#149 | Decize, France to Bussoleno, Italy

Cycling east, towards China.

Sunday 27th

Decize. Woke up. Ah shit, rain. Disappointing — I'd left my clothes out to dry. Church bells and the spray of car tyres. I had planned to wild camp but, ever grateful to the universe, found this gorgeous campsite: hot showers and 24-hour hotdog van. I cooked my now-favourite meal: salami, pasta, pesto and Emmental, topped with al dente courgette. 

I started reading War and Peace to make the journey feel shorter, relatively (lol). 46 hours reading time remaining.

Later. Charlieu. Everything is shut. Haggled tap water from a closed bar. Closed, yet still full of drunk French men. ?!

Continued long-flats along the UNESCO-rated Loire. Pretty, without being memorable. The miles are not gruelling (will regret my nonchalance?). Pasta pesto again tonight. 106 km completed.

On the bike, I was thinking deeply. What gives life meaning? Is it to:

1. have achieved great things, or

2. to be grateful for one’s meagre achievements?

Should we:

1. be seeking more than what we have, or

2. seek to appreciate what we have already?

As if it’s as easy as an opticians. As if!

I’m confident that, by the end, hindsight bias is so powerful that we are happy with the outcome. “Didn’t we do our best?” we’ll reflect.

I decided: We live a good (meaningful) life when we don’t fail at our expectations of having a some fanciful “good” life. Illusory expectations — which remain out of reach — are the devil by their very nature. They are the Eve’s apple, never picked, always thirsted for. Desire, unabated. Without these expectations, we are content with what we have. Worse still, consumerism creates unquenchable expectations, like a fire hydrant that sprays petrol.

In the final analysis, our expectation of success (of family, a unicorn, some obscure destination) undermines our latent happiness.

No private jet at 29? No top-knot? No subscribers? Having failed at these esoteric expectations, I’m now disappointed and living a less happy life than I might have otherwise. 

These unmet expectations are the heavy concrete foundations for unhappiness. 

And who poured these foundations? We are not the parents of our expectations. Nor, even, are our actual parents, but society at large.

Once we see other people’s expectations (gifts we never asked for) for what they are (i.e. not ours), they evaporate. 

The job of a happy life, then, is to identify our intrinsic expectations. To discover the expectations that are not mere imprints from society, as if we were another Lego man, painted in production.

And how do we find these intrinsic expectations? I don’t know. More miles might tell.

Monday 28th

Charlieu Municipal Campsite. I said goodbye to Buck, the spaniel two plots to my left. He’s named from The Call of the Wild by Jack London (I haven't read it, but must). Had a wonderful conversation with the outdoorsy owners. On hearing their plan to buy a sheep flock, and that they lived near mountains, I added, "oh really! You do strike me as mountain people!" Meant this as a compliment, but the couple glanced at each other. Note: To most people this isn’t complimentary. Even so, I’d love to appear mountainous.

I left some damp clothes out to dry, and it rained from 2 to 6 am. New assumption: it’ll rain. I'm heading up to Lyon, into the first hills of the journey.

Every pretty wooden window shutter is closed; Charlieu presents as a romantic nuclear wasteland (the boulangeries’ are open). I’ll coin the expression "as quiet as an August bank holiday in France!" In essence, bloody quiet.

Used in context: "Did I snore, darling?", "No, you were as quiet as an August bank holiday in France."

Later. The first time I've been cold. Clouds bloom in the distance, towards Lyon, like a forest fire. They ripple towards me.

Later. Lozanne. Climbed all morning, then rolled into rapid rolling hills, flitting between tiny hedged fields. Brakes sketchy AF, “slow is fast” as they say — and slow is very fast with these brakes.

The joy of new scenery.

We've left the corn of the Loire, and I am now cutting up vineyards. Vines stand in lines, as if ready for inspection. Are the red terracotta roofs as brittle as they appear? It's all more Italian and, to my mind, more beautiful. I'm closing into Lyon and am writing from a café: Coca-Cola beside a construction site.

Tuesday 29th

Chez Grand-Pere cafe, Vieux Lyon. Left early — Camping de Lyon: 29€, filthy muddy plot, hot shower — realising I had been there 11 years ago! De ja vu. The plot was 15 km from the centre of Lyon, so that was today’s cycle.

