TOURS DE FRANCE : Pedaling through Provence, two neophytes learn the truth--a biking trip is incredibly hard work . . . but worth it

I stood astride my rented bicycle atop a five-mile-long hill in the heart of Provence. Soaked through, shivering like a belly dancer in Nome, stomach in turmoil, I glared at my empty water bottle and hissed at my husband, Mark, “This was your bright idea.”

It wasn’t his idea. I agreed to go on a vacation with his family, and he agreed to go on our first bicycle tour. I bought a book on bicycling through France that said that organized tours were for weenies with more dollars than sense. After trying to decode some of the maps, and noting the frequent occurrence of the words “challenging route,” I started looking through magazines for a good tour. Weenies we might be, but at least we wouldn’t be lost weenies, alone and broken down on a backcountry road.

I discounted immediately all the ads that had such phrases as “camping and chuck wagon” and “mountainous terrain” and “you will experience hardship together.” Out of the remaining high-end operations, we picked Chateaux Bike Tours, a Denver-based company, pretty much at random. We would spend nine days with them, bicycling from chateau to chateau and gourmet dinner to gourmet dinner, while they carried our luggage (and any tired bicyclists) behind in a van. We would fly into Paris and bring bicycling clothes, and they would bring bicycles, helmets and water bottles. They promised splendid accommodations and gourmet Provencal cuisine, with olives and lamb and aioli and muscular red French wine. They didn’t promise good weather.

The first day of the bike trip wasn’t so bad. A gray morning in mid-May found us meeting up with the group in Montelimar, a small town three hours south of Paris by the TGV bullet train. Mark and I were the youngest; next were Mike and Jessica, pilots celebrating their anniversary. Darren and Allison turned out to work on “Melrose Place,” and were later cornered by a small delegation who begged for hints on upcoming plot twists. Jason and Cheryl were from Nova Scotia, and Charles and Carol had previously bicycled across Iowa.

Ben and Dave, the trip leaders, were pleasant and efficient and got the 14 of us outfitted and ready to ride in under an hour. We were bound for Rochegude, about 31 miles south along winding country roads. Ben took the lead and we headed out of Montelimar.

*

We flocked together like baby ducks all day, following the Rho^ne River south. Viviers was the first stop, where we examined a Gothic church and adjusted our bicycles. Lunch was a picnic on stone benches in Pierrelatte’s tiny town square. The day slipped away quickly as we crossed and recrossed the Rho^ne and spun past the long rows of grapevines.

At day’s end we discovered something disheartening: Every town in that part of Provence was on a hill, and every chateau we were staying in was at the highest point in the town. When we got to Rochegude, I stood on my pedals and panted my way up the zigzag cobblestone street, grateful for the sturdy mountain bike’s fat tires and low gears.

The Cha^teau de Rochegude’s encircling wall was pierced by an aristocratic iron gate, and the wheat-colored stone walls were embroidered with ivy and painted with warm afternoon light. Grimy with road dirt and sweat, Mark and I found our way up a marble staircase into a high-ceilinged room that dwarfed the king-size bed.

Two hours later, post-bath and post-nap, I realized two things. First, I had been bicycling all day on a pretty sparse lunch--in other words, I could have eaten the flowered chintz bedspread without a second thought. Second, it was only six o’clock, and dinner wasn’t until the fashionable continental hour of eight. I groaned and laid back down, trying to pretend I was on a reducing diet at a spa.

At 7:30 we rejoined the group for cocktails on the flagstone patio outside the dining room. My prayers were answered; with champagne came canapes: little toasts with pa^te, cheese puffs, and tiny pastry boats with caviar. Mark stepped on my foot as I started toward the table for fourths. Ben gave a nice little speech that I couldn’t hear over the growling of my stomach. As Mark and Jason chatted about antique British cars, I stared glumly across the garden, champagne glass in one fist, and wondered if I really wouldn’t have preferred a burger at five to a rack of lamb at eight.

When it finally arrived, dinner was mouthwateringly good. The tomato consomme was a clear, delicately red soup, tart but subtle. The veal melted in the mouth, and the hazelnut meringue was brittle on the outside, then a cloud of sweetness within. Mark and I toddled off to bed, stomachs rounded and full, brains slightly foggy from a sufficiency of strong red Cotes du Rho^ne, and no sense of foreboding for what was to befall us on the morrow.

