Once I made it to the hotel in Nantes, I went to the hotel bar to fill up my water bottle. Nobody was around so I reached over the bar to help myself. A big no-no. The attendant whipped around the corner and curtly said, “If you need water, why don’t you just ask.” Fair enough. She dutifully filled up my water bottle four or five times over the next 16 hours and, I think, regretted the water rule.
Falafel and (hotel) water…
I finally met up with will after a couple of falafel wraps and about 30 minutes getting lost trying to find him. What a reunion. We sat down to a bottle of wine, Will ordered his signature two entrees and we enjoyed the hell out of each other’s company.
We called the night early so we’d be ready to ride the next morning.
Pont Saint Nazaire and Saint Nazaire are two very different places. I wanted to start this trip at the EuroVelo 6’s origin. So when I read that the EV6 begins at Pont Saint Nazaire, I assumed that Saint Nazaire is where I should go. But it turns out that Pont Saint Nazaire is actually the Saint Nazaire Bridge. It’s not Point Saint Nazaire, as my English speaking brain assumed.
It wasn’t until the train ride into Saint Nazaire that I learned that the EV6 starts in Saint Brevins at the foot of Pont Saint Nazaire, not in Saint Nazaire at all.
By the time I’d realized my mistake it was too late to change plans. I snagged the actual last room in Saint Nazaire then mentally prepared to cross The Hell Bridge the next morning.
Hotel views of Saint Nazaire, which is 100% not the same thing as Pont Saint Nazaire…
The bridge is massive. Photos do not do it justice.
An unjust photo of The Hell Bridge
The hotel proprietor brought my bike from whatever dark pit he had tossed it into the night before. I was so excited to get started. I had everything dialed in – bags attached, sunscreen applied, adrenaline pumping. Off I….oh no. Instead of propelling my bike forward with my first push of the pedal, I spun out and nearly fell over.
The hotel owner had completely screwed up my front derailleur when he overhead hurled my bike the night before. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘I wanted this trip to be about self-reliance so here is my chance!’ My enthusiasm waned and f-bombs flew at the goddamned (out of earshot) hotelier as I struggled to fix my cable. I got the derailleur to good enough — I couldn’t shift into first gear but I was finally ready to head out.
I biked up to the bridge still not sure that I wanted to ride over it. A friendly French fellow sensed my apprehension and pointed me toward where I was going. He showed me a shuttle that takes cyclists across The Hell Bridge. Lucky for me the bus left nine minutes earlier and another one wouldn’t arrive for at least 51 more. ‘Do or die time,’ I thought, ‘or is it do and die?’
Anyway, I decided to conquer the bridge on The Green Machine. The bridge pitches upwards at what felt like an 85° incline, has roughly a 6-inch shoulder, and the fencing comes up to about your kneecaps. Every gust of tailwind from a passing semi-truck would send me swerving towards the “barrier”.
After a long climb and a fast descent, I’d made it!
Hell Bridge Conqueror
I borrowed a pair of calipers and fiddled some more with my derailleur in Saint Brevins then made my way towards Nantes. I was thrilled. I let out an emotional and happy yell once I was on the EV6 route.
Paul and I split up as the ferry docked in Cherbourg. He was adamant about unfurling his art project for a picture with members of the crew and I wanted to make sure I made my train.
Lo and behold, though, whose bike do I see propped up at the Cherbourg train station? The One and The Only, Paul.
This is where the fun really began. I got on a train car marked for bicycles. There didn’t appear to be any space for a bicycle though and the train was soon to do depart. So I folded my bike up as tightly as I could. Mind you, I have 5 heavy bike-bags I’m juggling too. Within seconds of this Paul runs up to the train exasperated, “Where the hell do the bikes go…there’s no space for bikes…this woman doesn’t speak English…Shane…I’m just gonna have to miss this train!”
I told Paul we’ll get his bike on one way or another. While we’re finagling his things on to the train an employee is calmly but sternly speaking unintelligible French to us. Someone else on the train walked up and mercifully said in broken English, “dee velo go there,” as he pointed to the other side of the car.
After a quick smack of the forehead, I took my jumbled up bike and tried to walk it through the car. Not gonna work. At this point, there are 20 seconds till departure. So I said “Fuck it” and hopped off the train holding my 30-pound half-folded bike and sprinted to the other door. Paul and I just made it on.
Off we went to Paris.
Paul’s still half-cursing the French trains here
The ride was relaxing and full of countryside scenery.
