Unot business folded in two-two. Hands on hips, not even the beginning of the crest of a wavelet of fatigue, he stands upright, as straight as his joints allow him, in the middle of his tiny apartment, empty of furniture and full of this nothing that does so much good. Satisfied, he observes at his feet the two khaki canvas bags perfectly balanced in terms of weight, tied, clipped, clean. It went much faster than expected. Reassured to see that, despite Chronos starting to beat up, the brain and the body converse at a respectable pace.
Everything exceptional (equipment in the event of a puncture, derailleur hanger, energy bars, Doliprane): in the left pannier. Everything related to everyday life (clothes, toiletries, computer, charger): on the right. Or, almost, the perfect opposite of the recommendations found by his sons on the Scandibérique site, which included, for his taste, far too many Lycra-rich clothes and hyperconsumer whims. Who needs, really needs, a headlamp and an overpriced jersey with a disgusting print? They couldn’t help themselves, they offered him cycling socks, but socks, you put your feet in them, you immediately have phlebitis and that’s not to mention the off-putting aspect of the accessory . Never in his life does he put them on.
Warm kneecaps
The helmet, okay, he wants to make an effort, but the rest of the cycling mannequin gear, forget it, little guys. He will do as usual. He will straddle the fine leather saddle of his splendor of an old black and red mountain bike, in jeans, T-shirt, fleece, scarf, parka. And under his jeans, his very high gray ribbed socks, to keep his kneecaps warm. Need nothing more to ride along the water, alone, on a bicycle, for thousands of kilometres, with the wind in your ears, which places the rumor of the world at the right distance and only makes the marvelous float above you.
The face of his sons when he announced that he planned to offer himself, for his 80th birthday, the pilgrims’ cycle route. Leave from Montargis, in the Loiret, to go to Trondheim, in the center of Norway. They began to move about, counting the thousands of kilometers and lethal risks: “At your age, dad, without a phone, with your dying computer, you’re really crazy! » When did they start to fear for him? Whereas, it never crosses him.
He’s leaving tomorrow at dawn for eight weeks and he still hasn’t dared to tell his new girlfriend about it. They don’t know each other well yet. He wonders what he fears. That she feels compelled to wait for him. Or maybe she’s not expecting it. Her, her white hair in a ball, a silver motorcycle helmet, her hazel eyes behind her big glasses, her frank smile. The ultimate promise that this represents. A promise that necessarily calls for an appointment. Let’s meet if you don’t mind in Trondheim, Norway, in front of the Gothic cathedral, in eight weeks, on December 24, that’s a good thing, damn it.