An adventure pedaled by Éole
September 2023, summer is drawing to a close.
Before setting off on my self-supported bike trip from Paris to Geneva, I watched the weather with the anxious attention of a landless farmer. Halfway through the journey, after breaking camp near a reservoir on the Burgundy Canal and riding for ages to the first bakery, I settled at a terrace in Pouilly-en-Auxois to pour some coffee into the tank.
It had been oppressively hot for three days. The forecast, meanwhile, did not budge: very violent summer storms were announced for that late afternoon in mid-September, precisely on what was supposed to be the longest day of the trip. Sleeping under the stars in such a deluge had nothing heroic about it. It was mostly an excellent way to jeopardize the journey.
After raiding the bakery, comfortably seated on the terrace, I started looking for shelter near my planned stopping point while sipping my second double espresso. That was when the particularly attractive rate at the Ibis hotel on the Poulet motorway service area caught my eye.
I was wary of booking online, because I could already picture myself crying on the hard shoulder trying to reach the hotel. A good old-fashioned phone call settled the matter. The receptionist immediately put me at ease by confirming that I could get there without using the motorway, and could even bring my bike safely up to the room.
With this new waypoint ahead, I could resume the adventure alongside Graveleux, my faithful bicycle, heavily loaded and regularly forced to stop so I could tighten the screws shaken loose by the vibrations of the journey.
My legs pulled me all the way to the final climb of the late morning. I reached Beaune at lunchtime. In the last village before the town, I crossed paths with a young man carrying a tent, wearing flip-flops, and riding a bright red road bike. Another bikepacker.
We chatted on the narrow roads between the vineyards and the A6, then I suggested we have lunch together. It was a lovely encounter.
Vincent, a young man in his thirties with the square shoulders of a rugby player, sported an improbable mullet and a cheerful moustache. He was genuinely jovial. It was his first major trip: from Dijon to Aix-en-Provence. He was less heavily equipped than my weighty mount and me, because he planned to ride faster and sleep in less isolated places.
He radiated the excitement and discovery that this first long solo journey was giving him. Lunch on the terrace, in the wine capital of Burgundy, was delightful thanks to his humour and the humility with which he spoke about his fear of stepping outside his comfort zone. The call of speed and the intoxicating adrenaline of cycling gave him wings.
After our lunch, refreshed by a pint of friendship, we each returned to the road. Every evening, we sent each other text messages to make sure we had both arrived safely. Modest encouragements to help us weather the storms.
I reached the Saône in front of a picturesque old metal bridge that cars had to cross one at a time. At its foot, a commemorative sign explained to passers-by that we had reached the former demarcation line of the Second World War. Once across the wide river, the landscape became flatter, and that flat country tasted of freedom.
The kilometres disappeared beneath the pedals. The paths between the vineyards gave way to sunflowers browned by the end of the season, then to a long, chaotic grassy track cutting a forest in two. I then took an interminable greenway, a former railway line converted for the great pleasure of melancholic cycle tourists.
It carried me to the long-awaited break in the town of Louhans, where I discovered that cobblestones could be even more unpleasant than the worst potholes on some gravel tracks. After chatting with friendly locals, who struggled to believe I had come from the capital, the small splash of Pulco the café owner kindly poured into my water bottle helped me set off again toward the end of the day.
The sky was already very dark. I was being chased by the massive cumulonimbus that had been promised. Each day of this journey toward the southeast, the sun set five minutes earlier than the day before. I had lost thirty minutes over the whole week. That mattered: I needed a lot of time every day to pitch and break camp.
Fortunately, I did not need to pitch it that evening.
In the encroaching dusk, I could hear thunder rumbling at the far end of the plain. After brushing along vibrating gravel beside a regional railway line, avoiding the main roads, I saw the sky light up with flashes of lightning ten kilometres from the finish.
I finally arrived at the Poulet motorway service area. By the time I checked in and carried my bike up to the room on the first floor, with no lift, I could stand at the window and admire the buckets of water pouring from the sky. I was dry. I was jubilant.
I took a shower that evening, and it was wonderfully hot. Watching those torrents of rain, I delighted in having nothing to prove. I found rest in that simple truth: sometimes, adventure means knowing when to take shelter.
Once clean and warm, in the fast-food restaurant at the motorway service area, a tasty and well-earned farm chicken was waiting for me. 🤤
Éole