A few weeks ago, I bought a bicycle. A used, 21-speed Lejeune. Now that I’m carless, it’s offered me a feeling of freedom, the possibility of wider adventures, release from the distance/time limitations of walking. Thus far, however, aside from riding it home from the shop, I’ve only taken it to my Monday-evening Lindy Hop class, a 35-minute walk (at 10:30 at night), but just a 10-minute ride through empty and dimly lit streets.
Why haven’t I embarked on a longer adventure in this idyllic autumn weather? Well, what can I tell you? As a flatlander who grew up along the banks of the Niagara River and regularly biked to the Falls as a teenager, I find the rating of bike paths according to standards of ski slopes intimidating, an implicit warning that I feel compelled to heed. Steepness rating? Really? I’d never heard of such a thing, and I own bikes in three countries and have a library of maps. Maybe all from flatish places.
But yesserie, there are green, blue, and red paths here in the Pyrénées. There may well be black and diamond, too, but not on the leisure cyclist trail maps I found. I suppose the first clue that I was living in the mountains (in addition to the east to west panorama) was the funicular that takes me from the train station (located in the ‘lower’ town) to the ‘historic center’, where I live. The second might have been the free, public elevators connecting Hedás (the mainly residential section of the lower town) to upstairs, where most of the action is. Nonetheless, ratings? At first, it seemed unfamiliar, weird. But also extremely helpful. Warnings I shall heed! Now, I just have to cobble together a trip on green and blue routes. To start, anyway.
Biking is huge here. I often see bands of bikers, mostly men, in their spandex bike attire speeding down Boulevard des Pyrénées or grinding up the road between the train station and the Historic Center, where the names and victory years of Tour de France winners are painted across the width of the road at regular intervals—a kind of inspirational virtual ladder through time and space. An exhilarating feeling of accomplishment must accompany the 
passing of the millennial (2000) boundary on that knee-popping incline. A feeling I don’t ever expect to share. It’s unpleasantly challenging enough on foot.
The Tour de France is a source of tremendous civic pride in Pau. While its rules are confusing and the routes of its 21 stages differ from year to year, it always includes Pau. In advance of the cyclists, there’s an entertaining sponsors’ parade along Boulevard des Pyrénées, with its spectacular mountain panorama. In addition to the roadway memorial of past winners, there’s a memorial park, which 
from a distance looks like a circle of gravestones. Each pillar, beginning with Year 1 in 1903, commemorates the race on one side with reports, photos, and newspaper clippings, and on the other, honors the winner with a photo and biography. The memorial is right across from the train station and more interesting that one might imagine.
In search of routes I’d find safe and scenic, I’ve picked up maps from the tourist bureau, both free ones and ones in guidebooks, and tried to sus out scenic and mostly green routes into the countryside of Béarn. I’m thinking of starting out with routes to places with train stations. That way, if I’m not in the mood for a ride back, my bike and I can take the train. This worked well for me when I lived in Greifswald, a fabulous place for biking. Although the terrain near the Baltic is very flat, 50 kilometers with frequent cobblestone segments was about all I could handle.
There are large swathes of park along the Gave River, which flows westward, eventually joining the Ardour River, which then empties into the Atlantic Ocean near Bayonne. It looks like there are possible bike routes there. But perhaps my first destination should be Lourdes, in the event I require a healing miracle at the end of my journey!
