Changing gears, p.5
Changing Gears, page 5
Jen gave her a wry grin and reached down to pull padded gloves out of her pack.
“You’re kidding?”
“Let’s see who’s laughing tonight when we get back.”
Eight others were with them on the tour, all couples. Abi had pulled a face at that the night before, commenting the company wasn’t much of a recommendation for cycling in France for her followers. Especially as the rest of the group ignored them both from the outset as they swapped stories about why they’d chosen the tour as a couple’s getaway.
“Nauseating,” Abi muttered, as they cackled about anniversaries and once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to spend time together. Jen didn’t argue.
That morning, they hardly fared much better. The four couples huddled together to agree on their timing and who would ride with whom. Peter, their tour chaperone, waved them off with a reminder to text him if they experienced any issues along the way. The group quickly took off, leaving the two women behind.
“Wow,” Abi pouted as she climbed onto her bike and fiddled with the gear shifter, trying to remember what Peter had shown her the night before. She’d followed Jen’s recommendation for a flat bar gravel bike with a generous saddle, but she looked at sea with the brake levers and the plethora of handlebar accoutrements.
“Don’t worry,” Jen smiled, attaching her phone to the quad lock mount on her handlebars. “The route’s pretty easy. We can’t get lost.”
Abi got her wherewithal about her quickly enough, and before long was pedalling confidently along city streets as they made their way out of Avignon and into the countryside. Jen gave directions from behind, taking the lead for busy roads and complicated intersections. Abi followed her instructions faithfully, her enthusiasm at full blast. It seemed to carry her up the steepest part of their exit from the city. As housing gave way to farmland, the incline eased into a flatter run and they stopped for water.
“So the one thing we didn’t discuss,” and she leaned close to check the map on Jen’s phone, “is how many vineyards we’re going to stop at.”
Jen checked her watch—9:30 a.m. They were only about twenty minutes away from their scheduled first stop. “Tavel’s up the road. There are a few cellars on the tour list up there.”
“Brekkers and wine tasting at Tavel!”
“Have you not checked the itinerary?”
“No. I like a good surprise,” and she took off, leaving Jen to pedal after her.
By the time they reached the village, some of Abi’s enthusiasm had waned, burned away during the constant uphill pedal to the old town. The climb wasn’t overly steep, just uninterrupted, and she was hot and breathless when they arrived at the first cellar—or cave as they were locally known—on the list of recommended vineyards.
“Ok, I’m starting to understand the Tour de France shorts.” Abi’s dismount was a little ungainly. She shook out her legs, doing all manner of awkward stretches.
Jen smirked. “Give it a couple of days. You’ll be riding like a pro in no time. This first part’s a little hilly today, but the route’s all downhill to the Chateauneuf.”
“Thank god for that. I ran a half marathon last year, but this is a whole other kettle of fish. Com’on, let’s go try some rosé. Did you know this is where they started making it in this region?”
Jen didn’t know the difference between one vintage and the next, but that didn’t stop her from trying everything Abi recommended as they made their way through cellars around Tavel. The more they spit, the more fun she had, and true to form Abi’s French and charm earned them hidden libations and snippets of history seldom shared with tourists.
By their fourth cellar, no amount of spitting helped Jen feel less tipsy. They’d burned breakfast off long ago, and the day was warming, spurring a heady intoxication Abi’s company only encouraged. Thankfully, she’d stuffed her pockets with protein bars, and she made Abi eat one before they got back on their bikes to head towards Lirac. It was a quick ride, but they didn’t need to end up in a ditch before they got there.
“So you’re a cyclist,” Abi remarked, looking at her legs again. “What’s the appeal of this?”
“Are you interviewing me again?” Relaxed, Jen swirled the water around in her glass, staring after pedestrians wandering past their main street table. Lirac’s street-side bistros kept the season’s tourists happy, but from the looks of things they were the only ones from their group to stop for lunch. A loss for them, she figured. Lirac was picture postcard beautiful, right down to the chipped water glasses and rickety round table they sat at, warm air and faultless sky.
