When my good friend (and former boss) died a couple of years ago, a rather large chapter in my life ended as well. I started working for him in the early 1990s as a cycling tour guide in Europe and continued leading tours, of and on, up until he passed away. Just about any client and certainly, all the guides knew that his passing would indicate the end of the company.

Sure enough, the bikes are now all gone, the office in Paris has become a tea shop, I believe, and what used to occupy a good portion of my summers for nearly three decades is no more.

But. I am not left empty-handed. I owe my family to the company as my wife and I met indirectly as a result of my very first trip. I have a decent knowledge of Western Europe and France in particular, my French language skills, although a bit rusty, did not go dormant, and every bottle of wine I open, I can trace back directly to all those nights seated around a dinner table, after a healthy day’s riding through the European countryside.

I do not know how many times I have had to explain the origin of the name of this blog, but it has to be in the triple digits at this point. Lately, I have been changing the story up a bit, just to keep it interesting (for me, getting asked the same question that many times is at best tedious; I guess I know how Monica Lewinsky feels). The truth is that while I do not endorse drinking and riding, I did quite a bit of riding in the daytime and then drinking at dinner. Want a great cure for a hangover? Realize that you have a not optional 60-mile bike ride, including a pretty substantial mountain pass ahead of you.

Last week, all the clients were off visiting Versailles, perhaps the most famous castle in the world. On their way out of the château, I instructed them to pass by my outpost, a shady café a few blocks away from the entrance and on the route to Rambouillet, our destination for the night.

Earlier that day, at the office in Paris, I told the group of eight that it was imperative that they left Versailles no later than 4:00 in the afternoon as there were 40 rather tough kilometers (25 miles) ahead of them, which could easily take several hours to complete.

Sure, the seasoned cyclist could easily finish the route in an hour and a half (or sooner), but these were not experienced riders. Far from it. In fact, watching a few of them ride along the Seine, I am pretty sure that a few of them could walk at least as quickly as they pedaled.

We needed to be seated in the hotel’s restaurant in Rambouillet no later than 8:00 if we wanted any real chance of having dinner. Sure, Rambouillet is less than an hour drive from the capital, but it might has well been times that distance. While many in Paris will not even consider eating dinner until 9 p.m., outside of the capital, many restaurants are are already closed with the staff on their way home by that time.

Shortly after I installed myself at a corner table on the terrasse, around 1:30, three of the eight clients showed up and I happily pointed them in the right direction (I think–as I’ve said, I have a terrible sense of direction), crossed them off my list, and waited for the other five to pass by.

By 3:00 p.m., three more had come by, leaving just two who really had to get to me by 4:00. I had told the group that the deadline was necessary because the last 40k were tough, blah, blah, blah. The real truth of the matter was that the last thing I wanted to do was to have to lead the remaining two across those remaining kilometers. This is going to sound awful, but I like to ride fast and I already had to ride the first 25k or so at a snail’s pace.

Ugh.

Oh. And I have a terrible sense of direction, had little to know idea where I was going, and would probably lead them right off a cliff and into a quarry.

So there was that, too.

Well, 4:00 had come and gone and there was no sign of them; I figured they had come by the check-in spot before I got there and were probably already in Rambouillet. Just to be prudent, however, I swung by the entrance to Versailles to give a quick look.

To be honest, I did not look very hard (or even at all) since the last thing I wanted at this point was to actually find them (for the aforementioned reasons). But I passed by the gate for no other reason than plausible deniability (or something like that–did I mention it was a group of new lawyers?) and I was on my way.

Within about two, maybe three kilometers I realized that I had missed a turn since I somehow ended up on an autoroute (the French term for a highway). Not good. I quickly got off that thing and found a sign pointing toward Versailles. I turned in the opposite direction.

I know. Impeccable logic.

I use that a lot.

After speeding along for about 5k or so, I saw a sign for the Rambouillet Forest. The next thought that entered my mind was: “I must be a genius since how else could I have inadvertently found the route to my destination?”

Unfortunately, my mind really does work that way.

The Rambouillet Forest. I am pretty sure we did not ride along this “road’–I am not that bad. From wikipedia.com

The forest is a fun, if unchallenging, ride and particularly nice on a sweltering afternoon. It is mostly flat and almost entirely shaded by the thousands of impressive trees. It is hard to get lost in there, even for me since as long as you go in at the right point, and as long as you don’t make any turns, you will come out at (or really near) Rambouillet. There is the added benefit that all the trails are dead straight (or at least as straight as the French could make them).

The Château at Rambouillet, ain’t never been there, they tell me it’s nice. From wikipedia.com

I pulled into the hotel around 5:30 and was a bit taken aback: there were no other bikes. Not a single one. So either the whole group was at the wrong hotel or none of them had arrived yet.

I pulled out my itinerary and checked to verify that I was at the right hotel. I was. In fact, as far as I knew, it was the only hotel that the company had ever used in Rambouillet, so there could not have been any confusion. I mean, lawyers can’t be complete morons, right? (I realize what I just said, I really do.)

No problem, they had a good two and a half hours to get in and still get a decent dinner, so I unpacked my bike, went up to my room, and showered. I was back in the lobby close to an hour later and still no sign of anybody.

Again, no problem, yet, but I was starting to get a little worried as the first group had left Versailles over four hours ago. Not to belabor the point to much, but my dog could have likely covered the distance in that amount of time.

There was not much else to do other than grab a Kir at the hotel bar and wait.

And wait. 7:00.

And wait. 8:00.

OK, now we are in the serious range. I had not worked for the company all that long, but I figured that losing all the clients on a trip would probably be frowned upon. It also meant that we could no longer eat at the hotel restaurant since they had a very strict “must be seated by 8:00” policy.

That meant that, assuming at least a few clients showed up at some point, I needed another restaurant in a town that had scant few. Add to the dilemma that it was a Monday evening; most businesses, not in big cities in France, are closed on Sundays and Mondays. According to the clerk at the hotel, he only knew of one place that might be open, and his crinkled nose at the mention of the name did not inspire confidence. But it was my only hope.

Those usually turn out great.

Finally, at just past 8:30, the whole group rolled into the hotel parking lot, and they were not happy. At all. At least four of them started in at me right away but I quickly put my hand up as if a teacher trying to quiet the classroom. I promised that I would listen to everyone of their complaints at dinner (assuming there was a dinner to be served), but we had to leave immediately to get there before it closed.

No, there is no time to shower.

I thought that was bad enough.

But it was about to get worse. A lot worse.

This story comes from when I first started leading bike trips in Europe almost three decades ago. I have learned a ton since those first trips. Do you want to travel by bike with me in Europe, tasting great wine, eating fantastic food, and having just a boatload of fun? Send me an email as I am organizing trips for next Spring (jeff (at) thedrunkencyclist (dot) com). I would love to hear from you!