SUZE, CYCLING

La Vélodyssée

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Wed, 27 Dec 2017 20:37:00 +0000

June 2017. La Vélodyssée: The section of EuroVélo 1 that passes through France. The approximately 800 miles of absolutely beautiful, mostly car-free, signposted route that travels from Roscoff to Hendaye. Roscoff, in Brittany on La Manche ... we call it The English Channel. ... to Hendaye, on the Spanish border and the Atlantic.

Here is a list of my posts, click on any one or start at the beginning. The next button will lead you along my ride.

Beginnings
Voie Verts and Canals
C'est Quoi? What?!!?
Art and Bikes along the Loire
Tides
The Atlantic
Travelling
Time Shift
Retrospective

Retrospective

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Wed, 27 Dec 2017 07:30:00 +0000

I didn't know what to expect of this ride, didn't have any fixed idea of whether or not I would stick to the designated route. I carried my standard yellow Michelin maps, in case I chose to abandon. There was a reason for my cautious attitude.

Years ago, 2009, I rode the Canal du Midi as part of a longer ride. Though the boats, not to mention the people on them, along with the locks and buildings were fascinating, cyclists could rarely see the world beyond the canal banks. The ancient plane trees provided welcome shade, and as a side effect caused the riding to be painfully slow .... the roots of those same plane trees projected out of the ground 2, 4, 6 inches, again and again, making it impossible to gather any momentum whatsoever. So I began this long ride with some trepidation about off-road riding.

I need not have fretted, it was a delight, especially after I realized that cycling on rough surfaces with a heavily loaded bike was going to be slow going and commensurately slowed down my overactive brain. The route turned out to be virtually always so totally enjoyable, varied and beautiful. Riding without any concern whatsoever about cars, not needing any ear out for what was approaching from the rear, turned out to be unexpectedly liberating. It's true, one needed a sharp eye for signs. It's true, the handy guidebook La Vélodyssée (in French), published by Le Routard, was a great aid, as was the official website La Vélodyssée 1 (in English.) I saw many other riders with one form of GPS or another, which seemed to help them stay on route. Generally though, the route was very well signposted, and no problem to follow.

Once south of the Loire, the Atlantic was generally on my right: the landscape, seascape was amazingly gorgeous.

It was sometimes disconcerting to have so little sense of where I actually was, in the bigger picture. I think that was caused by not using large paper maps, and so not having reference to my position relative to named places on the map. In all, I rode about 950 or so miles. That is longer than the designated route, as I often rode away from the route to find a campground, or rode into town to find meals or supplies. In some cases the route turned a block or so before a potentially good place to eat. Located just past the turn, this boulangerie made sure all cyclists noticed it ... I appreciated the sign, and it was great for a second breakfast

Lunch? Dinner? Yummmmm ... once near the ocean there were oysters, lots of oysters. And totally delicious fish. Oysters for appetizeres, fish for the main course. That is almost all I ate. And ate it with enthusiasm. Put me in the sun, at the end of the day, tired muscles, a good hot shower, with a glass of wine, oysters, and fish. Make me happy.

I camped most nights, and so met more fellow cyclists than on any previous trip, they too drawn to the long, marked route. This route is not for you if you mind flat: it is one very flat route. Gorgeous, but flat. That was not a complaint for me. The surface was varied, sometimes packed dirt or limestone, sometimes gravel, sometimes paved. It varied from wide enough for both bikes and pedestrians to narrow paths through salt marshes or on the top of digues.

Often I could walk from the campground to the Atlantic, with its miles and miles of protected coastline and extraordinarily wide beaches. Wider than I have ever before seen.

For whatever reason, I don't remember, I stopped posting after the great dune at Pilat. Perhaps it was the heat ... there was a heat wave, over 100 F, hot enough that even strangers, behind me in line at 8 am, as I was buying food for lunch, insisted that I stop at noon, get out of the sun, pay attention and be safe. I never stopped that early, but I did start early, and stopped by mid-afternoon.

Biarritz was such fun; it reminded me a bit of Nice, on the Mediterranean where I finished my Paris-Nice ride. Historic, chic, party-town, extremely good food, fun.

I finished up in Hendaye, on the Spanish border. The heat wave had broken, the last day of the ride was drizzly with low visibility. There was no cycling route, for the first time in about 900 miles I was on roads ... roads that were too small for all the hurried, harried, angry drivers. It was no fun and far too stressful. I took the train for the last 15 miles or so into Hendaye. A symmetry there, I think, as the route unexpected began with a train strike.

As I (finally) write this, it has been about six months since I'm back from France. Just about time to return there.

Time shift

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Mon, 19 Jun 2017 17:31:00 +0000

Time compacts, though whether minute by minute or hour by hour, I leave to science. A musician and fellow long-distance rider I met further north said it mushes together. He is correct. I try to grab it, suck in the views, the smells, the efforts and experiences, imprint them on my mind, bury them in my body.

Why, and how, does this happen? I suspect a combination of traveling through time and space, experiencing constantly something new, and travelling with effort. Recently with quite a lot of effort. This isn’t the hardest riding I've done, but it is incrementally hard and that adds up. It is the weight of four bike panniers and a loaded handlebar bag. The past several days it is also the heat, with a notable heatwave here in France.

