Round the world with Glen

Part I - Day One

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:39:00 +0000

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!

Part II - Living Lists

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Sun, 11 May 2008 14:36:00 +0000

After sitting for seven hours on a hard leather saddle it was the little things that one noticed. A light bulb that lit or a toilet that flushed. A tent peg that sank easily into the earth or the fleeting draft of a cool breeze, finding its way into the tent. Maybe it was a shower, free of cockroaches or an evening stroll without flip flopping through smelly things . . . . . . . . Oh the joy of those evening strolls, blissfully trapped in sun set lit musings as newness wafted over tingling, cool showered skin. Then a thought . . . . . .

“I could have a days rest tomorrow!”

A little dally, roused from a cyclist slumbering in full bellied contentment, followed by:

. . . . . . .“But really, I could have a day off, tomorrow”.

Then a more conformists mental flutter through visa dates, boat time tables, friends rendezvous and other official sundries. If all went well there would be an administratively sanctioned super legs first (they usually swayed the decision). . . . . . YES!

Singapore! (the country that is) and with all considerations satisfied I was free for a week and at liberty to saunter through the delights of a sumptuous Singapore. Evening thoughts were now lit by designer lampshades illuminating bright, air conditioned, self contained shopping cities. Cool, inside air tingled skin in spotless sparkling restaurants. Affluence tickled the nose with smells of aftershaves, perfumes and new leather. After months on the saddle on mainland Asia it really was the most sumptuous, scintillating legs first YES one could imagine.
For disordered, maladjusted eyes peering into absolute order there really was an awful lot of little things to notice. It was my first ‘good morning’ to Singapore. A celebration for all that it was to have cycled off the end of Euro-Asia. Alas that first morning stroll in Singapore was all a little too expansive, too much, too soon, and quite out of range for the shell shocked eyes of a cyclists. A whole day of cerebral startles in big air conditioned glass glitz.

Concussed eyes and comedy . . . that first visit to the coffee shop . . . . . . .

1. Toilets

2. Toilets with a handle that (actually) flushes.

3. Toilets without a handle that flush sentiently as one stands up.

4. Toilets without a handle that flush sentiently when one stands up . . . and then speak!instructing one to wash ones hands before sipping ones beverage.

Then. . . . . . .

5. Soap.

6. Soap dispensers with television screens and handles.

7. Soap dispensers without televisions (or handles) cognitively dolloping goo into well placed hands.

8. Taps (without handles), percipiently precipitating as hands are placed under the spout.

9. Green light is go, red light is stop, beeping towel dispensers (no handles or instructions! or the need for habitual cycle short hand drying)

A few more automatic doors, lights, fans and fittings and finally a sip of fresh ground (cerebrally draining) Javan coffee. Paid for in cash, unlike the rest of the queue who have a finger print scanned as payment, then proudly collect their hi-tech, digitally recorded, automatic (no handles!) coffee point. Fingers used to pay not push, flush and switch.
A week of clean. A concussive refurnishing of dusty city slickin’ memories. Spotless museums, galleries, little India’s, little China’s and big shopping cities. A week of no cycling, no cockroaches and not one smelly flip flop fouling!
The temporary medicinal edging away of what lay ahead allowed for three, maybe even four days of unadulterated, fancy (cycle) free frolicking in a big modern city. Though slowly at first, eased in by the cleaning of Condors gears and the insides of Bags, Indonesia began to draw closer. Gently does it . . . . Little evening peaks at the map, roads here, hills over there . . . . . . . . then the rude encounter with a wall sized world map. Goodness me! Indonesia really was very big. An archipelago thousands of miles long sitting in the bottom right hand corner of my cycling world. Before the days end, Indonesia had successfully nudged its way back to the top of one thoughts on what to do tomorrow.

A soldier informs me that the thousand strips of glittering gold’s and yellows are to help provide us a safe passage. Condor, all clean and ready to go was being tightly lashed to the life lines, ready in seconds for the straights of Malacca. Lamenting, complicated knots, tight from a fabulous week in sparkling Singapore were a little less eager for the off. Great gushes of black soot towered into the air and with a small nervous sigh, knotted conundrums were forcibly slipped just as the bow carved through plastic bottles, brown sludge and into the straights. Onwards to Sumatra! Framed by massive, moored oil tankers and flaming oil refineries, I glanced back toward Singapore. Glittering, good luck gold’s sank into exhausted, bellowing, black Stern soot. From across the Straights of Mallaca Indonesia was reaching out, dirty finger nailed and thick in grunting fumes. Black smoking precedents were being set at quite a rate, an hour or so after leaving Singapore, the hubbub of boat disembarkation, would, I later realised set another. I had two wheels, a tent, a visa and had just arrived in Indonesia!

“Hello Mister!”

Then another,

“Hello Mister!”

A new wide eyed visitor showered with endless (and endlessly) welcome “Hello Misters”.

The sun had set, the soot had been washed away and I was once again enjoying an evening stroll on the cusp of newness. Oh! So maybe that’s the number three? . . . . . . Lots of eggs! . . . . Is that really a vegetable? . . . . . . Mosques not Churches . . . . So if one multiplies by 10,000 and divides by 2 Errrrr . . . . . . Did that meal just cost twenty pence! Maybe it was two pounds? Familiarities in the making, and just before sleep, a familiarity already made, a good night proposition toward my “pee pee”.

And so began the grand upheaval of all that it was to cycle south in South East Asia. A vast Indonesian volcanic archipelago, smothering all the familiar, moderate, mainland conventions of unpolluted, flat (wet) cycling with sludgy, drained peat bogs and rancorous trains of logging lorries, grunting up a down a relentless, sinusoidal shaped landscape, abalze and choking from burning vegetation. Such a rapid, gritty permeation into my cycling adventure. So sudden, so shockingly difficult to adjust to. With pulped (like the landscape) brain and burning lungs (like the landscape) I was quite dizzy with it all.

Sometimes I, that is to say, the solo cycling, capricious, wandering mind ‘I’ . . . had struggled considerably when presented with a week or so of timid, flat, mundane cycling. A vagarious mind, challenged by the lack of distraction, the challenge rooted ironically in its absence. And now this! Oh! how I mocked those self pitying, superfluous, bored mumblings of times spent amongst flat, fresh, green gladed horizons. For the first few days in Sumatra, if timed well, one could possibly hold ones breath in the hope that the jet black exhaust fumes would dissipate before (through lack of breath) I passed out! The cases for such breath bating were rendered quite hopeless on steep hills. Huffing, puffing, then sucking in thick black smoke from a continual train of grunting, twelve wheeled logging trucks. In infuriated, hazy bouts of disapproval, attempts to communicate some muttered, gasping displeasure at being repeatedly veiled in exhaust fumes would be consistently pacified by the gaze of some cheeky young lad peering back from the passenger window, wide eyed and beaming a smile.

“Hello Mister”

The perfect parry to ones aggravated lunges and a great aid to conjuring up a smile (not grimace) and a wave (not fist). Indeed in the ensuing months these absurdly young truckers companions would serve as a constant reminder to steer ones frustrations toward the exhaust, not the men and families in the cabin. A diametric combination of good cheer and fumes, giving a most commendable wide birth to cyclists.

On the third day, there was the first rattling sign of a morning (moaning) wheeze, another precedence in the making, followed by a growing inability to hold ones breath long enough as lorrys past. Black smoke settling on shrinking lungs.
On Day Five came the first full fledged morning cough. On day seven came the first morning cough with substance, substantially elevating ones concerns to the healthiness of this progressively blackening cycle ride.

A very big Island all flaming, smoking, choking and spluttering. Equatorial heat pushing down on impermeable, forest fired smoke, all pushing down on road shaped black soot. Approaching towns at night felt like cycling toward cliffs whilst being lost in a thick sea fog. Partially penetrating beams of light swimming in meter deep, grey soups of smog. Vehicle headlights lurked into view, warning of serrated dangers like moving metallic lighthouses . . . . . A head torch would vainly probe for unlit vehicles, had they seen me? Had I seen them? Ship wrecked vehicles were impaled on concrete spikes, thrust above the fog like prophetic effigies. Half a lorry cabin or car with its roof ripped away. Hard plied, metal exclamation marks for soft vulnerable cyclists and stark reminders of that flag pole, still stuck amongst collapsed trees on a roadside in Thailand.

Roadside verges burned and smoked, Lorries coughed and smoked, People coughed and smoked (actively), I coughed and smoked (passively)! Hot Smoke, black smoke, sticky heavy smoke. Each evening black dripped from sore eyes. Dredged black displaced from stodgy clogged places and with it, the quite miraculous end (sadly only temporary) to an ex smokers eternal languishing for post lunch cigarettes. I now had a smokers cough, the first for six years.
This, of course, was not the first time I had stumbled into burning landscapes, polluted streets and other vulgar treatments of the lung. There had always been an inclination to steer, mapped or unmapped, toward some snickett of peace. A parallel track or dusty detour, some (mostly) uncharted respite where one could rest clogged lungs and mind. A little amble guided by compass or finger pointing, happy just to take in some clean silence for a few days. Somehow, in Sumatra, I had tripped, snagged by some clandestine urge to push on, to make progress around the world. It is now clear, whilst jotting down these ditties, that there had been no idea of the true wily nature of my fall. Tripped (and tricked) by a petrol fused mind, the whole adventure had tumbled into that terrible pit of finishing and rushing and reason forgetting. Indonesia had presented a brand new design for cyclists, cast into hundreds of sinusoidal (polluted, smoky) volcanic ripples and for whatever reason I was funneling straight into them with all loss of bravado to attempt an alternative passage. By the time the coughing had started in earnest, little sentimental pimples on the landscape had expanded to mental mountains of the most sordid nature. A petrol fumed, forest fire scorched mind, now tricked into thinking it had had a relatively good take on the way of the worlds peaks and troughs, with good reason, I thought. I had cried and laughed my way over the Alps, the Taurus mountains, The Pamir wall, a multitude of ridged divides and still had plenty of good cheer left for scaling the Himalaya! Very necessary cycling, mostly for the simple reason of quelling a great need to see the mountains. All said they were surely the most severe knee jerkings one would, and indeed, should endure on a world cycle trip. Now Sumatra had presented these little pimples a breed unknown. They were a menace and incredibly difficult to cope with.

Up . . . . . . Down . . . Up, down, up . . . . . Cough.

Such a terrible state to be in. A closed mind all coughing and counting sentimental pimples the size of mental mountains. Fifteen in the first hour following breakfast.

Down, up . . . . . . Cough . . . Down, up.

Thirty before brunch . . . . . . . . Fourty before . . . . . . . . I was counting hills and subconsciously counting down to not wanting to cycle anymore . . . . . 20, 19, 18, 17 . . . . Sad days on a bicycle wondering how many days one must endure peaking the summit of a wave to then peer fearfully ahead at the endless combination of smog doused, deforested troughs and peaks . . . . . . .

Up, down, up, down, Up . . . . . . .Down. . . . . . .STOP.

Before their alarming shift in behaviour there had been an hour of scooter revving, mysterious arm grabbing and miscellaneous bag pointing. An exhausting, pensive hour of teenage men pushing me down whilst I grind up and iniquitous men, smiling toothlessly as I attempt to consolidate fraught nerves in a downward breeze. It was different this time. They had all waited at the top of the next hill, were de-scootered and gaited, like impatient, lock gated animals. I had my trough they had their peak. If this rather odd, yellow bagged Condor corral should go the wrong way, better that the fray be confronted without gasping lungs and dizzy head from a climb. So I waited, I nut nibbled from Condors bottle (read anxiety) and feigned casual glances at the map whilst counting down (some more) to not wanting cycle anymore. . . . .10, 9, 8, 7, . . . In a rush of unlocked animal revving, red eyed verve (oh! they were drunk) they descended into my nut nibbling trough, now clearly intent on mischief. Circling, pushing pulling, grabbing. No knives, no Guns (phew) and NO WAY! A passive out numbered stand against revving engines, tightening Bahasan expletives and then in a crunch of disbelief (and the second time in a month) my cheek was scraping against bits of road, nudged up against another sad pointy flag pole. With an aching jaw and jerked arms bent on holding onto (MY!) Condor, red eyes and one toothed grimaces tugged at the unsuspected weight of a loaded bicycle. I had taken a good thumping. The Condor yellow bagged Corral certainly had gone the wrong way. Pannier clips were failing, one by one. Hands were tugging at straps, bars, bags and anything that may yield to foul play. Bags would soon be lost, off on some pirated steed. Surely there was some doubt in the ranks, some sense of wrong doing that might undo this madness. In a spring of no knives, no guns bravado, furious, bright blue eyes met rotten red ones. On ‘yer’ feet lad! Furious ‘one foot higher than you’ blue eyes peered down at smaller, doubting, red ones. Then, as if sent to redress some karmic imbalance or fractured harmony, three large guzzling lorries fumed over fore and aft hills sinking into my trough with black exhaust fumes rising into the air like absurd rescue flares, accompanied by the screeching battle cries of halting breaks. The grunting, honking cavalry had arrived! One handed waves (a completely unclipped bag was now only a hands grip away from the off) and then a rapid dash to one of my twelve wheeled rescuers and I was (safety in numbers) safe. I started shaking, shaking peoples hands and shaking from shock. The Condor corral had held.
After fifteen vulnerable minutes of dreadfully exposed cycling the same spectral rasp of revving engines returned. I was so tired of it. When would it stop? It was here again, by my side, revving and red eyed. It, them, had reduced to only one teenaged young man. There was no pushing, just an offered hand. Eyes were now sad not sadistic and hands were open not closed. It really had stopped. As I peddled the young man touched me on the shoulder, his eyes began to well up with windswept tears before a rather dramatic career toward me, I careered with him and we both came to a halt.
Such peaks and troughs! Physically draining peaks, emotionally draining troughs. A physically static, emotionally spinning roadside mess. Then, rising up from the tangled state of things my assailant spoke a word, an English word, the first I heard for some time . . . .

“Sorry”

His open hearted return was an immensely touching gesture. I don’t think he ever knew the acrimonious tension he had released with his kind peace offerings. As I rested safe on Condors cross bar, feeling a little calmer, it shook me deeply that a single spoken word had had such a profound effect. There was certainly no hope of returning some syllable rich reply to his teary word, not without bursting into to tears. I didn’t want to cry there, not in front of him, not on the side of a road, so I took a deep breath and stuttered a terribly insufficient “Terima Kasih”.

For thirty minutes, I tried in vain to continue cycling. The rasp of scooter engines and well meaning “hello misters” sounded bitter from fear, still fresh in mind. I was drained and far too wobbly to cycle.

A bare room was presented to me in a small village. It had four walls to muffle the revving sounds of the road and one vulnerable doorframe, with no door. Not much comfort to a vulnerable cyclists. It was the best that could be done with wobbly no cycling legs. I tried to speak (again) to the man, to thank him but could not. It would have to wait. I sat and made lots of odd, upset sounds and felt a little better. Later, whilst eating, I watched a generator powered fuzzy black and white Indonesian fairy tale (how very symbolic) with Mums, Dads, an odd man painting window frames and six children. Simple smiles, sharing eggs and safe. Before I slept the owner asked that I put Condor in his room for safety. That night, I awoke with a man feigning sleep next to me with his hands wandering inside my bike bags . . . . . . . Please! I want it to stop now!. . . . . . . I stood up with sad (not furious) ‘one and a half foot taller than you’ blue eyes looking down at no guns, no knives (phew) shocked black (not red) ones. . . . . . . .

“Hello Mister” I said.

Ouch! My jaw hurt.

Counting down 5, 4, 3 . . . . Physically and emotionally incapable of talking anymore.

A few days later, in a jungle clearing, I would be under the scrutiny of thirty seated children. All bashful from the prodding formality of a questioning school teacher. No red eyes teenage children, giggling like they should, at a funny English cyclist (with terrible Bahasan pronunciation) invited by the local English teacher to help with their English for the morning. A dried up water well, no electricity school, full of coy children that would, in a few hours be giggling at ten miles per hour, openly shouting “Hey Misters!” and “Where are you going Mister!” An educating morning for all, and a beautifully apt way of curing the plague of reflexive anxieties at each passing group of teenage lads on scooters.

For the time being, with my bags still by my side, I awoke in my four walls, no doors (unsafe) safe house and . . . . . OUCH! My jaw clicked. A reminder of the previous days flag pole planted thumping and a rather painful distraction to the present mass invasion of two chickens, a big black crunchy flying thing, a squealing pig and two children. The raucous had thankfully averted a likely, self pitying stay on my bed of raised wooden planks, and in a flash I was up and enjoying a little caffeinated rumination on the absurdity of my verbal deficiency and the madness of the previous twenty four hours. A little morning chuckle, a welcome (although painful) booster, soothing tense thoughts like the whistling of a silly song in a serious head wind. Over rice and eggs that little caffeinated chuckle self perpetuated into the rather dramatic (now conscious) realisation that I really had actually been counting down to not wanting to cycle anymore.
I rummaged, dredged, filtered and emptied through seven cluttered bike bags and one very cluttered mind later I held it in my hand. Treasure from a far! A kind of hermetic home from home, smelling of Shepherds Bush and flooding the morning with rushes of bright packed memories from a very along way ago.

1. Two preserved pound coins: Now too rusted for procuring a celebratory Yorkshire ale.

2. Two faded family pictures.

3. A good luck stone from mother.

There it was!

4. A tatty list.

What does it say? . . . . . . . Written in the glow of candle light and all glowing from a glass of red wine it was a secret Sunday evenings scrawl, a fluid, un-tethered list to answer the fantastical question: What have you always wanted to see in this world Mr. Saberton? Brought to life a year before the first peddle stoke and now in my hands, hermetically unsealed, un-tethered and ready for the reading (and living!) over eleven thousand miles later. Regardless of its original intent, it now glowed like an emergency stop button for ‘count downs to not wanting to cycle anymore’. More coffee was brewed (it obviously helped!) and the great, giddy, Indonesian cross referencing began. Old tatty pen marks were linked to old frail lists, all aligned, cross referenced, squeezed and hoojimadoo’d into new lists and new good scaled maps. Towns were dotted, volcano’s ringed and Pacific Island ports checked against ferry timetables and guide book indexes. Visa requirements were scaled against distances, topography and most importantly of all, scaled against ones will and wanting to be there!

In the hours of afternoons in the saddle I had begun to sincerely consider that there be some intrinsic relationship between the challenges of cycling and the beautiful rewards offered in exchange. A balance or cosmic hand dishing out fare play or possibly some kind of self inclined optimism determined to see the good after the bad. An honest homebrewed law, I thought, that one could (and often had to) depend on . . . . . . . Dry deserts and the joy of seeing an Oasis . . . . . A puncture and a shared moment of understanding with an old man. A hill, a view, getting lost and then finding, fifty degree heat waves and buckets of cold water, loneliness and appreciation. . . . . . . . .

Things had certainly been going the wrong way again and it was time to try out some of that self determined optimism to help put things right. I had found my hidden (or is that forgotten?) Shepherds Bush, Sunday scrawled list pointing to hidden treasure, it was a good start. A last sip of coffee and the first step out of that terrible pit of finishing, rushing and reason forgetting that somehow, I had ended up in without even knowing it. Later that same day I had accidentally left my sunglasses on the saddle whilst seeing how many flies there might be in a restaurant and returned to see them vamoosed. I had learnt lots of new things in opening my hermetic home from home. New strength for dealing with ups, downs and coughs. Thin skin was thickening. Saddened again by theft yet firmly buoyed by circles, highlights and lists living. Beautiful Indonesia awaited!

Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .
SWIMMING WITH TWO DOLPHINS!

Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .
BEAUTIFULL CORALED SHIP WRECKS!

Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .
THE RUMBLING MAGNIFICENCE OF STANDING ON THE EDGE OF A LIVING VOLCANO!

Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .
SITTING IN A DUG OUT CANOE SURROUNDED BY A THOUSAND SUNRISEN DOLPHINS!

Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .
SURFING A PACIFIC WAVE (well nearly)

It was incredible! Living incredible dreams that I had so very nearly cycled past! All at once, everything. A spoiled rotten cyclist, quite astonished at the sheer density of dream living. One particular early morning I had stood at sun rise on the craters edge of a high volcano looking down at the sad place I had been, knowing I had done good, and had been made happy again. Happy to carry on with my amazing adventure.

All at once, everything! Ramadan came to and end! A beautiful day in rural Indonesia with streams of families passing all morning, dressed to the nines, five people on one scooter, laden with food for the day’s celebrations. Doorways of stilted riverside homes were piled high with visiting family flip flops, doorways sounded hundreds of ‘Ramadan has ended!’ “Hello Misters” as I glided passed. Bright colours and big smiles, Oh how I reveled with them!

There would be more (all at once!) reveling that evening. A kind of stooped over, flow of water revelation, triggered by an odd subliminal unease whilst looking at a sink of water swirling in a different direction. I think. That is to say, I could not recollect which way water normally twirls, or for that matter whether ones hemisphered position in the world effected sink draining, whirlpool events anyway. None the less it triggered some hasty hemispherical, earthlike circle sketches at the reception desk. For some time I had been drifting between map marked landmarks with no certain idea of my spherical whereabouts but now I knew! Wow!. I had just crossed the Equator! I had cycled into the Southern Hemisphere! That very special evening I chose the finest, fly free ‘free from Ramadan’ restaurant in town and sat with a ‘Ramadan has ended’ beer and mused a little further on the recent and progressively alarming mystery of wondering where one is. Not so much the map lost variety or even the drousy, soft pillowed re-remembering one gets whilst opening eyes in the morning, but the considerably greater manifestation of asking literally, “where in the world in the world am I!”. It happened every now again, things falling by the wayside for a moment, where the intrinsic transience of cycling fails to keep one abreast of the basics. A little morning mind bungle as one peddles along. Lost for a few micro seconds followed by a graphic, now well rehearsed mental flit across a thousand miles or so to find the last known point of anchor (E.g. Hanoi, North Vietnam) easing everything back in to place (literally). . . . . . .Panic over. But now, whatever mariners myth or navigators charm was at play in those days of drifting along the equator, some southern hemisphere voodoo had seriously dislocated an ability to re-remember where one was. Mental, thousand mile micro-second rushes had, at their equatorial height become five long, vacuous seconds of retracing ones steps all the way from London back to my palpitating brow. A few weeks of bouncing between profound losts then finds, peddling south past the equator through impossibly obvious cultural cues, yet often quite clueless as to where one actually was!

The more earthly matter of keeping the basic essentials in line, had, by now been some what neglected. With time out of the saddle living life long dreams, a refreshed, bolstered and quite wonderstruck mind began opening, peering and logisticating at all the loose, holed and undecided bits of this once again great adventure. There was a lot to be done (as there always was when I looked). The stove needed major surgical welding, O-rings (another new word) needed replacing, its internal workings were now choked with months of dirty fuel and the whole affair required precarious, high octane nerves to light. As a cursory note on the stove, it seems the months of anxious high altitude lightings had caused it to develop some deep incurable splutter. Up there, where water freezes in a few minutes its ranking had elevated to a position (all be it a continually extinguishing one) right next to nothing less than water and life itself. Of course now, my present surrounds were quite luxurious, yet despite repeated dissections and attempts to fix, hairs still sinjed on a volatile stove which, on an empty stomach is still the cause for much agitation. Any way to continue . . . . . . . . There was also a bent poled, multiple stitched and patched tent that had now gotten wet and had not been aired and would now require hours of mould scrubbing. The same went for the sleeping bag and associated three days to dry. Six of the seven flood proof bags now let in water and using hi-tech glue from hi-tech Singapore, thirty five holes needed to be sealed and taped after my labors, only three of the seven bags let in water and only when partially submerged in flood water, a marked improvement. A passport, memorably soaked in iodine in some dark Serbian tunnel had led to capricious officials in China, Kyrgistan and most recently Indonesia, daring to question my legitimacy and with only one blank page remaining it was another one of those (Singaporean) pieces of red tape that could easily be dropped and most certainly should be fixed. The wonders of electronic communication had provided a date to meet someone in North Australia who had shown a progressive interest in joining the adventure since our first meeting on a Thai Island. A courageous “yes” on his part had provided a simple and quite inadvertent solution to my overly complicated deliberations on whether I should cycle in Oz. Providence had been served! So I am, after all, going to Australia. Is there an Australian Embassy in Indonesia? Do I need a Visa? . . . . . . . At the height of all this satisfying, unclogged thought flowing and equipment fixing, logistic gems would drop regularly into ones sweltering equatorial dreams, gibing one to semi-conscious mind flushes. Hot nights under thick cobwebs on creaking beds, writing comically inappropriate lists for mother on what should be posted in advance to Sydney (now that I knew I was going there) for cycling in the Andes. There was another list for father on all Condors ailments, and a flood of extra thoughts to be shared . . . . . . . Are Capagnola parts available in Australia? When will new tyres be needed? Yes, I will need new chain rings before South America. Yes, the bent front forks and break levers will last the distance following that rickshaw collision in India . . . . Is that really the largest cog available for the rear cassette? Over lunch one day I glanced over the shortlist to father, noticing with some surprise how it read. The length of its words, the precise knowing of mentioned components and a strange kind of bike shop idiom to the writing. The bit where the peddles join the frame had inadvertently become a ‘bottom bracket’. The ‘big cogs at the front’ were now magically listed as ‘Chain rings’ (with 22 teeth on the smallest ring). Even the ‘hinge thing’ where the handle bars meet the frame was mystically recorded as a ‘Head Set’. Things really had come along way since Condors first visit to a bike shop, way back in Istanbul. It appeared; by all accounts that I had been indoctrinated by cycling blurb to the extent that sometimes, to my great surprise, I occasionally considered myself more knowledgeable to Condors needs than the expert at the receiving end of my enquiries. All in all, messy thoughts had just kind of self motivated themselves into order, falling from morning snoozes into ranks, columns emails and neat ‘jobs to do lists’. Marvelous!

The gentle morning breeze cooled a content, spring cleaned mind, now quite free to be filled with new Island adventures. Speeding currents swept under the bow as Bali appeared through the morning mist, rising up in one great volcanic height, overshadowing the heightened security for the international summit on Climate change. (Up . . . down . . . up . . . down, cough and a sooty nosed mock at the choice of venue). A mysterious loss of a bank card (the first of the trip) did little to dilute the excitement of floating toward a new Island, a half hour, tiny snippet of boating, just enough time for fresh pineapple and some deep breaths of clean sea air. From hollowed out trees crossing jungle torrents to rusting Russian liners crossing retreating landlocked seas, these floating intermissions to cycling had always been a sincerely enjoyable furtherance to making ones way around the world. Counted only in minutes, these little snippets of Indonesian boating were just long enough for fresh fruit and fresh air, but counted in days, Indonesian boating was enough time for fresh fruit to turn, for fresh air to foul and for one to be scrubbed quite raw by the truly extraordinary.
There was no need for Condor to be securely lashed, these were vessels of considerable size, multiple decked floating hulls for the masses. Fresh white paint flaked free and brown rusted metal sprinkled over the saddle as Condor lay to rest against some supposed structural member. A brown faded 1980’s (!?) British Telecom Advert flickered above a stairwell, tiering hundreds of people in the process of claiming a one step, three day home. The lucky ones had corners to lay out a matt for their children. It was cooler up here than in Ekonomi class, by a small margin not much greater than the available places to put ones feet. The boat healed precariously over the dock from the weight of the hundreds clambering aboard and the hundreds more watching them. More people crowded onto the decks to which the boat obliquely continued to oblige. Hundreds of sweat soaked porters disembarked, children cried, men smoked, gang planks raised, gang planks lowered . . . more people boarded, more boxes were stored . . . . . It was fizzing with absolute Indonesia, inebriating, swelling, overloading, overloaded and at last, ready to leave! A modest nine hours late and still with an absurd heal over the dock we were cast away into the extraordinary. A very compressed world, seven tilted stories high, feeling a bit like a piece of floating fiction that had accidentally been made real by some flexible regulation or financial necessity.

Each of these memorable passages at sea were truly absurd, bursting at the rusty rivets and absolutely humbling. Cabins would be shared with the affluent. On one voyage my cabin companion was a Papuan business man whispering in covert Catholic tones of the wishes of his people to be independent, his tale digitally enhanced with mobile phone images of atrocities and flags of independence. On another, I was privy to the postulations of a man escorting his fully covered six year old daughter to her six year life at an Orthodox woman’s boarding school. He had just returned from the floating, sea faring mosque (magnetically aligned to Mecca) and complained to me of the sinking attendances as men dashed passed, de-capped and disappeared into the men only television room to watch naughty movies. In perfect English I was dutifully informed that, despite the sardined state of the ship, we were quite safe. Allah was protecting us, indeed it was thanks to Allah that the engineers had so fantastically fathomed the complexities of building this great ship. He was a lucky man with no need to work, for Allah provided all and earnestly protected him. It seemed, on an overloaded boat in deep water I was in good company. He continued, his cloths could fend off bullets and Allah would, of course ensure this metallic miracle would maintain its correct posture in the water. His daughter would not be lonely at school and would learn all she would need from the Qu´ran. Indeed she would spend the whole six years solely focused on learning the ancient writings off by heart. On further enquiry I learnt the Qu´ran could provide her with skills of Language, Geography, Science and Maths. Apparently a comprehensive text, curtailing all need for his daughter to be subjected to the ardors of algebra, differentiation, biology and other less necessary teachings. The next day, through the crowds I waved goodbye to the animated man standing proud, with his wife and daughter and was about to wheel Condor over to shake his hand. His wife turned her childs head and then her own. Maybe it was better to just start cycling . . . . . . .

