Viva La France: Zen, and the Art of Cycling Solo

Pounding Kilometers Paris to Lyon

In the beginning, I was just pounding kilometers. I'm sure there was lots of lovely stuff to go and look at, but I just wanted to prove I'm a good cyclist that can go really fast and far for weeks at a time. Mainly prove it to myself. Despite the Olympics and the romantic streets of Paris, I got a quick pic with the Eiffel tower, then started flying down The Seine. There was no time. I did at one point hit 96km in just under 6 hours of riding and think, "Am I having fun right now?" And of course, I was, the lovely feeling of being strong and pushing on and eating up the road.

Truth is it only really goes wrong when you compare yourself to the other cyclists around you. When you start doing that you really can't win. Those going slower are losers that need to get on your level. Those who cycle faster and farther are tryhards that need to chill out. And of course that's really just your own insecurities you project onto everyone else, who don't give a damn how fast and far you go.

So the first half of the trip was just me getting that out my system, so I could let go of the kilometer count and just vibe with it. I did slow down to ride with a few people, all who reminded me a little bit more about what cycling alone is really about - meeting people and chatting absolute rubbish about everything.

First was Stephen, who saw me chugging past, but sped up to catch me and have a chat. 53, just hitting a real sweet spot in his life where he's loving everything and doing what he loves. His enthusiasm was absolutely infectious, and I got absolutely swept up in it, so spent the afternoon geeking out on canal engineering. I mean he was cycling by the Loire purely to look at the locks. In the afternoon we saw an ancient 7-lock canal that took 42 years to build. "What a miracle - and they did it all without GPS, not even a calculator!" I couldn't help but agree.

A great lesson in slowing down to look at stuff, and diving head first into your special interests. Also in just taking a chance and speaking to people. He got me thinking - if he hadn't sped up, and said hello, I'd have ridden the afternoon alone, both our lives far less enriched and full of connection. I vowed to follow his example.

Then four Parisian Architect students, with basic mountain bikes, clothes and food hanging out of open bags, or books strapped down with random bungee chords. Room for an 8 pack of lunch beers. Time to stop at the market and get cheese. They had started the tradition a few years back, each summer mooching about on the bikes, 50km a day, stopping at every chateau and church on the way. In stark contrast to the full-kit-wankers with the newest and sleekest bike-packing gear, they were there to hang out and have a good time. Live a little. Buy some fruit. Look at buttresses. I left them, plotting how to convince my friends in Leeds to join me on a little tour to Liverpool along the canal.

Finally, Damien, with all the kit, and all the enthusiasm, but no one to ride with. His English was as bad as my French, but we made do with a translator app, passed between us when random words and gesturing didn't do the job. He saw me at the campsite alone and just knew I wanted someone to talk to. The textbook extrovert, he'd talk the bark off the trees if they'd only talk back. The next day we rode out together - often in silence which must have been killing him. Still, we both agreed that the kilometers pass much quicker with a friend to share them with, even if you can't much speak to each other. 8 days, 1030km, go team.

Paris

Lost in the woods of Fontainebleau

Stephen telling me about boats

Camping

French Fudge at the coffee stop

A Chateau with the architects

Beerz with the Boyz

Swimming at Nimes

Nice Sunset

Lunch with Damien

Through the mountains, big mistake, go up to Macon and down to Lyon

Lyon: A Love Letter to a Fountain*

I love cycling fast and far as much as the next deranged endorphin junkie, but even for me 8 days straight is a lot. Even God rested on the 7th day, but the arrogance of man knows no bounds. I found myself covered in every sort of bite, bruise, and burn, dripping from the afternoon sun all over a lovely modern hostel floor.

"Bone jaw.

How is your English?

Thank goodness for that, because I for some reason thought it would all come back to me from my C in GCSE French 15 years ago.

Get me to a shower, mercy buckets."

Every French person I speak to is desperately convinced they can't speak English, then 10 minutes later are explaining the intricate differences in the production of cheese. Or sausage. Or anything French really. Pride overcomes their shyness given the chance to brag about French stuff.

