Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 423 Higher, Faster, Stronger!

Pierre de Coubertin's heart pounded in his chest, mingling with the sound of thousands of bicycles crunching over gravel around him.

Soon, he was swept up in a torrent of steel, rubber, and human flesh, and was involuntarily swept forward.

The scene was chaotic and intense in the first few minutes. The light dust kicked up by the wheels formed a hazy fog, and the sight before our eyes was bizarre and surreal.

The gleaming "Sorel-1" is undoubtedly the mainstream on the field, but they do not dominate the field alone - the traditional "high-wheeled vehicles" are interspersed among them, standing out in particular.

Riders perched high on the massive front wheels, trying to gain an advantage by leveraging the wheel's diameter; some even rode unicycles, blending into the traffic.

These "acrobatics" waved their arms to maintain their balance as the train swayed, drawing laughter and cheers.

Coubertin noticed a Sorel-1 not far away, which had removed its mudguards and rear seat, exposing the chain and gears, making the frame look much lighter.

The other bike's frame was reinforced with rough, sturdy steel bars, clearly to prevent the bike from falling apart during the long race.

Pierre de Coubertin also "modified" his bicycle, wrapping thick strips of cloth around the handlebars to increase friction and reduce vibration.

In addition, he rewrapped the seat cushion with soft leather and stuffed it with plenty of cotton, greatly improving comfort.

The initial race route was located in the suburbs of Paris, which was flat and solid, and the high-wheeled scooters, with their large wheel diameters, enjoyed great success.

Several riders riding Penny-Fassin type high-wheeled motorcycles quickly rushed to the front of the group, like charging knights.

Pierre de Coubertin resisted the urge to accelerate, believing that in long-distance races, rhythm and endurance were far more important than an initial burst of speed.

He pedaled steadily at his predetermined pace, maintaining a position in the middle of the traffic flow, observing the waves ahead like an old captain.

When the road reaches its first sharp bend, the disadvantages of high-wheeled vehicles become immediately apparent.

Those in the lead had to slow down significantly, their bodies stiffly tilting as they carefully searched for their balance, fearing that the high center of gravity would cause them to fall over instantly.

Coubertin and many "Sorel-1" riders seized the opportunity, skillfully and easily cutting in from the inside to overtake.

The dense humming of the chain seemed to mock the clumsiness of the high-wheeled vehicle.

The real turning point comes after leaving the outskirts of Paris, a place rarely visited by Parisian gentlemen, where the once well-paved roads begin to become bumpy and uneven.

For the "Sorel-1", the rubber tires, front fork, and diamond-shaped frame provide stable support and good shock absorption, and the handling is not too difficult; you just need to slow down a little.

For the Taka-wheelers, the terrain here is a nightmare!
The massive front wheel is extremely sensitive to potholes, and every impact is transmitted directly to the rider's arms and hips.

Every now and then, high-wheel riders would lose control and fall during the bounces, with screams and curses rising and falling.

Some riders who had fallen badly or realized the danger ahead could only reluctantly push their "tall horses" and withdraw from the competition.

Pierre de Coubertin passed a young man who had fallen into a ditch, slowed down, and gave him an inquiring look, but the man waved his hand in frustration, indicating that he should continue.

The real test is climbing hills, even on gentle slopes, which high-wheeled bike riders find difficult to sustain.

The drivetrain system that relies on pedaling the front wheel is so inefficient and ridiculous in the face of gravity.

Most of them could only awkwardly dismount halfway down the slope, panting as they pushed the large vehicle forward with difficulty.

The "Sorel-1" chain ensures that power can be effectively transmitted to the rear wheel, allowing it to climb hills smoothly even when tired.

Pierre de Coubertin adjusted his breathing and continued to pedal at a steady pace, leaving one opponent after another behind.

He even overtook the rider who had removed his fenders; the latter's frame seemed to be having problems, and he was squatting on the side of the road in frustration, checking it.

His position kept moving forward, gradually entering the leading group of about twenty or thirty riders, where he led the way.

Sweat soaked through his shirt, clinging damply to his back; the wind blew on his burning face, bringing a touch of coolness.

But he was in an unusually cheerful mood.

He swept across fields of freshly harvested wheat, the remaining stubble shimmering golden in the sunlight.
In the distance, ancient farmhouses stand quietly among the rolling hills, with wisps of smoke rising from their red-tiled roofs.
In the occasional small village they passed by, dogs barked, children stopped chasing each other, and villagers stood by the roadside, waving and cheering curiously at them.

Some people even spontaneously prepared cool water drawn from the well and placed it on a table by the roadside for the drivers to drink.

These landscapes cannot be seen or experienced while sitting in a closed carriage.

