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Charleville-Mezieres. 08/22/2021
The next morning, refreshed and happy to have made it to France but in dire need of a warm and dry place to regroup and figure out how to make the trip go smoother, we decided to take a gamble and book an airbnb about 70 kms from where we were, in a town called Charleville-Mezieres. So far, our longest day had been about 40 kms or so, but the amount of luggage we were pulling along made our average distance about 30 kms. The next morning, refreshed and happy to have made it to France but in dire need of a warm and dry place to regroup and figure out how to make the trip go smoother, we decided to take a gamble and book an airbnb about 70 kms from where we were, in a town called Charleville-Mezieres. So far, our longest day had been about 40 kms or so, but our average distance was about 30 kms daily (because of all the stuff we were dragging with us). Nevertheless, the sky looked clear and we felt less tired than usual, and the place at Charleville looked perfect, so inviting, so dry, so clean, so comfy… so we decided to go for it. Besides, we’d packed up quicker than usual and were ready to go by noon and, feeling the rush of accomplishment, 70 kms suddenly seemed well within our reach. What we hadn’t accounted for was the distance added by sticking completely to the Eurovelo 19 cycle route down the Meux, instead of cutting across chunks on the highway. (Actually, that’s not entirely true. One of us did take this into account, but unfortunately, their words went unheeded by the rest. Oh well, no matter.) So, we rode off gloriously towards the far-off city, determined to make it, almost inspired by our own bravery. But hardly did we make it one block in before the usual navigation issues caught up with us and we began puzzling over which turn to take. It was a trying day. Not long after we’d made it to the river, Camilo and I came across a fork in the road: one path led uphill towards the highway, and another small dirt path that was completely overgrown with weeds and tall grass, and which could hardly be called a path at all, led downhill and disappeared around a bend in the river. Guess which one we took? Yup, the grassy not-path, and our parents took the other one when they reached the spot later, so that led to a lot of confusion and the loss of a precious hour. By following the Eurovelo to completely avoid the highway, we ended up adding a whopping 20 kms to the route. And at several points the path diverged from the river, leading us up into the winding hills that sloped practically at the water’s edge. But no one expected it to be easy, and the important thing was that we stayed together and kept pedaling, and I was really enjoying it. The path was beautiful, with trees and grass and fields every which way I looked, a river on my right, people fishing along the bank or in little boats, and behind them rose the hills. Here in southern France I noticed that when greeting passing cyclists, they always greeted us back; not only that–they usually greeted us first. A very pleasant surprise. About 30 kms in we stopped at a small town with a pharmacy to get everyone a Pass Sanitaire, which we needed for most campsites and museums and cafes. Meanwhile, my brother and I went to fetch lunch at our first boulangerie. I got to try out my newly-learned French, and was rewarded with a giant sack full of delicious sweet and savory pastries (to this day, I think that was the best chocolate eclair I’ve ever had). The four of us sat to eat under chirping birds and warm sunshine, and enjoyed every bite. We made good time down the flat riverside, though the navigation system (my mother battling with Komoot) produced a few wrong turns and arguments about which way to take. We kept cycling through towns, all of them gorgeous, with cobblestone roads and houses, ornate window shutters, fountains, more trees, winding streets and squares and closed shops and even children laughing–we’d hardly seen children anywhere until now. One town had an incredibly steep hill that stretched on and on and only got steeper. One old man stepped out of his house, apparently just to watch me struggling to pedal up the hill, but as soon as I waved he smiled and waved back. At the top of the hill I stopped to catch my breath. The buzz in my head died down, leaving me with just the silence of an old town resting peacefully on a sleepy afternoon. Many hills were yet to come, but this one, if not an easy one, was a nice one. Very nice. The sky was darkening. It was the grey clouds gathering overhead. We could feel it–the moist air, the cool breezes, and the choirs of insects as we rode down through the trees. The rain caught us on flat ground, thank goodness. As we had run out of water a while back, and there seemed to be no place in sight for us to buy more, I tried to ask for some. As my brother and I approached a big brown house with a long garden and a little wire fence, a woman with greying hair and gardener’s gloves stepped out of her house and made her way towards us. I didn’t have to open my mouth–she just pointed to the water bottles in my arms and asked, “you want water?” We were so grateful. But as we took our first sips, the first few droplets began to pelt down on our helmets. We pulled out our coats, our neon vests, turned on our lights, closed our bags, and checked the instruments (encased in three garbage bags). Then we kept pedaling. The rain came and went, came and went, but the sky never cleared, and eventually came the downpour. Cycling between treetops, we inched forward until there were only 22 kms left to go. We reached a town called Monthermé (one of the last between Givet and Charleville) just as the downpour reached its worst yet, and ran to shelter under the tiny wooden roof protecting a city map. It was positively pouring. The instruments had me worried. The sun still hadn’t set yet, but it was past seven and the sky was sure to start darkening any minute now. One man came up to ask us if we had a place to stay, and wished us good luck when we told him we did. I think he was going to offer us shelter. Soon we were riding in a full-out thunderstorm. Lightning would flash in the sky and light up the trees ahead of us, then a few moments later we’d hear the thunderclap. It was probably safe, but nevertheless I started counting down between the flashes and the thunder. It seemed the lightning wasn’t getting closer. I love a good thunderstorm when I’m indoors and holding a mug of hot tea, but on the bike, one feels vulnerable–it’s part of what makes bike packing so special and memorable, but in the moment it can feel a bit scary. Then there were the giant puddles, the mud, the overflowing drains with currents that gushed out from beneath with enough force to make the metal gutters bob up and down. We were soaked, not just in clean river water but also in the brown smelly stuff that flowed up from the drains. And then it started to get dark. And the rain intensified. A man ran out of his house to yell that there was a storm. We took cover under a bridge just in time to watch as the last rays of orange faded from the sky. We just kept pushing forward. This was no time to despair. We rode in darkness for almost another hour, until finally we saw growing lights covering a smaller hill and a bridge that would take us across to the city. We'd made it! It was about 10 PM. The streets were empty but lit. We found our apartment, hauled our bikes and bags up in rounds, and I unwrapped my cello. Miraculously, it was dry! And to top it all off, we stuffed ourselves with a wonderful new discovery called “kebab,” with some frites and Orangina. A tough day, for sure, but all in all one of the best I’d had. And in the thick of it, I'd really enjoyed myself–all of us had. This is part of what we signed up for, and the challenges of the day made the joys and excitement even more memorable. Comments are closed.
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