Fear And Biking In La France - The Red Bike Rides in Bretagne, Pt. 1

30/07 - 19:35, train to Paris
Weather - Wind closer to mild than obnoxious
Mostly cloudy, 3 drops fell on me in Thionville
20 degrees - cool for summer, but sunless and fine for biking
Distance Biked - 30km

Fear filled me as 16:00 approached. It filled me the way poisonous gases fill a room, slowly and unremarkably, until it's too late to save oneself.

I could not explain the fear. It surprised me. I arranged my backpack, cleaned the kitchen, attended to the computer, and waited for my time of departure to arrive, and while waiting, I noticed I was not alone, or not myself. I was with fear.
"Relax," I told myself, "it's just anxiety." As if renaming it could diminish its power. One can call a hurricane a storm, but the winds and rain hurl about all the same.
"You're just anxious about going alone. You haven't done this in a long time. You've never taken a trip like this before. You should be anxious. It's fine."

I remembered things I had not thought about. Maybe I should write directions down for my first day riding in Bretagne. Won't I need at least a 4th pair of underwear? Why did I forget to put money on my phone?

Hemming, hawing, redoing, rechecking, fearing, I left behind schedule. Now there was a chance I would miss my train, a 2-hour bike ride away. That, at least, was a concrete thing to fear. The rest of it lingered in my soul, unnamed and unknown, as I set off. It was about 16:20.

***

The great thing about individual physical activity - like biking - is that it must be done. In doing the activity, the actor may still think, may still fear even, but feelings held earlier dissipate. Exertion, its required attention, and its corresponding hormones flush the mind and the soul of all residue. The feelings that fill this void can vary, can even recall the earlier feeling, but only after new stimuli spike, only with a reason.

By the time I reach France, I feel good. It is about 17:30 and I have two hours to ride to Thionville, one hour away. So far, the weather, my back, and my bike are all holding up. The weather is gloomy and cool but has not burst. On my back sits the fullest backpack I've ridden long distance with. Its contents include: 3 notebooks, five pencils, one large guide book, two slim French books, one huge book by an author nobody I know knows, four apples, 1 peanut butter sandwich, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a pair of shoes, four pairs of underwear, three pairs of socks, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, 4 train ticket printouts, two bottles of water, a camera, a USB key, my wallet, passport, phone, keys, and the lock for my bike, all to last me 10 days. Writing this, I remember biking in Israel with notebooks, books, and a huge canvas bag in my backpack on my commute to work and grad school. I'm in better biking shape now, and this load is lighter.

And as for my bike? Let's leave off talking about it, in hopes that it doesn't come up. It's hard to do a big bike trip without a bike, after all.

***

My plan is to cruise around Bretagne for 8 days or so on my bike, riding where the wind and the road take me (the other two days involve getting there). Why Bretagne? No clear idea; maybe I've heard of the region before in some positive light. The teacher who led my trip to Japan when I was 13 was named Mr. Breton, so maybe I wanted to close as circle (How?). Maybe because its last region is called "Finisterre," the end of the world. Or maybe because I grew fond of the Rennes football team. It's not a must-see region like Provence, nor a nearby one like Alsace, and Amy probably wouldn't choose it as a trip for the two of us, so why not?

As for why I decided to leave from Thionville, that's simpler. I'll say it's because I wanted to warm up for my trip, having not biked during a 2-week sojourn in the states. I might throw in the kid I saw, 8 or 10 years old, walking with his friend. He had glasses and spiky hair and carried two baguettes in his arms that, end-to-end, would have stood as tall as he.
"Salut," he shouted, all wise ass attention seeking.
"Salut," I mumbled.
"Ca va?"
"Ouais," I said, passing him by and hearing he and his friend chatter to fill in our abbreviated conversation.
Both of these elements - physical preparation and French charm - factored into my decision to bike the first 30 KM instead of takin the train from Luxembourg, but the main reason I made it harder on myself?
It was 20 euros cheaper. Duh.

