A Misadventure on the Grand Traversee du Massif Central: A Neophyte Bikepacker's Redemption

My friend Chris and I sat down at a train station in the smallish town of Issoire, France. Soaking wet, angry, and frustrated with ourselves, we watched the muddy water puddle beneath the wooden bench as we realized our bikepacking plans for the Grand Traversee du Massif-Central were completely shot for a number of reasons, including a relentless driving rain.

How could things have gone this wrong?

The Grand Traversee du Massif Central is an off-road bike touring trail that meanders through the bucolic Auvergne region on its way to Southern France and eventually the Mediterranean at Montpellier. The route features steep climbs, varied track, and some very friendly folks as that serve you lots of wine and world famous cheeses. On bikepacking.com, the route is listed as 450+ mile trip that can be completed in 9 days.

Sure, maybe somebody can do it in 9 days, but Chris and I are not them.

So why this trail? This trip seemed like the perfect long distance bike adventure for me to experience as I finished my degree and headed into the real world. It was a new country for me, rich in history, fabled with fine cuisine, and I could change my flights from another trip that I was already taking with my family in Greece for no extra money. Perfect.

My fiancee thought differently. Her reasons for worry:

I've never been to France before
I didn't have much time to train
At the time I decided to do the trip, I had never been bikepacking.

To me, the adventure and uncertainty fit me perfectly. Mountain biking, wine, cheese, Mediterranean, and an old high school friend. 50 miles a day? No problem.

Upon jumping off the train, we immediately realized that the trail is not well marked. Unbeknownst to us, France has a dense network of rural trails for hikers and cyclists across the countryside, and many intersect or change name every 100 meters.

Chris forcing a smile in a break from the rain.

Only aided by a guide book, we we're constantly looking for the tiny faded-pink GTMC signs that marked a new turn. On the first day, a wrong turn at a road lead us down an exhilarating down hill section, only to find that we were back to the bottom of a massive hill that we already climbed.

For the next three days, driving rain, mud, confusion, and frustration led us all over the Auvergne region. By the fourth day, we knew that we had gone too long covering too little distance. In desperation, we went to a bus/train station in Issoire to try and get further South.

Upon arrival, we learned that transportation workers across the country were protesting a new labor law with a strike, which threatened national transportation for the Euro Cup.

And thats where Chris and I, ready to fist-fight each other, sat in despair. We were half way through the trip with only a quarter of the distance behind us.

We had to give it one more shot. Because some lines were still open, we figured that we could get on a bus back to our starting point at Clermont-Ferrand. At least from there, we could take one of the open routes by train or even catch a cheap flight down to our final destination of Montpellier.

I threw together a rehearsed sentence in French and asked where I could find the nearest cycling shop. Then man kindly drew me a map to a supermarket where we might find boxes to pack our bikes for the trip. Time to quite whining and make a move.

We headed out. Wet, cold, and bewildered, our haggard appearance warranted an altruistic cyclist named Franck to pull over and ask if we needed help.

Through his broken English and my broken French, we told him our woes. Franck, who had a cycling race cancelled by the rain that day, wanted to help in one of two ways: he could take us to Clermont-Ferrand that evening, or he could take us to his home for a hot shower, a French dinner, and the company of his family before we took a bus the next morning.

That evening, Franck, his wife Anne, and their two daughters cooked us dinner, served us beer, and played ping pong with us while we talked laughed about the silly things our cultures did. Through their kindness and hospitality, we learned and experienced more than we ever could have if the trip had gone the way we planned.

Cheesin because we were dry, fed, and happy to begin our own route.

The experience turned the trip around. All of a sudden, it wasn't about two guys trying to distill some wild endurance feat on a dirt path through central France. Instead, it became a trip about two young men, aided by bicycles, to explore a culture that was new to us, to create our own path, and to see the amazing places that we hadn't googled before the trip.

I've always preached some kind dogma about living the adventure and rolling with the punches. But this was a whole new animal. We didn't run into challenges. We ran into halting misfortune. Instead of me choosing my own path, the path slapped me in the face and reminded me of what I was really their to do: experience something that neither me nor Chris could have imagined.

For the next 5 days, Chris and I travelled by car, bike, and bus to places that we never planned to go. From the grungy neighborhoods of Marseille to tourist trap tours, we made it our trip.

Now, our bikes need repair, some of our stuff has been ruined, and our instagram posts didn't get the number of likes that we expected, but the memory of this trip will leave an enduring mark on two easy going travelers.