Wed, 25 Aug, Catching up from Padstow, Cornwall, England

Well. I’m nearly overwhelmed with how far behind I’ve gotten on this blog. Without offering excuses I’ll just do this - start with what I have and fill the rest in when I’m able.

16 & 17 Aug, Belfast, Northern Ireland

On Monday, 16 Aug I flew the infamous RyanAir from London Stansted airport to Belfast. It went, unexpectedly, without incident. The flight to Ireland was shorter than my tube ride home from the pub the night before.

My friend Richard Treacy, who’s visited Greenwich, CT many times, picked me up from the city airport with his usual big smile and enthusiastic interest in my travels. We had a lovely chat on the way to his house in Hillsborough where I tucked in for the rest of the day. He prepared a delightful veggie chili dish and with his wonderful wife Lisa offered their trademark insight into life.

After dinner a good friend of Lisa’s called Andrea popped round for a chat. Turns out she’s a triathlete, founder of local bike shop sponsored women’s cycling team the BikeDock Belles and madly preparing for the Terrex Adventure Race next week (aka 4 days of non-stop kayaking, mountain biking and trail running.) I could only beam with awe.

 That's a tiny Richard behind the yellow sign

What an incredibly wonderful day of fellowship for my first day in Northern Ireland! With Richard and Lisa you’re always guaranteed fabulous discussion on topics ranging from very specific personal challenges of the moment to broad sweeping global affairs. I fell asleep mentally exhausted and happy at, for once, a reasonable hour, and slept like a log.

The next morning we headed into the Belfast city center. With a meeting cancelled, Richard was able to give me a grand tour. It’s always slightly unsettling to begin to explore a place you’ve heard so much about, especially one known for violence, or The Troubles, as they’re called; 30 years of killing and strife between Irish Catholics and British Protestants.

(I'm sorry I haven't got more pictures here. It just wasn't appropriate to take photos as many of the places I visited.)

I needed more of an onramp, so it was only after a little more talk about our personal lives over Starbucks coffee that we headed off to pick up a friend, Don, the hospital chaplain to explore. Together Richard and Don brought Belfast alive to me, from the very worst to the very best of it all, then and now. I kept thinking how very unworthy I was of their time and careful explanations. Still, they took me from the Irish Cultural Center to Shankill Road and everything in between, somehow making the clash between the Republicans and Unionists clearer and very real.

I hadn’t realized that there were still Peace Lines zig zagging across the city. It felt just like Berlin when it was divided, with high walls and auto locking gates. At one point there was a cycle path running just next to a separated neighborhood, and it struck me as utterly ridiculous.

Don took us into the desolate housing developments most central to the violence during The Troubles, and we were able to get out and wander freely because of his familiarity with the residents. We even got let into a locked graveyard and had a look around at the eclectic gravesites. It was a mini history of Belfast dating back hundreds of years. Don used to have a charity shop just on the other side of one of the graveyard walls. He had also led a small church down the road, so this neighborhood was his parish. He now leased the property next to the shop where a Turkish barber practices his trade. Don is an incredibly gentle and welcoming person, with an ability to make you feel important and valid.

Don in front of the hospital

It should be said that both Don and Richard have dedicated much of their lives to active reconciliation, but in more hidden and unique ways than we might hear of in the US news. They have invested in individuals, one by one, and are making more difference than they’ll ever know. Life in a post conflict environment is always delicate and their gentle, genuine ways are undoubtedly a healing salve. But I had no idea how many more Richard and Dons I would encounter in the next few days.

After lunch we stopped by the BikeDock shop and I was completely floored at how great a cycle shop it was. They had BY FAR the most comprehensive collection of commuter bikes I had ever seen in one location. Since the desire to open a commuter cycle shop has occupied my fantasies on more than one occasion over the last year, I was in absolute heaven. I was ready to drop anchor and live in the corner of this open plan industrial space. Gosh, I’m nearly in a state of euphoria just thinking about it now. Something about understated, creatively stimulating spaces mixed with beautiful adventure toys that pushes all the right buttons for me. I am far too influences by my environment.

Anyway, escaping with just my life, Richard drove me southward to a village on the coast called Rostrevor, my home for the next several days. The Irish countryside lived up to it’s emerald beauty as did the weather, shifting from pouring rain to bright sunshine no fewer than a dozen times in the course of our hour journey.

Richard was familiar with our destination from events attended while it was the Christian Retreat Center. It’s an eclectically expanded mansion on the gorgeous seafront. As Richard and I said our goodbyes, I felt the familiar peace of being handed over to a conference organizer.

Thu, 22 July, Lasseube to Bordeaux, France

I slept surprisingly well as my tent filled with water. I didn't really mind my wet toes, the duvet was still cozy. I didn't feel brilliant when I woke at 6am. So I ventured into the rain for a pee and then forced myself back to sleep. It rained straight thru the night and well into the morning.

Around 9am I took my time organizing my stuff and had it packed up tight by 11. Not sure exactly when the caravan and cyclists were coming thru, I put on my most water proof clothes and walked the 1 block into the village. The rain stopped the moment I arrived. I immediately saw Miranda, Simon’s daughter, then Simon and Samuel his son.

I stopped along the road with them. I was kind of hoping I'd missed the hoopla of the caravan and could go straight to the riders. No such luck. We stood thru the parade and I collected the few pieces I didn't already have, such as the famous green finger. A local resident carried around a giant round of cheese and cut off slabs for the villagers along the roads. Can’t believe I don’t have a pic of him!

