wingingitonwheels

[wingingitonwheels]

Epilogue

I dedicate the last year to Mark, whom without his relentless and unwavering support, none of this would be possible.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

 My gap year (by a 49 year old cycling adventurer)

“Look If you had One shot Or one opportunity To seize everything you ever wanted In one moment Would you capture it Or just let it slip?...

…

So here I go, is my shot Feet, fail me not, this may be the only opportunity that I got

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime”

Eminem

Saturday 20th August 0900 – Sennen Cove, Land’s End

Finally, 24 years after I’d first heard of any records from running from Land’s End to John O Groats, there I was, with Eminem playing in my head, “Make it count” tattooed on my brain and my mantra ready to play on demand “This is what I do – point to point”.

With the sun shining and as Dire Straits. Money for Nothing intro finished and Mark Knopfler started laying down his notes, Doug Gale the RRA official Time Keeper counted me down…”Three, two one – goooo!”. I was on my way…next stop, John O Groats!

This time last year, I had no inkling of what lay ahead of me for the next 12 months.  I’d just started a senior position in “one of the big four” accountancy firms, having left a very secure job with one of the most successful software companies in the world. When I was approached about the job, something I described as “moving from comfortable slippers to a pair of trainers”, I was ready to take the risk, and prepared that if it didn’t work out for any reason, it wasn’t the end of the world. If you followed my blog from the beginning of 2022, you’ll know that the job didn’t work out, and after 2 months, I handed in my notice, worked a notice period of 3 months and on the day I finished, jumped on a plane to South America with an ever changing idea of where I would start and which direction I would head north.  COVID still ruled the world and unpredictability was part of everyone’s daily life: Flexibility and acceptance was the key to success.

I’ve taken a good few month to write my final piece on what can be described as a gap year (actually 8.5 months but who’s counting?). My trip across the Americas finished nearly 3 months ago, and the summer has gone past in the blink of an eye.

Whilst away, people who were following commented “you won’t want to come home” and “this experience will change you forever”. On the first observation, I can honestly say, being home is great! Spontaneously, I tested out a short adventure, cycling from Alicante to home with less than 24 hours’ notice between conception and landing.  From that short trip that ended up being just over a week, I learnt that this year, I’ve spent more than enough time in my own head as I found out, and by the time I’d reached France, having ridden quite a long way, and confronted with no accommodation options for the night and panache in a tiny town that cost 7 Euros, I was more than happy to cycle through the night to Bordeaux and get the next flight home, preferring not to spend another 3 days riding north into a furnace-style headwind, the likes of which I had plenty of experience in the Americas. Home is still definitely where the heart is.

The Americas experience has changed me forever on several levels.  If I ever do write a book, I hope to be able to draw these out.

The question I’ve been asked more than any other is “What was your favourite place”. I’ve not been able to answer that question for so long, as there were so many incredible experiences, places and people.  But with time, these three buckets have settled, and with that, Argentina has risen to the top for all three ingredients. Whilst I may not be able to pin it down to a specific point on a map, the richness of memories from Argentina stand out and make me happy more than any other collection of experiences. I recently watched “Race around the world” where couples (mother/son, husband/wife, brother/sister, uncle/nephew) were challenged to race from Mexico to Ushuaia with £3000 between them (which to me sounds more than adequate!). I found it interesting that the generosity and love of dogs by Argentinians was so ingrained in their ways, and so what I experienced is likely what anyone else would.  And yet, I was warned of how dangerous Argentina was, endorsed by the World Crime Index (18 most dangerous at the time of landing). Yet all I experience was kindness and love. From this I draw the following:

The less you’ve got the more you give

Be brave enough to form your own opinion and challenge convention and opinion

99.9999% people are good – 0.0001% are not, and this is what hits the news

These points ring true for most of South America, but where I experienced hatred, towards Potosi, I still don’t think those people that found my presence unwanted were bad. I see them as troubled and unsupported, with no vision or hope of how to improve their own lives or the world they live in.  I can see why they may resent me in their country.  I don’t think I’d rush back there, but it was a valuable lesson to have been confronted with another country’s reality first hand.

Comparing my rides through South and North America is like comparing Neptune and Mars: Both roundish but that’s about it. Landing in Florida after Peru rammed home the stark contrast between wealth and apparent poverty. But strangely, I felt more connected to the people and culture in South America than I ever did in North America other than the friends I already knew. Throughout the ride from Fort Lauderdale to Vancouver, whilst the occasional kindness appeared in the offer of a lift or a free can of seltzer, most of society seemed to operate via insular bubbles, surrounded by aggression and intolerance, and no obvious community. Even though I never settled more than a day in all but 3 places, because most US infrastructure is widespread, even compared to the UK, because there is space, space divides connectedness and community. Or perhaps that is also due to the politics, where some people believe that it is only a matter of time before there is civil war, and the country’s states become all red or all blue and more like countries than states (which to me is how the states largely felt even this year). Supporting my observation of South America, what I saw in the US was “the more you have the less you give”. People were more likely to be suspicious of strangers, less likely to go out of their way. It sticks with me like a permanent scar that when I was blown hard off my bike by the wind in Idaho, two drivers going in opposite directions would have seen me on the flat and featureless plain, but neither stopped nor even slowed down.  

There were many things I didn’t feel I could openly share my view on whilst riding North America, as I was a visitor and not a citizen, but I may also alienate many of the American audience that might be following my journey.  The three most resounding cultural memories I have relate to guns, abortion and religion. Since returning, as a result of the mass shooting in Texas that took place in May, there’s been a gun amnesty in that state, something I had vocalised rather than written that I felt needed to happen as potentially the only way for the American citizens to “have a voice” where the government won’t act. In 2021, circa 20,000 Americans were killed by guns, with 673 mass shootings.  I’m not an American, but my greatest wish is that somehow, they find a way forward to reduce these numbers in future.  I find it shocking that many states overturned Roe vs Wade and the right to an abortion.  During my trip, both anti-abortion and religion were thrust upon you visibly by huge billboards repeatedly and not restricted to the bible belt.  Add in the divisive topic of Biden and Trump, and it’s easy to see why families and society find it impossible to talk openly to one another.  And so, whilst I still loved the USA and arriving in Vancouver, where South America had a great depth and richness to the experiences where I felt like Ulysses in the Odyssey, North America taught me fortitude and solidified what was important to me.

Understand your emotional brain

Many of my friends are athletes, and it’s no coincidence that with this demographic, a good number of them endorse a book called “The Chimp Paradox” by Steve Peters.  He knows a thing or two, being the Team Psychologist for Team Sky for many years, and no doubt many other accolades. I tried to listen to this book as an audiobook a few years ago when friends were talking about “put my chimp back in the box”.  I struggled to listen to Prof Peters as he talked about everything he knows about the brain and how it works when it’s put under stress.  At the time, about 7 years ago, I didn’t feel like I had a chimp.  I was completely in control when it came to racing or challenges, and I didn’t feel I ever got to a sporting “breaking point”, where your brain is telling you that you can’t go harder, faster, hurt more or continue. Prior to that, I had one notable sporting failure in 2005, but most of the time when doing sport, I feel that I am still in control of the part of the brain called the amygdala, responsible for emotions and our reaction to stress, and this was put to the test on some notable occasions during the trip.  When on my own, with no support, my logical brain rules my emotional brain.  Notably, when I got caught out at 4200m in Bolivia in the middle of an electrical storm and sheltered between rocks, eventually moving before becoming hypothermic. Also notable was on discovering no accommodation in a sleepy Colorado town after 125 miles, and without prior knowledge or preparation to do so, riding into the night at altitude as the temperature dropped to 2 degrees, towards Colorado Springs on a desolate and potholed road. The decisions I made that night from 125 miles to 200 were all good and still astound me as I think back to them now.  If strength comes from adversity, then these two supported by many others have changed me and made me stronger.

How do these highlighted incidences and the many others relate to the emotional brain?  Well, the decision to attempt Land’s End to John O Groats in one go, a world record being secondary, wouldn’t have happened had I not been exposed to desperate situations.  Those are lessons I learnt about myself before I arrived in Land’s End and helped me press the big green go button in 18th August.  But I’m still learning about my emotional brain and more will come out about that later.  It’s one thing when my back is up against the wall, and no one to bail you out and the odds are stacked against you – for me that’s when the fight appears. I can now identify my weakness and as of yesterday, I found my true limit, not the one my emotional brain decided. I can write quite a lot more about this now I feel I understand it better and can relate it to previous sporting success, but that’s maybe for another time.

Take risks – try not to fail, but if you do, treat failure as an opportunity to learn.

When you go for something big, it rarely feels like timing is perfect.  Whether it’s changing jobs, going on adventure, ignoring convention and doing your own thing your way, taking on a challenge that is more likely to fail than to succeed.  All you can do is mitigate risk as much as possible and turn up being as mentally and physically prepared as you possibly can.  It’s easy to listen to “the noise” which can undermine your thinking. We’re all different, but I would rather have tried something and failed than to never have tried at all.  It regularly feels like I’m the one who fails whilst all around me succeed at the challenge they have set themselves.  I question now whether for some of these in the part of my brain won on those days, or as I’m sometimes reminded, the challenges I put myself up for are frequent and insanely challenging and sometimes I need to be reminded of how many times I’ve succeeded.

One of the very first memories of anything wise my mum imprinted on me, annoyingly at the time I was trying to sew (which I am completely 100% useless at), “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again”.  When she said this to me, I was about 7 and I was trying to make a fancy dress costume for myself with my crappy eyesight as my aide.  I doubt she thought I’d be putting this to use for all the challenges I put myself up for. I’m not sure whether she’d be laughing or crying now, but I’ve failed plenty, and I’m still learning!  I think the biggest regret I might have would be to have wanted to do something but be too old to try.  I might be too old to succeed at some point but until I’m fed up with failing, I’ll probably keep trying.

Don’t wait for the perfect timing because it will never happen

August 20th 09:00:15 – Land’s End

The odds are completely stacked against me – 4 key events marred the build up in the last two months when I’d once again made a decision in Salta that the E2E attempt was on)…

With my A team behind me, the wheels started turning. I put all the events of the last few months firmly away the day before (the less than perfect build up) and with Eminem in my head, reminded myself that the bike was perfect, I am the fittest and youngest I’ll ever be, and this was my one shot. And then ran into a Parkrun being run in the Land’s End car Park.  After apologising but refusing to stop, I hurdled what would be the first of 5 road closures to take on the rest of Mainland Britain. Here I was, taking on a challenge that had a lower success rate than summiting Everest, and the 10th attempt in 19 years.  

Never had I felt I had tapered so well, I pulled back my effort on every climb in the South West, and free-wheeled whilst gripping my bike against a hard crosswind on every descent. I’d given the crew instructions not to give me any time or distance checks, as these were noise and irrelevant. I was against the clock, and it was ticking.  Feed stops would be every 3 hours, where practical, unless I flagged I needed something sooner. Heavy congestion after 40 miles through roadworks was anticipated, and although it slowed me down, I made it through without stopping.  Two of the officials had anticipated heavy stationary traffic in many places due to it being Saturday, changeover day and holidays. Exeter was manageable and only one bottleneck south of Bristol, and finally more congestion on A38 were the only things to speak of that caused any concern. At 12 hours I had ridden 238 miles with 3,300m of climbing.  Things were looking good!  

Although I’d given instruction not to provide any time checks, one of the officials did north of Exeter, saying I was 58 minutes up on schedule. The reason being that with that information, you could either take the view of “Great! Aren’t I doing well?” or “Oh no, I have messed up”. Either way, the information provides the opportunity for the emotional brain to have a view.  My logical brain was looking at two pieces of information. Although tested day after day, my heart rate monitor didn’t work, which was to guide my effort. When that didn’t work, I used my power output to guide me, and elapsed time which worked to great effect.  Even the course profile didn’t work.

I have largely ignored power until then, but when I had no choice but to use it, I had to trust it. Not once did I look at distance or average speed, as these things really didn’t matter; I had to ride at a pace that I knew I could maintain for 50 hours; did it feel like I could chat to a friend riding beside me? If yes, good! If not, ease back.  

As I’d received this information, I decided to ease off the gas even more. If I needed a longer or extra stop, I would take it.  On telling Mark who was my lead support, he showed his annoyance too, and turned it into “contingency” not “up on schedule”.

There was so much support all along the route, which I’d not anticipated: all the way from Cornwall. One motorcyclist kept stopping, cheering, riding on a few miles, stopping, taking photos and riding on again.   Through Bristol, Janet Tebbutt (one of the 8 women solo E2E Bicycle record holders – 1954 – 2 days. 15 hours and 24 minutes) who got a big wave and smile. Shortly after, climbing up from the river to Clifton, two guys from Bristol South got out their cowbells and chased me up the hill.

All the way through Bristol, people appeared, signposting the way through what was a quiet city and a good time to pass through.

My first longer planned stop, and what I called the end of stage one was at Hyundai, Alveston.  It felt like a party atmosphere here, with support crew who I knew were joining, ready to jump in, and friends I wasn’t expecting, coming from afar to cheer me on with moral support.  There were lots of people I didn’t know too. I troughed a pot noodle, gave some people hugs, changed to a new top and after 9 minutes, hit the road.  Joining us were Emily and Tom, two of my friends from Royal Dean Forest Cycle Club and another friend, Abbie, who had driven all the way from Bedfordshire, who after a late clarion call had given up their weekend and annual leave just for me. A little further up, Mark’s mum, the wonderful Sue from Chipping Norton, appeared in the half dark, waving a union jack and shouting at the top of her voice. She’d previously dropped 10kg of chocolate off at the stop and appeared an hour later past Tewkesbury shouting with the same vigour as before.  

As the darkness fell, the miles quietly ticked away.  I continued in a world of my own, thinking of family and friends, wondering what they might be doing now (as it was between 2200 and midnight now).  I felt great! Then gently, something started to happen. I first started to yawn and put this down to the hour. My legs were still whirring away. I’d navigated through a road closure, towns and villages, and was pleased that I’d be going through this stretch at night. During the day, there is so much traffic, noise, congestion and traffic lights, it isn’t pleasant.  It felt like another world at night.  A few miles later, I started to feel the chill, and looked behind me for the following van. It wasn’t there, and the second van I hadn’t seen for what felt like 2 hours.  My body temperature was starting to drop rapidly now, despite my gilet and arm warmers. What felt like 5 minutes later, Mark and the support vehicle reappeared behind me. I found out later they had taken a wrong turn and it took a little time to catch up.  It was now five minutes past midnight, and just a few minutes later than the planned stop of 0000

By the time I’d got in the van to get more kit, I was shivering.  Wrapped up in a duvet, I ate: rice pudding, satsuma, some crisps, hydration. Mark cuddled me to help (or so he says), and without notice, suddenly, I was violently sick 3 times.  To this, Abbie commented “There’s going to be a lot of carb-loaded rats in Wolverhampton tonight!”  Everything I’d eaten was visible on the ground, and I became emotional, feeling John O Groats slip away. As my emotional brain took over, it took some persuasion to keep going, but whilst I couldn’t get any more food or hydration down in the van, Mark convinced me to get back on the bike, reminding me that once you’re sick, you feel better, and although I’d taken a hit, it wasn’t impossible to finish.  Ignoring that I was now under fuelled, cold but with Doug the timekeeper’s hat on and a whole lot of clothes, I set of steadily again up the road. Surprisingly, my legs kept turning and felt as fresh as before, which amazed me. I thought my legs would fall off with this experience. I knew I was on borrowed time in terms of taking on more calories, and with all the will in the world, slowly but surely, I tried to eat on the go.  The nausea stayed, but I got another 90 minutes up the road before I was sick again, everything I’d eaten came out again, and I found myself in the van once again, swearing at my useless body to just sort itself out.  Once again, I thought it was game over. One by one, my friends spoke to me. Mark firstly tried to will me back on the bike to just keep going, daylight would be coming soon, and go until 24 hours.  This felt too long.  Dave won me over with “get back on the bike, just see if you can and if it happens again, then we can talk about stopping”.  I know Mark wanted me to empty the tank completely before he called it off, all of us hoping that by some miracle, I’d be able to get some nutrition in and things would come good. When I got Abbie on her own, who felt like my friend and a mother, I said “nobody’s listening to me”.  She could see me faltering on the bike and had started to worry for my safety.  She didn’t come up with any suggestions, but just heard me out. After a cuddle, and a reminder that “it’s a decision to stop”, I got back on the bike and kept riding. About half a mile later, somewhere near Knutsford, my front tyre blew dramatically, and I wobbled all over the road.  2 minutes later, I had a new front wheel and I was off once again, into the rain and dark and approaching Warrington. Somehow, my legs were still turning, my quads didn’t hurt but I could feel them emptying of energy, and I was starting to struggle to make decisions about where I should be riding on the road.

We got through Wigan and I pulled up again.  Mark loaded me into the van and got everyone out.  He said, “Let’s try and rest up on for 20 minutes, try and get some sleep and see what happens”. It was 6am. I had wanted to be in Carnforth by then, the end of Stage 2, ready for the second half.  It was our last chance.  Funnily, he managed to sleep, where I just shut my eyes. When he woke, he said “Yep, you don’t look good, I’m calling it”. 19 hours of riding in 21 hours, 5000 metres of climbing.  It wasn’t John O Groats, but it was my attempt, and I couldn’t have given any more. Fact.

I didn’t cry. I hugged all the crew, apologised for the unhappy ending and promised everyone breakfast. We divided ourselves into cars and headed back down the road, exhausted, but somehow more closely bonded than before. What I really learnt is that my emotional brain tried to take over when things went wrong. I had no idea that my legs could carry on for 6 hours with 15 good hours of racing in them and zero fuel. When it’s easy to bail, unlike the Americas, controlling emotion and being logical will see you more likely to succeed.  I had to trust my team to make that decision for me when I kept getting back on the bike, and for that, I have learnt my biggest lesson.  It is what happened many times on my adventure, and I need to call on that more when I’m at home.

I found a new friend in Doug Gale that weekend.  Also supporting were Ian and Bridget Boon from Bristol, who had a purpose-built Vito specifically to support RRA attempts.  Bridget and Ian are also cyclists who between them have a few accolades including Bridget’s 24-hour distance of 460 miles in 1993, and their tandem records in 1987. Between all officials, they brought a wealth of experience.

I had wanted to finish this chapter with victorious photos in John O Groats, regardless of finishing time as per the plan. I didn’t want to do the attempt officially as it’s all or nothing, and with an official attempt comes a lot of pressure.  But it seemed necessary to gain the support crew that I had.  However, having the support along the road and from the crew will stick with me forever. Most of the time, everything went to plan. The wind wasn’t perfect, and it rained during the night. Who knows how the rest would have unfolded had I not been ill.  I learnt so much from what I did and have already reached out for help regarding the cold which seemed to trigger the sickness. Dave wrote a club report, which is shared with the most touching comment from another club friend and shared in this final chapter.  I didn’t get the victory shot, and I wish I was younger so I could try again with what I’ve learnt. I had said to Mark that I was too old to try again but I have no regrets to have tried, even if I should have tried earlier.  His response, having followed me for 21 hours was “I saw absolutely nothing that said you are too old.  If you’d pulled up with arthritis or similar, then fair enough. It is harder at your age, but it’s not unachievable”. Dave has already sent through his ideas for what could be done better for LEJOG Attempt 2.  It seems possible to write all day today as my emotional brain is dominating my logical brain, which is great for creativity but not good when you’re up against it!

I’ve had the time of my life and gifted with opportunities that most don’t have, and others only dream of over the last months.  I still don’t feel worthy of writing a book, but never say never. I’ve got some good ideas for what next, so watch this space 😊.

As the band Journey once said: “Don’t stop believing”

 Quotes from friend Dave and clubmate Ali

“It was an absolute privilege to help support Michelle Lee on her LEJOG attempt over the last few days. She was looking amazing for the majority of the effort and we all thought it was doable for a long time. For 369 miles the legs just kept spinning round like a machine. Sitting in the car for the whole time whilst that was going on, really hammered home just how ridiculously hard the 864mile record is The human body and digestive system just isn't designed for that duration of effort.

The weather God's weren't blowing hard enough and in the right direction either, which is an essential thing for a successful LEJOG attempt according to our Road Record Association observers. She was always about 45mins up on the schedule but after about 15 hours started struggling to keep food down and ended up dehydrated and lacking carbohydrates. To her credit she kept powering on for another 6 hours, throwing up and getting back on the bike but you can only go so long like that. At one point she even had a front tub blowout like a gunshot and did well to not crash. Matt Neale will be glad to know his front wheel got good use after that!

She had really experimented with getting the nutrition right but for whatever reason something didn't work out this time. Without the sickness and with the right weather and I totally believe she had the legs to do It!

It was amazing to help out on this well organized mission run by Michelle's partner Mark Leeming. They both gave it a massive shot, she say's never again but who knows! ” (Dave)

“I am so proud to be a member of this club, with Michelle’s incredible talent, courage and determination amongst us and the great volunteers who have stepped up to provide support. What a great effort Michelle. As Roosevelt might have said "It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong woman stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the woman who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends herself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if she fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that her place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." (Ali)

Final note:

Thank you to all who have supported me one way or another this year. There are many! Before the attempt I also had a good catch up with Chris Murray, who has attempted E2E twice, who holds the CTT 24 hour record (493 miles) and whom I still believe will do it one day. I’m in no doubt that her experience helped me and helped me crystallise some of my thoughts.

     Eminem: Lose Yourself (lyrics)

Look If you had One shot Or one opportunity To seize everything you ever wanted In one moment Would you capture it Or just let it slip?

Yo His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgettin' What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out He's chokin', how, everybody's jokin' now The clocks run out, times up, over, blaow Snap back to reality, ope there goes gravity Ope, there goes Rabbit, he choked He's so mad, but he won't give up that easy? No He won't have it, he knows his whole back's to these ropes It don't matter, he's dope, he knows that, but he's broke He's so stagnant, he knows, when he goes back to this mobile home, that's when it's Back to the lab again, yo, this whole rhapsody Better go capture this moment and hope it don't pass him

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime You better

His soul's escaping, through this hole that is gaping This world is mine for the taking Make me king, as we move toward a New World Order A normal life is borin', but super stardom's close to post mortem It only grows harder, only grows hotter He blows, it's all over, these hoes is all on him Coast to coast shows, he's known as the Globetrotter Lonely roads, God only knows, he's grown farther from home, he's no father He goes home and barely knows his own daughter But hold your nose 'cause here goes the cold water These hoes don't want him no mo', he's cold product They moved on to the next schmo who flows, he nose dove and sold nada So the soap opera is told and unfolds, I suppose it's old partna, but the beat goes on Da-da-dum, da-dum, da-da

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime You better

No more games, I'ma change what you call rage Tear this motherfuckin' roof off like two dogs caged I was playin' in the beginnin', the mood all changed I been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage But I kept rhymin' and stepped right in the next cypher Best believe somebody's payin' the Pied Piper All the pain inside amplified by the Fact that I can't get by with my nine to Five and I can't provide the right type of Life for my family 'cause man, these goddamn food stamps don't buy diapers And its no movie, there's no Mekhi Phifer This is my life and these times are so hard And it's getting even harder tryna feed and water my seed, plus Teeter totter, caught up between bein' a father and a prima donna Baby mama drama, screamin' on her, too much For me to wanna stay in one spot, another day of monotony's Gotten me to the point, I'm like a snail I've got To formulate a plot or end up in jail or shot Success is my only motherfuckin' option, failure's not Mom, I love you, but this trailer's got to go, I cannot grow old in Salem's Lot So here I go, is my shot Feet, fail me not, this may be the only opportunity that I got

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime You better

You can do anything you set your mind to, man

[wingingitonwheels]

Life part 2…and inspiration

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.” – Bernard M. Baruch

Where to start? Given how much time I have spent inside my own head over the past 4 months, if only there were some device that could record your thoughts and churn them into meaningful text. I’ve sat down to start this blog update 3 times over the last week, and it’s a common pattern. I start, and then am somehow distracted. Add into this the super long days that seem to have developed in the USA, and the daily battles with the weather, and finally, the overall accumulative fatigue of 4 months of cycling, typing on an iPhone becomes a challenge.