Mornings always seem to start off lovely. Sleep, food, weather determine the start and thus far I have been lucky in all three. “Road” surfaces kick in, that is to say: it is the surface that counts, I am virtually never on a road. Here, in the south, the surface is often paved, making for easy riding.

Muscles that start off tight loosen up and energy is high. For days now I have ridden along the coast. Sometimes with the Atlantic in view, sometimes in the dunes defining the border between sea and land. Occasionally across those dunes, constantly up and down, hard riding. These dunes are measured by the hundreds, not the tens, of feet. Days are gorgeous, impossibly beautiful, I am so very lucky.

Then, I suppose, the kilometers kick in. Fifty-fifty, Sixty-five. Seventy. The afternoon sun asserts itself. It gets hotter. I get fatigued. The weight on my lovely, dependable, capable bike starts making itself felt.Those are probably the only reasons why the end of the day always feels so much harder. Reasons enough.

Pretty much daily, 75 – 85 k after beginning, I find myself in another campground. Set up my tiny tent, shower, find dinner. Try to grab those memories of the day before they slip into a continuum with previous days. Recently I camped at the astonishing dunes of Pyla, near Arachon.

Tomorrow I continue south, through this constantly changing countryside.

At some point during each of my long rides, my experience of time changes. Pushing pedals around, looking for turns, chatting from time to time with other riders, watching and smelling the world around me, becomes just what I do, what my world is about.

The days pass one after the other, while I try to hold onto each experience. But still I marvel, just when was it that I shared the ferry across the Gironde with those two other cyclists?

NEXT

Travelling

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Fri, 16 Jun 2017 19:42:00 +0000

Odd, or silly, I'm sure: somehow it felt as if I wasn't moving at all.

I knew I was pedaling, but the feeling was as if I was on a stationary bike, the world around me some kind of slowly changing virtual reality or video. Flat, it was very flat. To the horizon in all directions there were fields of wheat, sunflowers, corn. I knew I was moving, but … really?

With no real sense of direction, or of my true location, it felt as isolated as the high remote peaks, and valleys, of the Pyrenees. That is foolishness. Other cyclists were rare, though I saw many signs of aquaculture ...oysters, shrimp, maybe other shellfish.

Continuing sometimes on narrow tracks, sometimes double, my route a rough mixture of white stone and shells, it continued… beautiful slow riding.

The air warm, humid, and so salty I could feel and taste it. Crossing digues … dikes, I think built to manage human's relationship with the sea. Rather than the sea managing us.

Construction blocking the route, with no detour signs. In a marked route of 1250k, normal enough. I circled, searching for a route to continue southward.

And I found great, marshy bird habitat, birds familiar to those at home, but not the same species.

This was the first time in all these years of touring that it felt truly like long-distance riding. It didn't much matter how far I rode. What mattered was continuing to pedal, and continuing to pay close attention to the world I travel through. Because I was indeed moving.

NEXT

The Atlantic

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Tue, 13 Jun 2017 20:43:00 +0000

Beautiful. Or maybe stunning, to be more modern in language.

That is about the best I can do to describe the 92k ride to La-Tranche-sur-Mer, where I lucked on an excellent campsite. Plus, I am too tired to be coherent, I suppose. So, here are some photos of the landscape.

And here are some of the people I saw enroute.

People often tell me they think I'm brave, or courageous, or some such. I am not sure what I think about that, because I don’t feel either thing. But I do think it brave to pull a baby for hundreds and hundreds of miles, as this young couple was.

Tides

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Mon, 12 Jun 2017 20:51:00 +0000

It's true. Unlike my other long rides in France, before beginning this one I did very little reading about the regions I would be passing through. No history books, no memoirs, no travel guides. And no excuses or explanations offered. Plus, this region of France was not embedded in my memory in high school or college classes the way that other regions were. I tell you that to admit that often I do not have a big picture view of quite where I am, geographically. That knowledge is not so needed, because the ride, day by day, brings immense pleasure and its own challenges.

When I arrived at the bridge above, Monique and Pierre were there, cyclists I recognized from the previous night's camping. I was puzzled by the scene in front of me and asked, essentially, what happened to the water in the river? They said: the tide is out. And wow! What tides they are. Not the strongest in France, that honor goes to a region further north, but close. It wasn't so much a river as an estuary, we were so close to the ocean.

I stopped not much later, and enjoyed lunch with this extraordinary view.

The day got long, by happy chance I saw Monique and Pierre again, and they graciously included me in the search for a camp site for the night, stopping at corners to make sure I saw the route and let me catch up.

At the campsite another rider we had seen the night before, Jean-Louis, arrived a bit later, and we enjoyed a filling, impromptu, dinner sharing what we each had to eat.

The next morning we set off for the Passage du Gois. For me it was totally amazing and such fun. I had no idea such a road could exist. When we arrived we waited for about an hour for the tide to drop.

The Passage de Gois was first mentioned on books in the 16th century. But it has been travelled on since long before that. It is a stone-paved causeway (now also sometimes asphalt) that is flooded twice a day by the tide. Passable only for 3 hours, 1-1/2 hour before and after low tide, the rest of the time it is covered by 5 to 13 feet of water.

