France
from June 7 tot June 15 2002

A concentration camp,
but no dessert

 

At the most European town there is, Schengen, we cross the border from Luxembourg to France. In the closed landscape consisting of green forests we roll towards Sierck-les-Bains. My monthly period is bothering me a lot, in every position and with every move my lower back hurts. We decide to call it a day early, so I can rest a bit. In Sierck-les-Bains Peter treats me to some pastry, in the hope this will lessen my pain.

The next morning the pain still hasn't gone away unfortunately. This just disproves the myth that pastry helps to remedy those monthly discomforts. My hormones do cause me a lot of trouble, these days. Beside pain in the lower back their work results in sudden fits of crying, headaches and negative thoughts. In the afternoon I feel a crack in my back and miraculously all pain is gone. Immediately the question is risen whether yesterday's pastry caused this miracle or not. I'm convinced it did, Peter doubts it very much. He think that the attraction of pastry on me already is too big, he abhors the thought of attaching a medical effect to it.

The first days in France we cycle through Lorraine to the Vosges. We recognise large parts of the route of the "Expedition of expeditions": Peter, his brother John and cycle-partner Johan cycled from Switzerland to the Netherlands in 24 hours, only 3 weeks ago. A great fare-well tour, but he's glad he can cover the same distance in one week now. We cycle mostly over narrow forestpaths, the white lines on the Michelin-maps. These are really quiet but of a steep gradient sometimes.

On our way to Bistroff there's no campsite to be seen, so we're looking for a illegal place to put up our tent. We prefer standing out of sight, about a 100 metre from the road. A campsite should be reasonably level and uncultivated. Nobody would be pleased if we'd relieve ourselves in the morning while a farmer drives his tractor over us, our tent, bicycles or turd. A forest that's quite open is ideal. Preferable with a clearing in the middle, where we can rest in the sun. Let's not forget the stream. If it's something a bit less, we'll take it anyway.
Today we've cycled about 70 kilometres, 70 kilometres of climbing and descending. We haven't seen one metre that didn't go up or down. Like a lot of times, I suddenly get tired. One minute all's well, I whistle and sing, a minute later I'm quiet and there's only one thing on my mind: STOP. The upcoming fatigue pushes aside every other thought and emotion and only leaves room for one desire: put up the tent. Here and now.
This clashes with our ideas about an ideal campsite, or even something that remotely resembles this. Today this is happening again: suddenly I feel the urge to stop, even the vague green centre median strip of the road seems a great campsite to me. Peter has to make every possible effort to get me to cycle a few more kilometres to find a place that's really suitable. My temper deteriorates rapidly when Peter doubts the suitability of a very nice - sloping - place next to the road, near to a village. Another nice spot, in the centre of a roundabout is not good enough for him either. The concept of 'tired' gets a whole new dimension for Peter: camping voluntarily on a roundabout, then you have to be tired. Peter doesn't give an inch though. He wants to sleep well at night, even when that means that he has to endure the grumpy look on my face.
Moments later we pass a forest, which look promising. Deadly tired I look excited around me. Ten minutes later we've put up the tent on a nice spot, a very nice spot. In fact ideal: in the middle of a forest, on a clearing where the sun can filter through to warm the tent. Uninterrupted we sleep for 10 hours.

Between Saverne and Rothau there's a beautiful road, with the Col du Donon, our first mountain-pass this journey. The flowering robina's smell deliciously and the pain caused by the many climbs is softened by the superabundant colours of peony, lupine, iris and delphinium. It's a pity our party is disturbed untimely by a closing in, grey, cloudcover that starts loosing raindrops. At once it's cold and wet. The narrow road we cycle on disappears and suddenly we're cycling on a mudtrack right across the forest. A dear looks at us, startled by the sight of us: two worldcyclists in this forest, they have to be lost. Our sense of direction hasn't deceived us, we arrive right on track: Col du Donon. One hour later we whiz over the fast drying tarmac. At the municipal campsite in the pittoresk village of Rothau we have a resting-day to maintain the bicycles and to do our laundry. In the local library we open our first e-mails which makes us feel completely happy. On the map Peter makes me choose between staying in Vosges or cycling a route that's far more level alongside the Rhine. I love the mountains, although it's harder to cycle there, so I choose the Vosges. Little do I know then what the consequences will be.

The next days are tough. At home in the Netherlands (home?) Peter planned a route from north to south right across the Vosges, over the narrowest roads: the Route de Cretes. A green route, which means a lot of viewpoints and scenic beauty. Beautiful it is. The climbing-metres exceed all of our wildest expectations. The first climb from Rothau, the Champ du Feu, is a nice warming-up. On the hill we're constantly overtaken by touringcars filled with German schoolchildren. We fear the worst: hopefully there isn't a tourist fun-fair waiting for us on top. Our fears do not come true, in fact for the first time we appreciate those touringcars. The children visit concentrationcamp Le Struthof-Natzwiller, which existence we didn't know about.

In an educational way the children get taught what people are capable of doing to each other. The camp is situated next to the road; from above you have a good overview. The double barbed wire and watch-towers remain impressive, even after 60 years. The petrified statue of a skinny, skeletonlike prisoner of war is etched on our brains for days. I can't control my tears for all the emotion I feel here. So much sorrow. I realise that it's not just the Germans who are capable of doing things like this, it's of all times and all places. Is it an inalienable part of human nature, or can we overcome our animalistic instincts?
Silently we keep to ourselves when we resume our trip, wondering how it's possible that human beings can bring such terror and horror to each other.

The next day is a killer climbing-day in the second heatwave of the year: after the more then 2.000 altitude-metres of yesterday, today's program beholds 6 passes. One is more beautiful then the other and more difficult. On top of the unexpectedly harsh and steep Col du Calvaire Peter waits for me. As usual I'm far behind. When I finally arrive, panting and sweating, I joke: "Short climb this one!" like I usually do. Half a minute later I burst into tears, when Peter asks how I'm doing. The cycling is very hard in these hot conditions. I have trouble getting rid of the heat in my body, which causes headaches. I think the road is too long, the climb too steep, the sun too hot and I don't like it. It's no use complaining though: I started this adventure, so I have to finish it.
If we keep following the route planned by Peter in advance, the hardest climbs still have to come. During a break we talk this over and decide to cycle to the Rhine, by Colmar. A few days of a more level route will do my body some good, we think.
In Colmar we take a day off to recuperate from all the climbing the last weeks. On a resting day you really feel the tiredness. What's more, we haven't really had the chance to get over the cares, troubles, worries and workload of the passed 6-months. I had an especially hard time: saying goodbye forever to my mother because of our unhealthy and festering relationship, the illness and death of my father, abscesses as after-effect of the vaccinations for the journey. Then all the things we had to take care of together: bring our jobs to completion, sell the house, sell the household effects, buy a cottage, furnish the cottage, lay out the garden, settle, arrange a million of loose ends and finally the emotional farewell of friends and family. Preparations for a trip like this seem to be a perfect way to get completely stressed-out.

During our day-off we enjoy the sights in Colmar, with it's beautiful traditional houses, but the threat of an explosion is never far away. At night the accumulated irritations, tensions and stress of the last couple of months and exhaustion of the climbing form a highly explosive powderbarrel which discharges itself. The explosion can be heard hundreds of metres around when our dinnerplates with a delicious and not to be despised strawberry-dessert are blown sky-high.