With a tent, sleeping bag and my vintage bike, I set out on a
mostly unplanned adventure: Cycling from Paris to Geneva.
Along canals, then through the Parc Naturel Régional du Morvan, across Burgundy and into the Jura, I stretched my bravery and limits.
Filled with wild camping, forest trails and spontaneous encounters, the journey tested my resilience and independence.
The crux of the challenge came at the end; things did not, in fact, get easier as I went along, but it made that last ride down to Lake Leman worth the kilometres pedalled.
After a week laid up sick at a friend’s apartment, I’d missed my trains and my opportunity to cycle solo from the western city of Nantes to Paris.
I still needed to get home, due east, to Saint-Gervais-les-Bains in the Alps. I had no plan, but had booked the whole first week of October off work. So why not make my first solo-cycling journey one home? Or at least to Geneva, which had a nicer ring to it – and was around 100 kilometres closer.
Even without a planned route, I did have everything to make a bike
trip happen – a tent, sleeping bag, cooking gear and a travelling bike. I’d hardly ridden my vintage Sunn since I brought it back from Central Asia the year before, after a cycling trip I’d taken with my French partner. That had been my first foray into travelling by bicycle – one that lasted for more than a year and transformed me from a casual cyclist to a hardened (or not-so-hardened) adventure cyclist.
But I hadn’t done it alone; I’d travelled those thousands of kilometres with my partner Quentin. We’d divvied up the tasks: He navigated, I made friends with locals; he watched the bikes while I shopped for groceries; I whined when he invariably chose wild campsites that involved hauling our bikes up the sides of cliffs. When you travel as a couple, you also share the physical load of your gear; cycling solo means you must become a minimalist without giving up the essentials.
Alone at Paris’ Gare de l’Est, I decide to take a local train to get out of the suburbs. I make a rough plan to cycle towards the Morvan
because I’d heard the forests were nice, and then to the Jura Mountains, simply because I don’t know the range that well – yet! From the top of the Jura, I’d be able to glide into Geneva and
hop on a train home.
Camping alone was one of my biggest hesitations for the journey. I love wild camping with my partner, but alone it felt a bit scary. But I wanted to learn to do it on my own, to prove that I like wild camping not just because I have my safety blanket – my partner – but also because I personally enjoy it.
The first kilometres off the train in Montargis and on the bike roll quickly by. I end up following a cycle path along a canal. It’s humid
and the beginning-of-the-trip adrenaline is starting to cool off.
After about 70 kilometres I start looking for a campsite. I check the satellite images on my phone and choose an abandoned-looking industrial complex, and to my delight, it’s been repurposed into a pottery studio and artists’ gallery.
The only human around is an artist next to an outdoor kiln. I say hello and ask if I can put my tent nearby. John and I chat a bit, and I wander off to set up camp. It’s not quite wild camping, because I still have the security of someone who seems nice knowing where I am. Hoots and cracks from the forest wake me up once or twice, but in the morning, I’m still alive.
My tent is soaked, but I want to reach the Morvan forests, so I smush it into the pack and get on the road. I pedal along canals all day until I reach Lormes.
In my journeys, I’d always seen solo cyclists who seemed to swallow up the kilometres – travelling as a couple, we sometimes only rode 50 kilometres a day. Travelling alone seems to be the secret to efficiency; you only have to wait for yourself to finish a toilet break, and I find I’m less likely to dawdle or stop to take a photo.
In fact, I don’t have much to do except cycle. I’m missing some human contact, and in Lormes I’d hoped to visit Odessa Ecole, a school repurposed into a restaurant kept by some friends from Lyon, but they’ve closed for the season.
One dimly lit restaurant is still open, and I eat wing of ray with cream sauce and simple vegies for dinner, followed by a huge piece of homemade chocolate cake. The cake makes up for the missing human interaction, aside from a few words exchanged with the waitress.
The forests in Morvan do not disappoint. Once famous for providing the wood to heat Paris, they’re beginning to change into the golds and reds of autumn, and the long, stretching evergreen canopy is thick enough to dim the sun above. I knock out another 100 kilometres pedalling along: over, under and through paths in various states of ridability. I decide to camp near an abandoned church, far up a hill away from the road. I hope to spot a few deer in the field nearby come dawn.
Barely in my sleeping bag, I hear a horrible sound, a mix between a squawk and a growl. Fear ripples through me, and I hope whatever it is doesn’t call out again. It does, and I take the proactive approach, lurching from my tent and shouting, ‘Stop! You’re scaring me!’ A huge owl, just as afraid of me as I am of him, takes off from the church eave into the night. Guilt replaces my fear; after all, I am a guest here, and he is at home.
The next two days I pedal across the beginnings of the Burgundy region and its famous vineyards, but have no desire to stop for a wine tasting; I’m focused on reaching the Jura and the cabin that awaits me there. By now I’m also starting to tire of bathing in rivers: October evenings come quickly and the chill is hard to get rid of afterwards.
