July 4th (Sunday)
I’m writing from a small French town in sight of the beginning of the Alps which rise huge and irregular over to the east from here. The travelling has gone so much better since the first day. It did not rain all night and though it was misty in the morning and the tent got packed away wet, I rode 220 miles making a dent in the distance over to Les Gets and Geneva that suddenly seemed daunting having exhausted myself moving just over 100 miles. Apart from choosing the wrong booth at the motorway toll which exited me promptly from the system only having to swing round and rejoin and repay of course, it was welcome just to sit on a comfortable speed and take a break for increasingly stale rolls but tasty Spanish cheese en route.
The veins are standing out on my arms and hands uncomfortably with the heat. Last night’s campsite was the prettiest Ive stayed in so far with a lovely pool which I got some needed exercise in and a lovely looking terrace bar which I did not quite have the nerve to investigate. I tortured myself this morning plotting a twisty route to today’s destination and then gave it up for fear of taking on too much. The scenic routes are just so tiring to ride all day and some narrow hairpins – especially going up hill test my confidence at getting the bike round u-turn like angles. Instead I stuck to routes nationales which took me through some breathtaking gorges, up mountains and twisting down them again in a way that was not frightening but definitely fun. There are so many bikers around here that greeting them all gets tedious. Its rare to see lone bikers like me.
Of course these trips are like… they remind me of drug induced trips (how strange we use the same word). There is something about those short periods of altered consciousness, connected together across time that I remember. The feeling, ah, here we are again. And during one trip you are in the right frame of mind to think about how the next one could be better or different at least. There is something awkward about these solitary trips. I think it is the holiday context. So, I arrive at another campsite the only lone traveller, in fact the only traveller by bike. It is easier to blend into the background in a campsite than my first short trip in German youth hostels sitting on my table for Einselgasten (stigmatised singleguests). But something slightly hardcore appeals where the cutting corners, where the roughing it is central to the project, not a lack of doing it properly. Perhaps rough camping, where I’d be setting up camp and cooking a meal in the middle of nowhere, not surrounded by big white Dutch motorhomes and neat lawns. That would really feel like a focussed experience not the slightly misfitting experiences I have had to date. I had abandoned the idea of a Nordkapp trip in favour of the more agreeable climate and culinary delights of Spain and France but maybe it needs a rethink. I’m enjoying a chilled beer and a cigarette in the ‘snack bar’ here that serves good wine but horrible pizza. And it is so hot riding, my t-shirt is saturated with sweat each day.