Fête de VTT

This past weekend was quite athletic endurance challenge. First up was the much hyped biking festival in Chusclan. Then, after taking a quick shower and packing up the car, we drove to the Alps for two days of snowboarding at the only ski resort in France already open for the season. By Tuesday morning, I was suffering a full-body ache.

On Saturday morning, however, I felt great. I was up at 8:00, took out the dog, and made myself some ham and eggs with melted Roquefort cheese. My stomach usually goes through its own acrobatic routine during athletic events, so reserved plenty of time to digest breakfast. A little before 10:00, we rode down to the Chusclan Cave for the beginning of the race.

I could not believe how many people had ventured into town for the event. Once again, it appeared as though an event had brought out more than the entire population of the village. Our landlord, a proud member of the Chusclan cycling club, had volunteered to help out with the registration. He reported that around 1,500 people had already signed in by 9:00. Despite all the activity, I secretly hoped that the mountain bike trails would be mostly clear by the time I began my run.

It only cost $7 to register for the event, and all participants received a bottle of Chusclan wine. Locals, including yours truly, ride free. This clearly wasn't a money making operation, just another advertising opportunity for the local wine grower's cooperative. With such an impressive domestic advertising campaign, it's a wonder that the cave doesn't also export. Keep your eyes open for the Laudun-Chusclan appellation.

After receiving my riding instructions and course map, I said goodbye to Mary Ann and started up the mountain bike course. There was also a road ride being run concurrently. Bikers had fanned out over 40 km in the surrounding countryside. Luckily, the day seemed ripe for a bike ride. Some fog kept the ground temperature cool and comfortable. Lacking all the fancy gear worn by most riders, I was thankful not to be sweating profusely through my warm-up pants and long-sleeve tee.

Turning on the main road through town, I quickly found myself behind about 25 other riders on their way to the off-road courses. We rode slowly through the village and up the narrow roads just outside of town. At this point, most riders were still in groups with their friends. They carried on conversations while the ascent was still moderate. I did notice two female riders struggling in a very high gear to climb the moderate paved slope. They would be in for a very long day. I slipped ahead at the first opportunity.

Four days earlier, I had noticed that the trail markings were up and took a test run through two-thirds of the 25 km course. This proved to be very helpful, because I knew when to anticipate sharp turns and forks in the road. Four different courses were available. The longest was 57 km and very technical. From previous adventures through the Gicon hills, I knew to avoid the red-marked trail. However, on many occasions throughout the race the trails overlapped and therefore a wide variety of skill levels rode side by side.

The first test came about 1.5 km outside of town. We turned left sharply and were confronted by a steep climb over a dirt path littered with loose rocks. I knew the climb was coming, and attempted to gather speed. However, many of the riders in front of me were woefully unprepared for the beginning of the endurance challenge. Somehow, I managed to weave around the stalling cyclists while maintaining balance and shifting into my highest gear. Five months ago, I had stalled half way up that climb. Now I was in better form, and it helped that all the previous riders had helped to mat down the loose dirt and clear away larger stones.

While many riders waited for their friends at the top of the hill, I passed by and followed the sign for the blue trail. The reward for the tough initial climb was a nice descent through the dense brush. Eventually the path opened up to another hillside vehicle path. On a clear day, I would have seen the Rhône River and Mt. Ventoux beyond, but on this day the mist obstructed everything just beyond the cliff edge.

For a time, I continued on without confronting any other cyclists. My path turned left and into the vineyards on the Gicon plateau. The soil there was sandy, and I knew to ride up onto the ditch banks in certain spots to avoid getting stuck in the sand. Riders making their first voyage through this course had to dismount and walk through the momentum-killing sand.

Throughout the adventure, Don McLean's American Pie song ran through my head. Depending on the rate of my peddling, I would hear different verses at the equivalent speed. Strangely, I never really did think of the chorus. I remember the last time I ran a 5k, the Eurithmics' Sweet Dreams was my cadence. Strange how random songs will permeate your thoughts. However, unlike a monotonous foot race, I needed all my concentration to navigate the tough single track.

Deeper into the course, the difficulty level rose for everyone. I was prepared on most occasions, but had to stop at many of the most technical runs because riders in front of me had fallen. This can be especially annoying when you're trying to maintain momentum for inclined sections. At one bouchon, or bottleneck, a kid pushed past me, unaware of the reason for the stoppage. Apparently, I made enough disapproving sounds that his friend called to the side, so I could proceed in front again.

