Dijon: 12 years on!

5th Day
Saturday
Date 02- Sept 1995
Start Flavigny
Destination Dijon
Kilometres 61
Cumulative Kms 366
Ave speed (kph) 16.5
Max speed (kph) 53.3
Time taken 03:41
Max Height (m) 555
Today climb (m) 910
Cum.climb (m) 1855


I was looking forward to today. It was the day I would rendezvous with Séamus and also the first time I would get to test my knees over a number of climbs. The knees had given me trouble during the lead up to the trip. I had had difficulty in my teens with long runs that would leave my knees very sore - probably the result of trying to push too high a gear. When I came back to cycling the trouble reoccurred. After a long run the knee would be painful and it would be sore going down stairs. It got to the point where my cycling trips were limited by the pain in my knee rather than general fatigue. I went to Dr. O'Brien and he prescribed anti- inflammatory tablets that helped me get longer runs done. This seemed to be working well until the May 31 1995.

That was Sinéad's birthday and I had the day off work. After the children went to school I planned to go cycling for a few hours. The day was perfect and I headed off intending to do about 50 kilometres. But within the first few kilometres my knee was suddenly sore. By the time I had 10 Kms done I could take no more and had to limp home. Three years training and this happens with just three months to go. Foul.

I was back to Dr. O'Brien like a shot and he sent me to a specialist. My concern was that I might be doing permanent damage if I continued to push under cover of medication. The specialist was very helpful - as he twisted and turned my leg he said he had seen this sort of thing before; he mentioned having treated one Stephen Roche. Suddenly he stopped and confirmed a minor old injury that was the cause of the difficulty. This could become inflamed and cause the pain but no damage would result. If I was prepared to go and use anti-inflammatory tablets and painkillers then I should do so. Great.

Dr. O'Brien gave me a longer course of tablets; I continued to train, got better and longer distances done but was always careful not to overdo it.

Today though there would be no avoiding the hills. Breakfast was served from 08:00. The staff are all very pleasant and friendly. The owner's little girl (4) regularly asked me oú est votre dame? and was not impressed to hear she was in Ireland. I started off at 08:40 in 2 Santini jerseys but I had still not gauged the cold of the mornings correctly. This was made worse by the steep descent back into the valley and I soon had to stop to put on the fleece.

Over the previous few days I had regularly seen yellow signs in the distance that I thought were way marks for long distance walks. In fact these were marking the line of Gaz de France pipelines. In Ireland we have gone to great trouble to avoid the gas pipeline being a visible scar on the countryside but here its line was proudly proclaimed.

It was an ideal day for cycling. Cool and fresh on a smooth and quiet road in a beautiful tree lined valley with cows grazing on the lower pastures. I was in no hurry and gently made my way along savouring the day.

At Jailly I stopped and prepared for the first climb of the day. This would take me to a height of 477 metres, just short of the highest point I had climbed at home (the Sally Gap at 500 m). This certainly warmed me up as I worked the low gears to move smoothly and not too slowly up the gradient through long gentle hairpin bends. Breaks in the trees afforded me wonderful views across the valley from which I was ascending. At the peak was a lovely silent plateau set out in fields - a far cry from the bleak beauty of the Sally Gap bog.

A roadside cross - shown clearly on the map - marked the summit. And the descent was even better. I was delighted with myself at having crested this climb with a heavy bike and without any trauma. The surface was perfect and I sailed down, sweeping around the bends. Oh, it was great to be on a bike. I was travelling at about 50 Kph when I came out of the final hairpin and headed for the village of Boux sous Salmaise.

As I did so two cats chased one another across the road. The pursuer stopped in the middle of the road delighted with himself for having chased off his rival. He preened himself as I approached. Then, just as I reached him, he became aware of this yellow missile coming rapidly in his direction. He did an impression of a hedgehog - every strand of fur standing at rigid right angles to his body as he stood frozen in the road. Then, disastrously, he thawed out and bolted for the hedge from which he had come. Too late. In that instant I knew I was in trouble. I hit him full force and was catapulted off the bike.

I took so long to fly through the air that I had time to think of all those who had warned me not to travel without a helmet. I was determined not to prove them right. I was determined not to let my head hit the ground. But hit the ground I did and with some force. One roll left me on the left hand side of the road. Blood was pouring from both legs and the bike was in a crumpled heap on the other side of the road.

Everything was quiet. The cat was gone. I struggled to my feet, relieved that nothing was broken. I made my way across to the bike. The handlebars were obviously bent and the bar tape torn. I lifted it up and checked the wheel - it seemed OK. The forks had survived the impact. So too has the top tube. I remounted and rolled the short distance to the village.

It was deserted. Nobody seemed to be about. I continued on to a bridge just outside and stopped. I can remember getting off the bike and my legs shaking so much I could hardly stand. I realised now I had stupidly not brought any first aid gear with me. To this day I cannot remember how I cleaned up my legs but I did at least take the worst of the dirt and blood off.

I tried cycling the bike and found it was OK so I decided to head for the next village. On the outskirts I met two elderly women walking down the hill. I asked if there was a Pharmacy in the village. No they answered. A supermarket? No. But, they volunteered, there was a Patisserie. But then the blood running down my leg caught their attention and they realised I was in difficulty. They took charge. Ushering me back to one of their houses they took me into the garden and sat me on a chair while they went to get a first aid kit. What happened, they asked. I hit a cat. He hit a dog, one explained to the other, correcting my poor French. No, I said, a cat. A cat? Well well, cats don't usually attack cyclists.

