Old Age and New Times

Since my birthday flight of the previous greeting was the fifth of my present stay in the Alps, my self-imposed ban on considering to sell the sail was now lifted, but I had no trouble deciding not to, though I note some decline in thrill and passion: being in the air on your own power and the views from above get familiar while I experience no refinement of technique towards what I see the good guys do. I might need some radio teaching, which is available and not expensive, but for that I lack the ambition. I 'd better consider my present age (ahem!) and spend my money on golf. But it is still nice to be able to fly and that will probably remain so. Next stop St. Hilaire:

Photo: the St Hilaire parasailing take-off site near Grenoble, up 600 m seen from near the landing site. The take-off is at the top end of the 83%-slope cable train track (seen right). Parasailers stay near the hang. Its rock is heated by the sun and warms the adjacent air. The warm air forms a big bubble and when the hole thing is big enough is starts rising as an invisible balloon. Thus there usually is a gentle upstream with a firm gust every few minutes.

I had now come to feel sure again about all my lines and fasteners and confidently stood ready to jump. The place is the tip of a plateau. Far behind you is another, still higher mountain ridge, the real top ridge of the Chartreuze. Just before you is the 600 m hang with the Is�re valley down. With North-Westish winds high up over and above the entire mountain ridge, behind you a wind comes falling from the top ridge down on the plateau. When thermals are weak, this can reach the launching site from behind and you can see both the flags before you and those behind you blow towards you. When thermals are absent, you have a full back wind and you cannot start. At some moment all flags weakly stood favourable to take off and I decided to run and jump. But while I started the whole thing changed:

Picture: left: thermals strong enough to inflate your wing, right: sudden rear wind while I ran off. I stopped, slipped in the thorn bush, my wing collapsed before me

A sudden rear wind. I stopped, slipped in a thorn bush, my wing collapsed before me.
After letting the blood dry, drawing my wing out of the bushes (luckily not in thorns) and thoroughly inspecting it (no damage!), I took off and had a good flight.

Photo: that poor little ball down there does not yet have the faintest idea what is going to happen...