“Of course I am. You got my Avignon special yesterday. Now you owe me.”
“Alright. How do you feel after a long run?”
“Exhausted. Elated. I love it.”
Jen shrugged. “Riding’s no different. You just get to see a lot more. Which is perfect for a trip like this. This is my first time in France, but I’m so pleased I decided to do this tour. Half a day in and I already love the package. The scenery’s amazing. I’m riding through hundreds of years of history. Everything’s so different from home. And I get all this from the saddle. It’s the perfect combination for me.”
“You booked this on your own?” Abi smiled as the server placed fish and salad in front of them.
“I figured I’d either connect with the group, or ride solo. I’m happy either way.”
“Instead, you got stuck with a mad Scot.”
Jen smiled sheepishly. “I’m pretty happy about that, actually.”
“Good, because if we have to ride any more hills today, you’re towing me.”
The downhill run to the waters of the Rhone took them past more vineyards and farmland, Jen detouring them around the towns to avoid traffic in favour of more breathtaking scenery. By the time they reached the river, it was early afternoon.
“We’ve another ascent coming,” Jen warned, but Abi dug in and got on with it, puffing away as they pedalled their way to the Châteauneuf-du-Pape. They stopped on the outskirts of the village and walked their bikes along the narrow cobbled streets, stretching their legs and giving Abi’s butt a break.
“The view from the castle’s amazing. Let’s get some wine and something to eat and we’ll head up.”
With a bottle of red from the area and some stuffed baguettes in Abi’s pack, they pushed their bikes up to the Castle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. From the ruins, they were gifted clear views over the countryside and back towards Avignon. The afternoon sun was sublime, bathing fields and vineyards in a soft light that made their green and gold rows shimmer.
“OK, my arse really hurts.”
Jen laid her bike down and sat next to her in the grass. “I hate to say I told you so. You need to buy some cycling shorts. Tonight.”
“Can’t I just borrow a pair from you?”
“Hmmm,” Jen grimaced as she pushed her sunglasses back. “It’s a poorly kept secret in the cycling community that when you wear these things, you go commando. And as much as I’d like to help you out, I don’t think we know each other well enough for that.”
“Right then.” Abi’s eyes rolled, and she took a mouthful of wine before passing Jen the bottle. “That sounds like a personal boundary I’m more than happy to respect.”
Jen grinned and shook her head, more at herself than Abi. She didn’t remember ever having smiled so much in someone’s company. Even when she complained about the ride, Abi was charming, funny, and vivacious, and Jen found her fascinating and hypnotic. Plus the wine.
“I am curious though,” Abi asked around a mouthful of baguette. “How come there’s no Mr or Mrs Cosgrove?”
“My parents?”
“Spouse or partner.”
“Oh!” Shrugging, Jen took another sip of wine. “Work is too consuming for a Mr Cosgrove.”
“School’s not open twenty-four seven.”
“No, but it’s not nine to five either, especially at elite private schools. And I live in Bondi. All surfers and backpackers, and I’m too old for that kind of thing. And the idea of Tinder… ugh,” and she shuddered.
“Hmmm, so no Mr Cosgrove, or Mr Cosgrove-to-be, or anyone even auditioning to be Mr Cosgrove. Is there a French fling on your itinerary?”
Jen pulled a face. “When? This is such a quick trip. I’m only here one more day after the tour, and three more days in Paris before I fly home. Unless there’s a divorce in the group, I don’t fancy my luck.”
Taking the wine from her, Abi cocked a cheeky eyebrow. “Don’t count yourself out, its early days yet.”
Jen shrugged and turned her attention back to the view. The shadows were lengthening. “We should probably go,” and she checked her watch. “It’s nearly four, and we’ve still got Sorgues to see. I’ve mapped a scenic route back that might take a little longer, too.”
