A Year in Provence(31)
“Merde!” He had parked in the septic tank.
“So you see,” I said to our friend from Paris, “one way or another, there’s never a dull moment.”
He didn’t reply, and I reached over and took off his sunglasses. The sun in his eyes woke him up.
“What?”
LE PREMIER MAI started well, with a fine sunrise, and as it was a national holiday we thought we should celebrate in correct French fashion by paying homage to the summer sport and taking to our bicycles.
Tougher and more serious cyclists had been training for weeks, muffled against the spring winds in thick black tights and face masks, but now the air was warm enough for delicate amateurs like us to go out in shorts and sweaters. We had bought two lightweight and highly strung machines from a gentleman in Cavaillon called Edouard Cunty‘’Vélos de Qualité!’—and we were keen to join the brightly colored groups from local cycling clubs as they swooped gracefully and without any apparent effort up and down the back country roads. We assumed that our legs, after a winter of hard walking, would be in good enough condition for a gentle ten-mile spin up to Bonnieux and over to Lacoste—an hour of light exercise to limber up, nothing too strenuous.
It was easy enough to begin with, although the narrow, hard saddles made an early impression, and we realized why some cyclists slip a pound of rump steak inside the back of their shorts to cushion the coccyx from the road. But for the first couple of miles there was nothing to do except glide along and enjoy the scenery. The cherries were ripening, the winter skeletons of the vines had disappeared under a cover of bright green leaves, the mountains looked lush and soft. The tires made a steady thrumming sound, and there were occasional whiffs of rosemary and lavender and wild thyme. This was more exhilarating than walking, quieter and healthier than driving, not too taxing, and altogether delightful. Why hadn’t we done it before? Why didn’t we do it every day?
The euphoria lasted until we began to climb up to Bonnieux. My bicycle suddenly put on weight. I could feel the muscles in my thighs complaining as the gradient became steeper, and my unseasoned backside was aching. I forgot about the beauties of nature and wished I had worn steak in my shorts. By the time we reached the village it hurt to breathe.
The woman who runs the Café Clerici was standing outside with her hands on her ample hips. She looked at the two red-faced, gasping figures bent over their handlebars. “Mon Dieu! The Tour de France is early this year.” She brought us beer, and we sat in the comfort of chairs designed for human bottoms. Lacoste now seemed rather far away.
The hill that twists up to the ruins of the Marquis de Sade’s château was long and steep and agonizing. We were halfway up and flagging when we heard a whirr of dérailleur gears, and we were overtaken by another cyclist—a wiry, brown man who looked to be in his mid-sixties. “Bonjour,” he said brightly, “ban vélo,” and he continued up the hill and out of sight. We labored on, heads low, thighs burning, regretting the beer.
The old man came back down the hill, turned, and cruised along next to us. “Courage,” he said, not even breathing hard, “c’est pas loin. Allez!” And he rode with us into Lacoste, his lean old legs, shaved bare in case of falls and grazes, pumping away with the smoothness of pistons.
We collapsed on the terrace of another café, which overlooked the valley. At least it would be downhill most of the way home, and I gave up the idea of calling an ambulance. The old man had a peppermint frappé, and told us that he had done thirty kilometers so far, and would do another twenty before lunch. We congratulated him on his fitness. “It’s not what it was. I had to stop doing the Mont Ventoux ride when I turned sixty. Now I just do these little promenades.” Any slight satisfaction we felt at climbing the hill disappeared.
The ride back was easier, but we were still hot and sore when we reached home. We dismounted and walked stiff-legged to the pool, discarding clothes as we went, and dived in. It was like going to heaven. Lying in the sun afterwards with a glass of wine we decided that cycling would be a regular part of our summer lives. It was, however, some time before we could face the saddles without flinching.
THE FIELDS around the house were inhabited every day by figures moving slowly and methodically across the landscape, weeding the vineyards, treating the cherry trees, hoeing the sandy earth. Nothing was hurried. Work stopped at noon for lunch in the shade of a tree, and the only sounds for two hours were snatches of distant conversation that carried hundreds of yards on the still air.