On several occasions, I saw large groups of kids on the course. They were typically chaperoned by a few patient adults. Their ride must have taken forever, because every time they were pulled over waiting for the kids holding up the rear of their party. I took just two breaks in my two hour journey. The first came before the ascent to the high point of the Gicon.

Peddling up the longest ascent of the course, I focus on maintaining a constant peddle rate and the same American Pie verse. When I made the final turn to view the Cèze Valley from atop the hill, the view was reward for all the hard work. By then, the morning haze had lifted, revealing the multicolored valley of vineyards and olive trees.

I was now 15 km into the tour. A rest stop, or ravito, was set up to allow bikers to replenish their sugars. I eagerly grabbed a nut bread, some gummy sugar snacks and, then because it seemed like the French thing to do, I also had a glass of red wine and some dark chocolate. Really! Later, I would regret that decision, but I was feeling good a the time.

Continuing on, I turned up the steep incline to the base of the Chateau de Gicon. Once again, my prior knowledge of the course helped me gather the speed to make the touch climb. However, for the next several kilometers, I would have to navigate uncharted territory. Eventually, I came to a sharp drop in the path that took me by surprise. My rhythm had been disrupted by the break. The first bump dislodged my feet from the pedals' toe clips, and I had to dismount. It was several more meters before I found a suitable flat stretch where I could reset and gather myself for the final stages of the course.

Back on more familiar territory, I was now struggling with fatigue. With every descent, I could only think of the difficulty in having to climb again. I leapfrogged with several other riders also struggling to complete the challenge. Eventually, we reached the final descent. My legs were so tired that I could barely hold the bike under control through the steep decline. Again reaching the familiar streets of Chusclan, momentum carried me to the cave.

Since riders were competing at the own pace, there was no grand finish line. However, there was the matter of receiving your final reward. First I found my landlord running the raffle for free T-shirts and water bottles. I hoped that he might help me cheat to win, but to no avail I cam up empty on that contest. But I still had a bottle of wine to claim. They stamped my map complete and handed over the award winning red.

My final challenge was to ride back home carrying my wine bottle while chewing a delicious apple. Mary Ann applauded my conclusion and then strictly ordered me to shower. There would be time to rest in the car on the way to the next athletic adventure.

Celebrating Wine (day 2)

Our antique car disaster was not enough to keep us from day two of the biggest party of the year - in Chusclan. Again, our landlords insisted that we arrive in town early to see all the dancing and singing and Provencal merry-making. To our surprise, Chusclan was even busier than the day before. And even more people were wearing their old-time costumes. We had elected to go as typical tourists... in case we were stranded somewhere again.

Our first stop was at the accueil (welcome) table to buy our wine tasting glasses. For just 3.50€ we could enjoy unlimited degustation (tasting). The best, and classiest, part of the tradition is that the glasses are mounted on strings so you can wear it around your neck all day. That way you never lose any time between rounds searching for your glass.

Madame Bérard again showed us around town, making a point of directing us to the very best wine tasting stands. I think we visited the Champaign stand three times. In all there were about a half dozen different wine cooperatives represented around town. Of course we had to try them all. Now with three months of wine tasting experience, we really felt like pros swirling, slurping and making funny faces. As expected, the local wine was the best - I mean, why would you invite someone with better goods to your wine party?

All day, local residents played the part of peasants from the 1800s. I was most impressed by the guys shoeing the horses. I was a little surprised that the horses were so accommodating, allowing the smith to manhandle is massive hooves. Nearby, a faux-nun pretended to scold school children, women washed the same white linens for hours and an accordion player flipped through this collection of classic tunes.

Meanwhile a drum and whistle band was supplying the music for a troupe of dancers. Professional might have been too strong a word to describe both groups, but they certainly held the tourists' attention. The most impressive dance was performed around a pole with colored streamers flowing from the top. Each dancer grabbed a streamer and followed joined in dancing around the pole. The choreographed movements resulted in a colorful braiding - pole dancing a la 1830.

Around 3:00 the mayor announced the grape harvest. The costumed residents look their places in a parade of donkeys and dancers and processed out of town and to the nearest vineyard. The mob of tourists followed. Reaching the end of the field, the mob disbursed among the vines and began collecting grapes. Large wooden barrels were filled and mounted on the mules. The procession then returned to town to celebrate the pressing of the grapes.

Unfortunately, this local celebration did not include an grape stomping. However, the freshly squeezed grape juice was collected in a large cask and served to the brave. It actually tasted pretty good - very sweet, not much different than your highly processed supermarket variety.