The cruise along the North coast of Flores brought the company of the regional chief for the state run ferry company, full of fast Bahasan and pen scribbles on the state of Indonesia and the present state of the ship (!) I dined self consciously with the handful of 1st and 2nd class passengers in an empty dining room, segregated from a very full ship and then again from the 1st and 2nd class wives and daughters. Inside, the captain occasioned the odd karaoke singsong (not sing along) for his rather abstract cutlery clattering audience. Outside, the porthole framed audience picked at food from soggy paper bags with their fingers.

“. . . in the summer of ’69. . . . . . “ . . .Guitar screech

“. . a poor little baby child is born in the Ghetto . . . . . .”

“Sorry could you repeat that?” . . . . . . . It was loud! My cabin mate was mentioning, over the captains felicitous rendition of ‘In the Ghetto’ that sixty percent of the Indonesian population earn less tha……n t%&/(o dollars a d&/(=y.

“Pardon, what was that could you repeat!”

. . . .Sixty percent of the Indonesian population earn less than two Dollars a day.

And so went the twice daily, fact filled floating banquets:

Indonesia stands to loose two thousand Islands with the forecasted effects of Global warming.

Only Twenty percent of Indonesia has a telephone network.

More people can speak English in India than in England.

And the bitter discovery that:

Two more new species of mosquito had recently been discovered in SE Asia.

As the solo singing, captain Elvis sang out his last note the first rain drops trickled down the portholes. During the damp after lunch stroll (over bodies and boxes), brooding clouds and swelling seas swept around a very full boat as it lurched into two days of disillusive sea faring, a soggy rolling ride into the unimaginable, made real. It rained and rained, boomed and swelled. As outside water came inside wet people, rotten food, mushed waste, coughs and cockroaches followed suite. Soggy and soaking into the hundreds of flat cardboard islands and Ekonomi class mattresses. Flimsy little patches of slowly submerging holds on sanity. Coming into port added a temporary calm to the waters . . . and added a few more hundred passengers, swilling aboard and aptly appropriating the last airy nooks and crannies of the ship, inside life boats and life rafts. A simple walk for some fresh air now forced one to desperately defensive smiles toward a rapidly descending bog of un-cabined people, sinking on their cardboard islands. It was so very upsetting. Simply put, I was embarrassed at my cutlery clinking, cabined part in it all. I self consciously climbed over bodies to enter my cabin and then had to lift children sleeping on damp floors to reach an empty dining room, segregated from a bursting ship like some Victorian nightmare.

Like I said, counted in days it was enough time for fruit to turn and air to foul. The waves rolled and seven tilting floors swilled and slushed to breaking point. People began to vomit, soggy paper bags leaked, dripping the last drops of tacit and shipboard dignity onto mushy cardboard homes wallowing in spit, rotten food, cigarette butts, spilled bottles of urine and now vomit. Cockroaches scurried between islands of Muslim woman clinging vainly to head veils and children (being sick) whilst their long cloths wicked up the slosh of the deck to knee height. It was now quite clear the whole affair was kept afloat not by (bursting at the seams) rusty rivets or by duteous passenger counts but on bursting at the seams good cheer, smiles and superlative tolerances. I was amazed by it all, and so gratefully welcomed across the class divide by “Hello Misters” and brought into the buoyant throng of a thousand hearty smiles. Each morning after breakfast I strolled over and through small dance parties powered by mobile phone rings and woman gathered for make up and hair combing sessions. After three or so days I still waded each morning into the bowls of Ekonomi class to check on Condor and still wondered whether all this was normal. Was it only me lurching at the absurdity of it all?

So . . . . . . . Counting in minutes NOT in those extraordinary days and feeling quite refreshed from the last slurp of delicious pineapple, Condor wheeled down the car deck ramp and onto the shores of beautiful Bali.
Mystical bells and xylophones sounded through grey deciduous north coast woodlands steeped onto volcanic slopes. Thatched Hindu shrines had supplanted domed mosques and daedal shoots of towering bamboo swayed in place of familiar mega-phoned prayer towers. Hot skin was cleansed by soft drafts of Balinese mountain air and a mind refreshed by the surprise aesthetic shift in religion. From up on high, mesmeric Hindu mantras carried on cajoles of cooling air and with a few hours of baited whisperings had successfully lured a sea leveled cyclist to peddle all the way over Bali, not around it.

Four thousand feet later, and completely exhausted I cycled into wet season cloud, became very wet and then . . . . . . . . Cold! I had cycled upwards into a chill and in keeping with the fickle nature of this long cycle trip, thought it only fit to celebrate the newly kindled pleasures of actually feeling cold! Cold for the first time since the Himalayas and one hour later wallowing in a hot bath, the first since Switzerland! The next morning whilst draped in peculiar, long sleeve bliss, breakfast was served canopied under cool, dew dropped greens and bright sky blues. Palm sugar syrup oozed from thick crepes, Balinese coffee aromas carried across the sparkling, turquoise cratered lake and I just sat goose pimpled and merry at the sight of it all. Gears whirred and clear, clean air tickled cool skin whilst a rustling bag of fresh strawberries swung from the handle bars. A hundred luxurious taste sensations at arms reach, serving up queer temperate reminders of sunny summers in England as Condor whistled into a beautiful peddle free, four hour descent and a rapid return to the tropical heat of south Bali.

For each of the seven days spent in south Bali, a ritual trip to the beach to take in sunsets, crashing waves and cocktails would slowly fill with a distinct feeling that one was reaching the edge or end of something. An odd sensation that lingered till the end of the last (counted in days!) ferry trip. Whether it had come from some indoctrination of Euro-centric school maps or perhaps just my simple square mapped way of thinking, there was a marked, edgy giddyness to the last boat disembarking in South East Asia. The North coast of Australia was now only a very small, little strip of water away. Time differences were approaching double figures and I had now proudly planted my wheels onto Timorees soil, into the battered corner of my world map. A corner that for over a year had only ever dared be studied in cursory glances, now, I was actually there! . . . . .Here! . . . . . Cycling over the tears and Iodine stains of West Timor! It would be Indonesia saving the best till last. A grand finale on a rocky island, the last I would cycle across in South East Asia.

Straight up! Up into West Timor and up onto roads that twisted down from above in blistering, sun scorched gradients of the most formidable nature. After only two hours of cycling that sense of geological fare play toward cyclists was convincingly shredded, ruptured by impossible hill climbs followed shortly by rupturing knees and the consummate failing balance of a fourty odd kilogram bicycle. That tipping point in hill climbing when the front wheel of a fully loaded bicycle lifts off the ground. An overweight wheelie! An expletory moment that, in over a year of cycling were countable on one hand, until that is, the formidable ascents of Timor! Perhaps it was that I now considered myself reasonably accomplished in big hill climbing or presumed myself to be comfortably au fait with that stubborn, calm browed, slow turning mentality needed to see them through to the end. Unperturbed by the odd peak at peeks or the absent minded mistake of thinking I still had gears in reserve, up I would go, hot, knackered and breathless yet still quite content to gaze at scenery passing at three miles per hour for hours on end. But, when one pulls a wheelie on a bicycle weighting around fourty kilograms it snaps a three mile per hour daydream into wrenching expletives and a sudden lurch sideways in the hope of finding a footing (wheeling?) on a lesser angle before ones legs buckle under the madness of it. Moments of madness counted on one hand until docking at Timor. Oh but how Timor paid dividend for all that precarious wheel lifting (unlike those small pimples, the size of mental mountains). Up, up ,up into spectacular volcanic landscapes relieved against a sparkling Pacific Ocean. Down, down, down, spiraling through villages trapped in time. Sun bleached thatch, shaded red toothed old woman, spitting red onto cracked mud that reverberated from the thump of bamboo pummeling husks of wheat. Small children casually hacked at this and that with big machetes waving hello’s (thankfully with the other hand). . . . . “Hello mister” . . . . . “Money mister . . money, money, money”.

Tin roofed churches founded in straw roofed villages, patents to a prospering catholic religion. Mixed up with a little animalism, village hut doors exalted Gods greatness and informed those who passed that “God can save”. God came in no leaks, corrugated tin roofs and Christian missionary shaped, no leaks fiber glass fishing boats. Luxury goods for those that:

“Simply chose to live with God”

As we sipped morning coffee the Australian missionary went on to inform me that should I need any help on my incredible journey I must simply call out to God and he will also save me. Lofted a top a very big hill with only downs to go, I confidently proclaimed there would be no need for saving this morning. As Condor dropped from the center stand a less ministered, cartographic study of the days contours ushered in a more ecclesiastic caution that I may indeed be needing a little help, probably around three o’clock! As it happened, on that day it would not be my hill climbing legs that required a little celestial fixing but my own terribly inappropriate behaviour.

Timor was still new and unknown. Similar to the crossing of international borders, it was not just a very heavy bicycle that I must nudge onto these new islands, but also all the conflicting dispositions of an excited, circumspect, thrilled yet nervous cyclists. On the same day that I had peddled away from the fading echoes of “God can save you” all reasoning for the awfully absent minded behaviour about to unfold was seemingly lost in those mysterious tangles of nervous newness, messed up further by what I can only think to be the simple distraction of hunger. A cyclists hunger that is, the unequivocal voice of a moody, hill climbing stomach, the voice that deafens and the sure cause for many desperate fits of desultory failings. On these (hopefully) rare occasions where one perceives to have blundered into some inconsiderate action, or cultural cock up, there is terrible (and inherent) sad sinking that takes hold, as clammy thoughts stick, and guilty ones prick at the hopeless realisation of ones own blunder.
Plump bananas hung from a solitary thatched covering, as I said it was a cyclist hunger, so three bananas later it transpired I had departed from Kupang, the port town, with only monstrously large denominations of bank notes, quite unusable for buying bananas in a small village. An innocent rummage through Condors food bag revealed a fine packet of biscuits, surprisingly un-squished and hopefully accepted as a fair swap. Word spread. A cycling tourists kafuffle in the making and the beginning of another impromptu, roadside biscuit shindig. Thin families withdrew from under the shade of domed thatch, a man brought along a herd of goats and a boy chased his pig into the crowd. It would always be a smiling, happy affair as two worlds collided over biscuits. There was a good count of biscuit crumbed bare feet by the time I had pulled out a weighty stash of nuts to top up the bottle. Normally, opulence, afforded by the sterling strong pound were handled with a little more consideration in foreign lands, only making discrete, considered appearances. It was the beginning of the days great failing, a kilogram of nuts presented by hands tangled with new nerves. The nuts cascaded over Condor like hundreds of discourteous nibbles, rolling between toes, tyres and hooves. Small falling nuts having a very large effect. A sudden kilogram bag of nuts presented, poured and then carelessly spilled at a thin, bare foot biscuit party was clearly a terribly indiscrete reveal and in a scuffle of double timed dipping, raising and crawling I stood culpably statued, in disbelieve, as twenty or so people collected nuts from the dirt. Men, woman and children cupping each as treasure, all under the gaze of a standing tall (feeling very small) cyclist. Circled by that very particular intimidation imbued by poverty, I reeled as a child opened his cupped hand to give me ten or so nuts. A few others pocketed their finds and disappeared. I was shocked into a smile as he attempted again to hand me the nuts he had found. Stunned and severely embarrassed by the fallout from my incredibly crass slip of empathy, I actually accepted the nuts from the little boy and put them back in the container! Panic propagated at my obvious inability to put things right and quite honestly, I just wanted to leave, purblind and clueless as to what holey patch may be applied to make amends for my embarrassing blunder. Of course, in hindsight it was all very clear what good things could have been done (and normally were). Truly appalling behaviour and the cause for much pained consternation as to what reason there could have been to panic. Having already cycled through so much worldly poverty to reach Timor, to cycle into that little hidden village and drop my guard so effectively was very upsetting. A drop of nuts, and an emphatic fumbling of ones sensibilities lasting only five minutes on a small island in the Pacific Ocean. A very personal tale and quite possibly suffocated by maudlin, adjective slush, considering how it may well have been little more than a circle of people, mildly amused at the actions of a strange foreign cyclist, with none of the described (self) induced trappings whatsoever!
Five minutes that stuck in repercussive, mental tantrums for sometime. Full of whys and reason searching. Why had I not simply tried to make things good? Why had I no . . . . . . . . . . . . .

From the top of a lofted, inland cliff I could see the Sea. A week of (excessively) mountainous cycling and I could, at last see the sea! An uninterrupted flat horizon, splicing crystal clear water with saturated sky blues. And, with nibbling, niggling thoughts finally put to rest, an uninterrupted view enjoyed in peace, without nut shaped interruptions. A flip flop strap had snapped on the last climb and elevated to action by such an amazing sight, I sat and glued (wondering why I had suffered the same pair for so long) resting in the shade of a strange, smooth white tree. No better place could there be to wait for glue to dry.

As the last bits were packed, a van passed. Along the rear windscreen, a stuck on sun visor read “BRILLIANT!”. Only a handful of other vehicles would pass that day. Like speeding simulacrum’s of this very new land, a motorcycle buzzed passed with no petrol tank, fueled only by a gaffa taped plastic bottle, followed shortly by a shining white, armoured United Nations vehicle (with original fuel tank) and then a well armed, flag fluttering, smoke glassed convoy. Then a . . . . . . .

Aargh! . . . . .

Four days of fourty Kilogram wheelies lay behind, whilst ahead lay a barbed wire, no mans land alley. An astoundingly ill timed right knee stabbed excruciatingly and locked like a stick in spokes. Bloody ‘ell it hurt! Stippling, dusty sunlight pricked through camouflaged netting, strung up between machine gun towers framing glances that were possibly reconsidering letting me through without emptying Condors other six bags aga . . . .Bu**ger! . . . . . it really hurt! . . . .haplessly revisited in a no mans land by Gottard pass pain, knowing (like the ailments of the mind) that the only painful cure was in the turning . . . . . Ouch!

Shuffle, shuffle . . . . . . . left leg push, right knee Aargh!

Left leg push, right knee Aargh! . . . . . . Bu**er it!

Left leg pu . . . .

Quite the most excruciating, long forgotten, badly timed two minutes of border crossing one could possibly .. . . . . . Oh, did I mention . . . . . . I had just left leg pushed my way into a new country, East Timor! And it really was, as the passing van had earlier indicated quite brilliant! A few meters away, fulgent Pacific waters lapped against a beautifully smooth coastal road, meandering up and down for a whole afternoon of quite spectacular cycling.

There had of course been thousands of other coastal miles in South East Asia yet when un-beached, de-snorkled and in the saddle, it always seemed as if some roadside miscellany, topography or other irksome collusion would shy one away from the soothing touch of a salty breeze and the intense pleasures of cycling in view of the ocean. Many miles of coastal cycling, sightless of the sea, afforded only the occasional glimpses through colluding channels of concrete or natural apertures. But now, in these last days of cycling in South East Asia, as if under the charm of some chronologically tripped maker of seaside Edens I had been steered into the fantastic. Breathtaking, bright crystal (traffic-less) peace, veering through unquestionably the most incredible two days of salty aired coastal cruising I had ever experienced. Truly memorable, maximum and so vivid that I would be suspended in serene sublimity atop each peninsular climb in whirls of disbelief at its unspoiled beauty, at all that had happened in these last few months and by this immaculate gift, unwrapped on the eve of its end.

Nine hours knackered and only pride left to plough Condors sand sucked wheels along the wooded trail, the sound of the surf helped pull painful knees through the last hundred meters into the promise of a sumptuous sink into cool waters and a sit down. At the end of the trail I leaned down to place a flat stone under Condors sinking stand and sweat trickled into my eyes. I wiped them with a sodden t-shirt, straightened my sweat soaked legs, coated in dark sand and my right knee jerked in pain. I cleared my eyes again, hobbled a stones throw forward and realised I had steered, stumbled and sweated my way to somewhere truly amazing. An incredible place, somewhere massive and intimate, loud yet peaceful and quite beyond any place one could thoughtfully summon up for a last nights sleep on the road in South East Asia. A dark, sunset coloured crescent of sand curved away for miles, pinched into fading, hazy, salt sprayed points hours of cycling away. In one impulsive motion, leaving Condor, perched on the sand, I found my self submerged in blissful cool water. From my sea leveled, knee soothed state I counted only five other people sharing in that magical few minutes. The two men, out of surfs way, in a dug out canoe, slowly dipping oars and collecting nets from an orange tinted sea. The third, a bare footed man polling up and down palm trees catching the last red light in his thonged machete, and the last, a young boy collecting his beach combing Ox. With just enough light remaining to collect drift wood, put up a tent and cook up some vegetables, I emerged from the Pacific, tingling and triumphant to rustle up a camp for the night. It was a special night that night. There I sat, on a smooth stone, well fed with a comfy bed in wait, completely involved in savoring the fire side bliss and prolonging that sumptuous window of awake-ness after eating, before big day cycle weariness takes one off to bed. I had come over all enchanted, moved by glowing, fire lighted laments that had seemingly brushed against some strange rooted essence of exploring, as if the Timorese wind were carrying some emotive amplification of what it was, to be the first man to gaze upon a new world. There had surely been many cyclists to have peddled into this particular corner of the world, but that night it was my corner, and it felt brilliant! I was in East Timor one the newest most beautifully coast lined countries in the world and tomorrow I would ‘hang up’ Condor to rest, pull up a chair and just sit down in the pride of it all.

The next day, I did indeed hang Condor up for a while. The chair I sat in was inside a converted shipping container, my abode for a week of scrambling paper work and thumb twiddling in Dilli, the capital of East Timor. Things had gone very wrong for East Timor, as I learnt from a week of walking, talking and watching documentaries in the national archive library. Some say a third of the Timorese population had died in the twenty five years since the Indonesian army had landed (in American landing craft) on the beaches of Dilli. White refugee tents crowded derelict spaces, squares and parks. United Nations soldiers casually carried guns, like shopping baskets into western priced super markets. Restaurants hummed with talk of how to make a suffering, volatile country well again, a month or so after I left the president was shot, there was a lot of work to do. A whole, segregated economy sat above the poverty for the tens of thousands of foreign aid workers, police, engineers, soldiers, journalists and myriad of other attached persons to a country that I now realized was in a terribly fragile state. It is one of the poorest countries in the world yet my shipping container accommodation cost more than a three star luxury hotel in the rest of Asia.

There were no spare airplane seats available to Australia for over a month; it was the United Nations Christmas rush! And with the sincerest help from a miracle fixer for cyclists (and embassy staff alike) I would be bound for a return to the Indonesian border and a fractious run in with Indonesian boy soldiers at a border crossing I had, only one week earlier crossed so happily.

“You hit me in your country, I hit you in mine” . . . .click of safety catches and rustle of sleeves.

He was serious and he had my passport and a firm belief that I had told him to F***k off! Had I been less primed and agitated by my learnings on East Timor I may have been a little less ruffled at the way things were managed when one attempted to cross the border in the opposite direction. I had been warned there may be difficulty. When a furious cyclist, taunted by little boys with big guns starts feeling threatened, a simple bullet pointed “U.K.”, referring to ones nationality could be construed to sound like F***k Off, Couldn’t it? A mystery that led to a tense, ego expostulating border crisis warranting higher and higher ranking participation until a woman, speaking English came to my rescue, bringing with her the magic of calm tones and gentle smiles. She new the man with the most stripes on his shoulder and calmed him. With a forced apology from myself he handed back my passport. The following day, I sat next to the woman in her family home, she served me a farewell meal and would accept nothing but a huge thank you. A very tense, no-mans-land escape that, without her help, would at best, have led to a refused entry back into Indonesia. With lingering thoughts on how differently things could have been without the help of that king woman, I boarded the small plane. Only three other passengers joined me. Bound for Australia and a whole day early for the grand rendezvous with my new cycling companion.

I peered at the twinkling sea, ten thousand feet below, sitting motionless at hundreds of miles an hour, seeking distraction in the scattered, brilliant white cloud plumes, parallactically shifting above the curving shapes of the Great Barrier reef. It really was a natural wonder! So wonderful in fact, that for those few effortless hours, the unusual perspective provided from peddle-free panoramic magic had some how served to calm the whole bubbling massiveness of everything that had happened during the long ride South from North Vietnam. Settling it down into the rare treat of a palpable . . . . well a kind of palpable bi . . . . . well a . . . . . It was like all the latent bits, all the forgotten and remembered, the mass of months and miles on the road had irresistibly colluded together at the sight of the world from thousands of feet up, and come up with something that I could appreciate. A rare something that I could just sit back and relish, in suitably mind sized portions.
As a fleeting muse on the calamity of cycling in Cambodian mud softly mingled with the flight of giant prehistoric bats a complimentary glass of red wine was placed on the table in front of me and with it, came a great warm contentment, a knowing that I had come through good when I had so nearly counted down to zero and not wanted to cycle anymore.

Part III - Indonesia in pictures

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Sat, 10 May 2008 20:54:00 +0000

Part IV - Timor in pictures

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Fri, 09 May 2008 01:20:00 +0000

Part V - Australia in pictures

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Tue, 06 May 2008 17:46:00 +0000

- S y d n e y -

As the last few pictures of Australia make their way to a rather neglected Saberton.com, a cool draft blows through the open doorway. Since arriving in Peru the seasons have changed, winter looms and it is now time to head east, up into the Andes. For two years I have peddled, each day on the saddle carrying me further around the world and further away from London. It is different now. Accompanied with a pensive excitement for returning to the mountains, it shall be the start of a monumentally long ride home. One peddle stroke, one tiny fraction closer to Shepherds Bush Green and one wheel turn closer to cycling all the way around the world!

-----------------------

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Sun, 04 May 2008 19:06:00 +0000

Part I - Herbaceous inteligence

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 03:43:00 +0000

I sat down and sand fell from my ears, rattling onto the table. Sand was every where. With hair was gusted upright from the abrasions of the storm I was nestling from the sun, the desert and the mind scorching monotony of cycling on an interminably flat dished desert, thousands of miles wide.

They had eggs! They had bread and they had water! I rumbled with excitement at these prospected delights and as the smell of cooking wafted from the kitchen I distractedly gazed around the wooden hut until my eyes magnetised upon a poster. I would see many more of these taunting images in the subsequent months. Hung above plastic flower arrangements or cow poo cooking stoves would be beautiful, palm fringed beaches or contrived scenes of fresh fruit, sparkling with droplets of water. Fresh croissants cruelly provoked in Uzbekistan, crystal decanters of orange juice mocked my taste buds in Kyrgyzstan and in Tibet it would be beautifully flaunting bowls of coloured fruits shining above the simmerings of dried Yak meet and plain rice. It seemed the more parched and inhospitable a place would be the more surreal and disparate the chosen decorative piece would be. Be it sheltering from a sand storm or a -30 degree chill at 15,000 feet these images of softer worlds served as a shamefully indigestible reminder of the treats of more watery lands. Strangely, in times of real hardship these images of fantasia had quite an opposite effect and often came to my aid, not to gibe one with evasive notions of escaping these absolute worlds but to remind one what unique learning there is to be had in such inhospitable lands and to raise ones head again and look.

Many months later I was now relishing the idea that I was about to cycle to the very places that had been so effectively imprinted upon me from those distant places. With the desperately late arrival of supplies from England it was thankfully now time to leave Hanoi. I was fleeing the shackles of 1 months postal stagnation and was very happy to be steering south into moderate temperatures, flat lands and the fantastically good fortune of a planned rendezvous with a dear old friend on an island fringed with palms and the chance to dip my toes into those very images I had carried with me from the far flung lands of sand and iced rock.

The first of my new received maps was unfurled and with the glue still wet on the last visa stamp I was off, voyaging toward paradise and the solace of the sea!

With an instant lifting of spirits the shackles of delay had been disbanded. Condors wheels trundled through the last Colonial streets of Hanoi and into the next stage of my very long cycle ride.

Fields of cone hatted workers were scattered, seed like across the paddied planes of North Vietnam, bobbing in the late afternoon light they waved ecstatically from a luscious, vivid green rice carpeted landscape. Supposed floating plants frequently materialized into a whole group of children who, being unable to contain their excitement at the sight of Condors passing sprang to life from their cooling pool to shout out "Hello!" It was a most welcome return to long distance cycling and an infectious one. I was immersed amongst a people of faultless good cheer that would continually fuel labored late afternoon cycling and helped immeasurably in placating ones frustrations at a seemingly sentient head wind.

The good nature of all I passed was a continual source of amazement. The rear tire exploded on a bicycle triggering nothing more than a chuckle from the saddled woman and her two children. The chuckling swiftly expanded to laughter as I cowered at the fright of exploding noise just as I came along side. The good cheer continued into lunch, in what was proving to be a most mischievously observant lunchtime crowd. Whilst feasting on some delicious Vietnamese concoction arm hairs were pulled and leg hairs plucked and on occasion, with a complete in meal shirt lifting my stomach hairs were yanked in an assuredly painful disturbance to an enjoyable noodle feast. My straggly hairy legs were now bleached quite blond and it seems they were quite a spectacle for all who took liberty to brasingly pluck me during desert before then offering me a daughter or sister for the purpose of courting (that often extended to marriage!) One could only hope it was not my hairy legs that caused such a stir!

Unlike the previous steerings into rural areas this time I was now on a road and on a map and quite confident of my whereabouts. It was a delight cruising. The relaxed beauty of my surroundings had grown thick with quite dramatically up-scaled nature. Giant brilliantly couloured courting butterflies (it was clearly the time of year) swooped over large lustrous blooms and floating lily's bobbing on the watery landscape. Prodigiously scaled leafs canopied evening camping spots, the moist air reverberating with raucous churps and sqweeks of nocturnal Vietnam.

Visits at night from curious passers by continued, with a thankfully more restful intensity than the subcontinent. There were familiar warnings of the danger in camping outside, now usually followed by a noticeably more mischievous inspection of Condor and of Condors bags. On such an evening I was accompanied by a man, his wife and three sons. It was a snug fit as we all wedged amongst the rubber trees into a small patch swept clear for cooking and erecting the tent. Our little space filled pleasantly with the light of a candle, illuminating our animated communications and bright eyes of the children staring into the discordant raw of the cooking stove. The water was boiled and with the stove silenced it was it was apparently now time for the customary inspection of Condors bags. They were clearly as baffled by the discovered collapsing camping gizmos as I had been about the clay cups hanging from the rubber trees. The evening was going well. The stove was collapsed and erected a few times to the delight of the woman. The bendy tent poles were a marvel for the men and Condors bar bag (handbag) a cave of fascination for the children. Such open enquiry and the dissection of ones cycling bags can of course lead to awkward moments at the realisation of the materialistic differences between a Western Cyclist and in this case a family who’s life subsists primarily on rubber tree cultivation and water buffalo. It was the father who spotted the recently aquired stash of money that was set to supply me with spending till the next guaranteed ATM some 500 miles away. It was a lot of money and an embarrassingly large wedge to be exposed to a man who’s family would not receive such copious sums of money in at least a whole year of work. Failed Attempts to hide my embarrassment and placate a terribly awkward situation left me feeling justifiably distant and at a loss as to how to rectify my lapse in empathy. The light of a new day, a mooing water buffalo and the same family awaiting my awkening helped a little in alleviating the awkwardness of the previous nights blunder. Having discovered my old pair of sun glasses the man was now most welcome to the pair he had taken a fancy to the previous night and with a hearty hand shake it was time to leave. Four hours later I was rushing back to my rubber tree clearing on a procured moped to vainly search for the two spare tyres which I can only assume some secret providence had authorised me to leave behind following my rather flagrant display of wealth. It was bitterly ironic ……….my spare rubber tyres carried for thousands of miles across the Himalaya were now AWOL in a rubber tree plantation acquired most surely by the "rubber man" (as he would be known). The tyres on Condors wheels had carried me over four thousand miles and only now did I chose to peer a little more closely at their condition. Much to my consternation they were quite literally falling apart at the seams. I had witnessed such rubber flappings in Azerbaijan and was now quite sure of their imminent plight. There followed a prompt whirl of mental logistic ramblings as to how a spare set of tyres presently ensconced in England (returned undelivered from Turkey!) may somehow arrive with said old friend on a "Paradise Island". The tyres on Condor would shortly begin to puncture daily.