Signs advise travelers to seek safety on the towers if caught unawares by the tide.

Seaweeds attach to the roadbed and even when I was there at very low tide the water crept up the roadway.

Residents venture out to collect shellfish.

I had no idea what the day's ride would bring ... such a delight!

NEXT

Art and bikes along the Loire

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Fri, 09 Jun 2017 20:49:00 +0000

If you had asked me a few days ago how I imagined the Loire, I would have mentioned huge historic chateaux, and of course vineyards and fine wine. Now I would mention a humorous active support of public art, and working ports with industry.

This house in the Loire, intentionally tilting, is the work of artist Jean-Luc Courcoult, and according to the artist is imaginary ...because it introduces a dream like quality into people's lives ... realism, grounded in reality.

Imagine the enormous bicycles that require bicycle stands as big as these! Never this big, there were bicycles everywhere, with many many loaded touring bikes. More than I have ever seen.

There was a free bac .... ferry ... to cross the Loire. That is a wide long river, muddier than the Rhone where I have seen it. I am not sure, but it may be the longest river in France. With the Rhone, one of the most historic.

It seems that everyone offers to help everyone else. I stopped on the side of the road for lunch, a couple coming the other direction saw my bike on the ground but not my sandwich and stopped to make sure all was ok. People have approached me several times to offer directions and assistance when they have seen me looking at a map. And several times it has really helped! I have done the same occasionally though I am not in a position to be much help. I have managed to learn a few lessons about route finding without making any major blunders.

I am now south of the Loire, in a 3-star campsite where my site has glimpses of the Atlantic. The end of today's ride took me past the two places in these last photos.

C'est quoi? What?!!?

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Wed, 07 Jun 2017 19:30:00 +0000

There is always something to look at here, frequently beautiful whether big or small, and always interesting.

The last several days have continued to follow the canal Nantes-Brest, which is considerably more fun than the Canal du Midi where I rode in 2009. That is because this is more open … more views out and around. Plus, the riding surface is much better, without huge sycamore roots providing constant bumps. The exception proves the rule.

There are all kinds of boats.

The route was sometimes marked Barré. Closed. Like most cyclists, I understand that to mean closed to something, but not to bicycles. Without worry, I continue on my designated route. Then I arrived at a bright yellow and black tape closing the canal path. I could see another, about 150 meters on. I could see no problem, no disruption. Should I disregard it and duck under? But, there were two gendarmes, and a police van with a blinking blue light, to the side of the canal path. Reason, or age, took over and I went to talk to them.

This is my best approximation in English of our conversation in French:

“Good afternoon gentlemen, I need to continue to Josselin, is there another route?

Yes turn right continue to just beyond the lake, turn left then again left, then right again.

There is no little road, just go through the field?

Yes.

But why is the canal path closed? I don't see anything.

There is a grenade. It was just found today.

Yaooschkkk! Did you say a grenade? A grenade? How did it get here?

It is a grenade left from the Second World War.”

I have read about this, but never imagined to see it. They told me it isn't completely unusual. Unusual enough for this rider.

NEXT

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Voie Verts and Canals

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Mon, 05 Jun 2017 20:48:00 +0000

Travelling by bike, the route, the bike, my fitness, and of course the weather determine the experience.

The route: 800 miles from northwest Bretagne to the frontier with Spain. My bike: strong, stable, capable Papillon. The fitness: blah, bad. The weather: it will do what it will.

The route is flat, but long. I need to average 40 to 45 miles a day to complete my trip on time to make my train back to Paris. On a fully loaded bike, riding a rough surface not always paved, with not such good fitness, this is a challenge.

But the route. I have spent three days riding first along an abandoned train right of way, then along the Canal Nantes-Brest and am now about 120 miles south of my starting point. With far more days it would be so sweet to make photo studies of the architecture.

Along the railways, train stations in every town with a stop. Now sometimes abandoned, sometimes with a newly devised life.

And the canals. At each écluse, or lock, there is a small house. Once the residence of the lockmaster, some are now serving other purposes (often holiday rentals) some are unoccupied.

And between those functional, historic, buildings, nature filled with birds who I do not recognize, but whose songs are so beautiful.

Humans enjoying the route in these tourist wagons.

This donkey patiently carried his human's gear, reminding me of Robert Louis Stevenson's book,Travels with A Donkey, about his walk in the Cevennes.

Beginnings

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Fri, 02 Jun 2017 16:28:00 +0000

After two lovely days spent in Paris visiting friends, walking, eating, and generally soaking up Paris, early today I took the train to the beginning of this year's tour. This ride will take me from Roscoff, on the northwest coast of Brittany, about 800 miles south to Hendaye, on the Spanish border.

Most of you know that I believe in acting, in living, based on principles. The principle involved here? To begin at the beginning. In order to do that, I bought a ticket on the TGV, a very fast train, to Morlaix, located about 15 miles inland from Roscoff, with a connection on the slower TER to that coastal town. After arriving in Roscoff I would begin at the beginning and ride directly back to Morlaix, the town with the connection, where I was to stay the night.

