Now that I’m old and nostalgic, I’ve been thinking about and writing about my younger days – and first cycling adventures. Here’s the story of my first-ever ride in France. I don’t have any photos from that trip (just postcards … remember them?) so the photos are from more recent Loire trips. Off we go…
“Enough!”
This is what I told myself at the end of the 1985 Paris Air Show. This was my third time covering the world’s largest air show and I’d spent six months in 1984 travelling from one large European city to another to report and write a string of aviation stories. I was an aviation writer back then, as you may have surmised.
Enough of the big, crowded cities, enough of the long lines and crowds at museums and all the annoying tourists jockeying for position and walking in front of me to see yet another Monet and Van Gogh. It was as if I was invisible. Enough! I wanted, I needed a little of the famous French countryside that Van Gogh and Monet loved to paint.
I consulted my Let’s Go France and decided to take the train to Blois in the Loire Valley. I had come to rely on the Let’s Go series to help decide where to go, what to see when I got there and where to stay. On the cover it claims to be the “Bible of the Budget Traveler” and I was definitely a budget traveler. Plus, The New York Times called the series of books “invaluable.”
Who am I to argue with The New York Times?
Then again, invaluable makes it sound as though it isn’t very valuable. Shouldn’t The New York Times have called it “a really valuable” book? But like I said, who am I to argue with The New York Times?
I found the listing for Blois and quickly learned it has a chateau and was once “home to French monarchs Louis XII and Francois I in the late 15th and early 16th centuries.” Unfortunately, there was nothing in the book about how to pronounce Blois, which would have really come in handy as you’ll soon see.
I also read the following, which would not only have an impact on this trip to the Loire Valley but would change my life and how I traveled: “Unquestionably the best way to see this fecund valley is by bike. Distances are relatively short, and the terrain is flat and lush.”
That sold it for me: I was going to get a bike when I got to Blois. Let’s Go listed a few places to rent bikes. So yes, it really is invaluable.
The only problem was, I had no idea what the word fecund meant. No idea – never heard it uttered, never read it in a magazine or book until I read it in Let’s Go. Is it a French word? It sounds French. Maybe it’s English? Italian? It has to be a good thing, right? Some sort of compliment. Scenic? Historic? Full of sunflowers?
What the hell, I was going to the fecund Loire.
***
I finally made my way to the front of the long line at the ticket counter at the train station in Paris after waiting for like an hour. That’s how you got train tickets back in 1985. No kiosks, no internet. Lots of long lines.
Me (very politely): Bonjour, parlez-vous Anglais?
Ticket Counter Guy: A little.
Me: One billet pour Blois, s’il vous plait.
I took a wild guess and pronounced it Blue-oz.
Ticket Counter Guy (in a tone I found more than a little condescending): I do not understand.
Me: Blow-oz?
Ticket Counter Guy (in an even more condescending manner and no one, except maybe café waiters, can do condescending better than French civil servants): I do not understand.
Me: Blue … blues … blows … bloss … blue ass.
Blue ass, by the way, was the mood I was in. Actually, flaming blue ass.
Ticket counter guy: I do not understand … go to the information window.”
And then he dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
Now trust me, I’m not that American tourist. I am respectful of the local culture and customs, don’t expect people to speak English, appreciate it when they do and always learn a few words of the local language, especially how to say: “Do you speak English?” I hate it when Americans in France, Italy or wherever go up to someone and start jabbering away in English, expecting that person to speak their language. I have been known to shoot these people a withering look that has taught more than one tourist a lesson in travel manners.
But this, this condescending little wave by ticket counter guy … I was not about to take.
Me (talking slowly, calmly, yet forcefully, like Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry): Give … me … your … pen, s’il vous plait.
Ticket counter guy eyed me up and down; I stared back. I wasn’t moving; I wasn’t backing down; I wasn’t going over to the information window and waiting in another long line.
It was a standoff.
Finally, with a look that seemed to say, “these Americans are such barbarians,” ticket counter guy sighed, shook his head from side to side and slid a pen through the little opening of the window.
I wrote “Blois” and held it up to the window.
Ticket Counter Guy: Ah, oui, Bl…
He said it with a mouthful of smug and so fast I still had no idea how pronounce the name of the home of Louis and Francois.
