The Valley Of Heaven And Hell_Cycling In The Shadow Of Marie Antoinette
Table of Contents
Introduction
CHAPTER ONE
Paris
CHAPTER TWO
Versailles
CHAPTER THREE
Small is Beautiful, Less is More
CHAPTER FOUR
The City of Blood
CHAPTER FIVE
Cheese and Millstones
CHAPTER SIX
An Abundance of Railway Stations
CHAPTER SEVEN
The City of Effervescence
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Small Epiphany in the Catalaunian Fields
CHAPTER NINE
Tunnel Trauma, Nocturnal Noise
CHAPTER TEN
A Lame Duck and a Second Epiphany
CHAPTER ELEVEN
No More Champagne
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Threshold of Hell
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Being Difficult
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Tall Dark Stranger
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
With Their Heads Held High
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tourists
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Having a Good Time – Don’t Stop Me Now!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Longest Mile
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Lottery of Life
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
BIBLIOGRAPHY
IMAGES
SUSIE KELLY
MORE TRAVELS WITH SUSIE
CHAT WITH SUSIE
THE VALLEY OF HEAVEN AND HELL
Cycling in the Shadow of Marie Antoinette
Susie Kelly
blackbird
Online Map Versailles to Pantin
Introduction
“Get a bicycle. You will not regret it if you live.” Mark Twain
IT is 3.00pm in a small back road in Versailles. I am straddling my bicycle, cold, frightened and growing wetter by the minute, courtesy of a delicate but determined drizzle. Our waterproof clothing is carefully rolled and stowed at the bottom of our luggage, because when we packed our panniers this morning the clear blue skies had given no indication that they would only be of a very temporary nature. We are setting off to cycle first to Paris, and then half-way across France. An undertaking for which I recognise only now, at this very late stage, I am totally unprepared mentally, and unsuited physically. I am angry with myself for agreeing to it in the first place, and even angrier for feeling so feeble about it now. I open my mouth to call out to Terry, a few yards ahead of me, to say I’ve changed my mind about this venture. Just as I do so he slings his leg effortlessly over his bike, waves his arm above his head and bellows over his shoulder “Forward ho!” I am reminded of John Wayne saddling up and moving out a wagon train. He shoots away like a rocket as I screech at his receding back; but he’s already vanished around the corner.
Quickly checking that the baking tray behind my saddle is firmly secured, I hesitantly launch away from the pavement. The bike wobbles and whirrs forward, down to the junction with the main road, which is teeming with traffic. Our three months of training for this expedition have been on quiet country lanes where we count the traffic as heavy if more than four vehicles pass in an hour.
By now a hundred yards ahead, Terry has stopped and is looking back. Taking one hand from the handlebars, and nearly falling off as a result, I raise my arm authoritatively, to signal that he must stay just where he is, not move another inch. Misinterpreting my message, he understands that all is well. Away he pedals again, leaving me muttering dementedly, using alternate cuffs to wipe the rain from my glasses – a futile effort – and cringing as convoys of coaches pass mere inches from my handlebars; from steamed-up windows rows of pink face-blobs peer out into the murk. I envy them their safety and comfort. The spray from passing vehicles unites with the drizzle to force itself through my clothes right down to my skin. Wheels in the gutter, elbows clenched to my sides, this is my first ever experience of cycling in heavy traffic. I am not enjoying it yet.
Terry is now 500 yards ahead; through the underwater effect of my glasses I can vaguely discern the blurred red shape of the panniers on his bike. Every traffic light in Versailles changes to red as I approach, further widening the distance between us. I’m forced to dismount and make a new wobblesome beginning each time the lights switch to green. I imagine a malevolent little man sitting in a traffic control box, watching my progress and gleefully pushing a button to make things as difficult as possible. The red panniers are almost out of sight by now.
