bicicletaloca

68 km (more or less). 8 plus hours, but who’s counting?

First, I want to thank all of you who have sent words of encouragement– whether through your comments, or by email or facebook. I can’t tell you how much it means to me. Your words are my fuel!!!

So yesterday, Bastille Day, started out as usual. My morning motivating thought was: Well, if French peasants can storm the Bastille and start a Revolution, I can sure as hell bike up a mountain, right? The scenery in the first 3 hours was not as mind-bendingley beautiful as the day before, but still nice, and the weather has continued to be in our favor. After the first hour, I hadn’t spotted my animal totem for the day yet, and we pulled over for some reason or another. Gabriel was adjusting something on his bike and that’s when I noticed a bee, hovering, buzzing, eye-level with me. It just hung there in the air and we seemed to stare at each other. For a moment I thought, “is it about to sting me?” I started to say “There’s a bee, we should move…” but then it flew away. So on the way up the hill I thought– well maybe that bee is my totem today. And I contemplated bees, how essential they are to the ecosystem, and how nature has provided them with powerful stingers to protect themselves. How they’re disappearing though, and what that means for our environment. (As you know, I have alot of time to ponder things). So onwards and upwards we go, through a tunnel under a waterfall. The right side of the tunnel was open so you could see the waterfall crash over you. Magnificent.

Maybe 4 hours in, we got to a village in a valley called Val D’Isere. We had a coffee, we ate bread and cheese. Then we started the huge ascent of the day, the Col de L’Isiran. The valley was hot but as we went up the air got cooler and cooler. The way the road wound up the mountain you could look down and see how far you’d come. The view was glorious. There were some hikers with their walking sticks, families picnicking at the vista points, motorcycles going for joy rides. A couple more hours and we were up to the snow, giant patches that hadn’t melted yet. The air was very cool there but the sun was toasty and it was just right for riding up. I think it was about hour 7 when we reached the summit. Everyone– cyclists, motorcyclists, hikers– were taking pictures by the summit sign. We bundled up for the descent. I put on my bike jacket, my ski-mask thing, and my down jacket. I felt fine. I hadn’t had any issue with the altitude yet at all. We were at about 9000 feet. But suddenly I felt HUNGRY. Like really really piercingly hungry. Well, word to the wise: When you’ve been riding for 7 hours and you’re at 9000 feet and your body says its hungry: listen to it. EAT. Eat anything you can get your hands on. Don’t be a DUMB-ASS JERK like I was and think: “Man, I’m hungry. But I don’t want to eat any energy goo. We just have to descend and then we’ll be at our hotel and then I’m going to eat real food. I’m gonna have a whole pizza, or maybe spaghetti bolognese, oh that would be so good…” This is what I was thinking about as we started down. And then I noticed I was suddenly really light-headed. “The altitude–weird how I’m just feeling it now, but it’ll be okay cos we’re descending. This light-headedness will pass as we get lower. Hmm. Ice cream. After the pasta I’m gonna have ice-cream. Man, I’m still really light-headed. You know, this is kind of like drunk driving. I think I’d better…” and I started to reduce my speed. And then, boom. A little turn, a little gravel, and I’m down. Hard core on my left side. Not a funny fall. The first thing I did was scream bloody murder for Gabriel. Cos even in that second I knew there was no time to get the whistle and if I didn’t blast my voice out he would never hear me. (Loopers, you know the scream). He heard it. My second thought was: I didn’t hit my head. I pulled myself and my bike a couple of feet to the side of the road and dipped my head down for oxygen. Gabriel had dropped his bike and was running up the mountain, alongside another cyclist who had heard me. I was moving my arms and legs so I knew nothing was broken. I couldn’t feel my arms at that point though–they were all tingle, no feeling. My knees, elbow, and knuckles were cut pretty bad, but I was okay. “The altitude.” I said. The other cyclist gave me some Coke and a chocolate thing: “Sugar. Sip. Eat slowly.” And the sugar instantly–I mean instantly–cleared my head. Once we determined that I wasn’t hurt, Gabriel straightened out my bike which had gone off alignment while I just sat there and thought: “The bee. That’s what that meant. The bee was warning me.” I know that might sound nuts, but there you go.

