The Bicycle Ride

In 1965, at the end of my junior year of college I was slated to go on a 6-week cruise with the Navy as part of my NROTC obligation.  It would be part of the preparation for an eventual commission on graduation.  I learned that I was going to go to the Mediterranean for the cruise, and that was a very good assignment.

I was very excited about it.  I had lived in Germany for 4 years with my family while my father was stationed there with the Army.  In those years, I had really enjoyed riding a bike around the countryside, though the trips were small.  I always dreamed of something more adventurous and figured a month of riding about would be a very good prelude to boarding my ship.  My heart was very set on that, and the plans were forming in my mind.

Alas, it was not to be.  There was an international currency crisis of some sort, with national gold reserves becoming strained.  So, the government decided to curtail travel to foreign destinations.  My trip was a casualty.  Instead, I ended up in Norfolk, Virginia – hardly the great adventure that I imagined.

But the dream lingered.  And 4 years later, I was on an aircraft carrier headed to the Mediterranean.  Life aboard the ship is very busy and consuming, yet still I kept looking at the planned itinerary.  As the ship went from port to port, which 2 ports were about the right distance apart, so I could ride from one and meet the ship at the next?  My boss gave me a funny look when I described my idea, and still said “yes” for me to take some shore leave.

The ports were Barcelona for my departure and Cannes for meeting the ship.  I looked at the map and estimated about a one-week ride of about 420 miles or 670 km.  That would give me 2 days to spare at 60 miles per day.  Now I just needed to buy a bicycle and some gear in Barcelona.  It took a while to find a bicycle shop, and I figured it was just a matter of walking in, pointing to the bike I wanted, and riding back to the fleet landing.  But the shop owner kept pointing to the frame of the bike where the front fork goes through, indicating that it needed to be longer.  Then he would look at me and raised his hand high to point out that I was very tall – too tall for that bike, and any other bike in the shop.  By now I realized how naïve I was about bicycles.  When I was a younger kid and shorter, that was never a problem.  Finally, with hand waving and a trip to the calendar, I understood he could have the bike I needed in 2 days.  Hurray!  A golden –yellow 10 speed with drop handlebars and a very hard seat.  It looked perfect to me. 

Two days later I rode it back to the fleet landing, and when the next liberty boat pulled up, I hauled the bike aboard and we motored out to our carrier anchored offshore.  The ocean was fairly calm, so there was little problem to step from the launch to gangway and walk up to the quarterdeck with the bike over my shoulder.  The Officer of the Deck looked puzzled but grinned and welcomed me back aboard.  Storage turned out to be easy.  Directly adjacent to the quarterdeck, our division owned a locked air conditioning machinery space that was perfect for the bike.

I had been gathering some of the things I thought I would need.  That included a newly purchased light blue windbreaker, breathable and not waterproof, a backpack to carry my necessities, both a yellow and a blue flight deck jersey from friends in the aviation department, my camera, film, a map, a few toiletries including a small towel and nail clippers with a small nail file, some tape, and a small adjustable wrench.  I was ready to go.  At least I thought so.

During the week or so before the adventure, people would stop me and basically ask if I was crazy.  What if you get sick?  I’ll see a doctor.  What if your bike breaks?  I’ll fix it if I can, or get it fixed.  What if you get hurt and can’t ride?  I’ll take a train to Cannes.  Do you speak Spanish or French?  No, and this can work.

Just before the ship was to depart for sea, I gathered my gear, my bike, and my dream and marched down the gangway to the last boat going to shore.  At the fleet landing, I disembarked, said goodbye to the others who also happened to be on the launch, and headed northeast.

Riding off the pier, everything felt just great.  It was February and the weather was cool, but with the yellow flight deck jersey and the windbreaker it was OK.  As soon as I entered the streets of Barcelona, I had a jarring reminder of the state of the streets.  Cobblestones are charming and something you see when you’re walking but don’t necessarily keep at the top of your mind.  But now it was very much on the bottom of my seat.  I kept wondering how long this would go on.  I hadn’t been on a bike for a long time, and I was tender.  That hard seat was becoming unbearable.

After about 3 miles, it was time to say “Uncle”.  I pulled over, rummaged around in my pack, and pulled out that small white towel.  I used the tape to hold the towel in its new role as padding on my bike seat.  Back onto the bike and continue north!

By now, I was becoming aware of problems 2 and 3.  I was not in great shape.  My days of college sports had worn off and it was an effort.  And the strong wind from the north made it much harder.  I think I only made about 30 miles on that first day.  It was only about half of what I needed to do.  Hmm.

