Fontainebleau à vélo (Give me some header)

First and first of all. My new header. It's amazing right? 
Did you see my last one that I made myself?


It looked like the local gay pride parade threw up in MS paint. But really, I was the one who threw up in MS paint. And there definitely was no parade.
But it doesn't suck now, and that is all due to my new blogging friend over at the blog you're about to read making it for me. She posts recipes, short stories, and photos so go over there and check her stuff out! If you're interested in her services, let me be the first to tell you the process was simple. I  just sent her a couple of images and she added things, changed some for angles and really and truly captured the spirt of who I am and what I want my my header to say for me. (I'm just a ball of pop culture with some arms and feet.)
You can find a permanent link to her page over on the Recommendation's page, but she'll be getting a lot of requests and traffic, so if you're looking for profesional grade work at cheep-as-free price, Dude, you saw it here first. Get to her next~!

Moving on:
You know that one flavor of romatic that has nothing to do with love? Well, Pascal told us about how he spent 6 weeks once riding from the Geman/French frontier to the Mediterranean sea, by himself on a bike.
He camped, took days off just to swim,  ate at great restaurants, and burned mad calories. Obviously, the threat of adventure had me by the scruff of my neck, and as he had his own bike and we borrowed another, only one Erin had to rent a bike for a fun over-night bike trip to occur.  Oddly enough, I ran into one of my students at the shop (the guide) due to the fact that she was giving a bike tour that day from the same shop. Freaky. The boys missed meeting her largely because they were too busy getting pretty or whatever. I was up early. Heck I barely slept. Raise you hand if you're that kid night before summer camp begins, staring up into the dark, pretending you came to bed to sleep? Same for the first day of school? Same before a flight? A move? A movie? (Ok, well maybe not a movie.)



The things we had in resevers were oddly suited for a hard day's work--eggs, sausage, a stub of bread and cut veggies left over from our thursday night dinner together. Stuff that really stuck with me.  Once we all met up and had our heads safely packed inside helmets, we made a short but nerve wracking warm up ride, navigating the Parisian streets. Next, we three kings took the train from Paris to Melun. Now, the romance in me had wanted to ride all the way from home to our final destination and Pascal sort of put it in my head that it would be cathartic to leave Pairs behind on bike but when google says 60km they mean by car, and then if you use the main autoroutes. By bike, or as the French call them, vélo, it's more like 100 plus--especially if you don't want to die.
I can count on my hand the number of times Sebastien and I have been on bikes in the last five years and this was certainly the first time in France. So we set off by train and started our ride in Melun. We passed through some industrialish aspects of France down by the Seine, which a part of me found rather quaint.

This trip was so good for me. I was so caught up in the realness of nature. I may have been imbibing too freely of Flora and Fauna's good looks. Such pretty girls, I was made drunk by their closeness. Perched atop my bike like the accident of evolution that I am, sucking it all in with my eyes they way I do in a good museum, I found myself thinking, "Paris is such a piss hole."

Poetic, I know.

We sped on through rich areas with these immense villas set back from the road and the river, the kind of places you rent for exorbitant fees or keep for yourself like a luscious little secret. People always say you should see Europe by train. But the romance in me was saying, no you fool--by bike! That was soon to change.

We had gone about 30 or so easy kilometers, (you do the math) when Pascal gets all involved with this idea about visiting what his downloaded map calls a 'curiosity'. I was more than happy to skip it, but I didn't want to be a downer. I saw just how important it was to him however when he appealed to Sebastien's truest loves by saying it would be very Middle Earthien to visit a tower...

I immediately regretted being impartial when I started the climb. My butt burned, my thighs burned, my neck burned, and I was porting over a liter of water that Sebastien refused to drink on grounds of not liking to suck on a hose. smh.
Bike is no way to travel, I told myself and the hill. Bike is a way to die.

We had to ask for directions twice, cut through a logging trail and climb about two more hills, Sebastien even dropped his chain switching gears... but we made it. 

And that's when I taught Pascal the idiomatic expression "curiosity kills the cat." But I guess it just wasn't our time. We rode on until we came to a beach where we stopped to watch the children play and swim a little bit. Someone asked to borrow our bike pump and obliging we waited, forcing our senses to take in the scene. 

We kept on riding until we hit a proper picnic ground with a free bench and a great view of the river. We had a nice little snack but were determined to put off eating a full meal until we made it to Avon, at least 40 km off by any modest estimation.

The day was stretching right on on to lovely and in repose we rested and watched the people live their quaint Saturday lives in the sort of little town I can only bear to stop and stretch in. 

Even when the view is just the right shade of desirable. 

When we finally hit Fontainebleau, we were all in the mood for ice cream. Sitting at all hurt by this point. The boys had large Sundaes and I contented myself with the best milkshake I have ever had in my life. A lot of times, milk shakes are just too difficult to suck through the straw, this throws the flavor balance all off because not everything will melt at the same rate. Why not just call it sloppy ice cream in a cup if that's what your standards are?  

To be fair, I asked them to make that face. 

Moving on...

See my milkshake? It was made with hand churned, Ferrero Rocher chocolate truffle ice cream. Those gold foil goddesses! It was glory in a glass.
I learned a lot about when to shift on the next leg of our ride. One uses their speed when  going down hill by cranking on a larger gear and using that momentum to climb the next hill. As the gradient gets tougher you can systematically shift to smaller gears thereby making it it a little easier on yourself. Also, don't worry, your butt will give up and go numb...eventually.

The little town we stayed in was great and the hotel price at the Formule 1 can't be beat. 33 euros to house three adults. Amazing.  Ok, so there was the fact that Pascal was relegated to the top-bunk, but lots of kids half his size would kill for an opportunity like that!

I took a bunch of pictures inside le chateau de Foutainebleau and apparently Napolen the First spent a lot of time there. We saw his hat! You can see a ton more photos by heading over here. I would keep on writing. But I feel like going for a jog.

Final thoughts:
Romance is all well and good but a great story takes effort in the execution--not so much in the telling and retelling, mayhaps, because a good story tells itself. Its the journey, the inertia needed to get it rolling--it's in the triles. Without them--there is no romance. Without them, there is no story. 

Sorry I haven't been keeping up with everyone's blog lately. I plan to make it more of a priority in the coming week.  Have a great one. Make it shine.

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