Corsica (day 7) - Zicavo - Zonza and Col de Bavella loop 64.5

I fell asleep last night reviewing the map for the umpteenth time. Despite the glowing guidebook review of Zicavo, the 20 or so permanent residents offered little in the way of entertainment or dining opportunities. No longer looking for routes, distances or villages, I searched the map for elevation and mountain passes -- details that escaped my due diligence the day prior. Not that I had any other options to get to Zonza, it was merely for mental preparation.

People are creatures of habit, particularly when it comes to morning routines. I've also fallen victim to routine -- tip-toeing out of my Gite at dawn, I pack the bike and cycle through town pleading the owner of the nearest cafe to open early for a petite Cafe au Lait. With a s'il vous plait or two, I squeeze a dab of fresh milk from a good-hearted cafe owner and linger ever so briefly over breakfast and coffee. Now, it is time to ride.

Greeting me just outside of Zicavo is the Col de Vaccio, a mere 1300 meters at it's highest point. A long and gentle approach, my legs easily carry me to the summit in the second chain ring without breaking a sweat. With the cheers of hikers ringing in my ears, I begin to lose the altitude I had just gained. Cautiously manuevering around the potholes, I shift my body weight back alleviating any unnecessary weight on my cracked head tube. The day continues with a series of undulating hills -- all relatively moderate -- and I reach Zonza unexpectedly early just as the digits on my computer clock flip to 1200.

Zonza is a mountain town with a resident population of 2,600. It's proximity to Col de Bavella and its distinction as a stop-over town on the GR 20 hike, spikes its temporary daily population to twice that. The bars and cafes center around the junction and prominent statute of a former Corsican hero. After assessing the buzz in town, I head straight for a hotel. The hotel is full but I'm given some instructions in French: go back down the road to the cross street, up the side street and past the bakery, at the church turn left and look up. Across from the church an elderly woman, dressed in Corsican black, is waiving from the top floor of a 3-story stone mansion.......'Julia, Julia'. Today is my lucky day -- I'm given the keys to the entire second floor flat -- valley and church views, 1200 square feet, kitchen, living room, antiques, family heirlooms galore and even a locked garage for my bike. A combination of premature Parkinson's and double dose of Cafe au Laits kept me from fully relaxing -- just yet.

Reputed to be the most beautiful passes of all the Corsican cols, I head north on Ganesh on the D268 for the 20 km out and back, up and down to the Col de Bavella (1218m). The pass itself is not remarkable, marked most noticeably by clumps of day hikers shading themselves under the few trees still breathing at this altitude. The real attraction of the pass lies in the panoramic views of the Aiguilles de Bavella, with its spiny granite rock formations soaring high to the heavens from earth -- a natural rampart for the town of Zonza and location for several day hikes. I soak in the scenery, taking a horizontal position on the subalpine meadow and watch a cloud transform from hawk to elephant before it fades completely........ finally, my muscles relax. My brain continues to churn, plotting the next week, month and year for a future Ride Strong Bike Tours trip.

Geographically challenged, I decide to ride a route I read about in reverse -- starting with the loop day first, the last day second, busing half of the penultimate day, skipping the optional side tour and combining Days 2 and 4 -- giving me just enough time to bike Day 1 last and pick up my excess belongings in Ajaccio. With any luck, I could then catch the afternoon train back to Calvi for the International Jazz Festival. It is settled -- tomorrow the coast awaits.

Back at the flat, I prance from room to room, taking the rare opportunity to do some much needed grooming -- tomorrow is a beach day after all! Feeling sexier than usual, I exchange my Teva's for my jeweled thongs and enjoy a balmy evening dining al fresco on the first Salmon fillet since San Diego and a half bottle of Corsican rouge wine.

Corsica (day 6) - Corte - Zicavo (75 kms)

I woke; I rode; I slept!

