On the Tour de France

I finally met it - the Hill I Could Not Walk Up. The Col du Soulor. 1474 meters. You do the math.My apologies if I've spelled it wrong, it's spelled three different ways on the  B&R handout.

Back to the hill - a sweet 10 k ride long an alpine valley with steep sides (that should have been a clue) then a 13 k uphill. Gorgeous, I have heard. Haven't a clue. It was beautiful at the top when I finally made it there... this was one of those climbs that's way above my pay grade. If there had been a van option I would have taken it, but the road was closed to cars at the bottom. Good move, it was bad enough without the cars. Skinny little cyclists screaming by (uphill, remember). Signs every kilometer telling you the distance to the top (just shoot me now) and the average grade for the next kilometer. I thought I was a wimp, the signs never said more than 9 1/2 %. Didn't find out 'til later parts are fifteen percent. Ouch.

I made it. I bonked. There were places where I could not push my bike uphill. Out of gas. I have no idea how I made it. I almost passed out when I got off my bike. Its the hardest thing I've ever done, but I did it. And I have the picture to prove it. Not a great photo, but I'm not gonna be picky. And I am not going up that hill again.

The Tour de France was a tacky silly carnival of kitsch...

Followed by some of the most serious cycling in the world. It is astonishing to see the speed when they come storming up the hill, the casual way they sit on their machines.

And then there is the chaos of the downhill. For us, not them. 

We made our way down in this mad mix of walkers (many drunk) motor home drivers who were clearly used to driving a Smart Car or some thing even smaller, irate French motorists (also probably inebriated) and a sea of cyclists, some dashing between cars, some swooping past your ear so closely you can't believe you're still upright, all mixed in with mad French traffic jams when the uphill-going motor homes (driven by those crazy Mini drivers, remember) meet the downhill-going motor home drivers and all grinds to a halt, stacking up cyclists (those not cheating death by ducking under the almost touching rear view mirrors) and pedestrians and car drivers leaning on their horns and darting onto the wrong side of the road.

Happy just to get to our hotel - until we opened the door. This place makes a Best Western look like the lap of luxury. B&R is famous for its luxury hotels - how did this one sneak in? Oh well the sagging twin beds in the un-airconditioned comfort of our room beckon. And tomorrow - the Col d'Aspin, a category one climb. We will see...

Summer

The beach on a gray day is morose...

...but when the sun is out it's a whole 'nother Oprah.

There is more leather at the pool than at a gay pride parade. This would be a great place to be a dermatologist. All shapes and sizes...and vintages, all looking for the darkest tan. One woman was the color of a cuban cigar, another had enough rolls to hold up her substantial tanned bare bosom. And she was wearing enough gold necklaces to fund a revolution.

Hired a car and driver to go to St Jean de Luz.  

Pretty port town, great beach. Crowded. Meandered down old streets, ate chewy one-story macaroons, not the sandwich kind you find in other places. Stopped for a cappucino...as Wally says ordering is always an adventure, you never know what you're going to get!

It was a bit surreal, sitting in a medieval square in France, drinking Viennese coffee, listening to a Basque band play Turkey In The Straw. What planet are we on?

Met five of our fellow travelers. All five brought their own bikes and look impossibly fit, like they live on yoghurt and green beans and tofu. They look fast. I feel like the last kid chosen for the volleyball team, standing on the sidelines wishing the earth would open up and swallow me. I know I can hold my own in the eating and drinking department, but I only expect to see our fellow travelers as they peel out of the hotel driveway in the morning...and when I drag my tired butt in at night. Oh well, it's not just a bike trip, it's and adventure! And tomorrow at 0-dark-hundred we're off. 

Wish us luck!

The Tour de France

Riding the Tour de France with B and R seemed like a good idea when we signed up. We would have the winter and spring to get in shape, John was having a significant birthday (it rhymes with heavenly, sort of), and he was planning a big European birthday bash. So we made hotel reservations and bought plane tickets.

Then his grandchildren's mother said no thanks to an all-expenses-paid European vacation (I know, I know, you're not the first to say "Adopt me! I have cute kids!") so John and Pam will head home after the ride. But we're still doing the ride.

I suppose I should confess that we had had several bottles of excellent red wine when we got this Tour de France brainstorm. I should also confess that in the wet and cold of winter as we were drinking more red wine instead of riding we rationalized: "We can get in shape in the spring." That was the red wine talking. And in April when we were just beginning to rack up some longer rides interrupted by lavish lunches we rationalized that we still had two months...

Or not. I spent all of June in bed coughing and sniffing and wheezing and sleeping. Finally got drugs and swelled up like a big purple grape. An itchy purple grape. I won't pass the drug test because of the steroids I took to quell the rash, and I'm not any faster. And did I mention we are the oldest people on this trip by about a hundred and twelve years? But at least I'm not itchy and purple. And we're here, ready or not, to ride the B&R version of the Tour de France.

So we will be riding the last week of the Tour including the Col de Tourmalet. As Wally says, "I've never met a hill I can't walk up." I've also never seen him walk up a hill. I, however, have walked up many a hill, whining and swearing and eventually getting back on my bike.

And since in is a Butterfield trip with excellent food and wine, training takes on a new dimension -

You can't eat all that wonderful food and drink all that fantastic wine without training. So we are in training. Tales of adventures, triumphs and tribulations to come. I keep reminding myself the worst experiences make the best memories.And the best stories.

