Day 4 -- St. Emilion to Limeuil

Guess what? My prayer worked!

It poured down rain last night, and I don’t mean just a light rain. It poured! Complete with huge winds and a smatter of thunder and lightning. The wind blew so hard, the huge marquee tent, which stands over 15 feet high came crashing down with pour Lockey sleeping under it. Lockey is a starving student from Australia, tall and very lean with an open friendly smile and wicked sense of humor. He is doing this tour with his best friend Cam, also a rock star cyclist, who showed up last night with his favorite road bike sans a seat. Turns out his bike seat got left in a hotel room somewhere between Australia and France.

After breakfast we got our route map for the day’s ride. I learned two things today: first, if the route map is longer than 2 pages, I’m in trouble, and second, ignore the total mileage noted at the top of the first page and concentrate on the topographic map instead. It is truly a better gauge for how I will feel at the end of the day. Today’s topo has a couple of 150 meter climbs in the first half and ends the day with a steady bell shaped climb to Limeuil.  

Today’s ride is the longest of the tour, 110kms (69 miles.) Lowell and I discuss our options as Isabelle (his bike) is still missing. With a little prodding from the crew, he decides to abandon hope that Isabelle will be found in time to be unpacked and ridden for this tour so he will buy another bike. I am relieved. Andrew, our crew chief and owner of Wide Open Road, drives us to Bergerac to hunt for a new bike. Isabelle, a meticulously maintained sexy black T-Mobile Giant OCR with hot pink details, is replaced by a heavy garish yellow Taiwanese knock-off, its only redeeming features the official “Tour de France” product stickers plastered all over the tubes. No TdF rider would be caught dead in a testosterone-induced joy ride on this bike.

Lowell was not happy. No emotional attachment; it was simply a cheap replacement of two wheels. He doesn’t like the bike, and is undoubtedly insulted that cycling shoes for his size 13 feet have to be custom ordered because evidently French feet don’t grow that large, so he succumbs to using pedal cages and tennis shoes. He told me, in no uncertain terms, he was not riding up l’Alpe d’Huez with tennis shoes on his feet. Selfishly, I’m still relieved I don’t have to ride alone any longer.

We have lunch at Chateau Montbazallic and feast on a spread of local delicacies from the market -- sausage, cheeses, wine and crisp green salad dressed in homemade balsamic vinaigrette and fresh French bread. For those with room for dessert, its apple, strawberry and custard tarts. Chateau Montbazallic is an ancient medieval castle turned vineyard and known for award winning white and red varietals.

Our resting spot today is one of the most beautiful villages in France (we learned there are 24 such villages throughout the country.) The campground is next to the Dordogne river and is a wide-open respite shaded by two large ancient Roman bridges. Several of us opt to sit in the river after the ride to cool off. It was around 90 degrees F today.

Several of us hiked off to town for dinner and members of the crew joined us. We found a small restaurant that Lowell has been to before, which started a tour tradition. Very good with names and faces, Lowell always remembered the shop and restaurant servers from past trips and when he saw the owner of the restaurant, he said “Soivinger moi?” (Remember me?) She did and the two of them struck up a very friendly conversation as if they were lifelong friends.

I opt for a light pizza with jambon et fromage (ham and cheese) and a salad. Wine flows like water, as it is always included with the cost of the meal. We all enjoy our meal, talk about the highlights of the tour and trek back to camp in the pitch-black night.  

I tried to dissect the first day’s ride -- 59 miles from Bordeaux to St. Emilion. Now acutely aware that my climbing skills on the hills were not sufficient to tackle the Alps sans divine intervention, I prayed.

It went something like this:

Dear Lord,

I really believe doing this tour is Your will for me, and I’m doing it for a good cause, but I have to tell you, I am suffering in this heat. If it doesn’t cool off soon, I’m going to sit in the sag wagon for the remainder of the trip and take pictures out the window like a 78 year old Floridian tourist.

I don’t care if every fat-livered duck in this region dies of hypothermia, it must cool off. Who really likes Foie Gras anyway? I’m not built for this kind of heat.

Please, some cooler weather. I’d welcome something around 70-ish, cool sunshine and even a Seattle-like summer shower.

Merci. Thank you. [Amusingly, I wondered why He'd need translation.] Amen.

Day 3 -- Bordeaux to St. Emilion

 Our first riding day. This begins the start of our 685 mile journey from Bordeaux to l’Alpe d’Huez. Our tour route, for the most part, is auspiciously void of high traffic areas and meanders along country roads following the country’s rivers until we start climbing the Alps. This means we need to be conscientious about getting food and water where it is available.

 Still no Isabelle. Each call to the airport gives us the same message, always delivered by a live person, but the same message in broken English, “There is no new information. No other airport has reported the bike found.” ARGH! We called Air France about 20 times in the past three days, because it is the only airline allowed to track claims, we call North West because it was our carrier, and nobody has any information. It’s highly frustrating; once we’re on the road, it will be more difficult to have the bike delivered to us as we only stay in each city overnight and each day we are farther…and…farther from the airport.