I could not begin to describe today's ride and do it justice. Instead, I'll give you just the hard facts: Blue skies, temp 32 degrees celsius; 75 km from Gite to Gite; The climbs: Col de Vizzavona, Col de Sorba and Col de Verde -- the first pass starting 50 meters from my hotel and the last ending a few km before Zicavo; 1,500 meters (4,920 feet) of climbing; lots of cursing; median speed - 24 km; minimum = 7 kms per hour; Scenery: lots of Laricio pine and beech forests; slumbering pigs; very few cars; 2 chain sucks; shade; 10 bottles of water; 1 Berroca; wild boar; cherries and rotissierie chicken for lunch; 6 other cyclists (road bikes and no panniers); sweat; avg. heart rate 175 beats per minute, total time = 6 hours. Was I sorry I did it? No way. It was, perhaps, the most epic day of riding all year!

Corsica Sea-to-Sky Island Bicycling Days 3-5

Calvi to Galeria, Corsica (Cycling 45 kays)
Mondays no longer carry the same stigma they once did, particularly this Monday. I tip-toed out of the dorm room at 6:30, anxious to start cycling Corsica and beat the unseasonably warm temperatures. My course traveled from north to south from Calvi to Galeria along the Les Balange, reputed to be one of Corsica's most rugged and spectacular coastlines. It did not disappoint! Just outside of town, the coastline is marked by successive secluded coves with piercing blue waters. I peered enviously down at the bare boaters, just waking for their morning swim. The road is cut into ochre granite cliffs, intensified by the morning light. The undulating hills were nothing for my fresh legs, as the rush of blood and oxygen surged through my veins. Enjoying the thrill of the scenery and pure solitude of the morning, I hardly noticed the only thing protecting me from the 100 meter high cliff was an ankle high stone wall. Probably from the 13th century. Before I could blink, I found myslef at the Galeria tourist office before 9 a.m. and was almost sorry the day's ride was over. I briefly contemplates moving on, but with the temp already hovering above 30 C, I decided to work; writing up my route instructions and inspecting the the quaint fishing village of Galeria -- population 200.

Despite featuring one of the islands' most renown diving centres, Galeria is refreshingly unaffected by tourism. It boasts one church, one market and half a dozen restaurants all featuring fresh mussels, clams, squid and other seafood specialties. Lucky for me, Galeria is also the home of one of the most hidden little Gites in Corsica. Having learned my lesson, I phoned the day prior and reserved a bed for one in a room for 3. The Gite is run by two heavy set Corsican women responsible for cooking, cleaning and laundry, and one emaciated man who takes the reservations, maintains the property and spends most of the day watering the browning lawn. All are friendly beyond belief and I only wished I could converse with them in something more than hand gestures.

At the beach, my mind was still active and I rewrote today's route instructions for future trips and studied tomorrow's course to Porto. My mind wandered to the sarong I purchased for $2 bucks in Goa, India 6 years ago. It is still serving me well. In Morocco last month it worked wonders as a tablecloth for improptu picnics; at the Gite, it's my bath towel and bed sheet (neither are provided), and right now it's my beach blanket. Is there really a need for anything else? I became so viscerally attached to this sarong, I wore it straight from the beach to dinner for my first taste of mussels in years.

Being a 'co-ed' Gite, I experienced my first threesome (just sleeping, of course) with an older French couple who occupied the bunk bed next to mine. As they readied for bed, I worked on my odometer with the maintenance man and his screwdriver -- with no success. We eventually gave up finding more pleasure in a brandy with the 2 Corsican women ..... just what I needed to help put me to sleep in this heat.

Galeria to Porto and Piana loop (80 kays and 840 meters of climbing)
I was greeted at the base of my first 400 meter climb of the day by nearly 100 long-horned goat and brilliant blue skies. In deference to the delectable cheese these creatures produce, I pulled Ganesh to the shoulder allowing the herd to pass. The road veers inland from the coast, taking the most forgiving route between neighboring mountain ranges. Aside from the goats and wild pigs sharing the D81, riding in the tranquility of the early morning allowed me to reflect on how I actually came to be on this beautiful island.

