Bill Conry
As we delved deeper into rural France towards the Pyrenees, Kellen and I were aware our days of leisurely pedaling through the relatively flat terrain of the south of France were up, and that the most challenging leg of the continent was imminent.  A bit anxious for the forthcoming climb and eager for all luck we could find, our first official day of cycling the mountain region began inauspiciously when I woke up with a gun to my head…

Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration - here’s what happened:  we camped in yet another harvested vineyard, and at 7 AM while brushing my teeth I spotted a man 50 meters away wearing an orange hat and wielding what appeared to be a weed whacker.  I told Kellen that there was a farm worker nearby and that we should hide out in our tents for a bit until he leaves.  When I arose for the second time I found him standing five meters from me and discovered that the weed whacker was actually a double-barrel shotgun.  He said something to me in French, I responded with “bonjour.”  He said something else, I responded with “one minute, no French,” and calmly informed my language guide that there was a gentleman out here with a gun and he should come speak with him.  By the time Kellen got out of his tent the man had strolled off and our lives were no longer in danger.  Once we hit the road we saw our friend with some other men bird hunting a few kilometers from our campsite in an adjacent vineyard.  Only then did it hit me that the bright orange cap served hunting safety purposes and was not a French fashion statement.

After a long day climbing and a delicious dinner in the Quillon town square, we pedaled off in the hopes of finding a nearby campsite as it was already dark and my legs were threatening to strike if I put any more stress on them.   As we climbed the densely forested mountain in the dark, we knew that stumbling upon a flat, open space to pitch our tents may take a while.  Luckily, Kellen spotted a small path off the main road that appeared to be promising and went to investigate further.  He returned to inform me that the spot was perfect; it was level and spacious, but there was a catch: he heard a loud rustling in the nearby brush that could only be credited to a human or large animal.  We agreed we couldn’t let some anonymous creature ruin our slumber and decided to go for it.  All was silent until a half hour after my head hit the pillow I was awoken by a deep, thunderous roar that seemed to shake the mountain.   We debated what “thing” was the source of this sound and concluded it was a Yeti, a mountain cow, or a dinosaur.  We were never able to verify our suspicions, but we awoke the next morning unscathed and prepared to continue our trek through the Pyrenees.

For the first time all trip the signs of autumn were apparent with orange, red and yellow foliage lightly coating the roads of the rustic region through which we cycled.  As we ascended higher and higher the beauty of the surrounding scenery increased with our altitude.  We rode up and down several labeled mountain passes, each one higher than the previous peak.  At the Col du Chioula I was thrilled to reach my highest elevation of the trip.  I knew in the back of my mind though that that pass would seem like a sledding hill compared with the climb into Andorra we had in the queue for after lunch.

After a hearty meal in the town of Ax-les-Thermes, and some tweaks to my bike, Kellen and I began to ride up.  And up.  After three hours of straight uphill I finally came to terms with the extent of the undertaking I had before me.  A rule of thumb I’ve garnered from this trip is that if you can’t see the top of the pass then you can assume it continues to go up.  The top was nowhere in sight and I had to mentally accept this if I was going to stay sane.  Motorists provided us with encouragement and entertainment with their honks, thumbs ups, and inspirational yells, while the grazing bulls, sheep, and goats gave us sights that were anything but mundane.  As we neared what we were reasonably confident was the top we faced a fork in the road both in the literal and figurative sense.  All of the traffic was funneling through a tunnel that pierced through the mountain allowing cars to avoid the highest and most treacherous section of the pass.   As evening approached we had to decide whether we would take the tunnel or the pass.  A quick cost benefit analysis caused Kellen and I to agree that since we had come this far it would be a waste not to take the pass.  It would be more worth it in the long run to know that we conquered a mountain instead of having arrived at Andorra La Vella a bit earlier.

The final switchbacks to the top were hands down the most intense riding I had ever done.  The effects of the altitude began to set in as the cold, thin air caused me to experience disorientation and nausea and forced me to dismount from my bike once for a breather.  Out of nowhere it suddenly became foggy and we soon realized this was not fog, but a cloud through which we were riding.  The road finally flattened out as we reached the top just as the sun was setting and were welcomed by the rain shower micro-climate of the peak.  Further research revealed that the Port d’Envalira, which we had just ascended, is the highest paved road in the Pyrenees at 2408 m and has been featured numerous times in the Tour de France, most recently the 2009 race.

The hard part was over, now it was time to go down.  We bundled up as much as we could to combat the teeth chattering low temps and high winds to which we would be subject.  Thankfully Kellen had an extra pair of knit gloves to lend me and a Dumb and Dumber scenario did not unfold.  After the brisk downhill we rolled into Andorra La Vella, the capital city of Andorra, for a celebratory meal and a much needed day off from cycling.

