It’s a simple life

It was one of the farthest points I’d been from home in three weeks since arriving in the French Alps — 11.25 miles by e-bike to a grassy bench beneath Mont Joly. In a region rippling with high mountain ridges that even e-bikes can’t access, my friend Ali had pegged this spot as the best place to view the partial solar eclipse, “without climbing up something.” She used Peakfinder to locate a high, open meadow with an unobstructed view to the southwest, perfect for a celestial event that coincided with sunset.

“Bring a colander,” Ali advised, which confused me. Was there an eclipse-related ritual associated with the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster that I wasn’t familiar with? But no, I later learned, it was something the BBC recommended to view the eclipse: a kind of multi-pinhole viewer used to project light on a flat surface, useful in the absence of specialized eclipse-viewing glasses. Being an American, I thought, “Well, no, I’ll just buy some eclipse glasses.”

So on Wednesday afternoon, T-minus 7 hours before the eclipse, I coasted down to Sallanches on the e-bike — a quick five miles that loses more than 2,000 feet of elevation. Even if I spin all the way across town, I still arrive at my destination — the local gym I recently joined, the produce stand, the coffee shop, the supermarche, the furniture store where I straddle my bike in front of the display window and gaze longingly at fully-formed tables while boxes from Ikea sit unopened at home — with 100% battery. But the motor serves me well for the grunt of a climb home, often with 30-plus pounds of groceries in a backpack. My app warned me that the bike was nearly due for its 300-kilometer service. I’ve owned this e-bike for all of two weeks, and apparently I’ve already logged 180 miles of little explorations and errands where I always find excuses to take the long way home.

I parked the bike in the town center and walked to an optician and two pharmacies — all were sold out of les lunettes pour l’eclipse. I rode across town to another optician, another pharmacy, and the supermarche. “Rupture de stock.” Damn. The largest town in the valley had been emptied of eclipse glasses. I hadn’t realized the eclipse was that big of a deal here. France wasn’t even in the path of totality. But it was the first solar eclipse to cross continental Europe in 27 years. The US has had two major total solar eclipse events in my lifetime, and they were both recent — 2017 and 2024 — so I’ve fallen into the trap of thinking of this as a mundane occurrence.

I zoomed home, feeling defeated and a little bit defiant. I hadn’t planned to make a big deal out of this thing, so I guessed I wouldn’t. I hadn’t even known about this event until Ali told me a week ago, because I have been blissfully ignoring the news. My interest spiked, but even then I didn’t run out to buy eclipse glasses. It’s not like I was going to ride my e-bike to Spain. And a 94% partial eclipse, while interesting, could never top 2017.

Back then, a group of friends in Boulder planned to drive up to Wyoming to view the total eclipse. I considered joining them, but then my aunt died, so instead I drove to Utah to attend her funeral. The day of the eclipse, which was the day after my birthday, Dad and I hiked to the top of Gobbler’s Knob with glasses that he had purchased. We sat on the summit together for more than an hour, watching as the light dimmed and the afternoon sky became eerily dark. The birds stopped singing. The August air turned cold. Dad handed me the blue jacket that he always carried on hikes, and I wrapped it around my torso like a blanket. It smelled like him, his Old Spice aftershave with hints of peanut dust. The whole world seemed to stand still as we watched the moon take an enormous bite out of the sun. Every so often I’d remove my eclipse glasses and turn to my dad. He was always grinning. My friends who went to Wyoming later raved about their views of totality. It sounded magical, but I wouldn’t have traded those moments with my dad on top of Gobbler’s Knob for anything. Not then, and definitely not now. It has become one of my favorite life experiences, a serendipitous collision of love and beauty that years of trip planning could never duplicate. Which is why, I suppose, I didn’t necessarily want to muddle the memory with another eclipse experience.

But Ali and Rob staked out a spot, so I figured I should go. I’ve been on my own for the past week, since Beat traveled to Switzerland to race the Ticino 250 — 250 kilometers through the rugged Swiss Alps in the Italian-speaking southeast. Originally, I’d planned to crew for him. But the race had so few crew-accessible points, and the logistics were sufficiently complicated, to convince us both it was better for me to stay home.

