Editor’s note: Sedgwick native Levi Bridges and friend Ellery Althaus of North Truro, Mass., have embarked on a 10,000-mile cycling trip across Asia and Europe. Bridges is filing weekly updates for the BDN.
For 11 days in a row we have ridden directly against ceaseless headwinds blowing 30 mph or faster from the southwest. The billowing wind first bore down upon us while riding through Belgium and intensified as we crossed into France. Current weather conditions make bicycle travel nearly impossible. The wind is ferocious, belligerent, and inexhaustible.
Riding against wind this strong would be best described as pedaling a bicycle up a mountain peak all day. The gale blows upon us with such temerity that I must pedal hard even going down steep hills just to keep the bike moving. I rarely shift gears because the inexhaustible winds make cycling downhill just as difficult as going up. Terrain is meaningless here. On a bicycle, these winds make any surface feel like the highest mountain.
The capricious gale often gusts in different directions that forcefully hit our sides like an enraged ram butting his head against a barn door. It can suddenly blow hard enough in one direction to nearly jerk the bike’s handlebars from my grasp. Sporadic wind gusts make me dangerously swerve from side to side into oncoming traffic or toward the ditch. Over time, I have learned how to balance my body differently to hold the handlebars steadier during heavy winds. But I move so slowly that, at times, riding a bicycle through northern France in November seems virtually impossible.
During the first months of this trip, my riding partner Ellery and I would anticipate celebrating milestones like riding our first 1,000 miles or cycling into a new time zone. Now we are so involved in the riding each day that we rarely even stop to acknowledge these moments.
We arrive in France and pedal our 8,000th mile on the same day. I ride out of Belgium without stopping and pass by closed-down border patrol facilities. Each building has long since been boarded up and abandoned after the enactment of the open borders policy between EU countries. A great feeling of accomplishment beams within me upon entering France. But merely riding in the chaotic wind requires so much concentration that I barely have time to notice we have entered a new country.
For several days, we slowly plod away through northern France heading southwest. Rolling hills and great expanses of plateau dominate the French countryside here. We grind doggedly across flat plateau and crawl against the wind up and down small hills. At times the road dips into miniature valleys where tiny French farm towns appear in the folds of the earth like a daddy longlegs crouched in a corner.
The numerous small towns we now ride through are our only respite from the unmerciful wind. The collections of small farmhouses are just enough to shield us from the wind so we can ride freely for several minutes. Leaving town, the pernicious breeze bears down upon us again. I scan the horizon for church steeples to estimate when the next windbreak will come.
Throughout this trip, headwinds have proved one of our biggest adversaries. Until France, the roughest wind we encountered was crossing the steppe, or flat prairie land, in Central Asia. Fierce headwinds also struck near the Sea of Japan in Eastern Russia and while cycling through vast wheat fields in Ukraine. But in 8,000 miles, the relentless November winds that speed off nearby oceans and race across interior France are the strongest we have encountered yet.
Last spring, I received an email from a Canadian cyclist named Damian Waugh who found our Web site and wrote saying how much he enjoyed following the trip. The previous year, Waugh and his wife had cycled from Harbin, China, (near Beijing) to Paris in just six months. Waugh had also battled the wind just south of our route across the Siberian steppe through the flat plains of Kazakhstan. I wrote him back asking what to expect.
“The wind blows stronger on some days than others,” he replied, “but sometimes it is so bad, you just have to pack it in early.”
During one of our first days in France, Waugh’s words echo in my head. The wind blows intensely against my body with wild gusts that feel like a shock wave emitted by the very collapse of the firmament above.
I grip the handlebars with white knuckles, trying to hold the bike steady, but the wind gusts with such fury that it pushes me off the road several times. The small cycle computer on my bicycle reads just 10 mph. Pedaling with all my strength, I can barely move my bike. I watch the speedometer fall from 10 mph to 6 as the wicked breeze blows harder. The number drops to 3 mph as a dark rainstorm moves overhead. That day, it takes hours just to ride 30 miles to the first town where we decide to “pack it in early” and spend the night.
During this trip, I have often been frustrated by the fact that I spend most of my time riding a bicycle through the fantastic countries we pass through instead of stopping more, going to museums and soaking up culture. The French wind has slowed us down so much, that we must ride short, exhausting distances every day to finish our trip on time. Fortunately, it is so tiring that we often stop riding by 3 p.m., which provides plenty of opportunities for getting stranded in and exploring interesting places.
During the past week, we holed up in the town of Chartres near Paris and spent the afternoon exploring the town’s stunning cathedral often famed for having the most beautiful stained glass windows in the world. The following day, a powerful wind and rainstorm arrived. We only made it 24 miles out of Chartres to the small town of Illiers Combray, where the famous writer Marcel Proust once lived and spent much of his life. Today, Proust’s name still adorns many buildings and streets in Illiers Combray. A museum dedicated to the writer rests in the town center.
I explore Illiers that afternoon and take refuge from the rain in the town’s old stone cathedral. Inside, I find myself alone in a wide hall where intricate stained glass windows lead up to a wooden ceiling entirely hand painted with representations of biblical scenes. Colorful wooden gargoyles with mischievous faces jut out near the supporting beams which crisscross the ceiling. I sit alone in the old cathedral for a bit feeling lucky just to be there.
The following morning, we continue against maniacal winds that recklessly tear across the earth like a suicide bomber speeding toward an enemy target. I know in the first five minutes on the bike that we won’t go far today.
There is no doubt in my mind now that France will be the hardest section of this trip. We are tired and road weary, but there is no other option save doggedly moving forward each day. Riding here is exhausting, and for the first time since we started this trip, my leg muscles, specially trained after seven month of cycling, are actually sore from going so hard against the wind for so long.
Riding along that afternoon, another thing that Waugh told me suddenly enters my head. “In many ways, the end of our trip was the hardest part,” he had said.
A gust of shrieking wind suddenly blows me off the road. I look at the immensity of land still before me and understand exactly what he meant.