Part I - Day One

The fire burnt fiercely, weaving furnaced sparkles high into the twinkling stiff Nepali air.

“But you are only half way there!”

The Australian lady had been introduced to me earlier that evening and she was now graphically proclaiming to a rather sanguinely disposed cyclist that Nepal was in fact only half way to Sydney. Another illative moment in the making. A new addition to the stack of sticky malicious miscellany that would repeatedly poke into ones consciousness at quite the most inappropriate times. It was the last I heard from that mischievous inference for some time, around a half a year in fact.

It had been a blissful, quiescent month wrapped up in the beauty of tropical white sand fringed Islands. A month spent amongst valued friendships, gifting me with a treasured warm familiarity. A reassuring time around people whose history I had been part of, people that I had known for more than a fleeting moment and a month of memories which I must now caulk tightly and tap into most sparingly in the months ahead.
All was in order. Hand delivered Parisian dark chocolates, delicate memories, a certified scuba diving certificate and a stash of imported Yorkshire consumables (yeh!) were all stored. A new, jam-packed, self contained new tyred adventure was now alighting a ferry and returning to mainland Thailand. Off the gang plank to the neighborly sound of the petrol stove rattling inside its pan and the rustle of rear bags settling themselves into the day and then . . . . . the innocent straight forward roll of Condors wheels abruptly rolled me straight backwards to that refulgent fireside evening under the Nepali sky. Catapulted backwards to a forgotten conversation and now the forging of some rather unpleasant questions.

How could it be? How could I be only hal . . . . .

My present position in the world was the culmination of something that felt so uncontainable, quite intangible, over a year of peddling, all that time and all that bigness and . . . . . . .

“You are only half way there!” . . . Crackle of fire . . .

“You are only half way to Sydney!” . .Crackle of fi . . .

The workings of these pointy thoughts have been of ceaseless fascination. This particular one was incredibly abrasive. And at the time, brinking on complete irrelevance. I was now obviously much further along the way than Kathmandu and further more, there was still the poignantly unanswered question of whether I was even going to Australia! A stream of personal discussions ensued (I was learning how to talk to myself again) followed by attempts to seek out all those learned ‘touring tools of the trade’ to help dispel such maliciousness, all failed miserably. A month out of the saddle had ill prepared me for such an unlikely assault. Excitement turned to exasperation whilst tantalizing thoughts on what lay ahead were now taunted by thoughts normally so easily dispelled. It was confusing, what had happened? Why had a conversation over a half a year ago stuck so vehemently?

“You are only half way to Sydney which even then is only half way around the wor. . . . . . . ”

Start peddling. Turn the peddles! One after the other! START!

Start peddling, surely the greatest cure of all, standing proud of the many idiosyncrasies of long distance cycling. The simplest of gems, a brilliantly inherent quality of this great adventure that consistently fails to become any easier, yet guarantees to fix the brooding anxieties of a long distance cyclist. The symptomatic root of and route to tantrums, toils and asperity and also there greatest cure. Just peddle Glen! I had peddled through the trembling fear at Shepherds Bush green roundabout, I had peddled through that mind muddle in Azerbaijan, through electric storms in Croatia, through . . . . And now that is what I must do in Thailand.

Wheels ran true with new bearings, couriered to a Thailand Island (following their captious collapse only days after the deadline had passed to get supplies to visiting friends before their flight). New tyres hummed on hot tarmac and the soothing medicine of momentum began to work its magic.

My writing this in retrospect provides a wonderful perspective on the poking thoughts of that day and their lingering power to sink ones joy at seeing the world. They would pull, tug and snap at my flip flopped feet for over a month, the cause of some terribly lamentable cycling. Unbeknownst to me on that day, as Condors wheels had plonked back onto the Mainland, it had been the beginning of a third (mentally segmented) stage on my grand adventure, a chunk of cycling that would, at its end, deliver me to opposite side of the planet. The reason for such turbid beginnings all those months ago in Thailand were now as clear as the stars on that troublesome fireside night in Nepal. Indeed the subliminal knowing, a misty notion or prospect of reaching the other side of the world by bicycle is surely plenty reason for a little panic!