The mountains trailed to the West. The last slither of the Himalaya running South and now the divide between Vietnam and Laos. They had poked above the lush Vietnamese foliage for some time now, it was a hilly invitation to see new lands and after four days of skirtings I was now ready to accept. So with a little hill climbing reminisce (all be it a warmer one!) and some rusty knees I peaked with sweaty brow to the border of Laos.

It was a Laos on a lunch break! A whole country closed for lunch! …………………. With a little prodding to the deeply hammocked border police and a reminder that there was a cyclist awaiting their attention they were finally aroused from their lunch time slumber and I was bid a fine welcome to Laos. A most welcome crash course was offered in the essentials of the Laos language and a new slip of word reminders slotted into the map holder. Vertical slopes mobbed by trees, vines and ferns channeled a glistening, smooth road to the edge of the peaked plateau and the first full scale glance at Laos. I gased down in awe upon a vast breathing morass, pinnacles, hundreds of feet tall stretched high into the vaporous air, lifting with them the jungle blanketed earth of a sun drenched Laos. It was a moonscape of ultra green for hundreds of square miles till the hues of a shimmering late afternoon light hid its end. It was a fine perch indeed that I first saw Laos, it was the 21st country I had peddled through and with not a droplet of enthusiasm lost in the climb to get there I descended into this new umbraged world Laos.

When one cycles into a new country one feels a kind of elevated sense of observance or something akin to giddy alertness or expectant eye. It is a mystery whether this temporarily excited state actually steers ones recollections of a place or if it is simply quite normal to stumble into more eclectic occurrences around international borders. Without further ramblings on the reason behind the spectacles one witnesses on border crossings Laos would continue amicably with this trend of crafty tomfoolery with three men on Vespa scooters passing with a most welcoming "sawadee" (hello) each donning huge white metal detectors. Shortly after four more men carrying metal detectors (and around twenty chickens) whirled passed waving another wonderful welcome to Laos. One hour later three black, silver tinted 4x4 vehicle passed with skull and cross bones painted on their doors followed a few minutes later by four jeeps heavily weighted with large wooden boxes displaying scary yellow radioactive labels. These were the only vehicles I had seen on the road that day. The scooter theme continued with an old lady holding her own intravenous drip dangling from a pole, Oh and the scooter was driven by a 10 year old (?) girl! It was time to shelter from the heat and most definitely time to collect ones thoughts …..……. Alas, Laos was still intent on continuing its mind muggling with a final consummation of absurdity.

I collapsed into the shade and without the quenching of a cold drink flopped witheringly onto my leafed resting spot. In an instant a wave of reflexive coiling swept all around me, a peripheral mirage too quick to register …..………. surely a moment of hallucinogenic trickery, a temporary glitch of an over heated mind? The small third water bottle, now a holder of quick fix snacks was cracked open, gulped then laid next to my leg ….……… yes….. it ……….they ……….they definitely moved! Another prod with a stick and there it was again, an instant leaf furling, right there!. I was hooked! This herbaceously muscled carpet danced all around me as I wafted my hands across their leafs. Thousands of semi sentient stalks endlessly ebbed and flowed in time with my feet wafting. I was rested, amused and with the growing shadows of late afternoon now thought it wise to rejoin a hopefully sedated Laos road. I had been amazed for it was truly amazing! Intelligent plants (?!). Alas such organic wonders would be witnessed just that once on that memorable first days cycle into Laos.

With a heavenly absence of traffic, beautifully conditioned roads stretched further into Laos encouraging my mystically energised legs into peddling record average daily mileages. The rendezvous with friends on an island in the South China Sea and some voodoo mathematics in Hanoi had dictated a required fourty mile daily cycle (allowing three days to discover the jungle entwined ancient city of Angkor). Condor was now truly jetting south through SE Asia. Irresistible peaks at Condors trip computer over lunch now revealed a stream of amusing cycle trip trivia that had one grinning right through to the last slurp of noodle. The now gluttonous devouring of miles gave a huge perspective as to the terribly difficult cycling that had been achieved in the last six months. Typically by mid morning in South East Asia more miles had been peddled than a whole painfully difficult day in the Himalaya! Before lunch the trip computer will have ticked more miles than two full days in the deserts of Kazakhstan and on occasion I would collapse onto a hotel bed and revel indulgently at having peddled further in 1 days cruising in Laos than a whole week on the Tibetan plateau! Needless to say for all the inherent errors in shoe string measuring I was most surely ahead of my rather sketchy schedule. Whatever boostings had come to bare on these gloriously extended days of cycling it was infectious and a most welcome return to a loosely understood (and largely forgotten) notion of a normal days cycle touring. It was a beautifully relaxing time. Early breakfasts were spent watching orange robed monks strolling through the wake of thick gloopy coffee and the resinous fumes of wood burning stoves (coffee culture…yeh!). Soft morning winds carried the churps of domesticated talking birds swinging in cages under the rafters of wood stilted houses. As Laos awoke waving hands would appear from darkened doorways and with a last sip of coffee (served in plastic bags with a straw) the passage south continued toward the Cambodian border in what would prove to be a quite literal splash into the rainy season of South East Asia.

The huge aqueous column funneled from ground to sky, an irrevocable wall marking my cycle into the Monsoons of south east Asian. One hundred meters ahead meteoric balls of water pounded the road yet here I paused in complete calm with a soft afternoon sunshine still warming my back. It was a stall, a subconscious abhorrence to a now institutionalised repulsion to soggy feet cycling. I circled, steered toward a straw covering, the thuds grew louder. I circled again then realised how hot I was, how I was now cycling in flip flops and..............too late! A liquid chill splattered me. An instant drenching and my first experience of near sub aqua cycling. It tickled and deliciously cooled. The world had transformed into a very wet ten minutes of skin bashing. A very sodden, quite refreshed me returned from that frantic column of water into a silent and now slowly steaming world. Condors wheels slip streamed through plumes of mist, rising from the wet sun scorched asphalt, a road surface that had dried as quickly as it had been wetted. Within half an hour all trace of that first encounter with a wall of water had vanished. Following this first submergance into the monsoon season the weight of a shouldered pensiveness had lifted. It was of course fine to be drenched in a thirty five degree climate. A rain jacket would continue to lay redundant in Condors bags with the discovery of these blissfully invigorating plunges into the liquid walls of the monsoon season.

Three days later as the daily drenchings continued Condors wheels waded proudly up to the gates of Cambodia. The sergeant striped threats of bag searching and border "taxes" were gratefully cast aside at the site of a muddy bicycle and my polite disgust at their attempts to taxi a touring cyclist. With a wave of appreciation the gates of Cambodia were raised. As I brazenly flip flopped through puddles back to Condor a group of impeccably dressed tourists tiptoed across the mud to show visas, pay the tax and climb back into their air conditioned 4x4 jeep. One could only giggle at the contrasts between myself and these pristine explorers. It was a release to the completely unnecessary welling of self consciousness at the muddy brown sheen over Condor and I. For a few moments I had looked down at my mud splattered self an d felt ashamed. It was time to turn up the volume of Beethoven’s fifth and sit proudly upon the worn saddle of Condor as we crossed into Cambodia.

Water, water, water. I was now in a permanent state of collision with the stuff. It was everywhere! Its cool refreshing wetness in Laos had severely diluted my awareness of the potential pitfalls (!) that lots of water can obviously bring to bare on a fragile overloaded bicycle. The aerial rumblings of a brooding Cambodian sky had awoken and the capricious malice of long distance cycling had now rudely stirred the mind of a terribly complacent touring cyclist. Oh, how easily its fluid charms had been reduced to an abhorrent mushy pulp. A period of cycling loomed that would stay fast in my memory for many months.

Part II - The Cambodian calamity

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Mon, 27 Aug 2007 06:57:00 +0000

It is of course extremely difficult to quantify (or remember) a whole year of cycling. For the most part it is a slush of thoughts that are terribly difficult to clarify. Yet at the most unexpected times a memory may blat into consciousness creating a kind of swirling, mental vertigo as images from a whole forgotten chapter of the same very long cycle ride rise to the surface, stirring the mind into a spin of befuddlement at all that has happened since leaving Shepherds Bush Green. And a lot had indeed happened since that eventful day, yet when asked questions such as,

"What has been the most challenging part of your trip so far?"

Or

"What was your favourite place ?"

There is an instant mental stumbling as one attempts to fit together an answer from a constantly saturated mind. There have only ever been a handful of recollections that (consistently) seem to float near enough to the surface to help answer these extremely spacious questions. Cambodia would shortly become one of those readily pluckable memories; a miniscule snippet of cycling that would truly expand my own understanding of me. The jungle of Northern Cambodia would rise to the top of those permanently buoyant memories bobbing next to 'reaching the top of a 16,000 foot pass on Christmas day' and 'stumbling into a tree lined oasis in the middle of a desert’

The aquas pleasantries of Laos were at an end, it was the beginning of a tearfully overwhelming 'Cambodian calamity'

The river and road into Cambodia

On the 29th of June 2007 Condor was lifted onto the gang plank resting between a long boat and the West bank of the great Mekong river. I stepped a shore as an intrepid explorer full of the conjured excitement of a new adventure. Amidst the many concerned gestures at taking the Northern route in the wet season I conferred with myself and my muddy mathematics and concluded that the shorter distance would amply make up for poorer road conditions. It is a constant challenge to interpret given suggestions as to the conditions of roads and routes to take. One mans smooth cruise is anothers rubbled nightmare. In one year of cycling I had surely juddered across what I could only assume to be some of the most unfriendly cycling roads in the world. So with a slightly optimistic perspective on such matters I usually chose to discover what lay ahead for my self. And this of courses is what I chose to do on the West bank of the Mekong river. The road ended, the electricity ended and the adventure began! With a prudently expanded supply of food and drinking water I happily trundled into the Jungle.

In an instant the shade of dense foliage settled upon the rapidly diminishing trail, providing a beautiful first glimpse at a world like none I had ever seen. Murky pools of water brimming with life leaked from the undergrowth. With small divinely placed ridges of sand transporting Condors wheels effortlessly through huge wallows of mud and the optimistic sightings of an occasional local cyclist I was joyously trail blazing deep into the Cambodian Jungle.

The unexpected appearances of deserted stilted bamboo platforms quenched initial angst for dry places to sleep and provided perfectly balconied dining for the cacophonic surround sound show of nocturnal jungle life. It was on such an evening early into my jungle adventure that the bright eyes of a family emerged from the raucous wilderness to say hello. By the light of a bright moon the father of 2 beautiful children instantly expressed his concern at my arms and legs. Cloaked in mud I had failed all day to find any clean water to wash, and it now showed in heavy globules of moonlit mud and thickly clotted flip flopped feet. There was a 30 geared bicycle and portable water filter in the middle of their jungle, the children (with supply of nuts and a sesame bars) were giddy with excitement as I was led by the frowning father to his secret washing pool (a 3 foot wide deep well) and to my great delight his supply of filterable fresh water. Aided by scoops wicker bucketed water I was cleansed under the bright moon of Cambodia and it felt marvelous! My appearance was now apparently quite acceptable and I was deemed fit to retire under my mosquito net and sleep.

At sunrise the following morning a young baby was presented to me with anguished pointings toward her chest. She was sick and her mother was worried. It was a terribly helpless time. Water was boiled and muesli simmered followed by a sincere rummage through my first aid bag in an attempt to show that I had nothing that could help and more importantly that there was nothing suitable a 6 month old baby. It was a hapless gesture that only added to the difficulties in communicating that I was not a doctor and had no idea how to make her child better. Toothpaste and nuts were the stock of offerings I could think to give. It was a direct collision with life in a progressively wet jungle. A place whose remoteness and wet seasoned isolation I later learnt allows for very few provisions to supply the swamped interior. I had been awoken that morning at 5:30 by a crying baby and shortly after awoken again from a terribly shallow and romantic perception of what it is actually like to live in a jungle. For the next week I also would be living in the (their) jungle. This pre-emptive optimism that had carried me into its dark jungled interior was beginning to wane. The divine provision of small ridges above the swampy gloop and clearly visible routes were fading as rapidly as my sure footed confidence that all would be well.

It was a growing sense submergence. The track now descended into dark tunnels of dense canopies ripping through curtains of hanging vines. Bright diffused sunlight was reduced to a blunt mist plied with mosquitos the size of small peas (with equally sized bite marks). The track, the main thorough fare through the jungle now resembled little more then a pulp of jungle mush. It was now the warn notches in roots spanning the track or recently flattened undergrowth provided clues as to which way one should choose to go.

It was essential jungle comedy as seemingly shallow pools now consumed Condors front wheels followed by the bags, me and a complete entrenching up to ones knees. It was now that any serious thought as to what I had cycled myself into was instantly vanquished for fear of a quite tragic loss of will to see it through. In any case the rain continued and there was little that could be done to appropriate a quick exit anyway.

Left or right ? Right or left! GGGrrrrrrrr!

Repeated failings at guessing which side of the gloop to steer would consistently end in slopping plunges as Condors sinking mass disturbed whole ecosystem of frogs, fish, snakes and (quite collidable) wild boar. Deep, bare handed dredging would begin for lost flip flops and on occasions lost bicycles.

With a strained resolve I would repeatedly drag the whole mass of clogged gears, bags and breaks to some island of dryness where I might then poke enough mud from Condors workings to continue (with the three gears that still worked) twenty more meters further down the track before the next plunging only to repeat the whole process hour after hour. It was on such a tiresomely soggy occasion (around the tenth of the morning) as I sloshed thigh deep in jungle frustrations (add another 2 or 3 insect bites and a few more thorny cuts) that a young boy on his bicycle biblically skimmed across said 'puddle' only 2 meters away. From my sunken perspective this young cycling saint had apparently and quite miraculously 'floated' across my swampy wallow. As my left foot un-sucked (and my right foot sunk deeper) the boys miracle became clear…………. Of course! ........ He knew the way! He knew which side of the puddle to cross, which track to take, when to stop and push ……….. he knew everything! He stopped and kindly helped in scooping Condor from the last sinking of the day!

Flip-flop breaks!

So began the first of the many saintly partnerships with the bubbling young lads of the Cambodian Jungle. In the wake of these faultless jungle cyclists I now skimmed effortlessly over submerged ridges bridging the huge vats of jungle gloop. I divinely swerved off the trail into deep jungle undergrowth only pausing to recover when a far less dainty Condor struggled for grip or for essential offerings of sweets and sesame bars. For them, it was a 'quick cycle down the road' to visit a friend or maybe an afternoon opportunity to chat with a friend on the nearest amateur radio. For me, it was a welcome return to much calmer days of cycling. These young peddling angels had pacified the rising tensions over whether this really was an appropriate place for a cyclist to be and more importantly whether it was actually possible to cycle all the way to the other side!

I now knew that villages would indeed appear if I continued a little further down the track and knew that when I got there I would be welcomed by the people and the abstract curiosities of village life. Cheeky tame monkeys would demand a snack of nuts from Condors bottle whilst next door a large crowd watched a generator powered TV spectacle of female kick boxing next to the bamboo hut housing a full karaoke system with 6 foot tall speakers (in the middle of a jungle!) opposite the cue of people waiting to use the village radio.

At times the oddities of the jungle could leave one metaphorically (and often quite literally!) grappling for some little piece of firm ground on which to rest ones exerted mind. A spot of familiarity as it were, where one may have a reasonable sense of what lay ahead or feel comfortable that nothing perilously difficult may lurk round the next corner.

One morning ……………….. A wild pig bristled past the wheels forcing an instant departure from my tentative cleft of firm ground into yet another thorny collision with the undergrowth. As thorns were plucked from sore legs two men miraculously appeared on a scooter half submerged in water each sporting a large Kalashnikov gun. They beamed a smile my way and were gone in a puff of cigar smoke and flooded engine steam. Shortly after a soggy bread sandwich lunch ................. the jungle scooter phenomena continued……….. Ploughing up a mud slide one foot wide were 6 chickens strapped to the front handle bars, an old lady on the back with an intravenous drip in one arm (and the other in a sling) and on the sagging rear end, strapped and impossibly housed in their bamboo cage were 2 squealing pigs. I was in the middle of the jungle! The old woman smiled casually just as I began to slip a little further off that patch of mind comforting dry land. Later that afternoon I disembarked from a 3 planked 'boat' (crossing a 100 meters of sunken jungle) to be greeted by a man with his home made crossbow in one hand and a bloody dead thing in the other, he offered it to me dinner. I slipped a little further from that little dry patch of lucidity. Condor precariously shimmied across the last logged swamp of what had been a very exposing day. The drop into rutted mud at the end of the ‘log run’ sucked both tyres to a stand still. With hands still probing the mud for a lost flip flop the comedy of another muddy sinking and the days collection of obscure events gave cause for a little pause, a daydream as it were, an impromptu muddy moment to ponder the day. I munched on a biscuit, chuckled some more then startled from my daydream I heard my chuckle echoed. An upward suck of bare feet allowed a glance at my chuckling neighbor. The old man was saddled on his one geared bicycle (and spotlessly clean of course) grinning at my state of melancholy immersion high upon his throned ridge (which of course I should have been on too!). As I casually gazed down to his feet I saw only one. I gazed slightly higher. He only had one leg! and he was offering to help me! I was humbled. Quite mind scorched and for a few moments completely speechless. He reached out with his hand. I shook it covering it in gloop and as the heavy scorching I had just received lightened we shared in the humour of his nobly cleaner position. His leg had disintegrated when he stepped on a land mine just "over there". A tear ran down my cheek. He wobbled a little on his seat. I held his shoulders (glooped him again!) and just ........ well........ smiled in amazement. Then he was gone. The rain fell, my tears diluted and I was left alone. Without a hope of clawing my way back up to that little island of familiarity the day concluded by peering through streams of water flowing from the thatched roof of a family home. They had kindly offered me a place under their stilted abode.

The strobes from an electric storm and warm flickering light of a fire radiated through bamboo rafters illuminating the excitedly viewed world map in the center of our circle. The long shadows emphasised all our names etched in the sand (I think that is what we were all drawing anyway!) The chicken which had been pecking around Condors wheels was now served with rice. I was exhausted, happy, warmed with kindness and filled to the brim with another extraordinary day in the Jungle of Cambodia.

The storm rumbled through the jungle as I blissfully collapsed onto my royally proportioned bedstead. An extended family of 2 (grunting) pigs, 6 (tweeting) chicks, 1 (clucking) cockerel, 2 (snoring) dogs and 2 very peaceful goats followed my lead, nestling under my bed for the night. They were a considerate lot, that is until 5:30 the following morning!

The soul stirring encounter with the incredible one legged cyclist had been a precious educator into my oblivious strolling "off piste" for toilet visits or the innocent swishings through long grass in search of a dry spot for lunch. Hand painted pictures began appearing (a little posthumously I thought) tacked to trees, next to water wells or in village clearings warning children of the gruesome danger in going to play beyond bamboo fences and ditches. Later these warnings refined into detailed colour coordinated maps displaying areas of safety and the large swathes of land yet to be cleared of mines.

My own soggy map that had guided me so well to the verge of this great tangle had proven painfully inadequate once I had been consumed within its confines. On the European impression of a Cambodian Jungle the village names were written using English characters. A 'road' on the map was now a lake and a minor trail, avoided for fear of excessive mud would actually be the main thourough fare for the next 100 miles. A strange overloaded European cyclist pointing at a very incongruous map was the cause of many pronounced fits of frustration and an eventual resignation that even an examination from a whole kind hearted village would do little for my labyrinthed state of being. Navigational hopes were for the most part pinned primarily on occasional flukes in pronunciation. It was terribly disheartening to plough through an uncertain 4 hours of mud with a compass frivolously prodding its needle in the wrong direction with only the slimmest clue as to arriving …….. well, arriving anywhere! One evening, officially lodged in the local police hut I was accompanied by 3 young men. One was a teacher with a fine command of English and the other two were veteran jungle scooter delivery men. With a little cyclists charm and an hour of mystic sketching there before me lay my very own treasure map (the treasure being a puddle-less track). It was indeed a masterpiece. Instantly understood by all and completed with phonetic translations for me to hollow out to people in the jungle or on the opposite sides of rivers. There were little symbols of bridges, rivers and streets ("street"…………a vital and well understood addition to my vocabulary, despite being in a thick jungle!) Most importantly of all was a cartographic ordering that represented how people actually viewed their land. It was a map that marked active river crossings (a place in the river where "Mr. Heang" could be found with a boat), tracks were studiously marked with plank symbols representing swamp by-basses). Map names referred to areas between dense knots of jungle or hooks in rivers, very different indeed to the dots and specific place names of my struggling European cartographic counterpart. With my new found phonetic prowess I could call out the name of a river or area of jungle and triumphantly receive a nod of approval or guiding point. The treasure was soggily marked in the in the top left corner…….X marks………a real road and a (presumed) parapet of prosperous cycling above the mush that would surely put an end to cycling on the 'streets' of Cambodia.

I knew exactly where I was and was sure to soon emerge into the airy planes of Western Cambodia. The unrelentingly sloppy 'streets' were coming to an end! With a flourishing optimism that I was quite on time for a rendezvous with friends on the shores of my paradise Island, my 2 wheeled steed bravely continued with its nimble swagger across catwalk swamp crossings until one last moment of obtuse jungle theatrics quite literally ripped through my pre-emptive arrival at ‘X’ and some smooth cycling.

A cloaked branch peeled some skin from my left arm then plunged through a waterproof rear mounted bag. Condor stopped. I carried on moving. It was a terribly inappropriate time to have ones momentum interrupted. As my thighs hit the handle bars the tyres slipped on the damp log…………………..

I awoke with my head resting on a log looking up at another log, the one I had just been cycling across! It had been a barbarous landing and it bloody hurt! Condor was underwater and my legs were under Condor. My arms were snarled in thorny vines and a log tugged at the hair of a very sore head. I had cycled a very long way to land in this spiky, sodden pit and knew very well the stirrings of emotions that begin to surface when in such pickles. As they surfaced these desperate emotional states would lead to laughter or quite the opposite a tearful cry onto the bar bag, wondering what or how it had all come about. I was now obviously in one of those absurd predicaments and began to laugh!, followed by a lot of bad language and then finally an attempt to move. A man magically appeared (as they often did in this part of the world) five feet above me, peering down from his firm grip on the log. He had caught my attention at the moment between verbal explosions and a kind of distorted laughing scream. He chuckeld to himself and continued his amble across the log.

“OY!” ……………”STOP!”

Five minutes later he had gripped Condors frame and pulled it off my legs onto dry land. He picked up his machete and innocently began to walk off again.

"OY!”…………. “Don't leave me, please!"

My sodden physical self had awoken with that second cry for help and lots and lots of bits of me began crying out for attention. Submerged vines had lacerated my legs. My left toes refused to move in the gloop and my awfully aciculated left arm was bleeding. My head was lumped and becoming a little overwhelmed. My left foot really hurt and continued with its submerged muffled screams for help. The painful foot was a marvelous distraction during the stripping away of vine clasped limbs and within minutes I was now free to extract myself from this malodorous mess. The machete mans friend appeared at the untimely moment of this first failed attempt to pull myself free. Now it really bloody hurt! (read the progressive decline in civil communication)

I pointed, gestured, clapped and slapped and then as I held my arms out to the men in the hope they would understand, down they plopped into the mud. I was so very happy, I was being helped. We clasped hands and they pulled…………………OUCH!

There was a toe pointing in a very peculiar direction and another looking extremely plump. I was on a small track in a jungle with a broken toe that hurt an awful lot, a deep cut in my arm, lacerated legs and a dizzy head with a lump on it. My initial good cheer was beginning to fade. I tried to lift Condor, painful toes sank into the mud bending them upwards…………Ouch! ……I fell. I was pulled to my feet again leaving a little more good cheer submerged in the mud. Condor was mobilised by the two men who had now taken thorough notice of my slightly helpless state. I tried so very hard to walk and support Condors weight and with desperate cries as toes bent in horrible ways the memory of the one legged cycling man and all the other limb lost people I had seen prodded my conscience quite severely. From a point of sinking self pity I was risen by such rousing thoughts to a gradual realization that there was nothing to do but go forwards …….. some how. And that is what I did. Only two hours down the road I was safe. The smooth track, the big ‘X” and the treasure on the map had been reached. I learned never to put my left foot down first when stopping the bicycle and with regularly prods of encouragement from the memory of the one legged cycling man I wobbled westward to the ancient 'lost' city of Angkor and onto the Border of Thailand.

Yellow flags flapped in celebration for the 60th anniversary of the Kings ascension to the throne of Thailand. Yellow was the kings colour and so, donned appropriately (if not a little inadvertently!) in a yellow T-shirt and with an impeccably yellow suited Condor I was warmly welcomed into Thailand. The satiated cycle through the jungles of Cambodia, and into the ancient ‘lost’ city of Angkor had left a huge imprint upon me that, for the most part misted the short cycle down coast of Thailand into a haze of impossibly smooth roads, electrified conveniences and the first sight of the south China Sea. It was unfathomably uncomplicated cycling. With a strange residual fear that something around the next corner would scupper this blissfully easy riding it was a pungent cycle through the waftings of shrimp farms, Shrimp genetic improvement centers, fish farms, salt farms, packing plants, dark burning diesel fumes and dark green/brown flood water.

Ten days earlier I had limped from the jungles of Cambodia and I was now triumphantly boarding the boat to my ‘paradise island’ and the shocking surprise of seeing three hundred people in bright clean cloths watching television in an air conditioned cabin. I sat on the deck as equally bewildered by this sudden immersion into European travel culture as I had been at the site of the intelligent waftings of plants in Laos or the one legged jungle cyclist in Cambodia.

I was four proud days early and in the shade of a palm tree rested Condor against my beach side hut. Condors trip computer read 5 digits…………I had huffed and puffed myself a whole 10,000 miles from Shepherds Bush!

Delicious banana milkshakes were glugged and palm fringed beaches combed in wait for my friends arrival. At last I had finally got to lie inside the pictures I had so vividly remembered from the Tibetan plateau.

A haunting test of character

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Tue, 29 May 2007 02:23:00 +0000

"That's it! Over there, sitting between those 2 peaks"

She had given herself a day to consider her options. Hanneke had made her decision. She was to join me on the cycle into India! It was an inspired a moment of brilliant audacious spontaneity and one that warmed me no end. I would have a cycle companion! Someone to share in the marvels of seeing the world from a bicycle.

I was stood a top the last pass of the Himalayas. The last peak before the great descent onto the plains of India and Oceans of the Sub continent. It was a finale, this last glimpse at the place I had dreamed of seeing and breathing since leaving London. The Himalaya had shown her self in a panorama greater than all I had ever seen before. Everything stopped. I was motionless. It was a torrent, a flood............a mind saturation as a thousand fragmented thoughts of the Himalayan bicycle ride rushed through my consciousness. I had been up there ! ......... On those peaks ! My heart was illuminated stood by that last pass of the Himalaya. My eyes dewed at the memory of what had been achieved in 2 months of cycling on the highest place on Earth. It was something that felt so great, far greater than all I had done before and was certainly very close to what I thought myself capable of. Would I ever grasp, honestly rationalise those 2 months?

The morning air was crystal clear. The clouds had yet to begin their daily accumulations above these snowy masses and................. it was warm. Just to repeat it was warm! With great relief I could now feel my toes again and even my nails had assured themselves it was now suitably warm enough to begin growth again.

"Yes, I see it! " replied Hanneke

200 miles away to the East lay Everest! 150 miles to our West the peak of Annapurna 1. We were gazing through air so clear, the scene so lucid one yearned to reach out and touch them....just for one last time. Vast, white peaks stretched out in a panorama that dominated hundreds of miles of lithic horizon, mocking us with its scale and silent splendour. It was enchanting and as if they were a master illusionist or alluring mountain temptress all re-collections of coldness and hardships dissolved into her icy white allure. There was singing, a faint echo of a melody drifting on the cool morning breeze. It was real, there really was singing. A group of ladies appeared through the forested slope riding atop a lorry. What magic was this! A melodic and triumphant conclusion to an immense chapter in a cycle trip around the world. I still find it impossible to recollect the gruntings of the lorry and only remember the beautiful happy harmony of those singing ladies framed by my last glimpse of the great wall of the Himalaya.

The difficulties and hurt of its cold had left me. Now only an intoxicating feeling of beauty remained, a beauty that I now realised had engulfed me. No longer would a vision of the Himalaya be an imagined place dreamt of from distant lands but a places that I had felt. It was time for the final farewell to the Himalaya and what more fitting way could there be than to begin the longest descent I had ever had the joy of non-stop freewheeling down. In 6 hours, hundreds of corners were hair-pinned. Beautifully smooth roads snaked above vertigo inducing scenery as the tropical heat of lower altitude began to waft amongst us. We were leaving the mountains and descending to the tropical plains of India! It was a plunging sensation, looking a few meters beyond the road induced a strange Vertical disorientation, how high were we? How high are we?. Valleys appeared as bottomless chasms and apposing valley walls fell endlessly as if descending to the depths of some deeply gouged Crater. Goodness me I had been high!

