{"id":177,"date":"2009-05-04T03:05:41","date_gmt":"2009-05-04T09:05:41","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/peterstenhouse.com\/journal\/?p=177"},"modified":"2024-04-26T05:29:42","modified_gmt":"2024-04-26T11:29:42","slug":"highway-to-paris","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.peterstenhouse.com\/journal\/highway-to-paris\/","title":{"rendered":"Highway to Paris"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"img_0837spur\"
If I had spurs the cars wouldn't mess with me<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

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The country is choked with towns, which are in turn choked with cars. At a standstill with their engines on, carrying only the driver. I can count the number of cyclists on my fingers. 135km only half of them any fun. The rest spent in a rage, at every vehicle that sped past me, or hogged small country lanes. Every cycle path decays into rubble, every small road leads to a bigger faster one. This is car culture. There is no escaping the traffic that plummets towards Paris, it clogs every artery that leads to the city. Long sprawl, and I briefly consider a train. It rains, I dry, it rains again. The day is long and hard, but is made worthwhile, arriving at La Concord at the heart of Paris, as the clouds part, and illuminate the golden tip of the obelisque. I made it!<\/p>\n