Niall, Santiago and I shared a breakfast including a mug of ‘Cowboy” coffee that is coffee unfiltered where the ‘sediment’ is presumed to sink to the bottom of the mug. Given the colour of Nialls mug and the ‘sand’ in my mouth, Im not totally convinced.
And so it was time to move on to the city of Nimes, famous for something, but I hadn’t done my research at this stage. The cyclist path disappeared at the entrance to the town, but I had plenty of time to find a camp before returning for a better look. However, the only two campsites closest to town were already closed for the winter, despite the continuing gorgeous weather. I headed in the direction of Montepellier with every intention of returning to Nimes, if not today, then tomorrow. No campsite, no obvious savage site, and by now, I was 10-15km further on. Finally, at Aimargues, I found a bar and a place to sleep (seperately), but Nimes (and its glorious Roman colossium) will have to wait for another day, and just as well. As I arrived in Montpellier, an annoying squeak started coming from Helmut’s belt. The apparent advantage of a Pinion bike like Helmut it that it requires minimal maintenance, the gears being enclosed within a sealed box of oil. Just wash down the belt to remove any dust effecting it’s efficient running. That didn’t help. Neither did the silicone lubricant I’d brought. No need to panic, but it was loud and annoying, particularly under stress on the hills. Consider it yet another opportunity to explore the city whilst searching for a decent bike mechanic.
On first impression, Montpellier is a very odd city. Entering from the North East, the city appears supermodern, its architecture, trams and shopping malls. It wasnt entirely unpleasant, just out of keeping with expectation and certainly compared with what I’d seen to date. Indeed, it was just soulless by comparison. No bike shop yet, and I was tiring. I sat down on the pavement next to my squeaky bike and rested a while. A woman across from me said nothing. But sensing my general discomfort, she wished me ‘bon courage’ before leaving. That was nice and put things into perspective. This was never going to be easy or without issues. I took another look at the map and found Willie’s bike shop. Turns out, he was a Dutch immigrant who had worked in London as a broker and took very early retirement here to ride and work with bikes. Who better? To my consternation, he didn’t wanna touch it. He’d never worked on ‘Pinion’ bikes before. ‘Youve bought the most complex bike on the road’ he told me. Needless to say, that didn’t help. ‘Try wearing earplugs’. That didnt help either.
On the more constructive side, he suggested Santi’s shop not 10 minutes away. Apparently, he was more familiar with these kinds of machines. That was good enough. There’s no need to panic, just get Santi’s opinion first and then lose your s***. In the meantime, what did I find? Only a maze of streets that comprise the old town I’d been expecting. I squeaked my way through the narrow streets with people moving conveniently aside as they heard me coming. Santi acknowledged that he was no expert but given the newness of the bike presumed that bolts simply needed tightening (after the first 1000km). I was more sceptical but…. Voila!! To my immense relief, it was 90% better. He suggested I return the next day to grease and retighten the gearbox bolts, and I readily agreed. I won’t be jumping on a train back to Oldenburg just yet. Indeed, the Pinion handbook later confirmed that belt squeaking was NOT an internal gearbox problem. My mind is put at ease, if not my legs. After 5 weeks of almost continuous cycling, it could well have been my joints that were squeaking. But the Med is so close, I sometimes think I can smell it on the air.
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