South to the Equator! Cycling past strange roadside puppets with bobbing heads made of coconuts, footballs buckets and plates, all pleasant reminders of the daily passing of oddities and unknowns and the re-familiarising of being on the road again in ones own thoughts for hours on end. Indeed following a month of fluent, uninhibited gossip it is quite a shift to return to the simple, daily way of things. The basics of keeping ones self in good order whilst trundling through the day as best as one can, stumbling through questions in foreign languages, being understood(?) and possibly even understanding the answer.

A few days of peddling down the Thai coast and cycling finally began to feel normal again. Had I really been out of the saddle for a month? There came the welcome return of noticing the nature of the wind, feeling the mood of the day and being subconsciously steered through it by the lengths of shadows or height of the sun. A return to uncomplicated pleasures, simple, like the generous shade of a tree or splash of cool water.
In the evenings, possibly for want of mental distraction, I had caught my self inadvertently prolonging meals in small huts and eateries by watching the theatrically unfolding plot of a particular Thai soap opera completed by bare male midriffs culturally softened by the addition of post produced pixels. A very odd, disingenuous censorship quite apart from the marvelously effeminate (not so soapy) male midriffs encountered on the daily cycle ride toward Malaysia. Innocent, hotel door framed questions would somehow result in lascivious male approaches to my (apparently teasing) towel wrapped ´pee pee´ or the suggestive batting of eye lashes toward my blue eyes. Frivolous flirting, skirting other, lesser matters such as electric shocking showers or lime green tap water. More affluent variations on these rather salacious moments came from the opening of car windows as I cycled along, followed by the pleasant offer of a ‘quiet drink’. All good hearted approaches only soured by the terribly repugnant occurrences of being psychological hemmed in by naked men, laying in wait, prostrate in neighboring, open door hotel rooms. Along with other associated lurid gestures, open doors in dark corridors could quickly turn to psychological prisons as perturbed mental spiralings curdled in dirty windowless hotel rooms. Whilst trembling at the surreal intimidation of it all, scowling or overt finger pointing (covert knee trembling) helped a little in lightening dark thoughts. The effective comfort of speaking out loud against door framed naked men imposing themselves onto tired cyclists worked wonders in keeping one abreast of personal boundaries and the occasional need to uphold them.