Me: Whatever … one ticket avec return.
Ticket Counter Guy: This is 147 francs.
I had a 100 and 50 bill in my pocket. But that wouldn’t have been any fun. Instead, I dug through my wallet and pulled out my one-and-only 500-franc bill. One of the things I knew about France and the French is they have a pathological hatred of changing large bills. Why? I have no idea. But they do, with a passion. Maybe it has something to do with World War II. Everything in Europe seems to have something to do with World War II.
Ticket Counter Guy glared at the 500-franc bill for several seconds as if it had dog poop on it. If he could have, he would have refused to accept it, or turned it – and me – into cinders with the laser beams he shot out of his eyes. Fortunately, he couldn’t and finally, with a disgusted sigh, he pulled the 500-franc bill through the window … and gave me my ticket and change.
I turned to walk away, toward my train – and kept his stinkin’ pen.
That’ll teach him not to mess with … actually, I doubt it will teach him anything or even if there was a lesson for either of us to learn, other than the fact that Blois is really hard word for Americans to pronounce.
A quick note – and confession. In my mind and memory, I kept his stinkin’ pen. But did I really? I’m not sure; I didn’t write this down in my journal, so there’s no way to know for sure. I’d like to think I did. Did the ticket cost 147 francs? I have no idea. I thought a specific number of francs read better and this was my estimate. One of the things I’ve come to learn and accept (grudgingly) is that my memory – and your memory I’m sure – is not always accurate. Over time, things get a little hazy, distorted and misremembered. For example, when I started writing this chapter, I was certain I had gone directly from the Paris Air Show to Blois. Nope. I looked in my journal and it seems I went to Nice first. Then back to Paris, and on to Blois. Fortunately, I have kept journals over the years. Unfortunately, I didn’t write down everything. So, for the rest of this book, I’ll let you know if something I write is 100-percenbt true, and verified in one of my journals, or my best guess based on a clue or two in a journal and what I remember.
***
Back to Blois …
After polishing off a couple chocolate croissants in Blois, one of the greatest foods ever invented and the French version of an energy bar, I went off in search of Atelier Cycles. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but inside it was exactly what you’d want in a French bicycle shop. Assuming you’re interested in a French bicycle shop, which fortunately I was. It was long and narrow, with an assortment of bikes lined up along the aisle that ran down the center. There were sleek racing bikes, like the one the guys in the Tour de France guys ride, and sturdy mountain bikes, like the one the guys who race down mountains ride. At the back of the shop, working on a bike, and wearing a yellow, one-piece mechanic’s suit that made him look like a giant banana with grease-stained arms and hands, was Monsieur Atelier.
At least I think it was Monsieur Atelier.
Me: Bonjour.
Monsieur Atelier: Bonjour.
Me: Parlez-vous Anglais?
Monsieur Atelier (in a very pleasant and non-condescending manner): Non …
Followed by a bunch of French words I didn’t understand.
Using sign language, smiles and most of my limited French vocabulary, and finally getting it through my thick, American skull that the word “velo” means bicycle, after Monsieur Atelier kept pointing at bicycles and saying “velo,” I was able to explain to him that I wanted to rent a bike … I mean velo … for a week. And no, not a mountain velo: I wanted a Tour de France velo, one with the ram’s horn handlebars and thin tires.
Monsieur Atelier: Ah, oui…
Followed by a bunch of French words I didn’t understand.
He picked out a yellow road bike that matched his outfit. I guess yellow is his favorite color. For all I know, he could have been a former professional rider who actually wore the famous yellow jersey during the Tour de France. But back in 1985 – long before Lance Armstrong and even Greg LeMond – who knew of this Tour de France thing?
Not me.
The bike seemed perfect – and even had a rack on the back onto which I could strap my knapsack with the bungy cord wrapped around it (I left my suitcase with the rest of my stuff in the bike shop). Carrying my stuff with me on the bike wasn’t something I had thought about until that very moment.
Monsieur Atelier began pointing to various parts of the bike, talking faster and faster. He seemed very passionate about bicycles. I mean velos. I kept nodding, faster and faster, even though I had no idea what he was talking about. He then took a bunch of stuff out of a little pouch hanging under the seat and started explaining and demonstrating what to do with all the little tools inside. He even pantomimed a demonstration of how to fix a flat tire, something else I hadn’t considered.