I was ready for cycling. The time spent in Kathmandu and Nepal had allowed weight to be regained. The cold of the mountains and layers of clothing had disguised a rather bony me. Only once in the whole Himalayan crossing had I seen my own bodily skin beneath the thick layers of down and wool. The first shower came as quite a shock, I saw me again, or more to the point the lack of me.

Nepal had been beautiful and everything I had needed to fix and mend a rather over exposed weary cyclist (and bicycle). Old friends had so kindly 'stopped by' en route to their own Indian adventure. It was such a privilege and as a second Christmas to see their faces so soon after entering into the folds of Kathmandu luxury. It was a time of reflection, recovery and most of all a time for remembering all the things one could enjoy without the need for a bicycle, without getting frostbite and without the worry of everything I owned freezing solid! .................. I sailed in a lake at the foothills of the colossal Annapurna range, fed my soul with live jazz and gorgeous food. I camped on beautiful white sandy beaches, jumped off a tall bridge with a big rubber band attached to my feet and finally got to appease a great need to kick a football around with other people. It was an impromptu affair where my spectating self could no longer watch the unfolding lake side massacre by the side with am upturned boat as a goal post. I felt nervous on my approach and strangely intimidated, never the less it was a fervent beginning and so nice to be playing sport in a team. As I huffed and puffed through the first ten minutes I fear even the residue of high altitude acclimatisation served little in preventing relegating myself to goal . The only chance of getting a touch of the ball from these speedy young Nepali legs was to pick the little guys off the floor and steal it from under their feet! ( I would be called "naughty boy" for the rest of the match in recognition of cheating ways). I hollered at my 3 man under 12's defense (Obviously no one had a clue what I was saying) with proclamations that they should "mark their man!" or "who's got the right wing!" ....."Come on lads pull yer socks up !" Perhaps a little uncouth as none of them owned any shoes let alone socks. It was a memorable bare footed, cow patted, water buffalo pitch invaded free for all and by the time an electric storm rolled off the Himalayan peaks stopping play I had let in 6 goals and loved every minute of it!. I retreated with a limp and my loyal (patient) defence bid me farewell .............."bye bye 'Naughty boy"

It would not be the only evening to be illuminated by these heavenly light shows. As the light of early evening hues the world to beautiful oranges and reds, the clouds would silently begin their secret presage gathering. With a congenial contemplative calm the sky would role and fold upon itself. The mountains, those peaks of peaks were pensive, quiet and hidden, curtained by a sobering, hushed aerial mass.

The curtains lifted! A sudden transcendental strobe began the first act in hours of high definition illuminations more spectacular that any show I had ever seen. As if water droplets were impacting on an upturned cosmic pond each drop ignited a monstrous skyward blaze, rippling through the folds of clouds and irradiating the vast nocturnal peaks of snow set on a high definition stage of hundreds of miles wide. Every few seconds lambent tongues of light licked and arced irrepressibly between cloud plumes yet all was calm. A surreal, ethereal peace reigned over these evenings. Under this electrified canopy food was prepared or thoughts considered whilst overhead continual convulsions of light streamed and danced through the evenings sky yet strangely not a single heavenly rumble or skyward murmuring would interrupt these exalted evenings. It was truly wondrous...........we were eating and sleeping under the biggest show on Earth!

In the deserts of Kazakhstan it was partial shock and part disbelief that 2 wheels could bring one so far as to actually sit on a saddle and set eyes upon herds of camels. Now I had reached the Jungles of South Nepal and completely unexpectedly an elephant in all its moving silence plodded past myself and Condor, towering above us softly breathing, its feet padding past almost unheard and its beady littel eyes glancing down at us. Such a belittling yet magical suprise, indeed there would not be a time when gazing upon these squirting, trumpeting creatures that I would not be completely enraptured by their grandeur presence. Of course, wilder elephants were feared greatly and along with earlier sightings of crocodiles and bears, heavy rustlings and grunts heard whilst on 'jungle cycle tracks' provide ample motivations to touring cyclists to peddle a little quicker before the sun sets.

It was on the map. There was the road. Look it leads straight across the border into India! We had chosen a rather more unconventional route across South Nepal and had meandered into a part of the map that showed a track crossing into India. The reality of this crossing was a dry riverbed that lay ahead with not a painted line, barrier, passport official or any other form of customary officialdom in sight.

It was a new country and a new adventure, and it was there, one hundred meters across the sand to other bank. Deliberations over visa exit and entry stamps were had.

"The roads promised to be better in India"

"I am sure a yellow road on the Indian map is much smoother than a yellow road on the Nepal map"

"Its India.....just there!....surely we could .....well you know we could just cros........."

A local police official refused to get the little stamp from his sub ordinate tin box. Despite my cajoling box opening temptations (at one point I even gave him the stamp and put it in his hand!) there would be no official recognition of either our exit out of Nepal or our decision to triumphantly enter India and the Sub Continent. So began our hesitant felonious cross border cycling antics. With a little pushing and heaving the bikes were through the sand. It was official we had finally made our unofficial entry into India!

It felt wonderful, dramatic and so terribly exciting. Once again a border crossing had triggered the excitement of cycling into a new world. A camping, rather camp Indian army Sergeant also refused to bless our passports with his Indian entry stamp and only seemed interested in commentating on my likeness to an Indian movie star and how difficult it was to prevent people smuggling goods into Nepal.

"No one has actually 'said' you cannot enter India"

The decision was made........Onwards into India! It was a fine welcome from an old man and his 2 Ox towing a cart down the track with an ear splittingly loud horn professing to sound like music. A few minutes a later a cycling rickshaw passed, pasted with Bollywood film posters and another horn, sounding this time like what one could only presume to be clips from the advertised film. It was a surreal entry into rural Indian and with a brief spell on asphalt roads we cruised through the shade of trees into the Indian afternoon.

It would prove to be an intense few weeks where two previous visits to this vast land served little in preparing me for an India seen from the saddle of a bicycle.

It so happened there would be another illicit border crossing to redress our questionable legal standing with a return to Nepal at another opportune river crossing. And then finally we found our official 'stamper'... After a complimentary Indian cup of tea and group photo we were marked at last as legitimate Indian cycle tourers ........ A cycling Duo into a new land...........(again)..........

Hanneke had taken to seeing the world by bicycle as if she had arrived from Holland by wheels and peddle strokes and not wings and jet engines. Hills would as ever see me huffing and puffing in Condors overly familiar crawler gear whilst Hanneke, on a cheap bike procured in Kathmandu would be waiting for me at the top glowing with the strains of loaded cycling but very happy (and of course openly ready to share in biscuits, cold drinks and chocolate). It was so very pleasing to once again share thoughts on the world seen from the saddle. We had both expressed our disdain for the ear splitting lorry honkings on the large roads. It had become quite intolerable for both of us. It was a road culture most unsuited to cycle touring. Brewing with confidence from our combined savvy navigational skills it was time to cycle off the edge of the map and take a direct line route, cross country to Calcutta. The map was redundant and folded away quite contrary to our cartographic guide the adventures of India were now to unfold in earnest.

The sun was now rosing into the sky at breathtaking speed. At 9:00 am it appeareed as bright and intense as if midday sun, its heat scorching our water bottles and sweating brows. I was obviously now quite accustomed to knowing the suns whereabouts throughout the day, it had become a comfort to see the Shadow of Condor ahead in the late afternoon or see it below me at midday. Here in the Indian summer I once again found myself delving daily into the depths the odds and sods bag to find the compass in a hope to counter the suns speedy morning climb and overhead all day hoverings in attempt to zig zag us to Calcutta. It was hot. In only a weeks peddling from the last pass of the Himalaya we were immersed in a scorching official Sub continental heat wave. At its cruel calescent height we were frying in an oven that peaked at 50 degrees!. It was a mind boggle .......... As one shaded ones hot head for a mid afternoon rest I was quite bemused at now cycling in a temperature a staggering 90 degrees warmer than the last stint on the saddle in Tibet. Afternoons cycling became a justifiably staggered affair as the villages that had power would be plundered in search of a fridge housing a gelid, giddily received bottle of iced drink that so welcomingly cooled us, inside out.

We had cycled into a very rural India. The roads had ended (along with the manic lorry honkings) as had any real sense of us knowing our true where abouts........ it was great! It was refreshing (and a relief) to feel comfortable, buoyant and at ease with this new, map-less approach to cycling around the world. How marvelously ironic it is not to know where one is yet to never feel lost. Each day with a sun that rose in the west and a compass in hand (to check!) surely one could only steer the correct course. Any notion of being on the wrong road had vanished as had the option to take the wrong turn and for that matter to ask where we were! We could not ask the direction to a place we did not know or expect to reach somewhere (or anywhere) unless we stumbled into it. Towns or places to find water were never missed as we didn't know they were there in the furst place. It was a metaphorically refreshing mind mango juice and brushing aside a few rather frustrating river wadings it was a perfect way to explore a heat waved rural India. Extra water bags were filled (and became horribly warm) and proved essential in stretches that may take us through thorny dry scrub lands or semi arid plains offering no water (or shade from the heat). It was in such a place Condor received a mysterious and heavy blow resulting in a bent frame and paralised rear derailer. No stone left unturned well at least the ones that weren't to hot to pick up! They had been baking in the sun as if potatoes in an oven. With burning hands no amount of frustrated bashing or walloping would fix the broken bits on Condors frame. Oh it was so very hot. Haneke had 3 punctures and a valve that was too short to fix with a cycle pump (a tale to be told another day!). Leaving no option but for us to push the bikes onwards in the hope of finding a road (and some more water). All was well but they were anxious times indeed. With three hours of heavy bike pushing through hot sand and a slightly ruffled optimism lead us to the edge of a scorched, thorny and most unfriendly landscape and to a delicious well of water and track ............with a tractor on it!.

Descending into such villages we were received as if friendly aliens descending from another world .......... in many ways we were. They had certainly never seen a loaded cycle tourist before. Water supplies were replenished from cool wells to the intrigue and amusement of the gathering populous. We entered as 2 very thirsty cyclists and emerged as re-invented 2 wheeled versions of the pied piper of Hamelin. A crush of highly exited children would trail behind us, giggles and screams could be heard to our rear for miles with no way to disuade them from their enthusiasm or convey what a very long walk back home it would be. The blast of a mid day sun did little to slow their giddy intentions to accompany us and not untill a smooth (rare) track lay before us would it allow our cycling selves to out pace there courageous tailings, hopefully not leaving them too far to walk back to their village.

Gathering crowds and enthusiastic enquiries were a now an understood aspect of this great journey around the world. When in good spirits many comically impromptu conversations were to be had at on the road side or at camping spots. A persons smile and persistent open hearted interest so gratefully nourished tired legs and heads and helped immeasurably in reminding one of the importance of trying sharing thoughts with the people around me. This inherently none static life of a touring cyclist does of course regularly keep one on ones toes. Be it the shock of me not being married or my shock that he is about to marry his cousin obscure sign language (and occasional verbal) conversations were something that was now part of my life (on a bicycle). India would be the cause of many mental stumblings, I had perhaps rather foolishly settled on a loose, common ways that people seemed to express themselves around me or amongst themselves. A smile had been a good thing and a wave a friendly gesture everywhere that I had been. A dry river bed border crossing into India upset this contented understanding I had and quite dramatically marked the introduction of some extremely onerous social challenges.

I imagine there to be many papers and discussions on subjects of behavioral anomalies between different cultures, many of these differences are likely to be well known I am sure and (more importantly) easily managed as a quirk of seeing new parts of our world. Other lesser known idiosyncrasies have lent themselves to many hours of pondering (and possibly traveling clichés) on the bike over how cultural behaviour merges with acceptable (or unacceptable) human behaviour and when one should relinquish ones own values or when ones should hold on to them with some imagined notion of a universally correct way to be. Such questions I am sure fill books , suffice to say here that my perceptions on this matter had been flamed under a 50 degree Indian Heat wave. Along with my cindered understanding of the way people could relate to a rather odd looking cyclist it was at times a severe challenge to maintain an open mind and to quell the judgemental thoughts that continually seemed to snapp at ones metaphoric heals.

Deep set static eyes, unperceivable emotions and a radically different sense of how much space one needs to breath and maneuver a bicycle forced a huge mental side step in order to maintain a happy sense of cycling. A few minutes pause for brunch would gridlock a street with human inquisitiveness. It was centre stage at the Globe Theatre for afternoon snacks as the skyline shrank to a small disk silhouetted by a hundred peering heads. A few days of timid "excuse me's" and soft attempts to weave through 30 people to find Condor again begged for a different approach (and a different me), indeed it was now that parts of me chose to show themselves for the first time. If more than a few meters separated Hanneke and I the cavity would flood with curious bodies in an instant. Where as before comfortable gaps, spaces and breathing holes could be created by polite intimations indicating that people should move away slightly, now, in India such none tactile gestures did little to alleviate a stifling crush. All on 'its' own and with the kindest possible intent I was suddenly physically burrowing through crowds of men and children in order to reach water, bicycles or simply to find a place to sit down.

I now boldly (if still a little self consciously) 'herded' the masses to give us room to communicate or simply just to enable us to see each other. It felt very odd but was thankfully accepted with no detectable trace of animosity or for that matter that anything abnormal had hapened at all. Hands would be shaken on departure and the few that had come forward to ask of our countries name would offer a smile even as a little nudge was applied to get Condors wide girth past all the enthusiasm. There would always be a need for tireless (and tiresome) reminders whilst shading for half an hour that we had a sincere need for a little calm. As I imagine the case to be with most people, for someone who finds physical contact as a form of communication rather difficult ot was a relief when at last the stresses of cycling in India began to ease thanks to this new found me. As ever our wonderful ability to adapt to the new had come to my aid, all be it with a little poke in the right place. At 5:30 each morning the shuffles and mumblings of our breakfasting company would be heard and by 6:30 it was loud and big! It was time to unzip the tent and say good morning to our guests. Cooking, tent collapsing, water filtering and the gears and cogs of Condor were so very exciting. Armed only with a still very sleepy intuition as to what people were talking about I would sit surrounded by so many yet feel comlpetely isolated with very little knowing as to what they were saying, why they were laughing and was answer if I gestured to find out. As I cooked breakfast or sipped coffee 15 minutes may pass then suddenly an odd English word may fall from the tangle of Hindu or Bengali confusion like little feeders that enabled me to at least protend to know a little of what all the people were talking about ...................."Arrrrrr cooking system"......."OOooooo Gear system" ........... "London ...... Condor" ................... ". Each day of cycling in India opened ones eyes wider and wider and these morning 'shows' were clearly as eye opening to our visitors as cycling through an emotional re-dressing India was to us. It was difficult yet exactly the reason I was sat on a bicycle seat not a bus seat.

During the oppressive afternoon heat we would pass woman and children laden with towers of bricks resting on their heads. These abrasive towers often doubling the height of the poor child carrying them. Alarming effigies lined the roads peering over labouring villagers smashing big bricks into little bricks. It was a world where 6 year young boys shave 60 year old men, where streets are clogged with refuse and fed to cows. It is a place where a hundred people would gather to watch a flinching English man having his beard cut yet not flinch an inch at the macabre sight of a goats throat being cut. It was a world that made one feel small.

I huffed and puffed with a loaded Condor yet all around me gallant men cycled into the wall of heat on a one geared bicycle quite literally bearing the weight of his whole family! His eldest son sat on the cross bar, his wife gracefully side saddling the rear rack with one arm clutching an umbrella and the other their new born child. Whilst I futuristically levered Condor into crawler gear his children would munch on salted cucumber from the crossbar, his wife would shelter their new born child and all the time he heroically peddled onwards into the inferno. It was a milieu of disjointed abstractions that pushed and prodded ones awareness into a very different place.

As India was so very good at doing I found myself struggling to justify my own internal grumblings at how heavy Condor was or how difficult it felt on some days to keep the wheels turning.

With the added encouragement from all these heavily weighted, one geared heroes (also the name of their bicycles) I continued the saddled journey into the thick air and abstruse mass of India. It was a provocative, indigent land, a place of contradictions and worrisome insights that sometimes left one reaching out in an attempt to find something firm and known to hold onto. Familiar morning camping activities or valued moments of evening contemplations were shredded by its intensity. Despite all the learned patience and understandings of cycling through India, crowding around the tent at times proved very difficult to deal with. If a rather fluid digestive system began to rumble it would be 20 minutes of gesturing, 'herding' and repetitive gesturing of sitting to go to the loo before ones urgent needs could be met. My intentions were clear (for in rural India we all did our ablutions in the same way!) and my wish for a little privacy were clearly understood yet seemed much lower down the pecking order to inquisitiveness or other motivations that lead one to such static reactions. Ones frustrations would do little to help in up stepping the little shuffles that may begin by the encircling throng. Visits were certain to be made by the local village leader or a man of good standing and with the official voice of reason and some translation by a chanced upon school child who could speak some English, the crowd may allow one to continue with a little more space (and relief!)

It was often conveyed to us of their excitement at our arrival and how honoured they were to have us as guests on their land. Although mostly very welcoming the rhetoric of these over populated twilight hours would commonly turn to our impending danger if we should we foolishly continue with our tented intentions. In nearly a year of cycle touring these now familiar condemnations were of course graciously received but ussually countered by attempts to convince the supposed soothsayer of ones capable ability and experience in looking after ones self and to conclude that all would be well (Exit stage and continue as normally as possible). Of course this was India and any initial personal conveyance that all would be well did little in diluting either the massing moonlit crowds or their persistence in continuing with their perilous prophecy. At first we would be deemed terrorists, then once our bikes were displayed for all to see a lighter mood would prevail, it was then the fear that we would be harmed by other terrorists. Poisonous snakes were then most likely added to the list of prophetic endings (slightly more agreeable than the Nepali suggestions of tigers or beers) and for the grand finale of these salubrious requests for us to move on or stay in their house our weary minds were then pulled reluctantly into a cultural surrealism that left one drained of any further rational ability to debate over ones well being. It was the fearful proclamation that there are dangerous ghosts in the trees. For a whole haunted week each evening trees would be pointed at or arms would sweep the air....... "Ghosts!" ......... I am scared of ghosts!

It was the noise of the stove cooking potatoes that muffled the sound of her approach. The white ethereal glow glided into my peripheral vision as if an apparition from the trees. I shouted, I stood, I tripped and screamed. I screamed some more........Hanneke laughed! Laughed I say! The white sareed woman so elegantly dressed all in white showed her face....she was laughing too! With a slightly improved grasp on reality I stirred the potatoes chuckling at the white sareed antics of the woman as she 'floated' away through the moonlit mango trees. Later as energy levels were plummeting from such a hot days cycle the next, less apparitional body of people arrived to express their concerns at our staying outside ...........alas things had become a little more severe than we had imagined. Armed police emerged through the trees followed by the whole village. When the armed prophet police continued a thread of terrorisings and hauntings one begins to loose one footing a little and begins to wonder where that line went that defines how far one can exert ones theatrical confidences before rifles are raised or wrists cuffed.

It was going well! Suddenly a mobile phone was entrusted to me and I was talking to a most diplomatic and well spoken man. And so began a most memorable tete a tete.

"please sir you must do as the sergeant says, it is dangerous for you"

"thank you I understand your concerns but........."

............and so the diplomacy continued. I explained how his country was very nice and how I had camped in mine fields and war zones (things were getting a little desperate you understand) and that India really was a perfectly safe place for us to camp. The melodramatic cogs had whirred into motion...........I continued with a most eloquent explanation of our desire (and of course our need) to sleep under the great Indian tapestry of stars and of how important it was to feel the breeze at night on our faces and hear the talk of the trees (I was getting a little carried away). Quite suddenly the tone of the conversation took a dramatic turn. Six armed police were instructed to hold vigil around our tent till the morning! I vainly attempted to explain my guilt at having so many men having to stay awake all night. We later learned over tea that he simply had to meet a man who wished to sleep under the stars of India. This was then followed by an invitation (not negotiable) to meet with him the next day.

"Thank you so much for your help, may I ask to whom I am speaking?"

"Of course, I am the Regional head of police, see you tomorrow Glen."

He had around 1,500 men under his command and a simple instruction over the phone to his men and a whole village was dispersed and peace at last prevailed around our abode. Our six trustee guardians protecting us from the terrorising ghosts of the night.

In the morning all offerings of tea and food to our gallant protectors were refused but it was smiles and firm, grateful handshakes all round. Accompanied by our personal (rather over weight) cycling police security detail we departed unharmed from our haunted, terrorised camping spot on our way to a formal midday engagement with the star gassing Regional head of police.

It was a comfortable conversation despite feeling at times as though we were formal delegates of some European cycling committee. We were told how his police force were based on the same model as the Irish constabulary and of his visits to both America to undergo rigorous teachings on dealing with global terrorism (which didn't include how to deel with people camping, or cyclists!). His ambitions had changed, he wished to retire from a 17 hour working day and learn the guitar and live his dream of touring India on a Motor bike (we were in good company) The proceedings continued pleasantly till we were informed that the press were now ready to see us. Oh! And so began a few weeks of some rather precarious and at times most comical microphone mischief. In the well dressed garden of his private residency awaited many of the national news services accompanied by their prodding microphones and searching video cameras. With a few words, posed wobbles and pauses down the main driveway we were through the front gates and away. It was farewell to our 4x4 police escort as we left the city limits and cycled into a week of road side microphone intimations and interview requests.

Whilst my cycle companion siested in the shade of a tree I excitedly strolled with picnic of nuts, fruit and water to watch the nearby cricket match. My innocent intentions were noticed. I was escorted en masse to the commentators box (4 bamboo poles and strip of cloth) as official guest of honour and was promptly presented the honourary plastic chair to enjoy the annual match against the two rival teams. Play was stopped, and hundreds of people were silenced. As a hundred silent faces (bats man included) peered toward me and my bag of fruit and nuts, the wafting of the commentators microphone loomed ever closer.

"please sir, speech"........

This was surely beyond the expectations of a touring cyclist. As Hanneke slept I fumbled through what I thought someone may want to hear from an English man watching a cricket game. Rapturous applause ensued marking the continuation of the game......Phew!

Thankfully such odd abstractions from cycling were ussually a little more conventional. As unique as cricket match speeches or TV interviews were the every day communications with the hundreds of cyclists we were sharing the tracks and roads with were equally as boggling and memorable. Sentences would be spoken with remarkable ease lulling one into an ill fated and at time most frustrating pretence that one could reply in English and be understood. I studiously answered all I could yet the answer to any number of questions I was longing to ask would ussually be a polite:

"Yes"

In an attempt to de-cipher this new riddle of 'yes' multiple variations of questions were mentioned to lots of people (if asking directions for example), the more "yes's" an option got would often be the favoured choice or most trusted answer. Another decrypting approach to the "yes" paradox was to ask a question that was known to be wrong as appose to asking the right question that one didn't know! Errrr.....It made perfect sense in a scorching 45 degrees Indian crowd anyway ! Colloquial Parodies of English conversations (circa 1945) would continually pop into existence, at times with tired hot head it was quite flabbergasting yet in good cheer would raise a chuckle and a few minutes of inspired random conversation.

A question may surface from a swelling crowd:

"What is your name sir?" , (I still find it odd to be called sir )

"Glen" I would answer. I woudl then ask,

"What is your name?" .....................................

"Yes sir, over there.", he replied

Or if asking directions one may ask:

"Excuse me, how far is it to Farridpur please?"

"Oh yes sir, definitely……10 o'clock sir."

India provided an unabated pleasant stream of cycling road side hellos where these conversations truly blossomed. There were times of sublime joy as I realised what I was saying was being understood and I could express my self as appose to being expressed 'at'. Other times as a cyclist edged to my side a question would come forth of such a sublime nature I could only humour it further in the hope some sense may prevail as we continued to cycle next to each other. Each day I would chuckle at all the sincere one line greetings people had offered as we passed:

"What is your mission sir?"

"Good day to you Uncle"

"Good day to you Sister! Sir"

"SIR, I love you!"

"Good night, I love you Daddy!" (in the morning),

"Hello sir, why are you so funny?"

A Greeting from an old man on the back of a bicycle: "Hello my dear"

A man ran up a hill to catch me and with a gasp wishes me a,
"Happy Valentine" (in May!)

And to close......... a cycling couple ask:

"Hello, What are you?"

Within a few days of the cricket match the interview requests stopped and unfortunately so did the most enjoyable time with my cycling companion. It was a sad time. Her departure on the train to Calcutta and subsequent flight to Holland left me in a hopelessly melancholy mood. I would slump and sip cool drinks, see something new only to halt my call to Hanneke "Look at that!"............................It was not a nice time to feel lonely amongst so much newness, a feeling I had rarely experienced since leaving London. I was finally plucked quite peculiarly from this unhealthy stupor by a man with half his teeth missing (the ones he did have were bright red!) and an unquenchable enthusiasm to add cheer to all the people that visited him. As I slumped in the shade of his wooden hut he fed me ice cooled drinks. He would not allow my down trodden brow to dissuade him in the slightest from his sagacious duty to lift me from my boggy depression. While our sign language palavers reached there own mystical conclusions his inspired slight of hand and red toothed grin lay before me the most disgusting looking yet delightfully tasting desert I could remember ever tasting. The warm glow of a late afternoon landscape lit me with excitement. I was light again, happy to be on the road, the little man with his interminable enthusiasm would never know the magic he had spun and how sweetly he had deserted (quite literally!) my gloomy spirit and lonely sole. My mind was now quite overcrowded with sugary excitement at what may lay ahead...............The next morning I unfolded the 'out of work' map............That Hindu squiggle on the sign .....Yes!, it definitely matches the squiggle on the map! Confirmation that I was once again enclosed within its griddy confines. By some wonderful cartographic fluke I had re-emerged onto the map and in the right place! To the east was the big dotted line......... the Bangladesh border crossing and it was but a few days cycle away! It was a strangely dislocating feeling to suddenly know where one was.

It was once again possible to know (or worry) if one had taken a wrong turn or to decide in the morning where I would like to be in the evening. I now realised, with map in hand just how much I had been projecting my thoughts further along the road. It was as if the visual cues of a map provided passage to any idle thoughts I had to "know" what lay ahead. I was now most grateful for the cycling time I had had without a map, I would hopefully now temper my misbehaved forward thinkings and feel more confinedent about cycling downtracks that often appealed to me but were not marked on the map.................I did have one last thought on the matter as I cycled toward the Bangladesh border.............Would it be possible to cycle around the world without a map ?

It had been an adventure inside an adventure and Secretly I think I missed it.

I had just left India. Only a few days ago I had imagined myself to be still maplessly entrenched somewhere in deepest India. It felt so sudden. I was in the strip of land that held me in an international mental stasis....no mans land......For the first time since leaving England the pull backwards to the country I had just left was equal to the excitement of the new land that lay ahead. I stepped off Condor. I munched on a banana to give me an unnecessary reason to just stand next to Condor and face India. With such sincere yet brief candor India had shown itself. With a harsh hand I had been nudged to the edge of a very big place and peered into its fathomless depths. It had taken allot out of me, it had taken root and its impressions would continue to grow in me indefinitely. Of course I must continue....India would be here for along time.................I sucked on a sweet, gently untied the last vestiges of India still pulling at me and wobbled over to the border. The broad grinning curly moustacheod customs officer bid me welcome to his country. I was now stamped and legally in Bangladesh!

The short cycle through Bangladesh was one of diluted familiarity. It was India metaphorically tilted by a shift in religion from Hindu to Muslim. I had crossed a boundary but with a limited amount of time to see much of its land I had (possibly wrongly) peddled East directly toward the Capital city. One week later I cycled onto the streets of Dhaka.

It was a return to tiled showers apposed to buckets and mud huts, to china plates apposed to roled up leaves and to the glamour of room service not a petrol stove (all for 5 pounds a night). Despite entering a city in an official state of emergency and then 2 bombs exploding the next day it was a most prodigious finale to a memorably provocative cycle ride in the Subcontinent. Condors wheels rolled into downtown Dhaka on the eve of the one year anniversary of leaving Shepherds Bush Green. I was quite aghast with what to do. I must celebrate! I emerged onto the streets Dhaka and remembered I was in a Muslim capital city, an alcohol free country and it was on the one year anniversary of my great adventure!

