Riding an average of more than 1,000 miles per day has really taken a toll on my body.  I know all you younger cyclists are rolling your eyes and laughing right now at such measly mileage.  I get it, I used to laugh at elderly bikers too.  Just remember one thing:  someday your arms and legs and backs and brains are going to get old too and a thousand miles won't be so easy anymore.  Then you'll be laughing on the other sides of your faces.  TAKE THAT!

 A rest day has been on my agenda for the past week, and Paris seemed like the perfect city in which to take one.  Its history dates all the way back to the 1920's when Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Stein, Joyce, Dos Passos, etc. roamed the streets and cafes of the left bank and wrote some of the greatest French literature of all time.  Gertrude Stein called it "The Lost Generation."  [See Footnotes]

Normally, it WOULD have been the perfect city for a break, but I arrived at the wrong time.  There are some big protests going on and the noise interrupted my sleep.  Apparently, French workers are not happy with a new law that raises the age for retirement benefits from 62 to 64.

I stand with the workers.  And I am thankful every single day that I was lucky enough to be able to retire before the age of 65.  And when I say "lucky," I mean really and truly LUCKY--thanks to my company's stock plan.

I rode away from my campsite with a belly full of leftover boeuf bourguignon.  Soon, I was seeing the demonstrations that I heard all night.  It was frightening.  They were yelling.  I don't like yelling.  I think I heard some French swear words directed at the French President.

All that chaos convinced me that I had to leave this country no matter how tired my body was.  I rode up to an elderly French couple and said, "Hello, old ones.  There is too much unrest here in your country.  Could you direct me to a more peaceful European land?"

"Oui, monsieur," replied the gentleman wearing a beret, "ride up to Belgium and turn right.  Before long, you'll be in Ukraine."

"Yes, you will enjoy the peace and serenity of Ukraine," added his wife.

See what I mean?  The French are in no way condescending toward ignorant Americans.  I appreciated their advice and I couldn't wait to get to the garden of Eden that is the Ukraine. 

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I made it to the Ukraine.  It has some great scenery.  I walked into the first motel I saw just as a loud whistling sound went by.  The sound was followed by a loud explosion. 

"I'd like to get a room for tonight," I told the owner.

"Sure, here's the key."

"What's the nightly rate?"

"Um, five U.S. dollars," replied the owner nervously, "I don't care, just take the whole building . . . it doesn't matter . . . the Russians are coming!!!" With that, he ran outside and down the street, leaving me to fend for myself.

I settled into my room and turned on the TV.   I was looking forward to seeing some repeats of Everybody Loves Raymond or The Office.  All I got was a fuzzy screen.  There wasn't even a strong wi-fi signal.  And there were loud booms all night.  And there was no ice in the ice machine.  Worst of all, there was no breakfast plan for tomorrow morning. 

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[Footnote #1:  Someday, I may be considered one of the giants of "The NEW Lost Generation." That's because I got lost in Paris many times.  Man, the layout of those streets is messed up.]

[Footnote #2: My editors have informed me that the history of Paris extends further back than the 1920's.  It's up for debate, I guess.]

[Footnote #3:  My editors butted in again.  They mentioned Rabelais, Hugo, Rousseau, Balzac, Proust, Stendhal and a few other dudes that should be mentioned when considering the greatest French literature of all time.  Sorry, but who the heck are those guys?]