Cycling the Vineyards in the South of France

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Outside Magazine October 2004

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A Jug of Wine (More Jugs of Wine) et Moi (cont.)


	Moveable Feasts: left: the Château de Massillan, near Avignon; right: Chez Bru, a bistro in Eygalières; (Elizabeth Zeschin)

IN A CAFÉ WATER CLOSET, the Dalmatian applied the chafing cream. When he emerged, Group had already hit the road. No matter. He freed his bike from a post, using the same bike-lock combination that was issued to everyone, and skimmed the day's printed directions, given to him by Jean-Louis (or J-Lo, as Group began calling him, because he'd never heard of Jennifer Lopez). This first ride would climb through olive trees and evergreen forests and then descend into apple orchards to our first hotel, in St.-Rémy. There would be lots of stops along the way, including lunch at Oustalet Maïanen, in Maillane, which, like most of the eateries where we would gorge over the next week, is a premier restaurant listed in that bible of French cuisine, the Michelin guide. As the Dalmatian rode through Boulbon, he tried to calculate 200 meters, the distance to the first major turn. Let's see, if a kilometer is 0.62 miles, and there are 1,000 meters in a kilometer, then ... Damn this metric system!

Apparently his figures were off, because he soon found himself pedaling next to heavy traffic on the shoulder of the D35, one of the major arteries the guides had designed our routes to avoid. As he waited for the traffic to clear so he could turn around and head back to Boulbon, J-Lo and Libby drove up in the white B&R van. The Dalmatian would have to wait until the farewell dinner at the end of the week to find out why they were laughing.

Now on the right road, the Dalmatian paced himself. He took a two-mile detour to St.-Michel-de-Frigolet, a monastery built more than a thousand years ago, where monks still do whatever monks do. Heading back, he discovered that one of his shoes was untied. The Dalmatian knew this because the lace had been sucked up by a sprocket and was so enmeshed he was brought to a skidding stop. He tried to remove his shoe, but it wouldn't budge. As he sat, J-Lo drove up in the van. The Dalmatian hung his head in embarrassment as J-Lo got him unstrung. Because Group was already at lunch, J-Lo suggested that they drive to the restaurant. As they wound through the Barbentane Forest, he explained that the Dalmatian shouldn't think of it as the Van of Shame; guests opted out of bike rides to take breathers all the time.

While Group ate, Le Grand Fromage took digital photos of the food, which she would e-mail to friends. Dressed in skin-tight black spandex, the Fromage was a droll and petite Aussie jock married to the Ghost Rider, a Melbourne vintner and entrepreneur who was telling a story about the couple's recent lunch back home with Geoffrey Rush, the star of Quills, a movie about the Marquis de Sade. The Great Sadist would be a leitmotif of conversation, because we would stay in Mazan at one of his former châteaus. After an hour of wine on the walled terrace and fork-tender beef in a dark espagnole sauce so complex it made me woozy, the Dalmatian was ready for the road again.

Throughout the afternoon the Dalmatian stuck close to the others, especially the Tuscan Twister, a California orthodontist, and his educator wife, the Fairford Flash, a couple who seemed like they understood directions. We stopped at Le Musée des Arômes and wandered around, uncorking perfumes and the essences of the many botanicals that flourish in Provence.

Our hotel, a newish establishment called the Ateliers de l'Image, was a superlative place to kill time until dinner. The Dalmatian soaked his aching body in an enormous tub of hot water scented with white nettle and fleur d'oranger, imagining himself a succulent main course marinating in a man-size tureen. Although he thought his training for the trip would be sufficient—tennis and horseback riding and an hour a day on a stationary bike while he watched the Cubs—his butt parts were telling him that he should have taken heed of B&R's advice to ride an actual bicycle 20 miles on a real road two times a week for a couple of months.

After his basting, the Dalmatian padded in his flip-flops past the tree house and through the gardens to the large swimming pool, where he lay walruslike in a chaise next to the Czech Noodle, a thirtyish, black-haired Minneapolis lawyer who advises corporations about international law, especially the Chinese kind. His wife was there, as well: the Tryst, whose happy explanation of the financial work she did was over the Dalmatian's head. As people laughed about the day and began to experience that kind of bond forged on only the most transcendent of vacations, the Noodle smoked an enormous Cuban cigar. The Ghost Rider turned up and showed us a Pilates exercise to stretch our spines and our minds. The Duchess of Sienna, a New Jersey builder, bought the pool people a round of drinks. Soon it was time for dinner. The Dalmatian underdressed in a blue blazer, khaki jeans, black T-shirt, and Aussie cowboy boots.

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