Mark’s watch alarm beeped at 7:30 a.m. I rolled over and saw a cold, gray light trickling through the window. The sound of rain spattering against glass reached my ears. This wasn’t any lighthearted rain that might decide to take the afternoon off; this was a businesslike rain with only one thing on the day’s agenda: soak everything and soak it good.

“They can’t possibly make us ride in this,” Mark said, eyes wide.

“Bets?” I growled. “It’s 40 miles to Castillon-du-Gard. Get up.”

The rest of the group was outfitted in rain gear at breakfast. Like us, several other couples had matching jackets, some still with price tags. Everyone pointedly avoided looking out the window or commenting on the weather. An hour later we pulled our blue rain hoods up over our helmets and pushed the bikes out into the chilly morning. The rain rattled on our hoods as we turned downhill toward Orange and the heart of the Chateauneuf-du-Pape wine region.

It was kind of fun, actually, in the way that stomping mud puddles used to be fun; I’m going out to play, Mom, and I’m coming home dirty. We pulled up behind the other group members in Orange. As I leaned my bike against a tree and rubbed my hands together briskly, I saw a wiry gray-haired man walk out of a door with a tiny “Cafe” sign next to it. It was the work of an instant to toss my helmet to Mark and dodge in the door.

A stout dark-haired woman gave me a shot of sugar-drenched espresso that sent a jolt of electricity through my body. I thanked her profusely and tried not to burn my tongue. Although my best French phrases are, “Je ne comprends pas” (I don’t understand) and “Je ne parle pas francais” (I don’t speak French), we managed to have a short chat, punctuated with a lot of smiles and gestures. I got across the point that it was a lovely day, as I dripped on her stone floor, and she told me that today all of France had the rain. I headed out to join the group on the second leg, spirits high and blood sugar surging.

Pedaling south out of Orange, we passed vine-covered hills whose tops were lost in the mist of the lowering sky. Where the weak sun of the day before had somehow bleached the colors out of the landscape, the rain seemed to drench and brighten them. The green palmy leaves were vivid; the twisted gray vines were darkened, and the baseball-size rocks that passed for soil in those parts had their dust washed away and their color transmuted from a dusty grayish-rose to a rich terra cotta.

*

We finally stopped for lunch in the town of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, dripping and blowing like racehorses. There Mark and I discovered that our new rain jackets had kept the rain off our torsos, but our cotton-clad legs and feet in tennis shoes were wet through, and I had sweated through my T-shirt. I changed into the dry sweat shirt I had stashed in my bike bag. The bistro, Le Pistou, was crowded, the steak and pommes frites were hot, and the service was relaxed. Warm and dry, we sipped a Vieux Telegraphe and contemplated pear tart for dessert.

Lunch gave us energy and we left feeling more confident about making it through the next 20 miles. I was glad for the mid-afternoon stop at the Tavel Wine Cooperative though. “You can’t miss it,” Ben told us. We turned right off a main road and saw the 10-foot-high sign on the roof proclaiming Tavel the premiere rose of France; it was more than eye-catching. I almost fell off my bike laughing.

Leaving the bicycles under an overhang by the wine trucks, we stampeded toward the door. The winery staff may not have been happy to see a herd of wet bicyclists tramping all over their blond wood floors, but they gave us glasses of their well-known rose and tried not to wince as we dripped on the price lists.

Mark was cold, my legs were sore, and we just wanted to get to Le Vieux Castillon, our hotel for the night, and get dry. So, after drinking a little pink wine and watching a steady stream of locals filling huge plastic jugs from a gasoline-style wine pump (the vin ordinaire, they called it), we pressed on.

“Just one thing,” Ben said as we buckled on our helmets. “There’s kind of a hill coming up.”

We froze. “A hill? A big one?”

“Oh, well, no, not really,” he said quickly, taking a sip of wine. “Not a problem. It’s not steep, really, at all. You’ll be fine. See you there!”

