LA CRÈCHE

A great tool of the modern era is that of the social network. What a day we live in: through caressing a plastic block’s screen, you can have your unnecessary opinion projected to millions. I am truly thankful, as without it, I wouldn’t be able to broadcast my ramblings. Well, I could write them on walls with my own blood; but that would limit my word-count.

However, with pros come cons; and I absolutely loathe when cyclists refer to our outside world as ‘their office’.

It is in no way an office. A cyclist isn’t clogged in an oxygen-depleted container, filled with other sweaty colleagues trying to make a buck. A cyclist isn’t exposed to the monotony of the greyscale nine-to-fiver. A cyclist doesn’t have to chortle at an obnoxious trump on the other end of a phone line just to get a bonus at the end of the month.

A cyclist’s life is freedom.

A cyclist gets to explore so many different cultures and landscapes, their day-to-day visuals rich with exotic languages, fascinating people and jaw dropping landforms.

You could say I am labelled as one of these folk.

I thought I’d take you for a day in my life: ‘La Crèche’. Where I’m back at the nursery, learning by doing, living the simple life.

I’m taking you through a Tuesday. It seems the most productive day of a week.

Prepare to be WOWed.

I am always woken up at 7am by the church bells of Kervignac church, and Tuesday was no exception.

This remote little village in the centre of Brittany, about 5k from Hennebont, is battered by these religious fog-horns on an hourly basis.

I can’t admit to appreciating them. I’m not a morning person, and the church bellowing doesn’t help. Their hour notifications are somewhat crueller: they ring at four minutes past the hour; torture for a lad like myself who likes dotting the ‘Is’ and crossing the ‘Ts’.

I enter most days with a thought of vicious blasphemy.

I return to slumber, until about 9ish.

I grab my phone in attempt to survey the world without opening the shutters. My current WiFi is woeful, which leads me to halt internet information gathering, and return to my latest read: ‘Gang Leader for a Day’ by Sudhir Venkatesh.

After receiving a jewelled recommendation, I’ve become encapsulated. It details a sociologist who manages to waltz into one of Chicago’s most dangerous areas, and hits it off with a prominent gang leader, known as ‘JT’.

Judging aside from his blasé observations of crack dealing, prostitution and beatings; I am astounded as to how similar a sociologist behaves to how I act amongst the average Breton.

I see myself listening and studying, scared to exhaust my French, noting their mannerisms and behaviour, akin to Venkatesh.

I finally give up, and get up and drag myself to the coffee maker. I’ve reduced my caffeine intake since last year (http://tinyurl.com/o6o7wur), and replaced a hefty majority of it with the liquid herb: green tea.

However today I feel groggy, so I need a good slap in the face from Dr Caffeine, and he surely delivers.

I’m back bouncing, so I start to make breakfast: some muesli, shredded coconut and walnuts, lathered in natural yoghurt, topped off with honey.

I’m living in a kooky apartment at the moment. It’s a charismatic settlement. Basic in structure, it has a double bedroom with an en-suite, and a kitchen; all you need. It’s easy to heat up, and easy to clean up; and when July comes, this little flat won’t be far from ‘Le Tour’ action, with stage finishes in Plumelec and Mur de Bretagne not even an hour’s car journey away.

I cloth myself in my pink uniform and get out the door with my bike under me, into the sunshine. I have enjoyed learning that a Brittany spring is an Irish Summer.

This year, my winter lasted 2 weeks at Christmas time, as for the rest of it I was somewhere milder; which was great.

But that’s life in la crèche.

These country folk give you the same look they would if they are eyeing up the camera for a mugshot. It takes a while to get used it to it, and you learn they are waiting for a ‘salut’ or a ‘bonjour’.

I get out into the Brittany outback. Today, I’m doing a pretty brisk two hours. It flies by when you are blessed in such a great location.

You are either wrapped in oaks and pines or hand in hand with seaside and beaches; it truly is a wonderful part of the world.

I return to ‘studio un’, get some protein down my gullet and carry out some light stretching. I have a gander in the fridge to see what I’m going to have for lunch.

I find some double cream, rice, eggs and chorizo. What do you make?

Scrambled eggs with the consistency of mashed potato of course!

As the water with the rice gathers energy to boil, my mind wanders out the adjacent window. Thinking about anything and everything, I am in my own little bubble, just like the hundreds of others within the rice saucepan. Thinking about the future, thinking about the past, theorizing and planning, living and learning.

I fall back to reality when the rice erupts and I have to turn the heat down. I mix it into the poteggo mash and engulf.

The second session is next up: 30second efforts, 3 of them.

It’s hard to fathom how so much pain can be inflicted in ninety seconds. No matter how each thirty seconds go, you are left panting, exhausted and demoralised. Chris Hoy, Daniel Stewart and Joe Bloggs all feel exactly the same after an anaerobic effort.

I hate these intervals with a passion. As each second passes I feel the lactic acid sinking its venom deeper into my muscle fibres, ripping them apart; whilst my lungs are trying to turn themselves inside out, instead of pushing the bad air out and good air in.

I shower, have some more protein and collapse on my bed. My legs have clocked out for the day.

I’ve taken too much caffeine and my mind is still whirring. I want to sleep but my eyes can’t shut: they’re like a rabbit’s facing headlights.

Instead of napping for an hour, I lounge for an hour.

I get up to eat some more food. Hating the stereotype, I have some pasta. But not any old pasta; I’ve heaped every worthwhile vegetable from the local supermarché into this Bolognese. It is DELICIOUS. After all, I made it.

I retire to my bed and strum through some more ‘Gang Leader for a Day’. Another couple of sessions ticked, another day gone.

That was a day in the life, thanks for reading.

Follow @DanBikeStewart and @DaveRaynerFund on Twitter.