Arrival

Sunday, August 30.

On the last day of the trip, I fitted new brake pads and and set off down the Gorge de L'Alagnon between Massiac and Lempdes. It was past 9.30am but the road was quiet.The cycling was beautiful, down a winding, well-surfaced road. I saw a buzzard from about six feet away, standing on a fence post.

Yesterday's sense of despair had lifted. The answer to the question, "why make the trip?" wasn't important. It was enough that I was coasting along through fine countryside and, by evening, I would be enjoying dinner in the company of family with a feeling of satisfaction. It wasn't why I had made the trip but it was all that mattered.

In Lempdes, I ate a custard Mille Feuilles and a croissant by the river for breakfast. I bought supplies and went indecisively from cafe to cafe trying to establish the best. I settled on the fullest and sat down for a coffee. A friend called to ask how I was getting on and suggested another reason for doing the trip: it would be a good story to tell.

I cycled for another couple of hours and stopped by a river for the final picnic lunch. I lingered longer than I had planned and it was past 4pm when I set off again.

I was now very close and as I cycled through the final few villages - Auxelles, Cunlhat, Les Gouttes - my pace picked up. From Tours-sur-Maymont, I followed a route I had ridden before on a day trip. At the top of a long, steady descent, I sat back in the saddle, tucked my body low out of the wind, shifted into the highest gear and wound my legs up until I was racing down the hill. I felt exuberant with the success, relief and achievement of reaching the end.

The final section was a two-kilometre climb up a steady, winding hill through conifers. My legs were tired but I was too excited to notice and stood on the pedals to charge up the hill in a high gear. I felt the end of two weeks of effort, the relief at success, the comfort of knowing the road and the anticipation of arrival.

The small village of Augerolles was empty but I was afraid, briefly, of a car knocking me off my bike and forcing me to walk the last 500 metres. Breaking a limb would have been OK so long as I could coast the short stretch to my Dad's house; buckling a wheel would have been terrible.

I rode down the short stretch from the village and round the side of the house, leaned my bike against a bench, walked in through the open back door and, in the kitchen I found Dad and Anthea and warm congratulations.


I've done it.

BC