The grand départ rolled out along the banks of the Loire to the sound of Mireille’s Bon voyage, Messieurs du Vélo. It is, as I discovered, an extremely well known and repetitive song – so well known and repetitive that hundreds of French cyclists could sing along at full volume while pedalling in loose formation through Saumur. I did not know the words. I did not even know the tune. It did not matter.
Anjou Vintage Velo rides start times are guidelines, rather than hard and fast rules. They begin when everyone has assembled and not before. Women in immaculate 1940s and 50s dresses; red lipstick; victory rolls; petticoats defying both gravity and good judgement. Men in flat caps and string vests, all elbows and bravado. Gendarmes twirling moustaches. Breton-striped sailors. A scattering of genuine vintage racers that looked as though they had rolled straight out of a black-and-white newsreel. A whole family dressed as bakers gathered near us, flour-dusted aprons, tots in miniature toque hats, a wicker basket strapped to a carrier. Everyone singing. Everyone entirely committed.
Costume, Character and Composure
I had decided, in advance, to lean into a slightly playful caricature of the Englishman abroad, complete with straw boater; blue and white striped rowing blazer and long trousers – a loose, open neck cravat rather than tie my only concession to the sweltering heat. The Union Jack socks perhaps unnecessary but made patriotic sense when my drive side trouser leg was rolled up. Beneath me, steady and unconcerned, was Alice.
Alice is a Quella Varsity Oxford; polished enough to catch the light, specced with puncture proof tyres and hub gears; built for composure rather than drama. I bought her specifically for Anjou Vélo Vintage. In the weeks before France I made what might generously be described as wardrobe decisions: a Brooks saddle, leather grips, saddlebag and panniers, and a wine holder attached to the top tube, stocked with the cheapest Australian red I could find; partly for ballast, partly to avoid the diplomatic incident of subjecting a respectable French bottle to heat, vibration and peril.
Tash rode beside me in a 1950s dress with more petticoats than seemed strictly responsible in that temperature, calmly piloting a Dutch bike as though this were the most natural way to begin a Saturday. Around us was a small peloton of her French friends, some of whom I’d met before, most I’d met less than 24 hours previous. It made no difference. Hugs and la bise had been exchanged as if we’d known each other for decades. At its centre was Ludo, our patron du peloton, conducting proceedings from the front of a tandem while Myriam supplied both propulsion and commentary from the rear. They sang. I smiled and nodded along in rhythm.
Wine Stops, Chalk Dust and Ingenious Logic
Once underway, AVV revealed its true nature. The route drifted from white chalk roads to rutted vineyard paths more used to tractors than bicycles, and punctuated by an entirely civilised number of stops – seven or eight over forty-five kilometres. At each, wine and food were waiting. Even three kilometres, it seems, is an effort that deserves rewarding. One vineyard owner was so taken with my ensemble, bike and all, that she asked to take photographs – quite a compliment given the standard of dress on display.
Somewhere between the fourth and fifth stop I began to suspect that AVV might be one of the more ingenious responses to modern legislation. France has always favoured the regional wine tour. France now also favours the enforcement of drink-driving laws. A gathering of thousands of cyclists moving slowly between vineyards and leaving with panniers visibly heavier than when they arrived feels less like coincidence and more like exploiting a loophole. On a bicycle, after all, one is not driving. And on a closed, one-way circuit, at the sort of speeds encouraged by regular tastings and swing bands, any mishaps are likely to occur at little more than conversational pace.
We rode from château to château, taking in the bon vivre. Swing bands under marquees. A troupe of vintage French firemen performing an acrobatic routine with a ladder. Colourful costumes. Displays of vintage wine making and cellar tours. Every vineyard proud to be part of proceedings and really leaning in to making the day special. Every participant making the most of the opportunity to show off and have fun.
Now and then someone asked about the bike. “C’est vintage?” they would venture. “Non,” I replied, patting the top tube. “C’est nouveau… mais ancien.” A new old bike. That seemed to satisfy them.
Chalk dust rose. Glasses clinked. The day rolled on.
By the time we reached Fontevraud Abbey, the temperature had risen and so, perhaps, had my bravado. An old bell is displayed in the courtyard, clapper temptingly within reach. I had observed others give it an almighty heave to hear it clang satisfyingly. Emboldened by precedent and hydration, I followed suit.
This, it transpired, was an error.
A guide appeared with the swiftness of ecclesiastical justice and delivered a firm reprimand in French. I stood, mildly bemused. It seemed I alone had been selected for correction. Around me, my companions dissolved, grown men doubled over with laughter. Words flew past me at speed; I caught none of them, though I am fairly certain “anglais” featured prominently. Whatever explanation they offered was delivered between peals of laughter and expansive gestures in my direction. The guide relented. The bell remained unrung. I was absolved, apparently on the grounds of nationality.
Alice leaned neatly against ancient stone, entirely innocent.
The Final Push to Saumur
After the last stop we remounted with rather more urgency than before. The vineyards gave way to longer, dustier stretches of road shimmering in the heat. Word filtered back through the group, we were close to Saumur, close to the château, close to the finish line and a champagne reception.
Up ahead, Ludo rose slightly from the saddle of the tandem and put a stamp of authority on the pace. Myriam matched him stroke for stroke. The tandem gathered momentum with surprising elegance, pulling our little formation into something resembling purpose. Jackets were unbuttoned. Petticoats were fanned at junctions. Along the roadside, locals appeared with garden hoses, sending generous arcs of cold water across the road as we rode through, whooping like schoolchildren. We emerged baptised and steaming.
Alice held her line, Australian red swinging enthusiastically as we gathered speed along the chalk and gravel lanes.
The château appeared through the trees, sitting above the town. The tandem surged once more. We followed in a loose sprawl of linen, lipstick and laughter, rolling back into Saumur sunburnt, dusted white and faintly ridiculous.
And then, somewhere behind me, the song began again.
Bon voyage, messieurs du vélo…
Bon voyage…
I still did not know the rest.