For all the bestowed presaging one encounters cycling into unknown lands it was odd, that only now, in the face of just another cautioning that long learned optimistic parries to such doom mongering should fail so absolutely. Amidst a barrage of thrice daily deliberations on the danger of continuing south the ‘cyclists fear’ had, somehow been allowed to bubble and ferment to the surface. A potent mix, stirred daily by fruit sellers ,hotel owners, bus drivers (who diverted) and police (now with guns). Bubble, bubble, stir, stir . . . . Maybe this time there was some truth to all the soothsaying . . . .bubble, bubble, fizz.
Then, with little warning and such a short time after the turbulent return to my adventure, a still rather thin skinned me was hopelessly overrun. Cowering against streets lined with barbed wire, big gritty guns on American Humvees and continued promulgations, warning me not to be on the road I began to feel scared. Of course it was not the first time I had felt the chill from cycling into the shade of some monger of danger but this was the bubbling, fizzing ‘cyclists fear’ it was different, and without deliberating on the wherefores, I had, within a few days been quite defiled and felt terribly vulnerable. There was trouble in the borderlands, a religious affair that necessitated the posting of two soldiers on each street corner, a jovial lot for the most part, welcoming my passing with a wave and heavy nod of helmet. Sandbag walls were raised up around machine guns, police stations and fuel depots. A few extra layers of sand and a slightly longer shadow reaching toward that brim bound broth of cyclists fear. Where was the other Thailand? Where was the stronger me? It started to rain (a now recognised gesture toward a cyclist in crisis!). Heavy drops crashed down, horrible, even heavier questions began to fall with them. A deluge of delusional thoughts began to wash over a severely breached strength of character, overly focused on spirals of barbed wire and stories of kidnappings . . . . . Flooded by the irrational, consuming thoughts of cycling under a scary shadow . . . . . When had I last spoken to my Brother? Would his children remember who I was? Were my mother and father ok? Not since the Himalaya had ones troubles invoked such a desperate wish to be around them and to be sheltered by family (dry!) warmth.
The self perpetuating, solo state of things was taking its toll, eyes wetted in a very wet world, a progressively derided world which suddenly, like some terrible, gun toting, barbed wire shaped premonition was now tipping a wet cyclist into very real, absolute fear. Ten tangible, ultra time framed seconds of the stuff that screeched into being with a cursory, rearward glance. The first disconnected second quite literally slid into my wet cycling world. Seventy, sliding miles per hour of disbelief, pointing impossibly sideways and only 30 meters behind Condors back wheels . . . . . . 25 meters, 70 mph and overwhelming confusion. Another rapid glance rearward and the driver looked out of his side window straight into my eyes, conveying his fear in wide eyed micro seconds, more fear for a very scared cyclist! . . . . 15 meters . . . . . . Somehow I had now joined this sickening road sliding trend and now looked up at screeching metal then down at a scuffing, scraping road. When was the last time I had spoken to my family? . . . . . . 10 meters . . . . . The driver looked down at me, screeching rubber, screaming red eyes. I stopped hurting, stopped my slide and laid on the road for an hour long second, simply waiting. . . . . . . His eyes stopped screaming, he had closed them, how dare he! . . . . . . . . Would my brothers children remember me? . . . . . . . . Suddenly there was a screeching pitch shift, a physical shift in the motion of things and then some kind of tractive miracle suddenly took hold of the whole colliding mess. The man with his closed eyes, the very big four wheeled piece of metal, Condor and I were suddenly separated. Separated with less than 10 meters to spare ensued by the awful, sickening sound of, time stopped lacerating metal, blooded glass, splitting trees and ear splitting cracks as the road filled with scudding sharpness, metal and glass whistling all around. I lay felled, shocked and brinking on religious babblings only to have the whole terrible screeching start, all over again! Through wet glass sharded glimpses I bore witness to my second saving as trees literally fell to my rescue. A luscious natural canopy of twiggy miracles shielding a hopelessly endangered cyclist from the stream of ensuing vehicles following the first. Cars hit trees (not me), trees hit cars (not me), and then all was still. Ten separated seconds of something to which a touring cyclist should most definitely never be subjected. As seconds ticked backed to one second lengths and just as I started hurting (again), a joy began to patter over me, soft, like the medicinal rain dousing smoking engines and soothing the pain from glass, lurking in my arms. Sharp ruptured air, rounded by the pattering of rain drops on leaves. The aftermath, free from the ripping sound of metal and . . . . . OUCH! Yes, I could stand, nothing broken just bleeding . . . . . OUCH! Tender, inside and out but now, most definitely able to ask my brother how he was, and inform him that Uncle Glen was OK and wanted to see his children very much! Condors wheels and frame were still straight and pensive approaches to the first of the tree wrapped cars revealed two people, two pulses, four limbs and not too much blood. The mans eyes were still closed, just as they had been 10 meters away at 70 mph.