Rolled through suburban Lyon. In that morning light, even the mundane looks beautiful; the sun, a deep orange, smeared shadows haphazard across the road, pavement, and up onto pastel apartment blocks.

Only in the south of France does council housing look chic. 

My delivery onto the Rhône was spectacular. I tumbled from high rises into Lyon city centre, which stretches on both sides of the river. The city surrounds the The Presqu'île, which means "almost an island" in French — it’s a peninsula. The Presqu'île is surrounded by hills difficult to even walk with a bike.

My first stop was a cycle shop to adjust my gears and get the brakes fixed. Bike-shop Ben has tightened them, and I'm confident again. Ready for the Alps.

I'm spending a couple of peaceful days in Lyon, as my old friend Tash is here by chance — she's going to a local meditation retreat tomorrow. It's an excellent opportunity to rest the legs and go to Decathlon. 

Sitting with coffee and reading in Vieux Lyon, the most aesthetically pleasing bit — and it's old. The four-story buildings, window-shutters a jar, crowd over the eight-foot cobbled walkways below. Tourists loiter. The family opposite are trying to kill a wasp, to their terror. The kid has taken her shoes off to commit insecticide.

Wednesday 30th

Field near Crémieu. Camping in the wild. Sat on the fringe of the field, surrounded by woodland. 7 pm. Dark enough to set up my tent and eat some (yes, you guessed it) pasta pesto. I'll have the entire block of Emmental. 

It was great to spend time with Tash, discussing our previous Nairobi lives and the importance of sabbaticals (she's just concluding a year of self-exploration). Friends are there to validate one's own life decisions. If you want to be a tattoo artist, become friends with some. Ditto musician, ditto baker, politician, and so on

Visited the Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste. Spent a special half an hour sitting in contemplation of how powerful an organisation must be to build such an impressive building, especially in the 1100s.

And also, who will look at the millions of photos taken by tourists? One Asian woman took ten steps, then cha-ta, cha-ta, cha-ta, ten steps, a glance to her husband — still hasn't left her? — then, cha-ta, cha-ta, cha-ta. A glance, ten steps, cha-ta.

Today is one of those days where things don't go to plan, but when you're touring, all the best things happen when the plans don’t work-out.

After steak tartare and chips for lunch, Tash and I parted. I headed to another bike shop to fix a persistent ticking. Resolved after half an hour of tinkering with grease down the seat tube. Max, the mechanic, refused payment. Whilst identifying the click, he also re-true'd my back wheel, tightening my spokes. 

I headed east, along the Rhone, on thinly gravelled tracks, sheltered by a wooded canopy. The river lay to my right and, occasionally, stretched wide, up to 400 m across. Fishermen stood bolt-upright in their boats, balanced as if by the threads of a puppeteer. Dinghies with yellow sails raced. After 20km, there was a *ping* — one of the spokes had gone. After biscuits, I found a mechanic 15 km away and cycled to him. 

An aggressive dog met me. It had a barbed collar, which the security guard would pull. The dog — I swear — was trained to kill Brits. It was on a 20 m rope. At one point, a yard worker tripped and knocked a barrel. Thinking only of "attack", the dog dived towards the worker. The dog's trainer, the guard, was not concentrating, thrown backwards, and absentmindedly he released the rope coil. Just before the dog reached it’s lunch, the guard took control, pulling at rope and barbed collar.

This gives a flavour of the industrial estate in which I met this second mechanic.

He spoke no English. As we weren't ordering coffee, my French was useless. It turns out, my frequent chain derailing damaged my rear spokes (I did not set up the gears correctly when I first got the bike). When I get to Annacy, I will get my rear wheel rebuilt.

For his 45 minutes, I gave him €10, and €10 for his 12-year-old son, who was unreservedly bored.

This all sounds like a nightmare, but it took me directly to Crémieu, the most beautiful town so far. It's mediaeval, settled under a dilapidated castle. The town is so well maintained that flags (in medieval style) line the streets. A market hall in the centre has been converted into a handsome restaurant. From there, I followed a rough track which opened into the hills.

And here I sit, writing in the dark, paranoid that someone will interrupt my blissful wild camping spot.

Friday 1st (September)

Lake Annecy. Yesterday morning, I was blessed with dream-like cycling as I returned to the Rhône. Potted Italian hills over which my momentum, heavy as I am, was maintained. My legs felt fresh.

