August 31, 1992

42 km through Lancy to the La Paix Hotel in Bellegarde, France.

A gray, drizzly and cold morning with strong headwinds. About 2:00 it began raining heavily and so I was forced to stop for the night in the small French city of Bellegarde. I am in a classic French flophouse. My room is overfurnished with ancient wicker furniture, has a bidet, has plaster falling off the walls and has a bed so soft that I am afraid that I might hit the floor. It is the type of place so lovingly described by Henry Miller, and I am feeling content and at peace.

I had a difficult time sleeping at the hostel last night. Two of my roommates (the Arabs) went to bed at 7:00 so I could not read in bed. The others tramped in noisily at 1:00 a.m. In addition, the whole hostel was filled with noisy people--not to mention several hard core snorers. So that started the day off badly. I then splurged at McDonalds (!) before setting off in a lethargic state.

I took a bike path to the French border. When I arrived there I found that the border had been closed because the bridge over the Rhône was being reconstructed. However, there was a narrow worker's foot bridge which I was able to sneak across. And so I managed to enter France without going through customs.

The change from Switzerland was dramatic. The roads were narrow and filled with potholes. The houses were run down and the countryside lacked that manicured look I had gotten used to in. The traffic was light (due to the closed border) and so I, despite one harrowing tunnel, cruised easily into Bellegard about 12:30. I needed to change money and stock up on food, but the entire town was closed down for a three hour lunch break. So I decided to wait until three before setting out for a campsite.

Bellegarde is located on the Rhône and is surrounded on all sides by high hills (there was a fabulous 5 km descent into the town). The town has a rough edge to it (compared to the laid-back Swiss villages, anyway), and I don't feel terribly comfortable here. However, the people at the tourist offices were very friendly, and once the skies opened, helped me find my hotel by calling several and finding out the costs.

I am now sinking in my bed watching the rain fall and reading "Sexus". What more could one want?

September 1, 1992

140 km through Belley to a campground at Vienne.

Woke at 6:00 feeling great. I wrote a letter to Kate and Ger before going out at 8:00 to get groceries. At the store I flirted with the clerk I'd talked to the day before. I said "bonjour" to people on the street and they all responded. I was almost happy go lucky--have I gone over the edge?

The weather was very cold (low 40's) with dark threatening clouds, so I was expecting a tough cycling day. However, except for a couple of light sprinkles, it turned out to be a very good cycling day. I had to wear my jacket and sweater until well past noon and it remained cool all day. But it was perfect for some real "pedal to the metal" cycling in high gear. This was facilitated by flat terrain once I had come out of the Alpine regions into the Rhone valley. I pushed myself in my highest gear and was amazed at how strong I was. It was one of those ecstatic cycling days.

I had light traffic for most of the ride, except for the final 30 km into Vienne (which is just outside of Lyon). The French drivers are not particularly good with cyclists, as they drive too fast and are too willing to speed up to pass in a tight situation. But it didn't bother me. I went through a few typical ancient French villages (they would fit right in as a setting for "Jean de Florette") and then, at L'Isle D'Abeau I found a community that would fit right into California--complete with a huge shopping mall (my favorite store name was "L'Offensive")

The campground I stopped at is half under water because of the heavy rains yesterday. I am camped next to a solo woman cyclist (the first I've seen in Europe). However, she is anti-social and did not respond to my greeting. She has barricaded herself in her tent so I don't expect to talk to her.

I really have positive feelings for France, perhaps because Henry Miller has been my one of my companions of late (other companions include Burton my Bike, numerous Negro spirituals, the Russian Revolution, Wilhelm and his theory of Chaotic Determinism, the Holocaust, Paul with his frantic attempt to merge all psycho-therapies into one based on neural-chemical response ("Too many therapists take an eclectic approach", he sneered), and a large, unknown forest creature who on three occasions has roared, grunted and wheezed on approaching my tent, before sulking away to leave me in peace).

But mostly this has been an adventure in solitude. Most of the emotions have been evoked from ecstasy to despair (but no boredom, and very little loneliness). Such solitude is an immense luxury because it forces me to rely on my inner resources. We don’t realize how much our lives are directed by the routine of every day life. On the road, I do not have that direction, but instead have an existential freedom that requires that I live in the present and that I continuously make decisions for which I am wholly responsible. This freedom is sometimes exhausting and I have spent many hours over the last few months simply staring at a flowing river or at the sky.