Then to the bar to wait for the start and watch coverage on TV. I had a very delicious coffee, compliments of Simon, and recognized the roads along which the cyclists made their way to Lasseube. I felt a part of it all, even tho I was sitting among French speaking people, in a bar in a tiny French village in the Pyrenees watching the Tour de France. A few people squealed now and then as they saw family and friends along the roads on TV. Then we all dashed outside to see the cyclists pass. There it was, the yellow jersey!

Then Andy and the team cars.

This was as good as it gets! The village, the people, the whole experience all superb! I felt as if I could now check off one of those things you must do before you die, that I didn't even know was on my list. With a silly grin I said goodbye to all my new friends and walked back to my tent. No longer raining, I changed into my jeans and sneakers, and waited peacefully for Fabian to collect me, since he’d offered to take me back into Pau to catch a train to Bordeaux. I had tried to arrange for a taxi, but with all the road closures they were nervous. We had a pleasant chat on the drive in and he dropped me off with heaps of time to spare. So I updated my budget. With low food costs, no taxi fare and no bike rentals, I was quite a bit under budget. I thought on the drive how I really must eat more, before I go into that funky spiral where I can't seem to get any food in. I longed for an Odwalla.

As I boarded the train to Bordeaux, I noticed that someone was in my seat again, but since this train wasn't completely full. I just sat elsewhere. Some Americans with bike boxes sat next to me. But I had no interest in striking up a conversation with them. So I just sat and thought and felt content.

I brought snapshots of my trip so far to mind: The campsite, the locals, the village, the tourists. There have been heaps of fit riders in various cycling team and club wear all over the place. It's been fabulous. It'd be a blast to a) be a good enough rider to cycle comfortably on these mountains and b) have someone to travel here with. I love seeing kids on bikes just going about their business and becoming top mountain cyclists on the way. It'd be great to watch the TdF from a mountain top where they're cycling slower and the crowd is really vigorously cheering them on. Epic. Problem is, you have to position yourself days in advance and have all the food on board that you need. Or, you have to cycle up the mountain. Still, I'm having an excellent time despite the language barrier. Did I mention how glad I am that I'm not traveling with my bike? Yes, it'd have been nice a bunch of times. But it'd have been a major hassle a bunch of times more.

Once in Bordeaux I took a taxi to hotel. I wandered out just long enough to grab a bite at a place called Flunch, with free wifi, of course :-)

The room is wonderful.

I banished my shoes to balcony because they'd become a bit smelly from sitting in tent water over night. Then headed straight into a bubble bath.

Quite frankly, with free Herald Tribunes and a steam room, I was feeling very much like a kid in a candy store. All at a budget price since I’d booked a flat at a new city center block of apartments that weren’t full yet.

As I collapsed into bed, the biggest crisis on my mind was the fact that I desperately needed a pumice stone.

Zzzz.

Wed, 21 July, Lasseube & Pau, France

Wet and cool today. Rained all night. Everything is either wet or damp in the tent. I don't actually mind the damp for the most part, as long as it's not prolonged. But wet bedding, now that's a bit annoying. I'm going to ask Simon if I might exchange my towel for a dry one or two. I'd hang it on the line but the sky threatens of more rain. In fact it's still raining in the trees.

I realized this morning that I've been in France for 5 days and am yet to eat in a restaurant. I'm averaging 8 euros/day in food and am not particular hungry. That’s about the cost of a few Starbucks coffees. As always, the topic of giant portions in American restaurants came up in speaking with Peter and Leslie yesterday. I'm not sure how enormous portions got started in the US, but it really is wasteful.

At 10:15am Simon met me at the campground and took me up to his inn. It's quite an interesting and beautiful property. The rooms are full of character and while not luxurious they are more than sufficient. There are reclaimed architectural features and custom furniture all with their own fascinating stories. I couldn’t help but think how much my mom would enjoy strolling the grounds and taking in the gorgeous gardens with Simon's interesting tales of how he managed to plant what where. I know I was loving it!

I apologize for not having any photos. I was happily distracted by conversation, but you can check out their website at http://missbrowne.com/. If you go, tell them I sent you!

Simon was a farmer in South Africa and bought this property in 1996 with his wife Isabella. We had a wonderful chat as we walked and he shared his life's adventures. I asked about all the plants I didn't recognize and he was impressed when I said one of the trees looked African and in fact, it was. How I'd love to return with my children and parents someday. The only down side is that it's quite a walk to the village, and the village itself is quite tiny. Still, if I had money, I'd come back. The cycling here is phenomenal, and the boys would get that chance of using their French that they’ve been asking for.

Eventually Simon drove me back to the campsite and I paid him the 11 euros/night for the tent and bedding. He'd forgotten to give me a dry towel and said he'd swing back round in half hours time. According to the schedule, it appeared as if there was a noon bus into Pau. So I thought I'd catch that. When he dropped the towel I asked him to check to make sure I was reading the schedule correctly. Turns out it only ran when school was in session. Drats!!!

Dejected I considered my choices: Spend the day in a damp tent, or walk the 6 miles back to Gan and catch a train to Pau from there. I decided on a third option: Hitch a ride over the mountain. But as I was sitting on a bench in the village making a little sign to hang off the back of my rucksack as I walked, Simon swung back thru on his motorbike and said that he'd arranged for his friend Fabian to pick me up at the village cafe at quarter past 1pm, when he'd be heading off to work. Wonderful! As I waited I explored some of the lovely bridges over the stream.

Le Tour doesn't come thru Lasseube until tomorrow, but there are already motor homes starting to fill the tiny village car park. It will undoubtedly be quite a spectacle. I recognized a few of the press vans pulling in. Finally I mustered the courage to go and sit at the café, order a coffee and wait for my chauffeur. I had no idea how old he was nor if he spoke any English. For about 20 minutes I sat pretending to have something important to do on my iPhone, feeling slightly silly sitting there by myself. The twin church bells rang on cue at 1pm. They have become my friends. But oh snap, it started to drizzle. Unfortunately, this was shaping up to be the worst site seeing day of the month, weather wise.