Corsica is a cyclists dream and I mentally vowed to bring (or at least try to persuade) each one of my athletic friends (which happens to be just about all of my friends) back for a tour. I also decided to convince my friend and race promoter, Bob Babbitt, to organize a triathalon on the island, taking advantage of the calm warm waters and incredible roads. I enjoyed the first incline as my heart started an aerobic beat; the first perspiration dripped down my back. At the summit of Bocca di Palmarella, I was aptly rewarded with stunning views of the Scandola Natural Park to the east and the UNESCO protected coastline of Girolata and Les Calanches to the south. The road on the descent is eclipsed by orange granite rock formations suspended overhead. I twisted and turned my way down, passing the first tourist bus of the morning. I arrived at the next summit, Col de la Croix, a healthy 10 minutes ahead of the tourist bus, pitying those poor people as they're herded off the bus for a designated potty break. One by one they approached me, congratulating me (in French) for my strength (or stupidity) -- a pat on the back, photos of the one woman wonder, even one man started playing with my pig tails -- mimicking the position they must have assumed on the fast descent. If it weren't for their genuine enthusiasm, I might have felt like a rare species at the zoo!

Entering the 3-home town of Portinellu, I was delighted to find the Half-Toothsomes' refueling in a shady spot along the road. With their spokes replaced and panniers noticeably lighter, they spent the last few days cycling from Ajaccio northbound along my intended course (in reverse). Their reports of the coast ride were not encouraging giving me food for thought for the rest of the day.

It took longer than expected to cover the 55 kays, arriving in Porto by 11:00. Despite the heat, I made a quick decision to drop my panniers at the hotel de golfe and ride what is described as the most beautiful coastline of Corsica -- a 25 km loop through Les Calanches to Piana and back. The red granite rocks were nothing less than spectacular, soaring over 300 meters high above the seas. More compelling, perhaps, are the various formations created by years of wind and erosion; picture Zion National Park meeting the Mediterranean. Local legend calls it the work of the devil ...... I call it 'God's country'.

The descent back to Porto dropped me directly to the SuperMarche for a late lunch. It was not until I was wandering the store, smelling the food and overcome by the heat, I realized one cannot exist on baguettes and Cafe au Lait's alone. Feeling faint, I dropped my full basket of food and found a shady spot to flop my legs down until my heart rate resumed a regular pace. The humidity and high temperature had taken their toll. When I was finally able to complete my food purchase, I devoured half a rotisserie chicken and watermelon (my favorite Vietnam snack) and beelined it straight to pebble beach for floating and reading the afternoon away.

Porto to Evisa (30 kays and 400 meters of climbing)
I took advantage of my overly spacious room this morning practicing a few asanas. My yoga was a bit rusty but I recalled the the first few lines of the opening chant and appropriately started with the sun salutation -- Ashtanga style. I haven't stretched in weeks and my range of motion was laughable. A shot of caffeine and my usual baguette smothered with smashed bannana (a breakfast delicacy acquired from Stu), and I was on the road by 6:30 with the early morning hikers.

The day began with a 12.5 km slog east from sea level to the mountains, through the charming village of Ota followed by a spectacular descent to a Genoese bridge where 5 rivers collide. The ride ends in another 10 kay climb into the equally quaint hill town of Evisa (pop. 400). Despite my conscious effort to take it easy, I could find only one gear -- it's between 170 - 180 beats per minute. Aside from the semi-wild animals, I passed only a few elderly locals out for their morning walk, each one cheering me on in Corsican. I felt a bit like Lance Armstrong and wondered whether he had won the Dauphine (sp??) . Whoever said "don't look back" didn't know what they were missing. The views back to Porto merited several stops for photos.