Maybe there is a tendency in such writings as these to point at such bigness. An attempt to describe these bold typed, dramatic occurrences with rich, impressionistic verve for which they no doubt deserve. Flag planting events as it were, that punctuate what may otherwise have been many days of passive saddle idling. From mechanical hiccup to natural wonder these exclamational events would certainly surprise but perhaps more importantly, in essence, they were no more than rather large bi-products falling from an innocent wish to peddle oneself along the way, and see something new. A temporary saturation, a full volume event amidst what may have been weeks of normal, sane roadside happenings, possibly providing a new perspective to the adventure and certainly providing a tale to tell. But, without doubt, the true purveyors of a sane, contented cycling adventure are the smaller scale, daily myriad of incidental moments. The fleeting, imperceptible whole wash of things in a normal day on the road, that by their all day, anytime nature support the vital undercurrents and subtle push and pull of ones contentment in the saddle. Tiny in time, often huge in hidden significance and inherently difficult to contain in text. Lots and lots of everyday-ness who’s culminations are capable of ushering in weeks of pleasant cycling in the most unpleasant of surrounds and equally capable of sinking a happy heart in apparent cycling paradise. Once, at 13,000 feet an old lady had shared her melted ice (and valued supply of yak poo fuel) to replenish two, very thirsty cyclists, yet it was the second, tiny turning of her head as we departed, the little second look of a farewell that added so greatly to the soothing of the inherent hardships up there. A tiny moment, a cold hard day, made good. On another occasion, as walls of Kazakhstan sand cracked and whipped at exposed skin, a shrouded woman cut through 50 mph gusting grit to point me toward shelter. Of course, her kindness in seeing a rather odd tourist lost in a sand storm and then coming to help was amazing, yet it was a fleeting glance at the shiny, punctuated, edible green something in her hand that giddied my insides, a tiny (in time) teaser that would revisit my sand soaked mind in great gardens of crunchy green reminders for the hundreds of miles of desert cycling that followed. Contemporarily the great strength of small things had been busy pushing in a very different direction. Their elusive erosive passings slowly chipping away in palm plantation, deforested chunks. A general downward ebb, now shock treated by wet twisted metal, glass shards and quite badly injured people. A symbolic (twisted)flag pole now stood as a totemic reminder of all the terrible dangers whizzing passed me daily, depressing and compressing, chipping and knocking at ones wanting to be in the saddle.

Chip, chip, knock.

A deep lingering lull, fuelled further (and starved more) by the ride into a Malaysia now in the full swing of Ramadan. And so, a compressed, rather unhappy (hungry) cyclist sat knackered and snacked, unsure of the correct stand point to take in the clash between culturally considerate cycling and a cavernous stomach. The newly appointed and well publicised Ramadan ‘Islamic special Ops’ police force, were now actively ‘nicking’ impious local Muslim restaurant owners and (cycling?) customers for serving or eating food not sealed in little clear plastic bags. Little bubbles of Legal, Ramadan friendly convenience. A transportable packed lunch, sold on road side stalls, always odd and (almost) always delicious. One would excitedly cycle along with bobbing, bright colours of strange soups and spices dangling from Condors handlebars in search of a suitable picnic spot. With the present loss of good cheer also came a more tragic loss of cheeky high spirited bravado. That marvelous, upbeat way of one dealing with adversity, a stronger than I ally that could take the strain, something that was now noticeably absent in helping to contain the frustrations of Ramadan shuttered towns and the repeated (suitably dressed) refusals to be permitted entrance to mosques. It irritated. Children scurried in the cool clean air of these beautiful buildings, people chatted with break-fasted full bellies and I was forced to bow away, down browed and considerably more intimidated to seeing and learning than the last attempt.

One morning I stepped out of my room and was presented four eggs, fresh bread, jam, juice and coffee. Yeh! A Ramadan daylight feast served by a Muslim man talking to me in English and now readying himself for a trip to the local mosque. Four eggs later, comforted by the pleasant effects of a familiar breakfast and in the knowing that I was being perfectly understood, questions began to spontaneously erupt from the disillusioned depths of someone simply wanting to understand stuff. He sat, I listened, he would be a few minutes late to the mosque today he said with a cheeky grin. His words filled me with encouragement that connected patiently with my disaccorded (chip, chip . . . knock) ride into Malaysia. As he gathered his scooter helmet he suggested in warm mischievous chuckles that there may be a sub-clause in Islamic law (apparently applying only to men) that one may eat during the Ramadan day if a distance of more than one hundred Kilometers is to be traveled. A perfectly appropriate piece of Muslim culture served with a beaming smile followed by a point toward my thin hairy legs,

“You sir . . . .100 kilometers . . . . yes!”