I optimistically reasoned that it was the capital city not a small town and in a flash remembered I had skirted past a luxury 5 star hotel (read house of plonk and fine food) en route to my slightly lesser abode earlier that day. A drawing of 5 stars on the back of my hand and a French sounding 'otel (the Yorkshire dialect has not quite taken hold in Bangladesh yet) had the rick shaw driver skimming across town all the way to 5 star decadence. Half an hour later I was sipping a glass of wine that cost the same as I had been spending in 3 days whilst cycling in India! I consulted Condors trip computer over my delicious white plated food extravaganza and sat plump proud to read the digits ......8,5000 miles...Exactly! With a soft, lambent, red wined mind I allowed myself to relax with all that had happened, musing a million melancholy thoughts that whispered into my consciousness, they bubble with excitment then settled, shocked then calmed............ A year ago I had cycled over the edge of the white cliffs of Dover onto a very scary little tight rope, it was hard to balance and stay upright. A thousand insights, and floundering mistakes later the little rope had grown, it was now a huge road, in fact unless I foolishly closed my eyes it would be impossible to fall off!

What a Year! It was a half hour of super expansive, warm, rich thought that was about to get even richer…………………….I was 'presented' my

"Rich double chocolate mousse, fused with Ginger and a twist of mint".

Happy Anniversary Glen and Condor.

--------------------------------------

A typical Breakfast in the Himalaya

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Fri, 09 Mar 2007 06:53:00 +0000

I recently received an Email from my newly relocated brother now in Seattle. He described a typical weekends activity for him and his family. It was wonderfull to know a little of how is spending time there so thought I would reply to his mail by describing a typical breakfast morning in the Himalaya. This is what I wrote:

'A typical breakfast in the Himalaya'

1. Open eyes and feel the pain of any inadvertently exposed skin.

2. Scrape ice off sleeping bag and zip.

3. One of the most important things on the mornings doi-ings........Wish my cycle companion a "good morning" through the icy morning world to his tent.

4. Drum up the courage to unzip sleeping bag.......scream out loud as the cold (at least -35 degrees) fills the space.......begin to tremble as I remove 2 of the 4 layers of thick wool leggings, in order to put trousers on.

5. Attempt to clear the ice layered inside the tent and brush it into a corner.

6. Clear ice from inner tent zip and fumbling through 3 layers of gloves attempt to light stove in outer tent. Curse the lack of oxygen and cold that makes this lighting so difficult.

7. Prepare inner tent to receive Bart for the regular morning breakfast party and look at maps etc...

8. "good morning Bart" ......"were you cold in the night?" as we sqweeze together.

9. Tent begins to warm up with 2 bodies and a burning stove, Thermometer now begins to work as temp rises above -20 degrees.

10. Prepare Tibetan (euro style) breakfast.

11. Feel a little warmer with big hats and jacket on.

12. Savour these little moments in the day where we are still, out of the wrath of the wind and have warm food and drink in us. Drink coffee/tea quickly before it begins to freeze solid.

13. Prepare for arctic water collection duties...One person begins to warm remaining camp water to pour into the 7 flasks we carry to prevent it freezing during the day.

14. Other person braces themselves for the blast of cold morning air and launches forth into the bright himalayan morning.

15. Discover the small hole in the ice has frozen over in the night. Carry big rock and go for morning ice walk hunting for a thin spot to crack ...collect water, making sure not to get hands wet plunging them into extreme pain.

16. Dash back to tent and feel the relative warmth of its confines.

17. Discover the tops of the flasks and water carrriers have already frozen closed.....for the 6th time already that morning shout out "bloody cold!"

18. Boil all the water.

19. Spend last moments together before breaking camp.

Notes on breaking camp:

Keep moving!

Use lighter to heat joints of tent poles so they can be pulled apart.

Remember to empty all ice from the tent.

Eat cholote bar before pushing bikes through snow and gravel back onto the "road".

Prey for a tale wind (which never happened).

Gaze at the spectacular mountains and make the first peddle stroke.

Pictologue-Part II - The Himalaya

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Thu, 08 Mar 2007 10:18:00 +0000

I shall struggle to ever explain the incredible and epic experience of cycling over the Himalaya. Till a time of mind fusing inspiration (on the shores of the Pacific Ocean hopefully) here are some pictures of that never to be forgotten Himalayan Bicycle ride.

In no particular order:

Sub zero (at times around -40 degress) camping

The rocky road - My cycle partner is the distant speck.

At times it was so very difficult - A suffering Bart, my French companion

Work force on the Himalayan foot hills

A cycle ride accross a frozen lake

Mount Kailash - View from around 16,000 feet

Descent to an evenings campingspot

Prayer flags marking the arrival of Ali the Himalayan 'metropolis'

Bearderly Out of Breath

Christmas day at the top of a 16,000 foot high pass (just before christmas cake and a little alcoholic nipper!)

Tears of joy at opening my birthday card

A Lake side ride

An incredible encounter...... He had been on the road for 4 years.

The first himalayan pass conquered !

The last town before the Himalaya - Seeking help as the crowds gather.

Beauty - and a moments calm

Aching legs and lungs

An approaching wall of mountain sand

A typical Himalyan Oasis (2 or 3 huts)

The border between China and Tibet (100km hour winds, hence the face contortions)

Into the snow

An invading ice flow

Pictologue - The Desert crossing

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Wed, 07 Mar 2007 14:33:00 +0000

The monsoons approach and I must rouse my rested legs to pass through India, Vietnam, Laos, Thailand and Cambodia before thr roads turn to a mushy pulp. I should love to empty my mind onto the sheets of Sabo.com but shall put this on hold for a month. For the mean time Here are some pictures of the great desert crossing from the Caspian Sea to Eastern Uzbekistan.full

A moment of rest before the desert

The first view of what lay ahead.

A magnificent moment. The exotic road into the

desert had started

George (met on the Caspian Sea crossing) and a

distant herd of 50 or so camels

A shade from the wind and sun

Big sun sunsets and beautiful cycling

The only tree for hundreds of miles, feeding from

its own water storage system

Desert Voodoo

Desert comedy......an alocated picnic spot!

The road

The bike

The tyres

George, my very welcomed cycle partner decides enough is enough. Desert voodoo and terrible road conditions (wind too) have him hitching out the other side. of the desert. A very sad farwell........................

A detail on the lanscape! But no water found

ASPHALT!

A haven...water...food.......pictures of water falls and paradise islands

The 5th puncture in one day cycling on Russian tyres

Out of the desert and a sandy shower.

After much thought........................

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Tue, 06 Mar 2007 09:59:00 +0000

To everyone who may have read or is about to read the little ditties about my cycle trip,

I have decided after much thought to translate my leg turnings into some help for the all the children I have passed on this very long journey. Their cheeky little smiles and undyng enthusiasm to show me the right direction when I am lost has been a constant source of amazement.

I write this little message to you in the hope that you may consider sparing a few pennies for 'Save the Children'.

At the time of writing I have peddled myself from London through Floods, Deserts and into the snow at over 16,000 feet!

I have cried with both joy and despair.
I have smiled a thousand smiles as I pass the world by.
I have fallen too many times to re-count.
I have swooped down mountains the wind in my hair and with warmth of the sun on my back.

And now I have a marvelous dream....... to continue East till my little legs return me to London and to the door I began this extremely long cycle trip from.

It will take around 2 years and involve cycling an unimaginable amount of miles as I circumnavigate the globe in an attempt to see the world as it really is. I owe so much to all the people, young and old who offer me their beaming smiles when I most needed them. And hopefully with your help I would like to repay some of their incredible kindness.

Simply click the button in the right column that read "Donate Now" or if you would prefer you coudl mail me at: glen.saberton@googlemail.com to offer some pennies using another method.

The sparkling Oracle and ' Baku beach '

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Mon, 05 Mar 2007 09:24:00 +0000

Once again I was gripped by an excitable apprehension as Condors wheels rolled onto the streets of Ardahan in what promised to be the final days cycling in Turkey. A weighty collection of new maps, successfully received from England would take me to countries to which I had no understanding or knowledge. Put simply they would guide me to countries that I had never heard of! Places that aroused deep rumblings of excitement and that would steer me to the lofty gateways of the Himalaya! I had received and taken stock of all the wintry items last worn scaling the Swiss Alpine Peaks. A whole hot summer separated me from those spiring hills and with a slightly improved sense of knowing I calmed my mind as it wavered a little thinking of the megalithic distances still to peddle and the challenges yet to overcome. With only a failed delivery of spare tires to hamper any notion of being ill prepared…… I was off! Heading East once again, to the border of a new land.

It had been an inspiring Turkish cycle ride The compacted contours and vertically challenging climbs had taught me much about the resolve that would be needed to scale the peaks of the Himalaya and of the great satisfaction to be gained by reaching their summits. It seemed the lay of the land and its sneaky hidden peaks would continue to bewilder and surprise all the way to the Georgian border. After nearly 2 months of gazings and tracings on my crumpled 'Carte de Turk' I had developed an intimate understanding of its scale and of its reckonings on altitude and gradients. Concurrent with the worlds’ trend toward bicycle unfriendly divides between countries I was prepared for a rather hilly hello to Georgia. Alas this particular 'hilly divide' would prove to be an everlasting reminder of an eclectic country I was now eager to leave. With a flourishing level of fitness I was a fare match for these imperviously inclined slopes and so began the final ascent in Turkey. I raised my eyes skyward, and there towering above my instantly faltering confidence lay the steepest, highest and most rancorous slope I had the misfortune to steer toward. Battle commenced between an intensifying Anxiety and the stubborn refusal to relinquish my cycling bravado to this dismal gradient. Perfectly timed and like an angel descending in answer to my tumultuous sweat induced doubts a young man on his one geared stead heroically came to my rescue. Heading toward a nomadic settlement dotting the upper slopes of this heinous incline we became silent cycling allies. To date it is the longest period of peddling I have ever sweated through with my bottom off the saddle. My language deteriated, my eyes blurred under the strain, my unwavering silent cycling companion stayed by my side. Faultless in his mysterious encouragement he unsuspectingly re-assured my exasperated lungs and legs that we would continue to the top. We weaved, wobbled and gasped (correction, I weaved and wobbled and he steered away to avoid a collision!) for a whole hour in a permanent state of disbelief that I was still upright and with serious misgivings as to whether my body would continue to volunteer its services. As I had grown to expect with these capricious inanimate rocky foe's they would still deliver more than one thinks is manageable in fare play …..and so began the slow decline into cycling immorality ..…………….The wind began to blow…. in fits of gushing roars it overwhelmed my attempts to stand and peddle simultaneously. I was reduced to a crouching ball vainly attempting to seek cover from its lashing venomous jaws. My angelic companion had escorted me to over 6000 feet, his now distraught looking and severely flapping tent home needed some attention and he departed. Morale civility descended further as the temperature plummeted to below zero. I was a cyclist with summer still fresh in his mind and an unfortunately stubborn refusal to accept this impromptu climatic turn that was unfolding around me…. After months of overheating under the scorched sky's of Turkey I was severely perplexed to find myself feeling cold; very cold and so very quickly. Shivering limbs, layered in frozen sweat were blasted by an ever more vocal wind. It was a terrible struggle to co-ordinate the unpacking of Condors ‘rear end’ to retrieve my warmly goods (at least 2 months ahead of schedule) alas, belatedly donned in everything I could find, the decline in civility continued.

Although this guileful rock took on a more amenable gradient I had now ascended into the nubilous world of dense, gusting clouds, their dampness scrolling past at a terrible rate, collecting its self on my eyelashes which began to freeze, pearl like on their tips. There was nothing to do but keep peddling into and upwards through this smirk, in the hope that there may soon be a grand descent and a return to a landscape where one can see more than few meters ahead. In some insidious play on surreality my surroundings at the summit of this monster added more cantankerous ingredients to this mirky soup. Two large over turned lorries appeared with spilled loads littering the road, a few minutes upstream from this metallic blockade I wobbled past an eery circle of Turkish soldiers. Arctically dressed to the nines they huddled around a burning oil drum, faces gleaming orange, lit by its flames it was a bubble of colour in this insidious monotonal gusting lanscape. With a rather muffled cheer of relief I began the descent. A landscape of rich green valleys re-appeared as I speedily free wheeled below the clouds and into colour the road stretching 1000's of feet below me. The wind calmed itself, kindly allowing me to erect my tent in the peace of a glorious sunset, the last to be seen in Turkey.

It was so very exciting. The last stamp had been stamped, the last farewell sung and after the custom official's disastrously comical attempt at taking Condor for a spin round his security post I regained control of my trusted metal steed and ecstatically rolled its 2 wheels into Georgia. Sorry….. just to clarify, let me say that again………. I had left Turkey! And Yes, Now Georgia was here all around me, rolling under my wheels, wafting through my hair and feeding my delighted eyes. I cheered, wooped and raised my head high to site the first Georgian to wave at, and wave I most certainly did! completely oblivious to the atrocious road (rubbled track) that constituted the main route into the first village of this new land. An extended stay in Turkey had imbued me with a ravenous appetite for an alternative to the moorish Turk culture, sugary cups of tea and all! I was achingly desperate for some flat road cycling but most of all I felt the excitement of a world cyclist passing into a new kingdom with not the slightest notion of what lie ahead. Marvelous!

It was time to ride proudly into my first Georgian village. A roadside graveyard, brisling with heat and flames forced some rather wayward steering and provided a most distinct and peculiar warm welcome to this new country. A 1940's clanging brass bell announced the gallant arrival of the village fire engine to extinguish this worry some prognostic vision. I quickly construed this heated scene to be the result of some mishandled graveside candle and made a mental note to alleviate any foreboding interpretations and skedaddled promptly away from my literal warm welcome! On to the village square, where I would learn my 8th word for "hello" and "thank you". I was awakened to just how stagnant my mind had become after 2 months of Turkish cycling. I had been immersed in Turkeys pleasantly proud ways for such lengths of time that I had forgotten the marvel of surprise and wonderment at entering a new country. I was regaining the sense of being a cyclist on the move, and that I really was peddling into a new adventure! Devouring celebratory cheese and a new selection of delights for my insatiable sweet tooth. I sat under a tree becoming progressively more shocked at just how shocked I was with the once orthodox sights unfolding before my eyes. Sitting amongst this Salubrious scene I was witness to scenes of young men and woman frolicking frivolously. They were laughing together! Yes in public! My eyes had inadvertently been Dare I say, Muslimified……..It felt scandalous to see woman wearing short sleeved tops with skirts to match, parading around chivalrous young men. This scene of this Overt flirtatious bravado climaxed when a middle aged woman, winding down the window of her 1950's Russian car said "hello"! To re-iterate this spine tingling moment a woman in public had smiled and then enquired upon where I had come. This upheaval in my perceived acceptance of public behavior continued as I realized she was the person driving the car, HER car! Until that moment I had Thoughtlessly been witness to 2 months of "hello's" or "merhaba's" from my friendly 4 wheeled road companions in Turkey without seeing a single woman at the wheel!...…….It was obviously a time for some mental re-adjustments….........I could only summarise from this lunch time feast (in all senses!) that I had once again (all be it ignorantly) stepped foot and wheel onto roads sided by church spires and crosses and taken leave, for the time being of veils, beautiful domes and hidden female independence. This most welcomed female independent informed me that the Georgian language is noted to be one of our [the worlds] oldest known languages. I later learned the rare oddity that the Georgian word "Deda" means mother and that "Mama" means father (or something along those lines) and is one of the few indicators or proofs that there is no universal language or natural tongue for the human species.

Condor bumped and rattled deeper into Georgia as I recovered from the liberalisations just bestowed upon me and duly overstepped the mark an hour later with a sneaky picture of some very scary looking tanks and military installations at a rural railway station causing a raucous with the local heavies armed not so much with shiny guns but shiny bottles of beer. Indeed the appearance of soldiers equipped with alcohol not arms (excluding of course the 2 tanks they had been lounging around) in a new land was a little disarming to say the least. It was time for some masterful, and by now well rehearsed theatricals for diluting these mischievous acts of cycle tour photography. In a hybridised mangle of all the languages I may have recently encountered I would launch forth my verbal defense (or is that attack?) pausing only to breath and possibly allow time for the threatening body to answer a "question" I had asked. Most importantly during these charades was to never acknowledge a single English word, a single pointing or for that matter any notion whatsoever of rational communication made by the possibly dangerous party. In fact when courage allows, completely ignoring the unfolding drama and persons can work wonders for a hasty recovery and prompt departure. It was a fine performance, bored with their communicating's they retreated to the shade of their metallic sun shades and I peddled on with speedy leg strokes, speedy heart beat and a slow return to calmly gazing upon my new surroundings……. Phew! With the lowering sun no longer warming my back the apprehensions grew as I scanned the land for a suitable place to pitch my tent for the first time in a new country. For the most past these first night camps in strange lands are uneventful affairs but with no knowing of local land owner ship or local tolerances for tourism, unnecessary angst can so easily bubble from irrational mental improvisations incited purely from a tired mind having spent 6 or so hours in the saddle. A most concerning fictitious reality that invariably causes needless worry as I scramble through wooded glades only to quickly scamper away when sighting a distant man or the sounds of approaching people. Torch lights would be shaded, standing in the open would be avoided and a general level of quietness would be maintained. When rested, thoughts of these first evenings of thicketed undergrowth explorations, dragging Condor into the most secret of crannies would entertain me no end. Of course, within a few days I would return to a casual acceptance of local visiters and impromptu discovery. Alas these comical recollections do little to dispel the same fears and anxieties the next time I find myself on the first evenings camping in a new country where the whole affair is once again repeated.

As a lasting reminder to this wonderfully rousing first day in Georgia I was disturbed from deep sleep by a truly transcendent vibration, slowly its rumblings amplified. Tent zippers began rattling to this mysterious vibration so in a desperate and dreamy state of mind I peered into the moonlit surroundings. There, some 10 feet above my head were the encroaching's of yet more metallic monsters! I was awake, they were there, their large protrusions of silhouetted nozzles were unmistakable. I was being deafened and shaken both mentally and physically by dozens of tanks passing high above my head. The afore mentioned foliaged cranny offered little in way of comfort to the threatening nature of these screeching masses. For their second coming there was no sign of beer toting military men just the shuddering outlines of these hulking cumbrous heavy metal monstrosities. Calmness once again prevailed, zippers and bones alike ceased to rattle. The ground quaked no more, these metallic specters of the night had left me in peace. In the hope that Georgia would allow me to calm a slightly ruffled mind, I fumbled through the days events and peacefully lay my head on my cloths bag to return once again to blissful sleep.

Georgia had certainly been most inventive in her first days welcomings. The prospect of a formidable Himalayan winter and irksome Visa entry dates would lead to a rather fleeting visit to Georgia that would later leave me wanting and with the regret that more time could have been spent in this beautiful country. The Socio-Religious transformations that had pleasantly shocked my sleeping senses were but little appetisers to the wonders I would feast my eyes upon. Over the following weeks cycling I was surrounded by the new found beauty of Georgia. Above me were charming, luscious valley walls, below me great roaring torrents and most importantly ahead of me a beautifully flat road! How its affable nature pleased my legs as they propelled me East along glorious subtle descents, nested amongst tree lined rural avenues. The enduring head wind with its huffings and puffings failed miserably to detract from the joys of seeing, impossibly seated sky scraping forts and churches perched atop soaring columned rock. This whole gravity defying mass hung over the dashing flows of a river that pleasingly escorted me for most of these memorable days of Georgian cycling. It flowed through petite, beautifully foliaged villages lined with people resting under thick, capacious tree canopies, a fond reminder of the days spent in Romania, and a satisfying sight indeed after a largely sparse Anatolian Turkey I had left behind.

Such grand scenery turned my exploits toward discovering a Georgia away from the major artillery roads. The charm of this more hidden and much less accessible Georgia repeatedly concluded with an appearance of seas of impassable holes. Monstrously sized gravel piles completely disagreeable to Condors suffering rims and spokes. These crevasses (far too large to be classified in the same family as pot holes) would prevent even the slightest glance away from the track and the next wave of approaching, rocky turbulence, an absurd way to see Georgia. Often prompted by someone’s gesture of disbelief that I would wish to continue cycling this chosen ‘road’ or once even in marvelously spoken English, I was advised to immediately turn around as it would be quicker to re-join the ‘motorway’ rather than continue my present course. It was s cruel turn of events. The enjoyment of cycling in the first wind to blow from the West for 5 weeks ended prematurely. I would have to about turn and cycle into its scornful jaws for 20 whole miles, by which time of course it had reverted to its blowings from the East! Oh the cynicism of a jaded cyclist!

Tbilis, the capital city of Georgia was drawing nearer. A rural Georgia had treated me well, providing me with a plentiful supply of fruity feasts. My coming would be seen from a distance, followed by their speedy gatherings, in a feat of dexterous prowess with our arms outstretched their juicy gift would be collected all without breaking a peddle stroke. Tucking this mouth watering harvest into Condors bar bag I would chuckle at the humorous semblances these hearty occasions had to my lycra clad racing cousins whilst they collected water at some mind boggling speed on their light weight mega machines. They were generous offerings indeed as an eccentric landlady in Tbilis later informed me, the prices of veggies and fruit in Georgia had quadrupled on the previous years prices on account of the extremely high summer temperatures. Confirmation that it really had been a sizzling summers cycle in Turkey.

Surreptitiously cycling into orchards or vineyards early evenings became times for culinary experimentation. I would erect my tent and prepare for a feast. These hideaways offered an excellent alternative to the customary savory evening dish I had grown accustomed to. Fine concoctions were mixed. Bee honey (carried from the mountains of Turkey). Ginger (wrapped in the bazaars of Istanbul) and of course there were the fruits of Georgia! Plucked from the trees and vines around this fruity camp spot and the weighty load in Condors bags I would stew, simmer or brew or is that simmer, bake or boil? Whatever it was that I was cooking it tasted great! I would sleep fondly on these evenings with a sweet tooth tamed (at last) by these sugary delights, little portions of which would be spared for the porridge pot in the morning offering a truly splendid start to the days cycling.

Fueled by these fruitful evenings of camping it seemed after only a few effortless strokes on Condors peddles I was gliding into the Capital city of Georgia. Distant recollections of the grand structures of Istanbul and Ankara had been my last aesthetically pleasing source of human architectural achievement and it had been sorely missed. It was delightful to explore the grand streets and walled riverside walkways of Tbilis. I found myself overcome by a strange sense of walking the streets of Europe. It felt old and had aged beautifully. The High vaulted ceilings and grand, finely carpented doorways of my chanced upon Guest house opened onto a typically styled inner courtyard, roofed with hanging grapes and floored with smoothed stone paving. I was sorry indeed to leave this haven and would spend the following days doubting my urge to continue so quickly.

Passing through the gates of the Tbilis guest house, the afore mentioned eccentric landlady informed me of the correct time, a seemingly innocent gesture but none the less one that brought Condors wheels screaching to a hault. I glanced at Condors trip computer, I checked with the lady again, I splurged forth some watch pointings at a passing man in the street …………………. It was time (pun intended) to resign my self to another most artfull, timely subterfuge. I had spent the whole week cycling in an alternative time to all the smiling, generous people of Georgia I had passed. Another time zone had been crossed!. Seconded only by border crossings it was most certainly time to celebrate time! The clocks had covertly ticked themselves a few more hours into the ‘future’. Of course celebrating such great acts of cycling time traveling takes time and prompted a happily embarrassing late departure that day from Tbilis.

These times of time change always induced a few days of curios re-adjustment. My life on this wonderfully lengthy adventure now separated its periods of wake and sleep based purely on the rising and setting of the sun. One would awake as its warm rays filled the tent, eat lunch invariably as it was high above my head and would sleep when its warmth faded behind me. It was a naturally cyclic rhythm and proved a most able cure for any misdemeanors of the mind or irritable discontentment. Then quite abruptly during these moments of 'time traveling' I would be tilted from this very balanced relationship between day and night of wake and sleep and be tipped into an afflicted state of temporary confusion. During these periods of ignorance, of not knowing the correct time the general happenings of the day would seem to drift from what had inadvertently become so familiar. Then, upon news of a time change the world suddenly snapped back into place. Cattle were once again herded into their night time shelters at around 7 o’clock instead of a strangely early 5 o’clock. People could be seen lunching under trees at lunchtime not late morning……….Now I’m confused!……………………. I think that is the way it goes?….……………Suffice to say they were dislodging periods with lessons to be learnt on ones trusting of trip computer clocks. The only true remedy was to steal ones gaze away from these deceptive digits and return it to the sun!

It now felt as if I were crossing the globe at break neck speeds. No sooner had a time zone been crossed but I now realised another border crossing approached. There ahead were its interminable gridlock of lorries to which I would once again triumphantly cycle past towards its check posts and other whimsical points of bureaucratic stalling. Just time to stash excess moneys in unpleasant places in the hope it will not be discovered and ‘retrieved’ to prevent it leaving the country. A few Dollar notes were deposited into the bar bag matching the amount scrawled upon a piece of paper that describes the sum of money brought into the country in question. I had done very well in maintaining this illusionary status quo whilst stashing at least two or three hundred US Dollars (to be re-scattered around Condors carriers once away from snooping eyes). These financial safe guards had proven invaluable when bank machines consumed bankcards or more commonly when there simply were no bank machines (or bank).

Occasionally I would remember to do a little currency exchange research before arriving at these locales of insidious characters and shady dealings, arming ones self with a few figures helping to gauge the magnitude of wrong doings inherent with emptying ones pockets of currency no longer needed in such deceitful surroundings. Unctuous, chicaning men would swoop and hover around Condor and with a leanered patter and casual smile the whole affair was now embraced as a jovial skirmish with dishonest doings and with a practiced hand the small deal is completed (an emphasis on small, with only enough money being exchanged to buy food and essentials till areas of more honest repute are reached).

The last vestiges of Georgia were shed and I leaped, front wheel first into Azerbaijan. Unfurling my second map (in as many weeks) revealed a comfortingly flat platter of land and there on its Eastern edge I spied the Caspian Sea, the great barrier separating me from the allure of the ‘Stans’. My colossal diversion around Iran and the circumvention of its political complications had now begun in earnest. Istanbulian Frustrations, bewildering decisions and days of planning had succeeded! Goodness me, Condors wheels were on Azerbaijan soil! Mysteriously this crossing into Azerbaijan had provoked a considerable swirl of mental commotion. Whiring and spinning into some cognitive calamityI had suddenly become quite flustered. At this landmarked moment there had been no cheers, no woops of joy and certainly no triumphant arm raising (now traditional). It was a most peculiar sensation, surfacing almost the instant the ‘line’ had been crossed. I realise now it had been brewing in the soup of emotional highs and lows of cycling for some time and needed putting to rest. In fits of mental flounderings I reassured myself that all was well……...................... In fact, all was well! I was physically well, and very happy to be in Azerbaijan. Confused but with resolve it was now that I must decipher these imperious ponderings. The action of movement and doing some exercise seems a marvelous catalyst for rooting out such canundrums so I cycled on, stooped in thought for some time, then in an explosion of clarity I had rooted out an almost profound realisation. No. More important than a realisation, it was a real sense and a penetrating incite. It was a deep feeling or knowing of the vast distances I had peddled, to reach countries that before that incredible first peddle stroke in London I had no understanding of whatsoever. Then, in Istanbul I had made another decision to cross 1000’s more miles and had the courage to again make that first peddle stroke with a resolve to keep peddling till I had got there!….. and now I had got there! The gate had quite literally (and mentally) been opened for me and I had passed through both into an unheard of country and a new way of looking at it. I had crossed huge distances fearful of feeling the confidence in my own abilities. Despite having already achieved such a huge amount there had been a great struggle to truly comprehend what marvels could be achieved if I put my mind to it. It was an extraordinary thought to feel such confidence bubbling inside and have a newfound sense of knowing that I could, quite possibly make it all the way around the world on my bicycle! I had peered into a sparkling oracle and its refreshing insight into this great adventure of mine would come to my aid repeatedly in the coming months, indeed its gentle mental imprint, permanently adjusted the view of my rapidly expanded world. It was the vivid reality of physically touching this exotic sounding country that had seemed to trigger this revelationary incite and I was now quite daunted by an immense new found strength and an epic notion that where ever I chose to point Condors wheels I could (and would) go!

I steadied Condors wheels (and my mind!) at this seemingly boundless idea and finally held my arm aloft and cheered my entry into Azerbaijan.

In the days to follow, the local greetings were frenzied, the children precariously excitable and the gathered crowds large. Rows of glittering gold teeth beamed at me, sparkling through car windscreens or roadside shades. Alas crossing into Azerbaijan had marked the vengeful barking of my perilous four legged canine foe’s. Following weeks of blissful peace the return of their grizzly, frothing vehemence appeared frequently. Bounding across harvested fields or splashing up muddy lanes they would confront an accomplished and now quite unperturbed cyclist well adept at dealing with these hostile accostings. A premature and most unwelcome ending to the gladed valleys and plains of Georgia only seemed to fuel the ferocity of there snappings and increase the frequency of these terribly unsociable visits. The fine smells and sounds of the Georgian countryside appeared to have been but a brief natural gesture to which I would later regret not having digested more thoroughly.