But then, wow! The shop owner put up a floor umbrella for me. I didn't actually mind the drizzle, but I was wildly impressed by her considerate touch. If my jeans did get wet, I figured they wouldn’t be dry again until I got to Bordeaux. All in keeping with the laid back feeling here. The shops and restaurants have the distinct feeling like they're just residences with a few things for sale in the front. Reminds me of the Central American neighborhoods in New York. Uber low key.

And then Fabian! Young, kind, perky and English speaking!!! It turned out to be an incredibly eventful afternoon. We chatted all the way into Pau and agreed to meet again when he got off work at 7pm. I wandered around for ages in this dramatic mountain top town. I discovered free wifi at a burger bar called Quick and had a pasta dinner at a German themed restaurant on the town square. I completely forgot to take photos.

As shops closed, I met up with Fabian and he closed the steel gate behind me. Inside the electronics store where he worked, his colleagues broke out a few drinks and the manager closed the registers. I was given some kind of fruity rum beverage and listened as shop workers told hilarious stories about people they’d helped that day. Having so many tourists in town has proved very amusing to the locals. Still, they were very kind and anxious to hear about New York.

As everyone eventually headed out, Fabian invited me to a dinner party he was attending that night for a friend who’s wife had just had a baby girl. How could I say no! We made a few stops looking for a little gift to bring, but everything was closed. I told Fabian to say that he’d brought an American instead as a token of congratulations and we laughed all the way to their house.

Dinner was simple and lovely. Fabian had given the hosts a heads up to my veggie leanings before he arrived. After dinner we worked our way through the local vintages. Everything was delicious. Then we moved onto the local apertifs, Basque whiskeys and eventually Scottish whiskeys. I enjoyed them all. As the rain picked up for the 100^th time that day, the stroke of midnight sent us on our way back onto the mountain roads. I was confident that Fabian knew them well, despite our heads spinning with drink and wonderful conversation. He told me that last year he got stuck with this very family for a week because the snow was so intense. Everyone here was friends.

As we approached my campsite, I noticed that the tent flap hadn’t been properly closed when my dry towel was dropped off hours ago, and despaired at what I would find inside. A river. I baled with the water cap for 10 minutes. Then used my hand to scoop out the cups of water, happy that it hadn’t reached my bed. I elevated what I could and fell asleep instantly. Another fabulous day.

20 July, Lasseube & Gans, France

Wow. It’s been so long since I’ve had the opportunity to update my blog that I don’t even know where to start. Since my last entry I’ve crossed the English Channel and am back in a land where I understand what people are saying.

The last week and a half has been the best I’ve had in years! So I want to at least offer a summary. I’ll update in chunks, starting with my adventures in Lasseube, Gans and Pau, France, with photos to prove that I did actually witness the Tour de France first hand.

On Tuesday morning July 20, I set out on foot from the tiny Pyranean village of Lasseube toward Gans, where the Tour de France would be passing through that day, just before finishing in the city of Pau. The journey would be 10k, about 6 miles. 

The weather was absolutely perfect, warm and sunny with a beautiful blue sky and a few smooth white clouds. Along the way I explored fields of sunflowers, grapes and corn. I enjoyed both familiar and new flora along the road, like hemlock, horsetail, morning glories and thistle. I love thistle. I could be persuaded to move to Scotland for thistles alone.

I wandered along right up the mountain, aware of the fact that I’d failed to apply both deodorant and sunscreen in the morning. There were large sections of patched road in anticipation of the pro riders who would spiral down these paths a few days later. I stopped for a snack and water an hour in, and realized what a truly spectacular walk it was. From under a shady tree I breathed in the rolling hills that have inspired many an artist thru the ages, and smiled broadly.

Generally one to abhor litter, I was amused today by the infrequent little treasures along the trail, like clues to a mystery. I thought I saw tube of sunscreen at one point, and would have used some if it had been. But I couldn’t read the French so thought it best to leave alone. I zigged and zagged across the road to catch the shade. With only a car now and then, I felt like the whole hillside belonged to me. Altho I’d studied the road map, I didn’t have opportunity to check the typography. I thought it would be downhill out and uphill back. It was the opposite, at times a gentle grade, at times steep. I love walking uphill. I could have gone up all day. I was thinking that I should have scrounged a bike for my journey. It would have been hard work but a good day out.

Right at 5k it changed to downhill and I now needed to stop occasionally at a road post to stretch my calves and achilles. I walked on. I examined every farm house and every field. I laughed uncontrollably when a guy mowing his vast lawn was so shocked to see me that he ran straight into a tree. We exchanged sheepish waves and on I went. Not too far further up I could hear electricity moving through the cables of a small power station. That’s the kind of thing that more than once has sent my heart into palpitations and my muscles twitching. But today, I guess surrounded by so much nature, I could only hear the electricity, not feel it.

A young man road past on his scooter with a NY Yankees back pack on and suddenly I was on a sidewalk. A rooster announced my arrival into Gans as if following a script. I saw the first evidence that a hugely important cycle event was about to overtake the town.

I passed the tiny, outdoor train station and stopped at the side of the road to pull on a skirt and change into sandals. I walked up and down the closed roads, looking for the perfect viewing location. There was a parking lot surrounded by Tour de France logo emblazoned barriers where a BMX expo was in progress. I wandered on and chose a flat topped concrete road cone on which to sit and rest my weary legs. Among the small crowd I detected English and eventually got up the courage to say hello to Leslie and Peter from Hartfordshire.