I’ve had so many amazing thoughts as I’ve pedalled highways and byways, but ask me to recall them, now that I am just one day and one ride away from the end of this journey, and you’ll be lucky if I recount even 2%. Instead you’ll get what’s most present in my head. Sorry about that!

When I’ve read books of adventurers, particularly those that I mentioned right at the beginning of this journey, the majority I recall talk less about emotion and more about logistics or achievement, and less about what happened on the way, who they met, how they felt. I went to see Rannulph Fiennes before I came out, and was struck how much he talked factually and without reference to emotion. Mark Beaumont too. Ben Fogle is much more emotional, and to some extent, Anna McNuff. I have never really understood this. My dad wrote about his incredible stories too, but again, no emotion. So, having now done my own relative adventure and being able to reflect, I can see that for me, as I have become more focussed and also more tired as the days have turned into months, far from being more emotional, I have almost become a machine, where emotion could be seen as disruptive. Don’t think too deeply about things as you risk becoming mentally weaker and therefore less focussed or able to complete what you set out to achieve, either because you made a mistake or the emotions are so great you lose sight of the goal. It’s like my body has taken over and my mind has switched off. It’s been at least a month since I’ve been able to do a Wordle 😆

Apart from being focused and completely zombiefied at the end of each day, it’s perhaps then easy to see why I’ve not been able to sit down and write and share with you so much of the latter stages of my journey. And today, suddenly, a shorter day, an epiphany that tomorrow, it’s all over, and the emotional floodgates have opened up.

A few days ago, when it was agreed with my dad that he wasn’t going to make it to Vancouver, I felt sad, that the direction and end had no point, and that had I known this from the outset, before I got on the plane to Argentina, I would have planned things very differently. I would have only ridden in South America for a start, and the USA, although my original dream of cross continent, hatched back in 2006/7 when I first got into cycling, would have remained just that: a dream. I also didn’t plan to ride at all from coast to coast on this trip, rather, had planned to ride just the Rockies. But fate intervened and a tummy bug, cold and three cancelled flights accompanied by the added hassle of multiple Covid tests meant I instead opted to abandon my flight to San Diego and ride an additional 1700 miles (as it eventually turned out to be) from Fort Lauderdale. It only occurred to me today that I had accidentally achieved my coast to coast dream, USA end to end.

It seems crazy to me now writing that I left you all in Moab, after a hideous day’s riding, ready to ride Arches National Park. I stayed at a hostel there and met some fascinating people, who seemed happy with life and not at all materialistic. Sunny Jam, a rock climber, funded his passion through a long time ago computer program he had written for Microsoft, and off the back of that was still contracted by them to do pieces of work. Then Brian: he is basically an explorer in his 60s, trying to make his way back to Asia but also looking to establish a permanent home away from New York. His hobby? Cartography! Then there were the women from Alaska with purple hair, who whilst they fulfilled a dream of coming to Utah, decided it was way too dusty and hot ans just wanted to get home. And a young couple of serious trekkers, who’d previously hiked the Pacific Crest Trail and now the Arizona Trail. Kit from Rutland and her boyfriend Once from New Zealand.

Whilst I also fulfilled a dream of cycling through Arches (other than Colorado Springs the only other fixed place on my original plan when the USA became real), I found the ride into Moab more breathtaking. I feel now that I’m glad that I didn’t at this time see all the other national parks I’d planned to see. And the reason? It’s all laid out for you and full of people: look here, drive there, come and see and do what everyone else is doing and see what you’ve seen in books and magazines such as National Geographic. Nothing wrong with that, but for me, day after day, the wonders that came my way were the ones I didn’t know were coming. To name a few, whilst riding into Moab was one, riding out of Moab and into the desert was another. The route 93 after passing through the gates of hell, and being blown clean off my bike near Atomic City, between Mackay and to North Forks was a cyclist’s dream: no cars and a stunningly beautiful valley lined with snow-capped mountains. The road that hugged Lake Couer D’Alene and the 50 mile cycle trail I found myself on that crossed a huge never ending watery landscape, and the pub at the far end “One Shot” with its lovely bar maid who was just the sweetest in her dungarees and two little knotted buns. I ended up like for South America, in towns that no one, not even Americans, knew existed and came across some real gems and horrors for beds for the night, in total, 38 paid for and 3 where I was hosted.

I am so lucky to have had friends and acquaintances that have become friends to meet up in the second half of the USA. Larry and his wife Judy are two such people, and through them, I got to meet 3 more: Celeste, Dixie and Jeff. Larry should be an inspiration to every ageing person from 21 and above. At 78, he is a local hero, and has not lost a time trial he’s entered since picking up a road bike in 2006. Celeste is equally inspiring. At 62, she kicks probably everyone’s backside from aged 30 and up, male or female. Jeff, cycling now for four years, looks 20 years younger than his 65 years. Dixie surprised the hell out of me when she told me having just completed the Ironman world champs, was a grandmother and 57. Judy, just the kindest soul you could meet, supports Larry wholeheartedly, and dropped him off and picked him up an hour away from home, two days running so he could ride with me as I passed through. She also sewed up my failing cycling top, gave me a bed and dinner, and would have given me some of her amazing pottery had it been practical to carry it. Of all the dogs I met from southern Argentina to this point, I also fell in love with their son’s dog, Indy. Although I was a bit naughty in doing so, I let Indy sleep on the bed with me, and gave him cuddles all night. He was apparently heard whimpering the next night when I didn’t reappear…

I had a couple of run ins. The first mentioned already was the wind. Even with all the training I had in Patagonia with cross winds like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and the wind the whole way across the USA, one almighty gust took me clean off my bike. It wasn’t much fun, but what probably wound me up more than the bruises and pain I felt over the next few days was that at the time I fell, two motorists travelling in both directions saw me fall. I was 50 miles west or east from anything, and neither slowed down or stopped to see if I was ok. Day after day, most of the 41 stages of the USA, the wind was against me in a big way. I learnt that April and May are typically the windiest months in the USA, and this April and May are of course, the windiest on record.

The second run in I had was with a road construction boss which nearly led to an encounter with the county sheriff. Misinformed traffic controller sent me up the road, not knowing what to do with me, where I was blocked a mile later by boss woman in her pick up truck. She told me I had no choice but to put my bike in her pickup truck and she would have to take me 8 miles up the road where the roadworks ended and I could ride again. I tried reasoning with her could I walk on the grass, ride on the hard shoulder, walk on the hard shoulder, ride when the traffic wasn’t coming. She gave way to nothing. I did actually say: “what are you going to do, arrest me?” To that she picked up her phone and called the sheriff and said that might just happen. Whilst waiting for the sheriff to arrive, I did some map research and found an old highway, no longer maintained, running parallel to the new highway. If someone had just said this in the first instance, I’d have taken that route. I legged it, swearing at boss woman inaudibly, and went speedily on my merry way down the secret old Sunrise Highway. I was soooo tempted to just see what happened when the sheriff arrived. It was a very close call.

What I also learnt from my North American adventure is that just as sure as day follows night, a good day would follow a crappy day. The rewards typically came in the form of breathtaking scenery but ever so occasionally, the weather would come out to play. Most of the time from Colorado onwards I rode in full winter gear. But just as the closing days arrived, I was back in heaven in the shape of the North Cascades of Washington. Having been here before, I knew it had the potential of being great, but I got lucky, and the sun shone as I took a gamble and rode 141 miles from Brewster to Marblemount in a day, over Washington Pass, taking full advantage of a sunny warmish day. Although I’d been through the route in 2018, I feel like I must have had my eyes shut as I saw so much more this time. The beauty this time was probably accentuated by the snow accumulation on the peaks and at the sides of the road, over 6ft high, glistening in the sunshine, but still not melting. The pass had only been open a week so my timing was perfect. Descending to the west, as the road darted left and right, I’d hit sudden pockets of freezing air, which reminded me that although making it my 4th longest day distance wise and 2nd time wise, it was the right decision to go long, as the following day, today had been colder and wetter.

Reflections:

I purposely split south and North America as if they were different adventures, as getting my head round an ever increasing number of “stages” (days riding north) felt a little overwhelming. But mentally, I have to remind myself other than the small break moving from South to North America (6 days of no cycling, getting over a tummy bug and a cold, and waiting 5 days at airports), it is one adventure, for which I’ve covered around 8,500 miles, and ascended a total of around 110,000 metres. That is more elevation and distance than I’ve covered in any given 12 months of cycling.

Although the cortisone has finally worn off on my right knee, I am truly amazed at how effective it has been and that my knee and back and whole body held out. Mentally, there’s never been a point where I’ve thought “I just can’t do this” or even “I don’t want to do this”. There’s been plenty of times I’ve cursed at the weather, mainly the wind. I’ve got some war wounds. My thumbs are so cracked I’ve had to wear plasters when I’ve had them and they hurt at night. If it’s frost nip or a chillblain, my smallest right toe is soooo sore, I didn’t know what was going on with it. It still is, hurts to walk and hurts when I sleep. My bottom lip seems to have a life of its own, despite copious lip salve, I think exposure all day every day to all elements means I now have “adventurers lip” as I’m calling it…it’s tough and difficult to smile properly 😆. Although my back is stiff, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be, although overall I need a bloody good massage. Even the tendons on my elbows are a little sore from being in a constant position of holding my bars and wearing my backpack. I may have had covid, which I think I picked up at a hostel, but given I spend pretty much all of my time in isolation, I don’t think I passed it on and what I had was mild, but enough to take me down energy wise for a few days. Getting tested when you’re a traveller on the move isn’t easy, and I did try. My pace has slowed, or it feels as if it has, but whilst I’m sure some of that is fatigue, I have got very lazy in inflating my tyres, and I think whilst I thought the clip on bars would be great, I didn’t use them as much as I hoped. The final bit that really will be grateful for a few days off the bike is my backside! Probably not in the areas you might think but I’ll leave that to your furtive imaginations. 

In terms of kit, I’m on my 5th set of tyres, 4th set of cycle shorts, I’ve used the same cycling top since February 8th, I’ve worn the same trousers EVERY day since I left the UK on 21st January, I’m on my 3rd T-shirt (would have been second but left one in a hotel and sent one home with Mark). I’m on my 3rd and 4th pairs of knickers, second pair of socks and treated myself to a new pair of socks as my extra pair in Colorado Springs. I’ve thrown away a pair of thin cycling gloves, borrowed Gary’s amazing Rapha Merino hoodie and lobster gloves, on to my second pair of leg warmers (I lost one late in Peru), bought some overshoes and another pair of gloves. I also bought a new sports crop top just for a change. I’ve replaced one set of brake pads, one chain, damaged one brake lever and hood when I came off in the wind. I’m looking forward to binning the handlebar bag! Oh yes, I’m on my fourth pair of cycling shoes and second pair of trainers. I had 19 punctures, 13 in South America and the rest in USA (so far but the way I’m riding, I’m expecting at least one more tomorrow). Most puncture-ridden state: Utah. Windiest state: Kansas. Wettest state: Alabama. Warmest state: Florida.

People have asked me what have been my most memorable experiences. It’s so hard to answer this question, but I’ll try and put the words or places all into one long sentence:

Dogs, Gary, Linda, Thomas, Jeff, Elaine, Bill, Larry, Judy, Suzi, Lucia, Monica and Gustav, Edu, Gerardo, Penny, Joe, , Purmamarca, soaring condors, Patagonia, kindness of strangers, North Cascades, Moab, Route 93, Ruta 40, super rare tailwinds, The Ozarks, Peru. Being joined in my chorus of Movin on up as I sung and rode through Alabama.

All of the friends that weren’t here on the journey with me, but followed and encouraged me from beginning to end, I don’t know if you know how positively that helped me along, and kept me focused. I loved catching up with your comments and messages, and it is as much a lasting memory as the journey itself. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I genuinely hope that you did also get something from it, as well as being kind and thoughtful and supportive.

Finally, it’s time to get a bit cheesy. Throughout every second of every day, whenever I messaged or called, day or night, Mark has been there, waiting up until the small hours to make sure my tracker is still running and that I’m safe at the end of my day. He’s put me first every single time, and made Peru happen when I didn’t think it possible. How lucky am I? Hopefully when I get home, he will have a life again! Thank you Mark. What did I do to deserve you? What did you do wrong to get me? 🤣.

When I left for Argentina, life was quite challenging as far as it can be in our own various walks of life. I had big dental issues, my hair was falling out, I’d resigned from my job and finished on the same day I took my flight. On this journey, I was also trying to explore what I’d do next. I still don’t know! But I have people knocking on my door about positions that match my profile, so in that sense I’m very lucky! It’s fair to say that over 4 months, having stayed in around 110 different places of hospitality (hotels, motels, bed and breakfasts, homes and fire trucks), I’ve seen many examples of good and not so good hospitality, acts of kindness and how people live. This is all great as a long time ago I said I wanted to open a sporty bed and breakfast, doing sports and remedial massage, it needs a coffee shop that also sells food and importantly, ice cream and jelly beans, and it might also have a bike mechanic attached and a big friendly dog. There’s that and then what next in the way of challenges? Who knows?

Thank you for being part of my biggest adventure ever. It’s all there for the taking. 🥰

Just the finish line in Vancouver to go…fingers crossed! 🙏

Oh and music:

Track that always got me singing: Movin on up: Primal Scream

Track that always made me feel emotional: Transformation by Cinematic Orchestra.

(And Deacon Blue because they were the soundtrack to my first adventure aged 18/19)

My Winging it on Wheels playlist (on Spotify)

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1zLSJK85E9irLCIIEzmtrb?si=lKaPuQeXShSGQqdmfZNRsA

#Spotify

[wingingitonwheels]

Life - part 1

"In a day, when you don't come across any problems - you can be sure that you are travelling in a wrong path."― Swami Vivekananda.

Monday 9th May: Green River

I didn’t plan to stop in this weird and sleepy desert town. Other than a potential refuelling stop, I planned to ride on through, all the way to Price today, a distance of 113 miles, which for me these days is an average day. But setting off from Moab, my legs were empty, and as if testing my mettle, the wind forecast was completely wrong, and rather than the threatened southerly tailwind, I was rewarded with a full on headwind up the most nasty, busy, largely hard-shoulder void highway 191 all the way through the desert. Common sense told me to pull the plug on the day, as I coughed my way into town, wind-burnt and nose covered in sores.

Despite the impromptu ending to the day at 1:30pm, this sleepy town provided me with the character of my whole trip: Wayne. I wandered into the booking office and a voice hollered from the darkness to hang right in. Minutes later, Wayne appeared, dressing gown half open, grey to white disheveled hair and beard, and here was a man who could quite easily have stepped out of a saloon as the fall guy in a spaghetti western. Mark dared me to interview him but at the time of writing, I’ve not taken the plunge. But who knows, maybe tomorrow when I’m feeling a little better.

I’m hoping this will pass and it’s not covid or some other bug that derails my ongoing days but I’m not feeling great…fingers crossed…

This early stop has given me an opportunity to catch up with my half written blog from the last week, so let’s go…

Tuesday 3rd May: Buena Vista

It feels like I’ve gone from zero to full on socialite in the last week, and I love it! For most of the last 3.5 months, it’s been me, myself and I - oh and of course, M-Powered. I was right, with the only fixed destination on a 9-10,000 mile journey, Colorado really was calling me back, and making up for the lost time I’d been away, 18 years.

I’ve arrived in Colorado Springs after landing without much notice at all, on Linda and Gary. I have stayed in touch with Linda, albeit sporadically, since staying with her family back in 2003 and 2004 for a total of about 9 weeks. I was introduced to them by a lively coach on the GB scene at the time, Bud Buldaro, who suggested that a period of training at altitude might be the required ingredient to reach my goal of qualifying and then representing Great Britain at the 2004 Olympics. At that time, George was 5 going on 6 and Jess 4 going on 5, and I’d not been apart from them at home for any time longer than a weekend, and the prospect of being away from them felt slightly irresponsible. But at 32 years old, and a latecomer to sport, if I was going to do this, it was worth throwing everything at it, even if it meant being out of the UK for longer than I’d ever been away from home, and away from George and Jess.

I won’t go through the whole “what happened next”, but will say that for me, this was an incredible chance meeting, and has given me some of the best memories, both with and without George and Jess I can remember. And this is of course due to The Staines Family. It was Gary and Linda that really made me believe I could hit the qualifying time needed at the London Marathon 2004.

I’d started idolising running athletes from around aged 8, looking up to Zola Budd, Liz McColgan, countless female marathon runners, with Paula Radcliffe being my absolute idol, Seb Coe, Steve Cram to name but a few. Then suddenly, I was presented the opportunity to be hosted by Gary and Linda Staines, who had recently moved to Colorado Springs from the UK. God only knows why they said yes to me, but they did, and for their sins, they had to put me up! Their son Thomas was the same age as my children at the time, and on the second time I stayed, George and Jess came too, followed by my ex-husband, my dad and wife Jean, and lifelong friend, Tanya. This is how welcoming this family were…I invaded with all my entourage and they didn’t shun me for it, but took us all under their wing.

Gary was one of Great Britain’s top athletes in the 80’s and 90’s, and at the pinnacle of his career ran in the 5000m final of the 1988 Olympics silver medal at the 1988 Olympics. Linda, a 400m runner, also represented Great Britain at the same Olympics at 400m and 4x400m, winning gold medals at 1990 and 1994 Commonwealth Games and Bronze at 1993 World Champs. They moved to Colorado in 2002 and have run their business, Runners Roost in downtown Colorado Springs ever since. It’s easy to see why they’re still going strong. Returning there after 18 years, it’s one of my favourite places to hang out!

The good news for me was that in the 18 years that passed, Gary has become an accomplished cyclist. And as you’d imagine from an Olympian, he’s not “normal”. On asking Thomas, Staines Junior, if Gary cycles with a club, Thomas responded that not many people cycle with him because “he’s too fast”! In the world of cycling, there’s been for around a decade now a site called Strava, where you can record your rides and share them with fellow cyclists. It’s super popular and I use it too. Another feature of the site is a segment ranking, where your time is ranked against other cyclists and your own times, and if you’re the fastest over that segment, you “win” the honour of “king” or “queen” of the mountain. It’s a bit of fun. But Gary lives where the elite cyclists of the world come to train. Despite this, he holds countless trophies over pros who podium at Olympic level. It’s not normal! And similarly to me, Gary ended up as said cyclist as a result of knee issues, but took a much more painful journey and transition to his current status of kick ass cyclist.

I only did two rides with Gary where we were joined by his good friend Jeff, another ex-pat of similar ability. Jeff, my age, was a triathlete when triathlon first became a thing in 80s and 90s and like Gary, is another kick ass cyclist, who couldn’t do more for me in sharing his knowledge of the Rockies before I took to the road again. Both Gary and Jeff are so humble, but Jeff talking about his sons and apologising for stating their awesomeness in skiing and outdoor activities will stick with me. Why should you apologise for being super proud of your children? If they rock, they rock!

Altitude won’t have aided me against athletes who live there, but Gary and Jeff were in a league of their own on our two rides. Their patience was palpable as I tried to hang on to their wheels…on my departing ride from the Springs, Gary laid down his superiority by riding his gravel bike, albeit only for 30 minutes of the ride out and up into the mountains, clearly suffering from the painfully slow progress and speed as I followed, tired and loaded down. Jeff went on with me a little further, having more time than Gary to suffer slowness. He deserves a medal for his charitable work with a nearly 50 year old touring lady cyclist. Thank you to you both!

There were two stages (rides) from Colorado Springs to Gunnison, taking me over a high plane and Monarch Pass. The plateau was windy and made the bike hard to handle, as Jeff described, or to be precise, in the wind, a “beautiful bitch”. The pass was cold, at -2 degrees Centigrade. But however you look at it, the vistas were as you’d imagine: hostile, epic, alpine and high plane desert. Cresting Monarch Pass, I knew I’d made the right decision to head west, rather than north, as the snow accumulation forecast for the high mountains in the following 10 days didn’t look good, and would most likely have left me annexed at best, and behind schedule or in danger at worst.

Thursday 5th May: Gunnison

Three hours after I sat down to write this day’s blog, I am finally making a start. First, Ora, whilst lovely and completely harmless, displayed classic symptoms of verbal diarrhoea. In 20 minutes, I got to know everything about him including his PhD, his ex wife and dog in Bulgaria, where he stays for free throughout Colorado in order to ski, how he’s moving to Ecuador so he can live like a king off $1000 a month, that he’s been to England exactly 13 times, and spent exactly 32 hours in Dublin and just one night in London. He really needs to visit Denver but in fact it’s ok, he’s going there as he has to show some papers so he can teach online, which should happen from Colorado but nobody will know he’s actually in Ecuador…all this and more said without taking a breath…

Finally after I listened attentively, he departed for the gym, to burn off some physical energy, and perhaps the Speed he had eaten for dinner followed by an E chaser, although he’d cancelled his membership of $40 as he’d told them he was leaving but he’s still here. And even after departing, he reappeared…I hope and pray that this is not how I come across to people I interact with 😄.

Next up, Rich. I didn’t think he was going to speak to me at all after he appeared with his nervous rescued dog, Sinskirit. But whilst preparing dinner, he opened up, and we got chatting. A professor who mentors at the local uni, had worked for Intel for 22 years until 2006, when he packed it all in. After seeing one of his mentors at Intel retire at 60 and die six months later, he decided life was for living. He bought a ranch, and in his mentor role, teaches from his degree obtained only a few years back about sustainability and environment.

As I finished dinner, another lady entered the room. No more than 5ft tall, this was Lisa, from the Philippines, who had married a Mexican and settled in Lake City. A proud mother of two sons, one about to graduate in engineering, both home schooled and here because she was a teaching assistant to four and five year olds. This was 55 miles from home, as despite here many qualifications including Psychology, multilingual, nursing and home schooling her children, her local community would not employ her because her “English isn’t good enough”. It sounded very much like prejudice because of her Asian background, and I told her that her English was excellent and she needed to believe it, have confidence, challenge recruiters and don’t take no for an answer. She was quite sad I was only passing through and not staying longer. We are roomies and I am in a hostel called Wanderlust, in a sleepy town deep in Colorado and in the Rockies.

Warmth returned to the air with sunshine, although it was still the dreaded headwind with me as I set off the following morning along the US50. The route started to look quite canyonesque and deserty, although I was more concerned with a potential road closure ahead. It happened, and I was diverted onto Highway 92, which all things considered, was a happy detour! I ended up riding through Black Canyon, an area where people come from afar to visit, due to its 2000ft sheer drop and where if you sit on the north side of the gorge, you can hear people speak on the south side, with a drop of 2000ft between you, and 50km to reach each other. It was a stunning and rolling ride, packed with wildlife, including marmots and chipmunks, eagles and other birds of prey. I rode again alongside banks of snow and eventually hit a descent that went on for 20 miles to a town called Hotchkiss. It was here, along with a huge piece of cake, I could finally once again remove my winter layers before proceeding on another 20 miles to Delta, which I have nothing at all to say about other than it’s the first time I had to wrestle with the motel manager to have my bike in my room with me. Dinner that night was 5 sachets of porridge. Living the dream 😆

Sunday 8th May: Moab

The ride from Delta to Moab on Friday will be remembered for being in the top three most arduous rides of this adventure at the point of writing. I had a choice of riding 40 or 150 miles, as between the two, there was nothing. Grand junction didn’t pull any heartstrings for me, and arriving there early, and with a stronger wind forecasted for the following day influenced my decision to ride on. I got to Grand Junction with my legs feeling empty and I completely lacked any energy, feeling as though I was in a trance like state. As soon as the decision was made whilst refuelling at a service station, on remounting my bike, I had a flat. The new tube would continue to need inflating 4 times in the next 110 miles, due to what looked like a faulty valve. Other woes appeared: a wind that found me as I headed north, then west and finally south, for which I have a graphic to prove this unlikely event. I also made a decision not to ride on the interstate road, instead taking the old highway US50), which had not been maintained and was largely pothole, gravel and corrugated. Finally, to finish off a truly rubbish ride, it hit 34 degrees centigrade.