See more photos of the Chusclan Vendanges de L'Histoire on my Flickr page.

Celebrating Chusclanaise History (day 1)

This weekend was the 11th annual Vendanges de l'Histoire in Chusclan. The autumn festival celebrates the local traditional culture associated with grape faming and provides a really good excuse to drink lots of the products of that labor. Many of the event's attractions reminded me of home: the old tractors, a petting zoo and antique cars on parade.

Our landlords were pretty committed to ensuring that we received the complete Chusclanaise experience. They reserved diner for us on both days of the party and hooked us up with a classic car ride. But most importantly, madame provided Mary Ann with an authentic provencal costume. True to the local flair, the outfit included a lavender skirt, shawl, apron and bonnet. I attempted to join in the spirit of the peasantry by wearing a knit shirt and a straw hat. I'm sure we made quite the couple.

We joined the festivities shortly before lunch. It was incredible to see so many people in the small town. For a moment we couldn't figure out how so many shops and wine tasting places managed to open over night. Then Mary Ann realized that these merchants had just set up shop in people's garages. Apparently, the city itself joined in the costuming craze.

Finally meeting up with our landlords in the place de la Mairie (city hall), we decided to enjoy an apertif and then take an early lunch (12:30). A makeshift guinguette was constructed in the public boules courts, where they were serving heaping portions of paella. This traditionally Spanish dish included a menagerie of meats and seafood mixed into spiced rice. As usual, it was better not to ask what you were eating, but just enjoy all the flavors. The second course was a plate of two giant slices of cheese. Together, Mary Ann and I finished about half of one serving. A meal, of course, would not be complete without desert (some type of apple tart) and coffee.

Completely stuffed, we waddled over to the antique cars that would be taking us on a 1 1/2 hour tour of the countryside. André had chosen for himself a 1971 French muscle car. It was unique in that the rear two tires would set at an angle to improve handling performance. As they fired up the engines, it certainly sounded like a fast sports car. Madame, Mary Ann and I, on the other hand, were seated in a 1937 Peugeot with a top speed of about 35 km/hr. We were counting on a more scenic trip.

We proceeded along the route that we typically take when going to points North. It's my favorite road in France because of the tight turns and minimal traffic. Not yet featuring any automated radar speed traps, it's a great place to channel your inner formula one driver. However, it was nice to travel at slower speeds, as I had the chance to see for the first time a chateau on the opposite bank of the Rhône. Our path took us through Pont St. Esprit and then west along a rural road that was completely new to me.

And that's when Madame Bérard told the driver that it felt like her shoes were melting from the heat emanating from the car. A few moments later, the engine began sputtering, and then we were stalled. The situation wasn't make very clear by the driver, but we soon realized that the vehicle had overheated. We were stranded. Fortunately, another of the antique drivers and his passengers were kind enough to wait with us, while the car was being worked on.

It turns out that some part of the engine had actually melted - something to do with a spool or a coil. Engine mechanics is not my specialty, but I think it had something to do with the electrical system. The driver tried repeatedly to get the engine to turn over, after making a series of small adjustments. Finally, he gave up and phoned a friend to bring over the necessary parts.

Now, keep in mind that we were all dressed in traditional garb. This is not normal attire, even for the French. We received quite a few odd glances from passersby. Realizing that we were American's someone pointed out that this wasn't a very good advertisement for French engineering. I was thinking, "if this was typical of 1930s French machinery, then it helps explain the success of the German blitzkrieg."

Meanwhile, André had returned to Chusclan in his sports car and realized that we were well behind schedule. He and the driver turned around and backtracked to our location. All the while, we waited. When our driver finally heard from his friend, it was to say that there had been some problem getting to our location. We waited some more. André arrived in his blue sports car, but with only two seats, we were still out of luck.

Needless to say, when the mystery part finally arrived, it didn't work. We ended up retracing our path back to Chusclan in a ten year old Citroen sedan - not exactly high style. How reliable is a 75-year old car? I wonder how reliable it ever was. I suppose that we had the most authentic experience, but I'll be content from now on to travel in modern comfort.

Country Day

Classic muscle cars, Harleys, chocolate chip cookies, straw hats and line dancing: it's Country day in Chusclan. Although the village is located in rural France, the term country is obviously means a celebration of American country life. I'd say they pretty much nailed the experience too. The only things missing were some confederate flags, a reproduction of the General Lee, and a dozen or so beer-bellied men with coozies.

