Do you know what a wild boar sounds like right after sunset with no barrier from the beast but a few millimeters of cheap 15 year old Nylon? It was the first night of a trip that had mapped out beautifully in my mind while day dreaming through conference calls and daily meetings back in San Francisco. Now the vision was coming to reality feeling the earth shake as a 300 lbs pound swine charged toward my 1997 green north face Tadpole Tent.
This was the first night of a 6 day bike tour down the southwest coast of France on a route that we had not done much research on, in a country where we knew nothing more than a few words in the native tongue. What have I us got us into? I thought. In addition to my poor planning I had very little bike touring experience and had somehow convinced Megan, who had no bike experience, that this was a good idea. "Totally Doable" were the exact words I said to her as we sat comfortably in a burrito joint not far from our home in California.
Earlier that day we emerged from a cheap hotel on the edge of the ocean in the French town of Royan (pronounced Y Ahn) and looked across the glassy bay towards the Aquitaine Peninsula. It was cold but the sun was out and the forecast was clear; a swell pumped from Hurricane Jaquin in the southern Atlantic. All was good in this part of world and for surfers it was even better, 280km south of us the world's best surfers converged in the French town of Hossegor for the 1st of a 12 day contest dubbed the Quicksilver Pro. For the next 5 days we would take our time, riding our bikes down the coast, camping along the way before we met our friends in Hossegor.
We loaded our bikes onto a ferry with pannier bags strapped to the back carrying our clothes, tents and provisions and crossed the bay from Royan to Aquitaine Peninsula. The ferry ride was so typically French. Buttery croissants that dissolved in our mouths chased with creamy warm espresso, served with attitude. Arriving in the town of Soulac sur Mer and following signs for the Velodyssey trail a small piece of pavement soon diverted us from car traffic. Reserved for bikes, the snaking mini-road called the Velodyssey soon isolated us from people and the small businesses outside the ferry drop. Pine trees climbed above our heads and soon swallowed us into the quiet of the morning. Sun snuck through the branches of the trees and flickered on our faces like light dancing off a YMCA pool ceiling. The constant roll of waves sounded like a pulsing parade of marbles and it put us into a trance-like state and we fell into the rhythm of the road.
This Velodyssey route was developed as a way to promote sustainable tourism and meet the demand of local and traveling cyclists. In total the route runs the entire west coast of France starting in Roscoff and ending at the Spanish border in the French town of Hendeye. Our goal was to ride from Royan to Hendeye in France and then into the Spanish town of San Sebastian. A total of approximately 350km of mixed coastal terrain over 6 days for the same distance from Boston to New York City.
On our first day of climbing and falling through the dunes in our gentle trance we came in and out of small coastal towns. In between these towns we were left to ourselves, sometimes to find peace and reflection and other times trying hard to find the beauty of the challenge. The tight neck, the squeak of the chain ever second time I make a full rotation of the pedals, the pit in your stomach from the small pastry that burned off 5 hours ago.
After about 6 hours of riding we pull into the small coastal village of Carcan, dreaming of bustling places like Mexican food joints with ice cold beers and salty chips and salsa to reward ourselves for a day of hard pedaling. Instead we felt more like the Griswolds arriving at Wally World. There might as well have been a sign reading "closed for the season." What was recently a summer time resort is now just the shell of that with cheap plywood covering the windows of the homes. Public bathrooms are locked and businesses are closed. After settling into the reality of our situation we found a forested area just outside of town behind some picnic benches and set up my tent from high school. Despite all previous attempts to clean it, it still smelled like a forgotten gym bag. This was not glamorous.
Leaving our stinky shelter for a moment we crossed through empty parking lots and climbed wooden steps over the dunes to watch the sunset. Seaside dining, on the menu this night is a baguette, cured meats and water. The sunset pays off lifting our spirits with the reward of self reliance. Day one, we made it! After the sun goes down we shuffle through the woods back to the tadpole tent, whispering to each other with flashlights low so we don't attract attention.