We rode slowly, slowly down to the village, Gabriel behind me. I wasn’t scared getting back on the bike because I knew what had happened. I knew it was my own stupid-ass fault. Take Nothing For Granted, right Ranj? Good one. Confident with my descents. Mmm hmm. The fall wasn’t bad, I’m fine. But it really could have been. THANK YOU GOD for protecting me. THANK YOU. (I know you’re out there).

We’re at the hotel now. We are calling it “The Shining” hotel because it is in the most picturesque spot, surrounded by snow-capped mountains but there’s nobody here. There’s the proprietor and I think one other couple checked in. Our room is at the end of a long hallway, and every time I walk toward it I expect to see those twin girls standing there. Today, the 15th, is a Rest Day. And its a good thing too. My cuts are washed, slathered in Neosporin, and wrapped. Gonna have a couple good bruises on my left hip and elbow. Knuckles a little swollen, but I’m good. And I’m smarter than I was yesterday and I’m very very grateful. Today I had my whole pizza and an ice cream sundae.

Epilogue:

Lessons I learned: 1) Always listen to my body, 2) Take nothing for granted (especially the effects of altitude), 3) Pay attention to the bees.

* There’s a documentary I’ve been wanting to see about bees and the environment called Queen of the Sun. Gonna see it for sure when I get back.

P.S. The picture of us on the France photos page of this blog will now be captioned: “The Pride before The Fall.”

Dear friends,

I’ll post today’s events tomorrow. (OUR REST DAY!)

You’ll know why tomorrow. Today was a doozie. And not just because we rode for 8 hours straight. I’ll be drinking wine now and celebrating Bastille Day.

Sending all of you love.

6 hours. 45 kilometers.

I had to dig deep today. Real deep. Physically of course. But today psychologically too. We started the day with an argument– we’re married, we’re exhausted, it’s to be expected. He’s in a big hurry every day to get on the road, and I wanted to linger over a second cup of cafe au lait. The tears I’ve been waiting for came this morning. My body’s tired, I have my period (as a special bonus!), and we had a huge climb ahead of us, the biggest yet. I wanted to call my mom to come pick me up (and she would, cos that’s how she is. And she would bring me my kitty cat). Oh how I miss my kitty-cat.

So as we got going I thought to myself: Exactly WHY am I doing this again? Something to ponder for the next 6 hours. Is it: a) to get stronger, physically and psychically? b) to impress others? c) to please my husband? d) because last year’s bike trip was so amazing and rewarding and I want to recapture that? e) to shake me out of my comfort zone and change my perspective? A little of all of the above I guess. But “E” especially. I want something new to be revealed to me in these mountains. That’s all I know right now. I’ll keep you posted.

The monster climb was the Cul de Pre. It was 12 km, and took us about 3 hours. Much of the ascent was at 9%–that’s hard. The scenery, though– indescribable. Up through valley farmlands. I locked eyes with a sheepdog in a field and we panted in unison as I rode by. He was my Good Luck Charm today. Passing the farmlands we were in woods on a one lane road. There were other cyclists including a couple on a tandem bike. “Tres dificil!” “Oui!” We laughed. Hour 2. I pondered my “why”. Why everything? Why did I give up acting? Why did I not have a baby? I picked a daisy, stuck it on some velcro on my handlebars, and then swerved violently from the action, almost falling but not. Gabriel and I both stopped at one section to rest, it was right before the hardest incline. I got off the bike and laid down on the side of the road. I swung my legs over my head in that yoga pose – “plow” is it called? “I need to decompress my lower spine.” Gabriel laughed: “I need to decompress my balls.”

