A Ride in Correze

Midafternoon.  The sun beams down completely unobstructed.  The air feels crisp and a light breeze keeps me from sweating.  I sit on the porch for 10 long minutes soaking in the pristine conditions.  With a yawn, I stand and walk lethargically to the bike shed adjacent to the house.  I feel slightly unmotivated and lazy after sitting however I am still determined to ride.  It is sinful not ride on days this blue.  The climate of central France in early summer is perfect for cycling.  Wild flowers bloom along the lanes.  Trees indolently sway in the mild breeze.  The country side, steeped in cycling history, has a inexorable draw.  An invisible force attracts a rider to the bike on days such as these.  Unhitching my steed from the wall, I check the tire pressure and a thin coat of chain lube is applied.  I mount, click into the pedals and churn through the gravel driveway.  A donkey from the adjacent field eyes me a I slowly roll past, an ode the rurality of this land.   At the end of the lane I turn left, heading towards the idyllic roads that line the Dordogne Valley.

Riding means something different for everyone and for me personally, cycling is a form of meditation, a way to disengage from everything that creates worry in life.  Money, work or school can all be pushed aside, as I cleanse my mind.  I exist precisely between the past and future.  The slow churn of pedals is routine, in contrast to the variability of the day to day.  The taping of the pedals is a twostep dance, extremely simple to learn however impossible to master.  Experienced cyclists will all tell you they are still students of the bike.  Riding not only puts one’s self in touch with their inner core but also to the land through which one rides.  There is no better way to gain intimate knowledge of a new county or foreign region than to explore by bicycle.  I was doing just that on this spectacular day in the hills of Correze.  I had neither route nor destination planed. I was simply riding for the sake of riding itself. 

I drop like a bomb through the town of La Roche-Canillac cleansing myself of the lassitude I experienced earlier.  The wind rips through the holes in my helmet and all sound besides the air rushing past are muted.  The village is as picturesque as one could possibly imagine.  Situated on the side of a deep gorge, the town is a medieval fantasy.  I imagine a dragon swirling overhead as the desperate townspeople rush for cover.  My heart is warmed knowing that such mystical towns exist.  The lack of modern architecture brings a serenity to this land.  Life moves slowly here but I begin to move faster.  I nudge my thoughts back to the present and pass through the town, wheels and chain chattering over rough pavement.  I am supremely aware in this moment; just the bike and I.   The road develops into a sinuous single lane below La Roche.  I loosen my grip on the break levers.  Gravity throttles me out of every bend and hairpin.  As I journey deeper into the valley, lush green vegetation engulfs the road underneath my wheels, I enter a deep green tunnel broken by speckles of sunlight. 

The road flattens out after the decent off the plateau where Correze Cycling Holidays is situated. I begin to meander along the path of the Dordoigne river.  On any ride through the plateaus and valleys of the French Department of Correze, a rider passes numerous delightful towns.  Each small hamlet is unique with its own personality.  The tiny municipalities can break a cycling adventure into segments.  Each town is a node in a large game of connect the dots.  Cafes, restaurants, boulangeries and fromageries are hidden like Easter eggs throughout the tight medieval lanes.  Even if one sets out with the objective of a strict training session, I challenge that person to resist the fruits of the French country side.  At a minimum one café stop is mandatory.  Although the Massif Central is one of the most rural areas in France, the food and drink throughout rival that of any great European city.  Locals here know how to squeeze every drop of pleasure out of life.

I make my obligatory café stop in the town of Argentat.  The decline in elevation to Dordogne river is significant enough to bring about a noticeable spike in temperature.  The air is hot and sticky, so I drink my coffee quickly to minimize time the in steamy weather.  Continuing along the rolling roads of the Dordogne Valley my mind meanders again.  My most profound thoughts come in the middle of long rides.  If ever I find myself mentally hung up in my work, a long roll through the country side frees my mind and often results in a wave of creativity.  By surrendering fully to the experience, I find new ways to address problems.  Riding bikes is far more than just a mode of transportation or an exercise someone picks up because the doctor told them to say active.  The sport of cycling is made up of every mountain you climb and farm you pass.  The journey is the destination.

I pass meandering streams and more tinny hamlets perched along the deep green hills.  I pass walnut groves and pastures dotted with the famous brown cattle whose namesake comes from the Limousin region.  The brisk pace I found myself pedaling through the valley floor slows as the road gradually tilts upward and I find myself on the D11: an notorious 8 km climb to the Correzian plateau.  The climb comes as a challenge at the end of many tough rides.  I sit upright and dig into the climb, one pedal stroke at a time, establishing a rhythm.  Focusing on my breathing, and riding just under my personal redline, I tick off the kilometers.  With the gain in elevation, stunning views peak through the trees on every switchback.   I see a full panorama of the upper Dordogne in its unspoiled beauty.  Green hills and small villages stretch to the horizon.

I complete the climb.  Not a personal best but I remain well within my exertion limit, retaining some energy for the rolling roads back to Correze Cycling Holidays.  The bright sunlight has given way to warmer tones casting long shadows over the green land.  A blue haze is evident in the sharp evening air.  An unfailing grin breaks out across my face.  Like a sneeze it is impulsive and uncontrollable.  I sit up and punch the air as if I had just won a stage of Le Tour.  A personal celebration of the conquests of an amazing day on the bike.  The only witness to my glorious victory, a single brown cow eyes me from her lush green pasture.  Uninterested, she returns to grazing.