Another shower, and some more cream on the blisters. I had decided
that if I could do just 30 miles per day, I should be able to tell fairly soon
whether my blisters were getting better or worse. If they got worse, I could
just turn around, or get on a train, and go home. If they got better, I
should be able to slowly increase my daily distance to something more normal.
After breakfast, or what passes for it in France, I headed South. After
less than a mile, I came up to a "Motor vehicles only" sign, with no
suggestion as to how to get to Falaise (or indeed to anywhere legally), if
you are not a motor vehicle. I ignored it, but took the first exit off
the N158. There were fewer clouds today so navigating by the sun, and
heading vaguely East or South-East, was fairly easy. I ended up on the
D613, which was on my map and looked reasonable. By 13:00 I had
covered 25 fairly leisurely miles, with not too much discomfort, when
I suffered a front wheel puncture. The tyres on my bike like to be
inflated to over 100 psi and, although not all garage airlines can
manage this, they can do a much better job than most hand-pumps. So I carry
a spare tube, but no pump. I pushed the bike about a mile, up a small hill,
to a village called Bossiere where there was a garage, with lots of cars for
sale, and a workshop. They would almost certainly have an air-line. It was
locked up but the sign said that, on Saturdays,
it was open 09:00 - 12:00 and 14:00 - 18:00. I
waited until 15:00 and gave up. I continued pushing the bike East,
while pausing occasionally to wave my thumb at passing van drivers. One
motorcyclist stopped: he probably realised from my limp that I too
was a motorcyclist, but he couldn't do much except apologise for not
carrying a pump himself. Two hours and two miles later, with my right ankle
virtually unusable, I came to a petrol station. 60 psi was the most the
air-line could manage, and the tyre didn't hold it for long. I changed the
tube and inflated it. Once I was sure it was OK, I cycled straight to
the railway station at Lisieux. I can't remember exactly at what point I'd
decided I'd had enough.
I bought a ticket to Le Havre, and waited for the train. Eventually it
arrived and took me to Rouen, where I had to change trains. The platform,
at which I'd arrived, was a bit like the London Underground, mainly in that
it was underground. I had a choice between a staircase and an escalator.
With a fully laden bike, I headed for the escalator but, once moving on
the escalator,
the bike had no choice but to give me a physics lesson. With a load of
luggage above and behind the back wheel, and looking up a 45 degree slope,
the bike wants nothing more than to fall backwards over the back
wheel. While trying to control this unexpected physics lesson, I quickly
became aware that, apart from not being to control the bike, I couldn't
keep my own balance either. I was suddenly on all fours, pointing down
the stairs, with the bike and luggage on top of me. I managed to extricate
myself, and stand up, just in time to watch the bike being ejected from
the top of the escalator. Lots of bits, like the front light, had been
ripped loose from the handlebars, and the front wheel had been buckled.
I had picked up a few bruises, on my right elbow and my right shin, and
a few holes in my hi-vis jacket. I made my way to my next train. In Le
Havre I managed to cycle to the booking office, which was closed until
tomorrow morning. I put up my tent in the area where lorry drivers
park, and wait until they can check in for their ferries.
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