The last section of the day’s ride was a pleasant spin down quiet country roads. They rode side by side where traffic allowed, Abi pointing out the occasional landmark or asking for tips on how to ride more comfortably. Sorgues came and went. The pleasure of the countryside was a bigger draw than another town, so they coasted through.
Homes and buildings thickened as they got closer to Avignon. They pulled up in front of the bike tour company’s head office just after 6 p.m.
“Hey!” Peter came out to greet them as they dismounted. “I was about to send a search party. The others got back an hour ago.”
“It was too beautiful a day to rush,” Jen replied, steadying Abi’s bike as she dismounted awkwardly.
“Good,” he smiled happily. “We are starting early tomorrow. You and Abigail will need to drop your luggage here between 7:30 and 8 a.m. so you can start riding before traffic becomes too busy. And there are many beautiful things tomorrow. Van Gogh loved this area, you will see.”
They talked to him about gear, and Abi kitted herself out with a couple of pairs of cycling shorts and some gloves, choosing the cheapest options. Sighing as they exited the office, she opened her phone and added the cost into her expenses app.
“Dinner’s on me,” Jen offered as they rounded the corner to their hotel.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s the least I can do—if I paid for a guide, it would cost me a ton.”
Abi’s smile stiffened, and she seemed to brood a little as they walked back to their hotel. In the foyer, the British family were at the reception desk again, their two children running riot, their screams echoing off the stark stone walls. With a grimace, Abi adjusted her pack.
“To be honest, I’m shattered. And I’ve quite a bit to write up before tomorrow. Rain check on dinner?”
“Oh. Sure.” Jen watched her take the stairs two at a time and disappear. A sour twist now tainted the end of what had been a fantastic day, and she chastised herself for inadvertently offending Abi so early into their friendship. Despite her confident facade, she obviously had some soft spots to be aware of. As she made her way to her room, she only hoped Abi would forgive her by the next morning. The idea of riding alone for the rest of the week wasn’t an issue, but Abi brought something to the journey she hadn’t expected—a wide open enthusiasm that left her buzzing.
Later that night, as she soaked in the tub, she ran through the conversation in her head, trying to work out the exact moment she’d put her foot in her mouth—and how she might salvage the situation. By the time she finished packing her bag and prepping her gear for the next day’s ride, she’d rehearsed herself into a corner. Disgruntled, she set an early alarm and tried to sleep. But Abi’s forlorn expression refused to let her rest.
Avignon to Les Baux
Tuesday, 4 July, 2017
Jen missed Abi in the hotel lobby the next morning, despite waiting for over twenty minutes. When she finally thought to check with the desk clerk, they told her Abi had checked out already. The walk to the tour company office was morose as a result, and the quiet streets failed to divert her attention. Jen arrived close to 8 a.m. to find Peter standing outside with her bike. Hers was the only one he was minding.
“Has everyone left already?”
“I was to call you. You can catch up to the others. But the traffic is very busy now.”
Jen handed her luggage over and stowed her water bottle in her bike’s bottle cage, doing her best to hide her disappointment as she readied herself to ride out.
“Be careful departing the city. The bridge out of Avignon is very busy. If you take the main road, produce at Le Recolte des Confines along the way is good.”
“Thanks, Peter. See you tonight.” Throwing a leg over her saddle, she spun her pedals, ready to leave.
“Hey!” Abi rode into view, looking quite the cyclist in her new nicks. “You’re not heading off without me, are ya? I got breakfast.” She pulled up beside her, unslung her pack and opened it to reveal a paper bag stuffed with pastries. “There’s a fantastic boulangerie around the corner. They make the best tarte au chocolat, but I got you a tarte framboise. I figured you’d want fruit for breakfast.” Her unflappable grin was firmly in place.
Jen couldn’t hide her relief. “How are your legs this morning? Feeling OK?”
“Not bad, actually, and I love these things.” She tugged at her cycling shorts. “It’s like I’m wearing nappies, but I think I’ll actually cope with another day on this torture device,” and she wrapped her knuckles on her saddle. “OK, let’s get going. Follow me, I’ve worked out a back streets route to the bridge so we can avoid the traffic. We can stop somewhere on the other side for breakfast.”
