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< Day Three
TOUR
DAY 4
The Inevitable Challenge
Alan and
I always felt that the intrinsic challenge was simply doing
enough kilometers to get there on time for the
Clairefontaine race card. This was a question of the science
of time management: how we would use our available cycling
hours most effectively.
In fact,
we were less conscious of a more powerful underlying
conflict relating to the art (and not the science) of time.
This nagging binary contradiction, improvised art versus
utilitarian science, would become the heart of our Day 4
battle.
It all
begins innocuously enough. It is the simple act of enjoying
a copious breakfast, fresh crusty bread, an array of fruit
and spreads, heart-warming coffee. Is this breakfast a mere
fuel stop or a valid episode of the slow food movement? It
becomes the choice of “being” or “doing”:
being in the middle of a French region where family farms
have resisted agribusiness, where an old stone home can be
re-forged with the artisan’s hand, with gardeners and
stonemasons transforming it into a bright and friendly
refuge; or,
doing
more miles and watching the landscape fly by untouched and
hardly even perceived.
From the
utilitarian's point of view, we have just obliterated an
hour from an already time-challenged day in which we need to
cover at least 120 kilometers.
Once we
depart, the steep incline of the long and winding hill out
of Fay-les-Etangs forces us to appreciate the crusty town
and quilted farms by slowing us down to a more visually
appreciative speed.
This is
the Vexin, so near to the
Paris
region and yet so far from Parisian perceptions. It could
have been rural West Virginia in the 1950s but for the
retro-barns that date back to before West Virginia ever
existed.
More
towns, more water stops, more navigating to choose the small
roads that wind away
from the
culture of speed: Yes, we are escaping the faster-is-better
culture and yet trying to conform to it.
It makes
no sense. First we choose the slowest roads and then we try
to get there faster. We choose what is aesthetic over what
is practical and yet we still try to craft some sort of
practical strategy.
The next
obstacle becomes Boury-en-Vexin. It is a sleepy old town,
where a magnificent castle is only open via appointment and
where the rest of the town setting is quaint enough to rival
the castle in seductiveness. The Twilight Zone could have
been filmed here. But if the town were really dead then the
winding streets would not be so clean. We stop at a shady
village square. Alan walks over to view the castle from
behind the wrought-iron gate. I dump my backpack on the
grass under broad-branched trees and used it as a pillow,
watching the interaction between grainy facades and one or
two fluffy clouds, between the sky and green farmland (you
can actually see where the town ends and the countryside
begins). Towns here do not phase out into strip malls and
clover leafs. Towns here end where they should.
I sink
into the ground and ask myself why I would not choose to
just "be" here for an hour, to soak it all in. But I
compromise and we leave after 15 minutes (a 5 minute rest
would have sufficed).
And
that's the way it goes until we come across a T-junction
with a canal running parallel to the top of the T.
Alan's involuntary turn is on to the shady path along the
canal, but that route would take us in the opposite
direction. Even Alan knows that the aesthetic choice is not
always the sane one, and he stops.
We are
looking for a shortcut to the village of Noyers and my map
tells us to go left at the T and definitely avoid
going right, which would send us huffing and puffing up and
through the town of Dangu, which dangles on the edge of a
massive cliff.
This
moment seems to have nothing to do with horse betting, but
it fact, it illustrates how a smart player can make a bad
bet. There are workmen at the canal and they all tell us
that the only way to get to Noyers is to first go right at
the T and up into Dangu, and then swing back along a larger
road, the D181, precisely the type of road we do not like to
take.
I insist
that there is a smaller road to Noyers and that we would
come across it by going left at the T, but they smile with
paternalistic empathy and point the other way. I insist on
looking to the left, but see no evidence in the distance of
any turnoff signs. Alan asks a couple of bicyclers heading
for the canal path and they too support the opinion of the
workmen, that there is no shortcut and that it is necessary
to make the dreaded climb into Dangu under the pounding sun.
Then it
is Alan who looks at the D662 on my map, my shortcut, and
then listens again to the "traveling public", another
version of the “betting public” and he argues in favor of
the public consensus. Alan cannot figure how these locals
could ALL be wrong at the same time, even if my map says
otherwise. Surely someone would have known about the hidden
shortcut to Noyers.
I have a
horse race betting system called "the Informed Minority".
When one public handicapper picks a horse that all the
others ignore, it is a profitable bet in the long run but
with a low win percentage.
Finally I
succumb to the crowd's opinion. After all, they represent
the smart local money and I am the outsider. We sweat and
churn up into Dangu, not a bad looking town, but at
midday, all its details are washed away by the blazing sun. As a
consolation, we buy ice cream from a friendly woman at a
bakery who feels immense pity for us, noting our flushed
faces and fatigued demeanor.
