Nate Micklos Luck and French Wine (updated)

A few days after, Deb and I biked through the French countryside, and after having had such a good time riding bikes, I decided to rent a bike from Julian again and head south through the Burgundy wine country.

The goal was to head towards Nuits-Saint-Georges, have lunch, and then return. Of course, if I was going to have a good day of biking, I needed to start with the classic breakfast of a croissant and espresso. While walking past the AirBnB where we were staying, heading to the bike store, I realized I had not grabbed my water. Impatiently, I thought to myself, ‘Do I need it? I could stop at a gas station or convenience store and get some. No, I should grab the water just in case,’ I thought. After getting the bike from Julian, off I went. Before long, I was out of Dijon and through Marsannay- la- Cote. I turned right onto the paved main road at the intersection, rode briefly and then made an immediate left. The path was narrow, with a stone wall on either side. On the other side of the wall to my right, the vineyards started.

Each vineyard was planted lengthwise or crosswise, depending on many factors, including exposure, climate, and inclination. On and on they went. As I continued, every so often, I passed by an arch or building that announced the vineyard or area. This included places like Chambertin Clos De Beze Domaine Pierre Damoy. As I biked, I thought, 'Man, this is easy. I don't know why I haven't biked more like this.' There was a feeling of confidence, as though I had become well-versed in such activities while traveling.

Others included Latricieres Chambertin and Domaine Odoul-Coquard and the sign welcoming you to Vins de Bourgogne. As I followed along the winding, partially paved road, I would pass by vineyards filled with workers. Some carried on conversations, but many simply worked in silence. A large portion of the workers appeared to be migrants from Africa. While I continued to bike along, I pondered this situation in depth. For all the thinking and talking I had done over the years, I had never once given thought about the impact of purchasing wine and the potential implications connected to the exploitation of migrant work. It is only fitting that this would be on my mind as it has bombarded every aspect of news for the last year in the U.S. Had I, in ignorance, drank the sweat and tears of exploited labor? After some time, I came to Château du Clos de Vougeot. 

The Castle was built in the 12th century by monks from the nearby Abbey of Citeaux. In addition to its medieval vat house, presses, Cistercian cellars, and original kitchens, it was known for its wine (though it no longer produces its own) and extravagant parties. 

I had always been a history buff, so this was extremely fascinating. At this point, it felt good to give my legs a bit of a break. Having finished walking through the castle. I headed back to the bike and got ready for the rest of the ride to Nuits-Saint-Georges. I rode my bike out of the long driveway, turned left, and headed back up the hill. At the intersection, I made a left and began riding down past the back side of the Castle, guarded by row after row of grapevines. The road dipped down and then back up another hill. As I began ascending the hill, I changed gears on my bike. It was at this moment that I heard/ felt the clank of the chain coming off my bike, and suddenly, I no longer had power. ‘Why does this happen to me all the time?’ I thought to myself. Using my foot, I put the kickstand in place. I crouched down and began examining the chain. Sure enough, it had popped off and was wedged between the crankset and the frame. I began tugging on it all the while thinking, ‘ What the hell am I going to do if I cannot fix this?’ As I continued to try prying free the chain, gently, as it was not mine and I did not want to damage the bike, my thoughts continued to race by like speeding bikers in the Tour de France. ‘Do I push the frick’n bike twelve miles back to Dijon? What about trying to flag down one of the passing bikers?’

‘Hello?’ I heard on the other end of the phone. ‘Hello, is this Julian?’ ‘Yes, yes. Are you ok? Did something happen?’ I proceeded to try to explain what had occurred. During this conversation, I was reminded that I was speaking to someone who did not speak English, and I did not speak French. Could I send him pictures? He asked. Sure, and with that, I hung up. Looking at the phone, I realized the battery was draining, so I had to be careful not to run out of power. With the sudden expertise of a seasoned photographer, I began taking pictures from every angle. Soon, I felt I had enough pictures to suffice and sent them to Julian.

Then, I peered down at my hands and realized that they looked like I had been rubbing oil on them like lotion. I pulled out the water bottle and realized I only had half a bottle left. Should I save it for the potential ride back, or did I try to get some grease off my hands? The latter won and soon I was feeling pleased as my hands were no longer covered in grease, they had a gray tint to them. At that moment, my phone vibrated, and it was Julian. He went through the different steps of fixing the bike and soon determined that he would need to drive down and meet me. I explained where I was and hung up. It was then that I also realized an essential thing regarding wine country. To have wine, you must have fields. To have fields, you must rid them of trees. And so I stood there in 89-degree heat under the sun, counting the minutes till Julian would show up. 

After an hour and a half had passed, Julian pulled up in his little white car connected to a trailer full of bikes. ‘Hello, Nate!’ He cheerfully greeted me, ‘Let’s look at this!’. I showed him what had happened. ‘Ahh, yes, yes,’ he exclaimed. He began yanking on the chain with no results. Eventually, it took me picking up the back of the bike while he yanked on the chain for it to let go of it eventually. With a little more effort, the chain worked as if nothing had happened. ‘ Alright, friend, I must go,’ Julian said in his thick French accent. After saying goodbye, he jumped in his car, loaded with bikes, and zoomed off. I took a moment, looked at the bike and my hands, and swung my leg over the bike and began riding. I decided I was no longer feeling motivated to bike another 8 miles, so I turned around and started riding back toward Dijon.

Now, I must reference the earlier moment when I thought it best to wash my hands off with the water that I had. Something that I had not thought about in that moment of washing my hands was that I needed water for the bike ride back to Dijon. On top of this, I also had not noticed any convenience stores or gas stations where I would be able to buy water. And so, as I biked, I began to feel every drop of moisture disappear from my mouth. ‘Great, I thought to myself,’ I thought to myself. ‘First it’s the bike breaking and now it’s not having water.’ As I passed a little pond, I slightly hesitated, thinking that maybe I could get some water from it. Suddenly, it dawned on me that I was in an area where I had been the previous fall.

In the fall of 2023, I traveled with Deb to France and, while there, did an eleven-hour tour ending at a small wine cave in the hills of Burgundy. With this realization, I quickly looked at my phone and began biking towards the wine cave. 'By God, I might just have found a place with water,' I thought. After a twenty-minute ride, I was standing in front of the cave. Attempting to hide the desperate feeling of dehydration and being covered in grease and dust, I walked into the winery. The expression on the face of the young woman who greeted me made me think that maybe she was meeting Clark Griswold after being stuck in the desert while heading to Wally World. Through the hallucination of having dried, cracked lips, I hoarsely asked if she had water. 'Umm, I am sorry. I only have wine,' she responded. As her words reached my ears, the thought emerged that I would buy a couple of bottles of wine and drink them. 'Are you sure you don't have water,' I again asked. At that moment, I believed she pitied me and told me to wait a minute. She turned and walked into an adjoining room. After a minute, she returned holding a pitcher of water and a cup. Attempting to remain 'calm and cool,' I shakely poured a large glass of water for myself. Between large gulps of water, I thanked her profusely and said I wanted to buy a couple of bottles of wine. After drinking the water pitcher, I thanked her and picked out three bottles of sparkling wine. After paying for them, I walked out to the bike. Now armed with three bottles of wine, I vowed that nothing, not even thirst, would stop me from returning to Dijon.

With slow determination, I made it back to Dijon. I dropped off the bike at the rental and vowed to stick to writing and drinking wine.