The next day, I set off as early as I could.  It was winter, and the days were short, so there were limited hours to ride.  It was beginning to look like a challenge.  That math grim math, plus there was a new problem – my seat post kept sinking.  I would stop and pull it back up and tighten the wing nut.  But after about the third time, I was getting frustrated trying to pedal from a low seat.  I felt like I was scrunched up on a child’s tricycle.

It was time to pull over again and figure out what was going on.  The problem seemed to be that the bolt that tightens the seat post would turn as I tried to tighten the wing nut on the other end.  I needed to stop that, but the other end of the bolt was a smooth round head.  I was really wishing for a hex nut head so I could use my small adjustable wrench.  I happened to be next to a concrete wall at that moment, and that was the inspiration.  I took the bolt off the bike and went to the wall.  I spent the next 30 minutes scraping the round head against the wall until I had parallel flat surfaces on two sides of the bolt head.  Problem solved.  I reassembled the seat post, bolt, and wing nut and set out riding at the right height.

Except the problem wasn’t solved.  The seat post drooped again.  It was time to take a closer look.  Why in the world didn’t the frame hold the seat post when the nut was as tight as I could make it?  A close look at the slot in the tube around the seat post revealed the real problem.  There was excess metal slag still in that slot, and that was preventing the slot from pinching tightly on the seat post.  I dug into the pack and found that little fingernail clipper with the nail file.  It was a very good file, it turns out, and with 10 minutes of effort, I was able to clean up the slot.  After that, the seat was just fine.  Thank goodness.

Most of the kinks were now worked out and it was a matter of just pedaling.  I had figured that the coast route would be easy going.  That was very wrong.  It was up one ridge and down into the next valley, then up the next ridge, seemingly without end, always into the wind.  Coming up would be the Pyrenees. 

The wind was becoming stronger.  By now, I realized that my loose-fitting windbreaker was also a big drag on progress.  As I approached one hilltop, the hill shielded me from the wind on the way up and I was able to peddle comfortably.  But at the peak, the wind was so strong, I had to walk the bike downhill for about half a mile.

Getting over the Pyrenees brought a big change.  After the long downhill, the land flattened out.  I was still fighting that north wind, but for the first time the pace was constant.  It looked hopeful that in a day or two, as I headed more to the east, the pace could pick up.  By Beziers the wind now more from the side, and riding became easier.

That was probably a good thing, because by then my left knee was sore and stiff each morning.

About the fifth night, I reached Arles with its very charming town center.  I found a small inn, then wandered into a delightful café for dinner.  Candlelight, red checkered tablecloth, and a feeling of comfortable antiquity.  The dinner was perfect, and probably for the first time, things felt right about the trip.  The knee was less of a problem, my conditioning was much better, and I had started to enjoy pressing the pace of the ride.

Mornings were typically still quite cold.  I remember stalling before some starts until the sun was out enough to melt the frost on the ground.  Otherwise, the weather was good.

The final night on the road was the small town of St. Maximin, well from the coast in hill country.  The next day it was off for Cannes.  By the time I emerged onto the coast, a sporadic rain had started, becoming steady though light for the last two hours of the ride.  That’s when I learned the windbreaker didn’t do much to shed the rain.  In the last half hour to Cannes, I was soaked, it was still February, and the winter chill was sinking in.

By mid-afternoon, as I passed the city limit sign marking Cannes, I looked for the first hotel I could find.  It was large, the Hotel Mediterranee, anchoring the west end of the town.  I parked the bike quickly and asked for a room.  It was off season, so there was plenty of space. 

As I headed across the lobby, lo and behold, I ran into a few officers from our ship.  They were from the supply department and were the advance party for our ship’s arrival.  Their job was to arrange for any needed supplies, and of more interest, social events.  It turns out that very evening they were meeting nurses from a local hospital to arrange a luncheon between their group and officers of our ship.  Since I was in town, would I care to join them.

Meanwhile, my first priority was to get to my room and warm up my shivering body.  In those days, the rooms didn’t get very warm, and the hot water was tepid.  I thought I might die of hypothermia, but with 4 hours of effort, I finally could reflect in comfort about the adventure just completed, on schedule, and with a pocketful of experiences along the way.  And then I was ready to join my colleagues for that dinner.

Postscript:  Back on my ship, I think some people were surprised to see that I made it.  There was no longer any question of “are you crazy”.  Now there were many who were curious, and several who quietly whispered, “if you ever do something like that again, let me know”.  The bike stayed with me for the entire cruise and proved useful in other ports for day trips.