Together we watched as the TdF caravan arrived like a circus into town.

It started with the official souvenir vans and progressed into vehicle after vehicle of sponsor giveaways. There was loud music and waving, smiling people like at Disneyland. I was struck by the fact that they’d be doing this for about 6 hours a day for 3 weeks. It was a sporting event in itself. A part of the tour you don’t see on TV.

We all filled our bags with the red dotted King of the Mountain caps, Haribo sweets and St. Michel madeleines - the Official Madeleines of the Tour de France - that were lobbed in our direction.

I could hear - then see the TV helicopters hovering overhead and I nearly soiled my pants in excited anticipation! How many hours had I sat in front of my flat screen watching the images they transmit, listening to the commentators unpack 14 possible strategies each team might be considering as they snake along the treacherous passes.

And then, like a cold when you’re on vacation, zoom! The most famous names in cycling were all there in front of me all of a sudden. I could have run into the street and caused a bike accident witnessed round the world. But my middle aged sensibilities held me back. Drats.

I noticed Lance Armstrong surrounded by his loyal teammates in a fine position toward the front. And after a 10 minute break, zoom again! The rest of the peloton rode through. Very, VERY exciting!!!

I was shocked by how fast they were moving, about 40mph I estimated from my spot on the road. Even the trailing group was going at least twice as fast as I had ever accomplished, even on a downhill. Almost every rider was on my side of the road too, so it was simply a huge thrill. But this kind of speed also means that it’s all over way too soon. Trying to take photos is kind of a joke. I had no idea who was in the mix really.

One of the ironies of following the TdF live is that you’ve no real idea what’s happening on the day. Some people had radios with them, some were glued to Twitter or to friends’ text messages giving them updates. With my lack of French I was in the dark, illuminated only by the nearly blinding flash of talent that had just unfolded before me, which was more than enough to keep me warm and happy.

Nick had given me an update yesterday, explaining that Contador had won the stage because of an unfortunate chain fiasco for Schleck. He had seen it on the tiny TV in the village bar, where he was the only one around. It’s apparently owned by the same guy who runs the campsite. So I’ve vowed to check it out later.

Having been chatting now with Peter and Leslie for several hours, we decided to wander up the road together for a bit of wine tasting. Sweet whites were the specialty of the winery and we took in their whole array - 12 in all. I had passed these vineyards on my walk in. It was magical, and I’ll never forget our charming French host who went on and on about how their wines are fantastic with ‘cheap cheese.’ I did let him know eventually that it was pronounced ‘sheep’, but it gave the three of us a great laugh for awhile. As the sun began to droop my new friends kindly gave me a lift back across the 6 miles of hills to the campsite. We exchanged email addresses and said our goodbyes.

We arrived 2 minutes after a wild downpour had begun and I got soaked running from their car to my tent. My tent windows were open so I dashed around the outside to close them. Altho there was a river running at the edges inside, my bed was safe and most of my things dry. Instinctively I grabbed my borrowed towel to dry the floor, which in hindsight may not have been the best idea. I should really have sacrificed a shirt instead.

For the next half hour I collected the streams into pools by pressing my fingers down into the ground and creating little downhills. I then used the lid of my water bottle as a tiny little bale, and managed to get most of the water out. It was hot and humid and I was caked in sweat. I tossed on my swim suit and stepped outside to shower in the rain, but at that very moment it stopped. So, I buggered off to the shower block instead with my wet towel. It felt really nice, altho I discovered that I’d managed to leave soap off my packing list. Drizzling again, I nipped back into my South African military issue tent and let my mind wander around the stories this shelter could probably tell. Damp inside I made peace with the fact that it probably would be for the rest of my stay.

I got things organized and ate the pistachio nuts and a few dried apricots I'd had in my bag all day. Oo and the Official Madeleines of the TdF that had been thrown at me a few hours earlier. Tummy happy I uploaded my pics. Since I'd put my camera into sports burst mode for the first time ever, just before the riders came thru, I had no idea what I may have captured on film. Turns out it worked tremendously well, except when the main peloton came through. Groan.  I think I was so excited at that moment that I held it too tight and missed the group. Oh well, I’d be seeing them again in a few days.

9pm, still light out and raining off and on, I removed my contact lenses and was good for bed. Most fun I'd had in ages.

Mon, 19 July, Paris to Lasseube, France

Finally have an opportunity to set up shop again, so will transfer my notes from the e.legal pad for the last several days. Currently in Bordeaux, keeping a close eye on how far outside town the cyclists are, so I can walk over to the finish line when they approach.

My office for the next few days.

I woke Monday morning in Paris at 1am and made the mistake of checking emails. Tossed and turned then until 5. It made me think about all the discussion lately re severe sleep deprivation in teens. Apparently some friend somewhere is texting at all hours of the night. The 'text arrived' sound wakes them up regularly and they're not able to get into deep sleep mode. It's quite a compelling argument to have everyone in the house surrender their phones before bedtime. I had planned to get up at 8 and leave at 9 for a train at 10. I got up at 8:40 and the tiny shower made it difficult to be speedy.

So I was late out the door, but I had 20 min built into the plan. So I arrived at the station on time. ‘Please print your TGV ticket at the self-serve kiosk upon arriving at the train station’ sounded much easier than it was. It even confused the men at the ticket window. Thought I might have to buy another ticket, but they had mercy and printed one for me despite me not being in their system.

The ATM then had no money - still working on how to get some, and nothing looked appetizing enough to take on board with me, so I just headed to car 7 / seat 23 as soon as the platform was posted. Of course there was someone in my seat. I did recall reading the very phrase ‘I have reserved this seat’ in my little book, but all that came out was ‘I have a ticket for this seat’ in English - in a kindly tone, of course. She got up and left. There weren't any other seats free.