Its antiquated relevance was as comically sound as his casual heart felt delivery. Of course there were never any real Muslim objections to my cycling and eating through Ramadan just a stack of moody obtruding perceptions now considerably diffused by a man who had made time to help a bewildered cyclist. Each morning, there had been a consistently pessimistic drag of a troublesome yesterday. Pulling one into sad places before even having chance to pull up ones cycling shorts. The comfort of that four egg morning marked the making of the first good yesterday in Malaysia. Awoken by the mans hearty debonair I pushed back against all the ridiculous pessimism. I had never done it before but today, I decided, I would simply start again, give it another go. Sit on Condors saddle, let loose some Pacific ocean sparkles onto those gloomy(flagpole shaped) shadows and start making some pleasant yesterdays. South bound and searching I was off (again). Day one!

Incensed smoke and strange mantras passed over a man listening to a candle lit, coat hanger crackled prayer on his radio. Outside, hopelessly out-crashing his radio, clashing Chinese cymbals glinted in the glow of beautiful Lanterns, clattering past quiet men seated on prayer mats under domes, seemingly quite oblivious to the teenage boys pulling wheelies on their scooters to join the back of a Kentucky fried chicken queue, offering Ramadan special offers to chicken and chips break-fasters. A regular twilight rush hour of tolerant collisions, all mixed up and full of friendliness. Enjoyed after a cool shower with glowing skin and the fizz of cool ice cracking on warm beer(!). . . . . . A softer southern Malaysia and some rejuvenated good cheer to take it all in.

I had, indeed started again, and good days were abound. I would be spell bound by the fascinating gase of wild monkeys. Troops of them holding roadside court. Strutting nervously at Condors approach. Fussing and nit-picking at the presence of two silent wheels yet quite happy to sit and pick nits (off each other) at the passing of twelve guzzling, logging ones. I wondered, what if I sat on the ground would they strut a little less nervously? Maybe it was Condor all dressed in Yellow? . . . . . Possibly a few encouraging monkey chatters? A daily jungle charade at three o’clock and reduced to nut nibbling silly solo monkey chirps. Rustling, grunting verges, odd chatters, whistles and hoots were the new, often startling joys of tropical, rural cycling. Unexpected sightings, flabbergasts (and swerves) as five foot long reptilian tales vanished into prehistoric, two meter tall ferns. Steep angled rays from the equatorial sun were cut short by dense, gloopy, brown mangrove swamps, rooted in tidal waters or swamps, a welcome relief to the monotony of linearised palm plantations. New natural wonders crammed themselves into each day like some generous, natural peace offering for the all the previous days of grind. Giant butterflies fluttered through the soft breeze, science fiction sized beetles collided precariously into Condor and I whilst vivid plumes of exotic birds glowed from the shade of strange trees and ferns. Speeding lizards darted between wheels and larger lizards . . . . that is to say GIANT, hulking, dinosaur lizards thudded along side. The return of captivated cycling full of . . . ‘Wows!’ And . . .’What was that!’ One evening, as the southern tip of Malaysia drew closer, a near full moon would light the way into the greatest magic natural offering of them all. As the last serene hour of cycling drifted to its end, an upward gaze (no mean feat at that time of day!) spotted the first stars, twinkling into being, pricking the sky just above the last remains of daylight blue. Birds slowly glided closer, above silhouetted tree tops, flying west to east out of sunset blues. The serene, quiet of the night slowly merged from tranquil to surreal and then to complete wonder as the approaching flock tripped one absurdly backwards in time. In a few moments, thousands of gliding pterodactyl winged (things!) were sweeping overhead, through the last of the day as silent as the windless evening. Giant wings of translucent gold shimmered like moon permeated silk, stretched between prehistoric veins and claws. A timeless ten minutes transfixed upon a crowded sky, hundreds of giant bats five feet wide. Patent indeed to the ancient life to be found by simply pushing away the weight of pessimism and starting all over again.

