clairedavieswriter

The second leg of my triangular odyssey – the bit I’d been most nervous about (with some justification, it turns out) is complete.

My original plan had been to knock out a 100k ride into Lyon today, to catch a train to Geneva. By yesterday evening it was clear this was highly optimistic. Instead, I asked Hugo to plot me a route to St Etienne Châteaucreux, which was not only closer but would also save me a slog through the less lovely outskirts of Lyon.

A blustery night had suggested a change in the weather, but the day dawned bright and cool, though with a stiff southerly breeze. After a picnic breakfast as I packed up the tent, I was on the road by 7.30am. The ride started with a big descent, losing in minutes those metres I’d worked all of yesterday to climb.

There were plenty of uphills left too, but it was generally a lovely ride, as we wound our way gradually down off the plateau, through pine woods and cattle pastures. The locals looked baffled.

But we enjoyed the views.

Obviously, no ride with either Guillaume or his brother is complete without some funny business, and today it happened around the halfway mark. A part of the route that was supposed to be tarmac (what was the word again Guillaume?) turned out very much not to be.

Worse was to come, when it dropped 500m in height over a distance of 950m. Bernard got uncharacteristically frisky on the way down, and it was as much as I could do, using both brakes, to stop him galloping off without me.

Later, he insisted we stop to take this photo:

After days spent in the middle of nowhere, riding into St Etienne was a bit of a shock. I risked the wrath of Hugo by switching to Gloria Google for the last 10k, but while her route involved less climbing, she didn’t do much for feminism when she tried to direct me onto a fast dual carriageway. She wasn’t very up to speed on tramways either, but eventually we zigzagged our way without incident to St Etienne’s station, which was most definitely not taken from the standard French template:

So perhaps the town is a fitting host to an international design show.

Once on the train, Bernard tried his best lines on a pretty little vintage Dawes with chipped paint and old school gears, but I think she’d forgotten her English, and his French is still rudimentary.

Before we knew it, we were whisked smoothly into a sultry Geneva, where we once again braved the city traffic

And spotted a few familiar sights on our way through:

Before wending our way – up some more inevitable hills – to Claire and Harry’s house, where I was treated to the perfect cyclist’s feast, with views of Mt Blanc on the side. It’s great to be here.