|
Day
One:
Paris
to Compiègne
If you
ever want to cycle out of
Paris
and into the French countryside, avoiding annoying suburban
traffic, it will take you an hour and a half at a leisurely
pace by way of a bicycle path along the Canal de l’Ourcq
(northeast Paris). I know of no comparable city in the
USA
where a bicycler can reach open farmland so quickly and
easily. Perhaps Portland, Oregon.
Murderers
occasionally toss a dead body into the murky industrial
segment of the Canal de l’Ourcq, just past Parc la Villette.
Eventually the canal stretches out of the suburbs and laps
lazily into a shady forest.
Alan and
I had both made this canal trip on numerous occasions, so
this time we decided to exclude the known path by taking our
bikes onto a suburban train at Paris’s Gare du Nord and
descending in the foresty part of the canal. From there it
was supposed to be 71 kilometers to Compiègne, a city of old
well-preserved classic French homes and broad esplanades,
sandwiched between a deep forest and the l’Oise River, a
favorite of impressionist painters.
The
thermometer was already nearing the discomfort zone when we
descended from the train. Not a cloud in the sky to ease the
effects of the battering sun. Our plan was to reach a
protective forest at around mid-day, just past the sleepy
town of
Nanteuil.
At the
beginning of a trip there is always the sense of freedom. We
have this American tradition from Kerouac’s On the Road.
Protected by sunblock and liberated from the outside world,
I gladly took on the sun. We moved ahead smoothly with sweet
family-farm scenery at both sides of the small road.
Nantueil was our first rest stop.
We took a
sandwich lunch and fresh fruit in the shade of the 12th
century Saint-Pierre church:
http://clochers.org/Fichiers_HTML/Accueil/Accueil_clochers/60/accueil_60446.htm
followed
by a 15 minute rest in a nearby park. The sun above was
gathering merciless momentum but we were now energized to
roll through the forest road.
Just out
of the town, we discovered that our longed-for road, the
D136, was closed due to construction. We took the only
detour, a major four-lane road, the N2. (“D” refers to
departmental roads, which for the most part are like the
“old country roads” of
West Virginia.
“N” refers to truck-infested national roads. Alan has a
particular aversion to being in harm’s way of a swerving
motor vehicle, so it’s my job to plot out routes that are
free of such perils, even if it means going out of our way.
This
particular N road was being converted into an A “autoroute”,
an expressway. The detour would add on at least 6 extra
kilometers to our final tally. (See link to map.)
http://www.carte-france.info/ville-60440-nanteuil-le-haudouin/
There was
little or no shoulder on the N2. The artificial tornado
blasts whipped up by passing trucks were capable of sending
us twirling off the highway. When trucks converged in both
directions, in evil synchronicity, we had no choice but to
stop and hold on to our bikes.
After
about two kilometers of truck ducking, the road converged
into one lane each way, with the other side closed because
of construction. This was our great gift. We crossed over to
the unused side of the road, which we would be able to call
our own until just before a village whose name had become a
temporary mantra: Levignen.
The heat
had now worn me down and I planned on resorting to my
preferred anti-heatstroke doping method: a cup of strong
dark coffee. Our water supply was depleting, so we needed to
fill up with the bicycler’s equivalent to gasoline.
With
great relief we made it to the village of Levignen, but the
local café shuttered down. Inside the cool stone village
church, artisan workmen gave us a narrated tour of their
ongoing restoration work: each and every stone had to be a
perfect match with the original. The men worked with
centuries-old documents to verify the nature of each stone
slab.
The
workmen gave as a valuable tip. There would be a fresh water
spout just down the road inside the gate of the cemetery.
The faucet worked, the water came out cold and fresh, and we
filled our plastic bottles. It was time for another
10-minute break under old shade trees. It was so silent you
could hear the dead.
This was
just our first day, and already I was questioning my ability
to make it to all five tracks. I thought short-term,
focusing on arriving in Compiègne. The cemetery water lifted
my spirits, as did a glance at the next day’s race card on
the pages of my Paris-Turf.
Cemetery Handicapping
I was
able to begin analyzing the featured Grand Prix de Compiègne
at a mile and a quarter on the grass. The horse being picked
was Barongo. I felt he was vulnerable, having never raced at
Compiègne and having to face two horses-for-course. If
you’ve never played the races, a horse for course is
one that has won or finished in the money at high odds at
the track in question and the presence of a vulnerable
favorite means that there could be generous odds in betting
against the public choice.
Two
horses for course qualified: Daly Daly, who had finished
second in this same race a year back and For Joy, whose only
race at Compiègne had been victorious. Daly Daly, with poor
recent form, was being picked in second place by the
Paris-Turf experts at 5-1 odds while they listed For Joy
as their sixth choice at 12-1. For Joy had one of France’s
most successful trainers as well as a hot rider. His current
form was covered up by the fact that he had recently been
blocked on the rail in a race that was so paceless that it
was called “the parody of a race” by the Paris-Turf
analyst.