That put me next to a most interesting passenger. I think she was an undercover nun. Perhaps a plain clothes nun? Don’t know if there is such a thing, but if there is, I think she was one. Either that, or a nun in training, although she looked early 70s. The true give away was the expression etched on her face which read, ‘I have never had sex and I’m not the better for it,’ often confused with a general scowl. She had the usual sensible hair cut and shoes, plain baggy jacket over a longish skirt. And she fiddled with her beads well into the 20^th minute of the journey. The only confusing element was the Enquirer type magazine she was reading. The cyclists in my mags were less scantily clad than those she was reading about.

She remained planted for the first 3 hours, so I just worked and read. I found BikeSnobNYC's article The Straight Dope typically insightful. Here it is:

"Cyclists are a breed of compulsives. We shave our legs fastidiously, buy boutique lubes and log our rides as if the information will matter someday. In terms of our lack of perspective, we're somewhere between Hummel-figurine collectors and metal-detector enthusiasts.

But it's the things we don't know that really drive us crazy. For example, many cyclists obsess over ceramic bearings even though they've never seen their bearings; for all they know, their mechanic filled the bottom bracket with Velveeta. Plus, we can't even watch our own sport like normal people. Consider the subject of doping.

Doping exists in professional cycling as it does in all sports. It also exists in amateur cycling. It even exists in journalism--I'm writing this on a potent mix of Adderall, Cialis and Tums. But on any online cycling forum you'll find matter-of-fact proclamations about who's taking what and how, made by people who have about as much insider knowledge of the pro peloton as Michael Moore has about what goes on at a Weight Watchers meeting. It's like listening to a bunch of really young kids talk about sex--they're totally clueless, but there's always one who saw part of a dirty movie once, thinks he gets it, and then demonstrates some highly unlikely configurations to the rest of the crowd with a couple of WWE action figures."

People should be free to indulge their inner conspiracy theorists. But a sport is only as socially acceptable as its fans. So when cycling fans seem less interested in the races than in the blood, hair and urine of the riders, the general public tends to get creeped out and moves on to golf, where talk of bodily fluids is mostly limited to Tiger Woods.

The result: Cycling remains a freak sport here in America, even though football is vastly more freaky on every level. The difference is, most people who watch football don't actually play it too, so they're able to just watch. Cycling fans also ride. This is why the last Super Bowl was the highest-rated telecast of the year, while the Tour de France barely manages to preempt rodeo.

There was also a fascinating article called When Nature Calls that brings up the issue that even unintentional indecent exposure (a cyclist peeing behind a tree along a country road) is a sex crime in the US. Along those lines, the undercover nun finally popped up, so I wiggled off to the loo. I noticed as I walked to the WC that there seemed to be a particularly frumpy crowd on the train, and I felt a right tart in my fitted, sleeveless, black Nike sports top and jeans. I enjoy people watching. Did you know Scouts in France are boys and girls and they can apparently still participate into their 20s? They were on board.

I don’t mind just sitting and thinking for hours either. I have so much dialogue inside my head, it keeps me occupied. I thought about an email I’d answered just last night to arrange for a taxi at the train station I was now barreling toward. Somehow I missed that when it arrived. But I figured that if the cab from Lasseube didn’t make it out, I could catch another one. Which is exactly what I did. I just said, ‘Lasseube. Camping.’ I knew it was going to be about a 20 min ride that should cost about 30 euros. So off we went.

Turns out the driver was a cyclist. He spoke little English but we managed to chat and communicate the whole drive. He told me about the only roads that would be open for the next few days as the TdF comes through. He road in L’Etape de Tour yesterday and showed me the special edition of the paper. Apparently there were 11,000 riders who turned up. That’s just insane! It’s the London Triathlon all leaving at the same time. He had a huge scrape on his right elbow and arm which proved how hazardous it was. I liked him. I should have gotten his name and his card for other trips. But he was going to cycle up a mountain tomorrow with his family to catch the TdF on the mountain top. That's a privilege open only to skilled riders and patient motor homers, since the roads close the day before the tour comes through. Once in Lasseube he made sure that the campsite was expecting me, and directed me to my tent which a gentleman named Simon Browne had put up for me. Mattress, duvet and headlamp were inside as promised. I decided to just stretch out for a few minutes. I find camping incredibly relaxing.

 My view of the tent ceiling.

My neighbor tonight at the campground is Nick, a typically handsome 30 something Dutchman. He is one of the sports nutritionists for Team Milram in the TdF. Apparently his job is predominantly during the training months and early events of the season. At this stage all of the riders should know how and what to take in. So he was riding his bike with a trailer for camping equipment from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean coast. I had just gotten into a conversation with Nick when Simon rolled in on his motorcycle. Simon is a brick of a jolly South African. Apparently he played competitive rugby. But he talks mostly about his days farming the land.

I found Simon when I was researching inns along the TdF route. He, like everyone else, had no rooms available, but suggested I try the village campsite and offered his help. He was just making sure I’d arrived and gave me information about the next few days. I’m trying to convince him to let me have a meal at his inn, but he and his wife are hosting 12 Californians at the mo, which is undoubtedly more than enough work.

Everything around here is mountainous. Hilly is their flat. So he offered me a bike to ride into Pau tomorrow, but added that I’d need to be quite fit not to get frustrated. Couldn’t he see that I was! ;-) Thought I'd better pass. He then told me about the 1 bus that leaves at 7am. There is no return journey, oddly enough. So for tomorrow I’ll either be on that, or walking the 8 miles into Gan to see the riders pass. Simon also counseled that shops would close at 7pm and nothing would be open for dinner. So I asked Nick if he’d like to walk into the village with me, and off we all went. I picked up some food at the market, but realized I should have purchased toilet paper too. I’ll be using cotton facial pads for the time being.

