Cycle touring in France 101

I don't know if it's human nature or something that I am more inclined to do, but I often find myself in situations comparing them to things that could be worse. You know, if you miss the train you say, "at least I hadn't already paid for a ticket." Or when I had a newborn baby and just doing laundry or the dishes was an Everest-type task, Mountain Dad would say to me "well at least you're not one of the pioneering women." Actually, come to think of it, that last one actually inflamed matters rather than soothed. 

It was a bit hard when we got the cancer diagnosis but I still found myself saying "well, at least we're all alive..."

And over the last few days as we've squelched our way through teeming rain with entirely wet gear (though thankfully the sleeping bags have remained dry), we've been doing it a lot.

"Well, at least it's not windy."

"Well, at least it's only a short day."

"Well, at least it's not snowing!"

It does help, but I often reflect that you know things are proving challenging when you're grasping for comparisons that make your situation seem not so bad. And honestly, it's not been so bad, but there have been some challenging days. The Autumnal weather has settled into central France and that means cooler nights and wetter days. We've had lots of wet with not many periods of sunny grace in which to air or dry anything out. Mountain Dad continues to extol the virtues of these very fine panniers that are managing to keep our things dry, the effort of having acquired them is definitely paying off now. I'll give him that. Though, we have begun to grow mould on a few items in the bike-trailer and as the kids have the least practical shoes for wet weather, they have constantly wet socks and our tent pongs even to our own acclimatized noses.

We've left the Loire valley where we had spent about ten days cycling along the river. We average about twenty kilometres a day. When we want to move somewhere quickly, we jump on a train. It's been a steep learning curve as we figure out the different trains and which will accept our bike trailer and which won't. Turns out that none will officially allow the bike trailer, but by choosing the regional TER trains and only travelling at low peak times, we've been able to squeeze it on. With a sheepish smile and Mountain Dad employing some of his packing superpowers to tuck all our bikes and bags and gear out of everyone's way, we've been accepted by the train inspectors. 

Less easy has been moving our entourage from the street to the train. Typically it involves elevators, some of which won't fit our adult bikes, and some stations haven't even had that luxury and so everything gets hand carried from one point to the next. We pull all our panniers off the bikes, otherwise they would be too heavy to carry and so we have a pile of ten pannier bags, four bikes, one bike trailer and two stressed children. We leave one child with one pile of gear and deposit the other with the other and typically one will end up in tears as they fret that someone will steal them, or that the train will leave without them or that the heavily armed train security police will arrest us. It makes an already sweaty and tense exercise even more fraught. As we moved to our current town, we left a hotel (with a tiny elevator) and had to catch three trains to reach this Agen station (which only had stairs). Mountain Dad reckoned that he was in an elevator over forty times that day. There was one station where we rolled our circus past a sign that distinctly looked like it was saying 'no public access beyond this point,' but as it was in French we told the kids it said 'good to go' and we wheeled our way across the tracks. The kids are quite anxious about following the rules, especially when it comes to train stations. We're not sure why it's such a triggering setting and wonder if these mini-traumas will stay with them into their adulthood. 

We've definitely had moments of longing for some respite and moments when we ponder why we have voluntarily signed up to do this. But then there are moments of discovery that put deposits in the bank of worthwhileness. 

Like when we rolled along a path that wound through vineyards.

Or when the sun came out and we sat on the steps of a fountain in a small plaza and had brie and saucisson on fresh baguette for lunch. 

Or when Adelaide, pedalling beside me, confided,

"You know Mum...I'm a bit embarrassed to say this...it's a bit funny but I'm going to tell you anyway...you and Dad are actually better parents than I thought you were."

Apparently at home, as we dash from work to recreation (she cited me going 'biking all the time with Sue and Helen - a bit of an exaggeration methinks) as Shea and I rush from here to there, she felt we didn't really get to spend a lot of time with us. Out here as we cycle together every day she realised that we were actually a bit of alright. It was a heart breaking but validating comment, all in one. 

We've ridden only about 200km. We've dabbled in some Wild Camping. We've immersed ourselves in castles and history and the French language. I realise I am appalling ignorant in all of those. We feel vulnerable at times, very wet at times, and like an awesome little adventurous unit of four at times.

We are quite stinky at times.