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Head east, don’t die (part 3) Classic cycling country and the arid archipelago

By Jens Ourom We felt like grizzled cycle trek veterans as we approached France’s border from the south.
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Biking in Terracina, Italy.

By Jens Ourom

We felt like grizzled cycle trek veterans as we approached France’s border from the south. After nearly a month and a half pushing our bicycles and ourselves to the limit, the act of crossing another border, and beginning a new leg inspired overwhelming eagerness both in me and my prepared-for-anything-plus-French, cyclo-partner Sean Wilkinson. As we had been very gradually gaining elevation for days, we allowed ourselves to hope that maybe our ascent into the Pyrenees would not be as dreadful as it sounded — and it wasn’t. We were elated as a short climb brought us to the border crossing, and the climax of our carefully chosen route through the lush mountains.

It took less than five minutes for this feeling to dissipate, as I was rear-ended by one of France’s notorious drivers, seconds after crossing the border. Why residents of each of the countries we visited work so relentlessly to reinforce stereotypes, I will never understand. I was beside myself with rage, as newly broken pannier bags were the last thing I needed to add to the ever-expanding list of failing bike mechanisms.

However, a refreshing, winding downhill descent did much to soothe.

July in France seemed at an ideal time for cyclists. Weather was stellar, and wheat fields just harvested — meaning we could set up camp under the stars with only our sleeping bags and luxurious beds of straw. After camping in thorn-infested lemon fields, eerie tree farms, horse pastures, and gravel pits we couldn’t help but be enthusiastic.

Interestingly enough, we still had not really entered France. Both the residents of north-eastern Spain, and of south-western France identified more as Catalans. The red-and-gold striped Catalonian flag flew ubiquitously, as we visited historic Perpignan during a vibrant cultural celebration.

When we finally did feel as if we stood on French soil, the forests of Provence were meeting, and then exceeding our pre-conceived notions of their splendour. Post-card worthy photographs were available in any direction. Somehow, we also managed to stumble across one of France’s top five tourist attractions, the behemoth aqueduct that is the Pont du Gard, essentially free of other tourists.

Our French curtain call was to be in Nice, where we planned to meet, and then add to our troupe, a female Kiwi-Canadian cyclist in the form of a mischievous and nonchalant Rosanna Marmont, who would join us until Athens.

We celebrated Canada Day in Nice, while a flare-burning, flag-waving, jumping, chanting, wreathing mass of humans bordering on a riot celebrated France’s stunning victory over Brazil in the World Cup. It was an awesome and intoxicating display of nationalism and sports fanaticsm — not eclipsed even by Venetians celebrating Italy’s World Cup championship by skinny-dipping in the canals.

“Qui ne saute pas, n’est pas fran ç aise!”

“He who doesn’t jump, is not French!”

Thankfully, Sean and Rosanna could translate the chants, so we jumped and chanted alongside Les Bleus.

It was exactly the recharging atmosphere that we would need before directing ourselves on a crash course with a foe more ominous than any other: the Maritime Alps. By hugging the Mediterranean as closely as possible we hoped to avoid the worst of these mountains, but the pinnacles that comprised both the natural and international boundary between France and Italy were still imposing, even next to the sea.

It would take us the better part of two days before we finally wound downward to the Italian mountain town of Limone Piemonte, which, as is the case with most high mountain towns, seemed like it would be just as at home at the base of Whistler, or even Mount Olympus. It was here where we realized how much the crisp air we had traded for dry heat meant to us.

Out of the mountains, and in what seemed to be a theme, we met another, this time completely unexpected foe. The standing water of the rice paddies that fill the flatlands of north-central Italy alongside the Po River were to make our life a living hell. Swarms of mosquitoes that brought to mind locust plagues of Hollywood proportions would literally dampen the daylight. Stopping at houses along the roads to fill our water bottles, would include being bug-sprayed over our entire bodies by the sympathetic locals.

And then the thunderstorms hit.

Once we had exited this region the tranquility was restored, and we were able to experience a surplus of cultural heritage — and a vast surplus of tourists — as we wound our way down the Italian peninsula. The biking would be a highlight in itself, traveling alongside Tuscan wineries and through antique towns like Sienna and Florence, while the sheep-shuffle of endless lines of tourists into museums and gallerias would be a lowlight. Despite experiencing a plethora of diverse cities — Ravenna, Bologna, Rome, Sorrento and Naples to name a few — Italy, with its privatized beaches, exploitation of history, and high military and police presences, seemed like it could take the adventure out of anyone.

It succeeded. Our third attempt at criss-crossing Italy (one had been successful, one had not due to illness and bike failures), from Naples to Bari, where we would catch a ferry to Greece, was thwarted. We were escorted by police with sirens blazing off an arrow-straight highway with ample shoulder to ride on, just moments after we had begun riding. The trains we were forced to take ended up being more stressful than any hill, mosquito, thunderstorm, or flat tire had ever been — and hardly time-saving.

Nevertheless, these challenges faded to the back of our minds, as Rosanna, Sean, and I boarded the ferry, and left Italy behind. There was little doubt now whether or not we would reach Athens — with days to spare — as little more than 200 km separated Athens from Patras. Our pedaling in Greece would be a short, yet taxingly hot, jaunt of an epilogue to our journey. It was that simple, we believed.

The final ride to Athens airport, nearly 30 km outside the city, was a fitting conclusion to our haphazard adventure. As we had come to expect by now, the highway leading to the airport banned cyclists, and the Metro, naturally, would not allow bikes. In a car-driven world, this was a beautifully painted sombre portrait by the Greek authorities of how so many humans choose to travel: by any locomotion but their own. In the end, our spirits would be uplifted, as we “made a bike for it” setting off a tollbooth alarm tantalisingly close to the airport. The highway authorities eventually caught up to us — but instead of being escorted away Italian-style, we were offered a ride to the airport, as no other regulation-obeying solution could be seen.

We arrived, in good time for our flight, feeling like VIPs with a police escort, and two new jolly Greek friends, and embarked home just as our thirst for adventuring and relishing in the kindness of strangers had been replenished.

A book detailing this journey, Head east, don’t die, will be published in May 2008. For more information visit jensourom.com