Train views
Paul and I helped each other and our bikes off the train and said our goodbyes. I had another train to catch. With my bags hastily secured I pushed off for Montparnasse Train Station in Paris from St. Lazare Station.
Teamwork made this dream work
The bike ride was 20 minutes and took me through much of Paris’ iconic scenery. As I rounded the corner of the busiest intersection I’ve ever seen (buses, scooters, cars, an ambulance, construction), I merged into the right turn lane. Just then a man on a scooter sped up to pass me on the right and I swerved back out of the way. One of my hastily attached panniers went flying. After a thud, I heard screams of “WAIT WAIT!” from another scooter driver. As I turned around to get my bag, I looked up and saw a bus headed straight toward me. I nearly fell over on my now unbalanced bike as I shuffled while straddling the damn bike to pick up my bag. Then I quickly dashed to safety on the sidewalk.
Crisis averted, bag saved, life still intact. Shortly after, I made it to the train station where I sweet-talked my bicycle onto the high-speed train that normally prohibits them.
Managed to get the car to myself on the second leg!
This post is the first of many what I’m calling Tripologues. There is a good chance, maybe even a certainty, that you will find most of what’s in these tripologues not just boring in the traditional sense but so tediously detailed and littered with seemingly unnecessary miscellany that your eyes will burn. This is intentional.
I’m writing these tripologues to entertain an audience. On this point, there is no doubt. However, my audience is not you — unless you are the future me. I’m writing tripologues to have something I can look back on that will spark my memory not just of the trip highlights, but of the specifics too. This project is a series of snapshots in time for better or for worse, not what I think the internet will find interesting or worthwhile. Despite this, I hope these tripologues become a resource to future bike tourers on the EuroVelo6 and that they give my friends and family some entertainment.
With that out of the way…
The weeks of planning have passed, the gear research is complete, the anticipation has peaked, and now it is go time.
I decided it’d be more fun to take a boat from Dublin to France than it would be to fly. So I bought a ticket with Dublin Ferries, packed up my bike, and left the apartment to begin this bike tour adventure.
All packed up and ready to roll
Abby’s office is just a 10-minute bike ride away from the Dublin Port so she rode with me to the ferry and saw me off. Despite a few near misses with overzealous semi-truck drivers, we made it to the harbor.
At the ticket counter, I was brusquely told to take myself and my bike up to the front of the line of cars. Abby and I had a somewhat teary-eyed goodbye and off I went.
Once I made it to the front of the hundreds of cars waiting to board, another gentleman told me that, in fact, the Green Machine and I would be the last on.
Bye bye Dublin fog!
A few minutes into waiting a man rode up to me on his fully loaded bike. I was excited to meet a fellow cyclist this early on in the trip and was eager to learn where he was headed. He told me his name was “Paul, Paul O’Keefe.” Paul is cycling along the Camino de Santiago with a massive art piece weighing no less than 20 pounds to “Promote love and peace.” ‘Cool enough,’ I thought. Paul spent years in the Australian wilderness and had the newspaper clippings to prove it. Not to mention, he’s a self-described Irish Mystic.
Both Paul and I reserved reclining chairs for the 23-hour journey. With a chair costing 20-some-odd Euros and a cabin costing over 100eur, it was a no-brainer. But Paul, being the all-experienced traveler he is, let me in on a secret. “Yep, thought so… Shane, you know these padded benches will make a fine place to sleep tonight, I think.” I agreed. So I took my things from my reclining chair and boguarded a nice padded booth for the rest of the night.
The view from my coveted bench
As far as the boat trip went, the water was vast and blue and that’s all I have to say about that. I was more excited to leave Ireland than I was to watch it as I went.
As a fitting parting gift from the city, Dublin ensured that my friend Paul loved to smoke hand-rolled cigarettes. Every 20 minutes or so Paul left for a smoke break and brought me back a sneeze attack. I didn’t mind though; Paul is engaging, excited about his project, and, judging by the pictures of his former girlfriends that he’s shown me, he has a real way with the ladies.
Mr. Paul himself
23 hours later and after being the last to board, I made sure I was the first off the Ferry.
Winding my way to the front of the line to disembark
Off I rode into the city of Cherbourg. A great little northern coastal town with excellent bike lanes and some neat statues. A stop for some green beans, carrots, and cherries was all I had time for. Then it was off to the train station for the next leg of the journey.
The bird has landed…or has the whale beached? Either way, I’m in France.One of Cherbourg’s pieces of public artA journey of 1,000 selfies begins one shot at a time
