My birthday started out innocently enough: coffee and a croissant. If I had known what sort of craziness would ensue in the hours following, I probably would have sprung for an extra danish.
My visiting friend from the US and I hauled ourselves out of the corner cafe and rented mountain bikes near the train station. We boarded the #20 bus and rode it south to the end of the line - a small town at the edge of the French border called Veyrier. We rode across the border and boarded the cable car up to Mt. Saleve. With spirits running high, we strapped on our helmets and began our descent down the marked path.
It was about 50 yards into our ride when we realized that this probably wasn't a great idea. The path made an ugly turn: the gentle downward slope that we were hoping for mutated into a downhill orgy of death. The path was wet and paved with leaves (read: slick) and where there were no leaves, gargantuan rocks surfaced from the center of the earth.
We had come to a particularly difficult pitch when it all went wrong. In an attempt to stop, I jammed on the rear brake. As I continued to skid downhill, I put both of my feet down in an attempt to slow my descent. I seemed to be picking up speed when my left hand went to the oh-so-convenient front (disc) brake. The scene played out in slo-mo: touching the sensitive front brake stopped the wheel and threw the rear wheel upwards, thrusting the handlebars into the tops of my thighs. The back wheel, now free from the oppressive confines of gravity, elevated skyward and the mass of dirt, metal, and flesh that were so neatly separated seconds earlier, smashed together in the equivalent of a BMX falafel.
We decided not to continue down the path. And it started to rain.
Cruising down the road wasn't nearly as gruelling as the path, but we were able to wear our fair share of road grime as bugs, rocks, and mud were kicked up by our front and rear tires. By the end of our descent, we had road-acquired Hershey Highway pants.
We descended through the clouds at the base of Mt. Saleve and rode into a town with a small church. We tried to find an easier way down with no luck, so we followed the road further downhill and deeper into the French heart of darkness. Not knowing how to navigate back to Geneva and with no Euros to pay the stray gypsy cab with, we ventured towards the one town name that I recognized: Annemasse. If you thought that riding a bike down a 45 degree pitch was deadly, try riding your bike on any French road. With every passing semi, a year of my life was pinched off. We found the train station and took the embarassingly short 10 minute train ride back across the Swiss border.
When we returned the bikes to the station, it must have looked like we were returning from the front lines at Omaha Beach: we were bruised, muddied, and markedly less upbeat. Grit and rocks sat in the crevices of our face and my bike was missing a front reflector. It had been 3 hours since we had rented the bikes.
We grabbed a quick lunch at the train station, took a quick shower, and decided to indulge ourselves for the rest of the day. Our self indulgence took us to the Bains de Cressy, a clean, spacious, and upscale spa on the outskirts of Geneva. Its giant, heated (34C, 93F), bath area is surrounded by several smaller "coves" all of which had massage jets in various locations. We sat and luxuriated in the bubbles. Although the water was not as hot as one would think for a spa, it was relaxing nonetheless. We ventured into the coed (but clothed) hammam (wet) sauna and sweat out our pride (and sucked in our gut) with a handful of older ladies. The finishing move was when we signed up for massages. The masseuse understood just enough French to understand "it's my birthday" and rubbed a little more enthusiastically.
De-stressed and pruned, we gorged ourselves at La Ruota in Carouge and had Côte du Rhône with a mixture of cakes from A. Pougnier. I feel asleep that night full, massaged, and half-drunk. It was a fantastic birthday.
(Pictures coming soon)
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