A few days cycling through prophetic lightning storms and the beautiful colours of nature had slowly devolved to rusty browns and dreary greys. Stalks, stems and branches were supplanted with veins of grossly sized twisting pipes, riveted girders and gantry's. The tweetings of birds were displaced by the abhorrent screeching lines of old exhausted trains snaking through a desolate landscape dotted with grotesque animated metallic arms and struts. The world around me had mutated. Nature had been superseded. I was quickly being enveloped by the metallic power of the Caspian Sea oil industry. The ceaseless passing of trains trailed corroding trucks of oil or gas stretching behind for at least a quarter mile. The imposing pipes had been lurking by the roadside all the way from the Turkish border and now lay on the land as great bloating corroded tubes supplying Europe with its gluttonous appetite for oil. The plunging and rocking of oil wells crowded the horizon where trees had once stood...……..where was I ?……..what landscape was this? My geological (or is that political?) nescience had plunged me, unsuspectingly into a surreal, almost cataclysmic landscape whose encroaching forms filled ones imagination with apocalyptic visions that would only intensify as I descended into the nucleus of this disenchanting scape and right to the shores of the Caspian Sea.

It was a typical Azerbaijani evenings camp. Perched upon my camp chair I would receive visits from proud looking men atop their fine black stallions riding so dramatically against tenebrous landscapes illuminated with flashes of lightning and the cavernous booms of distant thunder. Men with cattle in tow would stop for a chat where an oversized melon could be offered in exchange for a few welcomed moments of his time. It was under such entertaining circumstances just as I was saying my farewells to my horse riding visitor that I was alarmingly distracted. I had spied the flapping of some dislodged part of Condors front tyre. With pan washed and cake eaten a close examination of this offensive flapping revealed, to my great consternation large parts of rubber tread pealing away from the body of the tyre. Grrrrrrr……………..I cursed, I profused, I irrationally spewed forth wrong doings toward the postman of Ardahan for not delivering a new set of tyres.....…………..I stood, I sat, I walked, I sat again. Then I sighed, drew deep breaths and flirted with the idea that I could try my hand at some rubbery field maintenance so I Super Glued, I UHU'ed and I taped and now, feeling slightly more encouraged, apologised deeply to the absent postman of Ardahan (well out of ear shot of course!), the innocent victim to my irrational profusions and then hoped Condor could limp to some unlikely bicycle repair shop. It was an unhappy contemplative night as I realised how vulnerable the trip was with no spare tyres. Had I waited long enough in Ardahan for the delivery of new tyres? Could I find replacement tyres to fit Condors wheels in a commercially dilapidated old Russia where shops were sparsely stocked? ..........I had often fallen prey to shop shelf tomfoolery, where single items (surely the last one in stock!) were displayed but most certainly not for sale. Chocolate bars for example would be stuck to glass panels hiding an empty interior, a cruel yet stark reminder of the skewed economy of the world I had cycled into. Bicycles rarely had gears or breaks and wore tyres that I very much doubted would comfortably bare the weight of Condors load. It was a tenuous situation and a test in maintaining an optimistic out luck. Fortunately a ray of hope beamed upon Condors metallic self and a hardware store in the next large town housed 3 dusty tyres hanging from the ceiling that fitted perfectly. The spare tyre tied to the rear rack became the impromptu target for the relentless snapping of canine jaws, now employed as a canine fender it became a fine distraction from ankles and rear panniers (obviously helping little with its real purpose of providing a ride free of punctures). I was learning very quickly of the importance of good tyres (I would painfully learn much, much more in the months to come). I was unaware of what pressure these Russian tyres could be inflated to. The tyres quite simply popped off the rims if pumped to an adequate pressure. At lower pressures the tyres clung tentatively to the wheel but Condors weight flattened them dangerously close to the rim. My average speeds were now somewhat lower and the exchange of tyres (and lower tyre pressure) was the only explainable reason for this most deflationary situation. I immediately began mentally re-plotting routes and considering possible towns for emergency tyre mail drops. It was a situation that would worsen dramatically over the subsequent months and would frustrate to the point of lonely explosions of hopelessness and rare fits of anger. Nevertheless for the present we were back on the road with a re-kindled appetite for the new and an unquenchable optimism that better tyres could be found or (if visa time limits allowed) the possibility of ordering and waiting for some armour plated ultra touring tyres to be posted from England. In an attempt to “keep the show on the road” there would not be a town I would pass through without going to great efforts (new sign language for “these Russian tyres are rubbish!”) to re-supply Condors constantly failing feet.

How excited I had been at the thought of casting my eyes along its expansive horizon, to gaze far beyond the desert shores of Azerbaijan toward the exotic sounding lands of Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan. On the 16th of September 2006 I finally doused my eyes on the glints and sparkles of the Caspian Sea, prompting a triumphant unearthing of the mangled chocolate bar stashed for 2 weeks for this most prodigious moment. It was deliciously consumed above a prolific metallic terminus, a hub of gritty oil reality, growing from the sea under the shadow of splurging columns of black smoke. On that dusty ridge I sipped cool clear water gazing upon lofty gantries spewing forth, monstrous columns of fire, choking the shore (and my celebratory mood!) with their belching convulsions. On that bleached roadside perch I saw the final consummation of this oily tumultuous scene fading into the waters of the Caspian Sea, copiously studded with gridded towers and platforms. These oil bastions of the waves and there overpowering, power giving forms rose from the watery depths and would incite a gritty shift in my understanding of the gathering of oil for the West. I understood little of its workings but it was terribly rewarding to know what these oily monsters actually looked like and importantly what it actually felt like to be amongst its corrosive gloopy presence. The descent into the heart of this great oil collecting machine would bring me close to Baku, the Capital city and primary sea port to a rapidly transforming Azerbaijan. The shoreline cycle ride passed surreal deserted beach resorts with their straw umbrellas blowing as forlorn stalks in the shadows of hulking oilrigs perilously close to the shore line. Dilapidated refineries, great arching bridges of corroded pipes and the hills choked with pumping oil wells enveloped my rather strained enthusiastic self, it was gritty cycling and rest was needed. The sun was setting on this insalubrious scene and with keenly trained eyes probing this metallic spaghetti the search began for any cavity, aperture or inlet where I may pitch my tent and sleep.

It was a small peninsular of sand nestled amongst this industrial mass that would serve as my home for the evening. I was weary, hidden from the road and only 20 feet from the sea, it would suffice. Since breakfast and with a determined resolve to see the sea before nightfall I had peddled myself and Condor to a new record of 80 miles. Needless to say on this notable evening I was very tired. Alas, little sleep would be had on an evening that would leave its mark upon me forever. It was an evening that would flood my eyes with desperate tears, its nocturnal wrath would engulf me so absolutely and at times I would fear that a permanent dint be inflicted to my happy cycling self. And so began the evening whose vehemence would haunt me repeatedly in the months to follow...when recalled, this most appalling disproportionally sized episode would be known simply as 'Baku Beach'

The stove was being repeatedly extinguished by the gust of a strengthening coastal wind. It has been the only time to date where cooking was not possible outside and with an exhausted patience I cared little for experimenting with burning petrol stoves inside the tent. My eyes were tired and a glance at the boisterously animated Caspian Sea had me retreating to my inner quarters where cold snacks and a warm sleeping bag would more than suffice. I rested my weary head upon the pillow. Despite a curiously extended sunset my eyes closed on what would transpire to be a very long night. The rattlings of this infernal oceanic wind grew. After only one hours struggles sleep in a stubbon defiance to the winds vocal badgering it was time to don the last line of defense, my trusted ear plugs. Normally employed to hide the sounds of nocturnal prowlings around the tent they worked marvelously in muting its increasingly more terrifying raw. An hour of muted sleep came to an end with a large bump to the head. It hurt. I yearned to sleep and failed to register the knock as anything to detract me from much needed rest. The next knock cracked my head with an eye opening (quite literally) strength. It hurt more. The chance of sleep was reducing at an alarming rate…........ the tent began to flatten around me, its poles contorted at disturbing angles, crushing me under its grotesque force. The first inklings of hopelessness washed over me as I struggled with what to do. I heaved upwards with all the strength in my tired arms. It was so very powerful this wind of Baku Beach. I strained my arms in the hope that the wind may subside or that some revelationary idea may be bestowed upon me. I feared greatly for the tent. It was flat against my body and being shaken well beyond its expected bounds. I rested its spine upon mine, pushed my back upwards and struggled to dress and tie shoe laces. Something must be done and getting out of the tent may shed some hope on this imminent tent shredding and most horrible of camping calamities. It was the middle of the night yet the sky remained a crimson gold. I gazed somnolently toward the heavens (I was asking for help). My eyes glared into the riotous flames of lofted refinery outlets scorching the rapid descents of great fractious swirling clouds appearing to blister and boil as if it were some distraught, giant upturned witches broth. The boiling sky hovered over a now very frightened cyclist as if poised to unleash some horrific act of aerial cruelty upon my highly strung nerves. An apocalypse was descending upon my cycling adventure. I stepped out into this world and was instantly engulfed by its impossible reckonings. Its blowing vehemence cast me down to the floor with such absolute power I began to worry for my safety. It hurt. Sand and water blasted my face stinging the cuts to my arms and knees. It hurt (again). I crawled back toward a mangled, demolished yet to be shredded tent. I grappled, crawled and carried large rocks but nothing could hold firm its brave stance against this devilish wind. Its imminent shredding exasperated and for the first and only memorable time since my departure from Shepherds Bush I quite simply did not know what to do. I was completely out of my depth. With hopeless, fearful tears streaming from my eyes I lay in a gritty hollow vainly clinging to a guy rope hoping I could at least preclude a sinking fear that the tent would blow into the violent frothings of the Caspian Sea. An ear plug dislodged exposing a helpless cyclist to its monstrously acoustic might. I had been exposed to a terribly real, old silent movie and now the sound had been turned on, it was booming and blooming loud! I heard thunder rolling ever closer across a giant rolling sea, its swelling mass defined by the strobes of intense lightning, the might of this scene had clearly yet to show its final intensions. Any resolve to act or simply do anything to combat this force of nature seemed only to wet (and wetter it would get!) its appetite for greater deeds of wrong doing. Sheets of water began to fill the air, horizontally inclined needles that seamlessly cut through water proof clothing and pinched painfully at exposed skin. I felt my self sinking, first mentally and within 10 minutes physically too. My hollow, the last stand began filling with water. Muddy sand began to free flow over a collapsed tent. The sky burned, The sea roared, the air cracked and boomed……….I roared......I screamed......and then shouted out in deviance to t his irrevocable cataclysm. I would do something…..anything…….and that is what I did. I pulled hand and knee through this torrent of mud, gathered 3 more large rocks and rolled them over the guy ropes to which I had been mercifully clinging. I had done something I had managed to move without being blown into the sea and had also prevented the tent doing so too. It was 3 o’clock in the morning and most definitely time to break camp (and broken it certainly was!). I attempted to get vertical, to stand tall against this storm. My feet quickly disappeared into the muddy abyss, I fell (again), my hands disappeared in a similarly gloopy fashion. I crawled and pulled myself around this unctuous wallow for 3 hours. Condors wheels jammed in the mud. I repeatedly cowered against these malicious forces at play, clinging to rocks with one hand and some sodden camping item in the other. The ‘sand’ bank to which I had innocently descended onto the Beach became an unassailable fortress wall of flowing mud. In half an hour only one pannier had made it to the summit of this glooping 15 meter slope. Repeated failings did little to dint my strengthened resolve following 3 hours of doing battle against this elemental madness.

I would leave this apocalyptic wallow! I would sit proudly on Condors saddle and ride away from this despicable scene! I stood with the notion of increasing my scrambling momentum only to reach the base of the slope and be blasted terribly to the floor (read more cuts and bruisers). Crawling on all fours provided many close summit attempts, alas a fresh torrent of glooping muddy sand would take hold of my fragile footings and once again I would slide to its base. I tied each pannier in turn round my waste and plunged my arms deep into this sodden incline preventing them from slipping. It worked! It was a messy affair but with diligence, and in a final show of miniature mountaineering dexterity Condor was raised out of this swamp upon my shoulders. I was free......I had escaped from ‘Baku Beach’! I sat on the road side; a sodden, soggy, soiled pulp of cycle touring happiness! An angry Caspian Sea calmed its self, placated by the rising sun, in only one hour the wind followed suit. The deposits of thick clogged mud were scraped and gouged from Condors moving parts, I then place my sodden self atop the saddle and left the scene, never, ever to forget what happened on ‘Baku Beach’. 10 minutes later I was perched at the door of a café, drinking the nicest cup of tea I had ever tasted. I had weathered and quite literally worn the storm and that afternoon I entered the streets of Baku. A swampy, dripping mangle of brown, gliding past shops of high fashion and windows dressed with delicate pastries.

These intractable returns to Islands of western decadence were becoming more challenging the further East I traveled. I would enter these disparate urban worlds as a muddy, haggered cyclist…….. bemused, transfixed or quite simply dazzled by sumptuous interiors, indulgent facades stiletoed, suited urbanites dripping with watches, necklaces and mobile phones (now all very distant familiarities). I had lived amongst a country’s rurality for months at a time, feeling apart of its ways. I was forced, willingly to integrate amongst its people. I would be welcomed as an often needy cyclist whose affluence and wealth had seemed muted simply by Condors presence (and my dirty cloths!). Where there were other cyclists we would cycle together in Harmony. I applied much needed oil to their sqweeking chains and they would guide me to the market stall where I could buy more Russian tyres or stock up on puncture repair kits. I felt accepted. Arriving in these havens of elevated richness Condor would be left to rest in a hotel room and doning my urban vestments of cleanliness, the one set of garments strictly reserved for these descents into Western decadence. How lucky I was! How privileged to hold the keys to these opulent metropolis’. I was now recognized (and sometimes segregated) as a wealthy Westerner. I would feel abstracted from all that it was to be touring cyclist on the road and it would be a few days before I felt comfortable with my new found status along with the acknowledgment that there were toilets (that functioned), running water taps and palaces that served food on china plates. Oh it was a Joy ! But now a joy that I held a deep and often spine tingling appreciation for. I walked through the ancient enchanting alleys of Baku and strolled along its clean parades with huge LCD advertising screens. I gazed quite astounded by its glittering shops, feeding an Oil wealthy contracted tour de force, to which I was always assumed to be a member. I was accepted into its Ex-pat folds as a Scottish contract engineer instead of my previously assumed self as a German cyclist. I tickled the keys of a perfectly tuned piano in exchange for free apple cake! I drifted lazily through wonderful lounging afternoons, the pages of ‘Mobey Dick’ poking above delicate cups of fine espresso coffee. I read of local news and events over early evening glasses of wine chuckling at the eclectic almost eccentric headlines and articles in the local newspapers All whilst visa applicants were being processed for the ‘Stans’.

80% of the world’s supply of Caviar derives from the Caspian Sea. In 1985 stocks amounted to 28,000 tons (of sturgeon fish) in 2005 had been reduced to 1000 tons.

Taxes ares paid 36 times a year in Azerbaijan !

Oil and Gas supplies are expected to run out in 25 years, by which time Azerbaijan could reach the status of a developed country or could squander its gift and face a rapid economic decline.

Azerbaijan is the home to over 1000 ostriches – African Ostriches are the most revered growing up to 2.6 meters in height and producing eggs for up to 40 years each weighing 1-2 kg!

A special low interest rate is offered for ostrich loans.

There are 57 Oil and gas fields in Azerbaijan employing 60,000 people.

Elastic shipping timetables were researched and a lengthy chain of Bureaucratic forms and applications that would hopefully lead to the foothills of the Himalaya was almost complete. An Uzbekistan Embassy official kindly informed me, whilst I pleaded for a Visa date extension (on the grounds of grotesque headwinds and a very long country) that Baku was known as the ‘windy city’! and re-assured me that “our great country [Uzbekistan] would not be windy”. The ship that would transport Condor and myself across the Caspian Sea was expected the day after I received the last remaining Visa sticker. With a possible 10 day wait it was a marvelous stroke of good fortune and gave me the real chance of cycling across the length of Uzbekistan within the allocated dates (decided in Turkey via Email!). It was time to take stock of luxury items, tuck the maps for Kazakhstan into the map reading pouch and digest the last vestiges of Urban convenience. I returned to my favourite coffee shop for one last fine offering before setting sail and was promptly refused entry! And unless Condor was removed from in front (de-face) of their marble and glass frontage there would be no espresso for me ……….. It was time for a return to the life of a long distance cyclist!

The great pit stop.

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Tue, 14 Nov 2006 11:48:00 +0000

All is well.......................The himalayan winter looms. A pit stop to buy big hats and fluffy jumpers. Shall continue with the story of a very long cycle trip once the air has warmed and I have had the good fortune to make it through the snow.

Giddy Highs and Hallucinogenic lows

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Tue, 05 Sep 2006 13:34:00 +0000

I delicately clipped my feet ınto condors peddles and crossed my fıngers as I completed the first spin of Condors wheels. I was still a little tender (in all departments) from the menacing and abrupt toils following the departure from Istanbul. I tentatively shifted gears caring little for speed or daily mileage only to be comfortable in the saddle with a soft brow and agreeable sense of well being. These openers, these few days of anxıous waiting passed swiftly with nothing more than pleasurable hums and mumbling knees, it was, with great relief a meer continuation of the week prior to Ankara. PHEW!

The practicalities of living and camping in an ever more scorching altitudinous landscape were pleasantly learned and routines subconscıously formed, often with a start at the realisation I was fluently undertaking some chore or organising with no forced guidance whatsoever. In the evenings I would instinctivly search for rock overhangs or trees that would grant me shade from the bite of the morning sun (and grant me a lie in). I would march forth into mountain torrents to collect water, bathe, wash cloths, pans and the food bag after another mysterious olive oil leak. Only when upto my knees in chilly water would I spare a moment to notice the incedible scenery that this new river view afforded me.

Within half an hour of choosing my evenings sanctuary I was seated with bed ready and smelling the evening meal as it simmered on a newly fixed stove. Yes, the stove stopped heating and I fixed it in a field with the ‘field reapair kit’ I was very proud, suffice to say there ensued a much celebrated evening banquet (relatively speaking!). I sort comfort from the scatterings of familiar camping paraphernalia for they made it my corner with imagined boundaries, if only for one night it was my turf and I felt quite comfortable in its surrounds.

I could now find any ‘bits’ I may need without the profusions of discharging whole paniers all over the floor (except after olive oil leaks!). I had learnt how to deal with inadvertantly plonking myself down for the night on a stray dogs Territorial Turf and his endless need to repeatedly pee around the tent to make his point quıte clear!

All told I now had free time in an evening to slump, relax, oaf around and with enough energy left to conclude the day civily with a little read before the sun set and the evenings symphony (alas it was often more a roudy raucous) of crickets and other nocturnals pıped up.

The days cycling were hard but enjoyable. Fortune repeatedly came to my call. As I yearned for ıcy water over mıd morning snacks people would appear offering gıfts of cold water! The cycle computer kept missing beats claiming a miserable 2 mph speed whilst we were schussing down a hill; suddenly a watch shop would come forth offering new batteries! Even as a weeks ceaseless, bitterly demanding head wind brought me to a crawl, its great huffings and puffings could only raise a minor vocal annoyance its vehemence glancing feebly from my tenacious stature. I was a cyclist with good fortune sitting on my shoulder!...........well almost …..……….Hovering above a ‘crouching hole’ that have now completely replaced the ‘sıtters’of the West, I have with relief (in more than one sense) messily leapt accross one of the great cultural divides. The business of Inadvertantly being forced to manually baptise ones rear end! I awaited the time when this moment may be forced upon me and was very gad to have familiarised myself with ıts workings. I write these lines with a chuckle and smile but, as I am sure can be imagined it was a daunting realisation that struck me in that pokey garage loo!.

A week passed and I was still lıfting myself and Condor up this dramatically elevating Turkey. The arabal land and its charming tooings and froings were struggling to keep a foot hold as walls of rock closed in at ever steeper angles, my average speeds having not nudged into double figures since departing Ankara.

I was witnes to another great change in the land at the perfectly obseravable rate of 7 mıles per hour. Panoramas became but brief spectacles paralaxing against clefts in vast craggy trenches as I lofted my self up 1000’s of feet each morning. It was by more good fortune that these ascents arose at an early hour, my legs were fresh and with an agreable temperature warming my face I would cheerily attempt the first line of a song before gasping and forceably pulling in some extra air.

As an alternative to a sing song I re-discovered the collection of storys and lectures I had brought along and at times would complete a 6 hour unabridged piece of fiction and still be crawling upwards, wishing the author had wrıtten a couple more chapters to cover the last 600 feet! as legs became weary and would deeply appreciat the free entertaiment of a good story. Air conditioned cars drew along sıde to match my 4 mph balancing act, propostourously attempting to with complete dissympathy, engage me in conversation. I had not the lung capacity or coolness of head to do little more than gesture a kind of ‘its a hill! I can’t talk!’.

The top to another dizzying climb and a rousing cheer from the resting lorry drivers at the summıt, most of whome had honked and waved encouragement earlier (received with a nod and great ınternal boostings). It was time for another hıgh altitude feast of jam, cakes, cheese, bread and coffee to celebrated another 7,000 feet plus ascent. As I recovered my breath I raised the brim of my hat to reaveal a world in ultra focus; bright, vivid and vast. As the physical tensness of hours of exertion wained, peace and calmness flowed magically through me. At these harmonios cycling interudes I would simply sit in a glorious state of contemplation, the wind cooling my skin and the suns brilliance illumınating my imperishable smile. With the sun still high in the sky it time for one more slice of cake before the descent!

It was the morning I awoke with an overwhelming sense of apathy that this glorious time of cycling was disturbded. For the first time breakfasting held little appeal as did any notion of cycling in a now publicly acknowledged heat wave (complete with health warning)……... Two hours passed……… Between each arduous camp duty I would sit prostrate, fumbling for an understanding as to my ailment…………………. 4 hours passed………………… by some exertive miracle the tent was rolled and packed. I was spent and drifted with the last half bottle of water to the nearest shade. I lay on cracked dried mud eyeing my desitute, wallowing state from some imagined aerial camera. Rooted by 4 incapable limbs with head resting on my sun hat and slept. The sun cruised through its midday heights, the temperature rose and my supply of water shrivelled. To date it has been the only time on the trip where I had a notion of how exposed I could be (and at thatoıint sicerely felt) and how I could possibly be in danger. With a most distastefull sense of Irony water began to flow. Down below it was all funny coloured and quıte concerning. Then I was sick, very sick. Pure water emerged with great pains. Three glugs of warm water remained in my water bottles and like some bitter satire a litre of the stuff was flowing from my mouth, ın the wrong dırectıon. Oh what to do! Frustrations heightened at not knowing the cause of this ‘thing’ in me. Too much water? Too little water ? Bad water? Bad food? Temperature? Altitude ? I peeled my incombant self from the dust, peeled and ate a banana, which stayed put and at 3 o,clock weakly cycled down the deserted road in search of water. It was so very difficult. A whole day passed, nourished on one banana and a peach I would blunder through 8 or so miles then collapse under a bush and sleep. This degenerating pattern maliciously continued with nagging stomach pains for 2 whole days (with only 20 miles cycled and no place to truly rest). With a Wilting posture and stooped head I cried as struggled with condors heft weight, then cried out across a deserted 5,000 foot hıgh plain for answers.

I yearned to eat and for these stabbing pains to fade. What must I do? At the brow of a relative mound I stopped for breath and is if in a dream the road beneath my wheels continued to slide forward. It was comical and in retrospect extremely alarming. I stared on in dıssmay as points of light sparkled in my periphery vision, drifting accross this phantom gravel and its hallucinogenic antics. It was time to do battle with this ‘thing’. I sımply laid condor on its side and dropped to the floor. A full hour passed before I could open my eyes to a motionless world. I had lost the will to stand and quıte frankly could not think of anything more disheartening than turning peddles on a bicyle. I was loosing, down trodden and wearily planning the quickest way to get Condor and myself back to London ..........then this terrible 'thing' hit a blockade, my stubborness. I lay there on the road side for more time but this stubborness held it ground. It simply would not budge. There was nothing to be done but to do the thing I least desired, lıft Condor from the gravel and trudge forward.

The gatherings of people were dıfficult to cope with when I paused for water I would labour a smile before the pourings of iced water began. With litres of this chilling nectar my brow cooled and a slow stream of divine coolness spread through me, moments I would cherish on these hot afternoon cycles . The Turkish people aware of my fragile being were happy just to sit with me ( and my wearyness) a great comfort indeed through these endured days of recovery.

It was the second testing of my resolve in Turkey, indeed since my wheels landed on French soil. Within a week the deepness of this ailment had lıfted. I was patiently gainıng horse powers with every digested portion of food, applying masses of suncream and stopping at the slightest sign of iregular road movement! The reasonings for such a horrible turn of health would alas remain a mystery, I had been cautioned and would treat my self kindly in this insidıous mountain climbing heat.

A calm nights sleep followed my first meal for 3 days. A morning of peculıar events unfolded with a welcome re-assurance that my health had returned in earnest. Not for the first time as the early morning sun appeared were there gun nozzles and boot straps wafting around the tent door, this time with a canine duo as backup. A smile and sleepy peddling motion freed me of their pointings. At some subsequent hour before the suns glare boiled the inner tent more rummagings had me peering through the tent flap. A kindly looking man stood there tall and still as if awaiting my attention. He now had it. Some hint of blood smeared from under his jacket as I unzipped the ‘door’ hand clutching my last line of defence, the bicycle pump. I peered up from my dis-advantaged viewpoint. It was to be an early morning moment of sordıd Abracadabra brilliance. His jacket sprung open and with a benevolant smile and with proud postulations presented me with a very gory leg part with semi conscious rabbit barely attatched. The man glowed and made gestures to cook it for my breakfast. I was deeply touched that he had waited for met to rise to then offer me his catch. My stomach held at the sights of this morning bloodyness, a sure sıgn I was mending. I shook the mans hand sıncerely and gestured a heartfelt thanks for his offering but signalled that I needed to sleep. I arose, well rested and supped coffee, chuckling at these ımpromptu camp visiters. I was amassing an ever growing variety of breakfast companions in these weeks of Turkish cycling. A Tortoise would pass by pausing at Condors wheels, take a whole breakfast to agree on a new direction then plod off as I dıd the washing up. Magpies were reqular guests always after a munch on the rubbish bag. Dogs, cats, bulls, sheep and goats all popped by to remind me I would rarely be a lonely morning breakfaster. Oh and of course the continued greetings of Shepherds which in Turkey meant a morning rub of cheeky, mutually unshaven stubble.

Once again I was cycling with my head held high, breathing in a world that now rarely sunk below 4000 feet.

It was marvelous to feel good and strong again, my average daily milage was returning to the 40’s and Ardahan was growing ever closer. My eyes had some catching upto do! White tıpped birds of prey perched undisturbed as monstrous lorries droned past only to soar into the skys as I silently glided passed. A strange occurance that provided me with an abundance of hypnotic aeronautical precisions for hundreds of miles.

On a few memorable mountain descents they appeared to fly with me as a companion, ımmense wings outstretched easily matching my speed gliding closer to me as if tamed by Condors wheels and soundless glide. These wonderful creatures would be seen collectively surfing aloft great fıres spreading accross vast, flat arabal plains. Cycling through an eary silence of plumed smoke, soundless apart from the wind and crackle of flames I could gaze high into the smoke and make out their sılohettes circling with such fine aeronautıcal prowess at times swerving the front wheel into a verge forgetting my more mundane responsibilities as a touring cyclist.

I was restored and was sponataneously compelled to once again nod my head to all I passed returned with a grin or raising of a walking stick. I was brimming with the joys of cycling amongst such a mass of lofty sıghts. On more than one occcasion I could glide for hours feathering my peddles with the slightest touch to propel me again upto the afternoons average of 20 mph!

These afternoons rides were as a dream, perfect and a prodigious reward for the previous days efforts. I was buoyant and sparkling. Cinematic surroundings and my new found health saw me dipping my wide(ish!) brimmed hat melodramtically to ‘ranch’ workers as a cowboy riding his metal steed, feet clipped to stırrups (aka peddles) the eagles matching my speed, the wind streaming past my ears at a new record 48 miles per hour! A gift for the mended tummy.

The Arabal smoke of burning pastures faded and storm clouds emerged. Rumblings echoed between the rolling mountain scape and then it raıned! The first opening of the heavens in over 6 weeks. It was a pleasure to feel the cool splinters of water tickling my back and the smell of temporarily wetted vegetation. In a stroke of fıckle mindedness the clap of thunder was queerly welcomed. I felt an inner comfort remembering the sufferings under its wrath in Eastern Europe and now on the same bike ride I was hearing its cracks and booms in a very different brittle lanscape over a 1000 miles away. The rain lasted 5 minutes (as appose to 1 month!) just enough time to be chilled and then receive the suns warmth again.

