Last night on France 3, Le Météo, the French Bureau of Meteorology, informs me that rain will sweep across the Haute-Loire all morning. Some sun might interrupt the precipitation during the afternoon. It’s an accurate, but unfortunate call, for cyclists planning a big day out.
Rain wakes me several times during an unsettled night of strange dreaming. I eat le petit déjeuner at seven. Madame prepares crépes in honour of my big ride, the 110km route of La Pierre Chany: south to Saugues and Esplantas on the D585; north-east through Croisances and Alleyras to Bains on the D34; then north-west via St-Jean-de-Nay and Vissac to Langeac mostly on the D590.
We both know I might just as well eat breakfast at 3 pm today. Heavy showers drench the morning. Daniel, Madame’s partner, but I suspect not the father of her three adult children, waddles out and retreats. On the road there is no retreat, so I bide my time.
The sky lightens, gives hope of something better, then darkens again and rain resumes. I study the map, drink tea, and consider my fate. Can I ride La Pierre Chany 110 tomorrow and be back in time to dismantle the Cervélo and be on the 5:09 train to Clermont?
All morning I write: about the French language, French women. Having exhausted those words, I write down French preposotions and pronouns, the keys that unlock my ability to communicate here.
In the afternoon the rain intensifies and nothing relieves the sound of it on the canopy over my door. My consolation for not being on the road should be to watch stage 12 of le Tour but the weather is killing the signal and both picture and sound disintegrate—pas ou mauvais signal.
No more words today, no pictures, no sound, no winners. Pleuvoir et plus de pleuvoir.
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