Abi’s navigation took them out of Avignon and she rode like she had been astride a bike all her life. Jen was glad to hang back and let her lead the way, unfazed as she was by the traffic and navigating narrow streets sometimes hardly wide enough for a single vehicle. As she pedalled, the hollow sensation Jen had left the hotel with quickly turned to excitement and then contrition. She had overreacted, or at least underestimated Abi, and felt stupid for having worried so much.
Their route for the day took them into the region’s foothills, promising spectacular views and incredible night skies. The area was famous for having inspired both Van Gogh and Nostradamus, and she was excited by the potential of wide skies, glacial valleys and rhapsodic sunsets.
Traffic at the Durance made stopping by the river unappealing, so they rode on. Jen took the lead to navigate narrow side roads and zigzag their way through the countryside. Fields, vines and farm buildings dotted their way, and by midmorning they had wended their way towards Saint-Rémy-de-Provence in anything but a straight line. They covered more kilometers than the prescribed route showed, but the opportunity to meander through working vineyards and swaths of green kept them riding.
“I’ve driven through here a lot,” Abi called, riding up beside her. “But I’ve never done these little side roads and lanes.”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it, it’s such a different way to see the area. I’m bloody hungry though!”
They were at the start of the climb to Saint-Rémy-de-Provence—not a major hill, but there were better ways to do it than on an empty stomach, so Jen found them a place to stop. They opted for a spot of grass on the roadside and leaned their bikes against a tree. As they munched their way through croissants and raspberry tarts, Abi told her about Van Gogh and the works he painted during his stay at the asylum nearby.
“How do you know so much about this area?”
“My Da was a tour operator, so we spent all our holidays in the back of a van scoping out places to take clients. France was his primary destination. He loved this area.” From her expression, it was a bittersweet memory. She dropped her sunglasses back onto her nose and took a bite of her pastry.
“My parents are not travellers,” Jen offered, filling the silence. “Small-town people, I guess. Mum spends most of her time with her church friends. She doesn’t even come to Sydney, really.”
“So you’re the adventurer of the family?”
“Inadvertently,” Jen admitted, somewhat surprised by the assessment. Her smile spread. “That’s one reason for this trip, really. Something different. I’m a bit in a rut, I think?”
“Oh. What makes you say that?”
One thing Jen was learning about Abi, she wasn’t afraid to ask direct questions. She took a while to answer, not having given her deeper motivations much thought recently. The whole “reinvent Jen” project was really quiet reactive, a self-serving nose thumbing at her family and their limited opinion of her. She’d booked the trip on a whim, then spent a month second-guessing whether to cancel. Only when her brother had ridiculed her yet again for her supposed old-maid teacher status had she committed to the trip. After that, an acute, stifling self-awareness had set in to the point she could only escape herself on her bike. She had ridden more in the month prior to departure than when she was a teenager. Which led her back to Abi’s question—what is this rut she thinks she’s in?
“It’s easy to fall into habits that don’t always serve you, I guess,” she ventured, glowering at herself. Dissatisfied with how vapid her reply was, she tried again. “I grew up in a small town. My parents are content, they don’t do much. They’ve never encouraged us to do much. My brother thinks he’s living the high life, running his own franchise…” Abi raised an eyebrow in askance. “A fast-food restaurant. My sister is five minutes from home and is heavily involved with the local church. They’re both happy, I suppose. And I certainly wouldn’t criticise their choices…”
“But it’s a wee bit bland, as far as lives go?”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Jen nodded. Her parents typified the banality of conformity, proselytising about career, security and family as though they were the only things that mattered. As she reflected on their life, she realised her rut was claustrophobia, and she rode because it felt like escaping. It was hardly a panacea, and it wasn’t enough to shake off their expectations.
Abi, by contrast, seemed to live a wholly other life. Her parents encouraged her to range far from home, not to set roots til she was ready, to embrace wanderlust and ignore the background hum of social expectations and embrace her unconventionality.
