Introduction

“Get a bicycle. You will not regret it if you live.” Mark Twain

IT is 3.00pm in a small back road in Versailles. I am straddling my bicycle, cold, frightened and growing wetter by the minute, courtesy of a delicate but determined drizzle. Our waterproof clothing is carefully rolled and stowed at the bottom of our luggage, because when we packed our panniers this morning the clear blue skies had given no indication that they would only be of a very temporary nature. We are setting off to cycle first to Paris, and then half-way across France. An undertaking for which I recognise only now, at this very late stage, I am totally unprepared mentally, and unsuited physically. I am angry with myself for agreeing to it in the first place, and even angrier for feeling so feeble about it now. I open my mouth to call out to Terry, a few yards ahead of me, to say I’ve changed my mind about this venture. Just as I do so he slings his leg effortlessly over his bike, waves his arm above his head and bellows over his shoulder “Forward ho!” I am reminded of John Wayne saddling up and moving out a wagon train. He shoots away like a rocket as I screech at his receding back; but he’s already vanished around the corner.

Quickly checking that the baking tray behind my saddle is firmly secured, I hesitantly launch away from the pavement. The bike wobbles and whirrs forward, down to the junction with the main road, which is teeming with traffic. Our three months of training for this expedition have been on quiet country lanes where we count the traffic as heavy if more than four vehicles pass in an hour.

By now a hundred yards ahead, Terry has stopped and is looking back. Taking one hand from the handlebars, and nearly falling off as a result, I raise my arm authoritatively, to signal that he must stay just where he is, not move another inch. Misinterpreting my message, he understands that all is well. Away he pedals again, leaving me muttering dementedly, using alternate cuffs to wipe the rain from my glasses – a futile effort – and cringing as convoys of coaches pass mere inches from my handlebars; from steamed-up windows rows of pink face-blobs peer out into the murk. I envy them their safety and comfort. The spray from passing vehicles unites with the drizzle to force itself through my clothes right down to my skin. Wheels in the gutter, elbows clenched to my sides, this is my first ever experience of cycling in heavy traffic. I am not enjoying it yet.

Terry is now 500 yards ahead; through the underwater effect of my glasses I can vaguely discern the blurred red shape of the panniers on his bike. Every traffic light in Versailles changes to red as I approach, further widening the distance between us. I’m forced to dismount and make a new wobblesome beginning each time the lights switch to green. I imagine a malevolent little man sitting in a traffic control box, watching my progress and gleefully pushing a button to make things as difficult as possible. The red panniers are almost out of sight by now.

On the outskirts of town we begin to climb a long hill, and the gap between us closes as my electric bike shows its muscle and begins to haul Terry in. At the crest of the hill I draw almost level with him and shriek at him to stop; over his shoulder he shouts something that is caught up and swept away by the noise of passing traffic. Again I yell, but he is unstoppable, inexorably rolling on like Ole Man River, while I bob along in his wake like a waterlogged paper boat. He turns onto a quiet lane winding through silent, dripping woods and zooms away down a steep hill. With all hope lost of being able to bring him to a halt, I have no choice but to follow, and we are travelling at exhilarating speed, slicing through the driving rain. My fingertips are a striking shade of mottled pink and purple and I’m virtually blinded by the rain on my glasses. It’s terribly exciting and quite terrifying.

Shortly we arrive in Marnes-la-Coquette, a discreet village mid-way between Versailles and St Cloud. This is where the good, great and sufficiently wealthy have made their homes over the centuries. Surrounded by acres of park and woodland, it enjoys the highest per capita income in France. Napoléon III owned property there, and, seduced by the charms of the village known until then simply as Marnes, he added ‘la Coquette’ (the Flirt) to its name, and the Imperial eagle to its coat of arms. Later Louis Pasteur used the same property as a centre for his research into rabies. This was not necessarily welcomed by the other residents of the village, who objected to the several dozen dogs, rabbits and guinea pigs housed in the grounds and destined for laboratory experiments. The snarling dog on the coat of arms is a tribute to Pasteur’s successful development of a rabies vaccine.