Right. Off to see if there’s a pub in town.

Cyclists are about half hour outside of town now. Gotta roll.

Paris, 18 July.

Typical second day, six time zones away from home. I'm awake at 6am with way too much energy. Being Sunday in France, I feel like I should be attending mass, but I would likely make a fool of myself. Last time I was at a catholic service I was nanny for the organist of the Vienna boys choir, living in Austria. Services were at the royal Hapsburg chapel and in Latin, so lots if people were lost.

I'm tempted to head out early, but I know what's coming, so I let the cool 54F temps lure me back to bed. I wake again at 11am. Headache, dizzy, wobbly tummy and general feeling of tenderness. This is always the moment when I temporarily feel sad that I'm traveling alone :-( I go for a bio yogurt and orange ginger Nuun tab to rehydrate. I'd quite like a coffee, but that would mean having to go outside and pretending to speak French. Maybe a bit of gentle reading and I'll be ready. A bike awaits after all.

The flat is littered with images of Lance Armstrong at the moment. It's a bit creepy. Whatever else you may think of him, his face apparently sells magazines. I'd like to study the Tour de France routes I'll be attending in just a few days, so I know exactly when the cyclists will be whizzing past my accommodation. I'm thinking of my friend Jon doing the l'Etape du Tour today, an opp for non pro cyclists to ride a stage of the TdF. Good luck JG! Beautiful weather here in Paris this morning. Hope he gets on well.

I opt out of bike related reading, however and research the best parks on the Left Bank. The Luxembourg Gardens look to be a straight shot toward the river, so I need to work out a bike station nearby. That way I can wander Boulevard Saint-Germain afterward, and perhaps walk back to the apartment via the Latin Quarter. I haven't been in that part of town since I was a college student, visiting my dear friend Cy who was studying in Toulouse. How I'd LOVE it if she were here this week!!!

I notice several Parisians outside reading the Sunday papers on their sunny wrought iron balconies. So, after staring at them with much romantic fascination, I take it as an indication that the weather has now ripened and I need to get over myself and motivate. I'm reluctant 
to emerge from the crisp white linens on this unusually comfortable bed, but needs must.

And with a grand cat like stretch I'm up. A bustling city undoubtedly awaits, tho you'd never know it with the peaceful courtyard below. This is urban living at it's pinnacle, the kind that offers a glorious haven inside, but still a small enough residence to draw you out to mix with your neighbors at a nearby cafe.

Oh PHOOEY! The absence of a micro chip in my visa card means no velib bike for me. I'm on foot today, could have worn a skirt. LOVING the church bells however. Think I'll take the back roads then, through the cemetery. And I'm off.

I'm thinking a map would be a good idea about now. I did have a look at one this morning when I was planning my cycling route. I always seem to know which way is north, so I 
should be fine. I move at my usual A type pace even tho the point of the day is fresh air and rest. In no time I'm at the Luxembourg Gardens and thankful for my Merrells. I've passed no fewer than 40 wonderful corner cafes and can't figure out why I haven't stopped. But I'm a walker, not an eater.

I plant myself at the first playground, to recharge with the sounds of children playing. At home my two youngest and I have this thing we do where they give me a big hug 'to recharge.' When they think I've refueled they give a 'ding.' It really does work!

I'm rather unimpressed by my lack of enthusiasm for learning French 20 years ago. I could feel very at home here. I'm more tidy than the Italians and far less habitual than the Germans. That leaves the French and English, who are one and the same (altho don't try and convince them of that.) Except for that ever confusing issue of public politeness, of course. Given that I'm American, I'd get slotted in with the French on that issue. There are too many don't-ever-ask-that question rules among the British for me to remember. In truth, I suppose my politics align more with the Dutch than any other European nation. But good luck ever understanding that language!

I'm in my amber Oakley's today, still I'm wishing for my stronger contact  lenses. Everything is a blur. A beautiful blur :-) I wish I didn't lack the courage for indiscreet photography, it would make my portfolio and this blog far more interesting. All the pretty people sitting in the park cafes, the cherub faced children balancing bright pink and green scoops of creme glacee you'll just have to imagine. This, however, is worth a snap.

There are tiny motor boats on the pond beyond the lawn, like Central Park. I find a rare open chair for some quality people watching and realize that I'm getting hungry. I can hear someone tuning a piano in the distance, which strikes me as somehow out of context. The sky is such an even blue I'm almost in tears. For some reason color has always moved me on a deep emotional level. The color orange is reason enough for me to like God. I wonder if the blue others see in their minds rivals mine. If so, how come it doesn't make them cry?

Hunger calls again, so I get up and walk. Seems the pantheon is somewhere nearby. Nothing can rival Rome's version, I know. But there's something alluring about a monument to all gods.
 

I decide that the tombs of Voltaire and Marie Curie are worth the €8. The brochure writers are absolutely right, "Greek purity with Gothic lightness." I enjoy the enormous pendulum demonstrating the rotation of the earth at the center, and then wander downstairs to find the dead people.

Even tho this is the cleanest and largest crypt I've ever seen, and has ceilings far higher than my home, I feel that familiar tinge of claustrophobia and realize that I've let my protein levels drop too far. Surely there will be a restaurant to my liking on the road toward Notre Dame, altho I'm loving the buffet table of languages before me. I'm such a rainbow girl and I still mourn all the years I spent pursuing conservative Christianity. Shame they feel the need to be so exclusive.