On this particular day, had an offer of a lift been presented, I’m not sure I would have declined, even though by this time, I’d managed to cycle every single metre from Fort Lauderdale’s Atlantic, through torrential wind and rain, and through the night. A couple of babybels and a lot of water and a little rest at a general store in Cisco, a gentle check in with Mark and Jeff via texts, and somehow, at 5pm, I got back on the bike and started pedalling, having calculated I had 3.5 hours to do 49 miles. The race was on.

Jeff had said that with around 30 miles to go, the vistas would be epic. My response had been it would likely take a few days for me to appreciate them, particularly as he realised at the time of speaking, I wasn’t even on the final run in to Moab.

The road twisted and turned, and the elevation slightly dropped along with the sinking sun. True to his word, Jeff’s warning of epic scenery began to materialise in ways I’d not anticipated. First, the Colorado River. Then, the deepening oranges and ochre of the rocks that deepened left and right. In the distance, a snow-capped mountain range, and then finally, as the shadows finally provided much needed shade, the junction for Moab, and a short few miles to my bed for the night at Lazy Lizard’s hostel, the only one in Moab.

…to be continued/

[wingingitonwheels]

And then it happened

Friday 29 April: Colorado Springs

It seems like a very long time since I have laid in bed listening to birds singing. It’s before 6am, and outside my window, one beautiful songbird is singing three notes in three combinations: the first three notes of “Three Blind Mice”, and then either the first two notes or the second and third. It’s lovely! It’s being accompanied by another just chattering away, with no pattern or tone, and one more which seems to be calling “Yeah? Yeah?” If you listen hard, a little further away, a pigeon is cooing. Why does it feel so long since I’ve felt surrounded by such calm? I’ll expand shortly on my last stages to get to this picture of serenity, but at the same time yesterday, with my face covered, and afraid to open my eyes in case it wasn’t light, I recall hearing just one lonely soul bird, indicating it might be dawn…

Wednesday 27 April: Scott City, Kansas

It makes me laugh that so many places in the USA have a name ending in city. I’m not sure why it is so common, but one “city” I rode through in Missouri, Stark City, proudly advertised its population was 139. Luckily, I haven’t relied on this naming convention as an indication of resources such as hotels, restaurants and grocery stores for potential places to stop, and instead dig down into the detail on a Google map to confirm whether the town has what I need as a potential stopping point for the day. Scott City was one such place, another sleepy town and my final stopover in Kansas, forever to be remembered to me as America’s Windy State. I’d arrived there, a third consecutive day of being battered head on and left side, and was regularly assaulted by lorries approaching, creating a wall of wind which I’d brace myself for every time, ready for the kicking as it hit me milliseconds after the lorry passed.

The only eating choice that night had been Pizza Hut. Never my first choice, but I devoured a full dish of Chicken Alfredo and garlic bread with cheese, which never touched the sides. I didn’t know it then but my mantra of “don’t just eat for the day you’ve had, but eat for the day you’re going to have” was going to pay off.

I woke that morning feeling like I’d picked up another cold, and my body was crying out with muscle soreness. My nose hadn’t stopped dripping on the ride to Scott City, and a week of mega miles and heavy winds had really drained me. I wanted to get to Colorado Springs by Thursday to see my friend Linda before she left for a holiday in Florida, something I’d discovered only a week earlier, and which meant arriving 3 days earlier than I’d originally planned. It was a big ask to up the mileage, but if the weather was kind, it could be possible. Well, of course the weather wasn’t kind, but somehow, here I was, potentially only two rides, 238 miles from my only planned destination other than Vancouver.

After a breakfast of pancakes in the little prairie city, and about as late as I’ve set off, 10am, I got going, slowly. The wind forecast was not good, and I braced myself for a fourth day of battering, and the options of cutting the ride short at the towns dotted along the westerly route if it became too much.

The miles ticked by, and whilst I was accompanied by the wind, compared to the previous days, it wasn’t too bad! At three hours, I stopped for a coffee at Tribune, and listened as two old timers chewed tobacco, one who spoke to me but I couldn’t understand a single word, the other who speaking to his friend said “I just hope a tornado comes and takes my house so I don��t have to worry about it anymore, just take my stuff and go”. This is not a thought or conversation you’ll ever here in the UK 😀.

In a few more miles, I finally reached Colorado, and was surprised to say I felt good! 4 hours in and so much faster than the last 3 days, I’d be at Kit Carson for 5:45pm.

There appeared to be a huge weather system, looking like the coming of Armageddon to my left, which focused my mind to finish my ride. I span quickly through Eads, a nothing sort of place, where many roadworks were taking place. I made it at 5:45, which was such a surprise! At the start of the day, I thought there was no chance of making 125 miles, and also knew if I didn’t, Colorado Springs was looking highly unlikely for the next day.

I’d done my research and the town had two motels and a number of restaurants. However, the horror when I arrived at my planned stop. This little town looked like it could never be busy or the motels ever full. However, Jeff told me all the road construction workers were staying there and the other motel, the owner had recently died. That was it! Out of options, the restaurants were also closed, no service station and nowhere to stay. Completely stuffed.

I asked a local where the nearest services were, to which she answered “halfway between here and Colorado Springs”…which meant around 58 miles away. It was going to get dark soon. I hadn’t planned for a night ride, hadn’t had lunch or dinner and had limited snacks. I went back to the motel owner and asked what he had in the way of food and drink, fills my bottles with caffeinated drink, troughed a few snacks and resigned myself to a long day. The road to Kit Carson had been reasonably busy and a good hard shoulder. If the worst came to the worst, I could thumb a lift. I had a plan and rolled off towards the setting sun.

After 20 miles, 145 for the day’s total, I turned left on to route 94. Right at the start, there were barriers and this road was clearly closed regularly, and a minor road. The hard shoulder disappeared and the road was scarred with patching and tar. Feeling quite nervous about my choice, I noticed what would be the only dwelling for the remaining 80 mile section, rolled off the road and investigated. As I rolled closer down the dirt track, I could see dozens of clapped out cars, a static home with its windows torn out, and a bungalow that looked to be straight out of a Stephen King novel. Crestfallen, I turned back to the road, and continued. After a few more miles, a sign announced “next services 70 miles”. The woman had lied! Adding on the 30 miles I’d ridden to that point, it meant the next potential sanctuary was in total 100 miles from Kit Carson, and practically in Colorado Springs! The sun had almost disappeared, and things just got serious.

I worked out my strategy. The route was now at 1500m elevation and would rise to 2000m before Colorado Springs. As the sun disappeared, so did the heat. I wouldn’t wait till dark to put on my warm gear and lights, but I’d ride to the point where light was nearly gone. Then ready for the night, I would only turn on my lights when I couldn’t see the ground without them. They hadn’t been charged and I didn’t know how long they would last, so I also needed to plan what to do if they ran out. Broken down in to parts:

Traffic approaching me from behind wouldn’t be expecting to see s cyclist, and I didn’t know when my rear light would run out. The road was rolling, and there were blind summits, but the road was dead straight. Ride on the other side of the road towards the oncoming traffic as the headlights of approaching vehicles could be seen miles out.

Keep moving: if my back light went with this strategy, it wouldn’t be a problem. If my front light went, riding wouldn’t be an option. Neither would camping out, as it would be around freezing. So keep moving. Get off the bike and walk, until daylight if necessary, but don’t stop. This prospect was horrible but workable.

Stay warm: other than being seen or being able to see, getting cold was the biggest threat. All my clothes went on, and I kept a reasonable pace, as much as one can on a dodgy road at night. Stopping at all would mean I’d get cold, so keep moving.

My kit went on, at 8, my lights went on, and I counted down miles that seemed to come so slowly in the dark. Ghostly lorries sped past, and I was glad of my strategy to ride towards oncoming traffic and get off the road when they got nearer. I heard noises of wildlife and heard wings of birds. This was complete wilderness, and if I came off my bike now, injured or with a mechanical issue, I was in trouble. All my devices were low on charge. Before turning my phone off, I sent Mark a message to say not to worry and what was happening, where I was and my plan.

At around midnight, I passed the road barrier at the far end of the wilderness road, and arrived in a village called Rush. I was beginning to feel the unplanned day, and waves of fatigue washed over me. There was no sign of the service station, and if it was there, it must have been closed. Fortunately, my front light was still working, but counting my blessings, I didn’t want to risk more than was necessary and looked around the dwellings for options. Riding down one road, I saw a red barn with lights on, and as I approached the door, heard voices inside. After knocking three times, the door opened!

I explained my situation. This barn turned out to be the local unmanned fire station and the guys inside had just been called out. As it was unmanned, they couldn’t let me stay there, but offered me the seat in a little green fire truck. I took it.

I can’t imagine I will ever have a night as uncomfortable as that night. I pulled out my emergency space blanket, wrapped my wraparound skirt around my head, took off my shoes and tried to lay on the seat, making a cocoon from the rustling blanket and the tablecloth the guys had given me. It was so cold, I had to cover my face in order to hold the heat from my breath. For some reason, my knees and hip really hurt, and I put my hands under my head to try and keep them warm. Despite all the discomfort, somehow, I slept in fits and starts, dreaming about of all places, Chipping Norton! It had crossed my mind that I could die of hypothermia during the night, but I decided to stay calm and just deal with it!

Time passed, and I heard a bird chirp. I was afraid to open my eyes and look out in case it wasn’t light. After a few minutes, I took a peep. Dawn!! I’d never been so happy to see daylight!!

It took about 10 minutes to get rolling. I kept my wraparound skirt around my head and neck, much like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s under my helmet. I stuffed the space blanket down my front, and set off, every fibre in me searing with painful fatigue.

I was quickly rewarded with a sunrise and then in front of me, Pike’s Peak, lit by the morning sun, directly in front of me. Just 35 hilly miles to go, and I would be at my spiritual home, with my long not seen good friends, and rest. Having been 18 years since I was last here, I’d forgotten the distinct smell the grasslands had, an arid, sweet smell I’ve not noticed anywhere else in the world. I’d completely forgotten it! So inviting and homely.

Having not eaten properly for 24 hours and having ridden 240 miles in those hours, I arrived tired and elated! I’ll write more about my friends in my next blog, but Linda and Gary had not changed at all, but what would you expect from two incredible Olympians? Their son, Thomas, had changed a lot! From a five year old to a 6 foot 5 inch world class track athlete…happy days!!

So at this time, I have ridden 21 consecutive days in USA, my longest run, covered 3549km, most I’ve covered in 21 days. For the adventure, I’ve covered around 10,250km with around 2500 - 3000km to go till Vancouver, which is my destination a month from today. I haven’t decided my route, but it’s across the Rockies and things just got exciting again! After a few days rest, next stop will be Buena Vista.

31 days!

[wingingitonwheels]

Never mind Chicago as the Windy City

There are three kinds of sun in Kansas: sunshine, sunflowers and sons of bitches!

Clint Eastwood, The Outlaw Josey Wales

Wednesday 27 April - Scott City, Kansas

I am so glad I watched this fantastic film before I set off into American Patagonia, heading west for Colorado. I knew as soon as I committed to riding from Florida and not San Diego that Kansas would be my nemesis and prepared mentally every day for it. It’s the wind, you see! Luckily, I grew up watching The Wizard of Oz, and getting my first introduction to a tornado and the damage it could do. That for me, as for many, is perhaps where my fascination with extreme weather began. I’m sure it’s well known that Kansas, a huge state, is in Tornado Alley. That probably makes it sound like a small channel of land, running north to south. But it’s quite vast, and twisters are commonplace. I did my research before I started across the state, as you’d expect: what to do if you find yourself caught out as a twister is forming, and heaven forbid, approaching you whilst out on your bike, what to do (which is either find a property and beg for shelter or if none around, a storm drain/ditch bridge - which is fine as long as you’re ok with snakes and there’s no flood!).

The tornado season for Kansas is May - early June. But this year, the weather has been so crazy, there’s already been devastating twisters, even for the weekend just gone. On average, around 27 people are killed by tornadoes in the US every year, with an all time high of 695 in 1925. This research lead me on to my aversion to being struck by lightning. In both South and North America, the lightning has been fierce. My gut instinct is to take cover if it feels threatening, and that is, within 5 miles of where I’m cycling. I’d had discussions with Mark about whether there was any security in having rubber tyres. Well, the truth is no. For cars, they have bigger rubber tyres but it’s actually the cage of the metal car that protects its passengers and driver. The rubber on a 28-30mm won’t save you. There is a great article I came across by renowned American coach, Chris Carmichael (Practical Tips for Cycling in a Lightning Storm - CTS) that goes into the risk and science for anyone interested, but it looks as though my avoidance tactics were correct. On average, there’s around 20 deaths from lightning strikes per year in USA, and many more that are struck but are permanently damaged as a result of lightning strikes. The message is clear: don’t mess with nature!

Back to Kansas. It strikes me (excuse the pun) that America and Americans are extreme. But let’s focus on America: extreme weather. This year is apparently a very bad year for weather. I woke to a frost warning a few days back, the “storm of the year” did materialise on Saturday and curtailed my movement west. Extreme rain is a thing and whilst I did get caught up in it back in Alabama, since moving west, the state and neighbouring states have experienced flash floods. Lightning has set off wildfires which results I’ve seen, and even when it’s not a tornado, extreme wind is just common across the prairies. It makes me wonder, on what is now day 4 of following the pioneers route west, did their horses ever get really fed up of getting battered head and side on, day after day, carrying lazy “pioneers” and pilgrims who all they had to do was just sit there? Really, the heroes of those times were the horses, who got nothing more than grass/hay for their reward and might be left to die if they didn’t “pull their weight”. Horses, I’m with ya. You’re my heroes!

Josey Wales, Kansas and three types of sun. Now, this has played over and over and over in my head as I’ve dug into my deepest inner strength and taken on Kansas. I do love Clint’s line as he’s chatting up his young admirer: “there are three kinds of sun in Kansas”. I expected him to say something profound with the sun’s appearance in different meteorological phases. But no, Sunshine, Sunflowers and Sons of Bitches. I was able to use these wise words. Sunshine: definitely saw that; pretty unbroken from east to west. Sunflowers: didn’t see any of those other than on the route signs above what was defined as a cyclist route: 76 west (look it up!). But I took this to be a metaphor for a thing of beauty. So my “sunflowers” were the continuous hard shoulders which I could ride, for which motorists still moved far out to give me space (on the whole except for some naughty lorries) and the one tortoise, and eagles that soared above me along the journey. Sons of bitches: I definitely didn’t see any of those, but many forms of the same hell fell into this description, and that was the wind: battered from every direction, never a tailwind and relentless, except for its gusts of up to 80kph which succeeded on blowing me off the road yesterday. To be fair, I expected it, and can’t imagine I’d ever have been so lucky to get 1000km of tailwind. But I’m glad to have had the training in Argentina for it, as it was just as extreme and unforgiving. I could make the days shorter as at least in USA there are more towns and options to stop. But if I stopped because the going was tough at say, 3pm, what would I do in sleepy town Central America? I’d be bored! And the wind wouldn’t get better the next day just because I stopped early. So I’ve kept going. Long, long and arduous days…let me tell you, there is nothing quite so cathartic as swearing at the top of ones voice at the wind as it rips your lip balm from your hand and your sunglasses off your face…honestly, try it! Particularly when you know there’s absolutely no one within 20 miles to hear you!

Several things are keeping me going. My absolute favourite part of this trip is just up the road, starting with Colorado Springs. I am going to take some time there and maybe even a few days off. By the time I arrive, I will have ridden 21-23 consecutive days, my record for unbroken days and total distance. I need a rest! I’ve been trying to get back to the city since altitude training for the Olympics in 2004, and along with my friends, fell in love with it and it’s my spiritual home, even with all the travelling and adventuring I’ve done since. Secondly, I’m approaching 100 days since I left the UK, and with only a maximum of 32 days until I reach Vancouver, I’m on the home strait! I’m not wishing it over, but can’t wait to see Dad, and going home is starting to feel real. Mark and his whole family have been busy making the garden ready for summer and for my return, complete with several beehives! 😃

I did get a comment from one follower that “I think your original route was much more interesting”. And no doubt correct! But adventure isn’t always a planned and executed route/path. In fact, until I reach Colorado Springs, maybe two days of this adventure were planned and executed. Adventure for me is not always the most exciting route, but it is an exciting journey, which is unpredictable, makes you dig deeper than you might ever know you have to go, and then keep going. There are places I wanted to visit which I didn’t get to, but I’ll go back with people, and it will be a totally different experience. I miss sharing the “wow, did you see that?”with Marks, mine or his kids, so that’s all still there for the taking.

236 miles to Colorado Springs. My nose is dripping like a leaky tap, I’m tired! A tip for the ladies out there. If you find after long days in the saddle you’re getting sore in the crevice at the top of your leg, Compeed small and medium are the answer 😉 (tip from the top!). Heavy winds today, easing a little tomorrow and bad on Friday…here I go…have a good day, buddies!

#Spotify

[wingingitonwheels]

Westward Ho!

What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight – it’s the size of the fight in the dog.

General Dwight D. Eisenhower

Hallelujah! I can say that I have finally been to a place on Adventure Part 2 which is somewhere I would have liked to have spent longer. Eureka! Springs to be exact. Not just the place but the whole ride to the historic and quite hippy town in the middle of the Ozarks. I’d hoped to get there the day before but the weather gods were in charge again, and after a very wet 22 miles, I took shelter in a random woman’s porch as the lightning flashed in front of me, having the final say in how far I’d ride that day. Chris, I’d surprised, was utterly lovely, gave me a towel and then a lift 10 miles back to a non-descript university town of Searcy, just up the road from Hicksville, aka Bald Knob. The first true full day lost to weather 😤.

The rest did me good as under dark skies and drenched ground the next morning, I set out full of determination that I’d ride as long as there was light in the sky, and my stubborn cold which I’d had for over two weeks had finally abated. Stage 14 turned out to be my longest, hardest, hilliest day of riding of the whole adventure and I absolutely loved it. The Ozarks were only known to me before the trip for the Netflix drama I’d watched over several years. I expected lakes, but got a thousand hills, ruined pioneer houses and Dutch style barns. The roads were great and I didn’t have a single altercation with a motorist for 170 miles! If I hadn’t been so determined in my endeavour to get a full day in, I might have felt emotional!

It is hard to pinpoint why USA doesn’t bring out a depth of feeling like South America. It could be because everything is so much easier, more convenient and more familiar. I don’t have to think about getting across 200km with what I’m carrying for sustenance. There are very few people to be seen outside of a shop or a vehicle, and where in South America, you may see a cowboy riding his horse through a town, even on the ranches I have seen, I haven’t seen any action. I felt connected in the southern continent where here, despite having apparently more in common with the inhabitants, in a country built by immigrants largely from Europe, I feel isolated, more transient and alien. It’s not a bad thing, just an observation. I don’t have to work hard to try and speak to people as we all speak English, but even my own voice in speaking my own language sounds even to me, like I’m talking a different language; I’m now Mary Poppins on wheels.

It’s interesting that tipping in restaurants is obligatory. In one restaurant, I had to ask a waitress 5 times to repeat what she said, as I had no idea what she was talking about and even when I finally heard her, I didn’t know what the item of food she described was. She wasn’t very friendly, and in that particular restaurant, I felt my food was thrown at me, I was rushed, it was overpriced and ultimately, she didn’t get the tip that all Americans in the industry feel entitled to, and at a minimum of 25% of the cost of the meal, with the exchange rate being what it is, this feels like extortion! But if it were any other business and you were responsible for paying someone’s wages, which is what obligatory tipping feels like, you would expect people do do a good job, and pay for good service, whether it’s mending a leaking pipe or getting your hair done.

Ironically, the following night, which is now, I ended up in a lovely little motel, pretty much where I collapsed after two hard days of riding, and not a restaurant to be found. For the first time this trip, I ordered in via Uber Eats, where even before you have received your order, let alone eaten it, you’re expected to tip the delivery staff. So I did. 40 minutes later, Chase dropped off an order very quickly after confirming a pin, disappeared, and I was left to eat Samantha’s order of steak, potato and steak macaroni cheese. So America, you may not like the Brits for not tipping like you would like, but your model doesn’t work.

I’m still making my way to the Rockies, and more immediately, Colorado Springs. I have friends there I’ve not seen since 2004, and I fell in love with the area, and it’s taken me this long to get back. Annoyingly, I didn’t want to burden my friends with my potential visit, and now I’ve told them I’m trying to get there, my one friend is likely to be away at the time I arrive. So I’m trying to get there early! As I write, there are 1060km between me and them and I have 6 days go get there. So it’s a stretch, but possible, but relies on weather I can work with! I may well lose a day or two to the weather over the next few days due to “the storm of the year” which is moving across from the west. But let’s see. If there’s no hope, I’ll maybe take a bit longer to get there and hang out until she gets back, seeing both her husband and son. And just as I wrote those sentences, my amazing friend sent me a message to say my hair appointment is booked for 5th May in Colorado Springs! So the rest of my trip to Vancouver will start from 6th May, giving me 23 days to cover 1600 miles. That works! 🤩. It’s seeing my friends and Colorado Springs which are currently keeping my mojo running high, even though right now my energy feels pretty non-existent.

Back to Memphis. Although I have less interactions with people, the few I really interact with have been very memorable. Firstly Joe in Florida. He is still messaging me, much like my first Argentinian friend, Monica!

I met Penny in the Memphis Hostel, owned by the church but run by Penny, to make money for the church. As far as hostels go, this one trumped any I’ve ever stayed in: it could feature in Homes & Gardens magazine for the warmth and detail created on the second floor of this central Victorian city building. But as you’ll know by me, it’s people for me that make the difference 😊.

The kitchen in the hostel was a big open space, modern shaker style with Penny’s desk under a window to one side. Solid wooden floors were complimented by grey painted walls, similar to mine at home, and leaded windows let through a gentle light. It felt like a home not a hostel and full credit to Penny for all the work she’d put in. We spoke for 2 hours over breakfast, just connected as you do, when you have time to listen. Penny had been through quite a personal journey in the last few years; mother to a 17 year old, split from her partner who was also a business partner. Over a period of 5 years, Penny has been going through a personal transformation. She works with young people who end up at the hostel, with problems, and listens, helps them find their way.

When we talked about managers/business/the church, people in power, she used such a great analogy about playing in her playground. She saw people who did not have the same core principles as her as bullies in the playground. Why would you want to be like them or play with them? You wouldn’t want them to play in your playground, so let them be, and invite those into your playground who will make playtime even better. I loved this! So simple, such an easy sketch, and so right! With this kind of philosophy, any troubled person who had the fortune to cross paths with Penny were lucky. Penny didn’t see herself as beautiful. As a child, she never looked in the mirror and nobody ever said she was beautiful. Then when she started looking at the image of herself, she formed the idea that she must therefore be ugly…how sad to hear this, as I found Penny to be beautiful. She also made me think more about what I might do when I go home and reimagine my future…counsellor to young people, run a hostel like Penny, or even try to bring to life stories in the way Penny did about the playground.

