Being a Private Detective is never easy but today it made me wish I was a potato farmer in Idaho. Stranded in a French Spa that had seen better days listening to the rain and watching the lights of the run down hotel across the street flicker on and off had made turning myself in to the Santa Monica DA look almost attractive.
And then the dames walked into breakfast. They were women of a certain age who no longer had to try so hard because they knew they had reached perfection. They had more curves than the climb to Alpe d'Huez and in all the right places. The one in Lycra looked like she just won a Gold medal and said she was called Verity though I doubt there was much truth in that name. The other was called Fair Helen and could have launched a thousand ships with a tilt of her chin.
They needed some protection to get them over the mountains into the Ardeche but I didn't ask why. Lycra Lady glanced at my bib shorts and asked what I was packing and I murmured "a Magnum is a man's best friend". I was working with "Tommy" White who was in the Skipton racket for years before things got too hot and he went into the construction industry "legit." But I never asked what went under the concrete floors he laid. He asked them if they really wanted to go all the way? Maybe a bit further, they murmured.
The dames were happy to ride stoker so we revved up the Orbits and climbed steadily up the side of the ravine. After yesterday's storms that was a Lot of river. We climbed past old castles dominating the skyline which got me thinking about old smuggling routes and what exactly was in the ladies panniers.
After we topped out over the col we piled on the warm gear and swooped down the curves through the mist to Villefort and coffee in a gambling dive in the old town. It was there I realised the girls were into something stronger than coffee when I saw Helen tossing down the biggest Paracetamol I'd ever seen and Verity was into matching drugs with her Lycra. Ibuprofen for sure.
The guide says a steep 1km out of town but that was an understatement and we struggled up to the next col and the sign saying we were over the watershed and heading at last for the Mediterranean. Of course that way lay Marseilles and whatever dirty smuggling racket they were into.
Down we went seeing our first olive trees and the air felt suddenly warmer when "bang!" I looked around but it was only what the Limeys call a Yorkshire flat. Too mean to replace the worn rear tyre it had blown right through into the tube. Without a word Tommy pulled out a new tyre and tube and fitted them as slickly as a crooked lawyer getting his clients off on bail. Then down through spectacular limestone scenery making Malham cove look like aunt Mabel's rock garden. Vineyards looked luscious on either side and then we swooped down to see the Ardeche in full spate.
I was just thinking nothing could go wrong when I saw the two cyclists on short bikes just coming up fast behind. Carbon frames for sure. I looked across at Tommy and gave him the nod. Just as we approached the roundabout by the Zone Artisanale we made the move. Carbon short bikes just don't cut it with two heavily laden tandems as we leaned over and eased them into the path of the oncoming lorry. One thousands bottles of Cotes de L'Ardeche made short work of them.
As we booked into the gorgeous old mansion turned small hotel I managed a sneak look in the dames' panniers. So that was the racket! Super sized paracetamol, Ibuprofen and statins for all those exPats on the Riviera. No wonder those girls needed protection. And who better to provide it.......
Km cycled.97 M climbed 915. Mechanicals rear tyre/tube Injuries Verity fell over with bike on top of her. And Tom hit ankle with pedal. ..otherwise looking good.
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