Peanut Butter and XX Cycling
I have been unable to abandon two very American habits, even temporarily. The first is peanut butter. The local Champion, a grocery store, carries peanut butter relatively cheaply, but it is often out of stock. So whenever I get the chance I buy them out.
The other particularly American trait that I have not abandoned for this year is my devotion to sport, in particular my bike. I brought it with me, which was a shock to my coworkers, and I keep it at the Lab and ride for a couple of hours two to three days a week, and Saturday and Sunday. For a university, this is highly abnormal and some of my coworkers started calling me “Jeannie” after the famous French female cyclist Jeannie Longo, who just retired at 40 from a 20 year career.
The riding around Orsay is beautiful; I pass several chateaux on my daily rides. During the week there are few other riders out, but on the weekends the road are teeming with spandex clad middle aged men and the occasional 30-thing. I am somewhat of a novelty because there are few young people who ride, and even fewer women. In fact, I have yet to see a woman riding seriously.
But last weekend I had a priceless experience. Up until then I had done all of my riding from Orsay, but a fellow American student cyclist, Karan, convinced me to bring my bike to Paris and ride with him and a friend, Mike, at the Bois de Boulonge. The Bois de Boulogne is the largest park in Paris, sitting on the west side of the city, just north of the Seine. It’s very large, spanning the length of the 16th arrondissement, and it has a 2.7 mile loop which is closed for cyclists every day. Most of the Parisians who cycle ride there. I met up with Karan and Mike outside the park and they warned me that the track would be filled with old men on super expensive bikes. They were exactly correct.
There were approximately 50 cyclists riding the loop, with about half as many runners on the inside. Stereotypical rider was 55 years old, wearing the uniform of his favorite professional team and riding a bike that probably cost about twice as much as mine. I was the only woman and one of the few under 30.
Karan, Mike and I took a couple of warm up laps slowly and then we began to pick up the pace, separating according to our speeds. Soon enough I found myself in one a paceline, circling the track with three or four other riders. For the uninitiated, a paceline is a formation of cyclists lined up one behind the other, taking turns at the front breaking the wind and then resting in the draft of the other cyclists. I took my turn at the front of the line, like the others, but soon found that our pace line gained members whenever I was at the front. We’d pass a middle aged man huffing along on his own, he’d see that he was being passed by a jeune fille and his ego would drive him to find his inner Eddy Merckx and tail us. So I rode with my rag tag group for a half an hour or so and then jumped onto the fast group for a couple of laps as they passed, much to the chagrin of my former paceline.
I’ve begun to notice, and have been supported by my other female friends, that French men have an ego problem. This is a huge generalization, but I’ve certainly noticed it cycling and I’ve also noticed it to a lesser degree in some other interactions. It’s an egotism accompanied by vague chauvinism. At some point I’ll elaborate on it. But for now it suffices to say that I’m having a bit of perverse fun making them chase me around the bois de boulogne.
The other particularly American trait that I have not abandoned for this year is my devotion to sport, in particular my bike. I brought it with me, which was a shock to my coworkers, and I keep it at the Lab and ride for a couple of hours two to three days a week, and Saturday and Sunday. For a university, this is highly abnormal and some of my coworkers started calling me “Jeannie” after the famous French female cyclist Jeannie Longo, who just retired at 40 from a 20 year career.
The riding around Orsay is beautiful; I pass several chateaux on my daily rides. During the week there are few other riders out, but on the weekends the road are teeming with spandex clad middle aged men and the occasional 30-thing. I am somewhat of a novelty because there are few young people who ride, and even fewer women. In fact, I have yet to see a woman riding seriously.
But last weekend I had a priceless experience. Up until then I had done all of my riding from Orsay, but a fellow American student cyclist, Karan, convinced me to bring my bike to Paris and ride with him and a friend, Mike, at the Bois de Boulonge. The Bois de Boulogne is the largest park in Paris, sitting on the west side of the city, just north of the Seine. It’s very large, spanning the length of the 16th arrondissement, and it has a 2.7 mile loop which is closed for cyclists every day. Most of the Parisians who cycle ride there. I met up with Karan and Mike outside the park and they warned me that the track would be filled with old men on super expensive bikes. They were exactly correct.
There were approximately 50 cyclists riding the loop, with about half as many runners on the inside. Stereotypical rider was 55 years old, wearing the uniform of his favorite professional team and riding a bike that probably cost about twice as much as mine. I was the only woman and one of the few under 30.
Karan, Mike and I took a couple of warm up laps slowly and then we began to pick up the pace, separating according to our speeds. Soon enough I found myself in one a paceline, circling the track with three or four other riders. For the uninitiated, a paceline is a formation of cyclists lined up one behind the other, taking turns at the front breaking the wind and then resting in the draft of the other cyclists. I took my turn at the front of the line, like the others, but soon found that our pace line gained members whenever I was at the front. We’d pass a middle aged man huffing along on his own, he’d see that he was being passed by a jeune fille and his ego would drive him to find his inner Eddy Merckx and tail us. So I rode with my rag tag group for a half an hour or so and then jumped onto the fast group for a couple of laps as they passed, much to the chagrin of my former paceline.
I’ve begun to notice, and have been supported by my other female friends, that French men have an ego problem. This is a huge generalization, but I’ve certainly noticed it cycling and I’ve also noticed it to a lesser degree in some other interactions. It’s an egotism accompanied by vague chauvinism. At some point I’ll elaborate on it. But for now it suffices to say that I’m having a bit of perverse fun making them chase me around the bois de boulogne.
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