“You’re kidding?”
“Let’s see who’s laughing tonight when we get back.”
Eight others were with them on the tour, all couples. Abi had pulled a face at that the night before, commenting the company wasn’t much of a recommendation for cycling in France for her followers. Especially as the rest of the group ignored them both from the outset as they swapped stories about why they’d chosen the tour as a couple’s getaway.
“Nauseating,” Abi muttered, as they cackled about anniversaries and once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to spend time together. Jen didn’t argue.
That morning, they hardly fared much better. The four couples huddled together to agree on their timing and who would ride with whom. Peter, their tour chaperone, waved them off with a reminder to text him if they experienced any issues along the way. The group quickly took off, leaving the two women behind.
“Wow,” Abi pouted as she climbed onto her bike and fiddled with the gear shifter, trying to remember what Peter had shown her the night before. She’d followed Jen’s recommendation for a flat bar gravel bike with a generous saddle, but she looked at sea with the brake levers and the plethora of handlebar accoutrements.
“Don’t worry,” Jen smiled, attaching her phone to the quad lock mount on her handlebars. “The route’s pretty easy. We can’t get lost.”
Abi got her wherewithal about her quickly enough, and before long was pedalling confidently along city streets as they made their way out of Avignon and into the countryside. Jen gave directions from behind, taking the lead for busy roads and complicated intersections. Abi followed her instructions faithfully, her enthusiasm at full blast. It seemed to carry her up the steepest part of their exit from the city. As housing gave way to farmland, the incline eased into a flatter run and they stopped for water.
“So the one thing we didn’t discuss,” and she leaned close to check the map on Jen’s phone, “is how many vineyards we’re going to stop at.”
Jen checked her watch—9:30 a.m. They were only about twenty minutes away from their scheduled first stop. “Tavel’s up the road. There are a few cellars on the tour list up there.”
“Brekkers and wine tasting at Tavel!”
“Have you not checked the itinerary?”
“No. I like a good surprise,” and she took off, leaving Jen to pedal after her.
By the time they reached the village, some of Abi’s enthusiasm had waned, burned away during the constant uphill pedal to the old town. The climb wasn’t overly steep, just uninterrupted, and she was hot and breathless when they arrived at the first cellar—or cave as they were locally known—on the list of recommended vineyards.
“Ok, I’m starting to understand the Tour de France shorts.” Abi’s dismount was a little ungainly. She shook out her legs, doing all manner of awkward stretches.
Jen smirked. “Give it a couple of days. You’ll be riding like a pro in no time. This first part’s a little hilly today, but the route’s all downhill to the Chateauneuf.”
“Thank god for that. I ran a half marathon last year, but this is a whole other kettle of fish. Com’on, let’s go try some rosé. Did you know this is where they started making it in this region?”
Jen didn’t know the difference between one vintage and the next, but that didn’t stop her from trying everything Abi recommended as they made their way through cellars around Tavel. The more they spit, the more fun she had, and true to form Abi’s French and charm earned them hidden libations and snippets of history seldom shared with tourists.
By their fourth cellar, no amount of spitting helped Jen feel less tipsy. They’d burned breakfast off long ago, and the day was warming, spurring a heady intoxication Abi’s company only encouraged. Thankfully, she’d stuffed her pockets with protein bars, and she made Abi eat one before they got back on their bikes to head towards Lirac. It was a quick ride, but they didn’t need to end up in a ditch before they got there.
“So you’re a cyclist,” Abi remarked, looking at her legs again. “What’s the appeal of this?”
“Are you interviewing me again?” Relaxed, Jen swirled the water around in her glass, staring after pedestrians wandering past their main street table. Lirac’s street-side bistros kept the season’s tourists happy, but from the looks of things they were the only ones from their group to stop for lunch. A loss for them, she figured. Lirac was picture postcard beautiful, right down to the chipped water glasses and rickety round table they sat at, warm air and faultless sky.
