Le Depart

I like the French cyclists; they are never too inhibited to insert their avoirdupois into colourful Lycra. Not for them the inhibitions of bulges in awkward spots: no, they are comfortable in their bodies whatever the shape, and goodness knows there are enough shapes to represent the whole of mankind.

There are the elderly gents who have been cycling since they could balance on a bike who are honed to nothing more than skin and bone, with sinewy limbs and Lycra that is loose.
There are the gentlemen who have espoused the good life over the years, whoseLycra is somewhat stretched over their paunches.
There are the svelte somewhat younger ladies with painted nails, looking fit and good in their colourful Lycra, sporting slender arms, no bat wings in evidence and tanned to perfection.
There are the housewives of ample proportions and bat wings, dressed in Lycra to match their partner's where every bulge is accentuated as only that most unforgiving of material can do.
And rarely seen so far on this trip, there are the Adonis lads, looking like substitutes for the Tour who do Lycra proud and who hobble about like professionals on their duck cleats.

I unfortunately belong to the housewife group, but his Lordship is somewhere in between the good lifers and the scraggy brigade.

Somehow it didn't matter a jot as we sallied forth in the sunshine on our run along the Loire. We took photos and admired the view and sailed up any hills like the pros we are not.

We were distinguishable from the French by our mudguards, Carradice saddle bags, and heavy bikes, so much so that when we returned to the Permanence, were were interviewed for the Ouest France newspaper......... or maybe it was just our advancing years that did the trick.
Hold the Press!