I’m not sure if I have obtained any great insight from this solitude (something to guide my life into the future) unless it is the recognition that the confusion and inner contradictions will always be there. While I aspire to "just live" as Miller puts it, I have more in common with a Prufrock.

I am in love with France. The women are mysterious, the men docile, the language musical (I get pleasure from reading the road signs out loud), the food wonderful and the ambiance comforting.

September 2, 1992

77 km through Peyrins to a soccer field campsite at Bourg-de-Peage.

Awoke to a very cold, clear morning. The tent was soaked because of the heavy dew. It remained clear with light winds, and by the afternoon was terrific bicycling weather.

I was worried about a traffic bottleneck at Vienne, and I did have difficulty getting into and out of that city. Driving through French cities is atrocious, even worse than Eastern Europe because the traffic is so much heavier. At Vienne I met a German couple who I'd seen at the campground the night before. They had a Radfahren Karte (bicycle map) of the area and they let me take a look at it. I decided to follow one of the routes recommended in the book (the route went east of the Rhône along the foothills).

The route turned out to be a series of long (but not steep) climbs, followed by exhilirating downhills. The terrain was an unusual combination of Mediterranean and Alpine and was quite beautiful. This was the clearest day I had had in weeks and, as a result, the panoramic views (with jagged mountains in the distance) was spectacular. It was a very pleasant cycling day.

When I got to Romans the traffic became very heavy and so I decided to camp here for the night. It is one of the nicest sites I've had as there is a huge camping area with only about 10 other campers--privacy!

I went shopping at one of the local shopping centers and was almost overwhelmed by the huge selection of great foods at affordable prices. I experimented with one of the exotic pasta salads and found it to be delicious. I am very pleased with the prices. For example a large baguette (the French staple food) costs about 40 cents, cheese and most other foods are comparable to American prices, cigarettes (Gauloise sans filtre) are cheaper. Plus camping is only about $5 a night. I can afford to stay in France for awhile.

September 3, 1992

105 km through Crest to a municipal campsite at St. Paul Trois Chateaux.

Today I felt incredibly strong, stronger than I have felt since Scandinavia. Hills were no problem, as I took them two or three gears higher than normal. I was in a fabulous mood and it was a joyous day of cycling.

The route took me through the foothills east of the Rhône valley (the Drôme Provencal region) through beautiful forested areas. These forests were completely different than the northern variety, with lush vegetation and Mediterranean trees. I also passed through many beautiful ancient villages with narrow winding streets, complete with tunnels and arches. At Crest I saw the prison where the Marquis D'Sade was imprisoned. I enjoyed my interactions with the people, and was surprised to find my meager French to be far more comprehensible to the natives than was either my Swedish or my German. I never get the blank look that was de rigeuer in those countries. I also continued my experiments with French food, buying two delicious salads which seemed to contain every imaginable food--including tiny octopi.

I am camped just across the river from a nuclear power plant. It is a municipal campsite, the likes of which every French town seems to have. The manager only charged me 14 Francs, which was very kind as she could have charged an additional 6 Francs for "une autre vehicle". The campground has squat toilets, which seem to be fairly common in this area. The squats consist of a porcelain hole in the floor in front of which there are two pedals to put your feet on. Once you get used to them they seem far better on the body than conventional toilets, although you need to be careful that you have nothing in your pockets before you squat. The campground also has open urinals on the side of the restrooms, something quite common in France.

A solo German cyclist (Johan) came in late in the evening. he is a law student at Freiburg University and we chatted for an hour or so

September 4, 1992

100 km to a tent youth hostel at Nîmes.

A cool and cloudy day with a couple of brief showers. I had a tailwind from Lussan to Nîmes, which was great as the road was either flat or gently rolling. The section between Lussan and Nîmes was unusual for continental Europe because it was undeveloped land. I saw a lot of sagebrush and so it was reminiscent of the American west. This was surprising to me because almost all land is either developed in someway, or the terrain makes development impossible. I encountered very light traffic today and the scenery was (before Lussan) lush, with much of the land cultivated in vineyards. I passed by the Tricastin nuclear power plant and was amazed by the thousands of barrels of nuclear waste which were kept behind an electrified fence reminiscent of Auschwitz. Nuclear power is very important in France and I have already seen several plants.