With a
potential wager on For Joy tumbling in my mind and the cool
forest looming ahead, I was once again invincible. There are
certain universal elements that make horse race handicapping
applicable anywhere in the world, and For Joy made me feel
as if I were coming home to Compiègne.
If
someone had told me about the 7 kilometer climb that awaited
us as a penitence toll for entering the forest, perhaps I
would not have regained such optimism.
We next
rolled around the periphery of Crepy-en-Valois, which dated
back to the 12th century and is France’s capital
of the “bow and arrow”, a city we would have missed if we’d
been able to take our planned shorter route. We dodged the
arrows and cruised into D116. I say “into” because the road
was lined with trees and we were nearing a real forest.
Eventually the D116 reached a T junction, and from there it
was a steep uphill (which I assumed was would end at the
cliffside town of Orrouy, where we committed our first crime
against aesthetics: not stopping off to see the Roman ruins.
The
uphill continued past the town, with no end in sight. The
protection of the forest softened the climb, which ended
mercifully at a crossroad in the forest. We were now in the
Compiègne forest, site of the capture of Joan of Arc in the
siege of 1430 and of the signing of the armistice of
November 11, 1918.
I have
never been in a French forest without getting lost, and this
was no exception. Hand-carved wooden signposts are
everywhere, all with rustic or historical names, but the six
or eight spoke paths departing from the carrefour
(intersection) do not seem to be going anywhere in
particular. A mistake of only 15 degrees could wind you in
the wrong direction.
Alan and
I usually discuss the alternatives with the delight of
confronting the unknown. In such cases we coincide half the
time. When we disagree and we accept my choice, I am right
once out of every two tries. When we disagree and accept
Alan’s choice, he is also right half the time. We continue
to engage in this ritualistic geographic handicapping when
in fact, throwing the dice would be an equally effective
strategy.
On this
particular occasion, Alan was armed with an internet map of
a glorious bicycle path that would lead us into town. To
find the path, we needed only to wing down a smooth hill
around sensorial curves, with a cool and caressing breeze in
our faces, until reaching the main road, D232, which we
would follow until the elusive bike path finally
materialized. We added another three or four kilometers by
taking this route, but it proved to be well worth it.
Alan was
right. We were on the bike path and we would be able to
whirr into Compiègne like champions.
French
forests are both refreshing and disappointing. They are
well-kept, which is both their asset and their problem.
There is a tradition of cleaning and clearing. Fallen trunks
are hauled away. Brush is trimmed. This is not good for
animals like deer, wild boar (sanglier) and bashful
brownish-red squirrels. Wildlife has fewer places to hide.
So I am used to seeing more wildlife in suburban
Maryland than in a venerable French forest.
On the
other hand, on a hot day, the forest offers great refuge.
The diversity of plant life goes unappreciated when we roll
through, but it is there in all its glory for hikers and
cyclers who are have the time to stop and appreciate the
details.
We did
not have the time. It was already early evening and Alan’s
friend had promised a home-cooked dinner. We would be poor
guests to linger in the forest and arrive past dinnertime.
After the
cozy and cramped streets of
Paris,
I was surprised to recapture the sense of open space.
Paris
has little room for the private home with a garden.
Compiègne stretches out in its tradition of aristocracy,
with wide tree-lined boulevards and mansions that look like
mini-castles, each with their own architectural
idiosyncrasies. The center of town is nearer to what we know
as a French village, with the colombage or
“half-timbered” style dominating. The colombage
features exposed studs, sometimes parallel and sometimes
criss-crossing, with plaster or stone covering the rest of
the façade. Ubiquitous burnt-orange tile roofing completes
the grainy picture. If you are seduced by such textured
background, you will fall in love with the first woman who
steps into the foreground.
The next
day at the races, we would discover the race-course
colombage style. I envisioned For Joy in the flowery
winners’ circle.
With the
detour after Nanteuil and the extra loop through the forest,
our kilometer count for the day was at least 80, the
equivalent of 50 miles. For a Texan 50 miles is like going
around the corner but for me it was a true test. Alan still
had the energy to search out some ice cream while I dumped
my backpack and took a rest in a shady square.
It was a
memorable full-course dinner with Garance, capped with fine
wine and pungent ripe cheeses, and then refreshed with a red
fruit dessert. All this took place in a setting of antique
furniture and original paintings that for me was a living
museum in a classic Compiègne house. (Click and scroll for
history and images of Compiègne.)
Two supreme struggles awaited us the next day: an afternoon
battling the odds at the lush green Compiègne race course
followed by our own race against the clock, to make it to
our night stopover in medieval Senlis, more than 40
kilometers away and with another confusing forest to cross.
Day Two >
Top Of Page
|