***

My fear actualizes itself at the train station. As is often the case, its embodiment takes the form of a grouchy Frenchman.
"Bonjour," I say in intermediate French. "I'd like to add a place for my bike on the train."
"Mais non, you can't do that. You have to book the bike space when you buy the ticket."
"But I emailed someone from SNCF (the train company) and they told me I could."
"But that's not possible. Non."
"What would you advise me to do?" I practically cry.
"You can't do this."
A long line has formed behind me and I recognize a man who will not be swayed. Three hours into the trip, and already my first battle. I step away and regroup.

In the waiting hall I sit down on a bench. Across from me, a man with a pocked face sleeps, his head drooping nearly to his crotch. A nicer-looking woman seated the bench behind him eyes me suspiciously.

I eat my sandwich and consult my guide. Indeed, it states that a bike place must be reserved when buying a ticket for the TGV and other big trains, and cannot be so reserved online. Did I misunderstand the email then? What am I to do?

The train leaves at 19:30, in 15 minutes. I go outside. I will attack my usual way: directly. I will just try to get on the train, let the chips fall where they may. If necessary, the "I'm a foreigner" ignorance card sits in my back pocket, but I hate playing the dumb American.

Around me, the sleeping neighbor ambles, clearly still half-awake. A conductor approaches me, a station worker in tow. They don't want me to park my bike on the stair rails.
"I'm taking the bike," I say.
"You can just put it over there," the conductor says, indicating.
"But I'm taking it to Paris with me," I say unsubtly.
"You can take it up the ass, just don't leave it here."
"Oh, ok, gotcha. That'll be the last time."

I smile and he smiles and I walk to the platform (did I mention my French is intermediate? I might not have got all of that right). The train conductor was decent to me. Train conductors are good, salt of the earth people. Not like Monsieur Asshole inside.

Still, I wait at the platform unsure. The sleeper floats by, makes a remark about my bike, and I smile. I sit and wait. People fill the platform, and I wonder how full this train might get. Can I fold my bike? I begin to unscrew the central bolt and choke on the rust that floats up. Better not try it.
The train arrives. I linger, not seeing the car with the bike stencil on it. Do I look for that on the car my ticket is for? Why didn't I buy insurance for my ticket? Should I just ditch the bike and make this a train tour? A walking on my hands tour? A Russian Dance tour?
A conductor approaches. "What car are you?"
"13."
"Did you reserve a place for your bike?"
I turn to direct defense. "What I did is email someone who said..."
"Got it," he interrupts. "We'll deal with it on the train. Go to the last car, #11."
"And hurry," says the conductor who talked to me earlier.
I rush to that ultimate 11 car, not clear how this will turn out. Well, I'm on the train, at least.

On the car waiting for me was Mr. Sleeper. I sat, he sat. I moved my bike so he could lay on the four adjacent seats. He ranted about something in a mumbling, indecipherable French, gesturing with his hand on forearm to show how they done him wrong too. He had neither all of his teeth nor, I suspect, all his marbles. I think he was trying to sneak on the train until Paris, or at least Champagne - he waited in the bathroom while the train stopped at Metz and then went down the train when he saw our car filled up.

I shuffled about guiltily and awkwardly among the other passengers, not yet changed out of my bike clothes, worried about taking someone's seat or otherwise encumbering on their voyage. My fate was still partly unknown no less. I moved to the row of seats aside my bike. I wrote, and waited.

At last, the conductor came. He punched everybody else's ticket in the car - there were about 8 in the 12 allotted seats. He turned to me, scanned my ticket. He said, "So, adding a bicycle, are we?" "Yes," I squeaked. He punched keys on his scanner, waited, frowned, and then showed the screen to me. 20 euros.
Relieved, I gladly paid, even though a bike pre-reserved is supposed to cost 10 euros to add. I asked him if this was the best way to go about things.
"Uh no."
Well then. We chatted on the topic a bit, and then he moved on. I sat patiently, wondering what price I'd have to pay to get out of doing the same thing twice the next day.

One of the reasons for my trip is to speak French, to confirm my year of studying the language. Another is to test myself alone again, to discover what I want to do when I'm alone, and to try new things. So far, so ok.

I got off the train in Paris at 21:30. The train conductor said goodbye. The fear was mostly forgotten. And so I was off.