There’s supposedly strong evidence that when thinking in a second language one becomes more rational, less emotional, thus paving the way for wiser decision-making. It’s occurred to me that if we’d been able to speak French while in France, our faithful travel companion could very well be “au passé” by now. When Pferdi blew his engine there was a lot of deep discussion on the wisdom of keeping him alive versus ye olde Viking funeral. Even with a new heart, his other bits were already 76,000km old and he’d carried a heavy load for most of his working life. But we were in the grip of the sunk cost effect with the dominant investment being tremendous affection for that pile of grey metal on three wheels. Fran, being of a more sentimental nature than I, didn’t have to think about it for too long and whenever anyone suggested putting the old boy out to pasture he responded huffily by asking: “And which one of your children would you be willing to sacrifice?” I didn’t have the heart to argue so we signed the “Oui! Please do resuscitate” form and left the child in the crowded workshop of Muscat Moto Sides.
We rented a car in Nevers and headed south. It was the first time Fran had been behind the wheel since September 2017. After Ural’s 1930s technology it seemed very advanced, and big. West of Limoges in Chabanais, our new accommodation was an old house previously occupied by the village notary, courtesy of some very generous friends in Portugal. The entrance hall was tiled in black and white and out back a walled patio was shaded by an over-zealous creeper and two square towers. Across the street the river Vienne flowed silky black until it reached the weir where it turned to a gushing frothy white. It was all very different, very French and quite alien. At night I’d stand at the bathroom window brushing my teeth and gazing out over the spires and red tile roofs. It was deadly quiet until 4:00 AM when the baker opposite received his flour delivery and through the open kitchen door we’d watch him begin his day.
In these parts between the Loire and Limoges the landscape was very “English-Country-Garden”. It was fresh and green but the hot summer was evident in the dry riverbeds, crisped roadside ferns and fields of dead sunflowers nodding in post-apocalyptic splendour. Towns like Confolens, Rochechouart and Saint-Junien were pretty beyond belief with grey stone bridges and calm rivers reflecting swollen thunderclouds. The castles were solid and imposing, more fortress than fantasy, their broad towers topped with perfectly-shaped cones, like shiny grey witches’ hats. There were sunny cloisters where we ate our sandwiches, Roman baths that required great imagination and a small Templar chapel hidden in the woods. But no matter how warm the day the massacre village of Oradour-sur-Glane leaves you chilled. The church still has its bell, but melted and collapsed on the floor, and on the altar the broken frame of a baby’s pram stretches out like a small skeleton. The tram line is still in place.
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Sixteen days after the breakdown the heart transplant was complete and Pferdi ready for discharge. André’s son picked us up at the La Charité-sur-Loire train station. We retrieved the bike jackets and pants from a mouldy puddle at the bottom of the trunk; it must have rained while he was in the garden. The old lady across the street, who’d been watching us lay everything out in the sun, came over to engage in a lengthy, one-sided conversation, give us fresh plastic bags and a bottle of wine.
We had to take a 500k test run and weren’t allowed to exceed 60 km/h. For the next three days home was a small motel in the woods outside the farming town of Mesves-sur-Loire. The only other guests were an older French couple and we would smile whenever our paths crossed. The staff popped in a couple of times a day, which was nice of them, except you never knew when. Sometimes a car would drive up, the occupants getting out to hang around the closed doors of reception. Eventually they’d realise nobody was coming and they’d drive away. That’s a business plan you almost have to admire. We did our best to ease the convalescent back into normal life. Some roads were pink and unpaved, others hugged the river while tree-lined avenues dissected open fields. There were hamlets with shuttered Mairies and village stores that might be closed for the day, or for eternity. We were in and out of La Charité with a renewed lightness of being and on Sunday wound our way up the vine-covered hill to Sancerre. By the time we reached 500k we’d driven two giant loops through France’s lonely heartland and passed the steam-plumed Saint-Laurent Nuclear Power Plant not once but twice.
After a final inspection and oil change André and I reviewed the instructions for the next 3,500k. To begin we could drive at 65 km/h, increasing in 500k increments until at 3,000k we could hit the dizzying heights of 90 km/h (which is actually faster than we’ve ever gone). Mon Dieu! The first night out we reached Limoges which was only marginally more south than where we’d originally broken down. Twenty-one lost days. On the morning of the third day we were beginning to breathe again, after all Pferdi was new man and though still in recovery mode we’d driven him “avec prudence”. We were on a narrow road, the thin, dense trees on either side a little dreary, but hey, we were in France and really, the people were quite delightful. Then suddenly, a change in tone, and a weakening in the surge forward. One of the two cylinders wasn’t firing and we’d lost half our power. Pulling onto a dirt track I emptied the trunk to get at the tools. Surrounded by our possessions a motorcyclist sped by with a cheery wave. At first I truly believed it would be all right. Fran checked the plugs, they sparked, then the valves and finally the exhaust rocker arm, and there it was: a long crack that couldn’t be denied. And the crying shame of it all was that it was a new part, with less than 1,200k while the old one, still going strong after 76,734k, had been discarded.
