3 July 2008: Bikes, Trains, Plastic Bags
and the Morning Streets of Paris

Woke up to a 5:30 alarm and rose from the floor of an apartment in Montmartre (a block from the Moulin Rouge, a baguette's toss from the shop in "Amelie," and a few hundred meters along the same street from the place where Vincent and Theo lived in the 1880's--thanks so much to Van Anh and Andrew for inviting me to launch my own "grand depart" from this historic location).

In the core of my stomach, something akin to pre-race adrenaline (or post-Amsterdam Belgian beer); in my legs, more glycogen than there has been since I started riding 500 K+ weeks back in April; in my head, questions, doubts, and dreams, all layered over with excitement like the treacle glaze that capped last night's creme de caramel.

Is the start really less than 48 hours away? Am I actually going to do this? Will there be enough room in my panniers and stomach for all those calories? Where am I going to camp?

Most immediate, are they going to let me on a TGV train with a bike crammed at the last minute into a plastic sack that looks like a heavily-taped cross between swiss cheese and a giant ziploc bag?

And then, just before coasting down the Thursday-morning sidewalk of Rue Lepic, Van Anh waving me off with a "bon courage"--I realize: I forgot to buy more tape to pack the bike. No time now, and no shops open anyway, I pedal my way down the bike lane of Blvd Rouchefort, then onto Magenta, then follow the number 7 bike route across the Seine, past Notre Dame, and into the heart of Paris.

The weather is promising--sunny yet cool; the streets are clear (I only ran over one pedestrian); and Mrs. Marantino must be saying a rosary, because just after I make the right turn onto Montparnasse, I see it: a roll of packing tape laying in the middle of the bike lane.

I haven't quite arrived at a defintion of God, but I will say this--sometimes She shows up in the strangest places.

Now I am on the train to Brest, and the true Grand Depart. A few cars ahead of me, Tom and his bike; on the seat across the aisle, a Frenchman with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips and a tabby cat on his lap; roaming past me toward the front of the train, a conductor who punched my ticket and barely looked twice at my well-taped bicycle.