Three hours and we were at the summit. One climb down, one to go. We flew spectacularly down. Everything was in stark contrast: snow-capped peaks, then lower mountains which were bright Irish green with clusters of trees, and then below that a pure blue lake, cascades of water crashing into it at several spots. It made me think: the world is beautiful. So heartbreakingly beautiful. The next challenge was the Col de Meraillet. I won’t even try to describe how stunning it was. The silhouettes of the mountains like the most artful carvings. “How did this all come to be?” I wondered. (Yeah it was that kind of philosophical day, and its only day 4). Wonder wonder wonder. My body wasn’t suffering as much today. I’m not sure if that’s because of the deep ponderings or because it has finally given up its fight and is just submitting to my will. “You’ll pay for this later,” its probably scheming. Towards the top 2 American guys rode by me. “Hey I recognize you! You ride Latigo Canyon.” “Yeah!” I said. “I recognize your handlebars!” (hmm. Is that code for something? My handlebars?) As they passed me: “You should get a lighter bike!” Really, dude? Don’t you see these giant packs I’m carrying? Its a touring bike. You’re on a road bike. Dang. Do I have to get mad at people again? Then we saw the same guys at the summit and they were actually really nice. Quite a few of them from LA. They had their support van and everything. WHERE THE FUCK IS MY SUPPORT VAN? I thought as I put my head between my legs cos I felt like I was going to pass out. I ate about a quarter pound of my most-delicious-creamy-local-cheese-ever with some baguette and got over it though.

The descent was fun! Winding down, gorgeous (although you can’t look around too much, you gotta be careful). Gabriel keeps looking back to make sure I’m okay. I’m fine, I’m confident going down. (But not too confident. Take Nothing For Granted). We ended in this pretty village, in our adorable hotel that’s like a Swiss Chalet. I’m hungry but happy. Hungry is good. Yesterday I was too wrecked to even be hungry and I think I should be eating more. (When in my life have I ever said that?)

This evening was wonderful. Our hotel is like a B&B, family run, and so home-like. In the bar we had drinks with the regulars, 2 of them bringing in dogs– so cozy and casual. A duo (guitar and electric violin) started playing covers of everything from REM to the The Rolling Stones. They were great and we geeked-out to all the classics as regulars greeted the hotel owner and the dogs wandered around. It was so warm and comforting. Turned out the duo were British, and we chatted with them at dinner. We requested “Wild World” and it brought down the house. I had coconut ice cream AND tirimisu tonight. Yes I did.

Today was easier. Thank God. 51 kilometers, only 5 hours riding. Yes, I said only 5 hours. That’s who I’ve become. We got an 8am start again and it was so beautiful. I don’t know where this rain is that was forecast, but it didn’t follow us today. (Knocking on wood). The first hour and a half was pretty tough, up and up the Col de Aravis. But the scenery was stunning, the mountains dizzying if you looked up at them. More farms in the valley. I passed a pasture with a mare and her colt, a few other horses, and a sheepdog all grazing and hanging out together. (At least it looked like a sheepdog, perspectives can get wonky). I decided to make this Mama horse my totem animal for the day, to bring me good luck on the ride. These are the kinds of things you think about when you’re trying to distract yourself from extreme effort. Yesterday I rode under a beautiful hawk perched on a branch above me and decided that he would be my good luck charm. Either that or he was going to shit on my head. (He didn’t).

The Col de Aravis was relatively short though– 2 hours? Its all relative now I guess. When we reached the summit we saw another cyclist put on his jacket for the descent and he looked like he knew what he was doing so we followed suit. We were so hot and sweaty at the top but going down it was chilly and tree shaded. I was cold enough to consider stopping to put something else on– I’ve got leg warmers, arm warmers, a thing that goes over my head under the helmet and covers my whole head and neck except for some of my face. That last one isn’t official bicycle attire, and would definitely make die-hard cyclists cringe if they saw me wearing it. I braved the chill, though, and then when we started climbing again (back in the sun) I warmed up quickly. The quick change of temperature felt invigorating, it felt like childhood– being a kid getting out of a cold pool or ocean or lake and then flopping down on the grass, skin tingling, to let the sun bake you warm again. Speaking of attire, this woman rode past me wearing this skin-tight black mesh top over her sport bra, and from the back I have to admit it looked kind of sexy (yet professional). I thought: I should get one of those little numbers. But then, no. My bike gear is long sleeves and long pants to protect myself from the sun, cos getting a sunburn on top of all this would be seriously awful. I cover myself head to toe except for my face which I entrust to La Roche-Posay sunscreen SPF 50 which hasn’t failed me yet.