Being around this dancefloor before didn’t make it any easier. Limping along we landed in a dusty spot called Pouydesseaux. There was only one building in sight, the La Mille Pattes (The Centipede) restaurant. I began calling garages and tow trucks but nobody understood me. Finally I went inside and asked a man with a dolly full of drinks if he would talk to the tow company but no, he was too busy. I turned to the woman behind the counter but she was ready for me. Before I could even speak she spat out a nasty “Non”. I tried again but was left gaping like a guppy. It took several seconds for the outright refusal to register and the shock made me rude. I thanked her profusely, in French, and topped it off with a sarcastic “Vive la France” (God knows where that came from), to which she equally sarcastically replied, “Oui, Vive la France”.
The day loomed long and hopeless until the arrival of an unexpectedly kind mailman who made several calls on our behalf. The bitter truth emerged, tow trucks would not come unless a garage or mechanic agreed in advance to receive the vehicle, and nobody would. With a sad handshake he climbed back into his little postal truck. His last word was “Courage”.
The lunchtime trade, including a group of ten motorcycles, came and went. Clearly what we thought was a universal etiquette of bikers assisting bikers didn’t apply here. I contacted a rental car company and then the local police who told me to call the EU Emergency Agency before abruptly hanging-up. Fran wandered off down one of the country roads to think, or to run away, I’m still not sure which. Meanwhile I inspected the parking lot for the best spot to pitch our sleeping bags. Somewhere prominent so as to cause apoplexy in the Centipede’s owners would be good. I was imagining living there for the week when Fran returned beaming. He had found Roland.
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Our unlikely hero had an auto inspection business behind some hedgerows in a large expanse of field. Somehow Fran had explained our dilemma. He began to steer Pferdi down the road while I pushed from behind thinking of all the places where I’d done this before, Texas, Panama, Colombia, and wondered how a nice girl like me had ended up with a job like this. All we asked was to park outside but Roland was waiting with a can of starting fluid and with a flourish sparked a 1950s tractor to life. This he reversed out of the warehouse and Pferdi spent the next five days in its space, in the classic company of a collection of 1950s and ‘60s American cars.
We stayed in Mont-de-Marsan in the types of hotels where construction workers, repairmen and salesmen in vans stop on their weekly rounds. We’d come across them in the north, sitting on humid patios at dusk, smoking, drinking beer and calling home. Back in the Loire André had put a new rocker arm in the post. When it arrived on time Roland was as delighted as we were. Out came the old arm with its evil black crack and we opened the new part, still in its original packaging. And, oh Lord, it also had a break, right along the seam. The three of us stood in stunned silence, Fran finally remembered some French – “Merde” – and Roland looked about to cry. As for me, I darkly imagined a Russian with “Quality Control” embroidered on his overalls, lazily shipping faulty parts to unsuspecting dealers like André, and if I’d had a little man doll, and a box of pins…….well, who knows what pain would have been felt in Irtusck.
We found another hotel and the Fanta orange tractor camped out for another few nights under the stars. It was during this time we had our darkest doubts about keeping Pferdi. Even if nothing more happened, I could no longer imagine the old days lolling in the sidecar, happy thoughts trailing like kites high above our heads. I was already fretting at the thought of the Pyrenees whose passes were known for their high elevations. On day six, the second “new” part arrived. We opened it feeling slightly sick and didn’t exhale until all three of us had examined it: no cracks, no problems. It took only minutes to install and with Roland gently looking on we packed-up. Every time we say goodbye it’s hard. Though you know you’ll never forget them, you wonder if you’ll ever see these people again. It can be especially poignant when leaving a stranger who overnight became your only friend. I remembered catching Roland secretly French-googling our broken rocker arm and his wife bringing us mugs of tea. Kissing even both his cheeks couldn’t begin to convey my gratitude so I just grabbed him in a big bear embrace.
Turning left onto the country road I waited for Pferdi to splutter and stop. On through the roundabout, into Mont-de-Marsan and out the other side, I counted the miles we’d have to push him back. But he kept going. The towns became villages and villages became solitary churches until there was nothing but the blue Pyrenees in the distance. Somewhere at the top of those mountains France ended and we couldn’t wait to get out. All I could remember was roadside hopelessness and days ending in places that had never been on the itinerary. I was ashamed I couldn’t speak French and felt we shouldn’t even be there if we couldn’t behave ourselves and keep a low profile. But then I thought of André, who smiled with his eyes, and the postman who rang more than twice. And lastly I thought of Roland who just about now would be returning the Tangerine Dream to its rightful parking space. And I was sorry to say goodbye.