The next day was for GIG (Golf International Grenoble, Bresson). I had done a lot of practice driving nearby in Uriage, with no results in terms of stroke reduction, and was ready to forget about it for today too. After a coffee with cigar my test driving went remarkably well, but when I started with two very correct veteran French players, my score seemed again not to have improved. At the 6th hole I felt my heart irregularity starting (BLOODY CIGAR!! not dangerous, but reducing the pumping capacity of your heart). Going uphill I had to stay behind a bit, to explain my two gentlemen the situation and urged them to tee off first (because I won the 6^th hole they wanted to wait for me to tee off first as it should).
"Smoking is really prompting this problem" I confessed to one of my companions.
"I have five sisters" the man replied calmly, "and all their five husbands smoked and died of lung cancer. It was normal those days. Everybody started smoking at 13".
Despite this for an engaged pro smoking ideologist like me rather unsettling conversation, I played birdie-par-par on hole 7 to 9. Then I told them it would be wiser to have some rest, thanked them for the game and had a nap in my car, secretly hoping these last three holes would mark the beginning of my new golf (GIG is difficult: you add 30% to your handicap).
I stretched myself on my car-bed and closed my eyes. A hard working businessman passed with his golf clubs and said with jovial irony: "heureux?", teasing me with the suggestion that happiness may be a desirability for simple characters like me but was well below his personal standards.
At wake up after my nap my heart was still partying. I decided I was going to be rebellious as well and went to a restaurant in nearby Volnaveys le Haut, young people offering a limited menu in order to make sure that all they serve is really something good. After my frog legs I got pig (not pork, cochon, not porc). An impressive piece of rib, an awesome piece of thigh, and a third piece of ... I 'm not sure, with a good amount of strong ros� that went remarkably well with it..
"A memorable pig", I told the owner after a narrowly won victory over my mountain of meat.
"A she", he said, clearly suggesting he had led her personally in the premises with a rope around her neck, "that may be why."
With a respectable belly I put myself to sleep behind the local church at two (at least that is the last devastatingly noisy hourly bell session I remember). My heart still partying.
In the morning I woke up with a slightly dusty brain, a still irregular heart beat and the urge of a substantial digested meat queue inside me barely ready to wait any longer for exit. I quickly headed for the downwind thickets and yes, the result was impressive. A marked ecological transformation of the biotope. In the afternoon, my heart got back to regular. I felt in no mood for golf, considered returning to Alpe d'Huez and decided to let considerations broil in a nap. Not much later the nap was disturbed by the bangs of some stones against my car. Some church square benches behind trees in the incoming direction were occupied by local adolescents with scooters. I felt a distinctive urge to release yet another considerable part of my pig, but decided first to have a chat with my neighbours.
"Who did that?" I asked. Three 18 to 20 year olds, a smaller one, and a girl. Plain refusal to say anything collectively nor when individually asked, looking away from me with grins. I increased the tension: "this is not simply going to end like this, you will understand that". No change in attitude.
A tall guy, though not completely as tall as me, seemed to be the leader. My right fist hit his jaw. "Who did it?".
To my utter surprise, the guy was not intimidated. I dealt a really good blow but he attacked. I am not used to that, but then: this is the age group from which all centuries recruited their soldiers: simple minded, risk-blind and strong. While we positioned ourselves all shiny scooters parked in a neat row went down as dominos, a lovely sound. I slightly underestimated his reach and he succeeded to deal a minor hit to my right cheek, while one of his three hanger-on's made a stupid kicking charge. If I had I anticipated his level of fighting I could easily have kicked his balls out of his pants. My alfa panicked because of the lack of impact of his charge. I still felt my swineal urge and my predicament actually seemed to enhance it.
The girl, her glances between us and the scooters said in dramatic tone: "it was another boy, he ran away".
I decided to take this lie as an apology, said: "Good, at least you can excuse yourself. Ended".
I with dignity, taking great care not in the least to show myself curious as to whether my comrades agreed to the armistice, I strode back to my car, ears wide open to hear any steps behind me. I noted that indeed some digested pig had ventured an excursion.
I cleaned myself, put the dirty clothes in a plastic bag, waited the half hour required by honour and self-respect, using the time to take some pictures of my swollen hand and cheek - not displayed here because the ones made the next day were much better - and in slow worthy pace left the car park heading back to Bourg d'Oisans.
Obviously, my thoughts were: my car is seriously battered in 9 years mountain driving, the damage of a stone hit is nothing I would worry about had it happened by an avalanche on a mountain road. I had nothing to gain from the fight except the gratification of my ego. I had not considered any backup in case there would have been knives or sticks. I had not considered alternative outcomes of my charge, simply assumed they would back down. Conclusion: you can't fight a heart irregularity but if you just got one and another fight looms, your mind set welcomes it and poor locals pay.
On arrival Bourg d' Oisans my urge for defecational relief surged again sharply. I swiftly parked at the toilets, but vandalism had made the municipality give them up and transfer the facilities.

Bravely containing my urge I toddled to the new toilets, vandal-proof rust free steel boxes next to tourist office. I enter and lock. It is dark, except for a small weak light ray in which I see a red button. I push. No light switches on. But in the dark suddenly tough jets of water hit me from all sides. It feels foamy, it must contain a detergent. I grope for the lock, but it is blocked, probably to prevent people entering while the thing is washing.
Completely soaked and foaming I left and tried the next rust free steel door. There the light went on automatically. Staying far from the red button I gave way to nature. It looked like there would never be an end to it. Did I eat that entire she-pig on my own?
On to the Pr� du Bonheur, well known to long term readers of my web site. Only 7 years ago, standing just behind the entry, the owner invited me with my car to the back of the pasture because there I could enjoy his lovely clean creek. The ambiance underwent a radical change (see photo below):

Just a little bit further down is a very similar nice place, but here, the municipality had made a decision on March 21 2007.

Photo: France goes eco, no more cars, instead SUV's with horse trailers parked at the forest edge, and a spectacular growth of horses strolling around , filling the air with heavy shit smells and thick flies. Resisting the awful stench I systematically ignored the car prohibition (penalty � 135/=), and was once chased out by a uniform, escaping the fine.

I used to know how to hide my car in the pastures behind this signpost, and hoped I would meet farmers there who would remember me. They did. I washed my shitten clothes and dried them. They looked clean but still spread a distinctive Volnaveys le Haut pig shit odour.
The next day, the pictures of my swellings were best: