DAY 9

Vielha, Spain to Bagneres De Luchon, France. (40 kilometers)

8am start under misty cloud cover and cold air. The first 20 kilometers to Bossost were flat and easy. It was so chilly though that I pulled over to slip on my wool bikers’ leg warmers that had been stuffed in my jacket pocket all these days. I also put on a thin cap that goes under your helmet to add an extra layer of warmth– had bought them both at REI half wondering if I was wasting my money on gimmicky biker accessories but no, as it turned out they were priceless. When we reached the bottom of the hill that leads up and over into France, the sun was still hiding but we stripped off our extra layers in preparation for the uphill climb. A sign with a picture of a bicycle on it warned of 8, 9, and 10% inclines on this stretch. Gabriel, on a mission, shot ahead of me and was soon out of sight. I lowered my gear and stood out of my seat, pumping and panting and thought: “Shit, what did he have for breakfast?” The road wound up and up with few reprieves. I was alone except for an occasional car or other rider. As the next hour passed the panting “Buenos Dias”es of passing cyclists turned more and more to “Bonjour”s and I knew I was getting close, so close to France. An hour and a half going up and it’s hard, really hard, but we had rested yesterday and I felt (or believed, and maybe it’s the same thing) that I was stronger than a week ago. My mind wondered and I thought about my cat, Lola,–yeah I know–and how much I can’t wait to lie in my own bed with her in the crook of my arm when I get back home if she’s not too mad at me for leaving for so long. Where was Gabriel? Usually when he’s out of sight for a while he pulls over and waits for me to catch up. 2 days ago on our little joy-ride he was going fast and turned his head back to look for me, lost his balance and fell. It wasn’t too bad or anything but it was a little scary. “You don’t have to do that, Baby” I had said, “that’s why I have the whistle.” So maybe he had taken that to heart. Another half hour of effort and ache and sweat and then 3 good-looking British guys rode by from the other direction–smiling and speeding downhill. “Hey! We just saw your husband!”. They called out. It was suddenly so nice to hear people speaking English after all this time and their accents were so cute and their voices were so encouraging I just wanted us all to jump off our bikes and hug. “You’re almost there!” They yelled as they disappeared. And I was. A few minutes later I could see the top off the hill and the French border and Gabriel standing there smiling with the camera ready as I rode across. “Did you have to stop?” He asked. “No, just to take off my jacket.” “Wow, that was hard. I though you would have to stop.” “Nope.” And yesterday was Bastille Day. Viva La France!

The top of the hill was a mini-international convention of about a dozen cyclists. Some traveling from the French side, some the opposite. Everyone chatting and guzzling water and checking out each other’s gear. (Cycling gear I mean of course). I noticed I was the only chick. Cold air and still no sun and so I had a feeling the 10 kilometer descent was going to be chilly so I put my cap and my leg warmers back on. On the speedy ride down I did see some women bikers on their way up and it was obvious that coming from the French side was much steeper and harder than the way we had come. Go my sisters! And it was freezing-ass-cold. You won’t ever catch me trying something stupid like trying to climb Everest because I DO NOT DO NOT DO NOT like to be cold. My bones were rattling and I didn’t care about the downhill scenery and the fun of it cos I just wanted the ride to be over and be in a scalding hot bathtub.

We finally reached the bottom, Bagneres De Luchon and rode right in to kind of a little neighborhood. It was instantly different than Spain. Cute little rowhouses lined the streets with pots of flowers everywhere. An old couple walked together on the sidewalk and I smiled cos the man actually carried a baguette under his arm. France! An official-type car drove thru the streets making a PA announcement (I think about the main rode closing for the Tour coming through). We checked into our hotel, I took my burning hot bath, we found a restaurant to eat. I keep accidentally speaking Spanish to waiters and such which as you can imagine is not appreciated here. Unfortunately, I shamefully speak not a word of French beyond a terribly American accented “Mer-see.” Gabriel is better than me but he ain’t great either. Tonight though, our friends Liz, Steve, and Kelly arrive here to meet and play for the next 2 days and Liz at least speaks French. We’re so excited to see friends!! We have another day off from riding tomorrow and then we tackle the piece de resistance (had to use the cliche French phrase), Le Tourmalet.