‘You only grow when you are alone.                                                       
Paul Newman
 
I’ve wheeled the bike down to the gates of the campsite, panniers fully laden and my fancy trailer firmly attached to the rear rack. The girls have walked down with me and stand by as I make final adjustments to the bungees holding everything in place. I fold the map to show the first leg of the journey, and slide it into the plastic window atop the handlebar pannier.
We’re okay. I know my daughters were talking late into the night, and none of us got much sleep, but I think we’re okay. Though it will be hard to say goodbye in a few minutes time. And I do believe they have very real concerns that I’m not going to make it home in one piece. They’re looking at me as if willing me not to go.
‘It’s a gentle bicycle ride,’ I say, ‘I’m not climbing a mountain or going caving. I’m just tootling along by the sea, taking my time and drinking wine. D’accord?‘
Megs says, “Will you please be careful though?”
“I won’t be pulling any wheelies, not with all this kit.”
I hug her tight for the longest time, and then I go to Lilly and she opens her arms wide. I can’t read her expression. It’s so hard to let her go, but when I do, I’m relieved to find she’s looking right into my eyes, and smiling too.
“It’s going to be fine,” I say, and she knows I mean for us both.
“I know Dad, I’m okay, really.”
I don’t want to linger, this is hard enough as it is, so I hug them both again and then begin to wheel the bike down to the road. I turn and give something like the bravado wave of a circus performer and prepare to mount my steed. But as I swing my leg over, I catch my foot on the crossbar and though I manage to hold the bike and trailer upright, I stumble.
‘Fine! All fine. Here we go!’
I’ve got a helmet, but I’m damned if I’m riding away wearing it. I look daft enough already in my padded shorts designed to protect my ageing ass and a cycling top that reveals rather more paunch than I might wish to own.
As I wobble away towards the coast road, I change down a gear to make the peddling easier, and risk a backward glance or two as I go. They’re still there. It’s a family tradition to wave until you’re out of sight, but I don’t know if I can manage to do that and stay upright. Finally, the road bends, and with a last trembling glance over my shoulder, my beautiful daughters disappear from sight and I’m on my way, talking out loud to myself about going the wrong way round roundabouts, stunned to find myself at the start of a foolhardy adventure that was, until this very moment, nothing but an idle fantasy.
Ten kilometres later, and I’ve negotiated the streets of Biarritz centre ville, taken the back roads through its suburbs, and joined the D260, busy, but the most direct route to Bayonne. I had to leave before the girls because I needed to make it to a campsite in good time. I’ve picked a place that is the other side of Bayonne, close to the Atlantic coast, and I think I’ve reserved a pitch there online, but you never know. So I’m allowing two hours to get there and an hour to sign in at reception – which closes at five, along with the gate, apparently – and set up the tent. I’ve got more than enough time, but I want to play it safe on Day One.
I check my phone for the time, but for the route, I’m relying on the map. I mean to start as I intend to go on. My daughters may well be on their way to the airport by now, but they won’t take off until 4.30pm, and by then, I’m aiming to be through Bayonne and on the other side of the Adour river,