On the cycle-traveller website Warmshowers, a young family accepts my request to stay with them. The concept of the site is simple, and I am also a host: If you’re a cyclist travelling in any country in the world and you need somewhere to sleep indoors, a hot meal and a warm shower, you log onto Warmshowers and see if there is a host to take you in. I stayed with Guillaume and Claire, and their hospitality was more than appreciated.
“The Jura from this direction is like a staircase,” promises Claire.
And, of course, I’d set my sights on a cabin at the top of said staircase. It turns out there are three plateaus to the Jura’s ridge: On the first, I follow a bike path on a former railroad, a route that requires me to push my bike up some actual stairs. The second leads me through the only crossroads with a shop still open this time of year. I eat a whole pizza, doubling down on my mostly-cheese diet.
On to the third staircase. The track I’d thought was a forester’s path, wide enough for 4WDs, is not. It’s a hiking trail. The sun is setting, and my sights are set on reaching a little cabin I scoped out days ago. I can’t push my bike up the steep, narrow path, so I unload the bags and carry them the final 200 metres, then come back for my bike.
It’s dark and I’m coated in a layer of sweat that’s chilling me quickly. My bike’s light has gone dead, and I realise I have a flat tyre. All at once it seems absurd to be here, and urgent to reach the cabin. I pump up the tyre as much as I can, promising my bike if I can just ride to the cabin, I’ll fix it in the morning.
The moonlight is bright enough to illuminate the fork in the road. Standing alone in the middle of a field is my cabin – I claim it for the night as soon as I lay eyes on it. Who else could it belong to but me? I am alone out here, aside from the wolves, the foxes, the lynx – all the way down to the mice.
It’s smaller than I imagined, and I can’t even fit my bicycle inside. Without a lamp, I fumble around with my phone’s torch; I find two candles and the remains of a small bottle of rum. Since the cabin is mine, both of these are mine too, and they help me feel better about my flat tyre and fatigue.
I’ve done all I can tonight, alone; I’m proud of myself but also intrigued to find that I’m not surprised. Getting here was a challenge, but not because I was alone.
The sleeping space is above the living area – it’s a wooden attic, and I must climb onto the table, push the door open, and hoist myself inside. On my sleeping mat and in my sleeping bag, I pull my beanie down over my whole face. It doesn’t drown out the sound of the mice scampering around the cabin, but at least I’m sure they won’t nibble my face.
In the morning the priority of my last day is simple: Fix my tyre. However, to my dismay I am missing the key tool – a tyre lever – to pry the tyre off and change the inner tube. After unsuccessful attempts with a stick and then a pen, I abandon hope. I load up my bike and start walking it down the road. The first car that passes sees me in the middle of the road with my hand out, and pulls over.
Inside a man says, “Throw your bike in the trailer, I’ll take you to
my friend Nathalie’s workshop!” And off we go – what a miracle! Nathalie has the tool I require, and in less than an hour, I’m racing down the other side of the Jura towards Lac Léman.
My first solo bike trip was akin to my journey through the Jura plateau: The first days were easy, the following ones more difficult, but ultimately peaking with the beautiful realisation that I can journey alone, though it’s still nice to have help along the way.
Remembering the best cheese and wine
On one of the last nights of my journey, I stayed with a Warmshowers host. Guillaume and Claire are parents to two little girls, and they welcomed me with a hot shower, a place to dry my tent, a comfortable bed and a Jura-region dinner.
From the oven they pulled out a Mont d’Or au four, a local cheese warmed until melting and poured over potatoes. I’ll take a home-cooked meal over a restaurant any day, and a simple one done with good ingredients and balance is my idea of perfection.
As Claire served the salad, Guillaume uncorked a bottle of the Jura’s rare Vin Jaune, a golden wine made only in four regions from the Savagnin grape.
Our conversation went from life stories to life philosophies. More than a little bleary eyed, I tucked into bed and slept off the day’s 100 kilometres, the cheese and the wine.
Would I do this again?
Would I solo cycle again? Absolutely! Would I solo cycle this route again? Probably not.
This was a great journey to take the plunge and give travelling solo by bicycle a go. However, I stuck to roads and bike paths the whole time, and I’m a girl who likes the risk of getting a scraped knee.
Since this ride I’ve embraced my desire to become a gravel cyclist, embarking on a few multiday rides and even joining a week-long women’s gravel-cycling rally.
I still have my trusty Sunn bicycle but have added a new gravel bike to the garage, and swapped my old Ortlieb bags for bikepacking bags from Apidura and Restrap. (The experience of unloading my bags to carry them uphill made a lasting impression.)
I’m already planning my next adventure – a seven-to 10-day solo ride through mid-altitude mountains. Perhaps in Poland, Slovakia or Austria – countries with vast forest-road networks perfect for making you sweat a little, but not so steep you have to hike-a-bike.
This story by Ashley Parsons is an extract from Women Travel Solo by Lonely Planet. $35.99 RRP. Contact shop.lonelyplanet.com
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