Commuting and the Canal du Midi

For us, the adjustment to living in a large metropolitan area seems greater than the adjustment to France itself. Some of the lessons we have learned the hard way, like having Marty’s bike light be stolen the first day he brought his new bike into Toulouse or having the tip we left for the waiter be stolen by the guy who sat at the table after us. (We haven’t been totally naive, however, and, bought inexpensive bikes to use in Toulouse.) A big part of life in any big city, of course, is the commute.

We live on the Canal du Midi, a waterway that connects France’s Atlantic seaboard with the Mediterranean coast. The canal is lined by large sycamore trees and many little communities of peniches, the barges that were once used to ship goods when the canal was an active shipping route. The peniches are now primarily houseboats; many can be rented, a few operate as hotels and restaurants and one is even a discotheque.

Within a short walk of our apartment is Port-Sud, a marina that sparkles at night with these charming boats, reminding us of a Disney World resort. (This comparison would undoubtedly appal the French.) Even closer is the Pont Mange-Pommes, a gorgeous brick bridge that frames the reflection of the sycamores on the water. Our friend Georg describes the canal as a “piece of artwork” that winds its way through southern France.

The canal is an appealing haven from the hustle and bustle of city life in Toulouse. The bike and pedestrian paths along its bank attract people of all ages for recreation, relaxation and commuting. These paths are entirely flat except where they dip below the bridges that cross the canal or over the locks that move the boats to different elevations. The most fascinating stretch of the canal is where it passes OVER the highway. The canal is suspended at this point like any other overpass, and you can look down from the canal to the cars speeding along the highway. Highway users occasionally enjoy the bizarre experience of seeing boats pass over them.

We head off to French school each morning and join the commuters who cycle along the canal into and out of Toulouse. To us Americans, the idea of commuting on a flat, tree lined bike route completely isolated from traffic in temperate weather is a dream come true. Think how relaxing it must be, such a safe, easy and carefree bike ride. Wrong!

Our commute is teeming with hazards. It gives us a daily adrenaline rush as our bodies, genetically selected to respond chemically to life threatening woolly mammoths and saber-toothed tigers, face the dangers of the canal. It is during our commute that we know we’re not in Durham anymore.

To help you understand the dangers we face, let’s begin with the Daydreamers. These are the people who enjoy the canal, remarkably unaware of the rush of bicycles, runners and roller bladers around them. They may stop abruptly, unexpectedly move to other lanes, wander randomly while enjoying a conversation on their cell phone, or walk three or even four abreast, oblivious to the fact that they are severely impeding the flow of traffic along the canal route. I am in awe of their ability to relax while in constant peril.

Perhaps the penultimate Daydreamers were the two joggers who simply stopped one morning right in front of Marty’s moving bike. They rather inconveniently decided to try this trick precisely where the path narrows as it goes under a bridge, managing to block the entire route while one of them bent over to tie her shoes. Marty and I, still not completely hardened to the grim reality of the canal cyclist, came to a complete stop behind them. The native canal cyclists never allow themselves to come to a stop; in fact, slowing down in the face of such hazards is a sign of weakness and obviously discouraged. While we stood there, powerless victims of the Daydreamers, the Wicked Witch of the West came up behind us and through some sort of dark magic that defied the laws of physics, managed to squeeze past us, the Daydreamers and the on-coming bike traffic.

We see the Wicked Witch of the West (WW of the W) almost daily along our route. She looks remarkably like the evil woman who steals Toto and bikes across the sky during the tornado. (Marty, being the only child ever to have grown up in the United States without seeing the Wizard of Oz, simply accepts my word that this is, in fact, the case.) You no doubt remember her, for decades she has been the source of nightmares for young children. Our WW of the W, when she’s not squeezing past bottlenecks with Houdini-like abilities, likes to pass us on the canal and then slow down. She leaves the canal path at the same point we do, and we frequently stand beside her waiting to cross the street. Although she has to look in our direction for on-coming traffic, she skillfully manages to never look at us, not even briefly making eye contact. To make eye contact would suggest a weakness that she clearly will not indulge. Even worse, it may acknowledge our humanity and thereby compromise our current status as mere obstacles between her and her destination.

The WW of the W is a insignificant distraction compared with the Tour de France Wanna-Be’s, however. It is the Wanna-Be’s that introduce the greatest danger on the canal as they speed along at a reckless pace, determined to pass any unfortunate being that may be in their way. The most daring among them will ride without their hands on the handlebars while squeezing their way between innocent canal commuters.

While the Wanna-Be’s can be scary anywhere along the canal, we fear them most at the narrow, wooden footbridge. This footbridge is about four feet wide, quite comfortable for a bike to traverse, barely manageable for both a bike and a pedestrian passing in opposite directions, and, because of the width of handlebars, quite difficult for two bikes traveling in opposite directions. One morning, Marty was on the footbridge adjacent to a pedestrian moving in the opposite direction when a Wanna-Be, in a move that could be replicated only with the use of Hollywood special effects, managed to wedge himself between Marty and the pedestrian. It was a stunning act requiring a type of bravado that is actually quite rare in the gene pool (because the men who enjoy such genes rarely live long enough to pass them on to offspring).

In addition to the people hazards, the bike path offers a few physical hazards. There are the tree roots that jut across the path and the steep bank that, if you’re not careful, will land you in the green waters of the canal. Then there was the windy day when, surprisingly, a sycamore branch fell hard, startling me and painfully hitting my hand and handlebars. My first ride along the canal, I almost accidentally rode down some stairs (I don’t go that way anymore).

To get to French school, we have leave the “safety” of the bike path along the canal and find our way through the labyrinth of streets in Toulouse. Conveniently, the French seem to be rather loose about rules, at least when it comes to bicycles. Certainly staying to the right is optional for all non-motorized movement in France. Like all bike riders in Toulouse, we take advantage of the loose rules and ride the wrong way down one-way streets, go through red lights, intimidate pedestrians and ride where it says bikes are not allowed.

We weren’t like this when we left New Hampshire. We used to be nice, law-abiding people. We used to stop at red lights, slow down for pedestrians, travel in the direction of traffic and only go where bikes were allowed. Survival instincts have kicked in, and we have learned that, as cyclists, we have to fend for ourselves. The rules were obviously made by people who never tried to ride a bike through Toulouse.

Strangely, we have found that it is actually easiest to ride on the busier boulevards, which also give us plenty of opportunities for that adrenaline rush that we have grown so accustomed to. These roads have designated bus lanes that can be also used by bicycles. The trick, of course, is that you can’t get too intimidated by the massive buses that are barreling behind you, the cars abruptly turning in front of you, the trucks blocking the lane so they can unload, or the pedestrians that spring out when you least expect it. One particularly egregious offender was a medical services van that decided to speed around me, pull over directly in front of me and abruptly stop. I suppose if I had smashed into him, there would have at least been quick medical response.

We must confess that we enjoy this commute to French school. It requires skill, daring, concentration and more than a little bit of chutzpah. Marty’s commute will soon be reduced to a wimpy seven minute jaunt on the easy part of the canal as he foregoes French school in favor of working. I will then be alone to take on the Daydreamers, WW of the W, Tour de France Wanna-Be’s and any other comers. Bring 'em on.