Both of us were unfamiliar with ALV and were a bit surprised to learn that it is a hip, classy ski town.  When we were walking around after lunch the following day we saw five men dressed in all green drinking beer on an outside patio and walked over to see for what occasion they were throwing back cold ones mid-day.  Our new friend Allen explained that they were all from Ireland and were in town because their country was taking on Andorra for 2012 European Cup qualifying.  Tickets were hard to come by because the tiny county of Andorra (pop. 80,000) played its games in a miniscule 800 seat stadium, and the demand significantly outweighed the supply.  They assured us that Irish nationals were traveling to ALV in force and while only some were fortunate to have a ticket for the game, they all would be drinking at the bar later and we should come back in the evening.

As a duel Irish/American citizen, I determined it was my duty to represent my country and return to this bar.  After taking care of our typical rest day chores Kellen and I walked back over and saw that Allen was not lying when he told us there would be more coming.  Now there were over one hundred Irishmen present, chanting, drinking and just overall wreaking havoc on this tiny watering hole.  The atmosphere was about as tame as Lindsay Lohan’s 21st birthday party.  I fit right in with my red beard as Allen introduced us to his buddies who were all eager to hear about our trip.

Ireland won the football match 2-0 to gain entry into the Euro Cup.  The next day Kellen and I packed up and headed into Spain.  We enjoyed our riding through the Pyrenees and knew we had notched a victory of our own.

BEARD WATCH

The mood is tense.

The red flame has spread to other regions of my face and is showing no signs of extinguishing itself.  The growth pattern has continued to favor the lower chin area causing me to question whether I am still within the bounds of socially acceptable grooming standards.  More to come!

Kellen Smetana
We crossed the border from Italy into Menton, France late morning.  This was it.  This was my time to shine.  I had majored in French, studied here for seven months, and at one time could name as many French kings as US presidents.  It was time to play tour-guide for Bill; I just needed to dig down deep below the five years of rust first.

Even before leaving Italy I began practicing by singing to myself all the French songs I knew.  Charles Trenet dominated the playlist, and if you visited the new stats page you saw he continued to play on in my head throughout the remainder of France (definitely worth a YouTube search if you’re up for some classic French songs).  But now that we had arrived, it was time to put these language skills to the test.  The road climbed a panoramic outcropping beyond Menton and we stopped to take a few photos.  As I approached another man to ask for a photo, I blacked out like Will Ferrell in Old School and found myself deep in a conversation about aperture, F-stop, shutter speed, and lens size (things I don’t even know about in English).  Well then, I guess the French was hiding down there somewhere…

Worries brushed aside, it was time to bask in the full glory of the French Riviera - or as they call it, the Cote d’Azur.  Our first major stop of the day was actually not in France at all, it was the tiny principality of Monaco.  Bill’s steadfast rule for visiting a country is that there must be at least one meal consumed there, and Monaco did not buck the trend.  We rolled in for an enjoyable crepe lunch full of discussion about whether Monaco is actually a country, but were immediately overwhelmed by the number of Ferraris, mega-yachts, and high-end designer stores.  It turns out that not only is Monaco a country, it has the highest GDP per capita in the world and it is quite the playground for the rich.  After lunch we paid a quick visit to the only landmark we knew, the world-famous Monte Carlo Casino.  We snapped a couple photos and smiled for a bunch of others (people thought we looked hilariously out of place in front of the line of supercars), and then it was back into France and on to Nice.

We took a rest day in Nice, which gave us time to check the box on swimming in yet another sea and to sit down for some serious work on a meal of all-you-can-eat mussels and fries.  I’m pretty sure restaurants don’t look at the economics of this offering with traveling cyclists in mind: it took eight buckets of mussels and four plates of fries to finally vanquish the unending ether of our bellies.  Many people have joked that we will be ready to take on any marathon, Ironman, or cycling race when we get home; it appears we may be even better prepared for the next Man v. Food competition.

We continued our culinary quest in Cannes the following day with delightful baguette sandwiches.  After passing by the awards palace of the famous Cannes Film Festival, we turned away from the sea and dove into the depths of Provence en route to our next destination, Aix-en-Provence.  That evening for dinner we opted for wood-fired pizza from a van parked on the side of the road.  As we sat on the gravel shoulder of the highway in the dark eating our pizza, two separate people approached to shout “Bon Appetit!”, thus ensuring we would enjoy our meal.  Bill was rather surprised by these gestures, and after I explained it was a very normal thing to do in France, I did admit it was a little humorous considering our current locale.  After a few chuckles and some creative thinking, we took the next obvious step to create a “Bon Appetit’ing” game to replace our now stale Exclamation game.  We’ll test the pilot over here and if it proves fun enough we’ll bring it back to take the US by storm later this fall.

