I took off like a rabbit at the dog track when I left Sille Le Guillaume, in entirely the wrong direction. My compass spun joyously with the frivolity of it all and gave me no clues, drunk on magnetic flux. It was a small angle of difference between right and wrong at the critical fork in the road, which just grew and grew as I rode east, north east and then just plain north (the campsite being east-south-east).It was mid afternoon and the road became narrower and windier, pushing up and away from the Valee du Sarthe. The riding was good, a ribbon of asphalt bucking and weaving through small picturesque farms and villages. Goats skipped away as I drew near, leaning the bike this way and that but gradually I became aware that I recognised none of the signposted names. The next sizeable town was Beaumont-sur-Sarthe, I knew that much, but it was after lunch and there was no one around to ask. After a while I saw a farmer working near the roadside and pulled over.
I fired in three different pronunciations of Beaumont with a questioning brow, thinking one will surely hit home, but I guess the bike was too loud. He hesitated but walked over after a mock cupping of a hand behind an ear. I tried again, unwinding the throttle back to the stop. He gave an exaggerated wave in the direction I was already travelling and stomped back up the field. 'Really?' I thought. It seemed foolish to doubt him and somewhat rude and pointless to ask and then turn around, so I set off in the direction indicated.
A beautiful and even triumphant afternoon had once again taken on an unnerving aspect, although places in the mortal grip of a siesta can also do this. Everything shut up, like an invasion was expected, only mad dogs and French farmers out in the midday sun. I rounded a corner pulled on the throttle and all of a sudden the power dropped off, with an elongated pop, actually a poooooffff.
I’ve run out of petrol many times before but not without some warning – usually a short phase of intermittent cutting out – even so, I pulled in the clutch and scrabbled around under the tank for the reserve plunger. The bike slowed, I pulled out the plunger and let out the clutch lever, there was a gnashing of chains and pinions, a thrumming of cams and valve gear, huffing and puffing from the piston as the remaining fuel drew through the system and then, just as suddenly, the power came back online.
I looked for a signposted junction and stopped again, pulling out my map, perplexed. I thought I’d more fuel than that. The trial I’d undertaken before setting out had indicated enough range to get me from St Malo to the Chateau Chanteloupe, with a bit to spare. The leak had clearly been significant [TBB 7.5]. On top of this, I’d opted to travel off the beaten track and hadn’t seen a petrol station for miles. I had no idea how much fuel comprised the reserve, so potentially I was in a bit of a pickle.
The immediate question was forward or back? I was by now off the photocopied maps of my intended route and as I’d already lost my faith in both compass and 'in-breds who'd never been further than the next village', I decided to turn back. I had Liz’s iPhone but frankly couldn’t face spending half an hour trying to figure out if she had a map app, let alone try to use it. I’d already taken a lot of stick from the Village People for expressing a somewhat negative opinion about these devices, primarily over the inference that they were not particularly intuitive to use. I do not doubt their incredible versatility but remain concerned about what could be termed 'user lock-in'. I've encountered a curiously touchy sensitivity among some iPhone owners on this subject.
Luckily, I had the whole-of-France map on me (complete with the penned-on route of our failed expedition to North Africa [TBB 6.7]) and the road I was on was just visible, running north to south. It was clear from the sun and my own internal compass that I was going north, so I figured I’d retrace my steps and gas up in Beaumont - assuming there was a petrol station there and that I could find it in time.