I had planned a surprise for Terry in Marnes-la-Coquette – a visit to the Escadrille Lafayette Memorial there in honour of the volunteer American airmen who had flown and died for France during WWI, before the United States entered the war. With their squadron insignia of a screaming native American Indian, and with two live lion cubs as their mascots, the wild bunch were heroic pioneers of aerial warfare, and I know that this is somewhere Terry, with his passion for military aviation, would find fascinating. However, he is always several yards ahead of me, pedalling as if our lives depend upon reaching an imaginary finishing line. Regardless of how hard I try, I cannot get close enough to signal him to stop; he cannot hear the pinging of my tinny bell, nor my frantic shrieking. The elegant bijou village is just a smudge on the landscape as we shoot into, through and out of it, missing not only the memorial, but also the turning to St Cloud that would lead us to the Bois de Boulogne. Instead we arrive in the centre of Sèvres, which is heavily congested with impatient traffic.

Sèvriens appear to have scant regard for cyclists, and try to kill us by a variety of methods: by turning abruptly across us in either direction without signalling, slamming on brakes with no warning, or opening their car doors just as we are drawing level with them. It is every man or woman for him or herself. There are multitudes of traffic lights, all of which change to red just as Terry hurtles through, leaving me on the wrong side and standing in the gutter inhaling fumes from revving engines. Terry’s bike, like him, is quick and nimble. Mine is cumbersome and awkward, and unable to squeeze past the cars waiting at the lights, particularly as, tied to the baking tray that is tied to the luggage rack, are two sleeping bags and a rather wide tent which protrudes further than the handlebars. Each time the lights change to green, I have to wait for all cars to be clear before I move off, because until the bike gathers sufficient momentum, it wanders suicidally all over the road, and I do not want to be squashed without seeing Paris first.

The gap between us widens again, and although Terry looks back from time to time to check that I am still there, it does not cross his mind that I am following from necessity and not desire. We cannot afford to lose contact, firstly because Terry doesn’t know which hotel I have booked in Paris, and secondly because I have no money on me. Without each other, we will be truly in the mire. Our one mobile phone is in Terry’s jacket. There is no means of communication between us, so I grit my teeth and squeeze my elbows tighter into my ribs. The rain is harder now, dripping off my cycling helmet, running simultaneously down the back of my neck, and my face, and into the collar of my jacket. Still, this discomfort is forgotten because of what happens next: after a brief respite from traffic we are suddenly on a vehicle-infested dual carriageway, approaching a miniature Spaghetti Junction. Above us is a fly-over, supported on huge concrete pillars. We must turn left, across two lanes of fast traffic, filter into the path of thundering trucks coming from the right and make it across another two lanes of traffic coming from the left. This is so terrifying that I give up trying to think, and instead pedal mechanically, mindlessly, eyes fixed on the red panniers, and surprise myself by reaching the Pont de Sèvres intact. A Parisian contact from a cycling forum has warned me of the dangers of cycling on bridges, and recommended dismounting and pushing the bike over, which I do.

Terry has already reached the far end and at last has dismounted and is waiting for me. This is our first opportunity to speak to each other since leaving Versailles.

Wet, but clearly elated, he asks: “Well – how did you enjoy that?”

I am seething and shaking with inner fury, but do not wish to have a full-scale row in this public place nor at this early stage. “Not a great deal,” I reply with what I consider great restraint. “I have been trying to ask you to stop since we left Versailles.”

“I thought it was great!” he enthuses.

Yes, indeed, there are few things I enjoy as much as being concurrently cold, wet and frightened.

“Where do we go from here?” he asks.

“Through the Bois de Boulogne, up to the Arc de Triomphe, and then to our hotel near the Gare du Nord. And tomorrow morning, you’ll have to go back and pick up the car. I’m not going to do this trip on a bike.”

“What on earth are you saying?”

“Never mind for now, let’s just get to the hotel and get ourselves warm and dry. We’ll talk about it then.”

 Chapter One    Paris

“The first thing that strikes a visitor to Paris is a taxi.” Fred Allen, comedian

I TAKE out the small folding map of Paris with all the cycling lanes marked on it and we follow the banks of the Seine until we can find an entrance into the Bois de Boulogne. Immediately I forget the horrors of the last couple of hours, because we have the whole beautiful park almost to ourselves. The only other wheeled vehicle we see is a pram pushed by a young woman; an occasional panting, chap-kneed jogger shuffles past. Twice we ride past Longchamps racecourse; several times we pass places that we have already passed. The map is no help and begins to dissolve. As lovely as the park is, cycling around it endlessly in rain begins to lose its appeal. As the racecourse comes into view yet again, we find a sad-faced man standing under a tree and ask him how to reach the Arc de Triomphe. He stares at us in astonishment, as if we were asking for directions to the lost city of Atlantis.