Most of you also know that I love France. Really love France. That's a good thing, because upon arriving in Morlaix there was no train today to Roscoff. Why? Guess. It's France. A strike! As one says you've got to love it.

So. My choice for the principle: ride my bike to Roscoff, since there was no train. Then ride immediately back to Morlaix. Or abandon the principle and investigate Morlaix a little. Put the mirror and lights on my bike. Pick up a few things I need. Enjoy a leisurely dinner and an early to bed after lovely late nights in Paris.

I stayed in Morlaix. The bicycle ride will begin in the morning. That turned out to be a very good thing, because I had left my guidebook to the route, Le Vélodyssée in Paris. Hard to imagine, I know, but true. Luckily there was a good independent bookstore in town, and they had a copy. I didn't know when I bought it how important finding that open bookstore would turn out to be.

Thursday, Collioure

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 15 May 2016 15:37:00 +0000

Part Two: Something has happened to me. Though maybe that tense is wrong, maybe I should write: something is happening to me. Part two.

Wednesday night my plan for the next day, Thursday, was to cycle to Ceret. The weather was forecast to be fine, I have not been on my bike, and I would like to see Ceret, a village in the Pyrenees Orientales. It is a ride of something less than 25 miles, probably 45 miles round trip, with very little climbing by Berkshire standards. Part of the draw to that town is the fine museum, respected for its collection of painters known collectively as Les Fauves, including Derain, Cezanne, Picasso. Cherries: Ceret is also famous for its delicious, first-of-the-season cherries. Typically May is cherry season, but the spring is late and chilly, and I have yet to see any.

Thursday morning. I woke early by my French standard, made coffee, ate something, showered, dressed, took a look at the sky, took a look at the map. Stopped, and took another look at the sky. It was almost that startling blue Collioure is famous for. Not quite, it has been wet and moisture remains in the air. Still, very blue. Things started shifting. I started making excuses, they went like this:

"Oh, but my nagging painful hip, I don't want to aggravate it again. Oh, but look at those red roads, (Departementales, a map designation) they might be busy, with cars whizzing by. Oh, look at those towns I will need to find way through. Oh, perhaps if one of my Berkshire cycling buddies was here with me.

I took another look at the sky. Not a cloud. Clear. Saturated blue. Now all of those things are true, of course. None really gives me a moment's pause, except the hip, an issue that doesn't disappear.

But, whatever my brain's chatter and expectations, the fact nonetheless emerged: I wanted to continue yesterday's quiet reflective pace. Wanted to walk along the Mediterranean. That was the heart and truth of it. My changed intentions had nothing to do with that chattering brain's excuses. My real desire was to walk along the sea, where I knew there was a path, sometimes high on the cliffs, sometimes at water's edge.

Thursday, I didn't get on the bike. I walked.

It isn't lazy that I feel. Maybe it is calm. Maybe it is an enveloping lack of ambition. It feels like a question of time and space, of a desire to hold on to, and make the most of this quieter experience. This possibly changing understanding of ways to live in the world. Dan Klein's book Travels with Epicurus, which I read last winter, lingers in my thoughts.

As I sat I remembered how the sound and sight of the sea so deeply quiets me. The smell plays a part also, here more subtly. The Atlantic has a strong, pervasive, salty smell that I associate with the ocean. The scent of the Mediterranean is milder, sometimes almost unnoticeable. Being at the shore is a rare experience for me these days, and it has a strong effect, one I have recognized for at least 30 years

I waded in the water: it was not cold, but not warm enough to be inviting for a swim. Sitting again, my feet became sunburnt, as did the back of my neck. I became hungry: lunchtime had passed, hours had passed. It was time to move. I returned by the same path to Collioure.

So I walked. The sentier, trail, was not as long as I hoped, though it was stunningly beautiful. The route effectively ended at a small sheltered beach 2 or 3 km from town, the way forward closed, with a sign marked: Dangerous! Do not proceed!

When I arrived at that beach around 10:30, my presence made a total of 3 people on the gravelly sand. For the next three or four hours the total human count varied at any moment from 3 to 15 . Most were walkers like me, but they paused only a few moments, then turned back, returning by the same route. Others arrived from the nearby campground, towels, beach gear in hand, and stayed longer.

Lunch was at a cafe next to the cove near my apartment. Everything in that cove is under the windmill, which itself is below the medieval fort. They sky turned grey, the wind picked up, the rain returned and I returned to the shelter of that apartment.

This trip itself is definitively changing itinerary, not being totally about the cycling as my trips to France have been. The change remains a bit odd to me, and not totally intended.

Wednesday, Collioure

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Thu, 12 May 2016 21:03:00 +0000

Something has happened to me. Though maybe that tense is wrong, maybe I should write: something is happening to me.

Thunderstorms were promised for the afternoon yesterday, and rain was dripping a bit in the morning. It was Wednesday, market day here in Collioure, and I wanted to arrive before the line for roasted chicken was too long, before the bread was sold out. Also, it was a good morning to buy a train ticket, and coffee, to do a few other chores.