I spent the night sitting by myself in the Hostel, drinking one too many celebratory beers, building the confidence to initiate conversations and start chatting rubbish.

***

There was always the danger of falling completely head over heels from the moment I hit France. Something about the nonchalance of the women, a look that says, "Of course I look good, it's nothing new." I didn't predict I'd fall for a fountain though.

All good solo travellers know, the first thing you should do is go on a free walking tour.** Heading to the rendezvous, I rounded the corner of the main square only to be greeted by an absolute masterpiece: the Fontaine Bartholdi in all its glory.

I don't think I've ever been moved so deeply by a sculpture. A completely naked woman drives a chariot led by 4 wild horses, frantic and straining at the bit. Two cherubs cling to her, terrified. She looks down to comfort them, calm, strong, in control, as if to say, "Don't worry chickadees, I've got you. Everything is fine." I think that's when I fell in love.

The sculptor Frédéric Bartholdi is better known for another of his designs: the even more imposing Statue of Liberty in New York. Clearly, he had strong female role models in his life (and after a bit of research I can confirm - he was raised by his mother alone from the age of 2.) There is also a fountain with his name in Washington D.C. where, get this, three strong confident women hold up a chandelier of street lights and water spouts.

I was told moments later by a hyperactive skinny French man in shorts and arty glasses that the woman here in Lyon is France, Liberté, riding on her 4 great rivers. I had come to know 3 of them already, ridden beside their frantic currents - The Seine out of Paris, along the unpredictable Loire, then over a horrible mountain pass to Lyon, perched between the Rhône and some other river, a peninsula of culture and art. I'm only missing the Garonne that flows through Toulouse, starting in the Spanish Pyrenees. Think I'd need a whole separate tour of its own to see that one properly.

Bertrand, the guide, knocked the rest of the tour out the park. He landed all his jokes, had us hanging on every word. Typically French - sarcastic, pessimistic, full of pride, constantly exaggerating the Lyonnaise hate for Paris ("That dirty little village in the west didn't even exist when Lyon became the second capital of the Roman Empire!") As you walk you can see the history of the city through its architecture - the roman amphitheater, the Venetian yellow on the hill from the renaissance, and of course the Canut.

The Canut is the name for the silk workers, who with the invention of the Jacquard Loom*** that automised production, went from skilled artists to factory laborers overnight. They formed the 2nd ever trade union (after Manchester of course!), revolted and took over the city thrice only to be put down brutally by the French army each time. Think cannons being fired down tight alleyways at people with bedknobs for weapons. Engels credits the Canut to be the first working-class uprising in the Industrial Revolution to seize the means of production - even if they didn't hold on to them for very long.

I spent the next two days wondering around looking at art, inside and outside, on every available bit of wall. In the evenings, banding together with the other lonesome souls in the hostel bar to go out and take on the city night. Lyon is a lovely place and you should definitely go if you have the chance.

*It's day 11, my last day in Lyon, and I was suddenly struck with the motivation to write something - a feeling so few and far between that I knew I had to act instantly. I've been keeping a journal, replacing morning chess with writing, and it's working. I'm finally starting to sound like myself again. I'm in a French public library battling with a keyboard where the a's w's m's and q's are all in the wrong place. And I have an hour limit on the computer, so this section is a bit of a rush job. Désolé!

**Learnt this last summer in Croatia. Great way to find your feet, know what you're looking at, and maybe find someone to eat lunch with if you're feeling chatty.

*** Jaquard Loom, the precursor to modern computing! Each pattern used a punch card of on's and off's (1's and 0's) that inspired Babbage when designing his Analytical Engine. Then, from what I gather, the rest was an automated process where the Canut just pushed heavy arms to make the loom weave.