Not steep, he said. He didn’t say it wasn’t long. As the rain smacked down on our hoods, we looked up. The road went up a gentle incline, with scrub grass on both sides, then took a curve to the right. The hill folded in on itself in a way that made it hard to tell how high it was. But it wasn’t steep. I led off and we stepped on our pedals and headed up in low gear.

What seemed like several weeks and a million gentle up-sloping curves later, we pulled over and stopped again. My stomach was burning, I could barely pedal fast enough to keep going uphill, and I was panting as if I was in labor.

“That has to be it,” Mark yelled over the roar of a truck downshifting.

“That’s what you said last time,” I yelled back, wiping the muddy back spray out of my face.

“No, look, there are some trees,” he returned. “That has to be the summit.”

“I’m going to throw up!” I screamed just as Mike pulled up on his racing bike.

“Hi guys!” he chirped. “You two are doing great. You’re way out in front!”

“Oh no,” I moaned. “Where’s the van? We’ve been waiting for it to pass us so we could hop a ride.”

“Gee, it’s way back there,” Mike said, tipping his helmet back to squint at me. “Picking up Allison, I think. Why? Sour tummy?”

“Let’s just keep going,” Mark put in quickly, seeing the look in my eye. “No point in waiting by the side of the road in the rain. They’re bound to catch up soon.”

“Ugh,” I replied, as Mike accelerated away from us.

What seemed like three years later--”That’s got to be it!” Mark cried. “They wouldn’t put a radio tower anywhere but the top!”

“Oh, shut up!” I replied.

But this time he was right. And there we were, filthy, cold, wet and thirsty--you could cut the irony with a knife--and sore in every leg muscle. I thought about pulling over and lying down in the ditch when I saw the final hill. Of course, Castillon-du-Gard was on a hill.

A little knot of narrow streets crowned the hill, and a blue-and-white sign for the hotel pointed into the maze. Le Vieux Castillon turned out to be a set of honey-colored buildings set around a tiny T-intersection and a jewel-like rose garden. Our room had a low slate-mosaic ceiling braced with dark wood beams, a soft carpet and arched windows, but at that moment all I cared about was the tub. As the door closed behind the bellhop, I dropped my clothes in a sodden pile and lunged for the bathtub. Ten minutes of struggle produced only cold water. I kicked the side of the tub, my left calf felt as if it had been spiked with a poisoned lawn dart and I burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” Mark appeared around the door, bathrobed and looking warmer than he had any right to be.

“It’s cold,” I sobbed. “I’m cold. And my leg. Oh, God.”

*

Mark snapped into action, wrapping a huge bath towel around me, installing me in the bed, putting a $6 mini-bar Coke on the night stand. My calf refused to loosen up, I refused to stop crying, and he headed for the front desk to holler at someone about the water. Sniffling, I thought, it’s not just that I can’t make it up a non-steep hill without stopping every 20 feet, but then I totally fall apart when it’s all over. Maybe I can eat dinner in the room. Maybe I should just try to get some sleep.

I hobbled down the stairs to dinner and learned that only six people had made it up the hill. One of the older women on the tour patted my knee and said, “You should be proud of yourself!” I was stunned. I bit a wrinkled black olive and drank my champagne, and began to smile.

The next day dawned clear, and under a pure blue sky we set out to bicycle through the fields of Van Gogh and Cezanne to ancient Avignon. The whole way, Ben assured us, was flat. In two days we had to go over the Petit Alpilles, but today the sun was warm .

We spent eight days moving through Provence at a leisurely pace, seeing places that we could have whizzed through in two days by car. I wasn’t afraid of long hills any more, having learned that a slow pace and frequent stops were tactics, not cowardice. So, on the way up to Les Baux, which perches perilously on a granite outcropping, we stopped at a roadside fruit stand, and puttered up the pine-tree-lined road munching cherries out of my handlebar bag. At the end of that day, the director of the Auberge de Noves greeted us like his 14 long-lost grandchildren and gave us a post-prandial tour of his spectacular wine cellar.

From tiny Lourmarin, we ground our way over the Petit Alpilles to the Luberon Valley, setting for “A Year in Provence,” and Bonnieux, with its honey-colored stone and roofs the color of the red vineyard soil. All the way down to Cassis on the azure Mediterranean, we bicycled and stopped, sipped wine, took pictures, and smiled a lot.