The forecast made me glad I had made the long walk to the castle and Port Vendre yesterday. The same forecast made me, again today, not plan a bike ride into the surrounding hills. Tomorrow promised sunny, dry skies, until late afteroon. I thought: back on the bike tomorrow. There is a small town, Ceret, with a great art museum, about 25 miles west of here that I hope to visit.

After market, conscious that my goal is to slow down, to reflect, relax, I walked the streets, glancing into galleries and gift shops, though I'm not much of a shopper. The colors of the houses were much brighter in the morning light than I have previously seen them, the hills running down to the sea were charming.

The town economy is clearly tourist-based, but not in that internationally familiar, overwhelmingly so, sort of way. No high rises. The tourist atmosphere here is very much tempered by town history. Artists such Picasso, Matisse, Derain lived here in the 20th century and influence an arts culture continuing to this day. There remains something of an ongoing, though greatly lessened, culture and economy of anchovies. Less than over the nearby Spanish border, still this is a Catalan town; if you listen you will hear the language. Protected no doubt by smart zoning laws, aimed at retaining the historic nature of the town, Collioure retains something of its history as a fishing village and trading port. It is a lovely place in May to walk and to think.

I settled in to watch the world go by. Whether or not there is any deep genetic significance, boys little and big alike throw stones into water. As I sat, the promised rain arrived, and I hurried back to the apartment for a late lunch. Market chicken, tapenade, heirloom tomatos, fennel, anchovies. Yum.

The sun returned, stronger now in late afternoon and I went out, back to the nearby swimming cove, with its cafes and benches. I sat for awhile and then noticed that as the sun moved lower and west in the sky, it was stronger on the far side of the cove, the area protected from the wind, with four benches. On three of the four benches older women sat, one per bench, looking comfortable, relaxed, reading in the afternoon sun.

I joined them on the fourth bench. Very soon, I too relaxed. Wrote a bit. Read the book I found in my apartment. Helpfully, and unusually, it is a book about the process of writing. Thought. Reflected. Calmed down. Chilled some would say. Felt more in place. Somehow I think it was there, that moment, sitting with the three other older women, though their company went unacknowledged and unrecognized, when the excellent advice of my friend George became operating reality. He had told me just before I left the States: (paraphrased) yes, go, reflect, think, and write it down. Do it again, but remember write it down. Relax, pay attention, and remember to write it down. Write your thoughts, your ideas onto paper.

I realised that for the first time since I've been here, I wasn't trying to relax, I was relaxed. I was't thinking I should write, I was writing. Equally important, I wasn't judging my writing, analysing it, looking at it much, I was just doing it, regardless of what resulted on the page.

Storm clouds blew back in, I listened for a few minutes to distant thunder approaching. Then, quickly, I returned again to my nearby apartment, big drops falling on me as I neared the building. Thunder blasted. I rushed indoors.

Mediterranean

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Tue, 10 May 2016 14:27:00 +0000

The Mediterranean. The name of a sea that for me has long conjured up romantic images, romantic associations. Blue, startlingly blue skies over unbelievably blue water; fragrant herbs; thyme and rosemary, growing alongside little roads; warm dry temperatures, often hot in the summer. People continuously living here for far more than 2000 years, finally the Greeks, then Romans, leaving their history, culture, ideas, parts of their language, remnants of their buildings and roads. I could mention the food. Fish that I love, and shellfish. Garlic and tomatos, peppers and eggplant. Olive oil, olives. Wine. In some ways, it is not that sea I am now by the side of, though it is the same sea.

It is not of the Mediterranean of film festivals, of the chic Riviera, that I dream. It is, I know, the Mediterranean of my imagination, though I have found something of it in less popular, less developed places, sometimes protected parkland, near Arles, Montpellier, Narbonne.

I am now in Collioure, a pastel-colored town, hills from the Pyrenees running down to the sea, with an economy once powered by fishing. The anchovies are still completely, absolutely delicious. Fresh, white, served with Catalan flavors of olive oil and peppers, or with flavors of lemon and white wine. Or on fougassa, similar to the pissaladiere I so enjoy further east on the coast. The economy now powered by tourism, as is so often the case, both here in southern France and at home in the Berkshires where I live.

But the Mediterranean. For three days now, the famous blue sky of Collioure, painted by Picasso, who is buried here, Matisse, and so many others has been grey, heavy, low. I write this not with complaint, but with appreciation and acknowledgement. I am safe and sound in a lovely apartment, a block from the sea, with broom blooming yellow outside my window, the plants blowing hard sideways in the wind. It rains. I sit comfortably inside reading, relaxing, reflecting. For that is what I need this trip. But from time to time, all these three days, I go out for walks, to get some air, some activity, to stretch. Relaxing, stilling myself mentally and physically, does not come easily or last long. It is something I would like to learn.

This afternoon, I walked in the rain, in the wind. The rain sometimes misty and soft, other times drenching, yet still soft. It wasn't so cold, and my feet walked on solid ground. The stone walkway around the old fort was closed, the sea too high over it. The little swimming cove had breakers four deep rolling in. It was certainly never dangerous, never even so uncomfortable, just wet.