 Over our morning chocolate pain (croissant), I expressed my fear and frustration to Claire, a warm, leggy blond crew member from Melbourne responsible for doing the daily sweep for stragglers. She tells me through a soft Aussie accent “It’s OK. Ride at your own pace, enjoy yourself, follow the map and you’ll do fine. I’ll be doing a sweep so you won’t get left in the dark. Now give me a hug!” I felt better.

 We gathered outside the hotel and I knew it I was going to be trouble as sweat rolled down my neck and I wasn’t even moving yet. It was 90 F at 10:00 AM. Cue sheets and maps were distributed and last minute modifications were made to bicycles and riders. I was intimidated, as the other 32 riders looked fitter, faster and more road confident than I. What was I doing here? 

 As we headed off, the route took us on an expressway for a couple of miles, then a bike trail (one of the only on this trip) hugged the river Garonne until we came to the sleepy city of Cadillac at lunchtime. At Cadillac, I pulled into the town square, having clicked off 36 kilometers then scrambled to the alimentation (a small mini market with fresh food and drinks) before the country-wide afternoon lunch break. This was going to be a problem I thought. Timing arrival into small, sleepy villages with “facilities” was going to be an issue of timing when fatigue set in and I was out of fuel and water. I need to plan a contingency for this, I thought.  

 After lunch, serious nausea returned and I couldn’t tell if it was due to stress -- physical or emotional -- or a change in diet and the late-night dining we were doing to accommodate the ride schedule and weather. Today was one of the hottest days on record at 40 C (100 F) and we were cycling in it all day. Lowell warned me earlier about the extra weight my 70 ounce Camelbak carried, but it would become an essential of mine. I filled it frequently, drank often, and tried to ignore the fact that it was so frickin’ hot one could sweat while sitting still in the shade.

 After lunch, I made the mistake of trying to keep up with Helen and Jana. Both avid cyclists; Helen is a teacher in Thailand and Jana a physical therapist who swims the English Channel in her spare time. While their pace was steady, it was too fast for me to maintain with the 100 – 150 meter rolling foothills and 100 degree heat. After 60 kilometers, I dropped back and tried not to panic when they rode out of sight.

 Seventy five kilometers later, as I pressed up a steep hill, alone, the sag wagon passed and I flagged it down as I was out of water and very exhausted.

 We entered St. Emilion, our resting spot for the night, through a large cobblestone roundabout. It was a spectacular wine village known for award winning Merlot. A distant chateau perched on a hillside surrounded by vineyards. Cobblestone streets twisted around a small shopping district with shops catering to tourists and wine aficionados. After recovering with half a gallon of water and orange gelato, I purchased half a case of a recommended vintage Merlot, my favorite, to be shipped home.

Once at the campsite, I had just enough time to pitch my tent, and take a quick dip in a cool, clear pool. We dined in the village al fresco, drinking lots of wine and eating a fabulous 5 course meal. In the square where we are, thunderclouds darkened the evening sky creating a spectacular glow.  

Day 2 -- Bordeaux

 Today was to be a rest day to see the sights of Bordeaux and take in the Fete de Vin, which is one of the largest wine festivals of the country. Lowell spent most of the day calling the airport frequently to try and track down Isabelle (his bike and our only lost piece of luggage.)

 In the afternoon I paired up with Tara, whom I’d just met. A tall, spunky marketing genius from Australia by way of St. Louis, Tara suggested we go to Caurfort, a large mall about 10 miles outside of the city to pick up a tent and other supplies which were in the missing bike bag. I agreed, very happy to explore with a spirited adventurer who spoke enough French to get us by.

 We parked ourselves at the tourism office during the midday break (everything closes from 12:30 – 2:00 then reopens for business) and waited for the office to reopen so we could get advice on the best way to reach our destination. By 2:00, a long line had formed behind us, and the official from the tourism office let out an audible groan as he unlocked his office door. Advise from him lead us to a public transportation office a short walk away, who told us a taxi would be the best bet. So, we hopped in a black minivan taxi, and upon asking “combien?” (How much?) the driver smiled, changed the subject and headed for the expressway. Tara leaned into me and said quietly, “Don’t worry, the fare to get to the city last night was only 30 euro for an hour ride. It shouldn’t be more than 6 or 7 euro.” When we arrived, the driver announced “22 euro.” Tara argued vehemently with the driver, and he argued back; I had no clue what he was saying, he was agitated as he waived his arms in the air and yelled at us. I sat there, baking, melting in the black leather seats while the two of them verbally assaulted one another. Finally, after he threatened to take us back, I put my peacemaker hat on and paid the fare. “No problem” I told him, (this seems to be a universal phrase everyone understands no matter what country of origin) and he seemed relieved as I stuffed his hand with paper bills.

 We were in luck as there was a large sporting goods store in the mall with bikes and gear and tents. I purchased a tent, some Power Bars and took note of the bikes just in case Isabelle didn’t show up by tomorrow morning. Tara gave me a lesson in European marketing tactics as she snapped pictures of fixtures and displays in the largest chain store in the city. This girl was truly passionate about the art of marketing!

