There were a few grades to climb in the foothills along the way, some of which I had done on the way out. I barely noticed them. The only drama came from not finding a place to sleep for four towns in a row: from the look of the map, Rives, Saint-Etienne and towns in between looked large enoughto have lodging, but if it was there I could not find it. I ended up back in La Cote de St Andre, the lovely little town I rode through on the first day. That first hot,windy day seemed like years ago.
The next morning I rode lazily back to St Pierre de Chandieu, and summited my last col, which I happily was able to keep a picture of: about 2,000 feet or so of winding, green climb.
And along the way, had many hours to reflect on this adventure, its purpose, its meaning, its worth. It has been in the making for three years, so it must have meant something to me, but I couldn't explain exactly what. Had I been an economist and counted up the costs and benefits, I might not have made the trip at all, and still wouldn't know what motivated me to do it.
Michelangelo is credited with saying that the problem for most of us is not that we aim too high and miss it, but that we aim too low and reach it. But what of the aiming itself? What of the impossibility of knowing whether another choice would have brought greater satisfaction and meaning, or less? To aim is to have chosen a target already. And now that I have reached it, was the aim too low? Just right?
And all those times when I imagined that something would derail my plans. The length of time for the trip was so short, the runup so long. I could easily have fallen and broken a collar bone, or the bike could have shown up in Lyon in pieces, or I could have gotten sick. I fantasized every day about disaster.
This was more than fear, or more than one kind of fear. For reasons having nothing to do with the ride, I wanted to lay down this dream and simply lead a life. A week of training didn't go by when I didn't think of leading another kind of life, and in many ways it would have been a relief for circumstances to thwart me, because I wouldn't permit myself to do it. But lord, I wanted to. To aim is a burden.
And for what? I don't think I can say why I aimed at this, or whether the sacrifice - from every other part of my life, from all my loved ones and those who supported me - was worth whatever reward may come from it. I can only say that I was drawn to this and I followed, not knowing how things would work out or what would happen along the way. That everything did work out so well - such beautiful weather, not so much as a flat tire to hinder me - had for the most part nothing to do with my aim. My bus driver yesterday texted on his cell phone, fiddled with the radio, occasionally pocketed the fare riders presented for a bus ticket (I imagine him getting fired if he got caught, but if he was discovered without being 'caught,' would be seen as enterprising): all the while careening blithely down roads barely wide enough to accomodate the vehicle, whizzing past children standing on the roadside with inches to spare (and the children too seemed unconcerned). Somehow through the crazily unchoreographed, every-driver-for-himself (but not in a bloodthirsty way) traffic, everyone found their way. It was luck.
We were all lucky. Prepared, yes; intent, yes; lucky nonetheless. Whether this trip did me good or ill will never be known for sure because the only one who can really say - me - is also the most unreliable witness. We survey our landscapes and we aim: this - and not predestination - is what to me is meant by fate, the foundation of tragedy, and of love.
What can be said for sure is this: I have had my vision.