“Of course I am. You got my Avignon special yesterday. Now you owe me.”
“Alright. How do you feel after a long run?”
“Exhausted. Elated. I love it.”
Jen shrugged. “Riding’s no different. You just get to see a lot more. Which is perfect for a trip like this. This is my first time in France, but I’m so pleased I decided to do this tour. Half a day in and I already love the package. The scenery’s amazing. I’m riding through hundreds of years of history. Everything’s so different from home. And I get all this from the saddle. It’s the perfect combination for me.”
“You booked this on your own?” Abi smiled as the server placed fish and salad in front of them.
“I figured I’d either connect with the group, or ride solo. I’m happy either way.”
“Instead, you got stuck with a mad Scot.”
Jen smiled sheepishly. “I’m pretty happy about that, actually.”
“Good, because if we have to ride any more hills today, you’re towing me.”
The downhill run to the waters of the Rhone took them past more vineyards and farmland, Jen detouring them around the towns to avoid traffic in favour of more breathtaking scenery. By the time they reached the river, it was early afternoon.
“We’ve another ascent coming,” Jen warned, but Abi dug in and got on with it, puffing away as they pedalled their way to the Châteauneuf-du-Pape. They stopped on the outskirts of the village and walked their bikes along the narrow cobbled streets, stretching their legs and giving Abi’s butt a break.
“The view from the castle’s amazing. Let’s get some wine and something to eat and we’ll head up.”
With a bottle of red from the area and some stuffed baguettes in Abi’s pack, they pushed their bikes up to the Castle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. From the ruins, they were gifted clear views over the countryside and back towards Avignon. The afternoon sun was sublime, bathing fields and vineyards in a soft light that made their green and gold rows shimmer.
“OK, my arse really hurts.”
Jen laid her bike down and sat next to her in the grass. “I hate to say I told you so. You need to buy some cycling shorts. Tonight.”
“Can’t I just borrow a pair from you?”
“Hmmm,” Jen grimaced as she pushed her sunglasses back. “It’s a poorly kept secret in the cycling community that when you wear these things, you go commando. And as much as I’d like to help you out, I don’t think we know each other well enough for that.”
“Right then.” Abi’s eyes rolled, and she took a mouthful of wine before passing Jen the bottle. “That sounds like a personal boundary I’m more than happy to respect.”
Jen grinned and shook her head, more at herself than Abi. She didn’t remember ever having smiled so much in someone’s company. Even when she complained about the ride, Abi was charming, funny, and vivacious, and Jen found her fascinating and hypnotic. Plus the wine.
“I am curious though,” Abi asked around a mouthful of baguette. “How come there’s no Mr or Mrs Cosgrove?”
“My parents?”
“Spouse or partner.”
“Oh!” Shrugging, Jen took another sip of wine. “Work is too consuming for a Mr Cosgrove.”
“School’s not open twenty-four seven.”
“No, but it’s not nine to five either, especially at elite private schools. And I live in Bondi. All surfers and backpackers, and I’m too old for that kind of thing. And the idea of Tinder… ugh,” and she shuddered.
“Hmmm, so no Mr Cosgrove, or Mr Cosgrove-to-be, or anyone even auditioning to be Mr Cosgrove. Is there a French fling on your itinerary?”
Jen pulled a face. “When? This is such a quick trip. I’m only here one more day after the tour, and three more days in Paris before I fly home. Unless there’s a divorce in the group, I don’t fancy my luck.”
Taking the wine from her, Abi cocked a cheeky eyebrow. “Don’t count yourself out, its early days yet.”
Jen shrugged and turned her attention back to the view. The shadows were lengthening. “We should probably go,” and she checked her watch. “It’s nearly four, and we’ve still got Sorgues to see. I’ve mapped a scenic route back that might take a little longer, too.”
The last section of the day’s ride was a pleasant spin down quiet country roads. They rode side by side where traffic allowed, Abi pointing out the occasional landmark or asking for tips on how to ride more comfortably. Sorgues came and went. The pleasure of the countryside was a bigger draw than another town, so they coasted through.
