Remembering beautiful things

I really needed a change of scenery.

There it was at last, soft and amber, filtering through the leaves to cast dancing shadows on a remote, car-free road that zigzagged along the mountainside. Invisible to the world, under the canopy of tall trees, we had been driving for 30 minutes and I already felt renewed, washed by the mountain air, rinsed by the rays of the setting sun, which we were trying to catch up with by rushing towards the other side of a valley still flooded with light.

Leaving Foix, we had navigated blindly. The plane had landed in Toulouse just a few hours earlier. We rented a car, drove along the highway, took the bikes out of their transport cases, and hastily reassembled them in the garage of the small hotel. All we had to do was look up to see the mountains, towering, green, and beautiful, like a promise kept.

We set off, a little rumpled from the journey and jet lag, but carried along by the enthusiasm of our first hours in foreign hills. In the village, a man fell off his city bike without hurting himself, grumbling about his sandals, which he blamed for his fall. The café terrace was almost deserted. We headed for the hills rising up ahead. Dilapidated farms and crumbling houses dotted our route. Ariège is one of the least populated departments in France. Unloved, yet unforgettably beautiful.

A turn here, another there, a few glances at my iPhone to get an idea of where we were headed, and without realizing it, by the time we left the pastures and said hello to a beekeeper returning to her hives, we had reached that nowhere place I always seek out on my bike. An unfamiliar road, far from my usual haunts.

I had fled from them before they crushed me. Assembly line work. Repetitive Rides , forced into a bulging schedule whose seams were bursting. Meals inhaled. Summer had passed like that. Like a disciplinary exercise. It was time to flee.

The road ahead was wild. Its grainy pavement, crisscrossed here and there with strips of vegetation, betrayed both the dilapidated state of the road and its anecdotal use. We pedaled hard on the long switchback, wedged into the mountainside, a sort of moving seat that allowed us to better admire the almost deserted valley below. Vaguely worried about being overtaken by the shadows that sometimes impose their reign a little abruptly in the mountains, we naturally picked up the pace without consulting each other. Our discussion gave way to heavy breathing and our inner monologues. Mine was one of gratitude, of the need, for the weeks to come, to store up images and other sensations in order to fill my memory with vivid details. I could return to them when necessary, a sort of inner temple where I could go to gather my thoughts when life resumed its usual race against time.

At the end of our effort, the temperature has dropped a little. I put on my Gilet. More than 10 kilometers of fast descent on a small country road await us. A series of hairpin bends that are easy to negotiate without having to brake too much, which seems endless after a while. We pass through village after village on our way back to Foix, taking a detour through the old town, with its castle perched high above as a landmark. In a few minutes, the sun will set behind the mountainous backdrop that surrounds us. Above all, once again, I take a moment to realize how lucky I am to be here. To remember everything. So that beautiful things never die.