September 2, 2011
In a forest, a basket seller, indecision on the edge of town, a high speed train and a highway.
The second of September already and I'm making good progress. I write this evening sitting at a picnic table in a forest called "Foret de Blois" near namesake city Blois on the Loire river. I am right by a forest road, the picnic table is in a clearing alongside, the forest at this level is otherwise impenetrable bramble. It's quite exciting to be crossing the Loire in the morning, it's a kind of milestone. Meanwhile this evening I'm waiting until dark to put up my tent as there are lots of joggers hereabouts and a forestry pick-up truck has just passed.
This is a country of ancient forests; plots of native broad leaf trees which have survived human encroachment. They are a tranquil place with years of fallen leaves providing a soft underlie. Two wood pigeons presently can be heard, one in a treetop nearby, it's other half quite away away echos the hooting call. And apart from the panting jogger there's the odd twig crack of some animal.
The last couple of days I've been cycling south east, getting on the road as the sky glows red through hedgerows and trees and onwards the sun glares horizontally making me squint and shade my eyes. Although cycling on D roads, this morning there were lots of long articulated lorries, but not to worry as they all slowed behind me waiting until the coast was clear, then passed giving me a wide berth. I was looking forward to the first stop of the day, usually I plan on stopping at around ten o'clock, at about this time I had just ridden through Chateau Villiere where on the way out of town I saw a SuperU supermarche. It was warming up already. Yes, I've left the cool weather behind as I ride inland and now everyday is warm, like South America again and Is looking forward to a cool drink.
I bough pasta twists, the pasta being egg enriched is better in France, also the small jar of bolognese sauce with bits of veg and mince meat is a complete sauce, a complete meal. I don't buy much else besides, bread croissants, fruit, coke and such as everything is so dear. Walking back out to warm sunshine, a portly Romany woman selling woven straw baskets confronted me. Other than frowning, I didn't have language to say I wasn't interested in being seen cycling across France with a big basket on the bike. She remained firm in her desire to sell even though I showed no interest. Then a teenage son turned up. He spoke passable English and asked where Is from and had I cycled the whole way here to which I said I did. He looked in wonderment at me and at my bike again then let me be to enjoy the moment in the shade drinking a cold beer.
I've been suffering saddle irritation. The problem I first thought to be caused by the new tyres being narrower, unlike the old which where fat and plush. But the saddle can't be ruled out, it's one of those, those narrow ones that come on off the peg competition type bikes. My other bike is a hybrid and came with a broader more cushioned saddle. The present saddle is the type which makes non-cyclist friends wince and say the proverbial looks painful, to which I shrug my shoulders and say something like it's not supposed to be an armchair. The truth be known, it is a saddle for the cycling athlete type or wannabe that don't bear down as much on their posterior, that get more into the pedaling, that lean forward over the handlebars more unlike either the leisure or touring cyclist, that sit more upright with much of the weight on the saddle. The backside therefore is especially vulnerable when riding all day every day. The other contribution to my distress it seems is riding single-speed. I have to pedal rapidly; much faster than the usual spinning and on the present flatter terrain there's little coasting, relief from the constant churning, warm weather, sweating and chafing of buttocks.
I pressed on till noon reaching a town where I found shade in a public park. I sat therein at a picnic table eating a baguette spread with cream-cheese spliced with green pepper, then ate chocolate Au Beurre while quenching thirst with coke.
I rode the afternoon in shimmering sunshine pass sunflowers dead and black in this season. The countryside was open at the roadside graced by blue, red, white and yellow wildflowers, then in the field stubble aftermath of harvest, also brown tilled bands of next year's barley crop. Mid Afternoon saw me descend down through a quaint old town, a place with churches and spires against the sky, then up the inevitable steep narrow street out of town again. I stopped there near the top where a road split off on a bend, a moment's indecision whether to turn right, eventually deciding it best to keep going straight.
Then with the town behind me, a moment's excitement as the road bridged the long shiny railway tracks stretching off in either direction in a trench, without warning came the Train Grand Vitesse (TGV), passing underneath in a flash and heart stopping tremor, gone in no time in access of three hundred kilometres per hour.
Train passengers and trains alike it's easy to see live in an enlightened world as a short distance onward I came to a red light at the intersection of a major highway, the place on the sign indicated PARIS where that train came from. The road is an unsightly band scaring the countryside in comparison to rail.
The cars came slowing to a halt on either side of the divided highway, the light turned green and I cycled across and onwards. I remained on the map today, on the yellow roads, doing no dog-legs, instead riding in a slanting line toward the Loire river and by the end of the day have notched up around a hundred and twenty kilometres. The last rays of sun through the treetops are no more, there are no more joggers and that forestry pick-up truck has returned and gone home. It is now time to put up the tent.
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