I was not sad. While I’d love to see the Ticino region, crewing these multi-day Alpine races can be intensely stressful. All of the driving on narrow mountain roads, the difficult timing, the lack of sleep … I’ve done this for Beat at least 15 times. I used to love it. Since Covid, I’ve mostly just tolerated it. Now, in my post-injury haze, I’m not sure I’m capable of tolerance. It’s tough to see Beat in this state. I can’t understand why he or anyone would want to put themselves through an ordeal like the Ticino 250. It seems, well, needlessly punishing and overly complex. We don’t need to run 250 kilometers. We don’t even need to leave our house to witness incredible beauty. Right now, I’m content to drift out my front door — sometimes with the e-bike, sometimes with the regular bike to keep myself honest, and my favorite, on foot, when my knee is sufficiently cooperative — and see where the day takes me.

Maybe this outlook is temporary, but I am enjoying the freedom of not caring about how fast or far I can go. My body has given me so much, and now I have seen how suddenly this gift can be taken away. So I am over-the-top thankful for medical technology and my body’s ability to heal. Every step is a miracle. Sometimes I go out and take 26,000 of them because old habits die hard, but I still appreciate those steps for what they are. They’re not a means to an end. They’re individually priceless.

And my e-bike. I can’t believe I’ve never tried one of these. Probably because I had an ego about it. It’s hard to remember why. They’re affordable, they’re flexible, and they’re so much more fun than commuting with a car. E-bikes aren’t a free ride. My app tells me how much power I contribute to each ride, and it’s usually in the 40% (me) to 60% (motor) range, give or take 5%. French regulations stipulate that the motor tops out at 25 kph, so if I want to ride faster, I need either gravity or my legs to do the work. My legs feel it. I’m often pushing 150 watts uphill, which is what I’d do on my regular bike, but when the motor contributes another 200 watts, it is … zoooooom. So fun. Together we chewed up a 1,700-foot climb in under 30 minutes, and I arrived at the Parking du Planay 10 minutes before Rob and Ali.

Dozens of cars were parked along the narrow road — apparently Ali wasn’t the only one who staked out this seemingly random spot to view the eclipse. Ali showed me her spaghetti colander, and I recounted my failed scavenger hunt across Sallanches. A woman who was sitting beside the car parked next to us overheard our conversation and approached us.

“You need the glasses?” she asked. We all nodded. She went back to her car and returned with three pairs of brand-new eclipse glasses. I was floored. Here was one of the most coveted items in France, and we just happened to chance on a stranger with some to spare.

“Très généreux, merci,” I said and instantly felt silly about trying to speak poor French to a woman who clearly understood English. I know I need to get over this embarrassment. And it seemed the only way to express how grateful I felt.

The show began at 7:27 p.m., but the sun was still hidden behind a swath of afternoon clouds. Thunder rumbled over Mont Joly and light rain started to fall. The partially obscured sun peeked out from behind the clouds and reflected a rainbow over our heads. The evening light took on a particularly cinematic glow. By the time we could see the sun through the glasses, it had the crescent shape of a waning moon.

“This really is pretty cool,” I repeated an annoying number of times. The murmuring crowds around us began to hush. Ali commented on how nice it is to have events that bring everyone together. I felt the warmth of camaraderie with my fellow eclipse viewers — some huddled under umbrellas, some with children in pajamas — who put their everyday life aside and stepped outside for a moment of shared awe.

The eclipse peaked at 8:20 p.m., when the setting sun was just a fingernail-shaped sliver of crimson light behind the black void of the moon. Even at 94% eclipsed, the sun still puts out plenty of light, so it doesn’t have the night-sky effect of totality. And it was already setting, which subdued the cooling effect. But the clouds overhead took on an otherworldly color, a pale green mixed with electric orange.

The sun was still a half-crescent when it slipped below the mountainous horizon at 8:45. The entire sky turned pink and gold. I said goodbye to my friends and flipped on bike headlights that I didn’t entirely need. The 11.5 miles home, mostly downhill, zoomed by in 35 minutes. It wasn’t even fully dark when I returned.

It’s not like me to stick to a 12-mile radius for three weeks and counting. I’m a wanderer. An adventurer. For weeks, months even, my knee injury took that away from me. I was tethered to a few rooms in my house; I couldn’t even get up and down the stairs without great effort. I assumed roaming would be the first thing I’d want when I regained functionality. And yes, I did travel halfway around the world to France, but usually being somewhere novel only makes me hungrier for exploration. And while I do feel it — I’m still testing my limits on foot to try different trails in the local mountains — I feel more content than I have in a long time. I’m living moment to moment, step to step, and not thinking constantly or even frequently about what lies ahead.

I’m just here, now, and it’s the only place I want to be. A place absolutely inundated with beauty. A place where even grand celestial events come to me. If only I pay attention, step outside, and look around … and maybe, next time, be more proactive about acquiring eclipse glasses.

Share