RIDING WITH REMY, THE FLUFFY FRENCHMAN

Well first we have to back up. 

Before a bike for my European trip was secured from Trek France, I was told to talk to Rémy, the owner of “Bike in Paris”, a Trek shop about a minute away from our apartment in the 15th arrondissement.

When I met Rémy he was well prepared for our visit. He said that Trek France had contacted him and asked if he had a bike for me until they could get the Emonda to Paris from Toulouse. I had heard from the powers that be that I could use his personal bike.

Rémy pointed to a flawless red and white Trek factory-schemed Domane SLR on a stand on the floor and said, “That is my personal bike. You are welcome to use it until your bike arrives. But I want you to know something… I want you to know that I love this machine very much. I love it almost more than my wife and children. There is not one blemish on that beautiful thing, not even a tiny scratch. If anything happens to it, you must pay until it is exactly the same.”

I decided against taking his bike.

Cut to yesterday morning when I met Rémy at his shop for one of his favorite rides to the outskirts of Paris. First up was sorting out the Emonda; check the torque on the stem, where I had swapped spacers, and add magnets on the spokes and crank for the Garmin numbers.

With my machine sorted, Rémy now fully kitted, and the shop shuttered, we were ready to set off.

Rémy pushed on his glasses and said, “We go?”  “Yep.” I said.

The small gregarious man, who described himself as “fluffy”, (I can attest to his accuracy) clipped-in and took off like I had planned on chasing him like Popeye Doyle.

This was no simple roll to the street and blend into traffic. The Flying Frenchman first headed for a pedestrian path between streets. He didn’t look back to see if I was following. It seemed like this was a test to see if the American could hang. Everything was a blur of morning commuters and confusing avenues as Frenchy weaved through those brown iron stanchions you see all over Paris like a competition Border Collie on Ritalin.

I’ve always said that ego makes you faster on the racetrack. And it turns out that ego and fear of failure in a foreign country will make you do shit on a bike that you wouldn’t even consider otherwise. So when Rémy bunny-hopped a foot high curb and slipped between a crepe cart and a frightened pensioner, I did the same. When Rémy slipped to the edge of the curb and headed for an impossible gap between the the sidewalk and a road sign, I looked for options. When he unclipped his right foot and threw his bike over 15 degrees to clear the sign I thought, this will never work, but I tried it anyway.

As luck would have it, I got away with it.

We went on like that for about 20 minutes until Rémy looked over his shoulder and said, “We have left Paris.” Mind you, that was the first time he looked over his shoulder. I could have been mangled under a Citröen, two minutes in, and he would have been none the wiser.

He also shouted, “We are in Clamart!” I looked it up later, because I heard, “We are een Klmah%#th!”

I guess you could say that we settled in, once out of town, but we certainly weren’t relaxed. That little fucker was strong. He set a punishing pace for a solid two and a half hours, all the while describing each ascent in terms of grade and distance (even used miles) and making clear and concise signals of direction.

I think I may have mentioned before that going uphill past a certain length or more than a particular percentage of grade ain’t my thing. So the Parisian hurt me when we attacked some longer climbs and he dropped me three or four times on rollers in the French countryside. I took him on a short 4% climb, but he consistently had 2 miles per hour on me, even when he was pulling into the wind. Strong man… and probably still holding something back.

But that motherfucker paid on two downhill grades. I didn't look back (tit-for-tat) but I could hear the Domane fading as I threw caution to the lavender-scented wind on two different descents. A quick Strava check tonight confirmed that Rémy got two PRs on one of his favorite routes… in the descents. 38 to my 43 miles per hour confirmed the small victory, but the rest of the numbers show that I lost the war.

I mention the competitive aspect of the ride because it’s such a big part of cycling, but the best part of this experience was that I met another member of the cycling community, a wonderful host, and connected immediately.

On our return, he rolled up alongside and said, “Soon the road ees treekee. Please be careful.” NOW he tells me. 

Back among the pedestrians and stanchions we flew. Once back at the shop Rémy completed the ritual by making me an espresso while we recounted the ride. We talked about our families, looked up nice routes on Strava and he even did another tweak session on my bike. And I bought a Bike in Paris kit, of course. 

Before I rolled home, Rémy invited me to a two hour lunch ride with some of his shop rat buddies on Wednesday.

I’m going to rest up for that one.