Retrospective

I didn't know what to expect of this ride, didn't have any fixed idea of whether or not I would stick to the designated route. I carried my standard yellow Michelin maps, in case I chose to abandon. There was a reason for my cautious attitude.

Years ago, 2009, I rode the Canal du Midi as part of a longer ride. Though the boats, not to mention the people on them, along with the locks and buildings were fascinating, cyclists could rarely see the world beyond the canal banks. The  ancient plane trees provided welcome shade, and as a side effect caused the riding to be painfully slow .... the roots of those same plane trees projected out of the ground 2, 4, 6 inches, again and again, making it impossible to gather any momentum whatsoever. So I began this long ride with some trepidation about off-road riding.

I need not have fretted, it was a delight, especially after I realized that cycling on rough surfaces with a heavily loaded bike was going to be slow going and commensurately slowed down my overactive brain.   The route turned out to be virtually always so totally enjoyable, varied and beautiful. Riding without any concern whatsoever about cars, not needing any ear out for what was approaching from the rear, turned out to be unexpectedly liberating. It's true, one needed a sharp eye for signs. It's true, the handy guidebook La Vélodyssée (in French), published by Le Routard, was a great aid, as was the official website La Vélodyssée 1 (in English.)  I saw many other riders with one form of GPS or another, which seemed to help them stay on route. Generally though, the route was very well signposted, and no problem to follow.

Once south of the Loire, the Atlantic  was generally on my right: the landscape, seascape was amazingly gorgeous.

It was sometimes disconcerting to have so little sense of where I actually was, in the bigger picture. I think that was caused by not using large paper maps, and so not having reference to my position relative to named places on the map. In all, I rode about 950 or so miles. That is longer than the designated route, as I often rode away from the route to find a campground, or rode into town to find meals or supplies. In some cases the route turned a block or so before a potentially good place to eat. Located just past the turn, this boulangerie made sure all cyclists noticed it ... I appreciated the sign, and it was great for a second breakfast

Lunch? Dinner? Yummmmm ... once near the ocean there were oysters, lots of oysters. And totally delicious fish. Oysters for appetizeres, fish for the main course. That is almost all I ate. And ate it with enthusiasm. Put me in the sun, at the end of the day, tired muscles, a good hot shower, with a glass of wine, oysters, and fish. Make me happy.

I camped most nights, and so met more fellow cyclists than on any previous trip, they too drawn to the long, marked route. This route is not for you if you mind flat: it is one very flat route. Gorgeous, but flat. That was not a complaint for me. The surface was varied, sometimes packed dirt or limestone, sometimes gravel, sometimes paved. It varied from wide enough for both bikes and pedestrians to narrow paths through salt marshes or on the top of digues.

Often I could walk from the campground to the Atlantic, with its miles and miles of protected coastline and extraordinarily wide beaches. Wider than I have ever before seen.

For whatever reason, I don't remember, I stopped posting after the great dune at Pilat. Perhaps it was the heat ... there was a heat wave, over 100 F, hot enough that even strangers, behind me in line at 8 am, as I was buying food for lunch, insisted that I stop at noon, get out of the sun, pay attention and be safe. I never stopped that early, but I did start early, and stopped by mid-afternoon.

Biarritz was such fun; it reminded me a bit of Nice, on the Mediterranean where I finished my Paris-Nice ride. Historic, chic, party-town, extremely good food, fun.

I finished up in Hendaye, on the Spanish border. The heat wave had broken, the last day of the ride was drizzly with low visibility. There was no cycling route, for the first time in about 900 miles I was on roads ... roads that were too small for all the hurried, harried, angry drivers. It was no fun and far too stressful. I took the train for the last 15 miles or so into Hendaye. A symmetry there, I think, as the route unexpected began with a train strike.

As I (finally) write this, it has been about six months since I'm back from France. Just about time to return there.