On the outskirts of town we begin to climb a long hill, and the gap between us closes as my electric bike shows its muscle and begins to haul Terry in. At the crest of the hill I draw almost level with him and shriek at him to stop; over his shoulder he shouts something that is caught up and swept away by the noise of passing traffic. Again I yell, but he is unstoppable, inexorably rolling on like Ole Man River, while I bob along in his wake like a waterlogged paper boat. He turns onto a quiet lane winding through silent, dripping woods and zooms away down a steep hill. With all hope lost of being able to bring him to a halt, I have no choice but to follow, and we are travelling at exhilarating speed, slicing through the driving rain. My fingertips are a striking shade of mottled pink and purple and I’m virtually blinded by the rain on my glasses. It’s terribly exciting and quite terrifying.
Shortly we arrive in Marnes-la-Coquette, a discreet village mid-way between Versailles and St Cloud. This is where the good, great and sufficiently wealthy have made their homes over the centuries. Surrounded by acres of park and woodland, it enjoys the highest per capita income in France. Napoléon III owned property there, and, seduced by the charms of the village known until then simply as Marnes, he added ‘la Coquette’ (the Flirt) to its name, and the Imperial eagle to its coat of arms. Later Louis Pasteur used the same property as a centre for his research into rabies. This was not necessarily welcomed by the other residents of the village, who objected to the several dozen dogs, rabbits and guinea pigs housed in the grounds and destined for laboratory experiments. The snarling dog on the coat of arms is a tribute to Pasteur’s successful development of a rabies vaccine.
Marnes le Coquette Coat of Arms
I had planned a surprise for Terry in Marnes-la-Coquette – a visit to the Escadrille Lafayette Memorial there in honour of the volunteer American airmen who had flown and died for France during WWI, before the United States entered the war. With their squadron insignia of a screaming native American Indian, and with two live lion cubs as their mascots, the wild bunch were heroic pioneers of aerial warfare, and I know that this is somewhere Terry, with his passion for military aviation, would find fascinating. However, he is always several yards ahead of me, pedalling as if our lives depend upon reaching an imaginary finishing line. Regardless of how hard I try, I cannot get close enough to signal him to stop; he cannot hear the pinging of my tinny bell, nor my frantic shrieking. The elegant bijou village is just a smudge on the landscape as we shoot into, through and out of it, missing not only the memorial, but also the turning to St Cloud that would lead us to the Bois de Boulogne. Instead we arrive in the centre of Sèvres, which is heavily congested with impatient traffic.
Sèvriens appear to have scant regard for cyclists, and try to kill us by a variety of methods: by turning abruptly across us in either direction without signalling, slamming on brakes with no warning, or opening their car doors just as we are drawing level with them. It is every man or woman for him or herself. There are multitudes of traffic lights, all of whic
h change to red just as Terry hurtles through, leaving me on the wrong side and standing in the gutter inhaling fumes from revving engines. Terry’s bike, like him, is quick and nimble. Mine is cumbersome and awkward, and unable to squeeze past the cars waiting at the lights, particularly as, tied to the baking tray that is tied to the luggage rack, are two sleeping bags and a rather wide tent which protrudes further than the handlebars. Each time the lights change to green, I have to wait for all cars to be clear before I move off, because until the bike gathers sufficient momentum, it wanders suicidally all over the road, and I do not want to be squashed without seeing Paris first.
The gap between us widens again, and although Terry looks back from time to time to check that I am still there, it does not cross his mind that I am following from necessity and not desire. We cannot afford to lose contact, firstly because Terry doesn’t know which hotel I have booked in Paris, and secondly because I have no money on me. Without each other, we will be truly in the mire. Our one mobile phone is in Terry’s jacket. There is no means of communication between us, so I grit my teeth and squeeze my elbows tighter into my ribs. The rain is harder now, dripping off my cycling helmet, running simultaneously down the back of my neck, and my face, and into the collar of my jacket. Still, this discomfort is forgotten because of what happens next: after a brief respite from traffic we are suddenly on a vehicle-infested dual carriageway, approaching a miniature Spaghetti Junction. Above us is a fly-over, supported on huge concrete pillars. We must turn left, across two lanes of fast traffic, filter into the path of thundering trucks coming from the right and make it across another two lanes of traffic coming from the left. This is so terrifying that I give up trying to think, and instead pedal mechanically, mindlessly, eyes fixed on the red panniers, and surprise myself by reaching the Pont de Sèvres intact. A Parisian contact from a cycling forum has warned me of the dangers of cycling on bridges, and recommended dismounting and pushing the bike over, which I do.