 Finding our way back to the hotel proved easier than our arrival, as a concierge called a cab for us. Once back in Bordeaux, I checked in with Lowell. Still no Isabelle and by now it was too late to go back to Caurfort to purchase a bike, and we were starting the ride the next day.

 My anxiety was rising at the thought of having to ride alone the next day.

 The World Cup semi-final was televised and we watched it from a bar near the hotel while eating dinner al fresco in the balmy evening air. Every bar, brasserie and restaurant had a big screen TV outside so their guests could enjoy the game outside where there was a breeze. Air conditioning and ice are nearly nonexistent. The city was charged with energy as the sun set and everyone fixated on the game. 

 One by one, individuals and couples with our tour filtered over to watch the game and Lowell introduced me to the crew and other riders he had ridden with during previous years. Total, we have 19 Australians, 2 English, 6 Americans and 1 Israeli, not including the crew of 5 who were from various locales. Late into the evening, some people had just flown in and we were excited and anxious to start the ride the following morning.

Tara showed up near the end of the soccer match with a single red, white and blue stripe painted on her face signifying the French flag. “Ille les bleus! Ille les bleus” crowds chanted during the final quarter. France won and the city broke lose! The echo of TV commentary throughout the city blocks was replaced with loud music blaring, people dancing in the streets, small cars with too many people to count hanging out the windows waving huge French flags, chanting “Ille les bleus!”

 Around 1:00 AM, we filtered back to the hotel, tired, but too excited to sleep, knowing tomorrow we begin our journey.

I am a consummate planner. I love planning and swear this trait is bound genetically by many matriarchal generations. Part of what I do professionally requires me to think critically about and plan for disasters. Yes, that’s right -- plan for disasters. It all involves big words like contingency and mitigation and planning for worst case scenario.  The big “What if?” if you will.

Having this innate desire to control the uncontrollable, several weeks before this trip, I tried to wrap my cycling partner Lowell’s mind around doing some contingency planning. I had a lot of big “What if?” questions clouding my brain, and I wanted some amount of control over those issues that quite possibly could ruin this ride for us. Lowell, on the other hand, is more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants kind of guy. For me, his attitude was rather annoying, as I heard for the umpteenth time, “I’ve done this trip three times, and nothing bad ever happens.” Uh huh. Famous last words. 

I left Seattle with lots of enthusiasm and optimistic about the journey that lay ahead. My expectations for the cycling portion of the trip had been set and my fears allayed. Fear about getting lost on a bike, not being a fluent speaker, being in a foreign country and not knowing the terrain were all part of the mental repertoire I played in my head for weeks before starting the journey.

After an uneventful flight from Seattle to Detroit to Paris, we finally landed 22 hours later at Charles de Gaille. Full of giddy anticipation to grab my bags and head to the train station for the 3 hour ride to Bordeaux, my lack of sleep was present but seemingly suspended by the tide of endorphins in my nervous system.

As we waited for our bags, I asked a multitude of questions about the trip to Bordeaux. Prepurchased train tickets gave us a nice long 2 hour layover at the station, so we had time to relax and take in a leisurely walk to the station which is within walking distance from the airport attached through long quite white corridors. We had all our bags, but one – Lowell’s bike bag. This bag contained not only his expensive road bike, new Syrium wheels (which cost nearly as much as my whole bike), the tent, all his cycling clothing, the charger for the cell phone, and miscellaneous can’t do without stuff.

Contingency planning – yeah, it would have been nice to have right about now. As all the familiar faces of fellow passengers faded from view, we stood alone between snaking baggage carousels – two people, a luggage cart with 4 bags, but only one bike. We stared at each other with a “now what?” glaze and then it started.

“If you didn’t talk me into taking a different airline this wouldn’t have happened” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous” I said. “Luggage gets lost on all airlines. It was a matter of odds, you’ve done this trip 4 times; it was bound to happen sooner or later. What time did you get to the airport anyway?” I snapped back.

Immediately, we were both tense, irritable, on a “velo vacance” without a velo. We made our way to the claim office and filed a claim with a beautiful brunette agent that looked like a model for Vogue. She explained that Air France would send out an APB for the delayed (no longer is luggage lost – it’s delayed) bike going to every major airport in the world. All of a sudden, my heart sank as I thought of Lowell’s bike, Isabelle, a beautiful black and pink Giant OCR TMobile frame with gorgeous new wheels sitting in a dark airport closet, missing the ride she has done for the past 3 years. Then my palms got sweaty at the prospect of having to ride foreign roads alone. All of a sudden I was wishing I practiced my French more.

It remained to be seen when the bike would appear the agent informed us. With large brown empathetic eyes, her chignon bobbed up and down as we fired questions at her in English and French. She told us most bags show up within 2 days but it could take longer, so we were welcome to come back to the airport tomorrow. We’re leaving for Bordeaux we begged. More bouncing chignon.  

All we could say was “Je comprend” – I understand.

I felt nauseous.