After 50 km, I met Virgil, who was cycling like a maniac. Until then, he had done 100 km and was headed for Annecy. We teamed up, climbing over the heavily fortified language barrier. Somehow — and I don't know how — we spoke French for the subsequent three hours. We followed bike-only tracks through still more cornfields along the Rhône, crisscrossing it as I had done with the Loire

In the middle distance, large mountains loomed. The Rhône Alps, initially black shapes, became navy blue and eventually a jungle of green and orange. They stood out in stark definition to the blue-white sky.

Virgil is 53, has an 18-year-old child, and… well, this is all I could gather. He cycles like a child: Thick glasses, toothy grin, no helmet — a cap, wide knees, low seat. When another cyclist suggested he should wear a helmet, he howled — “pfhhahaha.”

We had lunch together and shared a Nutella waffle. He seemed impressed about the trip to China. And then, at some point, he inexplicably decided enough was enough. Pointing, he said “you this way, me this way.” Bye, Virgil. 

I climbed up above some great Alpine lakes for the next three hours. I was reminded of all those times in Switzerland, among the luminous mountains. The calm mirrored lakes dotted by speedboats, speckled with buoys. Lapped with cycle paths and guarded by vast opaque mountains. Impenetrable, immovable and, I hope, surmountable. (I plan to cross them.) 

Late last night, I arrived in Annecy without a campsite. The first one I rolled into: full. The second: full! Fortunately, I had half a baguette from lunch with Virgil.

I cycled from campsite to campsite. Eventually, bingo! I met Serj, a charming manager of the municipal campsite. In his excellent heavy green corduroy shirt, he offered me wine and a cigarette (I regrettably refused). We did enjoy pizza together; he and his friends talking in French, me reading The Alchemist.

Now it's 9 am. Sat next to Lake Annecy. The sun is expelling the last bits of shade from the lake. Today has the mightiest ascent so far, which is saying something because yesterday was brutal.

But first, I need coffee — and I must find somewhere that overlooks the lake. 

Later. Val-D’Arc. Hot, dehydrated and uninspired by the brutal four hours of climbing. Many life lessons from bike touring. The one that calls to me: We have to set intentions in life, and then get on the saddle, and remain on the saddle.

Even so, I'm currently not on the saddle. I'm sitting reading, sipping a Coca-Cola and eating a baguette. I would rise unflinchingly towards the Brooke’s saddle if I were more determined. I really would.

Saturday 2nd

Bussoleno (Italy). Fricking got over them! So much life lived in 24 hours. Not least because I've approached, boarded, and rolled off the Alps. My legs have done some kilometres: 142 two days ago, 120 yesterday and a measly 97 today. Even so, each day was increasingly steep — and seven or more hours in the saddle, excluding breaks.

Yesterday, I felt like I spent the whole day talking. A couple of moments of note: 

• I overheard an English and Irish voice as two cyclists overtook me. Posh woman — perhaps Tudor Hall? — commented that she didn't consider herself a runner, yet completes three marathons a year. I eventually caught them (because they stopped) and asked for life advice. Irish man told me a Porche is cheaper than a divorce.

• On a big hill, met French Victor and Marie, who were on their honeymoon whilst also bike touring. Her idea. How badass!

• Finally, David, a Brit, helped me up to Orelle, where I stayed last night. He, with his carbon bike and no panniers, cut the wind for me. Appearing as his sherpa or caddie, I struggled behind, out of breath but happy for the company. 

This morning, I woke early, alone in Orelle, cradled between the mountains. Because of a mega landslide I was gifted with an extra mountain to climb before I headed to Lac du Mont Cenis, where I would enter Italy. Yay.

Spent all morning, therefore, climbing. It was brutal, but I found time for an alcohol-free beer halfway. It was dramatic cycling under looping gondolas, and past the tops of ski lifts. You’re high when you’re following signs for red and black ski-runs.

I crossed the tree line and also crossed the "bike-tourist line", as there were none up there (too hilly, perhaps? — perhaps). The reward was extraordinary, with spectacular views down into the valleys, and across the lake. Oh, and the downhill was mighty.

Campeggio Tizianella, Bussoleno. It's midnight. Listening to three Italians argue as they clip their toenails. Had dinner with French David, who has just cycled for the last 132 days. We had 1.5 pizzas each, then gelato. A joy to meet a new friend. He has a wicked sense of humour and awful tan lines — the cyclist's curse.

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