So here are Is Penny’s interview. You may never meet her, but I hope you feel happy that I did, and can share what an awesome person she is. I’ve tried to convince her she needs to go and test out a bicycle! I’ll be checking up on her!

What makes you and your loved ones happy

Me and my loved ones are happiest hanging out. talking, eating, cooking, playing, being real - always.

What makes you angry or sad?

Someone once told me that the cause of all suffering was from unmet expectations. I keep that in mind when i feel suffering. I survived my childhood by believing in a world of love to join in. I believed that the civil rights movement was pure and ongoing. that judging another, at all, had been clearly shown as harmful. Ii wanted warm hands like mother theresa. I wanted to serve as me and believed, wholeheartedly, in beauty. I expected that deep down everyone really wanted the same thing - more goodness - and people would always be willing to do better and grow when they found out practical things they could do to ease suffering.

It has taken a long time, very slowly, and sometimes, very suddenly, to find out this is not always true. the little girl I was inside gets angry and sad until i love her for the beliefs and let her know, there is love, yes, but not everyone will love you back. this is the breaking and healing of my heart.

What or whom is the biggest influence on you and why and how?

I am ultra independent and intimacy has always been an issue of trust with me. I also love people very much and want to do wonderful things with others, share myself, and listen. So in that way, everyone I meet influences me to either lean into a belief or let go of one and I am the decider of that. 

What does community mean to you?

Community, to me, is any group of people collaborating together on something. 

Do you feel connected or not?

I feel connected most to myself and my child. i also feel connection with just about everyone and everything when i walk out in the world. and now i take more notice of my feelings to direct if i want to engage more with a person or an experience or if i need to step back and take care of myself. and, connection totally excites me. to me, it's love.

How do you see your future?

I see it as more happiness. Working on my dream projects with dream people. Going through adventures and also having my safe spots to ground back into the simple life i love. i just love home.

What would you do to improve your quality of life?

I used to think all I needed was money. now, I think I need to keep healing and loving myself, keep the light on inside and even though at this moment I am pretty worn out from my life so far, I imagine I could be a lighthouse beaming out the beats of my dream life and those who want to be with me will feel it and somehow, like math, things will keep changing and every day I am walking into my dream life.

What is your happiest memory ever?

I get the happiest when I look at photos of me as a mama. remembering being with my baby, toddler, child all day. they're growing up and I can't believe I forget what it had been like. Being at home, having lunch, going to toy stores, markets, playgrounds, taking walks. I had so much fun and I am grateful for the experience my child and i had to be together every day and just live. 

What would you like my lasting memory to be of you?

That you would know I think you are amazing.

So, emotion is still there for me. But I’m focused. And perhaps with determination to see something through, emotion changes, maybe it’s latent for now…I want to ride the whole of this continent, I want to get to Vancouver completely by bike, whatever the road ahead throws at me. I don’t want weather or mechanics to stop a continuous line from the furthest points apart in the USA, from the Atlantic to the Pacific and then up. I’m trying not to acknowledge tiredness. I do feel frustration, but try to use that. This adventure is teaching me patience, as well as seeing me tinker with my bike into the night. Seeing wild animals, any rolling hill, a sunset bring me happiness. 2250km and counting USA. Approaching 10,000km from El Calafate…come on! Let’s do this…

#Spotify

[wingingitonwheels]

Southern Easy

Men are from Earth, women are from Earth. Deal with it. - George Carlin

Tuesday 19th April: Memphis

I’m lying in my bed in a private room in a hostel, the building being old by American standards, dating back to around 1890. It’s lovely! Probably the classiest hostel I’ve stayed in. I opted for a private room, and at $60 for a night, is good value for Memphis, and just under average for this current trip. If I can get away with spending $100 a day on food and accommodation, I’ve done well, but it’s a struggle! To give an example of a typical trip to the supermarket to buy my picnic dinner and supplies for my next day’s ride: hummus, bag of vegetables, cereal bars, 1.5 litres Gatorade, some fruit, cereal and milk: $25. I don’t know how anyone is affording to live here, and as far as my experience of trips to the USA, this is by far the most I’ve ever paid for anything by a long way. It’s almost cheaper to eat out! Budget accommodation doesn’t compare to budget (or just a bed) in South America, where on one night, $4 got me a bed, roof, and shared toilet! I am sleeping better here though, and what price do you put on that and a warm shower? I could have done without the very obvious debris of, well, I don’t want to guess, on the bathroom walls of my motel in Centreville 🤢. So the alternative of riding on rather than staying longer, even in the pouring rain was a good option!

I haven’t written much about the American miles I’ve travelled, as I haven’t felt the emotion of South America. I am sure it will come, but not likely until I get to the second half of my journey, from Colorado Springs and beyond. But there have been some memorable moments.

The first was as I rode through Montgomery on Friday. It feels like a long time since I rode in the sun, but that was the last day! It was the first affluent suburb I’d ridden through since Fort Lauderdale, its houses and landscapes as you’d see in many American films, and a world I’ll never belong in. I considered stopping for coffee, but also realised that this was an area for the well-heeled. My shoes cut it, being Sidis and at that time, clean and new, but I wasn’t sure I’d otherwise fit in or be able to afford a coffee! So I rode on, singing once again. The tune was Reef: How I got over. It’s very gospel choir, which I love. In USA, you can move very quickly from a rich suburb to a poor one, and this is what happened, the rich got to hear my incredible singing, but for what will be one of my happiest memories of North America, as I rode through the neighbouring “have not” streets and climbed a small climb, a guy came out of his house at just the right moment and joined in, singing and dancing in the sun as this weird woman rode past, singing her heart out! We connected, in just that short second, and I rode the rest of my miles with a smile on my face! In some ways I wish I’d stopped and chatted to him, but in others, it was such a golden moment, I wouldn’t want to change a thing 😊.

I consider this in stark contrast to the woman in the supermarket the night before. She looked miserable and had left her trolly across the isle, with just a little care and slow speed, rather than asking her to move, I tried to navigate around her. Her reaction was to tut and look down at me, rather than look me in the eye or say hello or smile.

Another great moment was talking to the cleaners of my motel in Columbus. As a very English sounding person, you’ll know that Americans love an English accent, and my sisters at the motel said the same. One didn’t expect me to say back “and I love yours!” This completely delighted her, and in return, I got a fist pump “yeah sister” right on!

In the supermarket in the same town, an assistant asked me if I worked out. I said I’m a cyclist, to which she said “what is that?”

Riding through a Tuscaloosa suburb, a young boy, playing in his front garden on his bike with his dad, turned to his dad and said “what is THAT?” as he spotted me ride past.

It seems that when people ask where I am heading if I’m in a service station or supermarket queue, someone else is always listening. On one occasion, it resulted in a lift back to my motel, 1.5 miles away, for which that day, my shopping was quite heavy, and another time, as I sat down in the service station, sheltering from the rain and drinking coffee, interrogation by two women from Alabama, who told me there is no money in either that state or Mississippi. One of them, Nicole, a woman with a very southern accent, of who knows what age, as she looked to have lived a hard life, grandmother with children aged 3 to 21, then went on to say she had hoped a man would take care of her and her 3 children but none materialised, she’s alone and has to work. She was as fascinated to know of my journey as anyone else, but it felt hard to talk of how fortunate I was to have the opportunity.

So it’s been more about people than miles, culture, scenery or nature so far. The weather has been on balance more challenging most days than not, I’ve had 2 punctures so far, but I’m banking extra miles on most days for when I may need to do shorter or rest days further up the road. There’s been several dog chases, but talking to them as I ride seems to disarm them, which was less effective in South America! Three times when I’ve stopped at the side of the road, for messing or puncture repairs, I’ve been offered help. The last offer, the couple seemed a little creepy, and I’m glad I didn’t need assistance 😂.

With my replanned route, Memphis has been marked out as a key milestone. Being a music city, and home to Elvis Presley and the Blues, it was keeping me going. I envisaged hanging out in a dark, smoky bar, as some dudes gently sang about their woes. Beale Street is where it all happens, and a four mile walk got me there, via Central Avenue, Mississippi’s equivalent to Oxford’s Woodstock Road, where it seemed the majority of mansions were trying to replicate the White House.

Other than the neon lights, Beale Street didn’t immediately give away its musical heritage. A distinct lack of people and music greeted me, but this was fine, as this was the night I was treating myself to hot food, a proper meal, the first since Friday. By the time I’d finished, a few places had got going; BB King’s is probably the best known, and now had the biggest crowd. But so loud! Had I been out in the wilderness so long, I couldn’t handle the noise and people? Apparently yes! I didn’t go in, but briefly enjoyed the melee from a 300 metre stretch of street, before deciding to head for home. I’ll think of Memphis as much for its network of railroads, distinctive honking haulage trains and flowers as I will the music.

It was that decision that provided the best memory for Memphis: riding an e bike back to my hostel, and getting it back within 20 minutes (19 to be precise!), and enjoying what it feels like to have power assistance. I could be a convert!

States completed: Florida, Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi. Today I’m riding on to Jonesboro in Arkansas, a state where I’ll be for a few days. There’s a few days of good weather before the wind swings and blows savagely from the South. I’ll need to put some good miles in before, if my knackered old body allows!

See y’all later, you hear?😃

#Spotify

[wingingitonwheels]

Exploring Differences

"By all means let's be open-minded, but not so open-minded that our brains drop out."

- Richard Dawkins.

Friday 8 April

I wonder what emotion I would feel in this adventure if I’d done north to south, working with rather than against the prevailing winds and following convention? Apparently, cycling two continents wasn’t enough of a challenge, and never mind the 1500 extra miles I’ve just given myself by setting out from Florida rather than San Diego. With approximately 7000km to cover and 51 days now to reach Vancouver, I need to cover an average of 137km every day. If I’d ridden from San Diego, that would have dropped to a measly 95km per day. If I’m honest, which of course I am, I’ll give it what I can, but the odds are stacked against me…I may have to cut or replan some of my excursions, which are Colorado Springs, Arches National Park, Monument Valley, Bryce Canyon, Zion National Park and Bonneville Salt Flats, all bar Colorado Springs and Bonneville require a southern and western detour, so they might be axed, to be replaced with Yellowstone and/or possibly Yosemite…I hit 175km today, but I’d planned to hit 254km, only because I’d finally lined up my first Warmshowers accommodation…but the wind had other ideas, and a face full of full on all day, my will finally broke, and I would have slept on a park bench if I’d had to. It was looking that way as American Patagonia, disguised as Florida, far from being the state with a motel in every town, seemed void of support for the weary traveller. At the point I most needed it, the only place to be found looked like Bates Motel before it was renovated, with one patron who could have been Norman. It was worth continuing at least out of the town to escape the possibility of being invited in…

This area of Florida seems to be off the beaten track. Riding on for 10 miles into the unknown paid off. I found a campsite advertising camping and cabins, and feeling wind-battered, rolled in and spoke to Wendy, the most lovely manager of KOA. After much solution exploring and number calling, not only did she have nothing, the only option looked to be a ride 25 miles back to Clewiston. That wasn’t going to happen. Next thing I know, she solved it. A brand new air bed, hard standing for a caravan, a couple of blankets, towels and a pillow from her caravan and I was set to sleep under the stars. I would have been perfectly happy, as long as the bugs didn’t bite, but just as I’d set up camp, along came a very friendly Mya, who completely insisted I take up her offer of a spare bed in their incredible camper, the likes of I’ve never experienced. I genuinely took a lot of persuading, but here I am, set up, in my own room with their cat Tuna for company.

I met the rest of the family too:

Tuna

Osprey

Dinasaur

Camo

Buddy

Ivy

Bryan

Mya

Maryna

Sayla

Some of these are lizards, two are Bryan and Mya’s 12 and 9 year old beautiful daughters, two are cats and all are devine! I was invited to dinner too with Bryan’s parents who are also staying here, but declined due to the massive pizza I had not knowing when I’d next get my hands on food, and because I am tired, have an early start and it was going to be super boozy! Normally, that would be the clincher but given another day of strong headwinds tomorrow, my continuing cold and wind-drained, I did the sensible thing and am getting an early night. It’s a shame though as these guys live such an I unconventional life. Mya is a non/practicing singer/songwriter, and Bryan works in the marine industry. When they both lost their jobs in covid, they took to the road, parked up this huge camper, which is moved by a lorry to wherever they want to work or stay for a while, et voila! A happy and mobile family! They’re here for a while as Sayla is teaching locally and her girls are going to the same school. And how trusting to meet a complete stranger and immediately invite them into their home and then trust them as they go out to dinner! How lucky am I?

When Mya returned, we spent a good hour chatting, her two beautiful girls keen to chat and ask why on Earth I’d want to cycle so far, and show off their two cats to me.

I’m glad I didn’t go too far into my views on American politics and vaccines. Somehow we got on to the subjects, and it appeared we were on completely opposite sides of the fence. Mya considered herself to be a liberal Christian, who rallied for Trump, believed it was right to carry guns, so people could protect themselves from the government, and didn’t believe in the vaccine, her husband having been in hospital with blood clots in his lungs as a result of Covid the summer before. When someone has been so open and kind as to offer you a roof over your head, it felt the wrong thing to do to share my views on 2 out of three matters that were strictly US topics…

Wednesday 13 April

As I continued my journey north from this first close encounter, it was clear that I had entered the Bible Belt of North America. Having been brought up as a catholic with no choice in the matter. And attending a convent for 14 years, at my first opportunity, and perhaps before, I began to rebel against all things catholic and religion. To this day, I have no issues with anyone choosing to follow their faith, church or their version of God, as long as they don’t ram it down my throat or try to convert me. In this area of the USA, “God” was being marketed from what seemed like 50% of marketing space: huge billboards, outside places of worship, coffee shops. Anger rose in me when two billboards, as big as can be imagined shouted out: “Abortion makes God sad” and a short time later, “Want proof of God?” above a picture of a perfect smiling baby. I’m not violent, in fact, I’d go as far to say I’m a pacifist. But if I had seen the people responsible for these posters, I would have turned into a modern female Bruce Lee and taken them all down. If a woman is deciding about what to do about a pregnancy, it’s undoubtedly come from a difficult place. These people who post these posters claiming they have an inside line to “God” who told them it makes him sad can only be described as deluded and heartless. The numbers of people practicing their faith should be declining, which it is, with this kind of blatant messaging.

Ironically, prior to these experiences, the first person I met in the USA host was a Jehovah’s Witness. Joe, who rather than me being ultimately the most grateful, couldn’t thank me enough for staying with him. This, the man who could not have done more, personally shopped for me buying half of Publix, to make up for my terrible experience of getting to him 3 days late, which was not his problem at all!

Before coming to USA, I put some questions together for the people I meet, so I can learn a little about them. The questions are:

- [ ] 1. What makes you and your loved ones happy

- [ ] 2. What makes you angry or sad

- [ ] 3. What or whom is the biggest influence on you and why and how

- [ ] 4. What does community mean to you?

- [ ] Do you feel connected or not?

- [ ] How do you see your future?

- [ ] What would you do to improve your quality of life?

- [ ] What is your happiest memory ever?

- [ ] What would you like my lasting memory to be of you?

I got on so well with Joe, I wanted to know more about him and what made him tick. Other than Mark and his mum Sue, I have never met someone so selfless and wanting to share as Joe. Father to a daughter and 10 years on his own, it’s hard to understand why he hasn’t found someone. He seems to give his whole life to helping others. At the time I stayed, he’d given up his room to help a friend and her two children who needed an address so her children could go to school. He had another guy staying with his two dogs, and constantly cleaned up after them all. Add to this the tiny cockapoo puppy, Bear, he’d got his 12 year old daughter, his devotion to the church, and his security job from 7pm to 7am, he never had time for him. His answer to this: it feels better to give than to receive.

I won’t go through all of his answers systematically, but can tell you what I learnt. He’s the oldest of 7 children, his biggest influence was his mum, who passed away last year. He identifies his community as being his family, and feels very much connected, and when they’re together, this is when he’s happiest. He was given the title of “man of the house” by his father, who said this was his role, even when his father was present, and did this with pride. His mother taught him a rhyme to help get his younger siblings to bed on time. This is probably not word perfect but went something like: “it’s 9, you’re fed, now off to bed!” And it worked! In his community, policing was done not just by his parents but by any of his neighbours! If anyone did anything wrong, the authoritarian would take some branches from some shrub or trees, and symbolically “whip” the offender with them. It would stop there! The person who chastised the offender would then tell the parents and they’d do the same! So respect was built in throughout his community, and he liked it!

We continued through the questions in a bit of a hurry as Joe had bible studies. When we got got the last question, “what would you like my lasting memory to be of you?”, Joe paused momentarily, and then responded “to remember me as a genuine person”…he expanded on this a little after taking another pause, and closed his eyes, trying to hold back emotional tears. When I wrote these questions, I never imagined it would raise such deep feelings in any person I asked, and Joe’s emotion really touched me. What more could I do other than to give him a hug. How this man does not have a partner is beyond me. They would be so lucky to have found him. He absolutely will be remembered as genuine, with the most huge and engaging smile and eyes.

The irony of these two views on religion in just a few days. Here, you have Joe, who almost convinced me (as I wanted to show willing and return kindness and keep an open mind) nearly persuaded me to attend the online event for the passing of Jesus for his church on Friday. And from the love of apparently the same god, emotional blackmail by a different church, which simply confirmed why I believe and practice good, not God.

As the days progressed in Florida, whilst South America was about culture and landscapes, it started to feel like USA will be defined by people. By Monday, day 4 of heading north, my good old friend the wind had been solidly against me, my gears stopped working on day 2 and were resolved via a detour to Orlando.

Overall, this feels not just like another country, but another world. No chasing dogs, a cycle lane and smooth tarmac for the whole, the land of plenty where I have multiple choices for food, at 4 times the price of the highest price in South America and twice as expensive as the UK. When turning the pedals, I can finally relax again, a feeling I had long forgotten. I wasn’t aware for the most part in South America that I was constantly on guard, and now the prospect that there may be other “easy miles” ahead feels quite exciting!

Before I leave you, I must tell you about my incredible Warmshowers hosts living in Sebring.

I haven’t used Warmshowers before: it’s a charitable organisation that provides hosts for travelling cyclists who also host, across the world. You send them a message, find out if they can put you up, either in their beds or a pitch for a tent. Most offer food too, and it’s all done on a voluntary basis.

I’d researched potential hosts once I’d landed in Florida and ditched my flight to San Diego. Elaine and Bill looked like a likely option for my first night, but the wind was too strong and I didn’t make it. They kindly offered for me to stay the Saturday night, but my intention had been to ride further that day, as stopping in Sebring would leave me short of miles.

I did stop for lunch there and let them know I’d definitely not be staying with them, and a short while later, remounted my bike. Within 2 miles, I got a massive Di2 failure: nothing worked even when charging. The likely solutions were staying in Sebring for a number of days whilst it was diagnosed on Monday (it was Saturday afternoon which is the worst time to have an issue with a bike), and potentially lose more days after that waiting for parts, or to ride to Orlando Sunday in the hope of a more speedy resolution on Monday. I went with the latter, and with cap in hand, contacted my new Sebring friends to ask if it was still possible to stay. I was in luck and only 2 miles from them.

Bill Schroeder, originally from Pennsylvania, veteran, was involved in organising the first Trans Am Bike Races, has ridden everywhere, and been everywhere else. His type of ride was just 300 miles. No drama. He is an absolute larger than life character who drinks bourbon like water! Elaine Decker a petite lady with legs to die for (who explained why she gets Bill’s bourbon for him - as she can then water it down and he doesn’t know 😂), at 80, is still riding, only now has a recumbent, due to her heart issues and the possibility of being dizzy and falling off a normal bike. In the last 4 years, she’s cycled 20,000 miles on it, accompanied by Bill! I loved this couple, who immediately felt like friends. I was their 20th guest since 2015, and felt like their most “normal” from the stories and books they shared from their other guests. I was the first to visit since Covid, and they made me feel so welcome. Dare I say it for my readers who are religious, I was relieved that without prompting, it seemed we were all members of the church of the bike. 😄.

Reflecting on 800km in Florida: I was expecting flat and featureless, and that I’d be glad to put it behind me. But I left feeling I really loved the countryside in the north, where properties seemed to have so much space between them, even in the towns, both rich and poor. Yards and lush gardens rarely had fences like we do in the UK, and it was so green! Not too hot, and driving was better than UK on the whole, whilst the roads and surfaces were the best I’ve seen anywhere I’ve cycled and in the north, even undulating but no higher than 105m. The roadkill included a six foot alligator, an ant eater, many smaller gators, lizards and frogs, and a few raccoons, some of which were cleared up by black vultures in large gangs. Retail was extensive, with most of the road from Orlando to Ocala lined with retail parks. Compared with anywhere in South America, life seemed pretty easy. But the overriding memory will be the omnipresence of religion, for which I know I wouldn’t be able to live with for long, even if the sun shone every day!

Georgia for a day and then on to Alabama - a storm is brewing! 😱

#Spotify

[wingingitonwheels]

Moving on…Adios Peru and South America

Thursday April 6th

I’ve consulted with myself whilst sitting on the beach, watching the terrifying storm, so typical of Florida, disappear to the east, just as I arrived for my one chance to have my afternoon of sunbathing. It’s almost stopped raining, a far cry from the torrents of biblical proportions that led me to spend $14 on a Mai Tai to justify my shelter in a nearby bar. The consultation has delivered that although Peru was potentially the highlight of South America for any of my readers, I’m so far behind that if I don’t summarise by highlight, I may never catch up and all emotion from anything I’ve done will be lost, and it will just be a tale of “I did this then I did that”. I have noticed that I like to write with emotion, and emotion can only be recalled within a short timeframe of the emotional event: at best, there are probably 5 days before the emotion fades and the story becomes processionally dull “I went there and I did that”. I want to recall colour, the detail, and the feeling, good or bad! So with that, I’ll quickly recall the last week in Peru so I can bring you back to the present. Here we go.

Friday 25 March: Chivay climb.

I smashed it. I don’t know where my energy came from but I don’t think I’ll ever climb like that again. I didn’t feel the altitude, and celebrated back at the hotel with 3 Pisco sours accompanying dinner and cards. I’d noticed at lunch my tummy was sore but put it down to a crap diet for 2 months and carried on.

Saturday 25 March: Chivay - Cusco

We’d researched the route towards Cusco, and the plan was to jump on the bike just outside Chivay. However, what lay ahead was 160km of unpaved and uneven road. This was fine, as I had a stomach bug, and instead spent a total of 9 hours in the car being thrown around like a pair of knickers on a fast spin cycle. I suffered, but how Mark got through it, I don’t know. We eventually reached Cusco, nerves frayed and tummy crying out for relief and TLC at 7pm. Still wondering how the car survived that journey.

Sunday 27 March: Cusco - Abancay

We planned the morning to look round Cusco, as everyone said “You HAVE to visit Cusco, and why aren’t you going to Machu Pichu?” Well, we did as we were told and went to Cusco, where we were constantly hassled by street sellers, probably one a minute. My tummy was still bad, so any ideas of riding were in doubt. We didn’t go to Machu Pichu as we had limited time and it would have taken a full day, but to be honest, we had seen so much of Peru’s culture and history away from the tourist trail, we didn’t feel the need.

Getting away at lunch, and as the sun broke through, despite my sick tum, I got a four hour climb in, almost to the top, when the weather broke and I could go no further. The day will be remembered by chasing dogs and Mark following and coming between me and them: Mark: defender of Michelle and enemy of Peruvian street dogs!

