Cramp without style

And so it did come to pass that on this last Friday of October 2004 the sun shone down on sleepy Bergerac and I made the decision to cycle from the Dordogne to the Lot. I rustled up some sandwiches, ensured I had emergency rations of bananas and chocolate (that’ll be my Duke of Edinburgh Award training again), rubbed the sleep from my eyes, made sure Mr Rusty was well lubricated and set off on an incroiable journey.

I crossed the Dordogne and pointed myself in the direction of Issigeac, carefully selecting small, country lanes. On and on I went through vineyards and farmland. The weather was fine, but a little cold but I was generating plenty of heat. The roads seemed to go on forever and around every corner was another hill to climb. Eventually I reached Issigeac and made myself comfortable on an old stone wall to contemplate the map. Mmm, that seemed like quite a journey in itself and I was barely quarter of the way. Well, there was no going back now so I decided to press on to Villeréal where I planned to stop for lunch.

This bit wasn’t too bad – no steep hills and I was covering the ground quite well. Then it started to drizzle. Then it started to shower. Then the heavens opened and I could hardly see where I was going. There wasn’t anywhere to shelter so I just kept on going in the lashing rain until I reached the old bastide town (I found another name for these towns before the day was out). It was one o’clock so I found a damp, stone bench under the ancient covered square to eat my now soggy sandwiches. Delicious. Intrigued French villagers stopped to stare at me as if I was some sort of alien visitor – which I suppose I must have looked like. One old woman, carrying the obligatory ubiquitous loaf of bread stopped in front of me and started yacking away unintelligibly. I smiled at her as she spoke but couldn't translate a single word. When she finally stopped her rant, I said, 'Ah, mais oui!' Fortunately she seemed satisfied enough with that response, and wandered off in the rain humming to herself. Another successful interaction with the locals.

I was getting cold sitting there in the wet, so I decided the only thing for it was to carry on with the next leg of my journey to Monflanquin. What I hadn’t bargained for when I planned this route was that all these old towns are located on the tops of hills, which means a long and gruelling ascent which Mr Rusty wasn’t designed for, despite the meaningless 'mountain bike' tag. I panicked a bit when I started to get cramp in my legs which got so painful at one stage I had to stop and do some stretching exercises which further intrigued the French drivers who probably thought I was trying to push trees over. I recovered enough to make the final, punishing ascent to Monflanquin. This was a beautiful, hilltop bastide town with fantastic views over the Lot. Now I was getting somewhere. I stopped and rested for a while on a stone bench. At least the rain had relented.

I whizzed down the other side of the hill but when I hit even more steeply climbing roads further on, my speed reduced to walking pace. I did however catch up with a grit spreader and was happily crunching along in the wake of the fresh gravel when the driver slowed down to wave me past. Pathetically I couldn't get up enough speed to overtake him and for a few moments we travelled side by side, him smiling cheerily at me, roll up permanently wedged between the gap in his front teeth.

My legs were really hurting now, but I continued with clenched teeth and steely determination. At one stage, I got the cramp pains in my legs again so I stopped for a rest, but when I got down off Mr Rusty my legs gave way from under me and I collapsed onto a heap of wet, muddy leaves and acorns. Attractive that. I was delighted to see a red squirrel scampering about in the hedgerow as I slowly pedalled onwards once more.

I descended to Fumel, crossed the Lot river (shouting ‘Whoopee-do! Yeeee-haaaa’) and then began the climb towards Tournon d’Agenais. As I did so I had the misfortune to witness the death of a red squirrel which scampered across the road just ahead of me as a lorry sped past. By the time I reached it, it was dying on the tarmac, its fiery red fur standing out against the wet road, and its beautiful bright tail twitching in the final throes of death and its fine little squirrel face staring uncomprehendingly up at me. I was devastated – I had been so thrilled to see one of these rare creatures earlier on, and now I had seen one pointlessly mown-down in front of me. Being a sensitive fellow, I had to fight back a tear or two as I continued pedalling on.

I stopped at a side turning and made a phonecall as arranged and was very grateful a little later on to see headlights flashing and to be picked up by car, just a few kilometres from my final destination. It had been hard work, but I felt quite a sense of achievement.

I was driven to a most charming, remote converted farmhouse near Masquieres and I have never enjoyed a hot bath so much. Revived on tea, beer, wine and the most splendid meal of pate, duck and tarte tatin and great company I retired to my comfy bed up in the rafters and slept solidly for ten hours.