Although somewhat fractionalized, a movement for Corsican independence from France still exists. At the D124- D84 junction, I saw their first mark; street signs appearing in both French and Corsican (Corsu is a blend of French and Italian, more akin to Italian) spray-painted with slashes through the French spelling. A little further along, the national emblem, a Moor's head wearing a bandana appears painted on the side of a rock. The road engineers were in a foul mood the day the D84 was designed, tackling the mountains surrounding the Gorges de Spelunca head on. But I know now (through 5 months of riding a few different continents) that with the mountains comes the incredible scenery -- as I wound through thick pine forests and chestnut trees before flattening out for a perfectly delightful section in the shade. Very few cars dare to negotiate the narrow hairpin turns, and I enjoyed the road and fresh pine smell in solitary cycling. The church bells greeted me as I entered the mountain village of Evisa at precisely 10:00. I was able to drop my bike and bags at yet another wonderful Gite and headed straight out to explore the hiking opportunities.

Evisa is a popular junction town for the hikers on the Mar de Mar Nord and Mar de Monti Nord hiking trails and is even prouder of it's claim as the chestnut capital of Corsica. In keeping with Evisa's heritage, I chose the 'chemin de fir chestunt' trail, taking me through 47 different varieties of chestnut trees well sign-posted with explanations about chestnut production and extraction. The path leads me to a large limestone boulder slanted dangerously over the Gorges de Spelunca. Drawn by the shade and breathtaking views, it was here I found a safe spot for a siesta before finalizing the day's route notes.

For social reasons, I booked the Gite 'demi pension' (with dinner). I don't know if it was the hard day's ride, the mountain setting or the fresh Corsican ingredients but, aside from Mom's, it was the best lasagne I've ever tasted! I was entertained by my bunk mates, a younger French couple celebrating their final night of hiking. They kept very much to themselves during dinner, whispering in French and retiring with their books to the garden. Their secret was out, however, when I saw him studying an English language book on Clinical Neurology. Anxious for conversation, I then had their ear until we all retired for a restful night's sleep. It was in need of some English conversation.

Evisa to Corte (69 kms and over the highest Col in Corsica)
The mornings in French Gites are comical; nothing you’d see at home. We all roll out of bed, hair tossled, sheet creases temporarily scarring our faces and brushing our teeth with strangers in unison. Modesty in France (or at least Corsican Gites) is non-existent, men shamelessly strutting around the communal sinks in their skivvies before completely dis-robing for the shower. Not yet accustomed to exposition, I changed in the privacy of the tight bathroom and am on the road by day's break. Admittedly I was anxious about today's ride. Climbing to 1450 meters (that's over 4,700 feet for you non-metric types) the ride would take me over the infamous Col de Verghio, the highest pass on the island and the natural boundary between northern and southern Corsica. Trees do not grow here.

Departing Evisa in my granny gear, it took me just over an hour to reach the summit. When I caught myself slogging, Deon's voice (one of the most motivational triathletes I know) reminded me not to 'bottom out' my pedal stroke and relax my shoulders. I celebrated the ascent with a few stretches and photos and then tugged on my helmet strap for the never-ending descent. It was the type of gradual descent you could enjoy without braking -- a few effortless turns of the pedal, then coast, optional pedal turns, more coasting. For over 35 kms I enjoyed the Foret d' Antone dominated by its laricio pine, beech, fir and waterfalls to be followed by the Foret de Valdu Nielu, the road kissing the rambling river the entire way down.

As the former capital of the 18th century Corsican nation, Corte remains one of the most Corsican of Corsica's towns. With a population of just over 6,000 and home of the island's only university, it is an odd mix of young students and older inhabitants desperately clinging to their national identity. I immediately noticed the energy descending upon the bustling main street. Fit people everywhere were preparing for hikes, tuning their bikes or heading off with kayaks and rappelling equipment in tow. These were not the 'gym fit' types who gauge their fitness by bar bells and bench presses, but rather rugged outdoors men/women who share a common passion for natural beauty and sport. It was Thursday when I arrived and quickly concluded that this would be a fine spot for a long week-end.

