Norman’s Wisdom
Chance encounters
Norman doesn’t allow the risks of riding to get in his way…
Cyclists accept that they are going to come off their bike one way or another, at various times, and in varying degrees of seriousness. I’ve had six such falls in my cycling years, all memorable – and not necessarily for the right reasons.
Four I’d like to think were due to bad luck – others might call it plain poor bike riding. The first time involved my front wheel sinking into a load of mud that had been dumped into the road after a storm. The wheel tuned 90˚ and I suffered varying degrees of bruises. The second I hit a spot of black ice that had remained hidden in the shade on the side of the road after a cold night, while the third saw my front wheel explode while going downhill. I never did find the reason. As for the fourth…
Some time ago, during my years riding audax, I wanted to expand my horizons by riding outside of Britain. I chose a 1,000km route from the small town of Ouistreham, on the Normandy coast in northern France, to Montpellier near the Mediterranean in the south. In order to do this, I got on an overnight ferry from Portsmouth to Caen, a port near the start of my route. The ferry usually arrives just before daylight and would allow a me full day’s cycling on day one.
The route took me past Pegasus Bridge, just north of Caen, where the Allies landed a large airborne force in WW2, and onwards through the Loire valley with all those lovely Chateaux and wines, and eventually to a dip in the sea. It took me five days.
I was on the D31 about 12km south of Bléré in the Loire on my way to Loches, enjoying the scenery and the good time that I was making. Motorists are a lot more accommodating to cyclists in France; in my many trips there I have never encountered any hassle. But it only takes a moment to cause havoc and there I was, on this single-lane road, when an enormous lorry going like the clappers passed me at such a distance that the draft blew me off the road. The front wheel hit some flint, burst open and sent me tumbling to the ground. Consequences could have been far, far worse than the blood coming out of cuts to my shoulder, a gash to me forehead, other scrapes down my right leg, plus a torn jersey. I was mobile, even if my bike, with its ripped tyre and inner tube, wasn’t.
What to do? Perhaps stand in the busy road and try to get a kind driver to stop, rather than finish me off. Squash that. Trying to work out my best option, I stood on the side of the road looking like an escapee from a zombie movie.
A small Citroën travelling at ambling speed and driven by an elderly lady passed and then pulled over onto the verge and stopped. The driver approached. French was spoken. Not my best language. She motioned that I should place the bike in her boot and that I should get in the car and go with her. She handed me a cloth to place on the seat because of the blood leaking from my various scrapes. We drove to the village of Cigogné where she showed me to the bathroom and motioned to the sink for a wash. I was invited to lunch. Her husband, who spoke English, would be home shortly. He was a retired worker from the oil rigs in the North Sea and spoke good English.
The lunch was superb, French cuisine at its best. It came out during conversation that I am a doctor and he informed me that he had trouble with his digestion and would be consulting his physician the next day. Shops were closed between 12pm and 2pm, but after that his wife said that she would drive me to the nearest town with a bike shop so that I could fix up my bike, a 30km round-trip. After that, I said my goodbyes and continued on to Montpellier.
Days later, back in England, I send them a photo of my home in appreciation. It’s of a similar style and vintage to theirs. The same week, I phoned to say thanks again for their fantastic kindness. The lady answers the phone. She thanks me for the picture. I ask after her husband. Within a week of seeing his doctor he was dead. A colonic carcinoma. Just tragic.
Throughout my life I have been struck by the part that chance plays. The message has got to be that you had better just go out and do what gives you pleasure, because life is short and full of things that can trip you up. A cycle ride in the country carries no more risk than going to the doctor or driving to the shops.
Norman Lazarus
Cyclist/professor
Norman, 86, is a physiology professor at King’s College London, a former audax champion and author of The Lazarus Strategy: How to Age Well and Wisely