I repeat “L’Arc de Triomphe.”

“L’Arc de Triomphe?” he echoes, his voice raised in bewilderment.

“Oui,” I say, forcefully.

“But … it’s a long way! At least two miles!”

Yes, but we are not ants. We are people on bicycles. Two, or even three miles is within even my meagre capabilities.

With obvious misgivings he points out a route, which we follow to a large roundabout, where the rain abruptly stops. Ahead of us the Avenue Foch glistens in pale sunshine. Diamond raindrops shimmer and drip from the trees lining the wide road, as if they are weeping for Napoléon, who would never march through the great triumphal arch, but instead would die in lonely exile. It’s a shame about Waterloo, in a way. I feel sad for Boney.

Mixed with this sadness is great elation, because I have, against all my misgivings, cycled from Versailles to Paris, and am now standing, for the first time in my life, in the luminous city, just a few yards from one of its greatest landmarks. Little congratulatory tears spring to life and slither down my cheeks.

Our destination is a hotel of a slightly dubious reputation, but cheap, at the Gare du Nord, from which we are separated by the Arc de Triomphe and several miles of busy Parisian streets. With new-found and misplaced confidence I follow Terry as he happily plunges into the utter chaos of twelve roads heaving with traffic, all converging onto ‘l’Étoile’ at 5.00 pm.

He instantly disappears between two trucks, and is swallowed up from sight, and I scream as a coach squeals to a halt in my path. Other cyclists whizz past. I am in a maelstrom of noise and vehicles, like a baby lamb in a Wild West show, straddling the bike and standing in the road, not knowing where to go next. I recall how all our French friends had reacted when we told them we would cycle through Paris. ‘But you will be crushed! It’s too dangerous. You must not do it.’ I wish I’d taken them seriously, instead of shrugging them off in my most blasé manner and assuring them confidently that we English with our bulldog spirit were not easily deterred once we had made up our minds to do something.

Nobody seems to care that a woman and her bicycle are trapped and helpless amongst them; they weave around, glaring, blaring, or staring in disbelief. I turn the bike and drag it to a pavement. I start pushing it around the great circle, hoping that I will find Terry soon. He cycles up beside me, heedless of trucks and taxis and sightseeing buses, and commands that I mount my bike and just follow him, and I will be fine. But no thank you, I am content to plod along in a wide arc, heaving the bike up and down the kerbs, until reaching the Avenue de Friedland where there is a generous cycle lane painted onto the road.

Shaken, and a little stirred, I climb aboard and follow Terry, who is constantly waving his hands around pointing out interesting sights. I catch fragments of comments “...fantastic...” “Did you...?”, but all my concentration is needed to keep inside the cycling lane and watch for the traffic lights. Sometimes I shout back “Yes, fabulous!” to be polite. I have assured him that if we keep cycling, sooner or later we’ll see a sign for the Gare du Nord, and this is indeed what happens.

We cycle through the shopping mecca of Boulevard Haussman. Whilst Terry is goggle-eyed at the great department stores (I can only imagine this, as he is always several yards ahead of me, but I know his passion for shopping), I concentrate on cycling. My clearest vision of hell, after trying to cycle around the Arc de Triomphe at 5.00 pm on a Thursday evening, is traipsing around department stores. If I never had to buy another garment or piece of furniture for the rest of my life, that would be just fine by me.

Unlike dignified Boulevard Haussman, Rue La Fayette seems to be having a temper tantrum. Most likely this has been provoked by a series of diversions that have caused a total gridlock in the traffic. Nobody can go anywhere. Traffic lights might as well switch themselves off and go home, because nobody can obey them even if they wish to. Vehicles are bumper to bumper, and in one case a car has actually mounted the pavement in an effort to escape. Drivers are standing next to their cars, shouting and waving their arms around, or klaxoning each other. In this utter pandemonium, the pedestrian is king. Terry isn’t doing too badly either, and has disappeared into the distance. There is no room to cycle in the road, because the vehicles are interlocked like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. There is no way for me to thread my bike through them, so I heave it onto the pavement and use it as a battering ram against oncoming pedestrians, forcing some of them to allow me a little headway which otherwise they would not. When the end of the world arrives, this is how it will be, I imagine.