With large sections of rubbled road and the continual buffetting of a head wind the approach to Ardahan was laboured A refreshing shift in hues from what had become a monotous mıx of sandy browns and arid yellows to a prevelance of rich greens and deep, rich orange browns. Herds of cattle a 1000 strong replaced the boundless wheat fields of central Turkey tiny dots stretching far out to the horizon with an accompanied troop of motorised shepherds in tow. With only 100 miles of northely cycling the trees flourished with thick trunks, the grass was green and the temperature had dropped to a cıvilised 30 somthing. I rolled over another high summıt, ıt would be my last before Ardahan. I spied the rooftops of Ardahan on a late afternoon, the sun glistening on the sılver roofs of mosques. It was a marvelous sıte to be greeted with following a 6 hours climb of repeated feigned peaks and barbaric gradients. It was a great moment to cast my eyes on a town that had been discussed and cycled towards for over a month. The nearing of such a long imagined place is always a chancy time where thoughts must be tempered against all the redherings and hidded climbs that can lay hidden from eyes and map. With anticipation adding tenfold to the efforts of assailing them it is wise just to be happy you are drawing near and leave it at that. I peddled on.

I stormed through a daiy record of 78 miles! My Wheels trundled along the cobbles of Ardahan and a whisper away from the crossing into Central Asia. A months cycle accross this great gateway to the East was at a near end. WOW! With some remnant of reserved caution that I had not yet arrived (it would take a full Day to pass) I raised my arm trıumphuntly, parading the one central high street at a deserved royal processions pace …..…… till self conscience defalted my boastfull plumes and I repeated the ciruit, this time looking for the post offfice and a cheap hotel.

A growing military presence

A Re-familiarisation

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 16:42:00 +0000

I imagined the opening line after a month of cycling abstanance to be somthing along the lines of, ‘it was great to be back on the road’. Alas my bodily extremities had been woken from their long nap and were not the slıghtest bit pleased! Of course it was marvelous to point my wheels east again but the inexorable way our minds and bodies tally up to steer our moods had my head hung low fending off both a thousand negative thoughts and a long line of fuming east bound lorries. It was a 2 day cycle to escape from the mamoth suburbs of Istanbul. They were a strange few days where wıde eyed excitment parried with leg ligamented pain causing reflexive shreeks as a wondorously stark rural Turkey unfolded before me.

It was clear that I had lost any fitness the 3000 mile plod to Istanbul had afforded me. As I raised myself from my camp chair after eating or artlessly clambered back atop the saddle, sharp nıggles ran behınd my knees and up both legs, with the only cure to start turning the peddles knowing (or is that hoping) the ills would pass.

On day 3 I was cured!........... A new man awoke in his tent, mental pains vanquıshed by the sounds of a clear stream and tall mountains that reared high above my pıllowed head as I gazed upwards through an opened tent flap. I had been pleasantly reminded of the fantastical joys of being a touring cyclist carrying his world with him. The leg pains would persist but not no longer at the expense of a now happy cyclısts mind!

A moment of tıngling euphoria following an ice cold

river dousing

It was a time of re-familiarisng myself with the extreme states of mind and rapid changes that occurr to ones contentment in but one days nafarious mountain cycling. I had forgotten how far outwardly the emotions push themselves. It was so very different to the exertive moderations of the one months cıty slicking in Istanbull. I had at least prepared a little for such arrisings before my departure, I was armed with bags brimming with Turkeys finest cures. Fresh coffee, fruits, nuts and spıces from the great Istanbul bizarres. They lasted half the expected tıme but worked perfectly in feeding all the bıts that needed nurishing and limited the extremes to an occasıonal and very healthy ‘Bloody ‘ell’.

The culinery experiments begin with a weighty selection of beautifully coloured spices

Within a few hours I was well fed, de-camped and with a lingering inner warmth from freshly brewed coffee ready for a great day of new wonders. I thanked this beautıfull camping spot for its restorative charms and began the mornings ascent. At its brow this very tall hill laid bare a landscape that had me literally gasping for air and onerously grasping for words. It was truly alien to any terraferma scape I had seen before. Multı-coloured strata lay at the strangest angles mıngling with vast fields of harvested wheat and the solıtary shımmering, parched road that lay a top the land like icing on a cake, softening the folds and undulations enough for 2 little wheels to follow its path.

I had at last cut loose the shackles of the city and emmersed myself in this crazy lanscape baked to a scorching 45 degree Turkish heat wave. Wow! it was hot !. So hot that bits of the bike became too hot to touch and water rıpened from a soothing icy lıquer to a tepped foul tasting bath water before the cool stream from where it came was out of site. At times I was emmersed in a cinematic cliche as I seemingly surfed a top the glistening mirror of a heat hazed road. Illuminated trails of dust rising above the horizon ensued by miraged cars glistening from a cloudless sky. A shrowd of dust would envelop me ın a shadow and temporary blindess followed by the blast of hot air causing a most unpleasant moment that İ never quıte fathomed the best way to avoid.

With new found spirits I shunned this marriage of incandescent heat and steep slopes. At each new crest and mountain top I staired out in awe at the sharp, edgy dry massivness of this ever growing mountaın scape. Unlıke the Alpes there was curıously no sıgn of dismay or panick at such a sıght. Condors new crawler gears, a resolute familiarity to mountain climbing and most of all being of good spirits, played their part in the most 'enjoyable' hill climbing I had had since Shepherds Bush Green. When I was graced with a hıgh flat plateux to cylce upon after some heady gradient I would auspiciously listen to a wealth of new music gathered from friendly mp3 players in İstanbul, my confidence riding as high as I was begining to cycle………..Marvelous!

It is the power of a content mind indeed that should allow such arduous efforts with such little trouble, measured against the misery a doubting mind can cause whilst peddling along flat ground with a tale wind. I often wondered which would account for most mishief, a down trodden spirit or vexed knee! The few days following my departure from Istanbul had taught me an awfull lot and provide me with a robust sense of things over the coming weeks.

Many had described to me the ‘greeness’ of the North or the beautifull coast line of the South where Turkey meets with the Mediterranean. I was so very glad to be ın rural Turkey but it took a little time to convince myself that İ had made the right decision to head straight through Turkeys middle. No one seemed open to praise for my choice of route and only offered comments such as ‘the desert of Turkey’ or ‘hot and dry rocks’. They were right on both counts. I re-assured myself that bus pasengers cared little for hills or distances and that decisions on routes would frequently appear, after all it is a very big world and even bigger when your average speed regulalry regısters only 1 digit .

Someones front door

I was up-ing and down-ing my way to Ankara the Capital of Turkey and the place where I would collect at least a few of the Visas I would need to reach China. It was a very bumpy landing! As mentioned previously my lovely little computer was stolen on the first night. On the second night I found myself only a flight of stairs away from automatic gunfire, screams, blood, and a glut of happenings that had me yearning for the peacfull starry nights that had washed over me but 2 days before. A visit to the police station the following morning with a British Embassy official to translate provided me with another cinematic moment as I strolled into a scene from ‘midnight express’. Police men were, at times brutally handling people ‘in’ for questions as I attempted to describe the moments of my computers abduction. I learnt from the police that 3 civilians and a policemen were in a critically hospitlised state with gunshots wounds received from outside my front door. For me, the victim of a robbery, I was treated to cups of tea and many re-assuring glances from the officers helping me.

Ankara softened as the week long stay progressed. I had made friends with an incredıbly kind English speaking woman responsible for vetting companys wishing to film in Turkey. As an ex Turkish tour guide she enthusiastically and vey knowledgeably plyed me with the history of Turkey. For the first time I would now be cycling through a country armed with some semblance of how things were as they were. Regular lunch time dates following morning visits to Embassys enthused me with as I met a familiar face, had good conversation and spent quality time at quıet eateries in the old town of Ankara. These times were sorely missed when I departed as was Gronca (gon-ja) who so enthusiastically helped me, provided me access to a gorgeous open air swimming pool, allowed me a tinckle on her family piano (I sounned appalling!) and strolled with me through streets I would otherwise scarcely have glimpsed.

The word was out! ‘Oh! Are you the cyclist from England ?’ the lady asked at the British Embassy reception. I was requesting 3 letters to aid in Visa applications. I was expected to pay 120 American Dollars! I profused and mentally penned the opening lines to Tony Blair expressing my discust at having to pay such sums for the printing of a Standard word document where, by the officials own admission simply changed the name of the country before hitting the print buton! There was whispering behind the plexi glass and a with a hushed voice only asked 40USD for all 3 letters. The transaction was made as she wished me good luck with an encouarging smile. I happıly stolled past security with a bounce in my step heading for my lunch time date wondering if I had not arrived by bicylce whether I would now be buying an envelope and adressing it to10 Downing street.

All officialdoms had been concluded. I was free to leave and see a very large Turkey. I had finnally begun collecting some of the plethora of stamps and shiny visa stickers I would need to weave my way to a heart flutteringly distant China. For the moment it is the border town of Ardahan that draws me easterly where by some feat of chancy organisation I hope to collect my wintery sundries (posted back to England after the Alps), spare tyres and other miscellany. Equally there ıs at least 700 miles of mountain cycling to Ardahan just fıtting into an amenable chunk of copeability for a solo cyclist to ponder during an afternoons cycle.

A note on cups of tea and other watery matters:

It appears to be one of the corner stones of Turkısh well being. I have been apart to a truly amazing, frıendly and forthcoming tradition of tea offerings throughout the length of the land. When out of ear shot there is a universal gesture that accompanies such an offering to ensure there is no sparing of the kindness to a solo cyclist. From the shade of a horses cart, a top huge stacks of hay, vıllage door ways and every conceıvable cranny the signal for me to join the party for tea would come forth. Stop! Where are you from? Chı! Chı!. I was at pains not to offend such generosıty but created my own sıgn language that would be speedily effused as I whızzed by and hoped it would explain that my poorly knees had trouble getting goın again when halted, and that I was very greatfull for their asking. This engrained kindness at times had me drooling with ‘teshekers’ (phonetıcal turksıh for thankyou) as huge water melons (the great and absolute elıxir for hot and thirsty cyclists) would be lofted into the air by the road side. Above all and most importantly the people I met had a profound understanding for the need to drink cool water and would only consent to my passing after chunks of ice were crunched into my water bottles. A bus or lorry driver would frequently stop ahead and clamber from a loft his cabin to give me fresh cool water and regard me with great dissaproval as he felt my tepid sqwuıgy supplies. With the grand unraviling of my water fitler, carried all the way from London I boosted my options to the cool waters of mountain streams (where they had not shrivelled ınto a cracked mosaic dust).

My fınal learned supply of cool water when away from towns and roadside garge havens would shine forth quite literally as I eyed the silver dome of a mosque along with its free flowing water for hand and feet washing or additionally in my case for filtering or boiling. I had learned alot about my watery needs in this scolding heat. A whole orderlıness formed its self, with grades of a waters desirability sectioned and remembered……………..Cool bottled water there at the front (drink its coolness fast afore ıt fades)…………….Warm bottled just there (ready to be cooled in a stream whilst water filtering or cheekily shelved in a restarant fridge)……………. Sun boiled mosque water (yet to befiltered) here ………..etc etc….…….….Oh and the last collection of the day, the camp water, in all its bulk, collected from any source possible and hoisted a top the back rack, whos weighty bulk is progressıvely resented with each passing mile as I search for a place tp camp………..

My bar bag has now reached the heady status of 'Womans handbag' as it magıcally provides hidden sponge cakes, snuggled next to the 2 cloths pegs, a tıre gauge, sun cream, matches, falk& spoon......................

Istanbulıan protractıons

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 12:28:00 +0000

I wrıte thıs dıtty wıth slıghtly down trodden spırıts after nasty turksıh men took my lovely lıttle wrıtıng computer. Hence I wrıte thıs on a keyboard that has all its letters in strange places wıth 2 keys for the letter 'I' and at tıme of wrıtıng no trace of a questıon mark any where! So, apologıes ın advance to those that are readıng to what promıses to be a rather fragmented entry wıth many wayward dots and spellıngs and alas only a small chance of pıctures.

I arrıved ın Istanbul 3 days early and after a long and thouroughly rewardıng trıp accross Eastern Europe it was now tıme to see famılıar faces! I excıtedly raced to the airport twıce to welcome long anticıpated frıends that had flown from England to come and say hello. The taxı journeys to and fro would envelop me ın qweezy travel sıckness partly from the turkısh mentalıty of drıvıng taxıs but for the most part I fear the cause was my stomach havıng yet not re-adapted to speeds above an average of 10 mıles an hour! Would I ever feel comfortable ın motorısed transport agaın?

Hooooray! Theır smiles at the arrıvals gate had been more apprecıated than ever a meetıng had been before. It was Fantastıc! And much greater than all the moments I had pıctured them when the hılls were at theır steepest ın Eastern Europe. Theır arrıval provıded the ımpotus to see the many marvels that Istanbul had to offer and all a stones throw (quıte lıterally) from my open aır rooftop abode. Each mornıng my frıends would arrıve and suggest sıtes to see. I would happıly agreee to all suggested wıth a floppy mınd that was more than happy ın ıts luxurıous new mood of minımal decısıon makıng.

Each evenıng I would lıe ın bed re-adjustıng to a static lıfestyle gazıng upon mosques and towers as Seaguls would cırcle above, glowıng ın the floodlıghts, creatıng a perfect 'goodnıght' spectacle that never lost ıts charm even after the whole protracted month I spent there.

My pıllow case vıew!

Istanbul had always been a place where I would take stock of the journey so far and fathom a route to the dıstant Hımalaya. The jobs to do lıst was large, Istanbul was even larger and I would spend whole days huntıng and scurryıng for small thıngs ın a very bıg cıty.

As the days passed ıt soon became evıdent that the red tape and complıcatıons of cyclıng East would drown me ın confusıons as I swam through the logıstıc nıghtmare of Vısa applıcatıons. Some countrıes would allow me entry for only 5 days, others would show restraınt and possıble refusal ıf I had a vısa stamps from certaın countrıes they had had a fall out wıth. Letters of ınvıtatıon had to be gathered wıth dates exactly matchıng the dates on the Vısa, all of whıch must be obtaıned a month ın advance. PHEW! A border ferry crossıng was needed wıth no avaılable tıme table and a servıce that can some tımes be as lımıted as once every 10 days. I would measure dıstances wıth a pıece of strıng on a tiny map exasperatıng at how a cyclıst could cross 2 ınches ın less than 10 days! How I could provıde exact dates of entry for countrıes over 1000 mıles away across a mountaın range!....................and how could I provıde address of hotels I would be stayıng ın when I was ın a tent!..............

New bıke bıts arrıved wıth a complımentary ımport tax and ware house charge added. It was my Bırthday present! how could they! I was profusıng to deaf ears and an offıce full of more moustached grımıs that kept me fıllıng forms and dottıng dots over 2 hours. I started yearnıng for the relatıve sımplıcıty of pressıng down on peddles for 6 hours a day. For the tıme beıng ıt was tıme to gıve Condor an upgrade and show mercy on my poor legs wıth a brand new set of gears. Condor was ın good hands as the parts were fıtted by a true cyclıng guru ın the grandest sense. An Ex 14th ranked world cycle champıon for the turkısh natıonal team who now wıth poorly knees (oh how I empathısed as he spoke) traıns the natıonal team and advıses them on all thıngs mechanıcal. He tweeked, twıddled and at one poınt had sparks fızzıng from the head set (another new bıcycle word learnt!). At ıts conclusıon Condor rode lıke a dream. I proudly gazed over the upgraded Condor and the sparklıng new gears. Condor was now rarıng to go! Perfectly set for a slow, amblıng overladen cycle tourer wıth hıs heart set on the Tıbetan plateaux.

After 2 months cyclıng ıt was very strange to stop. A Huge amount of physıcal and mental momentum had be gaıned ın the peddle to meet frıends ın Istanbul and once they had sadly left I could feel the cıty swampıng and sqwashıng my love for cyclıng wıth ıts loud obtrusıve nature. Evasıve actıon was taken. I began spendıng days on the Islands around a half hour boat trıp away from the opulence of Istanbul and lıterally swam away my frustratıons. A vast armada of boats would weave amongst each other along the seemıngly ınfınte urbanısed coast lıne. Huge cargo shıps and cruıse lıners of breath takıng proportıons guıded a straıght course down the Bosphorous rıver provıdıng a watery dıvıde between Europe and Asıa. Once a day a flyıng boat pass overhead completıng an oceanıc medley more than equal to the cıty ıt dıvıded. The evenıng return to Central Istanbul was a spectacle of a hundred Manhattan skylınes. Lıghts stretchıng to beyond the horızon ın all dırectıons wıth the moon lıghtıng the wake of the boat as all ıts passengers sat ın peace mesmorısed by thıs magıc cıty at nıght. I would sleep well on those evenıngs, forgettıng all the vexıngs of vısa applıcatıons.

A secret Island Haven. A sole was rarely to be seen
ın thıs amazıng woodland cafe .

The Mavı (blue) guest house, my place of rest, had a marvelous group of people to attend ıts needs. I was shown gorgeous food to cook, and was bestowed the honour of occasıonal mornıng bread collector (all 50 loaves!) and washer upper. Banana mılkshakes became a specıalıty and lıfted the oppressıon of an ever clımbıng temperature to broad smıles from all who trıed. Extra eggs for Glens Breakfast please!. Durıng these weeks of statıc frustratıons Condor refused to rest. Local waıters and shop keepers would be seen smılıng there way round the local area on Condors saddle, lost tourısts would be collected, rıdıng sıde sadle on the back rack. It was a marvelous sıte ındeed (I was secretly very proud... ssshhhhh!) to see some newly arrıved guest of the hostel woopıng down the hıll from one of the bıggest mosques ın Turkey to the guest houses' front door, all whılst I tucked ınto the next page of Mobey Dıck armed wıth a Banana and cherry Mılkshake (now prepared ın the 'bıg' kıtchen bowl).

Yearnıngs to go and do some more explorıng came to a head as I saıd farewell to a French cyclıng couple who were stayıng close by. They would be takıng a sımılar route to me all the way to Chına where they would fly home. When the Istanbulıan 'jobs to do lıst' had been reduced to none ıt would prove of great comfort to know they were ahead somewhere and had shared ın the ınsanıty of the exıt roads leavıng Istanbul. They would pop ınto my head throughout the cycle to Ankara re-assurıng me that I was not mad and that there were others out there cyclıng wıth bıg bags up bıg hılls. Sanıty checks could be put on hold for the moment.

As more ınformatıon and parcels arrıved my tıme for departure grew ever closer.

I had learnt all I could about the where's and when's of vısa collectıons and LOI,s (Embassy speak for 'letter of ınvertatıon'). My mınd was full, and growıng tıred of emaılıng and research. Then I receıved an Emaıl that would deflate me to the poınt of great sadness........The Emaıl 'kındly' advısed me of the few permıtted entry poınts (and then only wıth the correct permıts to hand) allowed for a cyclıst wanderıng ınto Chına, arrıvıng from the East. The maıl contınued.............'These were the hıghest roads ın the world and nearly all would be closed at the end of October!'...............................The Gottard pass was now but a fond memory wıth all ıts paıns forgotten. The thoughts of the Hımalaya re-kındled the excıteable anxst of the Gottard but on a much greater magnıtude. It would not be a chılly clımb to over 2000 meters as ın the Alps but a serıously sub zero arctıc expedıtıon to heıghts of 5000meters!

......and the roads close on October 31st.......and the roads close on the........and the roads cl......and the r........

It ıs dıffıcult to descrıbe the downward ebb thıs news ınstılled ın my factually overloaded mınd. It would be rıde of 3 months wıth lıttle tıme for rest and then I would quıte lıterally be met wıth a wall of snow. I have learnt whılst cyclıng long dıstances that there are many forms of forward thınkıng requıred to make for a happy days cyclıng. Each to be poured forcefully and only when most needed. At the bottom of a bıg hıll ıt ıs the promıse of a feast of chocolate or delıcıous fruıt that shall be devoured upon ıts summıt. In the mornıng ıt ıs the promıse of a beautıfull day of seeıng new thıngs wıth fresh legs and no achıng lımbs. In the afternoon or when tıred ıt can be the more dıstant 'goals' that keep a wanderıng mınd at bay. The Hımalaya and theır heady heıghts would be supped wıth eagerness and feed my legs and heart when they were ready to gıve up. And now theır snow capped ınspırıng splendour may be closed for wınter! There was a tıme of sadness spent by the sea and the twınklıng lıghts of Istanbull, only 5 mınutes walk from the guest house, Then more days of Saberton stubborness repeatıng to myself that they cannot possıbly close a road to a world cyclıst! ..........More days passed

An almost complete stranger heard of my morale sadness over breakfast and wıthout a second thought and wıth lıttle knowıng of the monumental lıftıng of spırıts she would brıng about saıd ' go as far as you can then waıt' ....'stay ın the foothılls tıll the snow clears'............... , the Hımalaya were ımportant to me, the adventure would contınue even ıf I stopped peddlıng. I would do all I could and ıf there was snow I would bloomın well waıt for ıt to melt! I was saved by the obvıous and my sad brow once agaın raısed at the thought of seeıng the Hımalaya by Bıcyle! As an after thought I was now begınıng to consıder a tıme spent ın the far East (after the Hımalaya) cyclıng through the monsoon season. I shall save that thought tıll there ıs room ın my head!

In thıs tıme of Urban Contemplatıon I realısed my detractıon from the very busy comıngs and goıngs of the hostel. A new set of faces would arrıve and depart at an alarmıng rate. It would sound frequently as I awoke ın the mornıng to a new body ın the bed below me or to my sıde. All arrıvıng by aır condıtıoned buses from the tourıst 'hot' spots of Turkey. They would stay a few moments then be off to the next charted place of ınterest. I felt very dıfferent and out of place amongst some of these bus settıng backpackers, and yearned more and more to be ın the country sıde, joyfully wavıng a hand at people as I passed or chancıng upon ıncredıble surprıses and the sımple and greatest pleasure of sılence. I had quenched the need for Museums and gallerys.....I was ready to leave. One fınal round of Banana mılk shakes and an emotıonal good bye to the people of the Mavı guest house, some of whıch were polıtıcally stranded, from the terrors ın an escalatıng Lebenon war and other terrıble affaırs across the globe.

It was tıme! My legs were as jelly whılst my head fought wıth an excıtable and very elusıve famılıarıty to long dıstance cyclıng. I was slıghtly more prepared for what lıe ahead than the unforgetable moment my wheels touched down onto French soıl ın May.

Thıs tıme I was cyclıng ınto a world of many knowns. I knew I would be uplıfted and very downtrodden. My emotıons would be Inflated, and down rıght ınfurıated. I would be dıssapoıntmented and feel paınfully dısjoınted. There would be moments of beıng completely overwhelmed and others of feelıng overwhelmıngly complete. I knew the further I travelled East the 'closer' I became to the people I know ın England.

Above all I knew ıt would be the contınuatıon of my greatest ever adventure and I could thınk of nothıng better a 30 somethıng young Yorkshıre man could be doıng wıth hıs tıme!

The last supper ın Istanbuıl...........

A very kınd couple evacuated from Lebanon cooked for 30 people ın a kıtchen wıth a floor area only slıghtly bıgger than my tent!

The Tunnelıng cyclıst

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Tue, 11 Jul 2006 11:11:00 +0000

There had now been nearly a week of relatively normal cycling with a slow return to colonised purple dots, no mine fields and most of all, no rain. Of course this was a world tour and this time of pleasing normality could not last. Its demise was at first but a dark shadow over my calm being. The shadow became darker until it was quite literally pitch black.

There would be 2 days of unparalleled tunneling to which I shall be making enquiries to the guinness world records library for most tunnels traveled through in 24 hours by a touring cyclist.

The ride into Serbia goes like this:

2 lane tunnels, with some form of lighting

Single lane tunnels with traffic lights timed for cars.

Single lane tunnels with traffic lights and no illumination! Partial panic sets in as traffic lights change and one hears on coming traffic, sounding like a combination of a jet engine and a train putting its breaks on.

Single lane tunnel no traffic lights, no lights, gravel and potholes.

As above but over 1000 metres long.

Then I renamed these ferocious holes to caves when the stuff under my wheels was made of the same stuff as the ceiling, bare rock!

After being immersed in pitch black for more than 10 minutes with no road it is a kin to being in a small plane, blind folded whilst in turbulence. All sense of direction is lost. I would exist thinking I was going up hill when I was going down hill and vice-versa, Sweat turns cold from the tunnels darkness and eyes are blinded from the light of the day. Having no knowledge of how long one is to be submerged proved quite daunting, By the second day other bodily bits began helping my poor eyes. It was a team effort..... depending on chillyness of my knees when they hit the cold tunnel air and the nature of my “wooping” echos I could guess a tunnels length to within a few hundred meters..

The ultimate irony of these 2 days of petrifying pot holing is that it was the first time in over 2 weeks that blue had appeared in the sky. I spent the entire day underground!

The guiness book of records entry reads:

“Most tunnels passed through for solo world cyclist --------- 60 !”

A rare Glımpse at External Beauty

On the second day I emerged from the final tunnel and entered my first Serbian town at the same time redressing the balance between cyclist and lorry by victoriously overtaking one on a glorious downhill swoosh whilst in my attempt at a racing tuck, peddling furiously using the haloed and still sparkling top gear. YES!

The affluence of the people continued to grow the further into Serbia I traveled. With a decline in visible war scars a lighter breeze wafted through villages piled high with fresh fruit and self supporting carrots. My mood lightened contrary to the size of belly. Cycling had once again become more predictable, including another monstrous climb into Bulgaria. This time I had my first encounter with maddening swarms of mosquitos. Unlike the bees of western Europe they can be outrun and so began the hottest most tiring, infuriating border climb to date. At a little under 9mph the first wave would attack. My shoulders would be hounded and sucked, nose and eyes buzzed. I flounder for words in describing the difficulties of trying to keep Condors wheels turning at speed up a hill for over 2 hours in hot sunshine. Suffice to say it was Hell. A mosquito netted hat has been bumped to the top of the Istanbul shopping list as I can no longer prepare evening meals outside of the tent without receiving multiple suckings and red bulges.

Mosquıto comedy

With red lumps and bite marks I crossed the border to a very cold Bulgarian reception. For the first time there were no smiles. I temper my opinion of Bulgaria as the channel I have furrowed is obviously very small. To summarise the Bulgarian attitude towards a solo cyclist a hotel receptionists attempted to levy a charge for parking my bicycle, in addition to the cost of the room. It became a tıme of ıntropspectıon amd self concıous attempts at tryıng to raıse a smıle as I bought supplıes

For reasons that slip my mind upon writing this I chanced across the Romanian border. A quick consultation with my postcard sized map of Europe showed it was flat with a most inviting green colour nudging against the browns of Bulgaria........

After a 4 hour wait for the ferry due to ınsuffıcıent counts of lorrıes to justify a crossing, our flabby Speedo trunked captain steered us across the Watery divide and aparently past the frontier into Russia.

I meandered along the North bank of a river that ran East, grinning at the hills across the river in Bulgaria. I am sure there was a frıendly force at play as clouds hung there gloom over Bulgaria but showed mercy at the river and never crossed the divide.

Romania had been like a a street 200 miles long full of beaming smiles. Every house was decked with a bench facing the road upon which there would almost always be a parked bottom and cheery wave. I could not help but nod and Beam back. After only one afternoon the Bulgarian slump had been lifted.

Often whole families would be tending their cow(s). Other tımes I would pass father and daughter sitting under a tree with only a goat to dıstract them from ıdle summer chats. Romania is a very poor country but has a life to it much greater than what I had seen only 50 miles behind me.

After over 2000 miles of cycling I was now practically the fastest thing on the road which after spending nearly 2 months huggıng the edge of the road took a lıttle gettıng used to. The day would pass overtaking carts laden with family members out for a Sunday ride (trot ?) or woman sat a top huge piles of hay whilst husband wrestles wıth the reluctant steed (and possıbly hıs ego too) to gallop as he sees my approach. Young boy racers riding bare back impressively impressing the girls and me for that matter, would chat on mobile phones whilst effortlessly steering a course around my cumbersome frame.

The whole affair was a pleasure. I was happy. Water was literally available on tap or should I say by the bucket load. Road side wells served up ice cold water quenching a 30 degree thirst and sweaty brow. At fırst I maıntaıned an Englısh reserve for fear of offendıng the Well owner (ıf there was one) but ınsıstant encouragement from frıendly faces has me gluggıng buckets of cool well water in preparation for the daily races against children, in charge of any road worthy (or not) transport be it wheeled or as was mainly the case, hooved. Upto now they have always won a temporary vıctory (its the weight you know) to a cheer from me and the street lined park benchers. Dodging potholes We swerve to each others side, nod our farewells and off they would trundle back to the well to cool.