Just five minutes walking toward the river and I can already see the famous single spire. 
Everything is so much closer than I remember. Perhaps it's the warm weather. Simultaneously it flashes in my head that my daughter has asked for a red beret and that I must eat. Le Bistrot des Tartes tempts, but I pass at the sighting of the perfect bejeweled topper for my baby girl.

Next I know I'm in a wildly long but moving line to enter Our Lady's cathedral. Out of habit I pull on sleeves and wrap a sarong round my shorts. Since entrance is free, I drop €2 into the slot for a candle and pray for the safety of cyclists everywhere and for wisdom as I begin to craft a program for the residents of Greenwich to educate them on sharing the roads. I wonder if there's a patron saint of cyclists? The Velo Saint :-) I'm so out of the saint loop. Funny that I have a little bike round my neck instead of a cross on this trip.

Despite the undoubtedly pre-adolescent boy screeching his sneakers across the smooth church floors, oh, and the thousands of, let's call them pilgrims streaming thru the aisles, there's a certain hush inside. I remain in a posture of prayer/rest even when the words in my head stop. I'm mentally transported to the cathedral in Chichester where I once knelt to worship on weekends when I was digging Paleolithic dirt at the Boxgrove archaeological site. It's that same Peace.

I finally notice the breathtaking stained glass windows that looked down upon me so many years before. A soprano voice teases the air and I feel light headed as the elegant columns pull my gaze heavenward. I could live here. I do live here. I am alive here. A familiar presence unexpectedly washes over me as I walk past a tiny marble Madonna and child on my way out. Rare to have such a rush in tourist churches. Still, God is here.

Emerging into the sunlight and church bells I must regain my bearings. Food. Yes. I work my way toward the Latin quarter. I can't say no to falafel, the definition of yum on a park bench near the Cluny Museum at the Sore Bun ;-)

I few squizzles thru the back streets and I'm right back at the Luxembourg Gardens. I drop €.50 into the little wooden box next to the woman cranking the calliope at the gate, and turn into the park grounds. I appreciated her last time I passed, and I'm glad to be back in my neighborhood.

Back thru the chestnut trees and, what's this? Public ping pong tables? No way! I'm too timid to take a photo, sorry. I hurry home and breathe a deep sigh of satisfaction for my day out. The little man inside my computer has just informed me that "It's 8 o'clock." Any moment now I'll begin to fade, despite the golden afternoon sunlight.

Tomorrow I'm taking the TGV to Pau and on to a campsite in Lasseaube. So, I may be offline for several days. If you watch the Tour de France, think of me. I'll be in the crowds cheering on the riders. CAN NOT WAIT!

Paris. 17 July.

Exhausted.

It was an utterly uneventful flight, and I don't mean that in a good way. I managed to get the one window seat on the flight that had no window :-( It also required an impossible angle of my head to see the video screen. I thought about asking to switch seats, the flight was about half full. But I've done so much orchestrating in my life for the whole family, I just didn't have the gumption. So, I curled up and fell asleep instead.

Every now and then my hip flexors would scream, so I'd move around - as much as one can on an airplane. Eventually we were fastening our seatbelts to prepare for landing.

Very smooth transition right off the plane and into passport control - took only a few minutes. Collected bags, hopped on the RER B and down to Montparnasse. I just about flipped when I realized I hadn't printed maps of the neighborhood. But, I had studied them, so I ventured off with written instructions only. I followed the flat owners directions and walked right to the apartment. Unfortunately they weren't expecting me for another hour. Cleaning lady still in.

So, I dropped the bag and wandered a bit. Found a pleasant park bench to chill. Turns out, there's a Velib bike service point just 1 block from the flat!!!

This is a pic I swiped from the internet - forgot to take a pic when I walked by. But this is what the bikes look like. It's €1 per day for unlimited 30 min. journeys. Extra for longer spins. I'll definitely be taking one of those out tomorrow. Gotta take advantage of being able to ride on the right side of the road while I still can. Perhaps I can find a map that shows all the service points. Maybe I can make my way right into the city center.

While on the train from CDG I was reading Bicycling Mag. It is, of course, full of Lance v Alberto rubbish - which is now all completely irrelevant :-(  But I was struck by the number of articles discussing the rising statistics of bike use in the context of successful small town campaigns to achieve bike friendliness. In Greenwich we tend to accept a little too readily, perhaps, that there is a strong anti-cycle lobby. Maybe we should just assume that everyone wants happy bikers around and go from there.

ANYway. Lovely flat!!

Sun absolutely streaming thru the tall windows.

The forecast called for 69F, so I thought it might be a bit chilly. But it's clearly warmer and gorgeous!

After catching up on news a la Sky - hooray for the 3 English language channels - I realized I'd best go for another walk lest I fall asleep about 8 hours before I should. I forgot the melatonin, so I could be in for a real time change spanking.

I checked out the local grocers and purchased some tomatoes, cheese and bread for dinner. Odd being back in a country where I haven't the slightest clue what anyone's talking about. I seem to manage however, assuming that the question the woman at the shop asked before checking my groceries thru was, "Do you have a store loyalty card?" Life flows how life flows, whether it's in NYC, Paris or the tiniest Cornish village.

I have managed the occasional "Merci", "Pardon" and even "D'accord." And if you're sitting down I will admit that I used them all in the same conversation even. Me, standing to get off the train and negotiate around another couple with luggage, "Pardon." Woman, in French, "We're getting off here too, when we stop I'll get all these bags out of your way." Me, "Oui? D'accord. Merci." I'm sure I sound like an idiot. But I'm choosing to remember a foreign language instructor at uni who said I had lovely French pronunciation. When trying to speak German.