We rode some flat, then another climb: Col de Saisies. This one was longer, endless really. I sometimes go through phases of emotion on these climbs. There weren’t alot of other cyclists, but when they did pass they looked all young and fresh and pro-training style. Today I hated them. A guy would pass me, all lanky with his feather-light bike and we’d say “bonjour” and then I’d think: “Cocky fuck.” For no reason, no reason at all. But nothing is reasonable on these days. One guy, an American of course, called out as he passed: “Having fun?!” I hated him. What am I supposed to say? “I’m dying right now you moron, but yeah I’m doing this ride willingly so I guess its fun.” I yelled back: “In a way!” Bastard. He rode on. One French kid was super sweet, I have no idea what he said to me but he had sweat running down his face and we had a moment of non-verbal sharing in our mutual suffering.

When I finally reached the summit of Col de Saisies, Gabriel was there sitting in a patch of grass next to the sign signaling the summit. He was eating some bread and cheese and waiting for me. Four British guys had ridden up from the other side and were taking pictures of themselves posed next to the sign. I slowed my bike and wobbled onto the grass, preparing to stop. But my left foot wouldn’t unclip from the pedal and the grass was uneven and so you can guess what happened. I fell over flat on my left side. Just went straight down, plunk, stiff as a board, right in front of the guys. They had the courtesy to stifle their laughs but they all took turns taking pictures of me sprawled on the ground, including Gabriel. Once I laughed, everyone else did too. Oh these priceless moments.

The rest of the ride was down, flying fast and fun, and great views. We found our village and our hotel without too much trouble. Its a teeny tiny place, hardly even on a map. There are about 2 hotels and the one we’re in: the room has a bathroom that is kind of like a tiny addition-unit. Like imagine the size of an airplane bathroom but with a shower squeezed in also. Its like a tiny shed you can buy at Home Depot and just connect the water to it. Once again, it doesn’t matter cos the room is clean, the water is hot, and we do nothing but sleep, eat, and maybe read so who cares.

Gabriel is feeling pukey from the altitude– I’m not even sure what it is, 3 or 4 thousand feet. I’m not really feeling it yet, but that may be to come because we’ll be climbing higher. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day — an official one– but not “the hardest day” officially. On the 15th, we have a day of rest. No riding. I can’t even imagine what that will be like. Gabriel just went in the shed to pee…and now I’m getting the giggles. Time for bed. Hugs and love to whoever is reading this.

Warning: profanity will be employed in this addition of the blog.

6 1/2 hours. 82 kilometers. 6 bottles of water. 3 stops to pee on the side of the road. 2 packs each of energy goo (I used to hate the stuff, now I’ve never appreciated it more). 1/2 of a fresh baked eclair– creamy, flakey, mouth watering. We fucking made it.

Normally we might have taken a break during a ride like this, but we decided to get up early and try to outrun the rain. We meant to leave Thonon at 7, but it was 8 by the time we were on the road. We had sun and a few clouds, but none looked ominous. Still, we kept our stops very brief. The first hour or so was all farmland. Its wonderful to ride at that hour. The sun is up, but the air is still cool and dewey. Bright shades of green, fragrant grass around us. Sheep and horses grazing. The jingling of cowbells (I love that sound). After a while we reached our first mountain climb. A canopy of trees shaded us overhead and woods surrounded us on either side. The climb was hard but not impossible, and took about an hour. Then we were flying downward, then flat, then up again. After hour 3 I don’t really remember what came in what order. By hour 4 my brain was getting loopy. Song lyrics were popping randomly into my head. I had profound thoughts like: “Wow. Cows are actually really big animals” as we rode by a pasture of them.

