Go for it

Its no good staying in bed all day when you really have to get out and get fit. You just have to go for it. So friends have already let on that I need another route to cycle and I thought I'd like to explore the next valley where the wood comes down to the dried up lake in winter and there is a dirt track that leads off into the macquis. Its quiet there and never visited except for the odd fisherman when the lake fills in the summer. So where do the fish come from? Never mind.

So off I go on a chilly damp early morning cycle. Down through the village to the lake and across the viaduct taking the route alongside the single track railway line. A brief stop at the lake to take in the silent stillness without a ripple of le lac de Escoumes. Surrounded on three sides by the green shroud of hilly forest and stretching into the distance. High above through the cold mist glows the brightness of the warm sun unable yet to break through. Adjusting the holes on my wollen gloves to once again cover my finger tips, I start again along the well worn aged tarmac viaduct that forsm the fouth side of the lake.

The hillside closes in as the track passes through the sandy steep weathered ridge which is covered in scrub on the top and on any surface that has not been rain scoured into steep rivulets. I get to the track but decide against a turn. "Why turn into the lost valley with its endless meandering paths to nowhere. The map shows no discernable route. I have been down there walking and paths just stop. besides this tarmac path is smooth and peddling is easy' I carry onward. The dusting of sand and stones that covers the tarmac comes to and end and cycling is even better on the quite nes smooth macadam surface. A steep slope leads down to a sharp bend and the track turns across the path of the railway track. I rehearse the safety procedure at a single barrier continental style levekl crossing. "Should I dismount" becomes the question of the moment. No sod it. "There are hardly any trains on this line anyway". I cross and the road leads down to right hand curve, and I can see and hear the main road. The almost constant soft intermittent roar of each car and lorry grows louder. The main road has only two carriageways at this point. I wobble along the white line close to the edge. Each vehicle rushes past at 50-60 mph a few feet on my left. While I'm thinking about how well the French respect the cyclist a german whizzes past a few inches from me.

Down then up the hill and under the bridge as the railway crosses the road again. I take a right exploring the exact location of the restaurant advertsiued on horadings on the road. The dirt track leads off past a building that doesnt look like a rrestaurant, and then left past sevral more. In the dusty dirt grey front yard of the third house two large alsatians stir. One starts to bark waking a Rottweiller in the garden on my left. "Lets go back. There is no restuarant here"

I retun to the junction at the main road but go starighgt across along the road signposted to Rodes. The village stands at the end of the road up sharp against a steep cliff, covered with scrub. The new building at this end sport large gardens with swimming pools, scattered with the debris from last summer. A sun chair here. Some balls there. Childresn toys. All looks incongrous in the winter chill.

Through the village the path goes onward optomistically. Flat a first and then a sharpe turn. So this is real cycling. Not just a wizz round the Finestret. This path is mere dirt road through the macquis. I check the map and it looks like a mile or so down the road I can cross at the dam and get back to the village. "It will be nice to see the church by the dam, a place I have always wanted to visit", I think to myself.

But first there is some real cycling to be done as the dirt track rises steeply. I play about with the gears trying to find the right formula that will launch this heavy frame at great speed up this huge incline.

I never did write the piece yesterday about how cruel it is that ones middle age paunch is repeated jabbed by ones knees, left and right in turn as a cruel reminder of exactly why we are doing this. Its even worse uphill as the bike is angle just right to remind you.

At last the dam is almost reached but there is no cheer. Looming large a rusty sign says "access interdit" and a flimsy excuse for a fence bars the way. Great. The dirt track veers sharply upwards and right. "Maybe its goes up higher and comes down below?" Foolishly I take the next 100 metres up to another sharp bend. This time puffing harder and discarding gloves. "Surely just after the next bed I will be down and across the dam?" Three corners on I need a rest. This dirt track is going nowhere. I check the map, heart still pumping hard.

"Well if I carry on it looks like maybe the tarck turns into a footpath and then there might be a way back to the Montalban road. The garrague was lit by a burst of sun that picked out the brown oak leaves, contrasting them with the burnt black stems of the trees that were victims of the forst fire of two yaers ago. I searched for regrowth and here and there last years shoots had spring from the base of the worst cases. Whether they were the same plant or grown from seeds was unclear.

I tried another hundred metre dash straining at each peddle.