Douglas Reid 
Uphill, Against the Wind 
Blood, Sweat and Tears. Cycling in Europe, 1987

We were seeing France as few tourists see it, from the back roads and in the small villages which only French tourists see, if tourists see it at all.  No trains stop in these villages, but we’d see occasional bus stops. We rode through villages in which no tourist car ever stops, only weary bicyclists. We were living for a few hours or a few days in villages with no Eiffel Tower, no Louvre, no attractions at all except the French themselves and their way of life. No one spoke English, not the waiters, nor the bartenders, nor the folks we met at the campgrounds. We didn’t quite realize we were having an experience few will ever have and fewer still will attempt.  To phrase it another way, we were tourists spending little or nothing on transportation, gasoline, lodging, guides and museums.  We were spending most of our time pedaling along country roads lined with vineyards, out in the sunshine or rain, and spending our money eating in small restaurants where no Americans ever eat and sitting in sidewalk cafés drinking local wines and watching the daily life of the real France.

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