We went through some villages, one with the patisserie where we stopped and Gabriel wolfed down a fruit tart and most of an eclair. I was too buzzy to even try to eat much. We climbed another mountain. Some older guy cyclists rode by me up the hill and I thought (but didn’t say): “Ok fine but which one of us is carrying 30 extra pounds clipped to their ass?” Right. At hour 5 it was hot, so hot. We found a spring of water to fill up our bottles and Gabriel dunked his head under it and said: “This is all I want for my birthday. Water.” And then I realized that that is one of the reasons we like to do these trips. Because they make the ordinary feel extraordinary. For 2 weeks, we take nothing for granted. Not water, or hot baths, or food, or even shade. We rode on. Into hour 6 I started to think I was truly done. I could see a sign up ahead for La Clusaz but I couldn’t make it out. I prayed for it to say: “La Clusaz. Right fucking here.” But it didn’t, it said “5”. Five kilometers. That’s nothing, I can do that. But it was 5 going up. At this point it seemed like the last hour or 2 had been all up. My knees had begun their screaming a while ago. My hands were numb, my arms throbbing, even my ass hurt which never happens. But knees screaming: that’s bad bad bad. That’s a pain you don’t push through. We rode forever and ever and ever and the next sign said “La Clusaz – 3”. What the fuck?! And the 3 was even more up, I could see it ahead of me. But I kept riding and when we finally got to the village of La Clusaz and actually stopped, that’s when I felt the altitude–or maybe it was just exhaustion. I got really lightheaded (not an unpleasant feeling at that point because I would have been perfectly happy to get off my bike and lay down right there on the sidewalk and never get up again). It took us another 15 minutes to find our hotel. This place is a winter ski resort– ski lifts run up and down the mountain, and if you look up the tops are snowcapped. We are truly in the Alps now. No more messing around. We got to our room, both of us somnambulistic. At that point I was past hunger, past any human need or desire or thought. We showered, washed and hung up our clothes, and then slept. Later we got up and I my stomach was growling, distantly –like an oncoming train but I wan’t actually hungry yet. I was still numb. Gabriel, in slightly better shape than me, went out and bought a baguette and some local cheese. I nibbled them slowly, and again, my God, what could taste better at that moment, washed down with glasses and glasses of water?

And then a little later we had a birthday dinner for him at the restaurant in our hotel, which is actually a Michelin rated one. We ate a slow, 2 hour meal with perfect wine pairings and it was just wonderful. And then Gabriel hit me with: “Today was really not one of the more difficult days. Just wait.” Last year I cried at this point. This year, no tears came and the rain never reached us today. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.

I rode all the way here with a smile on my face today. No rain. Bright, sunny skies. A pretty easy, flat 30 kilometers or so through little French villages that were like out of a storybook. Gorgeous old country homes next to Lake Geneva, flowerpots bursting over balconies, fields of wheat, a perfect breeze. I even heard Edith Piaf coming from the second floor window of one of the houses (I mean, seriously). It was stunningly beautiful and exhilarating. Turns out the forecast for rain is actually for tomorrow, the day we have to do 78 kilometers. The day we have a couple of serious inclines (and descents). We are watching the weather closely and trying to hatch a Plan B. Just in case it really does rain (alot). We can’t descend rain-slicked mountains at 30 miles an hour. Even our recklessness doesn’t go that far. Last year’s Plan B, which thankfully we never had to employ, was the “Find the Guy with the Van” Plan. And beg / bribe that guy to drive us and our bikes to the next destination. That plan always seemed a little iffy to me, but less so in Gabriel’s home country. Here, with our limited language skills, it seems even less plausible. Anyway, that’s a worry for tomorrow.

