One day cycling ...

Suspended in mid-air, hanging by one hand, I hear a soft plop, then another. From my unexpected birds-eye viewpoint, I look down. There’s my bike, lying on its side, right side up, across a shallow stream, one red pannier still attached, the other nearby. It looks a long way down, straight down. I freeze. “OK, calm down and think. You’re going to have to get yourself out of this”, my ever internal guide says to me. “You can’t stay here forever”.

Miraculously, I have a firm grip, but I won’t be able to swing myself up. I’m not strong enough. I try searching with my legs in towards the embankment I’ve slid off, but it caves inwards and there’s nothing strong there to attach to. The only thing to do is to let go.
My fingers unfurl reluctantly, I drop, bushes breaking my fall, and land abruptly on my bottom, limbs flailing. I don’t feel any pain. No shock either, nor relief. As far as I’m aware, I haven’t done any damage to myself. Blankly, I sit for a few minutes to catch my breath and survey the extent of my predicament.

This wasn’t meant to happen. Only a few minutes before, I’d been bowling along the towpath beside the Canal de Carpentras, two weeks into a solo cycling tour from Nice in the south-east of France to Switzerland. Ironically, as my legs turned rhythmically, totally alone, happy and in control, I’d just been saying to myself, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be at this moment than on my bike, right here, cycling along this very path”. Then the sudden appearance of horse droppings blotted the path. I’d manoeuvred around them adroitly, only to be confronted by the path narrowing to a mere metre over a culvert. No time to brake, just to steer beyond as best I could. "Through!". No. As I corrected, the back wheel with its loaded panniers started to slide slowly backwards from beneath me. I made a stabbing grab at something that flashed into view and my fingers snapped tight around a wondrously placed sapling. It held.

I heave myself up to tend to the bike. We’ve landed quite a few metres down but there is minimal damage to either of us. Nearby is the tall back fence of a silent, deserted property, denying exit or help. The only way out is upwards. It takes me an hour of dragging panniers, heavy bike and weary self crab-wise along the steep slope through the bracken, resting frequently against those well-located saplings, to regain the path, air and sun.

Three hours later, I reach Beaumes-de-Venise, another culinary gem on my route north. The bike mechanic glances at me and my bike with its crooked rack, pushes out his chest, pops the bike, panniers and all, up onto the work station and wrestles the rack back into place. I thank him solemnly, find the campground, spruce myself up carefully and go out for an unforgettably rewarding dinner.