Monday 28 March - Abanacy - Andahualyas

It looked like another day in the car. My tummy was not giving up the ghost and the weather was bad. We’d hit our third road block of protestors fighting against the cost of petrol and diesel. But they let us through, writing with water soluble paint on the car: free the jobs. I don’t know what that means, and I can understand their frustration, but driving these mountains was hard enough without road blocks. Mark bottomed out the car in almost every village as they all had speed bumps disguised as tarmac which would rip the axle off a performance car. Every one made me wince, not knowing anything about mechanics and expecting the bottom of the car to simply fall off or to leak fluid and explode.

Yet again, just as the descent hit its lowest point before it climbed, we past the block and I mounted my bike for yet another climb. I hadn’t had a pure descent on this trip other than to La Curva, and the profile for the month looked disproportionately like I was simply spending all my time going up hill. Which I was. My tummy still being bad made me feel quite weak, and 4 hours in, I jumped off my bike, missing the descent in the rain, once again.

Tuesday 29 March: Andahualyas - Ayacucho

The bug had taken a pretty firm grip on me and riding was out of the question. It was another day of being churned up in the car, 51 miles as the crow flies between the two points, but 150 miles by road. We arrived in Ayacucho and I went to bed, listening to the racket of 1000s of Tuktuks racing past the single glazed windows to our room. Mark got out and brought back some rice for me, telling me what a beautiful town it was, something I’d appreciate a little more the next morning. But for me, the day was written off as I curled up into a ball in a darkened room…

Wednesday 30 March - Ayacucho - Chinca Alta

This was meant to be “The Day of the Big Descent”. We began our exit from Andahualyas with the now customary road block and bun fight for tarmac and space. Mark had stepped up a gear and had taken on some Peruvian qualities, taking no prisoners for the cheeky chancers trying to steal his line. My tummy was no better, and I felt drained, but was resolute in my plan to ride from our highest elevation of 4,500m to sea level, a ride that would take in 150km of downhill.

Just as we stopped and prepared, a threatening group of black clouds saw us, and decided to ruin the day by hailing and throwing fog at us, in an already inhospitable environment where snow still hugged the sides of the road. Regardless of how I felt and what the bike gods threw at me, I had to have a go. With every last piece of clothing I had, I mounted my trusty steed with one working front brake, and went for it. Very slowly, as apparently today was the day I felt the altitude. It took only 30 minutes of level ground for me to realise that this was futile. The road surface was unreliable, I couldn’t see and my hands had already frozen. Without much fuss, I got off and said to Mark “That’s it. Game over. My Andes ends on a high, and into a headwind…thank you South America!”

It’s fair to say this was quite a damp squib end to 6600km of epicness, and not really how I had visualised the end of a continent, but that’s adventure!

We finished the day in the car, in a city I’d rather forget. The staff at the hotel didn’t seem to understand they were in the hospitality industry, and couldn’t look us in the eye. We felt unsafe in the streets and Mark was short-changed in a shop, guarded by two youths drinking alcohol. It was the first time we’d been anywhere where western, non-traditional dress was all that could be seen. No beautiful Peruvian women, and within 5 minutes of walking, we watched police chase and catch a guy who had nicked a motorbike.

Thursday 31 March - Tuesday 5 April

We were only supposed to be in Lima for 24 hours. As a thank you to Mark, I’d booked a fabulous and great value truly five star hotel, and as far as you can with a dicky tummy, we went to town: a massage, spa, dinner and a room overlooking Lima - as it turned out that’s as close as we wanted to get, the following days would reveal.

The next day, we ran the gauntlet once again and were presented with the worst driving en masse either of us is likely to ever experience. I challenge anyone to find a city worse than Lima for motorists. It was so bad, I looked up some figures. 2.8% of all deaths in Peru are from road traffic accidents. You have more than a 1:50 chance of dying in a crash on the road. It’s astounding! Mark somehow kept us both safe, but a few days later, in what should have been the most reputable taxi firm in the country, we got first hand exposure to Grand Theft Auto, as our driver seemed to lean permanently on his horn, and speed up rather than slow down towards stationary traffic. Never mind the very pregnant woman crossing at a supposed Zebra crossing - she got the horn, the driver seeming also to forget where his brake pedal was. If you ever go to Lima, don’t drive and don’t get a taxi. You’ve been warned.

The farce that followed our arrival at the airport couldn’t be written, but here I am writing about it. I’ll try and summarise in a paragraph.

Whilst waiting for our first flight at the airport Holiday Inn, I received a cancellation email from Spirit. No reason, just cancelled. Immediately jumping on to find a replacement flight, I watched tickets rise from $400 to $4000 in a matter of minutes. Consulting with Mark, we opted to do the sensible thing and book with a reputable airline, American Airlines, at 6:50 two days later, and stay at the Holiday Inn. We checked in 3 hours before and dutifully made our way to the boarding gate, when the flight was first delayed, and then 7 emails came through in close succession, eventually pushing the flight out to Monday. Shambolic and angry scenes ensued as Karens appeared from all directions and people started fronting up to other people. Eventually, we were all told the airline would put us up for the night and sent us on our merry way. 2 hours later, another cancellation via a letter put under our hotel door whilst we were in the room. The flight was cancelled again and no time rescheduled. On Monday, we received confirmation we would fly Tuesday at 7. We eventually flew at 8, Mark having to change his onward flight to the UK 4 times. I’ve taken out all the emotion from these 5 days, but I think it’s fair to say, it wasn’t part of the journey I will relish in years to come. 3 COVID tests all came back clear but ironically, having spent so much time at the airport surrounded by lots of people, I picked up a stinking cold which I still have today.

Reflecting on Peru

I’m so glad I saw Peru in the order that I did, as it didn’t get any better in Lima. I will remember Peru for its regional dress, the women whose hats changed from bowlers to sequinned trilbies to wide brimmed Panama hats, the street dogs who chased me in every village and up every mountain, the ever changing vistas, from arid deserts to lush green valleys. Although it seemed poor by British standards, the people were openly happy and friendly, and it felt like nothing had changed since time began in the way they lived. I want to believe that people from Lima and Chinca Alta have never crossed into the mountains and that they never will. Their cars wouldn’t last five seconds (the expensive ones anyway). I will be happy to forget the chicken and rice with potatoes which accounted for about 90% of our meals, and for me, not only in Peru, but Bolivia and Argentina too!

I hope for Peru they start to feel motivated to sort out their rubbish dumping, it made me feel so sad. It’s easy for me to think they can simply resolve this issue but what do I know as a tourist with rose coloured spectacles? I wish I was in a position to influence change but that would be naive.

Mark says stoically that he loved his 3 week adventure. I find this difficult to believe, given the Herculean effort he completed driving so far and also putting up with me, both well and unwell. It was a good test for us too - stuck together mostly just us for such long and arduous stages, and what was in it for him? He said he would never have come to Peru if it wasn’t for me. He was meant to be my protection from all the rumoured criminals waiting to pounce on me as I rode through the remote country but actually, he was just great company. It completely changed the trip I’d planned, but if he’d not been there, even without being unwell, it would have taken longer than the 12 days I’d planned, and being at altitude and in the rainy season, so cold, wouldn’t have been half the fun on my own. We can now talk about our crazy trip in Peru, which has made the feelings I had in Bolivia melt away, and helped me prepare for the time to come, North America, starting tomorrow.

After South America, surely the USA has to be a piece of cake…right?

[wingingitonwheels]

Two and a half weeks: Part 2 (Moving on follows this one)

Wednesday 23 March - continued

I knew nothing about Arequipa, or the two previous destinations prior to arriving as the original route I’d planned had been across the top of the Andes. But the sudden change of plans with the arrival of Mark and the rainy season gave way to more opportunities for contrasting landscapes and culture. Chile has a great tourist marketing board, and it’s well known that it is the longest country with the most diverse climates. north to south, in the world. However, there can’t be much in it between Chile and Argentina. But bring in Bolivia and Peru, and for a hemisphere, the opportunity to experience geology, wildlife, climate variation in a couple of months is fantastic. I crossed 3 time zones, and right up to the last day in Lima, struggled to get my head round sunrise and sunset times, as it changed so rapidly, depending on the combination of South to North and East to West.

Riding to Arequipa was like riding head long into a furnace. The city is at 2400m elevation, and is approached through a dusty desert, whose roads are jammed with lorries going who knows where, and littered with inconceivable amounts of fly tipping and rubbish thrown from vehicles. The signs saying that it’s illegal to dump waste seem farcical, and that Peru’s people are protesting about who knows what. I remember as a child thinking I would not want to hurt any creature because I’d not put rubbish where it should go, but what message would work to persuade Peruvians

to clean up their country and take pride? It takes one small change to make a bigger change but how do you connect with a nation to make it happen?

On reaching the city, we experienced our first real exposure to driving hell! As with all cities I’d been to in South America, I expected the road surfaces to be poorer and the driving to be erratic, but Arequipa revealed a new level of crazy. Zebra crossings were meaningless, no right of way at any junction or roundabout, and who gets there first is the game played, and the bigger your vehicle, the more of a bully you could be. If we’d been able to film our journey to the bike store, it would have been more entertaining than watching The Wacky Races or Herbie goes to Monte Carlo, but somehow we made it. Mark had noticed an inordinate number of Beetles in Peru, and wherever one was seen, whether we were driving or not, a photo was required. I think my obsession with dogs was a little safer.

This city, dating back to 1500s was our favourite in Peru. Whilst there was some tourism present in the form of locals selling their wares from arches in the old monastery, we weren’t hassled for tours, or bothered as we drank coffee in the main square cafes. That we could find real coffee at all was a miracle. I don’t know about you, but I had a perception that Peru was known for amongst other things, it’s coffee. But until this city, at any meal, at best we’d get coffee essence and at worst, a sachet of Nescafé coffee granules. So the mighty Google was consulted to find out more.

Peru does grow coffee beans, but it’s biggest exports are Ore, slag and ash, followed by precious minerals. It is also the world’s largest producer of cocaine, probably not one to shout about. This has probably and continues to be possible due to the succession of corrupt presidents Peru has elected. Every single living president in Peru has been convicted of serious crime, so perhaps it is not surprising both the litter and what we saw in the coming days from a nation who is fed up of its government and has lost faith in law and order. Coffee is around 8th position and only $850,000. But if they grow it, why is it not everywhere in Peru?

Back to Arequipa. It is the food capital and second city of Peru. Here, for the first time in the country, we saw relative wealth, and clear division between those that have and those that don’t. In this region, women still dressed traditionally with their colourful skirts and bowler hats, and in a line up, you wouldn’t be able to separate a Peruvian and Bolivian woman, other than the Peruvian would be more likely to smile. There was little western influence, and this was what we expected would be the norm in all future towns and cities. The old buildings were maintained so well, they could have been built a few years ago. But heading out towards our next destination, the biggest, most ugly monstrosity of a compound, nestling in the folds of the roads as we headed north. At least you couldn’t see it from the city.

The most memorable part of this stop was our meal at Zigzags: a gastronomic feast, which ranked in my top 3 ever and in terms of company and overall experience, number 1. I think Mark felt the same. And it cost the same as a meal down our local pub…totally unattainable for anyone other than those in the upper income bracket for Peru, but we did enjoy it. Local smoked trout, Amazonian fish and a medley of desserts, topped with Peruvian white wine with a few Pisco Chasers. What’s not to love?

Thursday 24 March - to Chivay

The initial plan formed the day before had been to drive to the outer city limits and ride from there. However, the road we were taking seemed like an American freight train, and a continuous flow of lorries and no hard shoulder as the road twisted between the mountains. It took until we turned off at 100km on a minor road for the opportunity to ride, by which time, there wasn’t much light left for the day. I kept Mark company with my amazing wit and singing, and I’m sure he’ll agree, that 5 hour journey for 160km went very quickly.

We hit what would be our highest elevation for the trip, at 5000m. I’d like to say the view of the 6 volcanoes that formed a ring round the highest viewpoint were epic, but alas, fog and rain, and very cold. We continued on and the road suddenly began to descend, even more spectacularly twisty than the descent to Moquegua, and a green and alpine vista, much like some areas of the Swiss Alps, only here, they were volcanoes with jade terraces running towards one of the deepest river gorges in the world, in the valley known as the Colca region. With this area never having been on any plan, we were totally taken by surprise. “Wow, this is really steep! Do you think you could ride this?” Well, in my mind, it has tarmac. “Of course yes!” We both decided that I’d I went away from this region without riding the climb that would also deliver my highest elevation for the trip, I would deeply regret it. We found an eco lodge called Killiwasi overlooking the gorge, so hidden behind an unpaved side street I had no idea how they existed, and booked two nights. I was so far off my original plan by this point that Peru had now become a tour rather than point to point. That was cool! I hadn’t seen Mark for over two months and it would be another two months or more till I would see him again after he left.

…/sort of continued…Moving on next

[wingingitonwheels]

Two and a half weeks: Part 1

“Science is about predictions based on predictable fact. Life is about surprises based on the unpredictable reality.”- Ori Hofmekler

Monday 4 April:

Where to start?

Well this is actually the second time I’ve started this paragraph, in the same location as I started it previously, Groundhog Day. 3rd Covid test in 5 days. This is going to jump around a bit as not only am I a long way behind in my blog, a lot has happened in the last week…will have to break this down into parts and depending on what happens in the next few days, may have the challenge of writing about events two weeks ago and on the day I’m writing…things are about to get interesting! Perhaps the last time of writing for this adventure in the Southern Hemisphere…let’s see…

Saturday 2 April:

If you’ve been following along, I last left you reflecting on the contradictions and juxtaposition of Bolivia. We’ve skipped forward two weeks and you join me now as I sit at another border, Lima, awaiting what I hope will be a departure from South America, eye-opening and incredible as it’s been, albeit 36 hours later than scheduled, awaiting a second rapid antigen test within 24 hours, and considering what I will do if yesterday’s negative test result when retested today, comes back as positive. 45 minutes and counting…Mark, sat in the plastic chair in the airport car park next to me is watching the excellent series Taboo, which he downloaded yesterday ready for last night’s flight with Spirit, which was cancelled just as we arrived in good time at the airport, and all is calm.

I am still suffering from some parasitic tummy infection which has gone on for a week, and an ear infection, any benefit from any distance miles and altitude adaption feeling a long way behind me. The only new pair of my model of Sidi shoes in the USA is being flown by UPS to my accommodation in Fort Lauderdale, now the only reason I’m still going there, as any time spent with Mark there is now eradicated, as we are flying to his departing airport instead of Fort Lauderdale, where I’ve booked my accommodation. The flight cancellation has cost me £604 in total, and double that for the two of us, which we are counting on our insurance policies to cover, and not thinking too hard about it.

We have found humour in people watching as we’ve stood and queued for two hours: the security guard admitting punters in to be tested has his nose totally exposed over his mask, whilst 3 people behind us, a young man has covered pretty much his whole eyes with his mask, as he films himself not knowing how to reverse the camera, and not seeing that the only thing in shot is his mask, as he describes the unique experience he is going through in queuing for a covid test before flying. His accompanying mother could help, but apparently she is not tech savvy enough to hold the phone for him. Mark also found hilarity in the queuing nuns, who if were due to fly on the same flight, might have a different view of Spirit’uality, and were on their way to Nun’eaton.

It doesn’t seem too traumatic to be spending a day in a car park testing, as the alternatives don’t seem too enticing. We could head to the beach the far side of the airport, a port, or visit Colon Butchers for a bit of local fun. The alternative of crossing the city to get to the airport yesterday was another appealing option, but we’d have to take a taxi or tuktuk as we’d handed back the Toyota Yaris the night before, which is likely to be the last time the car will (or should) be used as a rental vehicle, due to the abuse it took from 3987 km of punishing Peruvian city and mountain roads. With this delay, and an unsurprising challenge at another border, it provides a great opportunity to reminisce and share my days in Peru with you.

Saturday 19th March - La Paz - Peruvian Border at Desguardo, Bolivia

The day before leaving for Peru, I decided that the only way out of La Paz alive was to take a cable car 400 vertical metres up, rising above the incomprehensible city landscape and to the relative safety of a level, if not surfaced, road network leading west towards the border. I took a ride on the route, having been sold “if you want a peaceful walk and to see the best of the city, take this cable” by the ticket operator, my walk at the upper level lasted all of 10 minutes, deciding this was no different to what I saw on my ride in the previous day. From the bird’s eye view, it wasn’t possible to see one green space below me, and the only colour being one housing district where the inhabitants had also decided that the cityscape needed some energy, and coordinated to create a neighbourhood of modern art in the form of painted buildings every colour of a Windsor and Newton paint set. The trip did provide some comfort that I would indeed be able to escape La Paz and break for the border the next day.

As if without words, and understanding my challenges within his country, the hotel’s chief of staff (the only member of staff I came into contact with), Alberto, popped out just for me having fetched a specially constructed fruit salad of exquisite colours, for no other reason than he wanted to, which once again,left me feeling slightly tearful with appreciation. He thought that seeing the world by bike was such a fantastic idea, and wanted to wish me well for my ongoing days, and I left with a smile and a great review for this final day in Bolivia.

My bike computer took me every which way through the scruffy streets of El Alto before eventually, I found my way to Ruta 1, all flat bar one testing climb approaching Lake Titicaca, one of the oldest lakes in the world. I expected a high volume of traffic as I’d seen on the two previous days, but perhaps being Saturday, it was surprisingly quiet. As the miles ticked away, the reasons became clear.

One by one, I came across tiny hamlets with villagers dressed in traditional celebratory dress. I’d thought it must be in honour of someone who’d died, or a public holiday, as each village has created a road block, but would let me walk my bike through whilst all motorised vehicles were stopped. The scenes got more bizarre as I continued. Still the villagers, but now in the blockades, lorries both sides of the roads, and then a little further, people wandering aimlessly to nowhere in particular, pulling luggage, sitting at the side of the road, and some cheering me on. There was now no moving traffic for all of the 20 remaining miles. The final blockade before the border town included boulders and fires and a large crowd being dictated to by one spokesmen as they all looked on. They looked like they’d been there for days, and had no intention of moving. Oblivious and determined that I was no part of this and would remain unaffected, I pedalled on to what seemed like a ghost town, an empty and unmanned border post, and confronted on the foot bridge crossing to Peru by a barrier of sitting protesters, determined not to let anyone through.

Still hopeful, I wandered in to the unlocked border control building, looking for life. A man eventually appeared and in our broken language conversation, he told me I couldn’t go across. I explained that this could not be the case as “my husband…it’s the only way I could explain that Mark was important to me)…was waiting the other side of the border and I absolutely MUST cross. And I’m on my bike, so no wasn’t an option. After much “no, you can’t cross”, he softened a little and said there was another vehicle crossing 4km away and to try there.

My bike computer directed me through a swamp, past pigs, wild dogs and some stenches I’d rather not dwell on, to a convoy of stationary vehicles, mostly lorries, numbering around 500. The barrier was down and no border guards in sight. The nearest beings I could find, I spoke to, a man larger than life, sat at a table by the barrier right at the front. “Hablas Ingles?”. Of course he did! This was a man whose name was Eduardo, whose full name became Argentine Eduardo Border from Purmamarca, who owned the first vehicle to be barricaded, a Hummer of some status. Eduardo was delighted to talk with me as at the time, he’d already been stuck for 2 days, but seemed pretty chilled about it. In the coming days, he offered and open invitation for me and “my husband” to be guests at his house, and shared his hotel, which by chance I’d photographed a week earlier. He explained that this blockade was a protest, with no end date, but might end the next day. Looking back at this retrospectively, the blockade continued for 4 days, a dispute about a long promised dual carriageway from La Paz to the border. Eduardo was caught up for all of this time, eventually contacting the Argentinian Embassy for permission to leave his Hummer, for it to be transported home when the dispute was finished and to get home himself with their support in the meantime. A man of many means!

As for me? He told me to break through the human barrier and find my man, reassuring me that they could not stop me. It was about 200m from the barrier to the human blockade, a group of about 20 protesters the far side of another barrier on the bridge. I am mostly a conformist, law-abiding and non-confrontational being, but knowing Mark was due to arrive and no way to communicate with him, I took my chances, climbed under the first barrier, rode to the second, climbed under the second and faced up to the protesters. “You can’t go through”, “Yes I can, try and stop me.” “What is your name?” I wish I’d answered something witty at that point like Donald Trump or Minnie Mouse, but defiantly replied “I’m not telling you!”, held my head up high whilst quickly mounting my bike and sprinted away as fast as my legs would turn. I expected a chase, but nothing! I was illegally over the bridge too far and had made my great escape, into Peru! Jubilation! I’d worry about what happened next later. Next to find the matrimonial room of a hotel within touching distance of the first border crossing.

It was important to get to my hotel as easily as possible when reaching Peru, as Enrique, bike shop owner in La Paz, although not completely knowledgeable, warned me that there were many desperate Venezuelans trying to move south from their country, and holding out at the border. If I could get to my hotel and hold out until Mark arrived, I’d be safe. The crime and threat wasn’t immediately obvious as I rode the silent streets of the town. I had my suspicions about the hotel Mark had booked through Airbnb though as it had multiple listings and the photos I could find online seemed to provide a hotel with a different name and colour. On finding it, and with no answer to my knock, I sat in the doorway, hoping to be safe and to not wait long. Within a few minutes, the owner appeared carrying shopping. I showed her our booking but she ignored me and said the hotel was closed, and slammed the door in my face, refusing to answer. A scam. And no way to contact Mark about where I’d go and what to expect when he arrived. Feeling more than disgruntled, I donned my shoes, taking a walk even closer to the border crossing to find a cheap and functional hostal, and nearly passed out as I climbed 3 flights of stairs, carrying my bike, remembering suddenly it was still 4000m above sea level. With a roof over my head and a bed for the night, I had to figure out how to connect with Mark, hoping he would still arrive as planned, that night.

I came up with a plan to wait for Mark on a bench within view of both the hotel and the likely route he would arrive from and sat with a downloaded film. Far from feeling unsafe, as the sun sunk and darkness set in, it was cold that made me most uncomfortable. I played with the street dogs and tried to stay warm, but eventually gave in to hoping Mark would find Wi-Fi when he was presented with the fictitious hotel, and we’d find each other. When I returned to my basic room overlooking thousands of street cables and numerous cash exchange booths, I hung out of the window, hoping somehow I’d see him arrive. After two hours, I finally got the call “Hi, I guess something had happened!”. He was across the road and five minutes later, and after 14 hours driving that day and 12 the day before for him, we finally met up!

Sunday, March 20 - Desguardea

It was time to deal with my illegal immigrant issue. I had hoped that Peru would just turn a blind eye to the lack of exit stamp from Bolivia on an old bit of paper, but the border guards directed us to another border crossing an hour north-east, Yunguyo. I’d been expecting chaos, a fine, issues with the Bolivian scrap of paper with an immigration stamp, but what I found was a helpful officer, a laughing Bolivian at the flakiness of my immigration stamp, a medical test and finally, a stamp in my passport for Peru! The weather was poor, foggy and cold, and Mark had struggled with the sudden gain in altitude. He likened his nighttime breathlessness to the minutes before his stroke, and without much discussion, we made a decision to leave Peru’s rainy season for the mountains, head to lower altitude 300km away and the on to the coast for a sea-level run into Lima.