Lussan was a very impressive Medieval walled city, and Nîmes is also an ancient city with numerous Roman ruins. This is the first big city I've been to and, as expected, the people are markedly less friendly. The clerk at the tourist bureau had the typical Parisian abruptness, and no patience for my lousy French.

This is a very unusual hostel that seems to be run by a gang of 20 year olds. Almost every time I have stopped at one of these places I have gotten a weird reception--maybe it is because I am a bit weird. Or maybe they just don't know what to do with an old man on a bicycle. There is a French-Canadian couple staying here (we are in a tent with 8 cots). Other than that, the only visitors so far are a group of German teenagers who have set up their own tents on the hostel grounds.

I have been feeling some anxiety about where I am headed after France. I called Lynn last night and she invited me to stay at her flat when I return to London. That lifts some of the anxiety.

September 5, 1992

103 km through Montpellier to the municipal campsite at Montagnac.

Sunny and cool with a strong northwest (mostly head) wind. The terrain was gently rolling through vineyards and brush land consisting of thick short Mediterranean bushes.

I went through an incredible variety of towns today. Some (i.e. Valleverysac) were straight out of the 19th century with main streets so narrow that if a resident sticks his arm out his window he is likely to have it sheared off by a passing vehicle. Others, like Sommieres, would have fit right into the Middle Ages, while others would not have been out of place in modern day California.

I was on a few short bike paths today (actually, they were old roads that had been kept for bicycles after more modern highways were built). But I also had some narrow high trafficked roads, particularly in and around Montpellier. At Montpellier, my Michelin map failed me for the first time, and I had to ask directions of several people before I was able to wind my way out of town. I was surprised by this deficiency because the Michelin maps are extraordinarily detailed and accurate.

I slept poorly last night because of loud music and boisterous drunks until past 1:00. I overheard a bizarre conversation between an American and a group of Germans. The American was speaking English while the Germans were responding in German. I doubt if there was any understanding at all between them, but they still had a hell of an argument. I was tempted to get up and talk to the American, but it was obvious he was loaded and so I didn't see the point.

I was a bit down last night and very anti-social. It seems that only at the hostels, where I am surrounded by people, do I feel lonely or depressed. Rather than join in the party, I simply become irritated at the noise, and end up longing to be back in the solitude of the forest.

I stopped at an animal cemetary near Saussines. It was actually very touching as there are about thirty tombstones there for dogs. On the tombstones were pictures and statements like, "Mon companion fidel", and "Mon cher chien". Marlene would have appreciated it.

I caught my first glimpse of the Mediterranean late this afternoon. I will reach it tomorrow and will complete one symbolic leg of my journey--i.e. from the Arctic Circle to the Mediterranean Sea.

I have found that food prices are very reasonable if you purchase at the big supermarkets (Super Marche or March U) that are found in most towns. I've been living on a diet of bread (baquettes), cheese (Bleu, Brie, Edam, Emantal or Gouda) and sausage (Couchon Rouge) with some fruits and supermarket made salads thrown in. The food is consistently excellent and I am surely making up for any food deficiencies I have had in the past.

September 6, 1992

78 km through Fleury to a municipal campsite at Salles d'Aude.

Today was a brilliant clear, cool sunny day reminiscent of a beautiful San Francisco winter day. I reached the Mediterranean today at St. Pierre sur Mer and waded in its clear, cool waters. The town was a typical beach tourist area and was still quite crowded. The campground there was an overflowing zoo, so I just stayed a few hours before heading back to Salles d'Aude to camp for the night.

This was my first Sunday in France and I was surprised to find most, with the exception of the supermarkets, of the shops open. The bakeries were also open and the omnipresent symbol of France (the baguette) was everywhere to be seen. In Beziers I ate at a McDonalds which had outdoor seating in a tree-lined boulevard which was closed to cars. There were hundreds of tables for dozens of cafes and restaurants, and the atmosphere was very pleasant.

