Thirty meters in front of my front tire: the sea. An obstacle impossible to cross.
The Dijon-Camargue summer soap opera – episode 7 – epilogue
Thirty meters in front of my front tire: the sea. An obstacle impossible to cross. We have to turn around: Monday, we go back to work. I have the blues of the end of the road.
We did the last two kilometers on the sly: I suspect we shouldn’t be there. Our tires raise a cloud of dust that whitens motorcycles. I smell the shore, that scent that non-sailors call that of the sea, but which is in fact the scent of the land.
We are still slowing down as we approach the first tongues of sand. In front of me, the GSX-F swerves that Gerald compensates. He brakes and stops. I would like to continue, but the front wheel is sinking more and more. We dismount and look for a pebble to wedge our crutches.
Engine cut, I finally hear the surf, the slow breathing of the sea. The wind is warm. I feel the light brushing of the grains of sand on my boots.
The obstacle as old as the world
The beach is surprisingly short, devoid of the usual plant debris. It ends with a low artificial barrier of rocks at the edge of the water, probably to limit erosion.
We are at the end of our journey. Like billions of human beings before us, here we are in front of an insurmountable barrier which leaves us only three possible directions: right, left, or U-turn. The sea marks the end of the journey; only a minority see it as a starting point and we are not part of it since my ER-5 cannot swim.
I’m sad ; I expected it, but it doesn’t change anything. Getting here means that we have to turn around without delaying in order to be on site Monday morning at 8 am because that is the easement we have chosen. I have always hated the annoyance, the injustice of the end of the holidays.
With my foot, I form a sort of sand seat to sit more comfortably. I take out my tea flask and sip it, looking at the big, very white clouds on the pale blue-green sky on the horizon. Gérald has climbed the small dike and stands up straight, facing the wind. I breathe slowly. I close my eyes. I regret to have arrived so quickly.
Court-circuit
The ante-penultimate day of the trip did not go as planned. We made a detour through the farmhouse of a friend of Gérald’s near Apt; one of those places where I don’t want to leave because everything suits me there: the color of the stones, the color of the thick wooden shutters, the profile of the crest of the mountain opposite, the the scent of plants in the garden, the small stone staircase with iron railing that leads to the kitchen, the cotton hammock and the white water hole below where you can soak. Gérald and I got stuck there, all desire to ride a motorbike gone.
From Lubéron and the Alpilles park we have therefore not seen much: you are deprived of the story of our adventures, replaced by a day of naps, swimming and discussions on the shaded terrace. Filled with remorse, we still headed for the Saintes Maries de la Mer, just to say that we were there.
The highway, like an exercise in Zazen
I resign myself to getting up from this Camargue beach where our journey ends. To delay is in vain: you have to turn your back on the sea and head north, towards the house.
By mutual agreement, we decided to make the return trip in one go, by the highway. I prefer to depress in a straight line, at 120 meters, while waiting for the landscape to finish scrolling in front of the handlebars.
However, I have nothing against the highway, unlike some. I see it as a special case of Zazen, or the art of sitting down and trying to do nothing. Well… as long as there aren’t too many people.
Gérald could drive faster, but this morning I found the ER-5’s rear tire deflated again. Maybe it’s the valve that’s getting tired. However, even with a tubeless tire, if the valve suddenly releases, it smells very strongly of the bowl, which is rarely forgiving on the highway. So I limit myself to 120 meters and I check the pressure as soon as we refuel. With our tanks, we stop three times. In six-thirty, we are back to our starting point.
We stop in the parking lot in front of the supermarket from where we started. I am dazed, both by the 600 terminals that we have just made in one go and by the blues at the end of the road.
– Well ? See you next Saturday at the Boucle, asks Gerald.
– Yeah, yeah, I say evasively.
Saying goodbye ranks high in the top 10 things I do and see very badly.
He starts his motorbike and crosses the speed bump at the exit of the parking lot. I watch him walk away. Here I am alone.
The Camargue and after?
I tell myself that on Monday, in front of the coffee machine, everyone will go into the details of their vacation, punctuated this year by unforeseen events to date, sometimes frustrating, sometimes tragic.
For my part, I can imagine summing up this week of motorcycling as follows:
– With a friend, we joined the Camargue via the national parks.
– Ah! Owl ! And after ?
– Well after, I came back here like a big round for lack of having had the balls to send my resignation by SMS to be able to ride until my bike definitely broke down on the side of Ulan Bator or Phnom Penh or Clermont-Ferrand.
Why do you have to come back from vacation?
More info on the summer saga
If you missed the previous episodes:
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Attention Kronik! 100% bad faith! This is not an article or a brief (see history if necessary). The abuse of kronik can be dangerous for the health of some people. Don’t overdo it.
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