The next morning we woke up in a vineyard.  As we sleep in a new place every day, it sometimes feels as though these locations blur together and we can forget how unique and special each one is.  After a lengthy campsite search in the dark the previous night, we concluded that nobody would really care if we set up shop in the middle of the already harvested vineyard.  It wasn’t until the morning that I realized how cool it was to roll over and stare down infinite rows of grape vines.  Situations like these have really taught me to appreciate the incredible intimacy with nature that camping allows.  But there was no time now to get tangled in the vines of contemplation, we had to continue speeding on to Aix-en-Provence.

Five years ago I spent seven months studying at Universite de Provence in Aix, and I was excited to play host for a fun weekend in the city.  We were also looking forward to entertaining our first visitor of the trip since Georgia, Emily De Yoe, a college friend currently studying in Rome.  We arrived mid-Friday and soon met up with Emily, who claimed she was as excited to see us as she was to visit France (but we knew the truth).  After passing a laughter-filled afternoon at the cafes on the Cours Mirabeau, the city’s plane tree-lined thoroughfare, Bill and Emily put up with my personal tour, passing my old home, favorite cafes, the school where I used to study, the bars where I used to – well, you get the idea.

Later that evening, after a marvelous Provencal dinner, we met up with two of my old friends, Francois and Christophe, for an aperitif and fun night out on the town.  It was great to reminisce with these two and share stories from the last five years (quite a lot has happened); it was also a wonderful reminder what a good feeling it is to have welcoming friends you can come back to in a place like this.

The rest of the weekend we perused Aix’s open-air markets, paid a visit to Cathedrale Saint Sauveur, popped in more cafes than I can count, and even followed in the footsteps of the city’s most renowned artist, Paul Cezanne.

We took a tour of Cezanne’s old workshop and Bill proved to be trivia master on the current controversy with the largest collection of Cezanne works, which reside at the Barnes Foundation down the street from his childhood home.  From the workshop, we climbed to the top of one of the hills north of the city for a spectacular vista of where Cezanne used to paint many of his famous Mount Sainte-Victoire landscapes.

After a fun, whirlwind weekend in my favorite city of the trip, it was already time to bid adieu to Emily as she hopped on a bus back to Marseille.  That evening I got a chance to visit with my old host family, the Renaudieres, at their new home just north of the city.  It was exciting to hear about all the great things my old “host brothers and sisters” are off doing in Aix and elsewhere around the world and it was a perfect cap to a perfect weekend in Provence.

Monday morning, it was time to get the wheels rolling again.  For the next few days we cruised across southern France and it was easy to see why the Tour de France is such a photogenic sporting event.  It seemed that around every turn we were greeted with something new: old castles, vineyards, tree-lined canals, cobblestone streets, even pink flamingos.

One of the last days before the Pyrenees, we pulled up to a countryside restaurant just before dark.  After taking our order, Jean-Marc, the proprietor, asked where we were from: Netherlands, Germany, England…?  “No, actually we are from the US.”  He ran back inside the bar screaming as if there was a fire: “Oh Putain!  Putain de merde!  [pardon my French, he was very excited]  We have two Americans here… AND they speak French!”  He came running back out.  “Two Americans visiting my restaurant; we’ll celebrate with some alcohol!”  Immediately the three of us were taking pre-dinner vodka shots.  When he calmed down a bit, I asked him what all the fuss was about.  It turns out Jean-Marc had always dreamt of visiting the US, but he has not as of yet, nor has he ever had any Americans visit his restaurant (which came as a surprise given the huge tourist numbers in places like Monaco, Nice, and Aix).

Jean-Marc joined us for much of the surprisingly tasty bull-meat dinner, and so it turned out a rather jovial one as we incorporated many of the other patrons into the conversation.  After dinner he invited us to camp behind his place; we happily accepted.  We joined the campfire with other guests of his bed and breakfast and I engaged in interesting conversation with Jean-Marc and Phillipe, one of the other guests.  We talked for hours (over more vodka drinks) about retirement in France, Bordeaux’s wine climate, and how a great amount of fascination with the US still stems from WWII, as was the case for the ever eccentric Jean-Marc.  It’s always interesting to hear about how different perspectives can be even in a place I think of as so similar to the US.

The next morning we packed up, thanked Jean-Marc enthusiastically for his hospitality, and said goodbye to our other new French friends.  We turned our wheels southwest and continued on in France, but this time the riding would not be as flat as before.  It was time to cross the Pyrenees.