It was a good day to reach the end of land. The equatorial sun still scorched, the monkeys still chatted and the ants still mystically appeared from Condors bar bag but the long bridge ahead would lead to a new land, a separate kingdom quite literally detached from over a year of cycling. The end of Euro-Asia! An incidental detail a few years ago but now, it was steeped in significance, the pointy end to a monumental cycle ride on a very big bit land. Causewayed ahead a hugely symbolic sky scraping milestone, standing proudly above the strained shadows of the previous weeks. If I stood (even prouder) on the peddles I could just about see . . . .Singapore!

An autonomous state? A country? An Annexed Island? Visa? No Visa? A half mile long causeway (to find out) and the cause for some comically belated thoughts on the pre-requisites needed for my grand exit from Euro-Asia. A half mile strip of no mans land cycling with no idea whatsoever of ones nomadic legitimacy. Generally, it is not uncommon to potter around for a while at international border crossings, often having no real idea which country (if any) one is in. A random passport flutter here, a little inspectional pat of Condor there. Surely time for a cup of tea as I wait in a confusing, rubber stamping, barrier bolstering muddle, relatively calm in the knowing that I had played my part in the process and had what was needed to satisfy anyone that asked, be it a letter of invitation, a letter from her majesties government or any other form of sanctioned document. In the sense of not really knowing which country one was in, today’s great crossing was no different to the others, but, not so similar was the conundrum that somehow, somewhere along the way, a little complacent coloured strip of bureaucratic tape had been lost, lodged somewhere between . . . . . . .How does one obtain a ninety (not a thirty) day Indonesian Visa? . . .. . . . If one can obtain a ninety day Visa for Indonesia is there an open land crossing into East Timor? . . . . . . . If there is a land crossing into East Timor is there a boat to Australia? . . . . . OH! Had I already made the decision to go to Australia? etc . . . . . . Maybe I found it quite easy to loose bits of bureaucratic tape, though it still surprises how one can mislay a piece the size of a whole country!

The large Red Neon signs over the causeway welcomed all to Singapore, just as I began to summise that perhaps, Singapore was in fact a complete, bonafide country it was conveyed to me, in the nicest possible way, that I had yet to officially exit Malaysia and must now follow the cycling policeman back to the country I had not yet left. Oh! With a sense that now may not be the most prudent time to seek confirmation to my belated best guess on Singapore’s worldly status I postponed the dieing question of whether or not one needs a Visa to enter Singapore. I Left the autonomous / annexed / possible country or island state of Singapore. Causewayed right back to Malaysia. Caused a little confusion entering a country I was already in and then left Malaysia (again) and went straight back to Singapore. Passport pages rustled, amplified through plexiglass. Having had a little more time to mull over some possible outcomes, it was a jelly legged, nervous, nut nibbling minute, thankfully supported by Condors frame.

What if I had to peddle bac . . . . .

“You travel many places Mr. Sappathone”

What if Kuala Lumpur was the nearest . . . . .

“Can you please face the camera”

A digital photo, then the thud of a stamp. . . . .A visa stamp!

“Please enjoy your stay in Singapore Sir”

I had a Visa (!) to the country of Singapore and was immediately propelled into extreme order. A Dazzling, tall shock of an Island and the twenty fourth country of the cycle ride. A few hours later I was quite still, resting in the novel shade of a sky scraper, quite breathless and lightly floating in the wealth of it all. A gleaming, white shirted, shiny shoed man touched my arm grounding me back to street level and then proceeded to explain, in perfect English, how much I reminded him of his son and how proud he was of him. He welcomed my scuffed, well chuffed, sparkling self with a firm handshake and wondered what I had seen on my trip and then asked how far I had cycled. Sincere questions with mind boggling effects. I peered down at Condors trip computer and . . . . . 11,000 miles (exactly)! Woops . . . . I started floating again. . . . . . . . . A fleeting glance backwards to a fire side conversation in Nepal before I erupted into chuckling contentment. I was now in Singapore! Considerably further than half way and goodness me the view was great! All 11,000 miles of it!