The red panniers are my beacon, guiding me through this mad chaos. When we eventually reach the Gare du Nord, the road is trembling beneath roaring machines gouging up the tarmac around the station. Temporary wooden walkways allow pedestrians to move from one place to another; however, they are rather narrow, with sharp bends around which it is impossible to steer a bicycle carrying a wide load such as mine, as I discover about half way along. This means wheeling the machine backwards, against the oncoming crowds, the most difficult challenge so far on this afternoon of trials. The pedestrians hurrying to catch trains are not impressed by my efforts, nor sympathetic to my dilemma.

Directly over the hotel’s entrance – a narrow slot almost hidden between two cafés – dangles a menacing iron bucket full of chomped-up road surface. The machine to which it is attached growls and rattles, making conversation impossible. By grimacing and miming Terry and I agree that he will stand under the bucket with both bicycles while I go to check in and try to find somewhere to park them safely overnight.

As I walk into the lobby of the hotel, I am confronted by a weird, cartoon character. Legs encased in clinging black trousers, like Max Wall; upper half fighting to escape from a Lycra black and Day-glo green jacket; a round face, bright red and reflective with rivulets of perspiration running down it, crowned with a repulsive crimson cycling helmet. Betty Bumpkin, the cycling clown, I think as I stare at my reflection.  What a holy mess. I cannot believe I look like this. I am truly aghast, and very angry at the hotel for placing a full-length mirror in such a thoughtless position. Before I knew what I looked like, I was relatively happy. Now I am utterly mortified, and forced to face several truths: not only am I a really crap cyclist. I need to lose weight. Skin-tight Lycra does not suit me. Neither does the helmet.

A smiling receptionist (I wonder, is he actually laughing, rather than smiling?) asks if he can be of help. I introduce myself and point to Terry and the bicycles, and ask if there is somewhere that we can safely leave them overnight. The receptionist, whose name is Ben, picks up a telephone – I hear the words ‘anglais’ and ‘bicyclettes’. With a dramatic flourish he replaces the receiver and announces that the patron is on his way, and will deal with the bicycles. Terry is impatient, and signalling to know why I am taking so long – it has been all of three minutes since I left him on the pavement. Ben skips up a very narrow winding staircase, beckoning me to follow. He flings open the door to a small room decorated in multi-shades of glowing orange. The effect is like being inside a carton of juice, but it is clean, dry and warm. Most importantly to me, there is a small wrought iron balcony overlooking the front of the historic Gare du Nord railway station. Ben shows me how to switch on the lights and plug in the television mounted on a bracket near the ceiling. He picks up the hairdryer from its pocket in the bathroom and points it at his head, making whooshing noises. No doubt my appearance has cast doubts as to my mental capacity.

Remembering my husband is still under the bucket, I thank Ben and spiral down the stairs, and find Terry playing an indignant tug-of-war with an elderly gentleman wearing carpet slippers. He has hold of my machine and is trying to push it across the road. Terry is trying to stop him from doing so. They are evenly matched: Terry is younger, but has to try and balance his own bike at the same time as tugging on to mine, as well as keeping in contact with all the bags and bundles he has unloaded onto the pavement. The two tuggers are talking to each other, each in a language that the other does not understand.

“This gentleman is trying to help,” I explain to Terry. “He is the owner of the hotel. He is letting us put the bikes in his garage overnight.” I introduce us both to his adversary, who has a small boy in tow, who politely shakes Terry’s hand, and kisses me on both cheeks.

“Please, follow me.” Leaving obliging Ben to carry the luggage up to our room, the patron ushers us over the road, waving a scornful hand at the diversions and diggers and wooden walkways.

“Terrible. No idea at all. London is much better, Mr. Livingstone knows what he’s doing. Look what a terrible mess Delanoë,” (the mayor of Paris) “is making. It was perfectly fine before he started playing about. Now see what’s happened.” The traffic is still at an effective standstill and the noise of drivers and vehicles is deafening.

Our new friend unlocks a metal grille beside a shop, and the door slides upwards at the top of a long steep slope leading to an underground car park. We have to lean back and dig in our heels to stop the bikes dragging us down. At floor number minus 2 he unlocks another metal door, and reveals a very large, powerful, expensive shiny motorbike that he pats and strokes lovingly.

“Is it yours?” Terry asks.

“Yes, of course. At the weekends I ride it out into the country.”

It is an incongruous image, that of this stately and aged gentleman roaring around the French countryside astride a machine that looked more suited to a bearded, tattooed, horned-helmet Hell’s Angel.

