Life is not blessed for cyclists. I mean, it is from the point of view of the cyclist - he thinks looking like a cyclist is the most desirable thing in the world - but society finds cyclists odd.

But then you would, wouldn't you? Who other than a fetishist would spend all day in Lycra? Who would cover himself in advertising for faraway companies of which he knows little? Who would suffer a tan that, brown to mid-arm and mid-leg, makes you look as though you've crawled through brown paint?

Who would think it normal to have that bulge in his shorts (most of it padding, I'm afraid) that my mother could bring herself to say only that it was "cheeky"?

And who else would walk like a duck?

That's what cyclists do, walk like a duck. Their stiff-soled shoes have no heel but a great wedge of plastic beneath the sole that clicks on the pedals. For cycling, they are perfect: you glide like a duck through water. For walking, they are disastrous: you become a duck that walks.

Bernard Menou knows about that. Bernard doesn't sell cycling shoes but he does sell shoes, from shops in the Pyrenean town of Jurançon. Except that he's not selling them right now because, a handful of days ahead of me, he too is crossing America from the Atlantic to the Pacific

Bernard and I have met only once but we have become friends through e-mail. And a curious thing has happened: between us we have acquired a pond of fellow ducks. None has met all the others and I am the only one to have corresponded with the rest. Nevertheless, we shall meet and spend several days together.

Now, you'll have to follow this carefully.

I have a friend in Seattle called Rick, who edited a book I wrote decades ago for American cyclists. By chance, also in Seattle, I have a friend called Mark. I have never met Mark but we have been writing since he asked a question on the internet about French trains. Mark is a cyclist and he has ridden a lot of the Transamerica Trail. When Bernard needed information, it was Mark's e-mail address that I gave him. They have been in touch ever since.

Rick doesn't know Mark but Mark knows where Rick lives and Rick used to pass Mark's house on the way to sessions as an Irish fiddler.

Neither Rick nor Mark nor Bernard, know Bill.

Bill is Californian. I haven't met him either but, again, we've been in e-mail touch about cycling and the world and its problems. Clearly, my insights thrilled him because he is flying from California to join the rest of us in Seattle.

Bill knows a man called Jim who runs a bike shop in Tacoma, in southern Seattle. I will stay with Jim before going on to stay with Rick. I will be giving a talk at his shop. I don't know whether Jim will join the rest of us - Mark's wife Lindi, Bill's wife Carol and Bernard's wife Hélène will all also be there - but it's going to be a crowd if he does.

One reason Bill and I get on is that we both like trains. So when I leave Seattle on the train for Chicago, Bill and Carol will come part of the way. They don't know where to yet but that doesn't matter. Not to a cyclist.

When you walk like a duck, dress like a fetishist and have a tan like an army tank, getting halfway across America with no clear plan what to do next is nothing.

(Le coin-coin du coin: the neighbourhood quack-quack)