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“My” France


Because France.

First trip in 2000; since then, I’ve been back 21 times for the Tour de France, missing just three years. I think it’s three, might be just two. Once when things just didn’t work out (that was way-back-when, before I decided things simply HAD to work out), and again when they shut down spectators due to Covid. And I think there was a third, but maybe not?

There’s always something memorable in “my” France. “My” France isn’t Paris, or Nice, or Bordeaux (although I’ve spent time in all three).

“My” France is in the rural countryside and mountains in the Pyrenees and Alps.
“My” France is in inexpensive but pretty nice accommodations near train stations, because I hate renting cars and use local trains to expand my reach.
“My” France includes $1.5 (euro) double espresso from the little Relay shops at train stations.
“My” France is full of baguettes for lunch and various amazing pastries for breakfast, and Confit du Cunard when doing a fancy meal, vs Pizza and Kabobs and massive meat salads other times.
“My” France has me pushing my limits on incredibly-long climbs, trying to keep my son in sight.
“My” France involves an incredible amount of logistical planning, trying to see as many stages of the Tour de France as possible.
And, “My” France involves lugging a ton of camera gear, something I am trying to get away from, but my son insists otherwise.

Oh, right, “My” France has also included visits to the infirmary in Lourdes to diagnose two broken ribs.
I’m 69 this year. I wonder how many more trips I have left?

I miss riding to the coast- been a long time since a BIG cookie came my way!

By this time of year, I ought to be doing a lot of Sunday rides to the coast. Real rides, up Old LaHonda, over Haskins, lunch at Arcangeli Bakery in Pescadero (splitting a chicken club sandwich with Kevin, plus a mountain dew and monster cookie), then back over the three Stage Road climbs, descend to Tunitas with that beautiful view of the Pacific, and then up Tunitas & down Kings.

A real, “honest” ride. From my house, about 57.5 miles, 6400ft of climbing, perfectly-placed food stop and, if you do it right (meaning: full effort!) you get legs that let you know you’re there when descending stairs. A special type of pain that only comes from a really tough, longer climb.

I’m also, for reasons unknown, wishing I could really run myself into the ground doing the full Santa Cruz loop. Head out to Pescadero, Gazos Creek to the coast, lunch at Davenport, turn up Highway 9 in Santa Cruz, quick food/coke stop at the last gas station in Boulder Creek, then the long run up 9 to Skyline. But without Mr Mustard at the top, whatever you picked up in Boulder Creek has to last all the way north on Skyline, down into Woodside and home. Why am I missing that?

The issue is Kevin’s knee. He’s as much out of commission, after his expensive and painful knee procedure (platelet-rich plasma reinjection) as he was before. With no end to the pain in sight. So I’m pretty much solo riding these days, or riding with ex-Pilot Kevin, if our schedules work out (meaning he didn’t ride himself into the ground the day prior).

My usual Sunday ride is far from flat, although darned if I can tell where the 3,163ft of climbing come from.

At least I’m still doing the regular Tuesday/Thursday morning ride, same as it ever was, only slower. May need to move it forward 15 minutes so I can get back in time, although hoping that I’ll speed up a bit as it gets warmer.

But I really do miss riding with Kevin.