My first day in Roanne, I put a note on the announcement board in the teacher’s lounge: Does anyone have a spare bicycle to lend the American assistant? She’s far from home, missing her maman et papa and beloved red Schwinn.
I got a response right away but the bike was much too small, resulting in a sore back and bottom region. Deflated, I tried to convince myself that walking's just as good. But frankly, it's not. It felt like I was missing a limb.
Everything changed on November 11, which – surprise! – the French take as a national holiday. The timing gods gave me a nudge mid-morning and I decided to take out the recycling. On the way out I ran into my downstairs neighbor, Michel, cleaning out a storage room. Michel is handsome with wavy, gray hair, quiet and always smiling a calm, non-toothy smile. We were chatting about the odds and ends in the room and I made a comment about the gorgeous bike, a shiny black Peugeot, leaning against the wall. I mentioned that I was borrowing a teacher's bike but that it was too small and hurt mes fesses (in French we have plural bottoms). He responded just as I hoped he might, Well this one's mine but I never use it, would you like to borrow it? Before he could blink an oeil I shouted Yes!
Experiences like these are sweet rewards for stepping out into the world and meeting people – I wonder how many good people and bikes are waiting to be discovered. This particular bike has a boy’s frame (like I always say, starting now, equality begins with a girl riding a boy’s bicycle), a bell, thin tires with fenders to keep the mud off mes fesses, and cruiser handlebars. It sparkles and I sit upright when riding, so I feel like a queen riding her crown jewels.
This weekend saw 60 degrees, sun galore, and leaves of all imaginable shades of red, orange, and yellow hovering somewhere between hanging onto the branches and falling softly to the ground. I had no choice, the weather gods pushed me out the door and onto that bicycle.
I convinced another assistant to ride with me on a footpath hugging a canal of the Loire River. Within a few miles of leaving Roanne we entered farmlands and passed pastures with cows and sheep grazing, front yards with chickens and ducks playing alongside children on swing sets, and bright green vegetable gardens. Women hanging laundry on clotheslines waved as we rode by. While gazing absentmindedly at the cows, I realized that what appeared as a bunch of cows munching happily was actually an entire industry at work – the cows in this region are raised for their meat. The countryside was at once serene and awesome in its functionality. moowow.
We passed spandex-clad cyclists and whole families on bikes. I beamed at them and sang Bonjour! Our destination was flexible and I kept pushing us farther until our stomachs declared it was lunchtime. We stopped at a little brick hut with a pool inside, constructed as a place for women to do laundry, back before girls rode boys’ bikes.
The ride home proved a bit trickier, as Tine – my bike partner, the Chinese assistant – had one pedal that was threatening to fall off. Luckily she had a roll of Scotch tape in her bag so we wrapped the pedal in tape and, miracle of miracles, it held until we reached home. Lesson learned – never leave home without Scotch.
Sunday morning I woke up early and hit the road again, this time as a lone rider. Seeing a path on my map, I thought I’d follow a small tributary of the Loire called La Renaison. I had had trouble finding the path’s entrance so stopped a friendly-looking gentleman to ask, where's this path, eh? He pointed me in the right direction and said to follow the river. I thanked him and he asked the customary, “You speek-eeng Eeng-leesh?” I said yes and smiled as he re-stated his directions: “You follow zees rheever, you no looze yorch-self!”
This path was bumpy and took me through some woods. I enjoyed the shadows of the tree cover and the crunching and crackling acorns, fallen leaves, and branches under my tires. I passed people jogging and walking their dogs, and like the day before, everyone was in high spirits. If people still offered sacrifices, the weather gods would have been feasting on cheese all weekend.
The path ended and I found a country road, Chemin des Moulins (mills path, roughly) that was smoother and, it being Sunday morning, free of car traffic. I rode toward the rolling hills surrounding Roanne, past more pastures filled with cows and bulls who were perfectly content to graze all day long. Cruising past, I remarked how happy I was to be a gal on a bicycle, not a cow.
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