This morning I read and worked on projects, not getting
anywhere much. Lunch was a welcome diversion, eating outside, featuring a quiche baked on a flaky, butter crust,
topped with roasted pine nuts. An excursion seemed in order, so I set off for a woodturner’s studio I had passed
on my other bike tours. His shop was set on a hill across the river from St. Felix de Sorgues. There were several limestone buildings of an old village nearby, some that had windows and some that did not.
In going there I traveled downhill that shaded, fir-scented
route once again. Which meant going back, there was quite an ascent. The pedaling was a bit hard and very slow. There was turn after turn, each one going up. I went from pleasantly warm to sweating and hot. It seemed endless. I kept telling myself to keep going, with a break now and then, that this ride most certainly had an end. Pedaling and pedaling with no thought of how long or how far, then finally up ahead was the sign for Le Mas de Salel.
This is not a new feeling, this discussion inside. The inner child whining about the effort it
takes to go on and on while the inner parent reminding that an end always comes, be it in reading, learning French, writing, work or just getting back up the hill. Tomorrow I might just take a hike.