Every time we open the door to the tent the zipper gets jammed and as we stand outside a few rain drops sneak through the canopy of the pines above us and land on our heads. One at a time we crawl through the dog sized zipper door and nestle into the warmth of down sleeping bags and little inflatable pillows. Submarines beds have more sleeping space that this tent. Our eyes are heavy and we started to drift listening to the pop of rain drops hitting the rain fly with the cadence of a kid trying to get stones into a tin bucket. Its always hard to relax on the first night of camping with new noises but with a few deep breaths we relax and slide into our dreams.
Then the unmistakable sound of footsteps bearing down on the tent with fury and speed. I am awake! My heart is thumping and there is little time, whatever is coming at us is moving fast and there is not a chance of getting the dog door open. I am frozen, vulnerable in a prone position with zero visibility through the tent. Helpless. Only a few seconds have passed but it feels like an eternity and the sound is acute. I can feel the earth thumping in my chest and the crush of pine needles and branches crack in my ear. Inches from our heads we hear the unmistakable snort of a pig. Shit. In my mind it is as tall as a cow, with tusks the size of a great elephant and cartoon-like blood shot angry eyes of a Pamplona bull. In reality he probably looks like little piglet from Winnie the Pooh but that was not where my head was. He sounded pissed off and winded like he just wiggled up 8 flights of stairs and the footsteps didn't slow down. Then we felt a full pig style gallop barrel past our tent. Now this little piggy was circling our south perimeter and its shadow is dancing across the side of our Nylon walls. This guy was moving fast (for a pig) and clearly only has one speed. Like a tank nothing is stopping this, definitely not my stinky tent.
Fumbling like a teenager boy with a bra strap for the first time I reach for my headlamp. I am going out there to scare this shit out of this thing, great idea. What the hell was I thinking, what was I going to do yell over the radio "Negative ghost rider the pattern is full DO NOT BUZZ THE TENT AGAIN" Luckily the flashlight was dead and the zipper was jammed but I eventually muscled my way out of there now with my 550 Lumen super power bike light. Silent nothing, you could have heard a church mouse fart it was so quiet.
THE SITE WHERE THE BOAR STORMED OUR TENT
After 5 minutes of waiting the beast was silent and my attention shifted to the noises coming from the tent. Megan shouts "I don't like this. What was that, what is going on out there?" In the calmest voice I could muster I say laughing "Ah just a couple of pigs, no big deal lets go back to sleep". Somehow my false confidence puts her at ease but does nothing for me. I lay awake with my flashlight gripped tight for the next 2 hours with worst case scenarios running through my head over and over again.
Eventually the sun came up behind a thick cover of clouds, rain fell on our tents and it was cold. A frost covered the ground and we hustled down to a coffee stand that was open by some stroke of luck. As I wrapped my hands around a warm cup of coffee I look at Megan and we burst out into a laughter that said without words did that really happen last night?
We made it to the Hossegor 5 days later for much needed hot showers and celebration amongst friends. Along the way we did not see anymore wild boars but things never went according to plan. Maybe this is the cost of adventure or maybe this is just where the adventure begins and thats what defines it as an Adventure.
THE GOODS
Riding your bike through familiar places is like seeing a place with new eyes, to smell it and feel the details that would otherwise be missed. On our French journey we rode hundreds of miles only to pass one other person who only appeared to doing the same thing we were. Imagine driving the coast of France and only seeing one car. Days skated on with the rolling sand dunes left alone to us and our thoughts. We slept under the stars every night and woke up each morning to hear the incoming tide scratch away at the shore. We didn't exactly pick the cleanest line. We pissed off some French people, ran out of food and water a few times, rode in the wrong direction for 3 hours, slept in front of a charging boar and rode our bikes in places that bikes shouldn't go, to name a few. What are a few sketchy moments in exchange for your own private tour of the French Coast? Just part of the adventure, and it was worth every heartbeat.