Once our bikes are stowed safely and locked up, we climb back up the long slope; Bertrand walks very slowly. He tells us that he is nearly 80, and has had a heart by-pass, and is not as fit as he used to be. He calls himself ‘Le Comte de Paris’, he laughs, because his surname is Comte. He certainly has the aristocratic looks, bearing and manners to go with the title; he wishes us a happy evening as we part company.

Up in the radiant room we take it in turns to bathe, and then stand out on the balcony in the dusk. Now that the digging machines have closed down for the night, and their clanking, grinding noises are silenced, the traffic is no more than a rhythmic buzz, broken just once in a while by a brief peep, an occasional shout, a door closing. The streetlights awaken, illuminating the full havoc caused by the roadworks. We have an unhindered view of the magnificent Gare du Nord, an example of industrial design from an age when buildings were not only built for functionality, but also for beauty and elegance. Three tricolores flutter on the roof. The central elevation is topped by nine female statues, representing major international destinations. At the next level down, and spanning the left and right flanks, sheltered in cosy niches are fourteen male statues dressed in flowing robes – they could be apostles, saints or kings, it is difficult to say – and they signify major French cities. To make it unmistakably clear which station this is, the word “Nord” is engraved in the stone eight times on the upper front elevation of the building, and again at ground-floor level. For good measure, ‘Chemin du Fer du Nord’ is carved on the side of the wings.

Bertrand had mentioned that when the original station was completed in 1846 it was already too small to serve the booming railway traffic. It had been meticulously dismantled and transported to Lille where it is now known as the station of Lille Flandres. We are looking at La Gare du Nord mark II.

The station has always been a place of excitement and romance in my imagination, a haunt of spies, star-crossed lovers, and shadowy figures in long raincoats dragging on cigarettes and lurking with intent. We go to see if this bears any resemblance to reality, and I avoid looking in the cruel mirror in the lobby, because I really don’t want to see what I look like in my little chiffon skirt and black top.  Limited by the available space in our luggage, I team my ‘going out’ wardrobe for the trip with a blue cycling jacket (to ward off the chilly evening air and scattered raindrops), and the gold moccasins which seemed the ideal footwear when I was packing, but look quite inappropriate now.

What is most noticeable about the concourse of the station is its cleanliness. The floors and the platforms shine as if they have been polished for hours. So do the trains standing with their noses buried in the colourful plants clambering from flower boxes beneath the buffers. The half a million passengers who use the station daily haven’t left any trace of their passing: not a sweet-wrapper, not a cigarette butt, not a dropped ticket in sight. With its shops and cafés and escalators the station resembles a skyport terminal, nothing like the vaguely sinister and murky sort of place I had imagined.

We decide to come back after we’ve eaten, when maybe the globe lights on their iron posts will add a romantic glow to the building, which the weak ambient light from the glass roof fails to do.

Multitudes of bars, brasseries, cafés and restaurants surround the station, and we select one where a lone waiter copes efficiently with a dozen tables and still manages a smile, and the food is fine.

Seen from a full stomach, half a bottle of rosé and two generous Baileys, in retrospect our journey today doesn’t seem nearly as horrifying as it did when it was happening, and tomorrow there’s only a short distance to negotiate before we will be out of town and into the countryside. I am pleased with myself for having come this far, and I realise that in some rather twisted way, I had quite enjoyed being terrified.

Even by lamplight, the interior of the Gare du Nord is too clean and bright to be romantic, and there are no signs of any shadowy figures or anguished lovers. Terry photographs a number of trains, until a burly, armed policeman politely stops him when he points his camera at the maroon and silver Thalys. The appeal of looking at trains has until now escaped me, but I cannot imagine that there exists a more exquisite engine that this svelte, bullet-shaped beauty that links Paris with Brussels, Amsterdam and Cologne.

“Plan Vigipirate,” (France’s anti-terror alert system) explains the flic [French slang for a policeman], a little apologetically.

When we arrive back at our hotel after 11.00 pm, Ben is still on duty, fresh as a daisy, and bright as a button. Breakfast, he explains, can be taken in our room, or in the cellar – he points down at the floor.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep because of the continual noise from the streets below, something I haven’t heard for many years, living as we do in a small hamlet in the middle of rural France. Later, I wake disorientated, sure that we are in London and must get back to France as soon as possible. Terry reassures me that we are exactly where we are meant to be, and that I should go back to sleep.