The journey across the Altiplane initially took us up for 150km and our highest elevation of the trip at 4800m. The skies darkened and civilisation quickly disappeared except for a few lonely mud-constructed homes, and large exposed expanses of scrubland, dotted with Llamas and Alpacas. For each of the three villages we past through, we were stopped by police, who kindly told us the errors of our ways: “Where are you going? Where are you from? Why are you doing this? Why aren’t you doing that?” “Oh Senor, I understand! You want money!” “It is to help the villagers, you understand”. Within two days of being in Peru, we had experienced a hotel scam and dodgy police on the take. If I’m honest, all 4 incidents did make me a little cross, but what can you do? Rather than the threat from desperate asylum seekers, it seemed crime was much more organised than someone fleeing a country such as Venezuela. But as far as scamming went, these gentle if criminal police were the most polite and friendly people to be conned by. Mark seemed pretty resigned to playing along and not being wound up…I saw it as this was the flavour of Peru and it was here for the duration.

This 300km journey delivered the only fraction of a sunset I saw in South America, as we started our descent to 1800m…but that was fine. Moquegua provided a bed, my first Pisco sour and civilisation until we dropped to the coast the next day.

The biggest surprise for me on this first day in Peru’s high altitude was the complete remoteness of some dwellings on mountainsides. At altitude here at least, the wilderness was almost desert like, other than the coarse scrubland. Living seemed like Bolivia, hostile and even savage. As we had learnt that day, we’d arrived at the beginning of the Andes rainy season. It was hard to imagine sun; there seemed to be no electric or utilities available to any home, so how did they exist and stay warm? It was a relief in some ways to rediscover a town the size of Leighton Buzzard when we did, and although it still hummed with the traditional people and dress, goods and food of the higher lands, it had conveniences, hostals, a market and town square and restaurants.

Mark’s total driving had reached 1800km, and I’d done my first long stretch in the car. But Mark could breathe and having seen it’s harsh and lonely high nearly no-man’s land, high winds and freezing temperatures, I wondered whether I would have made it in two days to the safe haven of Moquegua without drama../I’ll never know, but the stage was set for what became a ride/drive tour of Peru over two weeks.

Monday, March 21 - Moquegua

The last section of the day before we experienced an incredible descent from

4800m to 1800m down a twisting, ribbon-like and exciting mountain road. The scenery had changed as if someone had transported us from a lunar landscape to a mountainous desert in a tele-porter, teasing me with the last and only glimmer of sunset I’d see in South America. The decision was made that we’d stay an extra night in Moquegua so I could ride as high as time would allow in order to complete the descent back into town.

We discovered a great cafe for breakfast and just as we ordered, I noticed a touring cyclist rest his bike on the cafe window. Unbelievably, this cyclist turned out to be someone Mark has randomly stopped on his drive to me to offer food and water as he drove by, 3 days earlier. This was Alex, an ultra-cyclist from Quebec, Canada. We could have been made from the same mould: under-nourishes, smelly, scruffy, and eyes a little wider than most peoples due to a continuous stream of on-road entertainment…and equally as surprised to see Mark as we were him! What was due to be a short pre-ride breakfast turned into a 2 hour brunch, as we learnt about Alex’s adventure, his drive, motivation, work and employer’s employee wellbeing and benefits. Alex was taking 11 months to ride from somewhere in Canada to somewhere in South America, as far as time would allow. His employer, Canada railways, allows its employees to take up to a year off every four years, and continues to pay them during their leave, for which the employee effectively pays for this time off as they work. It means employee mental health is good and attrition is low, and people such as Alex (and he named 3 other colleagues) can take time out to fulfil their dreams without having to pack up their jobs as I did, and never lose sight of what is important to people for their long-term happiness.

Our fantastic new friend arriving left me short of time to ride to the absolute top of the descent/climb l, 96km uphill, but I set out to do what I could, eventually settling on 4000m, where the wretched weather started to threaten and the wind picked up and the temperature dropped rapidly. Looking back and not knowing at the time what would happen up the road, the 2200m descent will be my longest, most fun and spectacular for perhaps my lifetime, and whilst it took 4 hours to climb, it took less than a hour to descend! I noticed on descending that my back brake was not playing well, something that is still a problem as I write nearly two weeks later. I think Bolivia had finally done some damage to an otherwise perfect bike.

Tuesday 22 March Moquegua- La Curva

We’d made the decision to go low for the rest of the trip, as the weather was worse than Scotland at altitude, and I’d not seen true desert. We’d hoped to get the bike fixed in the town, but the local shop bike mechanic, Julio, didn’t have the tools to bleed and refill the hydraulics with new brake fluid, and recommended we went to Peru’s second city, Arequipa, where a Specialized concept store would be able to help. From a route perspective, this meant we’d descend to the coast for one day, to climb back to 2800m and the city the following. We had no real plan after Arequipa but sorting the bike out was non-negotiable.

We discussed our plans at the same cafe over breakfast and who should arrive? Alex! Another long breakfast and talks through how he would get through high altitude and avoid high Bolivia in order to get to Argentina and continue south.

We finally got going around midday and headed for the desert. Wow! Another epic change of scenery! Where the Patagonian desert had been hard, dry and barren scrubland, it had little sand, but suddenly, I had become a cycling extra in “Lawrence of Arabia”! Towering, drifting sand dunes, some with core of rock, others gigantic windswept mounds of sand, dotted with derelict and decaying roofless shells of buildings for which it was hard to imagine anyone had ever managed to exist. Not an atom of moisture and a beautiful black ribbon with yellow thread, weaving its way down and north-east to the coast. This was to be the first day that Mark was truly supporting me. It was never thought his purpose was to feed me fresh mango and banana in the desert, but to protect me from the terrible reported crime in Peru…for which it seemed all but organised crime had gone on holiday. But that’s what happened. The sweetest, juiciest mango I’ve tasted in the driest, most unforgiving desert landscapes on earth.

When the green of a river valley did eventually appear, it was so vivid in colour because of the previous singular shade of sand, it was as though someone had taken a photo and turned the saturation up as high as it would go, and that in itself is a vista I’ll not forget. The eventual destination of La Curva was unremarkable, and our hotel room was shared with millions of little ants, but at least I’d finally managed to see a coastline in South America 😊.

When we drove around a little following the ride, the coast just north of La Curva was very much like any resort anywhere in Europe, and didn’t fill us with excitement to explore more coast by bike and although it meant that we’d be heading back into the mountains and potentially bad weather, it was clear I’d soon be bored with the sameness of the coast all the way to Lima. So up, up, up!

Wednesday 23 March: La Curva - Arequipa

I won’t talk much about the ride for this day, except to say it was very uphill, long and baking hot! The story of Wednesday was the surprise that was Peru’s second city, Arequipa.

To be continued…/

#Spotify

[wingingitonwheels]

A leg to remember

“Just keep swimming”

Finding Nemo

100km to the Peruvian border, 100km till I see Mark again, and it can’t happen quickly enough!

Mark at time of writing this paragraph is somewhere within 500km of Lima, and 1100km from Desaguadero, which to be quite honest, looks pretty grim. We are meeting at a hotel 300 metres from the border, in a hotel that is proud to claim in its very short description: “Our host property provides ample security by being near the police station, malls and restaurants”. Fortunately, we are staying in the “matrimonial suite”. We chose this spot as the border is apparently swamped with desperate Venezuelans trying to make a new life away from their troubled country, and I may be an easy target once I’ve found my way to Peru.

I have to publish this at a time when I know Mark won’t read it, as to celebrate the event, and as a reward for the gruelling week that has just been, I impulse bought a bottle of Chanel Chance perfume on the way back to my hotel, after a fully indulgent lunch at a fine dining vegetarian restaurant (at a cost of £28) where I tried to make up for some of the vitamin, micro nutrient and mineral deficit since coming to South America. There’s no doubt, after wearing the same “day clothes” which this week also doubled as winter riding gear, for 2 months, every single day, I’m a little concerned that not only do I stink, that I might be considered a tramp who rides a bike, rather than intrepid explorer. I’m hoping at least the scent of Chanel will hide the stench that is so embedded in my pores, I no longer notice, but others might. I will add, I do try to wash my cycling kit daily and my day clothes every few days…but all said, these could be great deterrents to unwanted attention 😊

I’ll start at my lunch restaurant for today, Ali Pacha, the highlight of my stay in the world’s highest administrative capital. Both the hotel and restaurant are close to the government buildings. I’d researched and planned my lunch at 12pm, when they opened, as I also took the liberty of booking a private tour in the afternoon to show me the city’s highlights and sample some local cuisine. (They didn’t show)

I’d planned well, and despite I had absolutely no idea what I was being given to eat, (due to the chefs being completely oblivious that I might not speak Spanish, and me not wanting to upset them in presenting their artwork), I knew it was impossible to go wrong being completely vegan.

As I tucked into my dessert (postres) of some sort of fruit I’d never had before, a group of three very English people dressed in business attire sat at the table opposite. We were the only four patrons in the restaurant, meaning I could here everything they said, and tuned in, as you do. I must have looked very South American, as they seemed to completely miss that I might understand what they were saying.

My first thought was that I did not miss business one iota. Whilst I was there and had hunted down this restaurant in a city of chaos, for them, it was clearly convenience, and I got the sense it was a functional rather than a gastronomic experience for them.

As they talked, it was clear they were British Government Envoys, and had been sent to negotiate by Boris with the president of Bolivia. They talked about the Bolivian president’s sense of superiority, whether they pushed him too far, how to get Bolivians to adhere to zebra crossings, and what to do when they returned to negotiations. I only wish I’d done as I thought I might, and before departing, walk up to them and say “Hello chaps and chappess! So, how are the negotiations going? Do you want my opinion?” But I didn’t. I do need to check The Wire to find out what’s going on though, next on my list!

In trying to come to terms with my 9 days in Bolivia, I did some research. The UK civilians are very vocal about all the politicians do wrong and that all countries have issues, the UK being no different. However, reading about even the recent government happenings for Bolivia is like War and Peace on amphetamines.

Firstly, whilst I’ve visited countries that include Turkey and Albania, the latter by bike, it felt to me like Bolivia from these three countries, was the poorest. It’s not. Turkey is a surprising 28th richest, whilst Bolivia comes in at 87th and Albania 95th. On first arriving in Bolivia, my amazing host Silvi was very scathing of her government, and at the time, I’d been enchanted by Tupiza and the run in through its gorge. Sure, the city was chaotic, but small compared to the towns and cities that I’d arrive at heading north.

In terms of the Crime Index, Bolivia is 35th to Argentina’s 18th and Peru’s 13th. The cultural and poverty differences between Argentina and Bolivia are so huge, it is like comparing a cat with a rock. Whilst I saw poverty in Argentina, it was on a completely different scale to Bolivia, which for which I don’t recall seeing any comparative wealth or standard of living. I felt safer in Argentina than Bolivia, and if I had to imagine living in either country, there is nothing on this earth that would place me in Bolivia, whereas Argentina, although still a hard pill to swallow, if I was forced to leave the UK, I could be happy there.

In doing some research, I read the former interim president of Bolivia Jeanine Anez is on trial for orchestrating the removal of her predecessor Evo Morales. Maximiliano Dávila, former director of the Special Force to Fight Drug Trafficking in Bolivia, was arrested for his alleged links to drug trafficking and illicit enrichment in January. There are protests in every town and city, daily, where because the people do not feel they are being heard, they set off what sounds like gun fire, but are flares and fireworks, in public spaces. A man who raped over 70 women and killed at least three was set free after 3 months as he falsified a claim he was terminally ill, an instant release for prisoners in Bolivia, regardless of the crime, and the government is being investigated as to how this happened.

You look around each village, town and city, and see no tranquility as we may find even in the biggest of cities in the UK, but rather communities trying to exist. Entering via any main thoroughfare is running the gauntlet, with potholes the size of black holes, dogs running riot or dead at the side of the road. The emissions from vehicles is as bad as sitting on the junction of Shepherds Bush roundabout, every time one passes, gushing out gallons of toxic fumes. If it rains, the roads if not paved, which in cities and towns is more common than not, become quagmires.

The population of Bolivia is 11 million. I wonder how many have ever left? And with no money, whilst I talk of the idealism of a way forward, welcoming foreigners with relative wealth to spend their money and build the Bolivian economy, where does the money come from to make a start on its infrastructure and what and how would it sell Bolivia? And if the government is corrupt, would the money even benefit its people? From a tourist perspective, there are perhaps currently three main tourist attractions: Uyuni Salt Flats, La Paz and Death Road (which will only likely appeal to adrenaline junkies of the two-wheeled variety). I saw much beauty which is never written about in any guide, but how do you sell that?

From a people perspective, I saw more women than men visibly working, and steeped in the traditional dress of a Chola, typically selling food or goods on the street or herding Llama, sheep or cows by or in the central reservation of the highway, and even running the accommodation venues I stayed in. Where I did see one man running such a place, he was completely charming to me but treated his employee (a woman) quite disrespectfully. I felt that women were the hard workers in this country, but it made me wonder where were the men working?

Overall, to be a Bolivian, by nature, life and the Bolivian were hard, and life seemed to be toilsome. The country is at altitude, the weather is harsh and there is little comfort as we know it in the UK. Whilst I don’t think of myself by western standards as being wealthy, it will be hard not to consider my position in future and how lucky I and we are who live in a similar society, to have everything we do.

If you feel uncomfortable reading this, then it echoes how I have felt riding through this country. For me, the reasons to be here were to see the Uyuni Salt Flats and if Peru hadn’t opened, to finish my South American leg here and fly home from La Paz. It has been eye opening in so many ways, and tested me much more than the unpaved roads and wind of Argentina had. In its favour, although city driving was atrocious, I’ll remember Bolivia for all the vehicles that toot tooted me to let me know they were coming, and the overall more dependable roads than Argentina and for the rare connections I made with warm people.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be positive about the chaos of the towns and cities, and the ever present poverty wherever you look. Maybe if I still lived in a city in the UK, it would seem less shambolic, but I doubt it. My rides this week seem quite inconsequential, but in this setting, have tested me mentally and physically to the limit, and I’m not sure without the prospect of meeting Mark, how deep I might have gone into the clashes going on in my head. But there is tremendous light in the form of tomorrow, my best buddy joining me for two weeks of fun in Peru. We’ll just play it by ear, but the agenda is fun!

So to a summary of the days that have led me to my last night in Bolivia and my last unsupported ride in South America.

Monday 14th March: Potosi - Challapata

Getting out of Potosi was terrifying. The lack of traffic control, a Highway Code, dogs, people, rail tracks, disintegrated roads and rubbish everywhere made the 20 minutes to each the city boundary seem very long. But then it happened, I’d escaped. The cityscape became another canyon and sparsely beautiful. The weather was breaking and as I climbed the longest ascent of 16 miles, the weather broke as thunder and lightening threatened me from the south. I got cold quickly and put on every last piece of clothing I had.

At the top of the climb, 4308 metres and 108km into the 197km stage, I was fully surrounded by storms, bolts of lightening in all directions but particularly ahead. Knowing it was exposed, I made the decision to hide inside my sleeping bag in a rock crevice out of view from the road, hoping a lightening bolt wouldn’t find me, and peeping out of a tiny hole to see how the storm was moving. It began to hail, and my sleeping bag was beginning to saturate. I contacted Mark via InReach to try and get a satellite report, and go through options. I could either ride downhill to the last village, a shanty village about 8km downhill, or risk riding ahead, 18km to a village about half the size. Within this hour of waiting and considering, despite being cocooned in my sleeping bag, I was getting colder due to already being wet, and had eaten my supplies in an attempt to generate some body heat. Mark was right, whatever I was going to do, I needed to do it pretty immediately, as there was a risk of hypothermia.

I made the decision that although it would mean me getting colder, I’d ride back downhill to the last village. But just as I stuffed my wet cocoon into my backpack and headed for the road, the rain and hail stopped and as quickly, the sun peeped through. Knowing riding uphill would warm me, I took a gamble and rode forward, counting on a stop in the village up the road should the weather turn again.

The weather behaved other than a cold headwind, all the way to Challapata, as dark descended. With 4 miles to go, in the near distance, another electric storm was breaking. I rode as hard as I could to make it to the town before it reached me and succeeded.

Reaching another predictably terrible road surface that seemed to be the traffic control mechanism for any village, town or city in Bolivia, I donned my trainers, and as I did, a guy came up to me and said “You’re not Michelle, are you?”

This blonde, curly haired Dutch looking guy turned out to be Tim, one half of British duo, Chris and Tim, riding for 18 months from Ushuaia to Alaska, heavily loaded complete with a trailer, ready to collect surfboards from Lima for their central and northern American legs.

It happened we were staying at the same hostel. Sadly for me, my room was unheated and the showers cold, and after an hour, I’d still not warmed up in my heartless room, but wearily wound my way to a fast food joint to join my new young friends for chicken nuggets, chips and rice, and discuss our experiences thus far.

Tuesday 15th March: to Oruro

After a night fully clothed, I set off half an hour after Chris and Tim, and passed them a short time later on the road. This was the second day I was fully clothed in everything I had brought. The mountains I’d ridden over the day before were now covered in snow, and it was raining. I was on a bit of a mission, as I’d agreed to meet my Airbnb host at a given time.

The route was pretty dull, but that was fine. But on reaching the city limits of Oruro, I was confronted with roads full of mud, industrial and ugly, and of the likes I’ve never seen before. None of the streets were named and traffic was very heavy. The roads were so wet and flooded, I had to ride out from the edge of the roads, but still on the dual carriageways, the vehicles came past, as if I wasn’t there.

After looking for an hour, I couldn’t find my accommodation and opted for the nearest hotel. This again was unheated but I did eventually get a warm shower.

I met again with Tim and Chris for dinner, and we all laughed and moaned at our experiences of the day. They had seen a dog run over and a minivan collision with many casualties.

Wednesday 16th March: to Patamacaya

I slept as badly as I ever do, and woke and left early, taking my newly discovered Huminta al Horno (a type of rice pudding cake) with me for my mid and post ride sustenance. As I prepared, I heard very close by a protest beginning, and at this time, not knowing, hearing what sounded like gun fire. I’d washed my bike in the shower the night before and baby-wipe cleaned my chain from the mud painting the city had gifted me the day before. I needed chain oil, but decided getting out fast was more critical than riding with a dry chain.

I was pleasantly surprised that although incredibly dull, Highway 1 which would eventually lead to La Paz had a lane-wide hard shoulder. Although covered in debris, it was the safest option on any busy road I’d ridden on in South America. This ride without incidence was surprisingly pleasing. Around 80km into the 132km stage, I pulled in at a gomeria (roadside mechanic), and Iban liberally and merrily applied the required chain oil and off I went.

It seemed like no time at all I arrived in another poor town, Patamacaya, and found a room, once again with no heating or hot water. I’d like to say at £5 for the night, who could complain? But I still felt cold and hadn’t warmed up for three days. Minutes after I got into the room, I buried myself in my bed, again completely clothed and listened as the hail and rain fell, and soon fell asleep.

It took me all my willpower to get out and find some food as darkness fell, but as it was critical, despite no appetite and feeling cold and unwell, I found some chicken, rice and chips, followed by chicken broth, and the nutrition box was ticked.

Once again, as evening turned to night, cold and feeling a little worn, I went to bed with my hat and gloves, and all but my cycle shorts, and waited restlessly for the sun to rise.

Thursday 17th March: to La Paz - penultimate stage in Bolivia

I’d arranged to leave at 0730, and set my wallpaper on my phone to say: don’t forget passport. I’d had to hand it over as security (for what????) the night before. Fortunately, it was returned to me, complete with the flimsy piece of paper with my Bolivian immigration stamp. I got two rolls from the market for breakfast and hit the road. I wanted a day without incidence, and felt quite nauseous, so planned to ride effortlessly all the way to La Paz, as if I wasn’t riding at all.

Until the highest point on the ride, everything went to plan. I trundled along, imagining Peru was pulling me towards it, and picturing Mark’s smiley and welcoming face. Just as I crested the final climb, I felt that wobbly boat-like motion of a puncture, and sure enough, a rear flat. I changed it in record time, but as I remounted my bike, the chain had become jammed between the chain ring and frame. Although this has never happened on any other bike I’ve owned, it happened on this bike when I arrived in El Calafate and took it out of the bike box after flying to put it together. That was the first time I’d had to take my cranks and chain ring off my bike, but was under Mark’s instruction via a video call. There, I improvised with a knife to remove the locking nut from the crank arm before anxiously taking apart and then reassembling what to me was my best example of a mechanical nightmare. I’d said to Mark at the time, whilst it had never happened to me before, what if it happened again whilst I was out on the road in some remote or hostile setting? And then it happened!

“F***************”

Didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t get it out. On went the trainers, out went my thumb and I began to pray to the bike gods to come back to me and help. They weren’t listening. Plan B: roll down to the previous village and get a taxi or a mechanic with the right tool, if either was an option.

The first building I passed was a mechanic. A group of elderly guys were hanging around and inside, a young guy, who I learnt was Steve. He didn’t have the right tool, and when he disappeared, I started to negotiate with a taxi driver who turned up, but he wouldn’t go to La Paz. Whilst this was going on, I heard the sound of a metal grinder, and didn’t make a connection. But then, Steve appeared, having crafted from a piece of metal a tool that perfectly engaged with the crank nut, and the genius had solved my problem! I was back in business! He wouldn’t let me take a photo of him, but he was definitely one of my heroes!

Predictably, and with much anxiety, the run into La Paz was horrendous. I managed to find a route off the main autopista, which had potholes that could sink a tank. After a few miles, the road suddenly descended, and on later inspection, 400 metres drop in 1 mile, down death trap, metal grate-ridden roads, and at such a gradient that if I’d continued to ride, my disc brake pads would have disappeared by the bottom, if I’d made it that far. So I walked.

La Paz is insane. I dreaded it, but once I was there, I couldn’t help but be completely gobsmacked at the intensity and density of the population and development in an area of mountains that seemed impossible. It was as though it had rained bricks and they’d landed in great clumps erratically in every fold and mound wherever I looked. Whilst I’m not a city person, I challenge anyone not to be amazed and fascinated either positively or negatively at what has been created for this city in the sky.

Having picked my way up and down the city streets, I eventually found my 15th century hotel, as old as the city itself, and made my way with my dirty bike to my exquisite room, complete with mezzanine which has felt like a sanctuary (despite someone opening my door without knocking and disappearing rapidly when I said “hello” whilst writing this blog) tucked away from the craziness outside the building’s enormous and elaborate front doors.

My last meal in Bolivia was The Carrot Tree restaurant where a DJ played what could be my own playlist, with one of my favourite tracks, which take me to Peru and my final leg on this continent: Rappers Delight by The Sugarhill Gang.

I leave you, happy, secure, ready to leave the country, which like none other I’ve visited, has left an impression on me. It will be interesting to see how I reflect on this experience, in a week, a month and years from now, and whether it will somehow shape me. Ask me today, and the words I use to describe these 9 days are: contradictions, juxtaposition, perseverance, poverty, freezing, high, sad, chaos.

See you in Peru I hope, where the sky is blue, pipes play and there is a coastline and I have company! 🎊

#Spotify

[wingingitonwheels]

Bolivian bureaucracy

Some people are in such utter darkness that they will burn you just to see a light. Try not to take it personally. Kamand Kojouri

March 13, Potosi, Bolivia

I have to admit, for the first time on this trip, in fact any adventure, I cried this morning. I didn’t know it was coming. Although I’m in a nice hotel for the area, I didn’t sleep well, which of course isn’t unusual. But at 7am, “music” from a nightclub finally ended, and I began a text conversation with Mark which turned into a call and then the floodgates opened and the tears flowed. I was still metaphorically bruised from the final miles of my ride to this city, and then received a message from Chris, half of a Brit male duo cycling from Ushuaia to Alaska, saying he was at the Uyuni Salt Flats and they were “amazing”. That single site was the main reason for wanting to come to Bolivia, and having had to make a split second decision, my route led me to here, and put Uyuni firmly out of reach.