One more thing. Here is my companion for the trip:

He doesn't have a name yet. So if you have any ideas, let me know. I've got this at the ready, just in case: "On l'a volee dans ma chambre!" Hopefully it won't get any use.

A bientot!

SUMMER SCHEDULE

16 JULY: New York, USA to Paris, France

17 - 18: Paris, France

19 - 21: Lasseube, France (Tour de France)

22 - 24: Bordeaux, France (Tour de France)

25 - 29: Bourg-d’Oisons, France (Alpe d'Huez Triathlon)

30: Cherbourg, France

31 - 5 AUG: Poole, England

6 - 8: Nottingham, England (The Outlaw Ironman Triathlon)

9 - 10: Durham, England

11 - 12: Wembley, England

13 - 15: London, England

16 - 19: Belfast, Northern Ireland

20: London, England

21 - 27: Padstow, England (TriTalk Boxhill Bike Race & Picnic)

28 - 30: Cheltenham, England

31 - 2 SEPT: Warminster, England

3 - 4: Leicester, England (Vitruvian Duathlon)

5: London, England to New York, USA

NOTE: All races listed are support only. No racing for me this summer :-(

Martha's Vineyard, 8 July, 2010

 Too shy and quick for a photo!

Check out time is 11am. So we have a choice; laze around for awhile, pack up in a controlled and leisurely fashion and then head out OR get it in gear, pack up quickly and fit in a bike ride before catching the ferry back to Cape Cod.

And the winner is . . . Door number 2!!!

Packing up to leave is SO much easier than packing up to go: Collect everything in room, shove into any bag. Done.

Off to a town called Vineyard Haven this morning. Looks about a 5 mile ride each way, plus whatever tooling we do in town. We snag apple fritters in the lobby, deposit our bags in the luggage keep at the inn and make like trees (leave.) I've decided that my oldest is the ride leader today. He has a look at the map and we're off. Although there are no bike paths on today's route, I'm not too concerned. It's a small island, after all. How many cars can there be here?!

The boys ask if it's OK to go ahead, and I agree, as long as they stop and wait should we need to make any turns that aren't obvious (I've surrendered my map, after all.) What is it about organized group rides in the US? The riders usually break into two groups early on, and even when a new route is improvised, no one waits at corners! I've done enough wandering through Fairfield Co. roads to be able to find my way home from anywhere, but that's just inconsiderate!! It also means I get promoted to ride leader (for the broken half) a fair amount. Not my preferred position. I have to say, my English cyclist friends get the prize for best riding partners. They're patient and considerate, even tho it likely kills them to go my speed.

 Not sure how I got this shot. I think my iPhone has a mind of it's own.

(Perhaps one to send to Road ID tho?)

ANYway. So off my boys go, and my daughter is left to lead me along the highway. There's only a 2 ft shoulder the whole way, but I'm VERY impressed by her level of comfort and competence, despite the cars whizzing past. We approach a bridge and I see the boys ignore the signs that request cyclists to dismount, cross and take the pedestrian path over. They merge right into traffic and carry on. I'm too far back to call out to them and once over the top I can no longer see them anyway. But, I'm banking on them making safe enough choices.

We girls, follow the signs and enjoy the view on the bridge as we cross over. 15 min. later we all reunite, boys waiting dutifully at our first real turn. Chapeau lads! My son hands the leader reigns back to me to negotiate the town. We ride and walk to explore another charming coastal village. Tiny, tho, this one.

I suggest my oldest take us up a few hills for a challenge. No sooner said than zoom! Straight out of town. And more straight. And gaining speed. And up hills and down hills and straight some more. Then a stop. Er, not quite what I had in mind. Especially not the whining daughter in tow bit. Middle son has a goofy grin on his face tho, 'Me like fast.' Someone get this kid on a bike track. Boy has no fear. Still, I make an executive decision to turn around and reset the destination for BAGELS.

(Insert pic of cute bagel shop here. Note to self: Blogger doesn't upload vertical photos.)

When we arrive the princess is in full scowl. I can barely hear 'I'm not hungry' over her gurgling stomach. Having been a victim of force feeding growing up, my parenting style with food has always been let-them-starve. I have strong, healthy kids. They could go a day without food and be fine. A 10 mile bike ride hardly requires additional calories. Plus, then they know that they do indeed have power to make their own choices and trust me when I say, 'I know you're not happy about (whatever,) but it's important that you (do that thing I'm trying desperately to persuade you to do.)

Congenial tummies full, water bottles refilled (with Gatorade, no less, considered a special treat - I'm a water only mom, WAY too many kids downing gallons of high chemical sports drinks for no reason.) And back to Oak Bluffs we spin. Bit of a grumpisaurus along this leg, but in fairness, she's tired from the last several days of riding her 7 speed bike all over the country (and riding the waves.)

AND, her seats too low! How do other parents get past this?? She's not at the place yet where she's comfortable not having her feet flat on the ground while in the saddle. I'm concerned for her knees, her back and well, loss of power on hills. Altho, she's a mad scrambler out of the saddle, I must say. Climbs like it's nobody's business. Even has that gorgeous little Contadorian sway.

Speaking of whom, I secretly put up an Alberto poster over my sons GI Joe before we left. It came with the Tour de France booklet, which, by the way, I had to buy the British version of!!! Can you believe none of the local newstands had the US supplement?! That's insane!! 'Not enough interest in cycling, ma'am.' No sh*t, Sherlock. I spend all my extra time lobbying for bike accommodations in my town. It's a chicken and egg scenario.

Right. So, back to the inn for our bags and off to the ferry terminal. We've truly had a really tremendous time exploring Martha's Vineyard. But life and work beckon. Sigh.