I’ve always been intrigued by the saying “he can’t see the forest for the trees.” Of course, it means that someone is so mired in the details of something that they can’t see the overall picture of what is going on. But the use of “tree” and “forest” imagery makes it hard for me to see the saying as a warning or something negative. What’s wrong with focusing on the trees?
As I’ve studied yoga and mindfulness I’ve become even more puzzled by the expression – because the whole point of those practices is to train ourselves to focus on each moment or, if you will, each tree, indeed each leaf, at the expense of continuing to obsess about what the entire forest is up to.
So it was ironic that two weeks ago when I was in northern France and had a day to go see the iconic patches of cobblestones that form the important parts of the famous Paris-Roubaix race – something I’d been looking forward to for months if not years – I had trouble getting to the most famous cycling forest of all – the Arenberg Forest.
Paris-Roubaix is a one-day 150 mile race that goes from a suburb of Paris north to the gritty city of Roubaix. The race winds its way through the countryside and in doing so covers about 30 miles of cobblestone sectors, which have helped give the race the name “The Hell of the North.” And the most famous of all is a 2.5 kilometer section that goes through the Arenberg Forest, which is located right outside of a small mining town called Wallers. I was determined to see this hallowed ground in person, to stroll along its length, and perhaps to even drop to my knees and let the damp of the spring creep up thorugh my clothes. But first I had to find it.
Now, I’m pretty good at using Google maps and figuring out directions but I’d found it next to impossible to plan how to go see the Arenberg Forest. I simply couldn’t find this iconic straight stretch on Google maps – perhaps because it is closed to traffic. I scoured message boards on cycling sites, I emailed tour operators in Britain, I emailed the hotel where we would be staying in nearby Valenciennes, all to no avail. I couldn’t even get a reliable route map of the race. All I had was a list of thenames of the cobbled sectors in the order in which they would be ridden. So before we left on our trip I sat down with a map and did the best approximation I could of the route and figured I needed to leave the rest to chance.
On the day we were visiting the route, I pulled out my list and tried to put one teeny little town after another into our GPS, without much success. We finally struck gold with Beavry-sur-Foret, which was about the eighth cobbled section I wanted to see, so we drove there. I figured we would start there and see if we could backtrack.
We drove through the little town and then finally spied a little chartreuse colored sign that pointed the way to the route. We followed that street for a few blocks and then saw another small sign pointing to the left. Really? A major international sporting event and the only thing to mark the way is a series of under-sized signs tacked to random lightposts? Ok. Their race, their rules.
We eventually found our way to the cobbled section and I got my fill of strolling along looking at the blue and pink stones (I was surprised at how pink some of them are). Then, since we had discovered the secret of the chartreuse arrow signs, I figured it would be easy to backtrack through the earlier cobbled sections and find the Arenberg Forest.
Not so fast. Not so easy. We drove for about an hour and a half through a series of increasingly depressing tiny red brick towns. But not a cobbled section to be found. And barely any more of those signs.
So, I decided it was time to give up for the day. I would show the receptionist in the hotel a picture of what I was looking for and hope she would know where it was and that she wouldn’t laugh at me.
Then, we turned a corner and I saw an arrow sign. We followed it a few blocks and made another left. And then I saw them – the rows and rows of white campers. Eureka! One of the telltale signs of a great cycling event. And there at the end of the street was the beginning of the forest.
We pulled into the first parking place we saw and hopped out of the car. I walked up to the barrier that prevents cars from pulling into the alley of cobblestones and took a deep breath. It was as creepy and exciting and foreboding and exhilarating as I hoped. There were lots of trees, yes, in even lines down each side. But I wasn’t focusing on them. Not yet. I had finally found my way to the forest.
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