Terry has already reached the far end and at last has dismounted and is waiting for me. This is our first opportunity to speak to each other since leaving Versailles.
Wet, but clearly elated, he asks: “Well – how did you enjoy that?”
I am seething and shaking with inner fury, but do not wish to have a full-scale row in this public place nor at this early stage. “Not a great deal,” I reply with what I consider great restraint. “I have been trying to ask you to stop since we left Versailles.”
“I thought it was great!” he enthuses.
Yes, indeed, there are few things I enjoy as much as being concurrently cold, wet and frightened.
“Where do we go from here?” he asks.
“Through the Bois de Boulogne, up to the Arc de Triomphe, and then to our hotel near the Gare du Nord. And tomorrow morning, you’ll have to go back and pick up the car. I’m not going to do this trip on a bike.”
“What on earth are you saying?”
“Never mind for now, let’s just get to the hotel and get ourselves warm and dry. We’ll talk about it then.”
CHAPTER ONE
Paris
“The first thing that strikes a visitor to Paris is a taxi.” Fred Allen, comedian
I TAKE out the small folding map of Paris with all the cycling lanes marked on it and we follow the banks of the Seine until we can find an entrance into the Bois de Boulogne. Immediately I forget the horrors of the last couple of hours, because we have the whole beautiful park almost to ourselves. The only other wheeled vehicle we see is a pram pushed by a young woman; an occasional panting, chap-kneed jogger shuffles past. Twice we ride past Longchamps racecourse; several times we pass places that we have already passed. The map is no help and begins to dissolve. As lovely as the park is, cycling around it endlessly in rain begins to lose its appeal. As the racecourse comes into view yet again, we find a sad-faced man standing under a tree and ask him how to reach the Arc de Triomphe. He stares at us in astonishment, as if we were asking for directions to the lost city of Atlantis.
I repeat “L’Arc de Triomphe.”
“L’Arc de Triomphe?” he echoes, his voice raised in bewilderment.
“Oui,” I say, forcefully.
“But … it’s a long way! At least two miles!”
Yes, but we are not ants. We are people on bicycles. Two, or even three miles is within even my meagre capabilities.
With obvious misgivings he points out a route, which we follow to a large roundabout, where the rain abruptly stops. Ahead of us the Avenue Foch glistens in pale sunshine. Diamond raindrops shimmer and drip from the trees lining the wide road, as if they are weeping for Napoléon, who would never march through the great triumphal arch, but instead would die in lonely exile. It’s a shame about Waterloo, in a way. I feel sad for Boney.
Mixed with this sadness is great elation, because I have, against all my misgivings, cycled from Versailles to Paris, and am now standing, for the first time in my life, in the luminous city, just a few yards from one of its greatest landmarks. Little congratulatory tears spring to life and slither down my cheeks.
Our destination is a hotel of a slightly dubious reputation, but cheap, at the Gare du Nord, from which we are separated by the Arc de Triomphe and several miles of busy Parisian streets. With new-found and misplaced confidence I follow Terry as he happily plunges into the utter chaos of twelve roads heaving with traffic, all converging onto ‘l’Étoile’ at 5.00 pm.
He instantly disappears between two trucks, and is swallowed up from sight, and I scream as a coach squeals to a halt in my path. Other cyclists whizz past. I am in a maelstrom of noise and vehicles, like a baby lamb in a Wild West show, straddling the bike and standing in the road, not knowing where to go next. I recall how all our French friends had reacted when we told them we would cycle through Paris. ‘But you will be crushed! It’s too dangerous. You must not do it.’ I wish I’d taken them seriously, instead of shrugging them off in my most blasé manner and assuring them confidently that we English with our bulldog spirit were not easily deterred once we had made up our minds to do something.