Early afternoon I walked past a highly recommended restaurant, but feeling alone I guess, or maybe just feeling a stranger, I didn't go in. I walked near the sea, watching, thinking. Watching that roiling sea, watching water breaking white over rocks, even in the quite protected cove, I thought of people, people in small boats, not so very far to the east of here, trying to escape the destruction of their ancient civilization, people trying to get away from destroyed old cities, from war, to get to a nearby place, Europe, that shares so very much of their history and culture. This is not a big storm, but still I saw the Mediterranean then as a dangerous place, not so unlike the Atlantic, harsh, unforgiving in a storm to people in small boats.

As I walked back past the restaurant I stopped, took off my wet jacket, shook it out, and went in. I was glad I did. It was warm, a tiny bit steamy even, so I could also take off the wool jacket I wore under that raincoat. The restaurant was small, clean, walls in places painted white and smooth, in others made of light-colored stone and concrete, the kitchen open. The conversation was quiet, calm and friendly amongst the other diners. The food was delicious, I ate mussels, then calamari, all local I am sure. Whatever I had felt, a bit of a stranger, a bit alone, was gone.

Girona

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Wed, 04 May 2016 20:35:00 +0000

Things I have not seen before:

That is a very lot of solar cells, on the side of the building. My lens wasn't wide enough to capture them all.

Riders at home talk about climbing "the wall," a category of climb that seems to have no designated specific duration or grade. This riderless bike is doing just that.

Finally, while I do not know this species of duck, they were enjoying each other's company far more than this still shot captures. The color differential between the two was greater than usually seen. Larry?

Montpellier and Girona

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Mon, 02 May 2016 20:05:00 +0000

Last night in Montpellier: a little hill to challenge a little rider.

The beginning of bike trips are often busy for me, and jetlagged, and while this has been easier than many, still it has been occupied. One of my hopes for this particular little adventure is to slow down, think, observe, not be as goal driven as I have become. Thanks for that, to good friends at home and their good advice.

Some photos for you, I have as yet done no riding.

Last night in Montpellier, a city I am very fond of, and to which I will return in a few weeks. The big square, Place de la Comédie, at night: well lit, and blue.

Today I took the train from Montpellier to Girona, where I was meeting friends who live in Paris, to ride and see a bit of Catalonia. After that I aim for Collioure, over the border back in France. From there I hope to ride north, into the Mediterranean Pyrenees and then across to Montpellier. I kept a keen eye out the train window, both to the sea and to the north. It took only one look at this mountain to change my plan. My apologies for the poor photo quality, the image was taken through the moving train window. I had planned to ride, then hike, up Canigou, an important and beautiful mountain to Catalonians in Spain and France, with a very old abbaye. But S.T.O.P. look at that snow! No way do I want to ride there ... really truly hard, most especially with snow, is not on the itinerary.

And many thanks, should they see this, to these new friends from the Barcelona and Madrid areas. They boarded the train in Perpignan to return home after a tour in France. We got to talking, and they helped me so, with steps and new-to-me train systems. They told me the time to ride Canigou is July to September ... not now. One of the very best things about traveling by bike is meeting other riders, even in brief encounters, and finding that thread of common experience that ties us together. The planet needs more of that.

I am now arrived in Girona, a medieval Catalan city near France and near the Mediterranean. It will be fun to explore! And I learned another thing. My French is by no means fluent, although I get by. But there is nothing like being in a country where I speak, well maybe 12 words, the most useful of which are "Hola. No hablo espagnol." to make my French feel quite excellent. I learned that the language spoken here is not in fact Spanish, but Catalan. I came to think that many residents prefer speaking English to Spanish, though since I speak neither Catalan nor Spanish that is only an impression.

Friday Photos: The Big Wheel

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Thu, 04 Feb 2016 23:12:00 +0000

February 2016, Place de la Concorde, Paris, a completely unaltered image.

Doors, behind doors

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Thu, 04 Feb 2016 08:49:00 +0000

The streets of Paris are so vibrant, full of life and culture, beautiful and fascinating. I suppose one could think of it as the public surface of life here. For a fleeting insight, it is always interesting to peek into the courtyard spaces behind the closed doors, if they are open to walk in for a look. When public spaces, to take a good look.

Behind some doors in the Marais

And the most grand yesterday, once a private home, now the Musée Jacquemart-André

Signs, Paris

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Tue, 02 Feb 2016 19:42:00 +0000

For the fun of it, here are a few photos from today's walk. I love it when old signs remain, but the character and contents of the store changes. Sometimes the signs are truly old, hundreds of years old, but not these.

And though there are some cyclists I know, admire, like and respect out there (you know who you are!) who think there are Italian bikes to ride other than Pinarello, and some others who think there are American bikes to ride other than Cannondale, I know differently, and I took these bikes (the only two brands in the showroom) as a message directly from the gods of cycling in France to me. Clearly important, even though I am not doing anything cycling-related whatsoever this trip. (Do not believe any of the malarkey from my expert that appeared in my last post.)

Paris, February 2016

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Mon, 01 Feb 2016 17:41:00 +0000

An expert I know asked "Why no posts from you?" To which I replied "Mine is a cycling blog."

