Le Tour de Catwalk

What do you wear when you cycle?

If you are Damien, you tend to wear black or grey, in varying stages of decrepitness (is that even a word?!) or, on occasions, the lovely red long-sleeved top that your brother Steven and his wife Michelle gave you back in 2014 that has a huge hole in the right elbow (too much leaning I think).

 

If you’re me, you might wear a cycling/tennis skirt (I refuse to use the portmanteau word ‘skort’) and maybe a simple t-shirt, or a vest top (I favour my old vest tops from when I worked at the Pier Bar in Cairns 8 years ago – I still have three and it reminds me of my lovely, lovely friend, Evelyn, who I met there and I still count as one of my closest friends). Top that with my walking boots (at least five years old), a ubiquitous hairband and two pigtails – I’m a walking Japanese Manga cartoon, albeit a rather bruised one (My legs are competing for the award of ‘least attractive leg – the right one is currently winning as it is covered in bruises, insect bites, a patch of sunburn, and has the added extra of a tan mark where my knee support is.) I’m not the best at fashion even when I’m at home – just ask the people I work with!

Anyway, we are in France, where cycling is the national sport, and the two of us are being put to shame by the fancy cycling gear around.

It almost makes me feel a little uncomfortable, it’s so shiny and lycra-y.

My two female cycling heroes, Gayle and Suzy, (who are part of two separate couples but who we met at almost exactly the same point, in Tajikistan, before cycling through the Wakhan Valley, along the Pamir Highway, and a great way into Kyrgyzstan with), are very much my kind of dressers when cycling – a simple t-shirt/vest top and shorts.

Maybe it is a little different being a longer term cyclist? I hesitate to even call myself a cyclist at times, maybe ‘traveller with a bicycle’ is a better term.

The cyclists here in France are a different breed altogether. Most of them seem to be out for a ride, not carrying gear or panniers like we are, cycling at what appears to be great speed when I am going as fast as a snail.

Everyone, no matter what age, seems to wear something very bright and very tight and looks amazingly swanky. I feel like I used to feel when I got dragged to the University of East Anglia (UEA) club night by my uni friends – completely out of place and looking a fright. We got overtaken by a couple of lovely gentlemen today who attempted to converse with me in French – my schoolgirl command of the language allowed them to understand that we had cycled from London via Calais (yes, lots of hills, yes, lots of wind!) – who really looked the part – and I felt almost embarrassed in my old skirt and top.

We even passed an older couple tour-cycling the other way last Thursday, complete with lovely, new-looking couture who barely gave us the time of day (I am being mean here, I’m sure they were lovely but a bit bashed about by the wind as we were).

The couple I have seen three days in a row, however, take the fashion biscuit.

We first saw them somewhere (I forget where exactly) on Saturday, as we grabbed a quick drink out of the headwind, and I geared myself up for the next onslaught. Bear in mind that we had been ‘wild (dodgy) camping since Monday, and although I had attempted to clean myself up in the bar-tabac bathroom, I felt about as clean as last week’s washing.

She was in bright pink, head to toe, lycra all the way. She had a wonderful basket on the front of her (shiny, new) bike, and looked amazing. He, however, caused both Damien and I to take a second, and a third (and maybe even a fourth) glance. He wore a bright, tight orange lycra outfit and could have been mistaken for a landing beacon at an airfield. It was seriously amazing. I wish I had their confidence – and their flair – they carried off those outfits with aplomb. They sat outside, with the other, proper cyclists (the ones wearing lycra), while we hid inside gazing at them. In awe (I was in awe at least, I think Damien is far too cool for that – or maybe he was watching the French news reporting on Trump and his latest exploits).

We saw them again yesterday, in another anonymous village, at another anonymous bar-tabac. Maybe they recognised our bicycles, maybe not. We certainly saw them, wearing the same bright, bright outfits. They weren’t long term travellers like us or had somewhere to leave bags overnight. Travelling slowly, no, more like travelling colourfully.

This morning, after a night in a campsite where I finally had a shower and washed my hair, we cycled back into the little village of Longny-au-Perche (the cycling festival village, full of old bicycles decorated with fabric flowers – beautiful!) and grabbed a coffee in the old bar-tabac. I even did a bit of hand washing – glorious – and was wearing completely clean clothes – double glorious! I had hoped to get wifi (ha – no!) and a plug socket (foiled again) to do a bit of writing. Instead, I resorted to a strong black coffee and a wordsearch or two.

But wait, what is that vision before me? Surely not…

Something bright orange and something else bright pink.

Or maybe two someones.

We might have some stalkers in our midst. 😉