A flat tire?
That would suck, especially since I had no idea how to fix one – and had no idea what Monsieur Atelier was saying about how to fix a flat tire.
Finally, after a lot more explaining I didn’t understand, Monsieur Atelier wheeled my yellow bike out of the shop and onto the street. I hopped on and was ready to start pedaling my way through the fecund Loire Valley.
Or so I thought.
I’d never ridden a bike with straps on the pedals. And the thing of it was, it looked so easy, something any and every 10-year-old French kid can do – but not me. I could easily get one foot into the strap while I was standing still, but no matter how hard I tried, and I tried really hard, I couldn’t manage to turn the pedals and get my second foot into the strap. The more I tried, the more frustrated I got. My feet felt huge, like giant, uncoordinated clown feet and the pedal straps seemed to get smaller and smaller.
On the third or fourth try, I fell … and went down like a sack of pomme de terres. I bounced back to my feet and managed a sheepish grin as Monsieur Atelier did his best to hold back the laughter. I appreciated that. My right hand was a little scratched up, but other than that I was fine – more angry and embarrassed than hurt.
Finally, after a few more futile efforts, Monsieur Atelier motioned for me to get off the bike and proceeded to wheel it back into the shop as I stood there, feeling like a complete and utter idiot.
That’s just great. He’s taking back my bike. He thinks I’m the biggest idiot in the world, too stupid to be trusted with his nice, yellow bike. Now what the hell am I going to do? You can’t go for a bike ride through the fecund Loire Valley without a bike. Can you? No, you idiot, you can’t. That’s called hiking.
A few minutes later, Monsieur Atelier emerged from the shop with the bike – minus the pedal straps.
Monsieur Atelier: Voila…
Followed by a bunch of French words I didn’t understand.
Me: You’re a genius …
Followed by a bunch of English words he didn’t understand.
I got on the bike, started pedaling, turned to wave goodbye to my new friend, lost my balance a bit but quickly righted myself, and pedaled off into the sunset. I think I saw Monsieur Atelier cross himself a couple times. I wonder if it was for me – or his bike?
***
According to my journal, the bike rental was 35 francs a day, which is about $7. Here’s what I wrote on June 21, 1985 …
Went to Chambord, Villasavin, Cheverny, and Beauregard. Whew! Chambord was huge and had large grounds, Villesavin is in bad shape but had a lot of interesting artifacts. Cheverny was perfect – small and intact, tasteful and beautiful. Had hunting dogs and a room full of antlers. Beauregard has a portrait room. Finally got back around 4:30, napped and ate at the hotel.
I did some map reading and my day-one ride was probably about 30 to 35 miles, which isn’t bad for a rookie. Then again, here’s what I wrote the next day …
My ass is killing me so I took it easy – only to Chaumont and back.
Back then … no bike shorts. And most likely no helmet. At least I don’t remember there being a helmet. I’m sure I wore short pants of some type and a T-shirt. And sweated a lot. I’m not even sure if I had a water bottle.
Over the next few days, I rode to several of the most famous Loire chateaux: Chenonceaux, Villandry, Azay-le-Rideau. And then, it was time to ride back to Blois …
The big day – for cycling that is. I made the journey from Azay-le-Rideau to Blois – 100K – without much problem. I am really enjoying the riding and would love to keep going. Maybe I’ll take it up when I get home.
This was the first of my 18 French bike trips that have ranged from a week or two to two months and 2,000 or so miles. My honeymoon with Susan in 1993 was an extended French cycling trip. It might have been a mistake. No, not marrying Susan. The mistake was expecting her to love cycling as much as I loved cycling. I may or may not have decided to accept a job teaching journalism at The Ohio State University (they get mad if you don’t preface the name of the college with the word The) in 2006 just so I’d have summers off for, yep, bike trips to France.
Although I’ve ridden through Germany, Belgium, Luxembourg and the Netherlands, France is it for me when it comes to bike riding. It’s as if the entire country’s history, geography, road system, villages, culinary and café cultures were designed for cycling trips. I had no idea, back in 1985, that cycling and cycling in France would become such important parts of my life.
The Biking France Blog 