We stopped in a charming old village called Yvoire for water and coffee. Cobblestone walking streets lined with creperies and wine stores, flowers everywhere you looked. From there it took us less than an hour to cross into Thonon-Les-Bains, a larger town still on the banks of Lake Geneva. We were following the GPS to our hotel. Gabriel was ahead of me, and we had moved onto a sidewalk because the street was too small for us and a car. That’s when Gabriel slightly miscalculated his width (with the panniers on his sides) and hit his left pannier on a street sign as he pedaled by it. He hit it hard enough to send him flying off his bike, me letting out a scream watching him from behind. Then an amazing thing happened. He hit the ground, did a double roll, sprang up and landed on his feet, in kind of a ta-da pose, and then made a thumbs up sign to let me know he was okay. Oh my God, it was a move straight out of Cirque du Soleil. Truly spectacular, like he had planned it or something. We both just stood there in shock and relief. He doesn’t know how he did it, but he did something similar one other time in New York when he tripped down an escalator at the Waldorf Astoria. He must have some kind of amazing muscular acrobatic instincts. I haven’t laughed that hard in a really long time. Its so scary to see the other person fall, but when you realize that they’re okay, my God its so funny to keep re-visualizing in your head. My shoulders were shaking laughing all the way to our hotel.

The first thing we always do is wash our bike clothes in the hotel sink and hang them to dry for the next day. Then we shower, stumble around the village to find a place to eat, nap, and then wake up again as the air starts too cool off. Today I’m listening to children splashing in the hotel pool as Gabriel furrows his brow over the map of tomorrow’s route (working on that Plan B). We’re in a small, cute hotel, nothing fancy but we have a balcony to dry our clothes on which makes it special in these circumstances. I’m trying to practice the French phrases I’ve learned from a podcast on anyone we come across– waiters, etc. Pretty much every time I struggle to sputter out 3 words or so, whoever I’m talking to answers me back in perfect, barely accented English which makes me feel very very silly. Yet I persist because I want to practice. Gabriel laughed at me because at a restaurant in Geneva I stopped the waitress to ask: “Puis-je regler par carte de credit?” Even though we perfectly knew the answer was yes. Another guy I stopped to ask: “Yatil un banque pres d’ici?” And it was a genuine question, I really was looking for a bank cos we had to pay the guy who fixed my bike in cash. But the guy I stopped seriously made a face like “What the hell is wrong with you?” Like he thought I was having some kind of verbal fit or something. So I repeated “Un banque?” He understood that and quickly pointed across the street and scurried off, looking spooked. So maybe my accent needs some work.

The rest of the day involved alot of cream sauce and Gabriel gulping water cos he got a little sunburned. We’re going to get up super-early tomorrow and start riding because the rain supposedly won’t start until the afternoon. We still don’t have a real Plan B. 🙂

We got to the airport around 6:15am, sheepishly returned the rental car and keys to the Hertz dropbox (maybe they won’t notice the scratches!) and then realized something we hadn’t counted on. This is Terminal One. We need to be at Terminal Two. And if you’ve been to Barcelona Airport you know how far away they are from each other. A shuttle bus was out of the question because of the bikes so we had no choice but to lock on our panniers and ride our way out of the parking structure and basically onto a pre-dawn freeway. I wasn’t quite prepared for the 5 mile unlit ride to Terminal 2 wearing flip flops and loose pants that kept catching on my bike gears, dodging taxi cabs and trying to keep balance with my very unevenly weighted panniers. (Our plan was to each carry on one pannier, and check another –the checked one containing liquids, our wrench, swiss army knives, and other potential weaponry). Somehow we made it to Terminal Two intact but stressed-out, and found our way to the Easy Jet check-in with a line already forming. Step 2 now involved a mechanical operation where we remove the pedals and the handlebars from the bikes but tie them flush with the frame with those amazing plastic zip-ties, let some air out of the tires and then wrap the whole bike in a plastic mattress cover and tape it closed. And according to the Easy Jet employees on the phone in the US– several employees, over several phone calls to confirm–that is a perfectly acceptable way to check in your bike. (This was essential because of course we can’t carry real actual bike bags with us on our trip. Too big, too heavy). Other than slicing my leg with the gears as I crawled into the giant plastic bag dragging the bike behind me, we managed this operation unscathed. Or I should say Gabriel managed the operation. He deftly earned his man-credit with the wrench while I kind of just handed him tools. And as a bonus we put on quite a spectacle for the sleepy people standing in line.