I finally broke my left toeclip, which I had been having trouble with for some time. This is only a minor irritant, so I will wait to find a replacement. I also noticed that my rear tire is starting to split along the sides. Otherwise Burton is still going strong.

The campground I am at tonight is located beside a soccer field. There is a rugby match going on at the moment (admission charge is 30 Francs, but since I am camping here, I was not charged). Some of the spectators were heckling one of the players, who proceeded to rush over and punch the chainlink fence that separated them. This is a good example of the French character -- lots of passion, words and threats but no decisive action. Seems reasonable to me, given the alternative.

September 7, 1992

70 km through St. Nazaire to a municipal campsite at Trebes.

I rode only until 1:00 today as I was fighting a very strong and discouraging headwind. I also liked the town of Trebes and did not want to go into the big city (Carcassone) in the late afternoon. Today's cycling was on relatively flat roads, which was nice cycling until the wind picked up. I went through several quiet provincial towns. I've noticed that the character of the town is greatly influenced by whether or not a main road goes through it. If there is such a road then the feeling is rushed and chaotic, if not, it is like going back to 1900.

After the Rugby game ended last night nobody came to collect payment for the campground. As evening approached I asked a couple of campers (clearly homosexuals) if camping was free. They said no, that I would have to pay somebody. It caused them a great deal of consternation and they kept coming over with advice (i.e. go the Mairie (city hall)). I told them I would wait until someone came and asked me for payment. No one ever did come, so I woke at sunrise and rode off.

The French have some interesting roadway innovations which I have not seen before. First of all, they use the roundabout (and variations of it) more frequently than any other country I've been in. Secondly they have devised a unique way to get around cars stoped for left hand turns. They require that cars making a left exit the road on the right and make a half-U turn to a stop sign. They then need to cross the road as if they were at an intersection. The main advantage of roundabout system is that it makes stop signs and signals unnecessary and therefore keeps traffic flowing steadily. I think it is better than the American system, although drivers need to use common sense.

I've found the French drivers to be among the most reckless I have so far encountered. They almost always drive at unsafe speeds and take tremendous risks (i.e passing me on blind curves at high speed). It is maddening trying to bike into French cities because of the drivers, and also because the roads are always narrow and often have depressed or broken up gutters. I generally try to walk on the sidewalk but these have their own unique problems--i.e. cars often park on the sidewalk and do not leave enough room to maneauver a bike.

Most of the shops were closed today (Monday). I presume these Sunday openings and Monday closures are a legacy of the French Revolution. I did go to the library in Trebes and found nothing in English. The librarian, however, was quite helpful and assisted me in finding out information about the southeast Asian monsoon seasons.

September 8 and 9, 1992

73 km through Carcasone and Limoux to a Gite d'eshet at Axat.

The 8th was cold, rainy and dreary. I cycled into Carcassone and went to three bike shops hoping to find a new toe clip (calipier). All three shops insisted that I buy a complete set of toeclips (I only needed one metal piece), and moreover they were extraordinarily obnoxious in making the demand, so I ended up not buying a replacement. I've decided I can ride fairly well using just the leather strap. I was delighted to find out I could hurl back insults at these clerks, saying "pourquois parle-tu comme une idiote Francais?". I'm becoming more Parisian-like every day.

As I left Carcassone I started to enter the foothills of the Pyrennes. The road was narrow and the traffic heavy, so I had some difficult white-line riding. The tension from this cycling caused me to have upper back pains that lasted through the day. The scenery was unremarkable (because of the gloom and the heavy mist) until I passed Quillen, where the road passed through a valley with steep rock faces rising right out of the road.

Because of the rain, I had stopped at a 15th century cathedral in Limoux. The huge church was deserted and dark, except for a few rays of light filtering in through the stain glass windows. I went inside, which was like an eerie cave resplendent in all the excesses of Catholocism. Feeling comfortable that nobody was around, I sang, at the top of my voice, several of my spirituals. The sounds echoed back to me in the vast darkness of the church. It was wonderful!