I think the tears flowed not just because of those two events, but the final miles leading to Potosi were the final straw. I knew there would be some tough times, and let’s hope these are the last, but in sequence, here are the last few days as since arriving at the border town of La Quiaca in Argentina on Wednesday, there hasn’t been a day gone by without incident.

Thursday 10th March

I thought the most challenging part of crossing to Bolivia would be the PCR test needed and potential delays and authenticity/acceptance of the test. How wrong was I? When I finished my ride to my final Argentine destination, I hopped off my bike, left it in the hotel, walked fast to the laboratory to get there before midday and didn’t even queue. The rest came to me within two hours as I ate my lunch.

Oh how this pulled me into a false sense of security! I’d done my research to enter Bolivia: PCR test, no visa, and off you go. I relaxed for the rest of the afternoon and ate my last meal in the country at Resto Bar Ruta 40, again starting as with all my meals, the first guest for the evening.

Friday 11 March

In the morning, I rose early, ate breakfast and hopped back on my bike for the short roll to the border, and was waved through to an office. It was chaos in all directions: portacabins on one side for who knows what reason, roadworks, unpaved roads, guards, and people in various queues. I got chatting to two Dutch backpackers in the queue in front of me. It took about 2 minutes for me to find out that I was far from prepared, and wherever I had got my information from was wildly inaccurate. I needed to go back to my hotel and start again. Everything needed to be printed and in triplicate. The COVID results weren’t enough. They needed to go into a system and a photo taken of me to prove that the results were mine, printed on another form. The COVID test had to be printed too, as did my Argentinian affidavit, my NHS vaccination digital pass and a Bolivian form of some sort - all in triplicate!

To help someone understand what was needed, I took a photo of another traveller’s forms, and asked the hotel to direct me to somewhere that could help. When I arrived at the corner office, a waiting punter directed me to the Bolivian Consulate office, several blocks away, who in turn directed me to where I’d just come from.

Frustration rising, I stuck my head around a door and said “Socorro” meaning “Help!!!”

There were two people in the tiny office, and needing action and having no decent level of Spanish, my Google Translate mate started a very long and largely silent engagement with a young man who seemed very nonplussed by it all. 90 minutes later, and just as he was about to print the last form, the system died. It would probably have been completely fair at this point to have blown a gasket, particularly when he said he couldn’t print the last form. I acted dumb, stood my ground and just waited until I left another 30 minutes later with my forms.

It was now 1030. Now prepared with a ream of paper, I returned to the border. Repeatedly, I was directed to one portacabin after another, until after the 7th, a female engineer who saw my trouble, and was also crossing to work, came to my aide, and got me through speaking with various portacabin inhabitants to the Bolivian immigration portacabin, which was closed. She explained that they come back when there are about 10 in line, so I waited.

When I left the administration office for my paperwork, the only other British person I’ve met appeared, needing to have the same forms. Because I’d just completed the process, she’d managed to turn hers around in 20 minutes and appeared next to me in the queue! Jayne from London was hitching lifts across South America as her form of transport. We shared our frustrations and then eventually, when the Bolivian migration officer completed his part for my forms and we moved to the next portacabin, Jayne jumped in front of me in the queue.

Whatever they did here, we were then free to go to another portacabin, and here somehow, I lost Jayne and some Swedish/Spanish travellers, whilst my forms arrived by foot from the last portacabin, where I was told I needed a Yellow Fever vaccination. I knew as I wasn’t going to the region for Yellow Fever, this wasn’t necessary but lost all ability to argue and took the injection. Now I had the requisite certificate and something had happened with my paperwork, I was directed to another chaotic cabin, where a line of hundreds of people, assuming workers, were waiting in line. They ushered me in front of them to a man checking a coach load of passes. I waited patiently and eventually, when it was my turn, he couldn’t cope with my nationality and told me to wait for his colleague who was dealing with the line of workers.

Some time later, she took my passport and paperwork, did some stuff on a system, stamped an old piece of paper with the immigration stamp, and told me that the paper is very important. I asked about why my passport was not stamped and she said it wasn’t needed, but to use the QR code to do everything else. Checking again, I asked, is that everything? Do I need to go anywhere else? And she confirmed I was free to go to Bolivia. Like a bat out of hell I grabbed my bike and disappeared faster than a track cyclist sprint.

By the time I picked my way through the dilapidated and dirty streets of Villazon, it was 1:30pm. There was a weather warning of an electric storm and the skies were darkening. Having been warned by another cyclist who’d been here years before, I was expecting the roads to match the worst of Argentina, but at least in these early miles, it didn’t transpire. In fact, the driving seemed better, gentle hoots warned me vehicles were about to pass, and the road surface was reliable! Maybe things had changed in 20 years!

The ride to Tupiza was relatively short. It was still 3000m above sea level so as fast as you may want to pedal, Hypoxia is a great speed limiter. Being a major crossing point to the country, I also anticipated busy roads and many lorries and coaches. But what I got was a quiet and rural introduction to Bolivia, which took me through quiet and tiny villages, people waving, a village celebration where everyone wore red and white and music reverberated off nearby rock faces, and several dog chases. The cultural differences were immediately obvious, particularly for the women, who wore hats and long black braided hair, and bright flaring and frilly knee length skirts. They were beautiful! I found it quite moving that in the 21st century, there were still whole countries who were steeped in tradition and unaffected by modernisation or conformity.

It hadn’t occurred to me that this run to Tupiza might also be beautiful. But within 90 minutes, I was riding through another Technicolor gorge and canyon, as the skies blackened and I felt the first spots of rain. I didn’t really have time to stop for photos if I was going to beat the storm, but I did anyway.

I wrote about Tupiza in a previous blog, so I won’t repeat that, but will pick up again on the morning I left.

Friday 11 March

Mark had organised for me to collect some cash from a bank via Western Union. Despite getting there 30 minutes before closing the night before, I joined a queue and within 5 minutes, a police guard counted three from the queue in and sent the remaining three, me being number 4, packing. I begged and said I had no money, but he didn’t care. So I returned at 0640 the next morning, ready for the doors to open at 0700. As I took a ticket from the lady at the bank, she told me that what I had in terms of my passport and tracking number was not sufficient, and I needed an official document from the Bolivian immigration to withdraw cash. This was news to me, and given I had nothing other than the immigration stamp with a QR code, and the immigration officer’s word that I had completed the shambolic process and could legally enter Bolivia, I was pretty confused. Without wanting to get into a fight, I walked away and decided to try my credit cards in the ATM. They didn’t work. I had no cash and no means to pay Silva or to get cash.

I ran back to the hotel and explained my situation to both Mark and Silva. Silva returned with me to the bank and spoke in Spanish telling them that from Western Union’s perspective, I had all that was needed. But the bank insisted without this fictional document from Bolivian Immigration, I could not get cash. Things started to look pretty bad. It looked as though I was now in Bolivia illegally and may need to go back to the border, where no one spoke English, to sort out my documentation. When considering this painful option, I took a very close look at the piece of paper with a stamp, which clearly said “Bolivia Immigration” and the QR code was the digital version of the form the bank required. So it appeared no one had updated the bank that the process was now, although incredibly flaky, online. Banco Union wasn’t an option, but luckily, Silvi said she thought her bank might be able to help. After breakfast and 2 hours after my initial trip to the bank and much adrenaline later, we went to her bank, she spoke Spanish and within another 30 minutes, I had cash. In another hour, I was on my way, trying to beat another storm on the approach to Uyuni. Before I left, I gave Silvi a huge hug, despite COVID, and bid her a heartfelt goodbye with gratitude for the length she’d gone to in helping me out.

Just as I left the town’s outer limit, then sign for Uyuni pointed towards an unpaved road that looked as bad as the first on Ruta 40. Not needing another challenge right then, I looked at two maps and opted for the safer road straight ahead, with no real clue what I was letting myself in for but acutely aware in taking that route, my dreams of Uyuni would likely be over, as the roads never merged again. I tried not to think too hard about it and instead settled on the road less travelled and what it might bring.

I wasn’t disappointed. The scenery, whilst not as breathtaking as my entrance into Bolivia, was much like the Highlands of Scotland, only higher and even more remote. My legs were drained from the impact of all the stress of the previous events and ended early in a town called Santiago de Cotagaita.

The town was very under-developed, where street sellers sat selling their goods on the ground and chicken and rice was the fast food of choice. I found an apartment very quickly, which had no bathroom and a shared toilet. Not the height of luxury, but at £2.50, I could afford some baby wipes for a wash. I went to sleep having had street food prepared by a large Bolivian lady, selling chicken, rice and soup from big pots at a make shift stand. It had rained heavily when another storm broke but as the darkness fell, the streets were still bustling, and one of her punters took delight in trying out his English on me, which made me feel welcome.

As I went to sleep under a heavy and snuggly llama woollen blanket, I listened as the village came to life again with street music which sounded like a parade. Had I not been so tired, I’d have joined in, but in this very basic apartment, I got one of the best night’s sleep since arriving in South America…

Saturday 12 March

I’d managed to do enough research the day before on my Karoo to know that in order to get to the next town with accommodation was 176 miles and uphill, reaching an elevation of over 4000m. I knew nothing about the place I was going just that it was another way to get north. My breakfast was some disgusting Nestle chocolate boulders of some sort with UHT milk, banana and a yoghurt, all eaten out of a plastic container saved from the chicken and rice, and a plastic spoon. I followed this with a “Monster” chaser, and hit the road, feeling focused but not fabulous at 0645.

The skies were grey following the previous day’s storm which worked for me, full winter gear and a cooler day’s riding, less need for fluid, as the first and only stop planned was at 80 miles, near the peak of the day’s climbing 20 miles later.

Although there were some trucks, unlike Argentina, they moved out and tooted to let you know they were coming past which was totally reassuring.

I’d now learnt how to deal with Hypoxia, which was essential when over 3000m of climbing, loaded with my gear and at altitude. I have a tendency even when I think I’m taking it easy to push on. I don’t even realise I’m doing it. If there’s a hill, I up the revs, even just lightly. With altitude, it became very clear quickly when I was doing this, as my breathing would shorten and my thighs hurt, as if I’d been sprinting. Add in the need to drink, which for me is normally between 3-5 gulps in succession without breathing, and I’d suddenly, and I mean suddenly, be emptied of oxygen. If you haven’t experienced this and want to try this “at home”, there’s a couple of ways to try. One way is to jump into a 25-50 metre pool and instead of breathing each side or every two to three strokes (which is normal - for me every three), try upping that so you take a breath on every fifth, seventh or more, and once you have mastered how this feels, try adding in some effort, go harder. The second way is to get s blood clot. This is quite extreme, but on discussing with Mark what Hypoxia feels like, he related completely to the 13 months he carried a few of these around without diagnosis, lost a lot of weight, became breathless even going for a dog walk, until eventually, they dislodged. When they did, Mark had a stroke and got very lucky that his two incredible daughters took action when they discovered him, ran to a neighbour and an ambulance arrived with the right medication within 10 minutes. He arrived at hospital within 45 minutes and by the time he was prepped for surgery and had an MRI, the blood thinning medication had worked and stopped short of his brain, and the clots disintegrated.

Mark is now back to full health, regained 10kg that he lost due to his muscles not getting enough oxygen. But if you get these signs, persist with your doctor and don’t be told “it’s just stress”. For Mark, they looked at his heart but not his lungs. He was very lucky. Mark is on medication for life now…maybe I’ll borrow some of things get tough? 😆. My medication which I had researched is “Vitamin l” - good old ibuprofen. You can get specific medication for altitude and if you’re more adventurous, chew Coca leaves. However, the leaves I don’t imagine will ultimately help me pedal!

Whilst I’m not physiologist, and definitely no scientist, I have a pretty good understanding of my body and what I’m feeling physiologically and what to do about it. In getting up what was a 100 mile climb to over 4000m, each time I felt hypoxia coming on, I eased off, and so this continued. This is more challenging when you add in a gradient that you have no choice but to push harder, or you fall off your bike or stop. So in order to keep momentum, I used the cats eyes at the side of the road: push harder for two sets of cats eyes, ease off for the third, if it got steeper, it was push for one, ease back for one.

Complications in this strategy arose when a lorry passed too closely or I was chased by a fit mountain dog or three. I believe word had spread across South America about the dog-loving lady on a bike, as whilst there were at least 5 approaches on the way up, because I couldn’t sprint so well, I decided to stop and speak to them, and just said “Hola, hey! What’s up?” They seemed generally confused and that was fine. I pootled on at 3 miles an hour and they went back to looking for cars to chase.

The final challenge of the last three days came after my planned stop at a petrol station, where I refuelled with a packet of water biscuits, stretched out and got going again. Just before the stop, two roads merged, and in continuing, the road got steeper and narrowed. Although it was hard, nothing became a problem until I approached the summit, at 4284m. Whereas all other mountain summits I’ve ever been to, whether a ski resort or beautiful mountain pass, I have always felt compelled to take a photo. This summit is the highest I’ve been, the previous two highest being one and two weeks ago. But here, there were many mines, much traffic and dirt and fumes in the air. The lorries were big and many, people sat at sides of roads, broken down vehicles and llamas everywhere. It was very industrial, and the toots turned to beeps, suggesting I should not be on this road. The traffic became so heavy on reaching the summit, that by the time the descent began, it was pretty much at a standstill. When it was moving, two minivans opened their windows and aggressively and loudly shouted abuse at me. Another hurled a carrier bag of rubbish at me which hit. He had no wing mirrors so won’t have seen my head drop in sadness and disbelief at what was happening.

3 miles later, the road had completely disintegrated, and the dust and dirt in the air so intense that my contact lens dislodged from my eye, which has never happened whilst riding. I pulled to the side of the road, got my glasses on and edged my way into the city. As a final insult, some children sprayed me with water…although I’d arrived, completing what should have been one of the hardest rides of my life, I felt no sense of jubilation, only a sense that I wanted to escape and was trapped.

The city was carnage; no road markings or traffic control. It felt this was a third world city, which it probably is. Fumes, dirt, chaos, noise, but immediately obvious, a deep rooted history, described in the city’s main square.

I dismounted my bike, switched immediately to my trainers and set out to find the best hotel in the city. I didn’t feel safe or welcome, and wanted to hide as quickly as I could. And as the next stage exceeds the distance and elevation of the day described, I’ve taken a day off to gather my strength, fortitude and find some courage, and hopefully some belief that I just got unlucky with my experiences and will set off tomorrow undaunted. This is what I hope.

It’s hard to understand what I experienced yesterday. It makes me so sad. The city of Potosi grew up as a result of silver mining in the fifteenth century. Now, many minerals are mined. At one point in history, Potosi was one of the most affluent cities in the world. The Spanish owned the mining, and brought many Peruvians to work them, exploiting many generations of families. The average life expectancy even today for a miner is 40. The mines themselves are known as “the man-eating mines of Potosi”, as in total, they are said to have claimed the lives of eight million men. Mining is dangerous anywhere, but here, altitude compounds the lack of oxygen and the quality of the remaining air is contaminated with toxins.

The wealth generated by the mines was exported to Europe, and not invested in the people and city of Potosi. When the mines were largely exhausted of silver in 1825, the city’s population shrunk from 200,000 to 10,000. Since then, poverty has been rife in the city and walking around it today, it’s everywhere.

With this in mind, and putting aside the aggression I encountered, although it’s not right, it’s clear to me that if someone’s life and for generations of his family’s life has been scarred as a result of exploitation from Europe, why an angry person may hate someone enjoying life, riding a bike and for that moment in time, being carefree. I could and do argue it’s short sighted, as welcome visitors and there is an opportunity to reshape a future. I wonder why I am, as an individual, to blame for the past inflicted on this area, and assume this is where the aggression and hate came from. It could also be intimidation as there are no other female cyclists in Bolivia from what I can see. I’m off the tourist trail, and everywhere I look, women are traditionally dressed; perhaps men don’t want change, they don’t want women to be liberated and to find a different identity.

As I braved the streets this morning, trying to forget what happened yesterday, I walked into a corner shop to buy some drinks. The shop was tiny and it looked like no-one was there. I peered over the counter to find a beautiful lady in her sixties, eyes bright, cheeks with rouge, and still with her black, gleaming mane. Her smile was beautiful. My Spanish has come on enough that I can hold a basic conversation with someone now. She, seeing I was foreign, asked with delight, where I was from. I told her and she smiled broadly. She asked where I was going and I told her the full journey. She responded with a laugh and said I was “fortuleza” (strong). She reminded me at just the right time that most people are good, and even those steeped in tradition welcome differences and want to engage.

I wish I could speak to those people who hated me yesterday, understand it, and respond, but it won’t happen. I wanted to come and see how life is for others and how they live, whether it was comfortable to see or not, and in coming to Potosi, it delivered.

[wingingitonwheels]

Salud Argentina! Vamos Bolivia!

“The biggest pressure is to have no pressure.”

Arsene Venger

10 March 2022: Thursday

“Come hell or high water, I’ll meet you at the Peruvian Border 19 March. And if I can’t get there by land, I’ll fly to Lima and we can drive to where we would have met and still do the Peruvian leg. Okay?”

As soon as a date is fixed and someone else becomes part of the plan, freedom takes on a slightly new meaning, and pressure begins to edge in. Having said that, agreeing a date does also provide an opportunity for focus and purpose. Excitement has crept up a notch and I’m not sure whether it’s that excitement or the altitude, but insomnia has well and truly got its claws into me. Not even listening to the very well narrated “To Kill a Mockingbird” is aiding my zzzz’s. With my crappy eyesight, both kindles and audiobooks have really opened up the world of literature for me, in the same way a contact lens in my right eye has seemed to sharpen the world, and probably therefore also my childlike fascination of rock formations, wildlife and landscapes.

With this addition to the adventure, I’d seen Bolivia as a transitory country, simply a bridge between what was a never disappointing Argentina, to what would most likely be other worldly experience in the lush rainforests and mountains of Peru. Like leaving the UK, it was hard to get excited about anything beyond the border at La Quiaca, as the prospect of the bureaucracy and chaos in crossing borders, something that I used to take delight in and seek out, in COVID times, has become something to dread. Getting there and in good time was now the top priority, but by ‘eck! How much were the Bike Gods testing my patience?

There is something called the Pareto Principle, which I’ve been dwelling on for the last week.

Quote: “The Pareto principle states that for many outcomes, roughly 80% of consequences come from 20% of causes (the "vital few"). Other names for this principle are the 80/20 rule, the law of the vital few, or the principle of factor sparsity.” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pareto_principle)

I really like this principle and it’s logic I’ve both applied and seen applied both professionally and personally. In trying to be philosophical about events, I’ve been using it against the events that happen with a degree of frequency: something is lost, there’s no food, the wind is blowing in the wrong direction, something happened that is out of my control, and ultimately caused me some frustration. In applying it to this adventure, 80% of the time, things are good. 20% of the time, they’re not so good, and it’s this 20% of the time that causes 80% of pain! Luckily, 80% pain is only felt 20% of the time. So taking the rough with the smooth, if you’re 80% in the blue, life is good! Prepare to deal with 20% of pain, because it will happen, but it’s worth it. Crikey, I have spent a long time on my own!

The 80% of great things that happened in the last week were:

I saw a tarantula cross the road

I rode alongside wild horses

A piglet came and greeted me at the side of the road

I crossed the border into Bolivia

I had the most substantial and world class cuisine in Salta because I had an enforced day off the bike: all for £37 (4 courses and two glasses of wine!)

I saw two electric storms

I’ve seen an array of rock colours in one geographic region I never thought possible

I fell in love with Bolivia within 3 hours of crossing the border

The kindness of strangers has continued to follow me

I’ve seen the most adorable dogs ever since arriving in Argentina, and know which ones I’d bring home if I could

I rode to my highest ever elevation of 3780m

Although I didn’t start in Ushuaia in the end, I still marked yesterday as the day this adventure covered the same mileage as if I had.

My bike was serviced by Edu, ex-pro, who I had to persuade very hard to take payment, and sold me his own tyres so I could get going, opening on a Sunday just to help me out.

Weigh that up against the not so good:

On my arrival in Salta, a ridiculous oblique metal grate leading to a service station where I was about to hunt down bike shops wrecked my week old tyres and took 1.5 days out of my schedule.

8 hours of walking the streets of Salta rendered nothing as apparently Continental tyres and tubes are not a thing here.

An 80 mile climb to the Altiplano (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altiplano) and into a headwind nearly ended my ride early in a town with no food as it was in mourning. So I had to push on another 20 miles after a kind stranger put me up in a bunk house for £7.

It took 5 hours, being directed to no less than 7 different administrative locations, 5 forms, an unneeded and unwanted yellow fever vaccination, and chaos I’ve never experienced before to be allowed to cross to Bolivia.

I think anyone can see that even with 20% pain, the equation works, and as long as you can smile at the end of a week, life is good!

I got dwelling on this as this last week, 20% of the distance to get to Bolivia seems to have taken 80% of the effort! Now I’m all confused!

Let’s move on to some stats and facts from the Argentine part of this adventure (if you’re in the Facebook group, this is copy and paste, maybe with a few added bits):

3000+ miles

46000m climbing (I’ve added on a few for the inaccuracy of all the apps!)

11 punctures

8 tyres

3 pairs of cycling shoes

60 litres of Gatorade

6 litres of Monster/Red Bull

Highest elevation: 3780m (yesterday)

Longest ride 231km

Number of new Argentine friends: around 10

Number of new non-Argentine friends: 1

Number of new canine friends: 1,002

Number of stages: 31 (riding north)

Number of other females spotted doing the same thing on their own: 0

Number of words I know in Spanish: about 100 😂.

Most commonly used words: I’m sorry and thank you very much.

Most annoying moment: losing a cycle shoe

Second most annoying moment: an oblique metal grid

Most breathtaking moment: I’ll have to come back to you on this one. Too many.

Most scary moment: many involving lorries and coaches

Happiest day on the bike: going through the Argentine Grand Canyon between Belen and Talampampa.

I add to this list:

Worst meal(s)

Lamb and pasta stew

Beef flank in Mendoza (how did I end up with this?)

Moments that took me by surprise emotionally:

Seeing the old man in Purmamarca, as old as the rocks he walked by, using his stick to help him as he walked slowly up the hill back to his dwelling, eyes so sunken you could barely see them, clothes so loose you wondered how they stayed on him, probably walked that same walk, carrying his groceries, all his life. And probably blissfully unaware of wealth, politics, what it means to have a career, not caring what people think of you, and just existing. It really made me reflect, and also made me a little sad, for which I can’t totally understand yet.

Two condors soaring above me as I summited the climb that would eventually take me to Purmamarca…their movement and apparent joy at just riding the thermals and wind…with the clouds and mountains as their backdrop.

The town and host of the hotel I am staying at tonight. Tupiza is one of my favourite towns so far on this adventure, where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had their last showdown. The run into Tupiza took me totally by surprise. I was expecting high altitude plains and not much else. What I got was yet more naturally sculptured mountains and gorges whose colours were framed by an ominous impending electric storm. Goats, Llamas and Alpacas dotted the verges, and Bolivians on scooters, rather than indicating I wasn’t welcome (which I’d read in some guide), actively hooted or called me on; the women with long, braided black hair riding pillion, and a village celebrating in red and white attire the end of carnival fortnight, their local music and song reverberating round the gorge. I could have done without two dog chases that sent me hypoxic but I will forget those a long time before the memory of my first miles in Bolivia fade.

