The joy of travel is the unexpected

On my way to Vitry le Francois

The joy of travel is the unexpected. Before I left Reims, I checked my cycle map, which suggested a route different than Google Maps. The cycle map would take me on some quieter roads, but with some hills. Google Maps said mostly flat. I have some sinister hills waiting for me a week or two down the road, so you had me at mostly flat.    

After spending several kilometres on a busy two-lane highway, thankfully The Google directed me on a dirt track. In the distance, I saw a man walking the same direction as me. Wanting him to take a photo of me, I sped up.

“Excusez-moi. Est-ce-que tu parle Anglais?” I asked coming alongside him.

His name was Luc, and he lived in Les Petites-Loges, a village I had just passed through. We had a bit of a conversation, which included him saying a lot in French, most of which I didn’t understand.

I told him I was going to Rome.

“Rome,” he said, rolling the R, and with a quelle surprise in his voice.

He pointed one of his walking sticks at my thighs. We both laughed.

As I pedaled away, he called out…monsieur, monsieur. I stopped and turned back.

“You take photo of me, for souvenir?”

Luc of Les Petites-Logues

I took his photo and emailed it to him right there. We shook hands and I continued down the dirt track, and when I turned the corner, I waved back at him.

Looking at my map, The Google directed me down a small road that looked as if it hadn’t been used by any form of four or two-wheeled vehicle for some time. A short distance later, it ended, at the base of a large hill covered with trees. On one side, it looked like a trail, or maybe I was imagining it to be a trail. Ever the adventurer, I forged up pushing my bike. I was careful to avoid the brambles, so a thorn wouldn’t puncture my tire. When I get to the top, I was met by a field of bright yellow rapeseed that met the far-off horizon.  

There was a small track around the edge of the farm, but the ground was too soft to ride, so I pushed my bike through the muck. When I stopped, I could hear a faint hissing sound, like air coming out of a bike tire. I pressed the tire, and it seemed okay. Maybe it was air escaping from the wet ground.

After a short time, the ground got hard enough for me to ride. I climbed back on and descended a path that led to a road. I tried to wipe as much of the mud off my shoes, but  Marcus was a mess. Tires, pedals, fenders covered in thick muck (some of it is still on several days later).

Back on another busy road, I realized something wasn’t right. My back tire was losing air. I stopped at a small pullout. A couple of days earlier, I had a frustrating time dealing with two back tire changes. And now I had to deal with another.  

The scenery next to the road looked beautiful, so I delayed the inevitable by taking some photos. Then, I procrastinated some more and pulled a cookie from my bag. More procrastination. Feeing sorry myself, I stood at the side of the road hoping someone would stop and rescue me. But the large transport trucks and cars zipped by.

“Looking like a lost puppy is not going to get your tire fixed,” I heard a voice in my head say.

I went over to my bike and started undoing the bolt to my back wheel. A DHL delivery driver who had arrived with another driver a short time before, came over to ask what happened.

“Flat tire.”  

“Where are you going?” I asked him.

“Chalons.”

I knew the next major town was Chalons-en-Champagne, 20km away.

“Would you take me there to get my tire fixed?”

“Sure,” he said.

We loaded my bike and bags in the back of the van that was partly filled with boxes.

His name was Matthew, and I got the sense that his shift ended when his deliveries were done. The speed limit was 110 km/h, but he was blasting pass the other cars. I tried to steal a look at the speedometer, but I couldn’t see it without making it obvious. He also likes listening to loud French rap music. But who was I to complain.

We made four deliveries before he delivered me to a large sporting goods store.

One of the store workers took on a temporary role as the translator between me and the bike repair guy, who had my bike wheel off in seconds and was preparing a new tube. I asked my translator if he had some chain lube I could buy.

He said something to her in French, which I translated as, this guy’s bike is disgustingly dirty, and I can’t put any lube on the chain until it’s clean.

“Your chain is too dirty,” she politely told me. “He will clean it, but it will take about 15 minutes.”

“No problem,” I said.

He put the bike on a stand and went to work.

“He’s almost done,” my personal translator said to me. “He’s going to adjust your fender,” as I saw him wheeling my bike out of the store. I had noticed the fender was out of line and had been rubbing against the tire.

“Voila,” he said, returning my bike.

“And he will only charge you for the tire repair,” Madame translator said.

He repaired the tire, cleaned the chain ring and cassette, lubed the chain, adjusted the gears to make sure they were changing smoothly, adjusted the fender, and polished the frame.

Wow! I thanked them and carried on to Vitry le Francois, my overnight stop.