Biker dude

A woman reaches a certain age when she wishes builders would start whistling again and that people would stop looking through her. Did I say that out loud?
I met a man this summer who made me think deeply about chivalry. I never found out his name but it all happened one balmy morning in the hills beyond Castelnaudary in France.

Of the families sharing our villa, only S. felt the same acute need for baked goods that I was experiencing so we took to the rusty bikes that had graciously been included in the price of our holiday rental. My dinky panier lept off its hooks by the time we reached the end of the drive and a little further on came the amusing discovery that one of us had brakes and the other had working gears. Hell, we had a working bike between us and as the kids were happily splashing around the pool with husbands, life was gooooooo---ooood.

Undeterred, we cycled on until we reached a sign informing us that the closest village with a Boulangerie open on a Sunday was a mere 5 kilometers from the very spot we were at. S. led the way, skirts tucked fetchingly into her knickers and hair frolicking in the breeze. I puffed along behind---very much the emphysemic great aunt struggling to vaguely keep up with S's tanned calves. She was magnificent. I was drenched in sweat, pasty mouthed and starting to sunburn.

Returning empty handed was not an option. Calling the husbands on our mobiles for a lift back home wasn't an option. We vowed to complete our mission. As God was our witness, we would be worthy of "Operation Pain au Raisin."

Perhaps 45 minutes later, as we rounded yet another hill to find a curious lack of villages or bakeries of any description, a dashing man caught up with us. He wore distinguished mustaches and the country casual attire of a fellow entirely at ease with 80 odd years of picking up English girls.

As he overtook us, we gasped in a rather unattractive gaspy way: "Can you possibly tell us where this Godforsaken village is?". His eyes twinkled merrily as he swept his hand vaguely across the landscape and instructed us to kindly follow him. We struggled to keep up with our escort who seemed at one with the hairpin turns and hilly topography. Our thighs shook from the exertions of yet another massive hill as he beckoned to us from the next valley.

When we finally caught up with him we were in rough shape. Despite quite seriously hyperventilating and dehydrating, we made inquiries as to the secret of his vigour. Was it the air or simple clean living? He answered with the accent of his region "ma bicyclette est dopee". True enough, his bike was fitted with a tiny little motor that permitted him to effortlessly glide up Kilimanjaro and down the Himalayas.

With that, we reached the village boulangerie and thanked our guide profusely. The old goat requested sloppy kisses be dispensed to both cheeks in full view of the late morning queue for baguettes. Despite much arm waving from the baker himself who came around the counter to harangue our new friend for being up to his old tricks again, our very own biker dude managed an intriguing statement as we parted. "Perhaps now you will believe that there are still people in France who are nice to the British."