We finally joined the line, checked in (all good, no problem), and made it to our gate just in time. We dozed on the plane and landed in Geneva a little after 10am. Then we do the reverse operation at the baggage claim while normal cyclists grab their normal bike bags and jump into taxi-cabs. But now we’re excited because the adventure has begun and we zip out of the airport wearing helmets and bike shoes and set the GPS for our hotel. No signal. Not only that but you know, its an airport, so basically its all one-way feeder roads onto freeways. Not bike friendly at all. Fortunately, though, an angel in the form of an old Swiss man on a bike himself appeared (where in the world could he have been coming from? He materialized out of thin air) and kindly lead us toward the city center. He wasn’t one to slow his pace for us though, and now I had my 30 pounds on me (yes 30, we weighed the panniers when we checked them in) and I was panting to keep up. Not to mention we hadn’t eaten a bite and my throat was so parched I felt like I couldn’t swallow. We winded and twisted through back streets, a couple times slipping through closed gates — just open enough for a bike but barely enough for a bike carrying 2 bursting panniers. The old man and Gabriel were quite a bit ahead of me when I got stuck in one of those gates and they didn’t see that I had stopped. I felt like the girl in the horror movie who trips when she’s running from the monster and gets her foot caught on something. I finally got unstuck but by the time I got to the next intersection they were out of sight and I had no idea which way they’d gone. I didn’t have to wait long though before the old man came circling back for me and led me to a very relieved Gabriel. We continued our way to the city center where we parted ways with the old man and navigated ever increasing traffic –including riding through the interior of a train station– until we found our hotel.

We were so thirsty and famished that we immediately went to eat at the restaurant that was right next door, and that I had coincidently read in the airplane magazine served “the best burgers in Geneva.” Well if they do I’m sorry for Geneva cos they weren’t good. Anyway, it didn’t matter. We made it! We showered, we rested, we took a walk to the old part of the city. We argued over where to eat dinner cos neither of us had done any research on that (implictly my job, since he had planned everything else) and I had researched places to eat in other towns on our route, but had skipped over Geneva, thinking: Its Geneva, there must be tons of good restaurants. And there are, of course. But we did feel a little burned by our burger experience, and everything is ridiculously expensive here — so if you’re going to drop $200 on dinner you want to feel reasonably confident that it will be…okay. So to overcompensate for my guilt in this area I started getting bossy, which Gabriel called me on, and we both got mad. And now we’re mad and hungry and tired. But finally we found a place we agreed on, and it was good, and the stress of the day started to wear off.

Today, July 9th, we got up early and did a practice ride / mechanical check. We rode in a bike-friendly area: parks, bike lanes, around the massive UN compound. We passed UNICEF, the WHO, the World Meteorological Association, half a dozen embassies, and other major international headquarters that Geneva is all about. (That and the money hidden in the walls). I hadn’t been on my bike in about 2 weeks and it felt great. Gabriel was exuberant and called biking instructions back at me over his shoulder (hmmm. who’s bossy now?) like telling me to ride directly behind him which is fine on a flat road but when we get to the mountains—there’s no way I’m going to keep up with his pace. Also, we’ve done that before and once or twice he has stopped without warning causing me to crash into him which not only is not pretty, it really pisses me off. So we agreed that if he’s going to stop, he’ll wave his hand in the air, big and obvious. That will be our “Stop” signal. It was when we headed back over the bridge to the other side of the Rhone river when we really hit the Calcutta-style traffic. (Calcutta minus the farm animals, but plus electric trolleys and Rolex stores). There are actually alot of bikers in Geneva, and a pretty good amount of bike lanes, but also pedestrians crossing every which way, cars, the aforementioned electric trolleys and their accompanying rails (grooves) in the pavement that you definitely don’t want to get your bike wheels caught in, and even skateboarders. And no one is following traffic lights or any kind of rules of the road whatsoever. I pulled out my trusty whistle and kept it clenched between my teeth to alert pedestrians to jump out of my way or they were going to get mowed. That technique definitely helped cleared my path although I’m sure I seemed like some kind of deranged coach on the loose. Still, that was a Never Again ride for me. We were searching for our road that we’ll take tomorrow — finally out of the city, toward the Alps– so we’ll know where to go in the morning. And finally we found it, a very bike-friendly ride hugging Lake Geneva on our left. We took it a little ways until I noticed something with my bike had become not-as-it-should-be. Something to do with alignment. So we cut back to a bike repair place we had found yesterday and looking into Gabriel’s desperate, pleading eyes, the mechanic agreed yes, he could fix it TODAY so our trip wouldn’t be delayed. And they did. And we’re ready. Tomorrow we ride for real. Our destination is Thonon-Les-Bains. The bad news: the forecast is for rain. The good news: the ride will be pretty much flat. Do-able in wet circumstances, but we may have to break out our ridiculous looking ponchos which would be truly unfortunate.

