Bike Thieves: Charity Frauds In Champagne-Fuelled Fake Bike Trip Shocker!

 

Lycra-Clad Embezzlers Stage 'Charity' Bike Trip to Fund Five-Star Sabbatical 

Not really. But the thought did occur to us.

I'm sitting on my hotel room balcony, overlooking Argentiere's main street under the watchful gaze of a couple of large glaciers and the Aiguille Verte, one of the famous peaks of the Chamonix-Mont Blanc area and home to all manner of hardcore mountain activities. 

No such expenditure of energy for me today, though. Breakfast was taken in the nick of time, shortly before the 10am cut-off, and then I went back to bed for the rest of my lie-in. I'm already a huge fan of the siesta, but is it pushing it too far to have a snooze after breakfast too? Who can blame us for revelling in the utter luxury of a proper bed after 3 weeks of camping? You, sir? You, madam? I think not.

You've heard all the important stuff from Charlie's excellent and timely updates. But now let's delve into the inner workings of the tour. How are the two wannabe Wiggos facing up the the physical and mental challenge of their quest?  

PHYSICALLY... we were both unknown quantities pre-tour. Charlie much less so, as he does a lot of cycling and enjoys the odd triathlon. For fun. For God's sake. Even so, he'd never cycled more than 100kms in a day, let alone done that kind of distance for several consecutive days. Ditto me, but even more so. And I don't (couldn't) do triathlons. My pre-tour form could be summarised as follows: sore back from driving around Britain for 10 weeks in a car I couldn't properly sit up in, clearly not fit enough having done just a couple of token bike rides, looking at the start of the trip as if I'd just finished it, an unemployable tramp.

But so far we're holding up. A few exceptions: I hit the wall at the end of day 1, simply the result of running out of energy and a clear signal that henceforth I should eat as if the future of the universe depends on it, and had a few knee niggles in week 2, which on a couple of days meant our distance was reduced, but seem to have come to the party at last. VG has been on great form all the way, but has had a sore knee once or twice and seems to sweat more from his head than a human being should. So the bodies are adjusting to what must be for them them a most unusual change. Basic fitness seems to be good - we're making it up big hills without stopping or being too out of breath, unthinkable 3 weeks ago. And we're eating so much food, good food at that, that energy levels seem to be pretty high most of the time. On several occasions, Charlie has informed me (and all within earshot) that his digestive system is working most efficiently.  

MENTALLY... It's still early days but we each seem to have pioneered our own motivational techniques. Picture the scenario: a clear, sunny morning in the Auvergne, even if the full, fierce heat of the day is yet to arrive. A large hill. We've been climbing steadily for the 6km and 40 minutes since breakfast. Charlie's ahead, maybe 100m or so, and going well. I'm flagging, the legs not quite ready for this onslaught so early on. 

And then, from somewhere, I get a gradual surge in energy levels. A few minutes later I'm at the top, barely out of breath, chuckling at VG, whose bike falls over as he attempts to get the video camera off his handlebars to film my arrival. 

What was it that powered me to the top? A third Weetabix? Banned substances? Divine intervention? 

I asked VG the other day how he motivates himself up these hills. His answer: mantras. He repeats "Drive the legs!" or (my favourite) "Victoire!" as chanted by the prisoners of war in the film Escape to Victory. Not unreasonable, and it clearly works for him.  

We have both also rigged up little speakers at the front of our bikes, as (the right) music is a great motivator. My favourite tune for the hills so far: that disco classic Car Wash. "And work! And work!"

On top of that, for me, however, the answer is altogether more bizarre. All of a sudden, without any conscious process going on, I find myself in an imaginary argument with the snootiest, rudest stereotypical French waiter, bureaucrat, or - in this particular case - campsite owner.  

I should declare, before this rant goes any further, that I am a huge Francophile, and so far this trip has only my strengthened my love for this great country. We've experienced the warmest welcome everywhere we've been, and the majority of Francais we've encountered have been very hospitable, generous and keen to discuss our trip. But, you all know the grumpy, pouting and occasionally zenophobic dwarf of which I speak. He or she who, through some sick joke, happens to have a job that requires some level of customer service. Yes, it is that (pleasingly rare) French beast that I rail against in my mind when the going gets tough.  

On this day, I found myself particularly livid at the hunchbacked owner of a campsite who'd reinvigorated my faith in rudeness a few days earlier. Beyond knackered, we'd arrived at a delightful town bang in the middle of France called Ste Catherine Sur Riverie, looking out - as always at this time of day - for signs to the nearest 'camping'. This one was up a huge hill that had both Charlie and me in lowest gear (the granny ring, as it's known in the trade) and zigzagging, completely out of breath and hope. On arrival at the campsite, whose spectacular views justified the ascent, even if I was unprepared to admit that at the time, a short, rotund battleaxe of indeterminate gender, stepped out from his or her front door and snootily asked "Oui?"

We bonjoured back heartily, despite her obvious annoyance at being interrupted. To get from her front door to the campsite office, she had to walk down a short flight of steps. "Well, you'll need to move the bike," she said to me, the chemical opposite of charm oozing

from her reptilian pores. I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing, partly because I was still out of breath and bent double over the bike, but also because VG had just walked up those same steps and past my bike with no difficulty whatsoever. Suffice to say, I kept quiet and moved the bike a token inch so the unit could slither Jabba-like down the steps and initiate the lengthy, paper-based process of checking us in.  

 

And since then, in darker moments mid-climb, I have been replaying variations of that meeting. "Madame, you are a beacon of charm, it is such a pleasure to be staying here warmed by your spirit." Or "Madame, it is clearly the work of a benevolent god, that one with such diplomacy, charm and administrative excellence as yourself should be stationed here, helping your customers as you do with that radiant smile." Or, much more likely, "Listen, you medieval swamp-dwelling half-inflated space hopper. We've just cycled over 120kms to get here. We're tired. My mate just managed - as you plainly saw not 10 seconds ago - to get up those steps and around my bike, so..." you get the picture. 

And then I come to and seem to be moving up the hill barely noticing the physical effort. Ah, self-righteous anger... fuel of choice for the self-propelled!