By late afternoon the rain was coming down in torrents, so I stopped at a campground near Axat. There I found my first Gite d"Eshet, a kind of French hostel. For only 40 Francs I was able to rent a floor mattress in a small building which was once used for wine pressing (the wine press was still in the lower level). The Gite had kitchen facilities on the ground floor and about 20 mattresses covering the upper level. There was no house resident or segregation by sex, so it was an ideal place for me.

When I arrived there was only one other guest there, George, a German from Köln. He was fluent in English and had a guitar with him. So we had a good talk and he played and sang improvised Blues and Pop music. He let me play his guitar, and so I got to strum a few chords for the first time since Finland. About 5:00 another visitor, Stewart Olds from Scotland, arrived. It was great to speak real English again, and Stewart and I spent the next two days in animated conversation. He was in France, along with his dog Breize, on a solo rock climbing expedition, but he was also a cycle tourist with some incredible experiences.

Stewart was only the third "real" cyclist I had met on my tour (the others being Markus and Beatrice in Finland). The touring he has done is quite incredible. They included an Alaska to the tip of South America tour (on a tricycle!), a north to south African ride, and tens of thousands of miles throughout Europe. He said that he had written many of the Cycle Touring Club pamphlets which I had obtained for my tour. He said he now rides a recumbent and runs a youth hostel in Scotland.

Stewart had found his dog while touring in Spain. He said that she had a broken leg and ribs and that he had taken her to a vet to be repaired. He then bought a trailer and hauled her back to Scotland with him! He said that he had a girlfriend in South Africa and had been imprisoned there (for anti-Apartheid activity) for 8 months before he was deported.

Stewart also had a great story about cycling in Canada. He said that one of his ancestors founded the Oldsmobile company and that another was the wealthy founder of the town of Olds, Alberta. When he cycled through Olds he was given the "key to the city" by the mayor--all expenses paid.

Stewart was a real renegade renaissance man. He was about 6 foot 3 with hawklike features and spoke with an occasional stutter. Many of his stories seemed almost unbelievable, but he showed me several photographs which seem to verified them.

On the 9th there was an all day downpour so Stewart and I spent the day talking. We were joined by other cyclists (a father/son team from Glasgow and a German from Dusseldorf who shared an expensive bottle of wine with us). It was an invigorating time which helped regain my faith in humanity.

One funny incident happened on the 9th. We kept hearing scurrying noises in the cupboards and behind some of furniture. Finally, I opened one of the cupboards and found a packrat nonchalantly staring back at me (from less than a foot away). It scared the hell out of us, but then we sat back and enjoyed watching the packrat run up and down the walls for much of the day.

September 10. 1992

71 km through Axat to a campsite at Saillagouse.

A beautiful, cold, sunny day. Perfect for climbing into the Pyrennes. The first 50 km were uphill, rising from 300 meters at Axat to 1741 meters at the pass at Col de la Quillane. The cycling was wonderful as the road was well graded. I did not have to drop below third gear until I'd gone almost 40 kilometers. The area around Axat (St. Georges Gorge) was a passage paralleling a white water creek with perpendicular rock faces on both sides. The total width of the gorge was barely 15 meters.

The road was narrow but there was almost no traffic, so it was a delight. The vegetation was dense, almost tropical, at the lower elevations but turned to fir forests as I got above the 1,000 meter level. The higher elevations were reminiscent of a Rocky Mountain climb.

When I got near Formiques I encountered a plateau area with stiff headwinds, so it was tough riding from that point. I stopped at what looked like a closed campsite at Saillagouse in the late afternoon and waited for darkness to set up camp.

About 7:00 an Englishman (Bob) from Cambridge drove in, so I was not the only camper at the site. We were soon in an animated conversation about France, Americans in general, the First World War and the holocaust. Shortly after darkness descended, our pleasant conversation was interrupted by a brusque Frenchman. The Frenchman started making what sounded like angry demands which neither of us could understand (Bob's French was only marginally better than mine). Finally I said, "Parlez-vous Anglais?", to which he responded "Tu es en France. Tu parle Francais!" Eventually we came to understand that he was the manager of the campground and was demanding payment. Once that was clear, the Frenchman invited us to his house for a glass of wine. So, in a dramatic change in tone, we joined him and his cheery wife for an discussion of the Second World War, during which the Frenchman was briefly stationed in southern England.