French Revolutions

design flaw, namely its lack of roof. But we all make
mistakes, and another one of mine was not locking the bedroom door.
    Attracted perhaps by my attempt to
encapsulate the works of Hieronymous Bosch in a single sound, and perhaps by
her leaking ceiling, the proprietress had seen fit to enter my room at a moment
which coincided unhappily with my wild, humid egress from the cubicle. The
lesser of the two issues here was that her furnishings had been liberally hosed
down; later I had to remake the entire bed with the rank reserve blankets in
the wardrobe, and the lampshades were still steaming the next morning. But of
greater immediate concern to both of us was my troubling presentation. One
bare, sultana-toed foot alongside a wet beige sock, then nothing but flesh and
water until the soap-frothed waistband of my jersey. I didn’t know whether to
be glad or sad when I looked down while grabbing for a towel and saw that the
elemental rigours of the day had apparently inspired my genitals to eat
themselves. On the plus side, the appalled mumble that trickled from her lips
as she backed out of the room was the last sound she addressed to me.
    The Pyrenees were over and I was
aware that I had not acquitted myself very well. Unwilling to tackle at this
stage the painful core issues of gumption and vigour, I looked for a less
abstract solution. One of my principal encouragements on setting off from
England had been that there was no knack to cycling, no skill I would have to
master, but waking up in my damp bed with merciful sunlight spearing the
perforations in the shutters to polka-dot the room I found myself wishing there
was. Thinking about Eddy’s delicate pianist’s touch on the bars had me
wondering if the key was relaxing my own brutal, desperate grasp; then again,
maybe if I could somehow dump my panniers I’d be able to stand up in the saddle
and so fly up the climbs. Another guest had propped his noble, unburdened road
bike against mine in the stairwell, and giving it a tentative, light-fingered
hoist as I saddled up was a potent reminder of how much extra weight I was
carrying. At least I was now remembering to do Chris Boardman’s stretches last
thing at night and first in the morning, even if — as that day — doing so
strained all my leg muscles to the point where they felt about to snap and
whiplash up like roller blinds.
    Bagneres-de-Bigorre looked a lot
better in the sun. The tall mahogany doors of the restaurant where I’d eaten
snails the night before (what was it with me and arthropods?) gleamed
venerably, and the hills beyond — oh dear — looked laundered and crisp. A
little group of farmers were protesting benignly in the square: ‘The sheep is
the lowest form of farm animal’ read the banner, though I think on balance
theirs was probably a pro- rather than an anti-sheep demonstration.
    It never seemed right or fair to be
bathed in the sweat of hard manual labour before 9.15 a.m., but from now on
this would always be the way. Stage eleven was supposed to be a flat one, a day
off for the riders after their Pyrenean rigours, but as the D938 curved up
through the fields of hairy-eared barley I was soon in trouble. So much so that
I somehow contrived to get lost, blundering straight on when the D938 turned
left, then careering down a hill so enormous that by the time I eased up to the
unfamiliar town of Tournay at its foot a quick look at map and itinerary
confirmed I had just earned myself an 18-kilometre detour. No ordinary
kilometres these, though: as with all detours these were special ‘shag-battered
bollock sodding’ kilometres, which may only be tackled in a temper so foul that
it is common to find oneself insulting adjacent livestock.
    The Tournay Misjudgement sullied an
exquisite morning: large birds soaring on thermals; a castle-studded horizon;
crops shimmering like fibreglass filaments; cowbells and crickets; everything
growing almost audibly. The same sort of hillsides that had been speckled with
unidentifiably tiny green shoots only a week before near Limoges were now
lushly striped with burgeoning fronds of maize. Soon, I knew, the first hairy
sweet-corns would swell and grow in the heart of each shoot, rising up,
ripening in the hot French sun, until the day came in late summer when the crop
was ripe and ready to be harvested by me and my dad legging it over the fence
on the way home from a family motoring holiday. We always arrived in Calais with a plundered bootful. I once