Homes and buildings thickened as they got closer to Avignon. They pulled up in front of the bike tour company’s head office just after 6 p.m.
“Hey!” Peter came out to greet them as they dismounted. “I was about to send a search party. The others got back an hour ago.”
“It was too beautiful a day to rush,” Jen replied, steadying Abi’s bike as she dismounted awkwardly.
“Good,” he smiled happily. “We are starting early tomorrow. You and Abigail will need to drop your luggage here between 7:30 and 8 a.m. so you can start riding before traffic becomes too busy. And there are many beautiful things tomorrow. Van Gogh loved this area, you will see.”
They talked to him about gear, and Abi kitted herself out with a couple of pairs of cycling shorts and some gloves, choosing the cheapest options. Sighing as they exited the office, she opened her phone and added the cost into her expenses app.
“Dinner’s on me,” Jen offered as they rounded the corner to their hotel.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s the least I can do—if I paid for a guide, it would cost me a ton.”
Abi’s smile stiffened, and she seemed to brood a little as they walked back to their hotel. In the foyer, the British family were at the reception desk again, their two children running riot, their screams echoing off the stark stone walls. With a grimace, Abi adjusted her pack.
“To be honest, I’m shattered. And I’ve quite a bit to write up before tomorrow. Rain check on dinner?”
“Oh. Sure.” Jen watched her take the stairs two at a time and disappear. A sour twist now tainted the end of what had been a fantastic day, and she chastised herself for inadvertently offending Abi so early into their friendship. Despite her confident facade, she obviously had some soft spots to be aware of. As she made her way to her room, she only hoped Abi would forgive her by the next morning. The idea of riding alone for the rest of the week wasn’t an issue, but Abi brought something to the journey she hadn’t expected—a wide open enthusiasm that left her buzzing.
Later that night, as she soaked in the tub, she ran through the conversation in her head, trying to work out the exact moment she’d put her foot in her mouth—and how she might salvage the situation. By the time she finished packing her bag and prepping her gear for the next day’s ride, she’d rehearsed herself into a corner. Disgruntled, she set an early alarm and tried to sleep. But Abi’s forlorn expression refused to let her rest.
Avignon to Les Baux
Tuesday, 4 July, 2017
Jen missed Abi in the hotel lobby the next morning, despite waiting for over twenty minutes. When she finally thought to check with the desk clerk, they told her Abi had checked out already. The walk to the tour company office was morose as a result, and the quiet streets failed to divert her attention. Jen arrived close to 8 a.m. to find Peter standing outside with her bike. Hers was the only one he was minding.
“Has everyone left already?”
“I was to call you. You can catch up to the others. But the traffic is very busy now.”
Jen handed her luggage over and stowed her water bottle in her bike’s bottle cage, doing her best to hide her disappointment as she readied herself to ride out.
“Be careful departing the city. The bridge out of Avignon is very busy. If you take the main road, produce at Le Recolte des Confines along the way is good.”
“Thanks, Peter. See you tonight.” Throwing a leg over her saddle, she spun her pedals, ready to leave.
“Hey!” Abi rode into view, looking quite the cyclist in her new nicks. “You’re not heading off without me, are ya? I got breakfast.” She pulled up beside her, unslung her pack and opened it to reveal a paper bag stuffed with pastries. “There’s a fantastic boulangerie around the corner. They make the best tarte au chocolat, but I got you a tarte framboise. I figured you’d want fruit for breakfast.” Her unflappable grin was firmly in place.
Jen couldn’t hide her relief. “How are your legs this morning? Feeling OK?”
“Not bad, actually, and I love these things.” She tugged at her cycling shorts. “It’s like I’m wearing nappies, but I think I’ll actually cope with another day on this torture device,” and she wrapped her knuckles on her saddle. “OK, let’s get going. Follow me, I’ve worked out a back streets route to the bridge so we can avoid the traffic. We can stop somewhere on the other side for breakfast.”