In the afternoon, a dark cloud drifted in and brought a sudden downpour of sun showers, instantly turning the roads muddy and slippery.

The drivers cursed the terrible weather, but they had no choice but to grit their teeth and keep going.

Soon, rain and mud blurred their vision and splattered their trouser legs, making the already tiring journey even more difficult.

A cyclist slipped and fell after running over slippery moss, rolling around in the mud.

Pierre de Coubertin and several other drivers stopped to help lift the riders and their bikes before resuming the race. As the sun set and the sky turned orange-red, the exhausted drivers finally reached the finish line of the first day, "Saint-Victoire".

In the town square, rows of neat olive-green canvas tents had already been erected.

The town's only hotel, "Plowhead," and several larger houses were also rented out to house the drivers.

Of the thousands of riders who started, less than two-thirds remain. Many collapsed as soon as they entered the town, sitting or lying on the ground, panting heavily.

Staff and temporarily hired townspeople moved among the crowds, distributing drinking water and food.

As night fell completely over the town of Saint Victor, the square was more lively and bustling than on any holiday night.

Having completed the first day of the race, the drivers, freed from their restraints, flocked to the town's pubs and cafes, quickly emptying their stock of beer, cider, and wine.

They simply lit a bonfire in the center of the cobblestone square, and someone brought out an accordion from somewhere and started playing cheerful folk dance music.

The guests included aristocratic sons and bank clerks from Paris, as well as artisans from the provinces, college students, and young people from the countryside…

Drivers from different car models and young people from different social classes have put aside their competition and erased their differences in status, leaving only the camaraderie forged through shared trials.

They gathered around the crackling fire, sharing food, drinks, and tobacco, recounting the thrilling experiences of the day.

Laughter, singing, French in various accents, the sound of accordions... echoed and intertwined in the warm night sky.

The air was filled with the smells of barbecue, tobacco, alcohol, sweat, and campfire.

Pierre de Coubertin sat on a log by the campfire, a glass of wine in his hand, his mind and body filled with indescribable emotion.

He looked at the happy faces illuminated by the firelight; everyone radiated excitement, honesty, and friendliness…

This simple emotional bond, which naturally arises in the face of challenges, transcends identity and background, and is more real and touching than any salon he had ever attended in Paris.

This is more than just a competition; it's more like a collective pilgrimage, a rediscovery of oneself and one's companions.

"Cheers to the survivors of today!"

A voice rang out, and a rough earthenware wine cup reached out and gently touched the cup in his hand.

Pierre de Coubertin was startled from his reverie and turned to look.

A man sat down on a wooden stake beside him, his face somewhat blurred in the flickering firelight.

The man took a sip of his drink and glanced at the noisy, celebratory crowd: "Look at them. Just a few hours ago, they were fighting tooth and nail for a bend, a hilltop, overtaking each other."

Now, they can sit together like long-lost brothers, sharing the last bit of bread and sausage. Distinctions of status have vanished, and social standing has been forgotten…

This is the spirit that sports should have, isn't it?

Pierre's heart stirred; this was exactly the idea he had vaguely sensed earlier, so he nodded vigorously.

The man seemed not to need his answer, and continued in a calm tone: "In the movement, in the face of common hardships and challenges, people can put aside prejudices, understand each other, form friendships, and unite with one another."

Of course, fair competition is also necessary; it inspires potential, drives progress, and strives for higher, faster, and stronger achievements.

Ultimately, however, in the long run, lasting friendships are often more important than temporary victories or defeats!

These words struck Coubertin like a resounding bell, illuminating his chaotic thoughts and dispelling the fog.

Sports! It is not merely a display of individual heroism, but a great force that can transcend class, region, and language barriers, promote human communication, and elevate spiritual境界 (jingjie, a concept encompassing spiritual realm, spiritual state, and overall level).

This idea, like a seed, instantly took root in his heart.

He turned his head sharply, eager to see clearly this kindred spirit who had hit the nail on the head.

A night breeze blew by, and a bright flame suddenly shot up, its orange-red light clearly illuminating the face so close to his...

But Pierre de Coubertin immediately recognized the face that frequently appeared in the newspapers.

He almost cried out in surprise, "Ah! You are So..."

Lionel Sorel quickly put his index finger to his lips as a shushing gesture.

He raised his earthenware cup again and gestured to Pierre: "Good luck, young man. Get some rest; you have a long road ahead."

After saying that, he tilted his head back and drank the remaining wine in his cup in one gulp. Then he put down the empty cup, stood up briskly, and left the campfire silently, disappearing into the deep night and the noisy voices of the crowd in an instant.

(First update, more to come later, please vote with monthly tickets)

(End of this chapter)