The whole toy is made of wire, wrapped with strips of fabric. Thanks, Sally and boys!