clairedavieswriter

Word of the day: dégonflé. Today was a bit of a let down, metaphorically and literally. Metaphorically, because after five glorious trouble-free days on peaceful voie vertes, in perfect cycling weather, my luck seemed to turn the moment my domestique caught his train home. At this point, I had no idea what trials were in store:

No sooner had I left the station than it started raining. Then Guillaume, still in his Labour Day grump, said ‘Non’ and just switched himself off for no reason. It took all my powers of persuasion to cajole him back into action.

All was then well for a while – Nantes has fantastic cycling infrastructure and I swept smoothly south out of the city for nearly 10k, all on well sign-posted paths, mostly separated from the traffic, with respectful drivers routinely giving way.

At 10am I discovered that the D road I would be following for much of the day was more like a British A road, but on the plus side, it had a reasonably wide hard shoulder, which was only occasionally strewn with glass and gravel, and the lorry drivers were kind. So far so good I thought. I heard another puncture, and pedalled on, hoping the pink goo in my tubeless tyres would do its magic, as it had yesterday. It did, for a while.

Someone told me that titanium bikes are so comfortable, you constantly think you have a puncture. I would add that, conversely, they’re so comfortable, you don’t realise you have a puncture. Which was how I ended up riding on a completely flat tyre.

Because when it comes down to it, any bike, no matter what it’s made of, is only as good as its tyres. Which brings us neatly back to the whole tubeless thing. For those who aren’t au fait (funny how often the English mot juste turns out to be French), they are tyres which don’t need an inner tube. Instead, they have a sticky sealant which is forced through any puncture by the pressure, supposedly sealing it, so the rider can pedal on without interruption. It sounds too good to be true, and we all know what that means – but like a fool, or perhaps just an optimist, I didn’t pay attention. As I have learned to my cost, this was unwise when touring fully loaded, often on stony tracks. If the sealant can’t cope…. well, there are several proverbial expressions to describe the situation.

Back to the back streets of Geneston, and the flat tyre. Obviously, the first thing I did, as an intrepid independent cycle tourer, was to call Bike Helpdesk, aka my brother Mark in Norwich, in the hope that he wasn’t busy anaesthetising a patient. The most useful information he gave me was that there was a supermarket in walking distance, where I might be able to buy a track pump.

Enter today’s two perfect strangers: first, the Atlantel electrician (?) who I buttonholed in the Intermarché car park in the hope that he might have some pliers to extract the valve of my tyre from inside said new (but useless) pump. (Why do pumps unscrew valves? It seems a pretty fundamental flaw). He did.

And secondly, a chap going by Jean, with somewhat neglected dentistry, but smiley eyes and a jaunty manner. Seeing me with my bike upside down, his opening gambit was to suggest I camp in his garden, and then to offer me a lift in his van. I was slightly unnerved by this, but reassured once he started putting his mind to the practical issue of fixing my puncture.

To cut a long story short, much of which I didn’t fully understand due to his very thick accent, he magicked a tube of superglue from his van, and succeeded in patching the hole. He warned me that it wouldn’t get me very far, and insisted that I take his number, in case I needed rescuing. I’m sure he was harmless and just being kind, but I was relieved that no call was necessary.

The remaining 45k to my destination were nonetheless pretty stressful, as I was on constant alert for a loss of tyre pressure. What with that, and trying not to get squashed by traffic on the D937, this unexpected section of voie verte was a very welcome sight:

And this was an even better sign. Despite the two hour tyre-related hiatus, I arrived at teatime…

And had my palatial lodgings prepared very soon afterwards. I know my pitching skills aren’t perfect, don’t judge me.

But I did feel I’d earned this:

I went to bed to the sound of a cuckoo, and hoped my air bed wouldn’t join the ranks of the dégonflés overnight.