"Ive got you bby"

In all her wonder

Bertrand Telling us about this wall

The Queen

Fine art

Girl with flowers

Germany gave away a last minute penalty and saved it to win

The Mural de Canut, a 3d mural on a flat wall, you have to see it

Dude at the market selling tea, he's family has been doing it for 400 years apparently

Following Signs on the ViaRhone

I saw a comedian tell a joke once about the difference between a scientist and an astrologer. The scientist looks at the universe, its vastness and beauty, and thinks "What mysteries I can uncover!" The astrologer looks at that same bigness, the stars up so far away, and thinks, "Yeah but, what does this tell me about me? A star speeds through the universe a billion light years away, crossing the sky, and that's why I'm always late to things!"

A girl I met in Lyon was very into it all. I'm not so convinced the movements of the heavens have too much of an effect on our decision-making, but I think the comedian had it wrong - the astrologer is looking anywhere they can for signs, an openness to the idea that the universe may have a bigger plan for you that you can see right now.

I found myself following all sorts of signs for the rest of the trip. Heading out of Lyon I took the amazing ViaRhone, a well-trod cycle path starting at the source of the Rhone and following alongside in the river valley all the way to the sea. I've never been on a route so well signposted that I basically put my phone away all day. It's like an adult treasure hunt - sometimes a sticker on a tree, or a stencil of a cyclist on the floor, or a signpost. My favorite - spraypainted VR's on the side of buildings or trees where someone has gotten so annoyed with getting lost, they've gone back and made sure that no one else will be led astray.

And sometimes you go for big big stretches where the temptation to get your phone out to check you're going right is visceral and all-consuming. The moment you do, when you need it most, there it is, a little sign, ViaRhone this way. O ye of little faith.

I finally managed to catch some Olympics, the Women's football bronze medal game at the Parc Olympique Lyonnais Stadium, and as a result found myself setting off from Lyon a little later than expected in the middle of a 38°C heatwave. It was hot. Too hot, even for the lines of sunflowers, wilting from too much of a good thing. I've never seen it before - an almost autumn-like covering of brown crisp leaves on the floor, but dropped and frazzled off green trees struggling in the heat. A crunch as you cycle over them. My usually sweat-soaked top suspiciously dry, replaced with a new pattern of salty white crystals. The sun threatens to suck all the moisture in your body out of your mouth, so you have to breathe through your nose (a challenge when you are racing to get to the next bit of shade).

The first day I ignored all the signs and tried to cycle on through. By 4 pm, the peak of the heat, my overclocked body could do no more, so I stopped for 3 hours to swim in the Rhone and spit some sunflower seeds while the heat subsided. It was clear I needed a new way of doing things.

At the campsite that night I spoke to an old pro Elina - they're always from Switzerland or the Netherlands, 60 plus with a farmers tan built up over decades of solo tour cycling. Always telling you to go at your own pace and enjoy it, but cycle 100km a day like it's nothing. They usually plan very little and just feel it out on the day, listening to their body. Following the signs.

She told me off for forcing it. "Mon dieu, don't fight this heat, you'll lose!", helping me to re-frame my day. And with it, I found a new routine. Go to bed with the sun, and get up as early as possible. Pack up quick and set off. Go to the boulangerie and get a pastry, coffee, and baguette, because you are in France, and it would be rude not to. Then you are in a race with the sun, getting the most out of the day you can in the comparative cool of the morning, then lunch, roll into a campsite early, and sleep through the heat of the day.

Then more advice, this time from Camille. French guy with a mad scientist spray of salt and pepper hair, jam jar glasses, all teeth and gums, a bicycle repair man who'd spent every summer for the last 20 years cycling around Europe.

We were speaking about the sort of Zen you can reach while cycling - you're consciously attending to where you are going, following the route, looking for the way, avoiding running into things. But in the background all sorts of thoughts and memories jumble around, connecting together, putting themselves in their right place. Sorting out the past.**** Camille had to disagree a little though. we were passing through farm country, and he'd spent the day very much in the present. He described it as an endless buffet, every field he passed an opportunity to stop and sample the local produce, constantly on the lookout for the next treat.

