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 becoming reality as I felt the Earth shake under a 300 pound swine charging toward my 1997 green NorthFace tadpole tent.
This was the first night of a six day bike tour down the southwest coast of France on a route that we had only mildly researched, in a country where we knew only a few words in the native tongue. What have I gotten 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 touring experience, that this was a good idea. "Totally Doable" were the exact words I said to her as we sat comfortably in a burrito join around the corner 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. We looked excitedly 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 the world and even better for surfers as the world's best gathered in the French town Hossegor, 280km south of our starting point, for the first day of a 12 day contest dubbed the Quicksilver Pro. For the next six days we would take our time, riding bikes down the coast and camping along the way before meeting up with friends in Hossegor.
We loaded our bikes onto a ferry with pannier bags, carrying our clothes, tent and provisions, strapped to the back and made our way across the bay. The ferry ride was so typically French. Buttery croissants 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 soon isolated us from people and the small businesses outside the ferry drop. Pine tress climbed above our heads and soon swallowed us into the quiet of the morning. Sun struck through the branches of the trees flickering on our faces. The constant roll of the waves sounded like a pulsing parade of marbles, sending us into a trance-like state as well fell into the rhythm of the road.
The Velodyssey route was developed 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 culminating in the French border town of Hendaye. Our goal was to ride a partial route, starting in Royan and go slightly beyond the end to San Sebastian, Spain. A total of approximately 350km of mixed coast terrain over six days - roughly the same distance from Boston to New York City.
On our first day of climbing and falling through the dunes we came in and out of quaint coastal towns. In between 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 every second time I made a full rotation of my pedals, the pit in my stomach where the small pastry I had for breakfast burned off five hours ago.
After about six hours of riding we pulled into the small village of Carcan, dreaming of bustling cafes like the small Mexican food joints we love offering ice cold beers and salty chips and salsa to reward ourselves after a long day of 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 packed summer resort was now just the shell of that with cheap plywood covering the windows of the surrounding homes. Public bathrooms were locked and businesses are closed. After settling in to the reality of our situation we located a forested area just outside of town being some picnic benches and set up my tent from high school. Despite 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, every night, is baguette, cured meats and water. The sunset pays off lifting our spirits as we let the reward of self reliance sink in. Day one, we made it! As the sun disappears we shuffle through the woods back to the tadpole tent, whispering to each other with flashlights low not wanting to attract attention.
Every time we open the tent door the zipper jams and as we stand outside a few rain drops sneak through the canopy of the pines above us sprinkling our heads. One at a time we crawl in a nestle into the warmth of down sleeping bags, our heads resting on his and hers inflatable pillows. Submarine beds have more sleeping space than this tent. Our eyes are heavy and we start to drift listening to the pop of raindrops against the rainfly with the cadence of a kids trying to throw stones into a tin bucket. It's 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 to react. Whatever is coming at us is moving fast and there is not a chance I'm getting the dog door open before it arrives. I am frozen, vulnerable in prone position with zero visibility through the tent. Helpless. Only a few seconds have passed but it feels like an eternity and the sounds are acute. I can feel the earth thumping in my chest and the crush of pine needles and branches crack in my ears. Inches from our heads we hear the unmistakable snort of a hog. In my mind this guy is as tall as a cow, with tusks the size of a great elephant and angry, cartoon-like blood shot eyes of a Pamplona bull. In reality he probably looks more like Piglet from Winnie the Pooh but this was not the image conjured up by my mind's eye. He sounded pissed off and was now galloping at full speed circling our south perimeter, his shadow dancing across the side of our nylon walls. This guys was moving fast, his only speed, and like a tank nothing can stop it, definitely not my stinky tent.
Fumbling like a teenage boy with a bra strap for the first time, I reach for my headlamp. I am going out there to scare this thing off, great idea. What was I thinking? Was I going to 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, delaying my exit, but I eventually muscled my way out with my 550 Lumen super power bike light. Silence. You could have heard a church mouse fart it was so quiet. After five minutes of waiting, watching, my attention shifted to noises coming from inside the tent. Megan shouts "I don't like this. What the hell was that? What's going on out there?" In the calmest voice I could muster I say laughing "Ah just a couple of pigs, no big deal. Let's 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 two hours with worst case scenarios running through my head over and over again.
THE SITE WHERE THE WILD BOAR STORMED OUR TENT
Eventually the sun emerges behind a thick cover of clouds, raindrops sprinkle our heads again and the cold makes us shiver. We gear up for the day and hustle 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 into a laughter that said did that really happen last night?
We made it to Hossegor five days later for much needed hot showers and celebration amongst friends. Along the way we did not see any more wild boars but rarely did things go according to plan. Maybe this is the cost of adventure. Or maybe without these mishaps, without adversity there is no adventure at all.
THE GOODS
I know this. Riding your bike through familiar places is like seeing a place for the first time, to smell it and experience details that would otherwise be missed. On our French journey we rode hundreds of miles only to pass one other person on a similar tour. Imagine driving the coast of France and only seeing one other car. Days skated on as we were left alone among the sand dunes with only 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 from French people, ran out of food and water a few times, rode in the wrong direction for three hours, slept in the play pin of a hungry boar and rode our bikes in places bikes should not go, to name a few. But 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.