But they went to work on my legs. Gently cleaning the wounds with alcohol. When they washed the left knee they asked Il ne pique pas? Piquer, piquer, what did that mean. I shrugged my shoulders and they carried on. C'est un trou said one in explanation of the fact that the wound did not piquer. I knew too well what trou meant and dared not look. Dressings were applied and that finished one leg.

They had better luck with the other which piqued so much it nearly leapt out of the chair. Now I know that piquer means to sting. They were very pleased, and I think a little relieved, with this result and enthusiastically but gently continued to clean and bandage my right leg.

We chatted as best we could while they worked. Both were grandmothers, neither had been to Ireland, but one insisted the care they were giving me was no trouble; her daughter had been to Ireland and had been treated wonderfully. When they were finished they offered me a drink or coffee, which I declined. Commenting one to the other that I was in shock they kept me seated and tried an offer of water. This I accepted gratefully. Then they released me into the wild again, insisting that I go to a doctor in Dijon. I never asked their names. I regret that. Somehow I have to contact them and thank them properly.

I made my way gingerly up the hill through the village and nearly fell off the bike again when I came to a sign that urged Attention nos CHATS above a painting of a cat curled asleep on the pavement. I saw a few more along the way and could only smile ruefully and wish the warnings had appeared before Boux.

Cycling was not painful but I was very shaken. I had to ask directions several times just to find my way out of this small village. When I crested the climb I came to a junction and could not figure out the turn. There was nobody around and I forgot that in my handlebar bag I had an even more detailed map of this area. It was one of only two at 1:25000 that I had and I forgot all about it in my shock even though I had been careful to pack it in a handy spot when I left that morning. But the morning was a different trip. For the second time that day I was at 500m but now my old knee worries were the least of my problem.

I guessed right and descended to Bligny. I knew M would be expecting a call so I braced myself and greeted her cheerfully. Her notes for the day record how upbeat I sounded. I should get an Oscar. She reported that Séamus had left at dawn and was on his way. I was looking forward to meeting him.

I headed out of the village in the wrong direction but had the wit to check with a child on a bike who corrected me. He seemed surprised that an idiot would not know the way to the next village only a few miles away.

I was heading for St‑Seine I'Abbaye and was climbing once more. At 550 metres a small park marked the watershed between rivers bound for the Atlantic and those on their way to the Mediterranean. Below me I could see among the trees the single tower of the abbey church of Ste‑Marie‑des­ Cestres, one of the oldest monastic foundations in Burgundy.

I propped the camera on a picnic table and took a picture of my bandaged legs and then got back on the bike and swept down into St‑Seine I'Abbaye. Situated about six miles from the source of the Seine, this town gets it's name from a man, who founded the Benedictine abbey in the 6C on his own land. A beautiful early 13C abbey church, restored in the 14C after a fire, remains and marks the transition from the Burgundian‑Romanesque style to the Gothic style. It was begun between 1205 and 1209 under the abbot Olivier‑whose predecessor Nivard was a great‑nephew of St Bernard.

The principal attractions of the church are the paintings that decorate the walls. On the north side are two rows of panels depicting events in the life of St Seine. On the South wall is a Tree of Jesse, which establishes the descent of the Virgin. I was more impressed by the formidable double doors and by the murals of St Christopher.

By now it was lunchtime and I would have welcomed a meal but there were no cafés or shops open so I kept going. A little further out I ran out of water and regretted having set out without filling both bottles - never again!

A pile of wrecked cars on the way out of town served as a reminder that not everyone makes the bends on these roads. Again I was climbing, and slowly enough to hear a cow sustain a prolonged emission of methane.

The road dropped into Val Suzon where I looked for lunch. There was only one restaurant and there appeared to be no service so I continued on. I had intended going on a loop around by Messigny et Vantoux but the edge had gone off the day and so I continued on directly for Dijon.

I passed by an airfield at Darois and could not resist the temptation to go in and have my altimeter, which depends on having a correct barometer reading, checked. A pilot was happy to meet this strange request and took me into the cockpit of his plane and confirmed barometric pressure of 1016 and a temperature of 12°C.

Back on the road I passed 475 m, ate my emergency rations and started my final descent to Dijon. It started to rain.

In Dijon the girl in the Tourist Office discreetly tried to point out the expense of the Hotel Chapeau Rouge, but I had booked in there months ago to give Séamus a good first night in France. I checked in and the rooms were excellent; perfect really.

Having stocked up in the nearest chemist I changed the dressings on my legs and hauled myself down to the station to meet Séamus. I was sore and it was difficult to walk, I discovered. And Séamus was not on the train. I hauled myself back to the town centre and collapsed into McDonalds for lunch. No decisions, no difficulty, no surprises, just food.

I finished just in time to see and hear massed brass bands march through town in traditional dress from countries all over the world. There was a festival on over the weekend - just as well I had booked early. I enjoyed the parade and then made my way back to the hotel.

I was delighted to see Séamus there. He had had a list of trains going to Dijon and told me he would be on the one he had marked in his diary. Only later he realised he had marked the non-direct train to be sure it was the one he would not get!

Vivienne had returned to Paris and rang us in the hotel. She was bright and bubbly and full of good spirits on this bleak day. She insisted that, whatever the cost, we simply had to dine in the Chapeau Rouge - it had top marks in every book she had checked.

Then Séamus and I went to walk around town but Séamus realised I was struggling and so we went to see the film Lancelot. Great film but during it my left leg felt wet and sticky. I put my hand up the leg of my trousers and confirmed my worst fears. The wound had opened and was bleeding again.

I said nothing to Séamus. I really regret not being in the best of form on his first day. I prayed that the injuries would not stop me. Looking at map which Séamus brought I realised how long there was left to go.

This was my lowest point. The dream, so wonderful, so robust this morning, now looked fragile.