The Urban Suburban

It's not often you see a Suburban painted like a green and white cow - but there it was outside the Lafayette Bart station...

 

...with a hay bale on the top. This has to be the best rolling advertisement I've seen - and if you decide to revert to an older four-legged form of transportation, just shove the hay bale off the top and you're good to go. Your own portable gas station. And if you've ever owned a horse you know it's true.

Check these guys out - you know they're smart and clever and have a sense of humor. 

Head 'em up and move 'em out!

The Housesitter Chronicles

It's almost more trouble than it's worth, getting the housesitter up to speed.  But we have animals depending on us (not the gophers and ground squirrels, they seem to do fine on their own). And we have a garden - a rather large garden.

So the housesitter comes to learn how everything works. And since it is hot, and since we are trying to get some miles in our legs (and other body parts thank you for noticing) before the day is scorching hot, she comes at dawn. On a Sunday. And of course in showing her how the alarm works it goes off. And in the interest of education, and making sure she can turn it off when we are gone, we let her turn it off. This takes a while.

Sunday morning in the suburbs. When the alarm finally quits banging and screaming we peer out the front door. The street is full of neighbors in bathrobes looking slightly stunned. They look like they have just emerged from a chrysalis and are not sure what to do next. Blinking at the bright light of day. Not happy. Definitely not happy. As one usually pleasant neighbor pointed out "It's not even eight effing o'clock. On Sunday effing morning." In fairness he does have unruly children who were probably up until dawn, and he was clearly caffeine deprived.

A few jars of homemade jam, a liberal distribution of home baked cookies and neighborhood harmony is restored.  When we last saw her the housesitter was prone in front of the TV watching QVC, the alarm had been conquered and the neighbors all fully caffeinated. Harmony restored. And we are off to ride the Tour de France with Butterfield and Robinson. Makes my tushie sore just contemplating it.

More Dirty Little Secrets

The Farmer's Market got me thinking. When I started a garden I expected my produce to look like the stuff at the grocery store, only better, and better tasting. Sort of like the farmer's market. You know the look:

Everything in neat rows. Everything the same size.

The reality? Not pretty. Tomatoes are mis-shapen, different sizes. And there are never enough for what you're planning for dinner - until there are too many.

Figs too. And beans - they ripen one at a time - until you go on vacation. Then it's whoopee! and they all ripen at once. You come home to huge bean pods weighing down the plants, turning to brown, too far gone for green beans but not dry enough for shelling beans. Don't get any ideas about making the best of things and having dried beans for soup. The raccoons have other plans.

So the following year you cancel your vacation, and wait for the garden to ripen. Sorry - not this year. That will be the year the flea beetles get the beans, the corn earworm gets the corn, and the tomatoes succumb to some of the myriad of diseases they are famous for. My sister had the most beautiful tomato plants, tall and leafy and loaded with fruit. And every year, just as they were beginning to salivate over the first almost ripe tomato, anticipating that vine-ripe warm from the sun taste, the tomato plants would collapse in a wilted heap. Verticillium, fusarium, you name it, they had it.

They tried raised beds. They tried pots. They finally moved, and now they live where it is almost too cold to ripen a tomato. I am thinking of getting them a greenhouse. Or a share in a central valley tomato farm.

In my garden, when I need a pound of ripe figs I will have ten pounds. When  I want ten pounds to make pickled figs (or Fickle Pigs as we like to call them) and to share with the neighbors I will have one ripe fig and a lot of fat happy birds. And squirrels. And rats.

I have taken a major position in Critter Ridder. I have taken a more philosophical attitude toward the garden. We eat the good, compost the bad, and are not so fussy about the ugly. But as delicious and frustrating as it is, it doesn't look like the produce department, and it sure as heck doesn't look like the farmer's market.

Perception is everything

So I went by Sloat Nursery today to get some Critter Ridder (don't ask but yes it works) and some True Blue for my half pink half blue fully confused hydrangeas, and I found myself coveting several plants, and wondering where I could find room.

this fabulous dahlia - Ellen are you listening?

Agave attenuata - fabulous in Santa Barbara, turns to slime here in the winter. Sigh.

A gorgeous giant pink mandevilla - larger flowers than the one I killed. Can't stand people who say "Oh, I had that but I lost it." No, you killed it. Show some backbone. Take some responsibility for your failures. Grow a brain.

Pennisetum setaceum 'Rubrum. Fancy name for a red grass - deciduous but we both know you don't go into the garden in the winter so what are you complaining about? And this one does not reseed like mad. DO NOT plant the regular pennisetum it will take over the world. Choking out native vegetation and all your expensive treasures. Pay attention - there will be a quiz.

A lotus in a tub...every garden could use some water...

...some scaevola (fan flower) to perk up the hottest parts of the summer garden...

...and thank goodness I ran into a friend trying to fit her treasures into her car. What was I thinking? I came home with three cans of Critter Ridder, two boxes of True Blue and a bad case of craving. But at least I'm not trudging around the garden with a shoehorn trying to find homes for all those lovely things. I will wait - something will die. And I will have a bit of room. It's not a catastrophe it's an opportunity. Perception is everything.