Corte
Law school trains your mind to think analytically; to study a set of facts, identify potential issues, apply general principles of logic (or not so logical rules of law) and, presumably, arrive at the correct conclusion. I found myself spending my 'rest day' applying this reasoning to my next leg, pouring over maps, guide books and tourist literature. I tossed my original plan aside, wanting to avoid the heavily touristed city of Ajaccio and what is most certainly true all the way down the coast. The facts I collected are these: distances, climbs, gite accomodations, temperatures and spectacular scenery. I found the Lonely Planet guides wholly insufficient, better luck with the French-language G. Routard -- my reading of French is far more advanced than speaking.

After meeting a Dutch cyclist at the cyber cafe, I became intrigued by the routing he took through the southern interior (D64) over the Col de Verde. Unquestionably the scenery will be idyllic -- the major unknown was the grade and temps which continued to rise throughout the week-end. I decided to ponder the potential routes to a trip to the Valle de la Restonica.

The Vallee de la Restonica is Corte's most redeeming natural feature. Indeed, it's the playground for sports enthusiasts descending upon Corte each summer. From the bottom, a narrow river winds its way up the valley, surrounded by moss-colored mountains, sparkling waterfalls and heavy pine forests. At the road's end, the valley (and river) continues on to numerous hiking trails leading to lakes, swimming holes and picturesque mountain scenery. The Vallee also contains a small hamlet of shepherders and goatherders (Bergers) stone huts where fresh cheese can be purchased at a reasonable price. The Bergeries de Grotelle still practice the exhausting tradition of herding their flocks to the mountains in summer and the coast in winter, taking advantage of the ideal climates as the seasons change.

I experienced Restonica on bike (with no panniers!!!), leaving early Saturday morning for the 14-kay, 1000 meter altitude gain. The day prior, the odometer mystery was solved so I stopped frequently to take detailed route notes for future guided or self-guided trips: '......with your back to the hotel, turn left on the D623.....1.1 kms later cross over important Genoese bridge..........5.6 kms later a Genoese water fountain is a good place to stop for water and well-deserved break.....etc., etc., etc'. At the risk of saying this too many times, the cycling and scenery was stunning! I inhaled the fresh crisp pine scent and marveled at the waterfalls, swimming ponds and trees. As much as I am a beach girl, there's a similar calming effect to the mountains, making Restonica the perfect place for me to spend the remainder of the morning pondering tomorrow's move.

Something that is not taught in law school but much more innate is knowing when to 'go for it.' It's really more of an attitude that nevertheless requires weighing the risks vs. rewards. Although there are several things I don't yet know about the route, I've been trained by the master over the last 4.5 months and decide to explore the less travelled territories through the interior, along the Tavignano valley, over the Col de Verde and Monti d' Oro hoping to find the small little island gems that most tourists never witness. To prepare for this ride, I best start hydrating now!

Corsica Sea-to-Sky Summer Bicycling Day 1&2

London to Nice to Corsica, France

The summer sun rises at 4:45 in London, ensuring an early start to Stansted airport. The 10 km ride from my hotel to the airport was the perfect dose of adrenaline and I was in the queue at the EasyJet check-in by 6:00 a.m.. With a smile and a little resistance, I saved myself the $40 tariff for Ganesh (my bike), allowing me to treat myself to a Starbucks before departing. EasyJet is the UK's version of SouthWest airlines, on steroids; they've replaced flight attendants with ballpark-like food vendors who walk up and down the aisles in their poly-uniforms selling peanuts for 5 bucks a bag. Nevertheless, the flight to Nice was indeed 'easy' and relatively cheap.

