We found our way out of Bordeaux far easier than we had found our way in. For the first hour or so we passed through a continuous stream of suburbs -- an unmemorable row of video rental shops, cafes, Chinese restaurants, car dealer ships, gas stations, McDonald's, and even a lot a driving schools. France has an amazing number of driving schools. They must teach how to get away with driving too fast; how to come as close as possible to pedestrians without actually hitting them; how to drive fast on pedestrian streets; stuff like that.

I make fun of French drivers but I have always said they are very good to cyclists, if not to pedestrians and other cars. They know they drive too fast and that far too many people die in car accidents in France. We read in the newspaper that they are planning to actually make it a crime to speed -- though this is controversial.

After the suburbs, the road headed exactly straight for about 30 kilometers. No turns or hills. On this (west) side of Bordeaux, we saw not a single winery. The land was mostly used for tree farms. This was good for us because the tall trees blocked the wind. Our view most of the time was just a corridor with pine trees for walls. This became somewhat monotonous.

We stopped in Facture to make our usual lunch sandwiches. After failing to find a town park we ended up at the train station. What a great choice! While we ate three TGV trains passed probably at about 90mph. The roar just about threw us out of our seats. It really felt like the end of the world. TGV's don't stop at little places like Facture though one regular train did stop.

A warning came a minute or so before every train arrived. A road crossed the tracks near the station and before each train came, a bell rang. But the gates didn't come down right away. There was a shack in the middle of the tracks where a man worked. When the bell rang he came outside and cranked two wheels. The wheels were connected by pulleys and ropes to the gates which gradually lowered as he cranked. What an anachronism.

The town of Arcachon sits on a peninsula at the entry to a large bay. It has a great long beach lined with hotels for rich visitors from the inland in the summer. It reminded both of us of Monterey, California.

Our hotel guy in Bordeaux told us it would be very expensive. This could be true, especially in the high season. Fortunately we found a great inexpensive hotel. Expensive Arcachon did get us one way. We paid US$4 each for a cup of coffee.

Before sunset we took a great long (free) walk on the beach. It was not sunny but it was relatively warm and very calm. Lots of children were out playing in the sand. Groups of people wandered around. People fished from the piers with 15 foot poles. A women had a bucket full of crabs. Several sailboats floated in the bay, sails limp from lack of wind.

The was the last time for a while that so many people enjoyed the beach. That night an Atlantic storm came in, pouring rain and whipping wind all around. As we lie in a warm bed listening to the trees sway and creak, I was so happy not to be camping.

In the morning we still heard trees getting blown around and rain dripping in the courtyard of the hotel. We had hoped to avoid riding on a cold, windy, raining day like that. We had enough cold wet weather on the south island of New Zealand to know better. We figured the key to enjoying winter cycling in Europe was to avoid days like this. Nonetheless, we spent about an hour over breakfast debating. In the end we decided to stay. Joan felt somewhat ill and that sealed the decision.

That day we mostly stayed in the hotel room. We left once for a walk along the beach, returning through town, cold, wet, and hungry. It was Sunday and just about everything in the entire town was closed. Even the grocery stores. So we read some of our 18 books.

The next day the sun was shining when we got up but by the time we packed the bikes it was raining. We left anyway. All day long it rained on and off, but only occasionally hard.

About 10km south of town we climbed up Europe's tallest sand dune (Dune Pilat), about 400 feet high and almost two miles long. It was a long trudge up the loose sand to the top but I was impressed considering it was really just a pile of sand. On the inland side, it's gradually burying tall pine trees that look like blades of grass next to the immense, and steep, dune.

It was a great view into the sea from the top as well. We didn't spend a lot of time admiring it as it was raining on us and really windy.

The road continued to be surrounded by pine forest tree farms that blocked the wind for us, otherwise it would have been a miserable day.

Just after the dune we discovered a bicycle path that followed the road for 20km or more. This was wonderful. The road had not been busy but the bike path was almost completely empty. I think we saw one other person on it. Best of all, it occasionally had signs telling us where the path was going. Too many bike trails in the world are unmarked so we have been afraid to take them. We've been burned too many times on dead ends (see Singapore). Sometimes we have gone out of our way to catch a bike path then after 300 yards it dead ends into some sort of concrete barrier that we have to lift the bikes over. That makes me feel like such a fool.

So traffic hardly crossed our minds all day. The main problem was the rain. We stopped in Bicarrosse for pizza and coffee. We splurged by having two coffees at one sitting (I don't think the French have a word for "refill"). We had braved out the wet weather pretty well but figured we deserved some hot food. It was the first hot meal we had had in several days.

We continued through pine forest, thankfully breaking an increasing wind. Now and then the road turned east and we were walloped and almost brought to a stop by strong gusts. But that was rare.

The views were about the same the rest of the way - not much.

We planned to stay in Mimizan that night. The first hotel was too expensive so we rode all around town, in an increasingly strong downpour, until we convinced ourselves that it was the only hotel not closed for the season. The wind was really blowing now and sheets of rain blew horizontally down the streets. The storm was worse than it had been all day. Finally, totally soaked and getting cold, we decided money was no object. We asked for a room.

They were full. Joan told me the news surprisingly unperturbed. On the other hand, and I hate to admit this, but I felt awful and made the mistake of expressing it. "Fuck! We're going to have to ride straight into this storm for who knows how long," I whined. My bad attitude was contagious. Joan became perturbed. If I had just shut up for five minutes I would have been over it. Instead I disheartened Joan too.

Fortunately the hotel owner told us the next hotel was "only" six km away. It seemed like a long way in that weather. But it wasn't so bad. We ended up at a friendly, inexpensive little place. They had a workshop they let us put the bikes in and even told us where to find the nearest grocery store (called a "8 a huit" or "8 to Eight").

Next: Wind, Rain, Snow, Hail and Sun

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