Injoying the View.

September 6, 2011

Arriving in another city, called Moulins, at nine o'clock, the charming lady behind the counter in the tourist office put a cross on the city-plan, marking the location of a bike shop and proceeded to trace a blue line with her pen along the route she explained in English that I should take, adding, it'll take ten minutes to cycle. Out in the street, I studied the plan again, then set off down the narrow street to the railway station, where I turned right by the main entrance, then left onto a big thoroughfare called Rue du Lyon. The road to Lyon, is the southern way-out of the city and also my way, which meant less time wasted getting out off town after the visit to the bike shop. The bike shop was just before the first roundabout according to the blue mark on the city-plan. The road though was longer than anticipated looking at the plan. Mega superstores lined either side; then, approaching that first roundabout, I saw a big sports store roughly in the place indicated by the blue mark. I thought, if this is it, a general sports shop with bikes, I won't be getting far in fixing my gears. But cycling a little further, what a relieve it was to see that the sports store hid the next building, which was indeed a bike shop, called, Velo Espace.

I entered the bike shop taking with me the derailleur still screwed to the severed bit of gear hanger: if anything, to give an idea inside of what I'm talking about. Behind the glass counter, the salesman that spoke a mix of French and English, examined the derailleur and glancing toward the door, seeing my bike outside by the window, he walked out to have a look at it. Crouching down, he scrutinized closely the dropout with it's broken gear hanger stub, then lifted up his head and nodded, saying "No! Ne pas. Merida c'est different!" He then pointed at a Specialize mountain bike in the shop window, at the way it's replaceable gear hanger is bevelled and screwed to the dropout, completely different to the Merida. A disappointment. I am screwed as far as fixing the gears go. It's annoying, it defeats logic; that, Merida have such a different gear hanger than most other popular brands of bike: so that when they break in an everyday crash where the rear derailleur bends and the hanger to which it is screwed to, breaks, or when the bike just simply falls over, like mine did, a replacement cannot be simply found in a bike shop, it therefore isn't a replaceable gear hanger, it's a disaster. I'll just have to make do riding single-speed for the foreseeable journey ahead.

I bough a tire and inner tube for the trailer, then fitted them outside the bike shop. Looking in the shop window when I'd done, I saw how much bike techy stuff has changed, even in the few years since the last time I looked. I remember in the eighties when a seven speed cassette with indexed gears was considered a well equipped bike and carbon fibre frames were an oddity; now, they're commonplace on all bikes above a certain price level.

I miss the simplicity of bikes twenty years ago. The simple things are better, like opportune eating places, like the boulangerie I spotted across the road opposite the bike shop. I crossed over and went in to have a second breakfast.

"Voulez vouz au raison et........." I was sure this was wrong, though, the smiling girl in the boulangerie understood me. I took my two au raisons and coffee outside, where I sat down to eat at a table with a parasol, the shade of which was much appreciated, as it was now warming up.

When I'd done, I felt the back tyre and found that it was soft, a slow puncture, so I'd to pump it up before setting off again.

I cycled on the cycle-path alongside the N7 highway, pass superstores until I came to a massive supermarche. Twenty minutes later, having shopped, I returned back out to the bike out front, where, an old man scrutinized my bike, especially the swing-arm attaching the trailer to the bike's rear quick-release. "C'est bon le velo" he exclaimed when I came to his side. "Oui oui" I replied, point and stumble something, then say "ne parlez pas francais"; which cut the conversation to sign language, smiles and a final bonjour.

At a roundabout, I joined the D road which would take me away from national route seven, away from all the traffic and hereafter through peaceful pastoral countryside.

Looking down at the rear wheel, I could see more sidewall bulge where the tyre contacts the road than would say the tyre is fully inflated. It was going down slowly, so slowly I didn't think I'd find a hole and repair the puncture, therefore I pumped the wheel up hard and continued.

Eleven o'clock: Michelin Air Stop not doing what the name implies, so I'm reversing the trend.

Time for a shot of a horse and her foal.

In a hamlet, there was a picnic table on a green beside the church, where, I uncoupled the trailer, set the bike upside down and set about repairing the puncture. With the inner-tube pumped up very fat, I rotated it around, while holding my ear close to the rubber and listening. But not hearing any tell-tale hiss of air, I put a fresh inner-tube in and had done with it.

The green was serene in early afternoon sunshine. I sat at the table under the shade of a tree, eating a slice of pizza bough earlier from the boulangerie, and drinking coke. The church bell clanged two o'clock, and when the bell rang silent, I heard a man's voice come out the door into the garden next to the green, shortly followed by a lawnmower starting. A woman then raised her voice shouting at him, to which, he answered back in a subdued though determined voice. How peaceful it had been moments earlier. The lawnmower met much resistance too, suddenly humming loudly. And the fragrance of new mown grass lingered in the air.

Cycling onwards, I kept pausing to take photos, such was the allure of the countryside. The sky was cloudless with everything basking in brilliant sunshine. A panorama of gentle hills opened up before me and rolled on to distant faint blue ridges. Mid-afternoon, I dropped downhill into the little crossroads village of Jaligny, where I passed an old yesteryear petrol station, it's flaking red painted pumps, slender with oval shaped tops, whereon petrol company logos had seen better days, together with the fading Michelin man on the wall.

At five o'clock, I cycled through the prettily named town of La Lapalisse, with cafes, pavement tables along it's narrow street of rustic half timber shutter window houses. And perched on a hill above the town, a castle, could this have been the La Lapalisse, whatever it's significance.

I finish the day riding for another hour on a quiet department road approaching a range of hills, a blue ridge I'd seen earlier in the afternoon. The fields either side where well manicured pasture and although there were copses of trees, there wasn't much prospect of free camping. Eventually though I saw a wooded slope quite a bit away from the road and ended the day riding along a farmroad towards it.

The Limousin cattle breed: very popular in this part of France.

The hills of the Massif Central are in sight.

Near the prettily named town of Lapalisse. I didn't quite match-up the photo on the left in this panoramic.

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