So I had one week in Salou during which I managed to overcome jet-lag, eat obscenely, and sleep compulsively. I required of my legs no more exertion than getting up from the kitchen table to walk to the bed for a siesta, so lack of rest will be no excuse when we start riding. Gabriel and I stay every year with my mother-in-law, Carmen, the 3 of us stumbling over each other in her studio apartment on the beach like some telenovela reality show. Carmen is an energetic 85, speaks not a word of English, and breaks into tears at the drop of a hat. Every day we are there she counts the days we have left on her fingers, shakes her head sadly, and weeps: “Poco tiempo.” We hug her and tell her not to cry. “I cry every day,” she says, “my doctor says its good for me.” Every day she cooks a gigantic 3 course lunch and when I tell her I can’t eat any more she looks sadly, brokenly at Gabriel and says “Ella no le gusta el pescado.” “Si, me gusta, Madre. Esta muy bueno pero no puedo mas.” (This exchange has become a tradition between us). She nods, understanding, then after a few minutes: “Quieres un yogur?” “No gracias.” This generally goes back and forth as she lists literally every item in the refrigerator. “Quieres olivas? Quieres queso? Quieres un kiwi?” Until Gabriel slams his hand on the table and says “NO, MADRE!” Which breaks the tension and makes her giggle. Then we each take a popsicle and sit together on the couch in front of the fan watching the midday news until I get so food sleepy I crawl into bed for a warm, heavy nap.

In the evening when it cools down, Gabriel and I stroll on the beach, past the Senegalese men with their spreads of counterfeit Gucci bags and Ray Bans for sale, ready to sweep them up in a sheet and take off if the Guardia Civil show up. We have a glass of wine at our usual spot–Cafe Central with the tweaky French waiter– and watch the tourists (mostly Russian the last couple of years) transform as the week progresses from pasty white to bright pink as they smoke cigarettes and sip from giant blue tropical drinks. At 9 we go home and have Carmen’s gazpacho for dinner which is garlicky and tangy and delicious– and eventually all go to bed. (Us reading ourselves to sleep and Carmen whispering her nightly prayers on the other side of the partition). Right on schedule this year we had a few minor fiascos: the scratching up (to put it mildly) of the rental car necessitating a very spotty Skype call to Amex to make sure we’re covered); the losing of the apartment keys–with much dramatic back and forth between Carmen and Gabriel as to who had lost them, when, and how until they were found in a drawer (by me–hero for the day); Gabriel coming down with some kind of bug that made us very worried we wouldn’t be able to do the bike trip. Fortunately Carmen knows everyone in town so the pharmacist slipped us some antibiotics and he recovered. We visited my brother-in-law Javi and his family and this year he kept his clothes on. (My first year there he stripped naked and walked around the garden watering the plants). Another year he tricked me into eating pig’s blood. He loves to tease me and gets a kick out of my sassy come-backs (or more likely he’s just laughing at my broken and elementary Spanish). At the end of the week, on July 8th, we woke up at 4am to get to the Barcelona airport by 6. Carmen waved goodbye to us tearfully as we heaved our bikes into the back of the scratched and dented rental car…off now to put Easy Jet’s stated policies on bike carriage to the test– and hopefully to Geneva.