Don't be fooled by France's stubborn insistence that there never were any weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, they admire America culture. I could not image my home town having a France day complete with crêpes, accordion music, and classic Renaults.

Despite iffy weather, a lot of visitors, including the local French branch of the Hell's Angels, drove into Chusclan. The presence of too many motorcycles so disturbed the planning committee, that they had signs directing where to park every dozen yards. Rules breakers to the end, only a handful of motos were actually parked in the proper location.

We didn't stick around for many of the festivities. An authentic chocolate brownie more than met our appetite for American nostalgi.

Some kind of joke

Last week my sister came to visit. She happened to arrive on the night that the Chusclan community theater was performing their latest production. It was apparently a comedy, though they were eliciting few laughs from the audience. The two characters pictured in the photo below represented the Captain of a ship to the New World and his erratic first mate. Eventually, the residents of Chusclan (which is NOT a port city) answer the call. We didn't stick around for the exciting conclusion.

Both characters wore masks with long comedic noses. It actually reminded me of the Feast of Fools scene from Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame. I think this is a traditional theater form.

Melon Politics

Image via Wikipedia

Today, André took me into town to pick up some melons. The tasty fruit is pretty much the same as a cantaloupe, although the outer rind is slightly different than what I'm used to back home.

Apparently, the mayor is the chief supplier of melons for the village. He sells the fruit from the back garage of his home. It takes a local's inside knowledge to find this stand. The simple "Vente" sign a block away, adjacent to the school, is hardly going to draw in the tourists. Besides, the mayor's melon stand is only open for one hour, between 11:00 and noon.

We arrived just before close. The melons had been picked through pretty thoroughly, although we could see that some of the best specimens had been reserved for regular customers. The mayor seemed disappointed by his latest crop. They were ripening too small. I'm not sure, but I think there was some discussion about the drought. Since the mayor couldn't offer André a quality melon, he instead picked out about a dozen small ones and said we could take them for free.

I think this is what you call keeping the constituents happy in a small town.

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St. Quentin la Poterie

There must be something in the water here. Every village we stop at seems to be teeming with artists and artisans. Even Madame Bèrard, our landlady, is an artist. Her creations are exceptional. In fact, she made most of her own serving dishes as well as all the paintings hanging in our apartment. Now she is taking on sculpting, with the help of some lessons at Chusclan's own art studio.

If you're not as talented, you can visit a town with over 20 pottery studios. St. Quentin la Poterie is a typical enclave of creative minds. The town itself even features several public art pieces, including the pictured mosaic. Bring your credit card, however. Beauty doesn't come cheap, even here in France.

Sur le Pont d'Avignon

Sur le pont d'Avignon l'on y danse tout en rond. On the bridge in Avignon everyone is dancing in a circle. Well, not on the day I was there anyway. Now it costs 12€ to walk on the bridge that doesn't go anywhere. In the 17th century, it was abandoned after repeated collapses. Only 4 of the original 22 arches remain today. Nevertheless, this bridge and it's song are famous throughout the Francophone world.

In the 14th century, however, Avignon was famously home to the Papacy. From 1309 to 1377, seven Popes ruled the church from Avignon instead of Rome. Quickly, the rural town was fortified into a seat of power. The Palais des Papes and much of the old city walls remain today. This makes Avignon a must see destination when visiting Provence.

Getting there is easy. From our home in Chusclan it's a 30 minute car ride. Avignon also has a TGV (bullet train) station. Via the TGV you can travel from Paris to Avignon in less than 3 1/2 hours. The same car ride would take over 6 hours.

The architecture of the train station matches the spirit of the high-tech train. The arching shell of an enclosure implies speed. Quick entry to the station and even faster departure. Even the street lamps outside the station have gone high-tech. Special wind-turbines power the lights.

View more of my photos of Avignon on Flickr

Chusclan

Our apartment is in the small town of Chusclan. The village and surrounding area is known for producing fruity red and rosé wines of exceptional quality. Some of the local grapes are descended from vintages brought to the region by the Romans. There are about a dozen vigerons, or small local wine producers, that offer daily tastings within walking distance from our apartment.

The village couldn't have more than 800 residents, including those living on the hills outside the historic city walls. Despite its size, the city is apparently quite vibrant. Children can usually be heard playing in the streets and there's always a crowd at the local sports bar. Two major events during my first week in the village included a petanque (like bocci ball) tournament and pottery exhibition. Even the mayor was in attendence!

See more of my photos of Chusclan at Flickr

http://www.flickr.com/photos/14174853@N04/sets/72157619460023598/