Abi’s navigation took them out of Avignon and she rode like she had been astride a bike all her life. Jen was glad to hang back and let her lead the way, unfazed as she was by the traffic and navigating narrow streets sometimes hardly wide enough for a single vehicle. As she pedalled, the hollow sensation Jen had left the hotel with quickly turned to excitement and then contrition. She had overreacted, or at least underestimated Abi, and felt stupid for having worried so much.
Their route for the day took them into the region’s foothills, promising spectacular views and incredible night skies. The area was famous for having inspired both Van Gogh and Nostradamus, and she was excited by the potential of wide skies, glacial valleys and rhapsodic sunsets.
Traffic at the Durance made stopping by the river unappealing, so they rode on. Jen took the lead to navigate narrow side roads and zigzag their way through the countryside. Fields, vines and farm buildings dotted their way, and by midmorning they had wended their way towards Saint-Rémy-de-Provence in anything but a straight line. They covered more kilometers than the prescribed route showed, but the opportunity to meander through working vineyards and swaths of green kept them riding.
“I’ve driven through here a lot,” Abi called, riding up beside her. “But I’ve never done these little side roads and lanes.”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it, it’s such a different way to see the area. I’m bloody hungry though!”
They were at the start of the climb to Saint-Rémy-de-Provence—not a major hill, but there were better ways to do it than on an empty stomach, so Jen found them a place to stop. They opted for a spot of grass on the roadside and leaned their bikes against a tree. As they munched their way through croissants and raspberry tarts, Abi told her about Van Gogh and the works he painted during his stay at the asylum nearby.
“How do you know so much about this area?”
“My Da was a tour operator, so we spent all our holidays in the back of a van scoping out places to take clients. France was his primary destination. He loved this area.” From her expression, it was a bittersweet memory. She dropped her sunglasses back onto her nose and took a bite of her pastry.
“My parents are not travellers,” Jen offered, filling the silence. “Small-town people, I guess. Mum spends most of her time with her church friends. She doesn’t even come to Sydney, really.”
“So you’re the adventurer of the family?”
“Inadvertently,” Jen admitted, somewhat surprised by the assessment. Her smile spread. “That’s one reason for this trip, really. Something different. I’m a bit in a rut, I think?”
“Oh. What makes you say that?”
One thing Jen was learning about Abi, she wasn’t afraid to ask direct questions. She took a while to answer, not having given her deeper motivations much thought recently. The whole “reinvent Jen” project was really quiet reactive, a self-serving nose thumbing at her family and their limited opinion of her. She’d booked the trip on a whim, then spent a month second-guessing whether to cancel. Only when her brother had ridiculed her yet again for her supposed old-maid teacher status had she committed to the trip. After that, an acute, stifling self-awareness had set in to the point she could only escape herself on her bike. She had ridden more in the month prior to departure than when she was a teenager. Which led her back to Abi’s question—what is this rut she thinks she’s in?
“It’s easy to fall into habits that don’t always serve you, I guess,” she ventured, glowering at herself. Dissatisfied with how vapid her reply was, she tried again. “I grew up in a small town. My parents are content, they don’t do much. They’ve never encouraged us to do much. My brother thinks he’s living the high life, running his own franchise…” Abi raised an eyebrow in askance. “A fast-food restaurant. My sister is five minutes from home and is heavily involved with the local church. They’re both happy, I suppose. And I certainly wouldn’t criticise their choices…”
“But it’s a wee bit bland, as far as lives go?”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Jen nodded. Her parents typified the banality of conformity, proselytising about career, security and family as though they were the only things that mattered. As she reflected on their life, she realised her rut was claustrophobia, and she rode because it felt like escaping. It was hardly a panacea, and it wasn’t enough to shake off their expectations.
Abi, by contrast, seemed to live a wholly other life. Her parents encouraged her to range far from home, not to set roots til she was ready, to embrace wanderlust and ignore the background hum of social expectations and embrace her unconventionality.