The day after I gave it a go. It slowed me down, made me more focused on what was around me. And constantly eating. An apple, some brambles, peaches, tomatoes, figs so ripe they'd split themselves open in the sun. Green french plums, that I'd been buying the whole trip, there, fallen from the tree, ready to eat. And Grapes. Grapes of every colour and size, sweet and tart. Bursting with flavor.

At first, I felt guilty, like a naughty school kid from the 60's pinching his neighbour's pears. Then I looked down the row and saw hundreds of grape vines, rows upon rows, as far as I could see and felt less bad.

I remember in China cycling through an apple region. I stopped to take a picture of an older man harvesting, and he insisted I take some apples with me, as many as I could carry, too many (I had them spilling out of my open panniers by the end). If he could be so happy to share in the midst of authoritarian repression and pitiful wages, surely the French farmers in this land of plenty wouldn't mind donating a grape or two to a good cause. And if they did mind, they were probably the type of people I'd be happy to get one over on regardless!*****

I was really starting to slow down and enjoy myself, but time was running out, and for the last 3 days, the famous wind of the Rhone Valley, the Mistral, had started to blow. No matter how much I wanted to hang on to the last sweet dregs of the cycle, I was carried in great gusts and before I knew it 400km had flown by and I was in Montpellier.

**** Honestly cycling is like therapy, especially when combined with writing, I cannot recommend it enough, go buy a bike.

*****I am in no way condoning stealing and promise I only took a little bit to try everything!

Swimming spot on the Rhone

Up before the sun

Arty renewable nuclear energy

Looking at the sun

Too hot for sunflowers

Autumn dead leaves in summer

The lunch of champions

Stolen Grapes

The Signs

See, so many grapes, they won't miss a few

Bridge art

Bursting Figs

Me and Derick on the Beach

Heavy Metal in Montpellier

My Uncle Allen is a very special individual. The way he just walks into any social situation, self-assured, ready to talk the ear off of anyone and everyone who'll listen. Some of the best nights of my life I've spent following Allen around as he accosts people with his company. Talking to the weirdest and wonderfullest people. Usually on the wrong side of 5 pints.

For some reason, I never thought I could be that person. The real big growth for me this trip has been overcoming a sort of mental block I've always had, even on the big cycle through Asia. If someone initiates conversation I'll jump right in with anyone. But it takes a special type of bravery to take the leap and initiate. At some point this trip I just decided to channel my inner-uncle-allen and wade right on in.

Turns out as always it's about changing how you frame things. Most of the time the fear of rejection gets in the way. But actually, most people do want to talk! And so you talk, and connect, and both of you walk away with a more enriched or at least more interesting life. And if they don't want to talk who cares? You already won by trying. And I'm usually good for a chat. If they don't fancy it, it's their loss. As I say to the kids at school - "You can be the juciest, tastiest, bestest peach in the whole wide world, and some people just don't like peaches." And so you move on, knowing you did something good being brave no matter the outcome.

I spent most of my time in Montpellier accosting people with my company, chatting absolute rubbish with anyone and everyone. One night I decided to go see some live music, got chatting with some women at the bus stop who were also going, and spent the next 3 hours moshing with the French to heavy metal and hardcore punk. My night ended at 3 am listening to French rap in the park, legs hanging over the edge of the viaduct with an eight-pack between four, talking about the essence of being French. Which I'm told is le flemme - slang for "I just cannot be arsed". Also some choice swear words if I ever need to start a fight in a boulangerie. A night that wouldn't be if I hadn't been brave and made the jump. So thank you, Uncle Allen, the role model I never knew I needed so much.

Then France was over, I'd run out of time. I spent a whole day on slow local trains, 6 hours in total from Montpellier to Portbou, Portbou to Barcelona where I met my lovely family, and thats where I am now on a stolen morning between Gaudi tours and excellent tapas. Liberté, égalité, fraternité. Viva La France.

Albums of the Trip
Against All Logic - 2012-2017
Joanna Sternberg - I've Got Me
Berurier Noir - Concerto Pour Detraques

Books of the Trip
On the Road - John Kerouac

Chess Lessons From a Champion Coach - Thomas Engqvist