Nobody seems to care that a woman and her bicycle are trapped and helpless amongst them; they weave around, glaring, blaring, or staring in disbelief. I turn the bike and drag it to a pavement. I start pushing it around the great circle, hoping that I will find Terry soon. He cycles up beside me, heedless of trucks and taxis and sightseeing buses, and commands that I mount my bike and just follow him, and I will be fine. But no thank you, I am content to plod along in a wide arc, heaving the bike up and down the kerbs, until reaching the Avenue de Friedland where there is a generous cycle lane painted onto the road.
Shaken, and a little stirred, I climb aboard and follow Terry, who is constantly waving his hands around pointing out interesting sights. I catch fragments of comments “...fantastic...” “Did you...?”, but all my concentration is needed to keep inside the cycling lane and watch for the traffic lights. Sometimes I shout back “Yes, fabulous!” to be polite. I have assured him that if we keep cycling, sooner or later we’ll see a sign for the Gare du Nord, and this is indeed what happens.
We cycle through the shopping mecca of Boulevard Haussman. Whilst Terry is goggle-eyed at the great department stores (I can only imagine this, as he is always several yards ahead of me, but I know his passion for shopping), I concentrate on cycling. My clearest vision of hell, after trying to cycle around the Arc de Triomphe at 5.00 pm on a Thursday evening, is traipsing around department stores. If I never had to buy another garment or piece of furniture for the rest of my life, that would be just fine by me.
Unlike dignified Boulevard Haussman, Rue La Fayette seems to be having a temper tantrum. Most likely this has been provoked by a series of diversions that have caused a total gridlock in the traffic. Nobody can go anywhere. Traffic lights might as well switch themselves off and go home, because nobody can obey them even if they wish to. Vehicles are bumper to bumper, and in one case a car has actually mounted the pavement in an effor
t to escape. Drivers are standing next to their cars, shouting and waving their arms around, or klaxoning each other. In this utter pandemonium, the pedestrian is king. Terry isn’t doing too badly either, and has disappeared into the distance. There is no room to cycle in the road, because the vehicles are interlocked like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. There is no way for me to thread my bike through them, so I heave it onto the pavement and use it as a battering ram against oncoming pedestrians, forcing some of them to allow me a little headway which otherwise they would not. When the end of the world arrives, this is how it will be, I imagine.
The red panniers are my beacon, guiding me through this mad chaos. When we eventually reach the Gare du Nord, the road is trembling beneath roaring machines gouging up the tarmac around the station. Temporary wooden walkways allow pedestrians to move from one place to another; however, they are rather narrow, with sharp bends around which it is impossible to steer a bicycle carrying a wide load such as mine, as I discover about half way along. This means wheeling the machine backwards, against the oncoming crowds, the most difficult challenge so far on this afternoon of trials. The pedestrians hurrying to catch trains are not impressed by my efforts, nor sympathetic to my dilemma.
Directly over the hotel’s entrance – a narrow slot almost hidden between two cafés – dangles a menacing iron bucket full of chomped-up road surface. The machine to which it is attached growls and rattles, making conversation impossible. By grimacing and miming Terry and I agree that he will stand under the bucket with both bicycles while I go to check in and try to find somewhere to park them safely overnight.
As I walk into the lobby of the hotel, I am confronted by a weird, cartoon character. Legs encased in clinging black trousers, like Max Wall; upper half fighting to escape from a Lycra black and Day-glo green jacket; a round face, bright red and reflective with rivulets of perspiration running down it, crowned with a repulsive crimson cycling helmet. Betty Bumpkin, the cycling clown, I think as I stare at my reflection. What a holy mess. I cannot believe I look like this. I am truly aghast, and very angry at the hotel for placing a full-length mirror in such a thoughtless position. Before I knew what I looked like, I was relatively happy. Now I am utterly mortified, and forced to face several truths: not only am I a really crap cyclist. I need to lose weight. Skin-tight Lycra does not suit me. Neither does the helmet.