"Get a new bike"

That was the response from the bike mechanic in Clermont Ferrand when Mats and I managed to piece enough of our limited vocabulary and dim memory of the conditional tense together to ask what we should do to make sure our bikes made it to Greece. As predicted, mine bore the brunt of the mechanic's contempt because, as a wiser man once declared, "you'd be better off riding an old coyote." After using all of the accepted the tools of diplomacy I still couldn't get my bike to shift into the smallest front chain ring, which is absolutely neccessary for the climbs in the Massif Central. Thus, I was forced to resort to more drastic measures and I have now perfected the more aggressive strategy of kicking the chain into the little ring. Because I have adopted this new role, I now only respond to the name, "the derailleur". It makes me feel like a real guerilla operative. In fact, the men all call my partner Colonel Sanchez "the raging bull of Saragossa". Mats characteristically refuses to acknowledge their acclaim and reminds me that we're not even going to Spain..... but I digress

To get to the heart of all this madness we must go back to Paris where I innocently picked up a copy of Winston Churchill's "Triumph and Tragedy" Volume VI of his work on World War II. As I was skimming through it, a girl sat down next to me on the bench. "How's World War II?" she asked with an obvious lack of interest in the subject.
"Never changes" I replied laconically. My terseness didn't discourage her and I soon found myself explaining that I was biking from across Europe.
"You must have strong legs" she exclaimed, while moving slightly closer on the bench.
"These aren't legs, they're pistons" I said. There was a long silence as she waited for me to laugh. I didn't and she soon reversed her previous actions, discreetly sliding back down the bench and pretending to read a book on car repair before disappearing into a flock of tourists.... "That day I visited Eisenhower at his headquarters near Portsmouth..."........

At a campground outside of Paris we met a fellow biker, a lively German man in his 50's. We talked about the heat and the tar that sicks to your tires in the afternoon sun and some other pleasantries before turning to the inevitable topic of conversation among cyclists: dog chases. Nothing stimulates a rider like a mad race with a huge, unchained, slobbering beast. Mats and I both had stories of close escapes and strategies for slowing dogs down including all the classics like water bottles to the eyes, banana peels and handfuls of aluminum foil to throw off their radar. This German guy, on the other hand, was not interested in deception or delaying tactics and his story went something like this:
"I vas biking sroo Bavaria in Awgust many years past. Eet vas hot day, many climbings and last climbing of day I hear dees noise and I say Got Dam, ees a bloodhungry hund and I am sinking I do not go fast now, so he come close and I pool out my reevolver and shoot heem dead. Hee do not catch a treecycle now."
Then he laughed till his body shook and a smile of pure glee broke out on his face. I suddenly remembered the important conference call I was missing and Mats developed a sudden case of cholera and we made a beeline for our tents where we cowered the rest of the night afraid to even open the fly to relieve ourselves, that maniacal German laughter echoing in our heads.

Willages
Speaking of Germans, I really do miss them. Ever since I heard them describe one of their smallest centers of residential life as a "willage" I have been incurably tickled. I even took to asking leading questions in order to hear this wonderful word. "So Bokel is a big city?" I would ask, pointing to the smallest town on our map. "No, it is but a little willage" they would say, perplexed at the huge grin breaking out on my face. Needless to say, I can't wait to get back to the the little willages of Switzerland and Austria.

Things I've seen:

An Asian girl with a confused look on her face as she walked across the Pont Neuf carefully studying her Rome guidebook.

An old Dutch man walking around with a pastel yellow handbag with "World Wrestling Federation" emblazoned on it.

Men wearing capri pants

Overweight French women. Whoever wrote that book about how French women eat well and never gain weight has either never been to France, or is once again pulling the wool over the eyes of America's dieting population. When will people learn that the trick to being able to eat what you want without gaining weight is to ride your bike ninety miles a day!