Then I learned this from him, judge for yourself. "You are doing the chapter that you often skip: Pre-cultural acclimatization, which strengthens the cyclist's ability to overcome physical barriers in the environment of the specific upcoming event. It must be done 8-10 weeks prior to peaking for the main event so the body, when training is continued, will naturally adapt an affinity to the particular ecological and geological ecosystem the cyclist faces. Paris only counts as a 7 in a 1 to 10 scale, but it is significantly better than zero. It is, though, a 7 that covers 15% of the training plan."

Here are some photos for you, but no photo I take will ever come close to doing this extraordinary and so very beautiful city justice.

Friday Photos: Barred Owl

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Fri, 01 Jan 2016 21:37:00 +0000

Wintry weather arrived Tuesday with a storm of sleet, snow, and freezing rain, leaving about an inch of icy surface on the ground. Grass, dirt and rocks peek through, allowing the mice and other small rodents to scurry around.

Wednesday early afternoon there was a quiet tap, tap on the window near my reading chair. A glance out revealed the chickadee, and I decided to take the odds that the bears are hibernating, and put up the bird feeders for the winter season. The chickadees found them immediately, and they spread the news quickly. Today alongside the large flock of chickadees, we also had blue jays, white breasted nuthatches, juncos, a titmouse, a downy woodpecker. A bit later in the day I saw this barred owl in a tree a few hundred feet away, the wind ruffling its feathers a bit. Owls sometimes visit bird feeders, especially in hard winters, hunting both small songbirds and the small rodents that visit bird feeders for the seed that falls to the ground.

Friday Photos: Details

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Sun, 25 Oct 2015 23:54:00 +0000

There is something about a mist that brings the focus in close. First, of course, you literally can't see far, vision's distance is limited, the world becomes more intimate. Less literally, when world events seem dismal or just so sad, keeping the gaze close, focusing tightly on the world at hand, can bring beauty. And with beauty can come a calmer mind, perhaps even reassurance, hope.

Today Susan and I set aside our bikes, and walked the woods at Notchview, a Trustees of Reservations property, where we ski in the winter.

I was struck by the texture of the close at hand, the world immediately in front of me, the beauty found in the minutae of the natural world. Mine is a forested world where even without mist, long views are few and far between. Many fields, cleared in the 1800s, are now grown again into woodlands.

Lichen, algae, moss clinging to, perhaps even thriving on rock. Trees, covered with tiny intensely green mosses, reminding me of ancient clubmoss, with mushrooms growing alongside. Bark, splitting apart or gnarled, so beautiful on its own. We were startled by the toad, who stopped, posed so very still, no doubt convinced that by not moving he became safe, invisible. It is true that it was his motion that brought my gaze to him, his motion that made him vulnerable.

But wait, you say: mine is a cycling blog, right? I can think of three ways to link this post to cycling: tell you that I am reading a book by David Downe called "Paris to the Pyrenees" in which he claims that it was Nietzsche who said "That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger." Silly me, I had thought it was a cycling coach who said that, never thought of Nietzsche.

Or I could tell you that this is weather is calling for a mountain bike and sheltered routes. But I don't ride a mountain bike.

Or thirdly, that I bid you adieu until spring brings the return of the riding season. I am not yet ready for that.

So, until next week.

October Ride

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Sun, 18 Oct 2015 21:48:00 +0000

October in New England. Colorful, beautiful, gorgeous trees, blue skies, clear hilltop views. There's a picture, sometimes accurate.

I keep Metéo Arles on my desktop, don't ask me why: I am probably in wishful thinking land, or maybe denial. It is true that Mediterranean weather might influence my outlook. Today's Berkshire forecast: mostly sunny, high low 40s. Good weather for an autumn ride up to North Pond in Savoy with cycling buddy Susan.

The reality: snow-sleet squalls, each flake that hit our exposed faces as we sped downhill feeling like tiny violent needles. On the way back uphill, before the next descent, I thought it would be a smart idea to zip up my jacket. We stopped. The photo looks out of focus and fuzzy. The world looked out of focus and fuzzy.

Soon enough, the sun came out. We continued, stopping to admire this handsome goat tethered on the side of the road.

We were headed to North Pond in Savoy, both of us feeling a bit sluggish... the 35 degree temperatures and wind? Riding our bikes with wider, more stable tires, me back on sturdy Papillon, my touring bike? Winter weather setting in, our metabolisms slowing down? A mystery. It was cold, and we thought of stopping for tea, but the sun returned and we turned north.

These beautiful black horses are not Merens, a breed of the Pyrenees, but they are surely handsome. And those white specks are not dandruff, but snowflakes.

Some miles further the snow squalls returned, our feet were as numb as our hands, and we turned back to find a cup of hot tea at the Savoy General Store.

Friday Photos: Double Trouble

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Sat, 17 Oct 2015 14:45:00 +0000

Over half a lifetime ago when a very young woman I discovered the pleasures of hiking, and ever since walking has remained a great joy. Overtaken by cycling, I still walk from time to time, though in a different fashion from my twenties.

Then, my preference was always to search out wilderness, those most wild places where the hand of man was least evident. Those days, I didn't worry about carrying 35 or 45 pounds on my back, walking 25 or more miles a day, climbing to passes high in the Rockies or Sierra. Those days, my friend Larry said to me: "Suze, you are the only person I know who thinks it is fun to walk uphill in the rain carrying a heavy pack." I laughed then, understanding what he meant. No longer!

