Back in June, on the spur of the moment, I signed up for a bicycle tour of Provence. Then I began to fret.
And fret.
And fret.
I have a thing about hills, you see—a mental block kind of thing—and after I signed up, it occurred to me that Provence is hilly.
On the plus side, I had three months to get in shape, since the tour wasn’t until September. On the negative side, I had been eating a lot lately—at night, especially—and enjoying it a little too much. Would I be able to slim down and tone up in time?
Fast forward to September. I’ve finally stopped eating, but only recently, and I’m still having problems with hills. In a panic, I try everything, eventually developing a surprisingly effective method of getting up inclines on my bike: wearing an ipod cranked up full blast. The best song: “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” by Guns n’ Roses. It seems to work by distracting me from the task at hand. It’s also heavy on the testosterone-inducing guitar rhythms. What little testosterone I have, I really really need to activate.
Finally, a solution. I heave a sigh of relief and pack my ipod charger and an adapter. They are my tickets to athleticism.
In Orange, France, at the start of the tour, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I actually fall rather low on the age scale. I had worried I would be the oldest one, struggling to keep up with a bunch of hepped up 20-year-olds. There are a couple of people younger than me on this tour. But most are older—some significantly so. Maybe things will work out, after all.
We set out for Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and the ride progresses smoothly. There are some moderate undulations, but nothing to worry about. Then we stop for a water break, and the guide says something that makes my blood run cold.
“Oh, by the way, there’s our first big hill up ahead.”
Did I mention that I can’t wear my ipod? I had anticipated riding alone on this tour, as the literature had emphasized a go-at-your-own-pace approach, but we seem to be sticking together as a group. I can’t wear my ipod because: 1) I would be the only person doing so and 2) it would prevent me from hearing directions and small talk. I’m so screwed.
We start riding again toward Chateauneuf-du-Pape. I am perspiring heavily, worrying about the hill to come. To be honest, it isn’t as huge as I had imagined, but it isn’t small, either. I start pedaling furiously as soon as it comes into view, prematurely enough that, by the time I actually begin to ascend, I’m exhausted. I shift to a lower gear, then lower and lower, until I am barely moving forward. An 81-year-old man cycles easily past me.
“Hello!” he calls.
I get off my bike and walk, my face burning with embarrassment. When I reach the top of the hill, the rest of the group is standing patiently atop their bikes, waiting for me. I laugh, but nobody else even cracks a smile. I can feel them all thinking, “Boy is she out of shape.”
We make it to Chateauneuf-du-Pape, a famous wine-making center with narrow stone streets and centuries-old buildings. My roommate and I stop at a wine “cave” for a tasting. Five generous dollops of wine. I develop a pleasant buzz.
Afterward, we make for the nearest cafe and order food and more wine. This is the Côtes du Rhône region of France, known mostly for its red wines—le vin rouge. They are full-bodied and satisfying, with just a hint of fruit. They blur the edges of things pretty fast, too.
When we finally get back on the bikes, I zoom to the front of the pack. I am happy and, strangely enough, anxiety-free. I take the hills easily, redeeming myself in the eyes of the others, I hope—though first impressions are hard to break.
Every day the hills come a little easier. The wine erases my anxiety, and each successful ascent leaves me a little more confident. I begin to enjoy the view from the bike—the orderly vineyards, the fields of sunflowers (past their prime, of course, but still dramatic), the ripening quince orchards, the walled villages. At Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, we pause by the river and watch a group of old men playing petanque, a hundred-year-old ball game particular to Provence. We stand in the shade of a large tree, the ground dappled around our feet. I take a deep breath and let it out again. I feel about 10 years younger—and eager for the next challenge. You might say I’m beginning to see the countryside through rouge-colored glasses.
Now this is a vacation.
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