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.
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 20th 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 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.
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 20th 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.
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.
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.
Right. Off to see if there’s a pub in town.
Cyclists are about half hour outside of town now. Gotta roll.