Ganesh arrived in the oversized baggage terminal unscathed. A few squirts of air in each tire, I loaded my panniers and followed the busy road until it connected with the well-worn bike path on the Promenade de Anglais. Riding out of the Nice Int'l Airport I felt the 'city-stress' from London disappear. After a week of 'cheerios,' buses, trains, tubes and cars, I was ready for the laid-back atmosphere of the Mediterranean. The 15 km ride to the ferry terminal reminded me of my days scooting up and down the Mission Beach board walk with roller bladers, runners and drunks moving past the stationary sun worshippers bronzing their bodies on le plage (the beach). I skipped the temptation to indulge in a creamy gelato, arriving at the Gare Maritime with time to spare. I’ve never been here before but it was easy to find simply following the Promenade de Anglais until it runs smack into the docks donning Mediterranean bound yachts.

The French labor strikes earlier in the week created pandamonium at the ferry counter. I met car travelers delayed for days eager to make the crossing to Corsica. Fortunately, there’s always room for a girl and Ganesh and I booked an open seating ticket for me and an extra tariff for Ganesh for a combined total of €35.

The ferry from Nice to Corsica is first class: videos, reclining chairs and deck seats. It carries hundreds of cars and even more passengers in less than 3 hours. Arriving to Corsica by boat was ideal with a slow introduction to the Corsican coastline and it’s varied terrain.

Off the boat, my chest swelled with the advantage of having Ganesh. I figured I could make the mad 2 km dash off the ferry to the city of Ajaccio and scour the hotels. I even had enough time for a few wrong turns. It was already 6:00 p.m. and rooms would be going fast. Despite my speed, I found signs reading 'Complet' hanging from the windows of all budget hotels. How soon I forget -- the French like to travel on a budget. As the sky grew dark and my choices ever so slim, I was forced to take shelter in a high priced dump a good 1.5 kays from town. The guidebooks were, well, misguided. The high season apparently started early this year. I had not seen the news for weeks and I gave a quick glance at CNN before exploring the streets of Ajaccio for the remainder of the night.

Ajaccio, Corsica
One of my favorite things to do in a new town is to start with an early morning run. Today is no different; I lace up my running shoes and head towards town. My run is interrupted by several hotels I missed the day before. Collecting a few business cards and jotting some notes, I continued through the old town, around the citadelle and past monuments dedicated to Ajaccio's most famous denizen, Napoleon Bonaparte. On my route back, I found a small hotel with old world charm and a receptionist with a thick French accent and fast tongue. Practicing my French (which makes my French friends cringe it's so horrible), I booked a nice room at a reasonable price for the night. I raced back to the expensive shack to pack and repack the panniers, carefully selecting only what was necessary for the next few weeks. This includes peeling out the Corsica pages of my France guidebooks. If nothing else I’ve learned, lightening the load is an art. After some convincing, I was able to leave a large backpack with the receptionist at the expensive shack for safe keeping for an undefined period of time. I wrote on a sticky attached to the strap: ‘Keep for Julie Gildred – I will return in a few weeks.’ It didn’t occur to me until later that I probably should have written my message in French.

Descending the hotel driveway I met 2 Dutch cyclists FULLY loaded with 4 panniers each and camping gear on their back racks piled as high as their heads. It's no wonder I discovered them way-layed by 2 broken spokes. She was tatooed with road rash on her shins and arm and missing more than half of her right front tooth; a benign byproduct of a self-inflicted accident a few days prior. He was wearing a wide grin and baggy shorts, his enthusiasm for independent cycling and the island obvious. Before escorting the Half-Toothsomes to the nearest bike shop, I pulled out my road map and pumped them for information on potential routes. Most tour companies follow a leisurely route starting in Ajaccio, moving South along the coast before heading inland through Sartene, Zonza, Porto- Vecchio and finally ending in Bonifaccio. Other more challenging routes include starting north in Calvi, down the rugged coastline of the Balange and then inland to the island's capital, Corte, or, alternatively, starting in the north east and following the east coast down to the south. With so many 'must see' destinations, I had trouble narrowing my course for researching my Ride Strong trip. The Half-Toothsomes had cycled from the north west and gave it high marks, becoming particularly animated as they described cycling through the lush interior.