I was bewitched by Provence, with its red-gold sun and rolling green fields stitched with long rows of trees. The quality of time was denser and richer as we loosely planned in terms of miles, not hours, and always had time for a leisurely lunch and a glass of wine.

Provence made an impression on me that would have been lessened had I been behind the window of a car, gazing out across the silver-leaved olive trees and the ever-present grapevines. When Mark and I return to Provence, or travel through Burgundy and the Dordogne, you’ll find us on bicycles.

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GUIDEBOOK / Touring France by Bike

Getting there: Fly nonstop LAX to Paris daily on United and Air France, four days a week on AOM French Airlines; direct on American, USAir, Continental and TWA; connecting service on most international carriers. Round-trip fares on AOM start at about $800 including taxes and fees; all other fares at about $1,075.

The price of most biking tours does not include air fare from the United States, nor transportation to the tour starting point.

Best times: Mid-May though mid-June is mild; green fields bloom with wildflowers. Mid-September through October is crisp and sunny; leaves change color, fires in fireplaces.

Bike tours:

The following generally recommended companies offer guided package tours in either Provence or the Dordogne or both. Most offer luxury accommodations and fine dining; some have standard trips, even camping. Some trips may no longer be open, and prices are subject to change. Chateaux Bike Tours, P.O. Box 5706, Denver, CO 80217; telephone (800) 678-2453, fax (303) 393-6801. Five- to nine-day tours in France. Provence tours start Aug. 23, Sept. 5 and 19, Oct. 4 and 23; $2,650.

Progressive Travels, 224 W. Galer St., Suite C, Seattle, WA 98119; tel. (800) 245-2229 or (206) 285-1987, fax (206) 285-1988. Dordogne luxury tour Oct. 1-8, $2,950; standard tours Sept. 18-25, Oct. 2-9, $1,990.

Backroads, 1516 5th St., Berkeley, CA 94710; tel. (800) 462-2848, fax (510) 527-1444. Dordogne inn-to-inn, eight-day tours, $2,698; camping tours, $1,098.

Bike Tour France, 5523 Wedgewood Drive, Charlotte, NC 28210-2432; tel. (704) 527-0955. Custom tours, guided or independent, exclusively in the Loire Valley, April through October. Custom, unescorted tours about $37.50 per person per day; fully escorted tours about $250-$350 per person per day.

Butterfield & Robinson, Suite 300, 70 Bond St., Toronto, Ontario, Canada M6B 1X3; tel. (800) 387-1147, fax (416) 864-0541. Eight-day Dordogne tours: Aug. 24-31, Sept. 4-11, 9-16, Oct. 2-9, $3,190. Eight-day Provence tours: Sept. 7-14, 14-21, 18-25, Sept. 25-Oct. 2, Sept. 30-Oct. 7, Oct. 5-12, 12-19, 14-21, 21-28; $3,250 and $3,290. Five-day Provence tours: Sept. 12-16, Oct. 24-28, $1,985. Country Cycling Tours, 140 W. 83rd St., New York, NY 10024; tel. (212) 874-5151, fax (212) 874-5286. Dordogne tour Aug. 28-Sept. 5, $2,099; Provence tour Sept. 22-29, $2,199.

Europeds, 761 Lighthouse Ave., Monterey, CA 93940; tel. (800) 321-9552, fax (408) 655-4501. Dordogne luxury eight-day tours, Sept. 1-8, Oct. 6-13, $2,395; standard six-day tours, Sept. 26-Oct.1, Oct. 23-28, $1,475.

Euro-Bike and Walking Tours, P.O. Box 990, DeKalb, IL 60115; tel. (800) 321-6060; fax (815) 758-8851. Dordogne 10-day tours, Sept. 1-11, Oct. 6-16, $1,995; Provence, Sept. 1-11, Sept. 29-Oct. 9, $2,145. (Prices do not include $90 bike rental).

For more information: French Government Tourist Office, 9454 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 715, Beverly Hills 90212, (900) 990-0040 (calls cost 50 per minute; call before 2 p.m. Pacific time); fax (310) 276-2835.5