Now I walk shorter distances, without the heavy pack, watching the light, paying attention to the mood.

Now when walking I often seek out places where the human hand has left remnants of previous culture or use. These places are interesting, often beautiful, when originally built in a conscious, deliberate, exacting way. They testify to the local history of the area. I find those places most often in France where its long rich history informs the landscape. Far more rarely, I find a mix of wild landscape marked by previous human use here at home.

Cycling. Walking. There is something about the rhythmic, repeated physical effort of putting one foot in front of the other, or pushing one pedal after the other, moving through time and space that if paid attention to, is so incredibly pleasurable. Powered by my own energy, close to the sounds, smells, appearances of the world surrounding me, my mental state changes, somehow becoming more aware, more present, more open and relaxed. Certainly more focused on the exact place and moment. My head calms down, stops racing all over the place, stops trying to understand everything, every moment of experience. The cluttered, noisy, busy-ness of my every day world drops away, and it feels a different world, one I would like inhabit more often.

Adding a friend to a hike, or a ride, adds the possibility of conversation. Some of the most memorable conversations I have had with friends and family have been while walking. Somehow the rhythm of the walk, pace after pace, informs the rhythm of the conversation, which so naturally becomes comfortable, intimate. Topics wander, sometimes focusing on a discovery just at hand, a stream or a bird, sometimes morphing into the realm of ideas or philosophies.

But I ruminate. Last weekend was Columbus Day (I won't get into that nomenclature just now) which I traditionally spend with Larry, who writes at Birds and Words, and Shari. When we get to see each other, Larry and I walk. Our paces are well matched, sometimes fast, sometimes lingering. Saturday afternoon we visited Double Trouble State Park, new to me. I expected to enjoy the walk, to see birds not common at home. I very much looked forward to another walk with him, another chance to visit, catch up on our lives. I did not expect to find the hand of man in the place, the human history, the beautiful patina. What I did find caught my attention, didn't let it go. My binoculars were over my shoulder, but not my camera. We returned the next morning to repeat the same two-mile walk, when the light was low from the east, and my camera with me.

Located in the Pine barrens, the park at Double Trouble is built around an abandoned cranberry farm, with a sawmill, sorting house, and worker housing, not to mention a schoolhouse, store, and other buildings needed in a bustling, isolated, company town. The buildings seem to be in good shape, not derelict, almost as if waiting for a cranberry operation to start back up. It didn't feel like a museum, perhaps because of the presence of nature all about.

The bogs were shaped by the water of Cedar Creek, which was directed and organized for cultivating cranberries. Sometimes we could hear the water channeled underground to cross a roadway, sometimes water was crossed by bridges. It was always close by.

Cranberrries were cultivated there from the 1860s, but abandoned in the 20th century, and in the mid 1960s the state of New Jersey purchased the area to protect it. Then in 2012 the entire area was hit hard by hurricaine Sandy. This corduroy road is newly built, probably to clear out and clean up damage from the storm. Morning mist gave it an ephemeral quality.
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A tremendous effort must have been put in to restore hiking routes after the storm. They are now beautiful and offer excellent walking.

Together, all combined to create an extraordinary experience .... the pleasures combined of walking, conversation, friendship, discovery, history, light. Truly a gift of a day!

Friday Photos

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Sat, 26 Sep 2015 01:36:00 +0000

Just now the world around me changes more than my routes do. Plant life cycles seem to proceed more quickly as the fall advances, hastening toward fruition before the freeze up of winter arrives. Though they seemed more static in the summer, that must be more a reflection of the focus of my gaze, my lack of real attention, than of the life cycle of the plant. Perhaps the very abundance of summer's height encourages a gaze more general, or is it a gaze more fleeting? Perhaps as the leaves begin to drop, plants to die back, I am more directly present. But, it is true that I am actually trying to pay more attention, to be more here, more wherever it is that I am. It is perhaps a combination of season and intention.

Certainly though, earlier in the year the jack in the pulpit plant might have been missed by someone cycling by. The seeds won't be missed now. Curious how, as the plant withers and disappears, its seeds become flamboyant, vivid next to the nearby wild ginger and ferns.

The grasses at water's edge glow with the morning light, their colors richer than earlier in the year. Or am I seeing them with a different eye?

And there are apples everywhere. Sometimes smelled before seen, as they rot and ferment on the side of the road; sometimes breaking tree branches under the weight of such abundance. Sometimes invading porches, finding repose there, like this one under the bike.

Nature Reclaims Culture

noreply@blogger.com (Suze) — Sun, 20 Sep 2015 22:57:00 +0000

September has been glorious for cycling here in the Berkshires, and today's ride was just about as perfect as it gets. Towards the end, we used River Road, a candidate for some kind of prize in my intermittent nature reclaims culture series.

I suppose the sign at the start of this section of today's route provides guidance of a sort to rigs far larger than ours, in deciding whether to turn off the busy highway and down the road, or go the long way around. Knowing the road well, the sign made me laugh.

Though I suspect, no matter how many wheels under the truck's load, a "road closed" sign would provide more valuable guidance.