I look
out at the continuation of the road. There is yet more
climbing, even steeper, and no forest cover in sight.
Belatedly, I lash out against Groupthink and insist to Alan
that we should return and follow the map, that to continue
would be what micro-economists call a "sunk cost", chasing
bad money. A cheery lady at the intersection confirms to us
that, mais oui, there IS a D662 and it DOES go to
Noyers, absolument!
Alan
shrugs off having made a follow-the-crowd decision,
rationalizing that the climb under the sun was worth it
because we were rewarded with the ice cream. Never mind if
we just lost at least 45 minutes. Alan is an ice cream
freak. Somewhere in his backpack is probably a downloaded
map indicating all the ice cream parlors between
Paris
and Deauville.
Between
the extended breakfast and the fortuitous ice cream stop, we
have already “lost” an hour and a half of travel time and
Clairfontaine at Deauville seems like a fading horizon.
As it
turns out, D662 is only about 40 yards to the left of the
confounding T junction, and it ascends steeply but
humanely through a refreshing forest all the way to Noyers.
Once to
the top, we reach open country. Like the Stranger of Camus,
I am blinded by the sun and capable of irrational acts. I
catch up to Alan just to let him know that I plan to stop
and plop at the first tree we come to. I now see the Tree as
an all-embracing God and learn to understand why peoples
from treeless countries are so talented for conjuring up
complex religions.
There is
one cluster of trees beside a plowed field in the middle of
nowhere and ten minutes lying under the shade has
replenished me. Once again I can imagine Deauville just
beyond the horizon.
We have
been climbing ever so mildly and have now reached a peak.
Route D125 (rolling green hills to our right and a gorge to
our left that plunges into the Gambon River) winds down for
16 easy-flowing kilometers. We create a breeze that
neutralizes the sun and I feel like a migrating bird,
flowing in a pre-programmed direction.
We are
descending effortlessly to the point where the Gambon flows
into the Seine, the small city of Les Andelys, one of
France’s plus beaux villages.
Arriving
at Les Andelys should be a relief but it has the opposite
effect. Our glorious downhill road is finished and we
realize that the 1:30pm sun has become a formidable threat.
At a
bustling village square at a Press outlet, we buy the
one remaining copy of next day’s Paris-Turf, and we
are now armed with the past performances for the next day’s
racing at Clairefontaine. They look daunting and I wonder
whether it might be better for us to not get there on
time.
We
continue down to the lower part of the town, where the sweet
Seine is in the midst of one of its classic meanders,
islands in its midst, an eleventh century fortress on the
cliffs above us, and a few trees at the riverfront to soften
the afternoon.
Alan
feels that a swim might refresh him for the afternoon battle
on wheels. He cycles off to a nearby pool. I sit against a
stone wall which was once the base of the fortress, next to
the tourist office, expecting that the usual 10-minute rest
will replenish me.
By the
time Alan gets back, I note a change in the tone of his
voice, as if the romantic Don Quixote within him has been
replaced by a Sancho Panza, the cynic.
It was an
outdoor pool, he moans. He has experienced the fate of a
lobster at the Seafood Broiler.
It is now
reckoning time. If we have a sandwich, swig a quart of water
and move on, resting maybe 10 minutes every hour and
traveling until sunset, we will end up near enough to our
ultimate destination to be able to glide into Deauville the
next morning, in time for the Clairfontaine post time. We
are already in the Eure region of Normandie, which gets its
name from a local river.
But do we
want to do battle with the sun, when we have an option: sit
“down by the riverside and study war no more”. The
alternative is attractive. We could stay all afternoon at
the riverside and then cycle 36 kilometers to Evreux, not
really the direction we want to go, but the nearest town
with train service to Deauville.
We weigh
the alternatives with the reluctant help of the lady behind
the counter at the tourism office. Perhaps it is the heat
(there’s no air-conditioning and the sun is battering
through her window) but it takes a good amount of cajoling
for her to go into the computer and check the timetables for
us. There are indeed three trains to
Deauville from
Evreux
the following morning that would get us to the
Clairefontaine races on time for first post.
All kinds
of contradictions are swirling within the soul. On the one
hand, there is the legitimate force of machismo, which tells
us to get up and go. This is the challenge, and given the
plus 90-degree and plus 90-percent humidity, our continuing
throughout the afternoon would qualify us as “extreme sport”
competitors.
Had we
been in no-man’s land, the decision to get up and go would
be simple. But we are in old quartier of Les Andelys
at the edge of a magnificent river and this is precisely the
type of place we have been seeking along the way. We have
come all the way to be here and yet we are in a rush to get
out.
The
decision becomes even more complex because the machismo
alternative pretty much follows the course of rivers and
will be relatively flat.