It is in Romania that the remnants of the European downpour were most visible. Many huts had been swept and collected into corners of the land with houshold possesions strangely dotting the landscape or dangling from trees and telegraph poles. At times the road had been completely submerge as I threaded a fine line between vast flood plains, a mirror as far as the eye could see.

It was saddening to leave Romania, the sadness greatened by a return to the glumness of Bulgaria. I had my heart set on Istanbul. The days riding grew more difficult as my excitement grew at the prospect of seeing friends and resting after nearly a 1000 miles of non stop cycling.

My mind was tired from over exposure as were my legs!. The final, familiar and mosquito ridden climb into Turkey was measured in days as appose to hours, 3 of them ! 3 whole days of up hilling ending with the biggest, largest moustached smiling passport control officer to date who first called me crazy realising I had peddled UP to his border and then with something that I shall never forget in the adrenalin fueled haze that I was in said these words partly ınferıng to turkey and half for the glorıous downhıll that approached...........

”paradise awaits you “

I was now giddy with excitment, My recently and quite seriously Iodine stained passport had been legible enough for 5 passport checks and the gates to paradise were opened. They revealed Beautiful panoramic views over Turkey and glorious flat cycling .

I sat in the first village to rest and repeatedly reminded myself I had cycled from London to Turkey. A reverberating cough filled the air and startled me out of this marvelous and well deserved day dreaming moment. I puzzled over the reality of what I thought I had just heard. Again an echoing cough this time with additional reverberation; then the full exotic reverberating charm of a call to prayer filled the air. The voice filled me with magic. An incredibly appropriate welcome to the world East of Europe.

I had made the mistake of allowing my mind to wander to Instanbul before my legs had transported me there. It was an arduous 4 days cycling full of an expectancy and anticipation that stretched each mile to double its normal length. I write theses last lines sat on my bed on a sun baked roof top terrace overlooking Istanbull and the Domes of its huge Mosques thinking again and again how lucky I am, how exciting it shall be to sit with friends and how after a whole month of non stop cycling I can now stop.

The Quoted Cyclist:

I Have begun listening to lectures and short storiers on my music player. The first lecture has been on Human Longetivity.... with finishing quote to the lecture........

“You know you are getting old (or are a touring cyclist) when you bend down to tie your shoe laces and wonder if there is anything else useful you could be doing whilst you are down here”.

I am but a very young man alas my knees have taken to this saying with unprompted zeal.

Bulgarıa...........

A new chaır and a fırst nıght of 5 star campıng

Romanıan road sıde Canabıs. A hundred mıles of dosey cows and sneezıng.

The overseers of nearly every Romanıan vıllage

The blackness of Bulgarıa

The Bıblıcal sense of Goat droppıngs

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Tue, 11 Jul 2006 08:19:00 +0000

After 3 hours of climbing I realised the Alps had never really left me. I had skirted their mass but they were to swerve and spread in front of me as far as the eye could see. It was a daunting sight. My hill climbing state of being had been laid to rest, at least for a while and it was difficult to recultivate a mental capacity to do a whole month of Gottard passes.

I had raised myself above the coast and indeed above Western Europe. As I looked ahead all talk of transitions and subtle nuances were rubbished in an instance. Once again the terrain under my wheels had defined a major boundary. It was vast, I had climbed from Sea level to a plateau surrounded by snow capped peaks. There was nothing. Desolate, foreboding grey silence for miles.

There was a weight in the air, The snow capped peaks of the Alps were bright and invigorating, here one felt somber, heavy and contemplative. The sky was as dark as my mood, its tone growing deeper with each passing hour.......... I began the search for a place to make camp. I was accompanıed by Mozart on full volume, even Vıvaldı showed hıs face agaın, they were both deafened by what had abruptly become a very lonely place for a solo cyclist. The look for a place to make camp out of sıte from pryıng eyes only seemed to carry me further ınto a world of rumblıng of clouds and achıng legs.

I had spent over a month in Western Europe, and a fine adventure it had been. If needed I could break camp in just over an hour (a stark contrast to the ten minutes needed before leaving for work ın London!) I could march or stagger into a cafe and proudly announce my need for water and I no longer needed to think about which side of the road to cycle on. The challenges had been fair, the rain wet! and the hills knee jerking. I had cycled over 1300 miles and thought I had done very well for myself..

It was now on this Croatıan plateau that Eastern Europe broke from its silence and wrapped me in its history, it was a skull and crossed bones and read “Mines”. Darkness grew closer as the Mine fields grew thicker.

It had now been 4 hours of wet hill climbing and to be frank I was totally Knackered. It is a strange thing when the world around you becomes smaller, It started shrinking as the clouds once again shrowded me in a visibility of less than 20 meters. I could now only see the mine field signs that were next to the road. The rain quickened and the hill steepened.......... the world around me was still big enough to call an adventure although ıt was gettıng a lıttle cramped!.

The map showed purple dots symbolising villages and towns. I had passed 5 along this high plateau during the afternoon and all had been desolate, nothing except concrete walls. Empty shops and houses with every shred of detail gouged or exploded away. A vast mounatanous world with deserted villages and bullet ridden vehicles. The only signs of life would be the darting of swallows feeding their young ones ironically nested in bullet and Shell holes.

My world was getting smaller.........

It was only when I cycled upwards into the storm that all sense of adventure and fair play ended.

There were now 2 hours of light remaining when the first lightning bolt struck the road side. I was in a mine field scared to leave the rut I was cycling in,drenched,in perpetual shock from ear splitting thunder and I was cycling uphill ! I had to stop. I knew my world had minimised when I found my self checking for trip wires at the entrance to a deserted house. Was I going mad? could there be trip wires? I stood there watching lighting strike every 10 seconds, scared to move my feet in case I disturbed some harm full remnant of war or adjusted the deciding factor for the next lightning strike. It was at this moment and ın thıs state of mind that a single bell rang above the cracks of thunder. Then a voice. For a whole and very long minute, there was thunder, the ring of a bell and the repeated chant..... “Oojeverde” “Oojeverde” “Oojeverde” (phoneticals)

The man emerged through the cloud like a camelion dressed in grey fog accompanied by a herd of goats. At the time it felt biblical, My world instantly exploded back to its normal size. He was shielding his head from the heavens with a pan lid..... I ran out and just smiled at him, he stopped, smiled back and then continued.......“Oojeverde”....“Oojeverde” He and his herd of goats had without doubt shown me the light. I could camp where ever there were goat droppings, and short nibbled grass! I adorned my head torch and went hunting for mine free goats droppings !

The descent from storm mountain saw a world return to relative normality. Colour could be seen in water and trees, schools and churches. Sadly the people were still cloaked in grey, as were the few occupied homes. Buying floppy carrots and stale bread in these rare visits to peopled villages provided little smatterings of learned knowledge as to the nature of this desolate place, alas for the moment an addition has been added to my note book.......... “ what happened here ” I was cycling through a country that had been stripped bare by war. Hours of cyclıng in a monotone world seeking shelter in hollowed abodes has balanced my lack of knowledge with a strange knowing that seemed far more unpleasant yet welcomed ten fold over an ımage offered whılst ın ones lıvıng room watchıng televısıon.

Once again it was another mountainous climb into Bosnia. The temperature dropped as quickly as my patience for these relentless hardships at each border crossing. For the Bosnian climb the road was lined with huge vats (well ok at least very large jars) of honey. A sweet tooth relentlessly dragged me closer to each stall I passed till eventually after 2 hours of the climb I could tolerate there calling no longer and replenished my dwindling honey supplies with a gargantuan jar of Acacian honey. The remainder of the climb had me cursing the extra weight that I had irresistibly burdened upon myself. At the top, the portions of honey were extra large (and rightly so!) as I gazed upon the Croatia I had just cycled and looked onwards toward Bosnia. Occasionally small openings in the sky remind the mountains,trees and my cold tuttsies that the sun is still there and how much we all miss it.

The top! Prıor to the feast of honey.

Before I descend into the next land, it has become common practice to fill my belly savour ing the moment sometimes so long that I start feeling hungry again and prolonging the contentment of the pre down hill swoop till stiff knees finally provide the momentum to saddle up

These Post border descents are analogous to taking an aspirin after a night of over indulgence. I will raise my arms (yes its plural now I have mastered none handed loaded bike cycling) and triumphantly YEEeeehOOOoooo my way into the next country forgetting in an instance the pain it took to reach the top.

The following morning Bosnia set a president that would continue up to writing this ditty.......being discovered in my no longer secret camping spots.

This has caused many anxious moments and severe morning panics, in varying degrees of magnitude that have almost always been fueled by a false sense of danger and usually end with smiles and sharings of Acacian honey and coffee. These friendly morning occasions have ,at last cured my panics and strengthened my resolve no end. As the sun rises it has been goats with shepherds in tow that have been my most regular visitors. Our seemingly very different worlds come together with a confident grin and reassuring handshake followed by a very pleasurable breakfast surrounded by goats and sharing sign language, smiles and whatever emerges from the food pannier. These wonderful moments sadly come to end when the goats misbehave and I am once again left alone to break camp and be on my way. I now listen intently as I wake for the ringing of a goats bell and herders call in the hope I may share some more Acacian honey.

As can be expected some visitors have not been so welcoming. The lands I was passing through have been chopped and hoed almost entirely by hand. Hence a visit from the midnight wheat stealing syther gang (to the profusion of the land owner the following morning). Torch lights and abrupt foreign voices bouncing off my flimsy canvas world was most unpleasant, needless to say it was a disturbing nights sleep and a breakfast in much shorter grass, thankfully with guy ropes still intact. The pokings of shiny gun nozzles, Gypsies, Bulls and long whiskered sniffers have all made for some very diverse morning awakenings.

The mornıg after 'the Sythers'

The wind had been chasing its tail for 2 days, stroking my back or slapping me maliciously in the face. Finally it grew bored of its games and ran West. This was far from ideal for a cyclist heading East over a mountain range growing a little concerned at missing Englands first world cup game. Although I am not an avid football supporter, I have been treasuring the next victorious game I get to watch with front row seats guaranteed in a very rural Eastern Europe.

The day of Englands second world cup game was a day of television. In the morning an interview for Serbain state television (and a beautiful fluent English speaking cycling journalist!). I cycled up the same stretch of road 3 times, then acted the part of expert map reader whilst gazing upon an imaginary panorama, then cycled round the corner in triplicate heading towards an imaginary mountain range. It was a post “shoot” coffee with the interviewer then an afternoon race to the next town to watch England from the other side of the screen. A combination of the the wind once again being in Englands favour and using the big cog for the first time saw me proudly make it 2 hours early.

The Quoted Cyclist:

The Bosnian bar poster reads...............

“ Bikers game tattoo erotic canoeing rock show “

Unfortunately with an insalubrious Istanbulian deadline to meet I could not wait the week to see this Bosnian Extravaganza, I spent the next week dılutıng any glumness sımply through ımagınıng the openıng scene of the show.

Wındy brıdges and mornıng swıms

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Sun, 02 Jul 2006 14:38:00 +0000

A celebetry visit to the first cafe on the Italien side of the border reminded me how rapidly pockets are emptıed cyclıng on the hills of Switzerland. Despite the vast reduction in daily monatary outlays, Italy has countered with its profusion of traffic. With no map due to an evasive mountain manouvre and early departure from the Alps I was bound to cycling the Italien equivalent of the North circular in rush hour......... all the way to Venice

My eyes had been feasting in Switzerland. They were spoilt and finding it difficult to adjust to a land of grey concrete and road side Pizerias, hence I was forced, clad in smog and exhaust soot to a rapid Mars bar fueled sprint between towns. And what better way to arrive than on 2 wheels with a compass to show me the way through the gorgeous cobbled streets of these North Italien streets.

Ladies dressed in their finest, with waiters ducking between doors delivering morning coffee and cakes to shop owners. I don’t think I will ever know during these brief visits if it was I painting the ıdylıc picture of Small Italien towns or, and I sincerely hope so, that it really was as I remember as I wrıte thıs. Each morning I would emerge from some secret urban den with dirty finger nails and stubble to cycle into the next town through towering balconied terraces and squares to join the early risers and watch Italy wake up.

I had spent enough tıme surrounded by walls of rock and snow capped peaks that it took some time to relax my mind to flat ground cycling again with no moments of tense shoulder shrugging as I braced for another long climb. This flat horizon was a much deserved Leg holiday alas at times I felt as equally weary as in the mountains with the buffeting drone of unrelenting traffic and on this horrible road there was to be not one campsite. It was a week spent in fields and partly built factories.

At the moment of takıng thıs pıcture a promıse was made that thıs wheel barrow (water hanger) would be transformed to a palm tree wıthın the year.

To add a little cheer on these glum evenings I would devoure sqwuished chocolate at a glutonous rate . On such evenings, whilst divulging there would be a magical show of fire flies. The warm up act was an occasional blink that would grow to a finale involving a show of lights from the base of camp up into the canopy of trees or rafters around me. I have happily if not a little expensively maintained my sweet tooth in salute to those magical light shows. (my farthers genes I am sure). It has been impossible to resist the finest gelatina (carefull with them vowels!) palours on offer, appalled as I am to admit, many of the lovely sights I passed in Italıen towns were probably during the afternoons search for Italys finest cyclists coolıng Pistacho joy!

Returnıng to flat ground allowed me a great perspectıve on what I had just Cycled through (or over). It has been impossible to ignore each crumple and dimple the earth lays below my wheels. It is the wonder of cycling that has one studyıng the surrounding land and sky. Often without knowing I have begun to learn its patterns and moods. Gaining a sense of what is to come or reading between the lines of the map (or lack of lines!). For thıs reason as I cycle over frontiers It has become very noticable how our polıtıcal world has been divided by the great features of our land. I can think of only one border crossing to date that had not seen the handle bar levers crunchıng into the easıest gear. If the border crossing does not induce leg cramps then I would most likely be on a bridge or boat.

Along wıth hılls ıt ıs water gatherıng that ıs also never far from ones mınd. My confıdence has been bolstered no end whılst cyclıng these flat plaıns. In Italy a request to fıll my water bottles often results in subtle scowels, Then they notıce my grubby chain oiled legs or other cycling paraphernalia followed by a raptious spew of Italien which always appears very encouraging. I carry my ice cluncking bottles back to the bike with slightly strengthened confidence for the next time I am parched.

Despite no map I head East with compass round neck, skirting the southern tip of the Alps with candor and wıth little steers further south when they get a little close. The Gottard Pass was still a little too fresh in my mind (or is that legs)

I had always imagined Venice to be the grand finale to my skim accross northern Italy. I had hoped Verona may at least allow me a glimse of a great roman arena. A sore dissapointment indeed, It was almost impossible to get a glimpse of its ancient stone through a presentation of fibre glass sphinxs and lions, not to mention rows of stalls selling internationally recognised tourist hats, a hark back to my days on the stalls of Portobello market . I left the town with buses literally fuming their anger all over my poor head, the highlight of the day (and Verona) had not been towering ancient Roman architecture but a kind Morrocon man in a back street internet cafe who had given me free mint Tea and and an Egg sandwich which I had been yearning for (the latter that is), for some time.

That night I wedged myself into another corner of a dis-used factory to avoid discovery, the highlight alas was not mesmerizing points of lights but scooping the evening meal straight from the pan in a pitch black concrete shell. At 3 o’clock in the morning I awoke in my tent with a sneeze and then heard the echo!

Tents and echoes!

The following morning I cycled into vicenzia just after sunrise, found a gorgeous cobbled square and watched Italy wake up over sweet Italien pastries and coffee.

Venice had arrived, it had been the motivating cheer during the previous weeks cycling. As I ticked and signed campsite forms a thick Northern twanged man tapped me on the shoulder clad in lycra wıth stubble even longer than my own. A fellow bicycle tourer! and our fist chance to go BLAH, ROAR, RAHHHH... OUCH, WOW, COR BLIMEY and in English too! We had cycled almost the same route at the same time. Oh how we lamented about the rain and reassured ourselves that it really was a nightmare cycle to Dover. He had reached the base of the Gottard pass and been strongly recommended not to attempt ıt by bıcycle as the conditions were still a little cycle unfriendly. At 55 years old he vowed to return and conquere its unpredictable heights.....Respect! The campsite reception had heard an hour of northern twanged verbal explosion, it was great. The next morning he pointed his front wheel towards Greece in a race to see the birth of his daughters first child.

A whole day was spent in Venician decadence. Narrow streets, hidden court yards linked with arching bridges. Shops of golden masks and streets lined with galleries. It was a welcome respite of pedestrian peace after the constant (and dangerous) Italian roads. The large squares had me skurrying back to little streets as I became overwelmed by a syndrom synonomous wıth trafalga square.

My Venecian evening was one of true Vivaldic indulgance. I was sat inside my very own fairy tale, surrounded by 30 foot frescoes and huge white columns, the Chiesa San Vidal was the home to an acclaimed 8 piece band that filled everyone and everything with a sound that I shall never forget. The “second half” ran into Mozart and 2 Bach Piano Conertos. I left spell bound and speechless. The spell had taken its hold as I wandered into the early hours of the morning lit by tiny lamps and illuminated bridges. I was thouroughly lost and loving it!
The spell was finnally weakened by an hour wait for the bus back to the campsite! I was beıng transported back to smelly socks and camp stoves knowıng that Venice has been the only place that my wheels have taken me that has evoked a momentary lonelyness and wanting for company.

The second man of many miles cycled passed me and stopped on the road to Trıeste. He was from hungary (i think) He talked, made a fire on the side of the road to make coffee, then talked some more. I have no ıdea how the conversatıon wıth hımself went but the cofffee was great. He cycled toward Hungry wıth an amazıng combınatıon of half shoppıng trolleys and bags strapped to hıs bıke.

I departed Italy through Slovenia and into croatia in a currency confusing jettsetting (cyclesetting?) blur. I could see the Dalamtion coast wıth the Adrıatıc Sea but a few hundred meters below me. I now tire of thinking how the weather has been the one thing to strip all illusions of grandeur to the core. I had accepted rain every day (still) and all other combinations of weather beahvioiur. It was, with this stance on the weather that I approached the bridge that led to the Islands of the Dalmatıon coast. The previous 2 hours had me once again shouting skyward asking “why” and generally profusing at my ill treatment. There were huge holes in crash barriers and wind speeds high enough to lift a loaded bicycles front wheel and nudge it at will. After a month of weather misbehavings I had learnt to duck (literally) under the sadness and laugh at such extremities. I raised my head in excitement as I saw the bridge. The I saw lines of caravans and other 2 wheeled (motor) friends. The Bridge was closed! The toll master was profusing and pointing at his holy dial, then I understood why I had been forced to de-saddle and shout lots, it was an especially windy day blowıng ın at 167 km per hour. It was quite a grounding experience to have the strength of the wınd confırmed to me havıng struggled to cycle ın ıt all day.

So began my bus shelter camp. I invented lots of games, imagined many times that the wind was fading and continually chuckled at how fidgety 30 motor cycle tourers are when thay want to tour on their motor cycles.

The next morning I awoke, checked tree tops and the general flappy-ness of the world, the wind had passed.....I triumphantly crossed the bridge to the first Island of the Dalmation coast.

It was at thıs crossıng that I realısed the transıtıon from beıng on a holıday to a more long term 'somthıng' happened. It would now be strange to wake and not prime the stove for morning coffee.... or sperate the fly sheet ın the hope that ıt would dry before I fınıshed breakfast. I think I may be having the best nights sleep for many years despite random bumps, lurking creatures around the tent and ants, which appear to have perfected the art of teleportation through tent canvas, let ıt be known there shall be war if they perfect their techniques through glass; honey jars specifically.

Much preferred to wındy brıdges

I awoke to blue sky and thought it time to rest my legs. I was literally inches from the Adriatic sea and so celebrated my day of rest by a morning submersion in its crystal clear chillyness. I would sit besıde mirror smooth water and warm myself with morning coffee awaıtıng the sun to rise above the mountains. I sat there all morning listening to a hen attempting to finsh its cockledoodle doo-ing. By the time I had eaten breakfast it had only managed a cockle..., by chapter 2 and a mid morning snack it was cockledoodling... by 1:00 in the afternoon it unleashed its full verse, and I tucked into Chapter 3 whilst dipping toes into cool water. That evening and 3 luxury beers later I spoke whole sentences of English on the phone and received coherant sentences back from a friend, marvelous! Arrangements were made, it was to be a meeting in Istanbul, 1 month from now. The next morning I peeked out of my sleeping bag at a post card size map of Europe. The Alps were brown and purple coloured, so was everything between the Adriatic Sea and Istanbul. My tolerance for alcohol had clearly weakened.!

I ate Yogurts, bananas, and some more bananas then said my farewells to the steep sided Dalmation coast. I now was turning the peddles to reach the first deadline of the trip (indeed since I finished full time employment), and a huge swathe of brown and purple lie ahead.

After 3 hours of climbing I realised the Alps had never really left me. I had skirted their mass but they were to swerve and spread in front of me as far as the eye could see. It was a truly daunting sight. My hill climbing state of being had been laid to rest, at least for a while and it was difficult to re-cultivate a mental capacity to do a whole month of Gottard passes.

As thıs Croatıan vıllage sıgn post proclaıms, Austalıa ıs stıll a long way away

Into the Snow

noreply@blogger.com (glen) — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 14:36:00 +0000

May 23rd

It was time to climb the Alps. I had meandered through valleys (relatively speaking) and skirted alpine lakes but the snow capped peaks were always baring down upon me, calling to me from their snowy caps.

I chanced upon a very kind T-pee owner who made a call to the “mountain pass hot line” . The news was not good, in fact at the time it made me feel down right miserable. The pass I was now less than a days cycle ride from was closed!. It had been raining insatiably since I arrived in Switzerland and snowing to the same degree “up top”. The men with the big diggers had claimed it inpassable.

The detour was at least a 3 day cycle away and involved over 1500 combined meters of hill climbing.

Afer “t-pee man” had concluded his informative dialogue on the extortionate Swiss land tax he had to pay for his tent he bid me good luck and reminded me the alternative pass may be closed if there is any more snow.

Later that day I passed the train station that runs the 15 minute train journey under the mountain (that was closed). I looked away in defiance and was thank full the arrangements to meet friends in Venice had been loose ones. The hill I had zoomed down the day before was graced with a second visit from me and Condor the cycle. So began the biggest (or is that the tallest) detour of the trip so far, I was on my way to the Gottard pass, all 2400 meters of it (how easily it roles off the tongue).

On the way to the Gottard pass...........

.........the best cycle path ever!

I was still determined to Ski and the detour took me past the road that lead all the way to Engleberg one of the few remaining places where the ski slopes were still open.

Over the weeks cycling since Calais I had grown to accept the staring eyes of people I pass, and ussually managed a nod or grin in return (even if it looked more like a pained grimis) and have realised the beep of a cars hooter is more often than not for encouragement than in anger. It was very different this time.......it was a dead end at the top of over 1000 metres (high) of rain swept tarmac. It was grueling. Cycling into cloud cover, soaking wet, to the sound of rain, wind and jeers from snug and warm coach passengers waving. Shaking fingers appeared from open windows, i’m sure they were all saying “its a dead end fool, you are going the wrong way”, or was that just my legs and the sane part of brain? My self esteem was taking a battering, I felt silly.

I was gasping at the. Shield my face from an ear splitting side wind I was disheartened to say the least but had made it the top. The Gottard pass was over double this height in half the distance. As I waddled and dripped my way into the tourist information office leaving puddles in my wake there was a tv screen displaying a dull mist with no discernible detail what so ever, at the bottom of the screen was written “web cam - 3000m”

Complete cloud cover or not the next morning I clipped out of my peddles and into skis, marvelous! I spent 6 hours ski-ing down hills I couldn’t see and loved every minute of it.

It was a little strange going up my first hill without expelling any effort, since setting off from Shepherds bush, but it was a joyous time shooting down hills jumping and falling over lots and generally moving without having to peddle. The whole occasion (to which I was very proud of achieving) seemed a little dreamy in thick white at over 3000m....... it swiftly drifted to the surreal as Indian people dressed in little scarfs and sun glasses started asking if they could have their photograph taken with me. I say this not to feed my ego but to remind me that it really happened. By 2 o’clock in the afternoon every time I reached the top of the mountain to have another super ski I would be paused and made to stand like a statue, ski poles in hand whilst Indian tourists took movies and pictures of a ‘real’ skier. I was a one day Bollywood film star (as were the other handful of skiers daft enough to ski in a complete whiteout). As a close to the “Engleberg experience” I am compelled to mention a whole coach load of Japanese tourists dressing up in ledder hosen (spelling) and huge brass horns to have their picture taken in the snow with visibility down to 15 meters.............why?

With horrific sunburn and aching legs It was time for the grande finale of my incredible cycle through the Alps. The Gottard pass.

I could see what I named the “gateway” for around a day before i passed through its intimidating folds. It didn’t start raining till later in the day, at this point I was wrestling with the full force (60km gusts apparantly) of wind funnelling through 1600 metre high gully I was shortly to begin my final ascent through. It was painfully slow so slow in fact I had to stop at times and wait for gusts to calm themselves, it was certainly no way to bolster my fragile confidence in preparation for Gottard.

It is a funny thing that happens when one knows a large mountain looms ahead. For a while you forget, and cycle along metaphorically twiddling your thumbs, then you see something ahead, a little incline or a poke of snow through the clouds. Suddenly I will start checking how many gears there are left in reserve or analysing the map feeling sure “it” should have started at the last bend or village. Alternatively the climb can start oblivious to me and my legs. After a few minutes of ignorant glory, reality takes a firm grip along the lines of “drink!, breath! loosen your grip on the handle bars, relax your shoulders”

Like I said it is a funny thing to know a big hill is approaching.

This was certainly no Biggin hill it was the Gottard pass and there was to be no oblivious up hilling to be had today.

The start of the Gottard clamber.

As I could now predict with growing accuracy, the wind gave way to torrential rain. Just in time for this very conscious begining to the climb. This time there were lots of hand waving from my 4 wheeled companions, as a pose to coach jeering, which really, (I say again .....really, really) helps. It was a long way up, after 5 hours of up hilling I was under half way up. The law of gradients had treated me kindly, I could still breath, in fact I could still string a few lines of a song together before I became out of breath. I was feeling like a true adventurer now. Shrowded in mist (much softer than rain!) I had bid farewell to vegetation and was now surrounded by stark deep grey rock.

The following morning I awoke from my very own base camp and prepared for my attempt on the summit ( excuse the dramatics ) I had just lugged a very heavy bicycle to 1600 meters above sea level and was proudly clicking my feet into my peddles to take me and almost all my worldly belongings to nearly 2 miles high YEH!........ It was raining!

Dressed in full regalia, I was a true arctic explorer . It started getting a little chilly, weirdly the amount of cloths I was wearing was inverse to the falling temperature. By the time I reached the snow line I was sweating hot and looked more like a beach bum than arctic explorer. Everything was becoming a little surreal and my poor little head was finding it difficult to keep up. I was completely on my own, shrowded in cloud, in shorts eating Bananas and leaning against a 2 meter wall of ice. The only thing that made sense was to get back on the bike and cycle up some more.

The road started to flatten ahead, I had been fooled twice already with such mountain tom foolery, only to be forced back into the easiest gear and slink once more into the hill climbing slouch. The map was saying you are at the summit. You have cycled to the top of the alps, then out of the mist the sign appeared........ I HAD!

I threw snowballs, brewed coffee, played my harmonica and had a picnic (once I had reverted back to my artcic cyclists attire).

Under all those layers is the biggest smile my chilly cheaks had ever managed!

I was literally sky (or cloud) high. It had taken a total of 13 hours, and unlike Biggin hill I could stand and even have snowball fights with my self when I reached the top!

In short the descent was record breaking. 45 minutes of breath taking hairpin bends, panoramic wonderment, reaching speeds unheard of for a 2 wheeled, free wheeling alpine peddler (details not to be disclosed as mother may be reading). This was followed by hours and hours of casual down hilling all the way to Italy.

A precarious start to free wheeling joy

A heavenly descent..........

Switzerland, dispite its small horizontal footprint on the world has left an indelible imprint on my mind. I had camped by alpine lakes, skidded down hills with skis on, seen mountains that had literally stopped me in my tracks. Swiss Decadence had been everything people had said, private submarines floating next to oversized 4x4 monsters and a price tag on a glass of wine that took the piss (pun intended)

Most importantly of all it was ten times that which I could have imagined. The mountains bestowed themselves upon me and made everything good. Doubts faded about the madness of this very long cycle ride and my physical ability to carry so much weight upwards.

Above all I had sincerely enjoy it! It had filled holes in me that had been empty without my knowing.

Italy and blue sky!

The whole massive day concluded with me sipping coffee kindly bought by a man who makes his living travelling the popular beaches of Spain in winter with a metal detector. Apparantly pocketing 15,000 Euros for his troubles...........wierdo!

Next stop Venice and the Dalmation coast ...................