Saint Nazair

I will forever remember today as Hell Bridge Day.

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.

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!

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.

The journey has begun.

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.

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.

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!

The trip is off to a good start.

Saint Nazaire to Nantes

Cherbourg to Saint Nazaire