On the
other hand, staying and enjoying an afternoon at the river
would have its consequences, for the road to Evreux crosses
two river valleys, which means two serious climbs to get out
and over.
I would
like to say that our decision will be purely artistic, but
in the end it is mainly based on brutal realism. We have
already dealt with the heat for three and a half days, and
it is now time to listen to our bodies, which tell us that
enough is enough.
When we
finally depart from our riverside haven, around 6:30, the
sun is still weighing heavily upon us with no signs of
relinquishing its grip.
Tale of
Two Climbs
I have
made it up Grade 3 mountains before but those upward
excursions cannot rival what we were about to face. The
first climb, out of the Seine valley, begins in the sun but
each hairpin offers a section of shade when it phases into
the right angle. Around each bend I expect to see the top,
but in fact, I only see another bend, and then another. The
moments of shade are teasing and taunting before
disappearing. I have 21 gears on my heavy Dutch bike and I
am at the last one. It is still excruciating.
There are
moments when I consider that it might have been easier to
forego the riverside afternoon and cycle on the flat all
afternoon.
With the
tight turns, I lose sight of Alan. Often I ask him if I am
not a burden, but he says that it’s all about getting there
and we have always gotten there.
“This too
shall pass” I think, and eventually it does. I see Alan
waiting for me at a crossroad on what seems like the top of
the world. This is not the Alps or Pyrenees. It’s only
Normandy. But the heights we have reached are palpable, for
we have reached the clouds. They are storm clouds. They are
dark. They are threatening to release their cargo upon us.
There is
a sudden freshness in the air. We can see a thunderstorm in
the distance. It is coming our way.
It is
inevitable. When you can actually see the humidity pulsating
in the air, something has to give.
We are
now flowing down like gliding flamingos. It is a glorious
descent. It is as if we have gone up the mountain without a
ski lift and we are now receiving a special reward for our
effort. It is so cool that I have my waterproof jacket on,
and that proves to be a good decision since the thunderstorm
has arrived.
I am
being pelted with hailstones. At first I am frightened but I
shortly realize that the hail can do no harm. It does make a
mockery of my waterproof windbreaker. I consider a new theme
park ride: the Hail Storm. Thanks to the gravity-assisted
stretch of road, the hail pellets seem to be coming right at
us.
The road
finally flattens out at the Eure River at a town called St.
Vigor. There are café bars where I would like to stop and
dry out. There is dense foliage along the Eure and a
beautiful old stone bridge crossing it. There are guest
houses and dirt roads winding into the hillside forest.
If the
art of time were in a position of strength, we would stay
here. But it is the engineering of time that takes over. If
we do not continue, we will be caught in the forest at
sundown. At this moment, the French expression, “to gain”
time, is more accurate than the English “to save time”.
The
second climb of the Les Andelys-to-Evreux route is arguably
even longer than the first one. The Eure has carved a deep
gorge and getting out of this gash in the earth is no simple
task.
But
something strange has happened. I feel stronger now than I
did nearly four days ago when we began this journey at the
Canal de l’Ourcq. I realize that if you remove the heat
factor from the equation, then add a flurry of hail pellets,
I am invincible. I consider starting a new-age business
based on hail-pellet therapy.
On the
way up we are now protected by a forest. It is a good type
of energy we are using for it helps us to dry out after the
storm. I feel guilty, perversely enjoying the long climb, as
if, in the absence of self-inflected torture, I will not
have paid my toll for the glorious downhill into Evreux that
awaits us.
During
the downhill I try not to think. I don’t want to miss any of
the sensorial pleasure of free flow. But I cannot avoid
recalling the pages of Ivan Illich which prove that the
bicycle is the most energy-efficient transport invention. If
we had been in a car, we would have needed to fuel and
transport two tons of assorted metals and plastics. That
seems insane: to transpost two human beings, total weight of
some 330 pounds, we would also have to transport two tons of
what in horse racing is called “dead weight”. I begin to
suspect that the automobile culture is a culture of dead
weight, and that using scarce and polluting resources to
essentially transport dead weight is not an example of
sanity.
Not to
mention the aesthetic cost of being so insulated from the
surrounds in an automobile. Not to mention the health cost
of commuting without using the body.
Evreux
is not Deauville but it is a colorful Normandy city. We find
a quality Chinese restaurant, where we now savor our
accomplishment of the day. All together we have covered 90
kilometers: 30 less than we needed to cover, but we got a
lot in return. We have learned that not all kilometers are
equal. Some of them are punishing and others are gifts. It
is not a simple question of ups and downs. The climb out of
St. Vigor was one of the gifts.
We find a
comfortable hotel. The card for tomorrow’s races includes
first-time starter races for steeplechase and F and G races
on the flat. Today was the physical challenge. Tomorrow will
be a supreme challenge of the mind.
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