summer

Sometime tonight, while I was sleeping peacefully, all clocks here made the big leap from winter to summer. Daylight savings time started. In France, as in Germany, it's called summer time, which is a much more appropriate term.

Last Sunday, I rode the Col de Quatre Seigneurs, my first timid adventure into the mountains this year. A little more than 550 meters elevation gain at a little less than 7% average gradient proved challenging at the beginning of the season, but it was sunny, warm and a very enjoyable ride. A day later, the temperature had dropped dramatically and snow was raining down on Grenoble, melting a few instants before hitting the ground. Yesterday, it was still cold. Dark-grey clouds hung low above the valley, relieving themselves every now and then.

Today was a gorgeous day. As if weather had somehow heard about the change of time, the sun shone and the temperatures were balmy. I rode the Col de Quatre Seigneurs, my favorite easy climb, once again and continued into the valley of the Drac. At the end of the descent, going about 60 km/h, I almost hit a steel barrier some jokester had erected. With a mouthful of curses I came to a halt and looked into the confused faces of four yahoos in yellow vests. What's going on here?

They didn't make themselves clear to me, or maybe I wasn't really paying attention to what they told me with four foreign tongues and much gesticulation. I decided to understand that it was ok for me to continue as long as I stick to the right margin of the road.

My head bent over the bars I settle into a routine, slowly picking up speed when I'm rudely interrupted once again. A character screams at me from the other side of the road: "Toute la largeur! Toute la largeur!" The whole width? What the hell? I look up and bunnyhop my bike across the ditch and into the field in one smooth move. At the same moment, a multi-colored peloton is flying by, as if the finish line was right around the corner. The centipede on wheels is indeed monopolizing the entire road.

I remember pictures of Jalabert, one sad bloody mess, after he was taken out by an overly ambitious photographer and then steamrolled by the field. The guy looked like he had just stepped on a land mine, and he had moved in the same direction as the peloton. I'm glad I made the jump across the ditch just in time. Who's racing in March anyway?

The rest of the ride was uneventful. Just enjoying the sun and sweet dreams of summer, really.