Sometimes the trail is a bumpy road

Martha Marino

PART 3: FRUSTRATING FIRST DAY

DAY 5: STRASBOURG TO SAVERNE

On bike trips, I always look forward to getting up in the morning

and knowing all I have to do during the entire day is to glide along

a quiet canal with the sun on my back and a breeze on my face,

feeling at one with the world.

But today wasn’t anything like that. Rain poured down from a

dreary, gray sky, and I couldn’t find the Marne canal. Imagine! It

was suppose to be near Strasbourg’s European Parliament and the World

Court (Conseil des Hommes), but with so many waterways crisscrossing

at the same place, I had no idea which one it was.

The passersby I asked didn’t know either or thought they did and

just guessed. Three times they directed me up and down the same

canal. Finally, I became discouraged and just stood beside the road

wondering what to do. Shortly, an elderly man came riding by on an

old, rickety bike. He looked like he might have an idea where I

wanted to go. “Excuse me, sir,” I shouted. “Do you happen to know

where the Marne Canal is?”

“Yes,” he answered, rattling off a string of directions,

impossible to follow. He repeated them several times, and when he

realized that I “wasn’t getting it” or that maybe I had a mental

handicap of some kind, offered to show me the way. He used to be an

English lawyer at the World Court and knew the area well.

Together we cycled along highways, beside waterways, over bridges

and under bridges -- a route I would have never found on my own. At

last we reached an intersection of canals. “That’s it,” he said,

pointing to a towpath on the right. I thanked him for his help and

started on my way.

The first part of the canal ran through a busy, industrial area

but later flowed through the peaceful, bucolic countryside that I

love. Trees hung in an arch over the rippling water and an occasional

boat floated by. About noon, I spotted a small Vietnamese restaurant

near the shore. To escape the drizzling rain, I darted in for a quick

lunch and ordered “le menu,” a bamboo shoot salad and chicken with

rice -- a good choice.

When I returned to the canal again, the surface of the towpath had

changed to dirt. By the time I realized that the paved section had

been switched to the opposite side, there was no way to cross over,

so I crept along. Unexpectedly, I came to a steep downgrade near an

overpass, and while braking to slow down, slid on the loose gravel,

crashing to the ground. “Dang!” I shouted (censored version), as I

lay beside my bike. I wasn’t hurt but had bent the h--- (more

censorship) out of my rear reflector and back rack that now rubbed

against my tire. I trudged along until the next bridge, then crossed

over to the paved towpath where I flagged down some bikers who helped

repair my rack. This event, I hoped, would end my day’s troubles. But

it didn’t.

As evening crept in and the shadows of the trees lengthened, I

realized how tired I had become. Generally, I don’t cycle 50

kilometers in one day (30 is my max), but there were no campgrounds

between Strasbourg and Saverne. My last 10 kilometer were grueling.

My “buns” ached and, at times, I felt I couldn’t sit on the “saddle”

another minute. To elevate my spirits, I fantasized about having a

sumptuous dinner in a cozy restaurant, sipping a glass of wine -- a

dream that unfortunately never came true.

At 7:30 p.m. I rolled into Saverne. To my dismay, the morning’s,

frustrating saga began again. Instead of searching for a hidden

canal, I was now looking for an unknown campground. Not a soul had

ever heard of it, even though I told everyone I asked the street

address.

Generally, a municipal campground is signposted near the main

square. While I was searching for a sign, a lady in a parking lot

began talking to me. She was anxious to tell me about her recent trip

to the States where she had shown her paintings in an art gallery.

During our conversation, I mentioned that I was looking for the

municipal campground.

“Oh, I know where it is,” she added. “It’s up in the hills near

the sports club. I can take you there, but I don’t have room for your

bike.”

As we contemplated about what to do, a man walked by with his dog.

She explained my situation to him, and he generously offered to go

home and bring back his car. “I can put her bike in my trunk,” he

said.

When he returned, we loaded my saddlebags and duffle bag into her

car and my bike into his. In a caravan, we chugged up the hill,

turning and zigzagging block after block -- a route so complicated

that I would have never found it by myself.

That night, as I lay in my tent listening to the pitter-patter of

raindrops on my roof, I felt relieved to have arrived and grateful

for all the people who had helped me on my way.

Next episode: Beauty and Romance

* This is the third of five pieces on Marino’s travels by bike.