The unseasonably high temps sent me straight to the beach for the rest of the afternoon to ponder my course while floating backside down in the Mediterrean. By the time I awoke from a short snooze, the route crystallized -- sort of. Starting in Calvi, I'll ride down the coast for a few days to Porto, take a sharp left to Evisa for a taste of the mountains and then back to the coast so as not to miss Les Calanches and continue along the water to Ajaccio. From there, I can follow the route to Bonifaccio and then somehow get back to Ajaccio to pick up my belongings. Happy with the decision, I spent the evening relaxing at a beach front cafe enjoying a romantic evening for one under the full moon.

Ajaccio - Calvi
The train from Ajaccio departs everyday at 6:45 a.m, except Sundays, when it departs at 8:00. Traveling by bike for nearly a year, through multiple time zones and even more languages, I rarely, if ever, take notice of the day. Arriving promptely at 6:45 am, I used the extra hour to begin installation of the new wireless odometer from San Diego -- hand delivered by friend in London. They have wireless odometers in London or France, just not cheap ones. Without the proper Philips head, I was only able to program the computer before gulping down a delicious café o’ lait.

The metre-guaged single track rail system in Corsica is over a century behind France's mainland counterpart. Of the four cars, one is sectioned off with a few bike hooks and I followed the lead of the other cyclist, hanging my bike next to his. An easy conversation ensued with hand gestures and maps. I learned in just a few whiffs, he was a Frenchman from the mainland who has cycled the island several times without ever once washing his jersey.

The tracks don't follow the most direct route, but instead run from Ajaccio to the interior where the west coast of Calvi and the east coast of Bastia adjoin in a 'Y' in the barren junction town of Ponte Leccia. Moving slower than a bus, we chugged, rocked and crept our way as the white sandy beaches gave way to Eucalyptus, pine and chestnut trees to heavily forested woodlands. The winter growth occassionally poked its way in the open car windows, forcing me to duck as I dashed from one side to the other soaking up the scenery. I try not to notice the century old bridges as we passed over deep ravines and gorges. We stopped occassionally for semi-wild pigs and goats (Corsican delicacies not to be disturbed) and slowed at charming rural stations to pick/drop weary hikers negotiating the plethora of trails on the island. In the tunnels, the smelly French cyclist and I hung on to eachother, as we used his screwdriver to attach the rest of the odometer to Ganesh. In Calvi, the train deposited us literally on the beach. I raced to my preferred hotel only to find it complet. Ditching my bike and bags at a nearby Gite d'Etape (dorm style hostels for hikers), the mediterranean beckoned me more than a place to sleep. The Australians I met on the train were kind enough to baby sit my fanny pack (i.e. all my valuables) as their wives and I waded for a good 50 meters before being knee deep in water. It felt like paradise.......

Calvi is a somewhat lazy west coast port town at the southern end of a 4 km long beach. About the size of Encinitas proper in terms of population it holds the disputed title as Christopher Columbus' birthplace and boasts a Genoese Citadel perched high above the Mediterranean. I'm able to hotel shop, have lunch and explore the town in less than 2 hours and spend the late afternoon gesticulating with a Corsican with bulging eyes and a bald head, eager to help me with my odometer (which is not registering) and even more eager to invite me to dinner. Back at the Gite, I'm delighted with the spacious seaside room and 3 English speaking roomies from Australia and Holland who are starting one of France's most famous hikes -- the 200 km, 15 stage 'GR 20'. We spent the too-hot-to-sleep night on our balcony swapping travel stories and comparing the size of our bellies after too much french bread and cheese. Some time after midnight we all assumed the position in bed when it's too hot -- on our backs, with half the sheet draped loosely over one leg -- go figure! Tomorrow is day 1 of riding and I'm anxious to see more of this island on bike!