Back to the host. Her name is Silvi, and her daughter is Mariele. I chose this place as in Bolivian terms, it’s the luxury hotel of the town. It’s called El Grano De Oro Hotel. It cost me £24 and it is my favourite hotel of the trip. The room is lovely, but as with all my other experiences, it’s how the hosts make you feel welcome. And not only did Silvi bring tea to my room, and cook for me personally what I chose (I am the only guest), when I couldn’t get to the Western Union branch in time and needed to buy an adaptor, she lent me some cash so I could go to the market. And it wasn’t this that made me feel emotional. It is that in two months, I am only her second guest because of the pandemic. I so want to tell the world about these incredible people and places, and say, yes, travel is difficult and you have to really want it and put up with some pain, but in the end, you won’t regret it. The world is full of problems, but we used to travel so why not again? Why not rethink and reshape the way we do it, and discover amazing people and places like Silvi and Tupiza or Lucia and Gerardo and Esquel? I want the world to keep turning and this is why I feel emotional about Silvi and Tupiza.

I have 9 days to get to Peru! I’ve been warned the roads are bad, that I might be robbed in an illegal roadblock, and I’m chasing down a Welsh guy who’s a few days ahead of me, Chris, currently on day 120 of his trip north from Ushuaia to Alaska! If Bolivia continues as it started, I might not leave!

Until next time, somewhere in Bolivia!

#Spotify

[wingingitonwheels]

Flexibility: 3 March - Santa Maria, Catamarca, Argentina. 750km to Bolivia

"You can never cross the ocean unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore." - Christopher Columbus

Two regions left and then it’s Bolivia!

Although it’s unplanned, I’ve taken a rest day and am currently sat in a rather lovely family run hotel in Santa Maria, Catamarca (Huaico Init) and am listening to the regular chimes of the town’s bells. I arrived here early evening yesterday and my smile had disappeared as my headache grew in prominence. With each kilometre as I approached the little mountain town, at just under 2000m above sea level, the roads gradually disintegrated. The countless fords that crossed Ruta 40 were a combination of dry, stony and sandy, or muddy, wet and active, leaving me to guess what approach I should take to crossing each one. The majority of crossings involved getting off my bike and tentatively choosing the driest path to the other side, where some I chose to ride, with unpredictable sandpits ready to take out my front wheel. It was hot, 32 degrees, and I’d taken refuge for an hour having descended from around 2200m, on my last two mouthfuls of fluid, in a beautiful little cafe. Not only did I replenish my fluids, I ate a pizza that could happily feed two with no room to spare, making up for the deficit of meals I’d missed in the previous 6 days. I had just one puncture to go before I reached Santa Maria.

I got another puncture at the top of the 60 mile climb out of Belen, and I’m not sure how long it had been going down. Given until later in the ride, it was surprising that on this near immaculate stretch of tarmac, the puncture happened here. Although overall the gradient wasn’t bad, it was rolling, carrying gear made it laborious, and whatever Strava and Hammerhead state as the elevation gain,it’s mostly 10-15% under the actual elevation according to Ride with GPS (which uses Google as base map), which is irritating! Couple that with a grumpy girl in need of a rest day, and you get the picture. One hard slog of a day.

Although there are days like these, it is incredible how mountains motivate me. On Tuesday, also feeling fatigued, I left my little Airbnb, not feeling it, and on joining the road, my eyes were immediately drawn towards the sun rising on the backdrop of mountains facing East. The array of colours seemed amplified, as if knowing it was the impetus I needed to smile and get going, burying my fatigue in some corner of my backpack. On that day, a big one of 217km, I crossed 4000km on Ruta 40, meaning that by the end of the day, there’d be less than 1000km to Bolivia. Since Friday, every day’s experience for cycling had just got better and better. Traffic has all but disappeared, and whilst Juan province was a better experience than Mendoza province, Catamarca province seemed to raise the bar again. I felt I was the only person remaining in the country, other than the odd motorcyclist or road worker who would cheerfully toot or wave me on my way. I stumbled upon wild roaming herds of cows and horses, and was serenaded by desert birds and creatures that I haven’t yet identified. Although the heat is exhausting even with a 7am start, most of the time, there’s been enough beauty surrounding me to help me push on.

The biggest spanner in the works other than punctures has been the impact of Carnival week on the access to good food. For around 4 of these days, eateries and supermarkets seem to have been closed, with the only options being kioskos and service stations. It’s meant my diet has been woefully inadequate. I’ve survived largely on sandwiches, packets of cereal eaten with UHT milk from the packet, nuts and raisins and that’s about it. It is likely to explain and have contributed to my fatigue today. But having found a restaurant here last night which served chicken, potato and salad, served at a respectable time of 1900 hours, it meant staying an extra night was the easy choice, despite it using up one of four of my contingency days before reaching Peru.

When I reflect on the last 6 days, there is no doubt that this area of Argentina for me has been the most beautiful and greatest pleasure. In sharing my progress and photos with acquaintances, they’ve commented that it seems far more interesting in this region. I think that’s right, but I still think that Patagonia, although extremely testing, wild, unpredictable and remote, has a beauty too. I saw more wildlife oddly and creatures I’d never even heard of. I experienced head winds I’d never dreamed I’d ever ride in. I also received such kindness which has been less obvious the further north I’ve ridden, weirdly I believe as it’s been less busy!

There was definitely a moment on Tuesday when I looked at the road that seemed to dissolve in the distance, and was confronted with a mass that seemed bigger than any mountain I’d seen so far. I can’t find the name but it was sometime after leaving Chilecito. The vista created an optical illusion: you looked like you were riding downhill due to the strata of the rock, but you were riding uphill - until the road eventually dropped down into a valley. The moment made me feel exposed, like a tiny dot in a huge world, again a moment of diving off top board into icy cold water 30 metres below. With all the distance I’d ridden, these moment of realisation were few and far between, but memorable and like on this occasion, made the hairs on my arms and back of my neck stand on end!

There has also been the “raised eyebrow” of “why do it this way round - everyone rides north to south!”. This may be true. I’ve only passed one cyclist heading north, a French guy in Patagonia. But really, why? Why is it so hard to understand that riding north might be a good idea? Now I’m nearly in Bolivia, I can talk about my experience. Like reading a book, it seems most people would see a journey like this: you start at the top of the page and read down. Depending on where you live, you will read either left to right or right to left but always start at the top. For cyclists, they may look at the prevailing headwind. In South America, it’s from the North. Riding south, you’re more likely to have a tailwind (wind on your back pushing you south) than a headwind. In the UK, there’s a challenge where cyclists will ride from one end of the UK to the other, typically starting at Land’s End in Cornwall and finishing in John O Groats in Scotland (LEJOG). If you weren’t a cyclist, it’s pretty likely you wouldn’t think about the prevailing wind from the South West and ride south, and ride the other way round (JOGLE). With no knowledge, I’d always ride towards the sun! So in the UK, north to south! Except I’m a cyclist so I know the “rules”, and have even considered going for the world record (taken last year by Christina MacKenzie). The thing is, even when you know the “rules”, when I’ve tried to apply them, they’ve only applied about 50% of the time. For example, in 2016, I rode fromVancouver to Calgary. Should have been a tailwind but a weather front was bringing bad weather and the wind switched to the east and a juicy headwind most of the time. Again, in 2019, I rode from my home in Clearwell to Athens in Greece via the Dalmatian coastline. In 23 days, I had a tailwind on two days, when the “prevailing wind” should have been pushing me towards the South East of the continent of Europe. So forget logic!

Because I did it this way round, I’ve had a fair chance to acclimatise, I will have had around 7 days at altitude (above 1500m) before I climb to Bolivia at a starting altitude of 3447m, the highest elevation I will have been on land. I’ve travelled from harsh and unforgiving desert to tropical and magnificent mountains. And now what seems most exciting of all, as I wrote early on, travelling towards people I love and not away from them.

On this last point, because the route has taken me north and not south, in the time I’ve been riding, Peru opened its border with Bolivia. In a previous update, I’d explored whether I could arrange an escort to take me through the relatively dangerous country, 13th on the world Crime Index. Greg at Global Guardians was true to his word and came back with a price, which whilst would have been acceptable to a working top executive, to a humble now unemployed lady of 49, still had the effect of making my eyes water, if not pop out of my head.

Unbeknown to me, in the background, Operation HQ (Mark) had been scheming. With two young girls, a big hairy dog and limited annual leave, initially, we hadn’t considered him to be able to join me other than for a few days of respite in California. Then everything changed very rapidly.

On Monday night, we had a call, and talked through the options, schedule, COVID restrictions and risks. By Tuesday night, Mark had booked two return flights (London to Miami, Fort Lauderdale to Lima), booked car hire in Lima, had given himself 4 days to get from home to the Bolivian Border and Peru was on! Trust me when I tried to persuade him that this was too much, he’d be too tired, I was worried that it would be risky for him and that I’d simply fly from La Paz and meet him in Los Angeles as planned. But his mind had been made up. At the time of writing, we still need to arrange care for Nyla, as a 55kg dog might be a step to far in bringing her to and from Peru.

Within 30 minutes of hearing Mark’s update, I shared I’d fly back from Lima to Fort Lauderdale with him and worry about how I’d ride to Canada from there, after a few days recovery. My flight was booked and the first fixed date of this adventure was set.

I haven’t talked too much about Mark in my blog, or anyone else that I’d really like to, and won’t do without their permission. But I checked with Mark and he’s ok for me to share a few things about him.

Anyone who knows me will know there’s been a few rocky years in my past 31 years as a “grown up”! The older we are, the more likely we will have baggage and for some, it will be a carry on suitcase and others, a container load. I fall closer to the latter.

But along came Mark in 2018. We met through cycling not long after I moved from South East England to The Royal Forest of Dean, a complete leap of faith in the move, for which I’ve not yet had any regrets.

For two years, we were distant friends, in a similar sphere of friends through cycling, but rarely bumped into each other. Then, following an extended visit to see my daughter in Australia over Christmas 2019, I returned, and we started seeing each other, to the rumbling and beginnings of COVID.

In March 2020, although they weren’t mass testing, I came down with what I believe to have been COVID. The UK weren’t yet locked down, but self-isolation was needed if you were symptomatic. A week into my malaise, Mark wanted to see me, and was aware he’d need to isolate with me for 14 days should he come over. Seven days after arriving, the UK was locked down. Travel was banned, and this remained in place for 3 months. After living on my own for a number of years, suddenly being thrust into a 24/7, 365 relationship where nobody leaves the house can’t be described as the ideal start to any romance. But here we are, two years later, almost to the day, and going strong. There is no one I have ever had such trust in to be there for me, and to know me better than anyone. Sickly as it sounds, we seem to have the ability to smash curve balls away into the ether. I’m sure we are going to hit our bumps in the road, but hopefully, we’ve both got it right this time…time will tell. But with all the bad that COVID has wreaked on the world, this unprecedented act of fate has at least provided one happy story, which otherwise may not have happened. I hope he keeps me a little longer! He comes with an amazing family, two daughters, Honor (10) and Eliana (8 going on 20!), Gail and Mike (his sister and partner, dog-loving, hiking crazy crimes against humanity card game players) and Sue, who in my mind can be described as the children’s story book grandmother, the perfect mother and giver to society, best cake maker (used to teach cookery so I don’t compete on that front) and surprisingly, the winner of Cards against Humanity on Christmas Eve 2021. I have very few direct family members in the UK, but I’m happy of this extension by association, even if they’re a little bit shocked at what they’ve got with me 😆. A wise old Cypriot lady, Mrs Alexanian, said to me one time, “When we are young, two people are like mouldable rubber. We can bend and shape together and adapt to each other’s ways. As we get older, this rubber becomes more brittle and hard, and we can’t bend and flex so much. But with this in mind, we must try”.

Ok. Back to the adventure.

Dates for the diary:

Argentine/Bolivian Border: 8 March

Uyuni Salt Flats: 11 March

La Paz and possibly a ride down Death Road with my new cycle friends Enrique & Co: 15-17 March

Bolivian/Peruvian Border: 19 March

Lima: 1 April

Fort Lauderdale: 2 April

North America let (from either Phoenix, San Diego or Houston): around 8 April

Final point Canada: around 2-16 May

#Spotify

[wingingitonwheels]

The desert

“I believe someone made a grievous mistake when summer was created; no novitiate or god in their right mind would make a season akin to hell on purpose. Someone should be fired.”

Michelle Franklin

Saturday 26th February somewhere between San Juan and San Jose de Jachal

1510:

How is an area of land categorised as a desert? And if it’s not categorised as a desert, but meets all the requirements and characteristics of a desert, does it still count as a desert?

I’ve got some time to allocate to something - I’ve stopped saying “time to kill” as this seems like wasting time, not using it well! About 90 minutes ago, I rolled into a refuge into what I’m calling a desert, to shelter from the most intense heat I’ve experienced, where other than this shelter, there’s nowhere to hide, no trees, no shade, no water, and other than the enormous random bumble bees, horseflies and houseflies that also see this refuge as literally a cool place to hang out, it’s pretty hostile. Some 25 miles ago, Knowing there was nowhere to replenish, I stopped at the only place possible at 38 miles in. I only have 36 miles to go. This shelter presented me with a bit of a dilemma. Do I soldier on with my 1.3 litres of remaining fluid and hope it lasts, or do I take some time to cool down and sit out the heat of the day, with the risk that I may run out of fluid?

Seeing there were motorists already at the refuge, I decided to stop. It felt like I was walking in on their home, as there were two albeit defunct fridges and a derelict television, a permanent wooden bench and table, two fire pits, and some left over dried food! I dared to open the fridges which are long past their intended purpose. Inside one, clothes, some lightbulbs, on a shelf, a spark plug and some kitchen towel. There is electricity (solar powered) which is now charging my power bank, and a light that works!

On sitting down and joining Mariela and her husband Marcelo, who were planning an intimate picnic for two, she kindly offered me two home made empanadas (Argentinian Cornish pasties) and some Fanta. We chatted, she had three children and was a grandmother at 46, and I of course shared with her my loved ones. If there is one continuous frustration for me it’s that I just don’t speak better Spanish. We manage, but all my new acquaintances are so patient, and if I could just speak more, we’d probably be friends for life! Before she left, on her request, she asked me to take a photo of her Facebook profile so we could connect when I’m online.

It would seem that with this encounter, it was a lucky stop. Although I was still likely to need water, and my strategy was risky, at least it started well.

When Ruta 40 goes quiet and nothing passes for 5 minutes or more, the crickets get going, and are joined in their chorus by desert birds warbling intermittently as a wind-torn flag gently flaps above the bamboo roofed refuge. It’s a funny place to be, you’d never choose it, but it’s so peaceful!

1525

Around 5 minutes ago, some people turned up to give a bottle with water in to a Gauchito shrine I hadn’t noticed as I rode in. They also supplied me with 750ml of the ice cold gold, so I’m good for another few hours and if I run out, then I’ll be heading over to ask Gauchito for his blessing in taking some of his. I’ve got enough calories left in my remaining nuts and raisins to get me through to the evening. Will set off in around 3 hours…

There’s no phone signal here even if you had a sim that worked here. But I contacted Operation HQ (Mark) so he wasn’t alarmed at the lack of movement. As I was also likely to be late into San Jose de Jachal, I asked if he had time whether he could look for and book some accommodation. It is poking busy and I may not find anything but I’ve got a sleeping bag. All I need to do now is get back on my bike…with the shade temperature at 94 degrees, I’m going to need some more water when I set off…

At that parador 25 miles back, I finally said goodbye to my right foot Sidi. If you don’t know it, look up Kubler Ross, as I have been going through the grief curve since discovering the devastating loss of my left shoe in Patagonia 10 days ago. There’s also a Disney film called “Inside Out”, which I think also fits well in helping to visualise the range of emotions I’ve been since then.

In describing Kubler Ross’s grief/change curve, first there is shock, then anger (for me, more at myself, “you dumb ****), frustration, experimentation and eventually, acceptance and compliance. Because of my four knee operations on my right knee, and the necessity of cortisone injection to help me through this trip, change is not something to experiment with at the beginning of a 5 month voyage. I feel that my whole body is tuned by my feet, and therefore, my feet are my god. They should be treated with reverence and respect. This is why I’ve been prepared to ride with odd shoes, as I didn’t want the possibility of dislodging this finely tuned broken pivot. And this from the lass who can’t eat with cutlery that doesn’t match or wear odd socks.

But there was a moment yesterday when things started going El Scorchio that my left foot had a little chat with my right foot: “So, how you coping, Sidi?” “Err, well actually, I’ve got a little hot spot on my second toe as it happens!” Left foot, now adorned in Northwave, simply responded with “hmmm, I feel fine!”. It took a long walk from the suburbs of San Juan to the vibrant centre to consider that the next ride would need experimentation….

At my little parador in the desert, the moment came to say goodbye to Sidi. I’d ridden 38 miles in my brand new right shoe and my knee was fine. The shoes are still a size too big for me, so I took the custom sole from my Sidi and placed it on top of the Northwave inner sole. It seems to be working! Feeling brave, Sidi was placed carefully in the bin in a way that anyone seeing it would feel completely mystified. Goodbye Sidi, you served me well…

1600: I now have a packet of biscuits, 2.75 litres of water and a litre of pomelo (grapefruit juice!)

The reason the majority of people are stopping is because they are coming to pray. There is some sort of memorial next to the Gauchito shrine. After the first people left, a man pulled up in his car, not for the refuge, but I watched and listened, he being unaware I was here. At first, I thought he might be picking up a load of drugs, hidden somewhere near the refuge. He was singing cheerfully and when he’d stopped singing, it sounded like he was phoning someone and repeating “they’re not there, they’re not there”. But then, moving a little to his right, he clearly started chanting “Santa Maria, Santa Maria, Santa Maria”. So here, when you can’t make it to church, you find the nearest holy shrine and say your prayers. I couldn’t have chosen a more fortuitous stop anywhere in any desert. At 1607, I now have 2.75 litres of water, 1 litre of pomelo (grapefruit juice) and a large packet of biscuits (that are also fortified with vitamins and minerals and that I have room for now in Monkey 2 ( backpack) now I have said goodbye to Sidi). Thank you, amazing people of Argentina 🙏

It’s funny, but last week into Thursday of this week, I felt that there had been so much drama. I felt anxious when I finally set off again on Friday, stage 21 of my ride from El Calafate north. I had my new Assos shorts, tyres, contact lenses, gloves (which for some reason are too small) and when I feel completely relaxed, I’ll use the carbon paste to raise my saddle 5mm (for some reason, Cervelo have got a real design flaw in the seat post for 2021 R5. It is a curved triangle, and seems to slip very easily). What I needed when getting going was a ride without incident, and other than riding through the hidden ghetto of Mendoza, I got it. On the way out of the city, I rode through an area of such relative poverty, that a puncture or any trouble that might leave you stationery for any length of time would be unnerving. Just before reaching Ruta 40, I found a street strewn with such rubbish, and half a dog, whose street chase was not so successful.

Back on Ruta 40, and it wasn’t long before the city melted away and I was back on track, not quite in solitude but in comparing to Ruta 7 and my ride to the Chilean border, it was near perfect.

The day was spent riding away from the mountains and back into a more tropical desert. There was still a lot of traffic compared to Patagonia, but slowly and surely, as the temperature rose and the miles ticked away, the stress and anxiety of the last week began to fade. It could almost be classified as a boring and uneventful day, but I wasn’t about to complain to the bike gods.

I reached San Juan around 2:30 and sorted out my accommodation and I accepted that rides needed to finish by 12pm ideally, as afternoons now presented extreme heat. It would mean hitting the road by 7. First spanner in the works was that my fantastic host Ariel wasn’t going to meet me until 0830 to collect his key. Note to self: this is no longer acceptable!

Whatever accommodation I do or don’t find tonight, I’ll be setting off at 0700 from tomorrow onwards. It’s only me that will suffer otherwise.

As for San Juan: a lovely city with some great ice cream! The city was completely destroyed in 1944 by an earthquake. As it was levelled, the current city is very modern and has a chilled vibe. Other than when you sit at a table of a restaurant on the corner of a busy street eating crap pizza which has a base link double walled soggy cardboard and a disgusting salad, and harassed by street sellers every two minutes. The most disappointing part of that stay other than the dinner experience was that 250km from the city is a world class observatory called “ “ which I didn’t get to visit. Maybe some day I’ll return.

Meanwhile, exciting news. Whilst Greg from Global Guardians is yet to come back to me, my very own global guardian, aka, operation HQ, aka Mark, has juggled a few things around and very possibly might meet me at the border between Bolivia and Peru…somewhere between 15-22 March. NOW, things just got tasty! Fun times!!

1656: the wind is picking up…

This whole blog post is beginning to feel like the episode of Breaking Bad which focused solely on a fly…

2000

Found a hotel

2100

Dinner: either equal first or second since I’ve been here…even had potatoes! First time since leaving home. I think there is a festival this weekend as the delightful folk music being blasted from the town’s speakers seems to be livening everyone up. Only I can’t hear to speak or listen! But what a fantastic little town that no one has heard of, and what a shame I was faffing with hotels as the sun dropped, as the remnants of light were beguiling!

[wingingitonwheels]

Part 2: Patience

Mendoza, 24 February 2022

Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

A.A. Milne, Winnie The Pooh

It seems buried in a week of logistics, but I did ride this week, 3 days, up to the Chilean Border and back, and rose to the highest elevation I’ve been to whilst on land, at 3184m. This used up some of the time whilst I pondered on whether my supplies would arrive from the UK.

The route through the Andes (Ruta 7) delivered by far the most spectacular mountain vistas I’ve seen in any mountain range I’ve visited. And whilst it was very splendid indeed, on reflection, my memory seems to be flooded more with the deathly close passes of hundreds of lorries on what turned out to be one of the country’s busiest freight routes. This, accompanied by relentless headwinds, introduced by two storms left me tired and frazzled. I sincerely hope that will be the last of such experiences, but in truth I have no idea. But the experience did mean that I was finally back on route for one of my original plans, and covered one side of the pass that would have been the complete route had I been able to get to Chile. I missed Los Andes region and the “Snails”, with its 80 switchbacks, but I know there will be plenty more surprises up the road.

I think it’s fair to say I am pretty incompetent at sitting around and waiting. Whilst I am completely aware of how a few days off the bike can only be a good thing before I continue north, it wasn’t planned. I’ve eaten about a week’s food in two days, my bike has been serviced, I‘ve had my hair cut and on day two of waiting for my essential parcel to be delivered by UPS in Gerardo’s apartment in Mendoza, my head feels ready to explode.

Reviewing my parcel’s journey, it won’t be long before it’s travelled enough distance to have circumnavigated the world:

Gloucestershire

Donnington

Philadelphia USA

Louiseville

Philadelphia (again)

Miami

São Paulo, Brazil

Santiago, Chile (literally just over the border - seeing this update at 2am on Wednesday morning I got excited but then…)

Buenos Aires…where it had a number of arrivals and departures at facilities and since 1728 last night, departed Buenos Aires to who knows where? Ushuaia, Singapore?

At 1033, I am sitting and waiting…impatiently, not leaving the apartment in fear of missing it, and not knowing where on earth it is and if it will even arrive.

What is in this critical package, you may ask? Things I just can’t get here:

Contact lenses x 50 for my right eye only (extra crap sighted and multifocal)

Endura mitts to replace the ones I’ve worn out

Two 30mm Continental GP 5000 tyres

3 x 30mm inner tubes (they don’t appear to use anything other than 20-23mm or fat 35-45mm tyres here which is surprising given the exhaustive variety of road conditions here)

A pump hose

A new pair of Assos shorts

Love ❤️

If the contact lenses had been possible to source here, I’d be gone now, and made do without the rest until arriving in USA. But it has always been the plan to ship all but the tyres, tubes, hose and love, so here I am.

In around 20 minutes, I have a call with “Global Guardians”. In my restless state yesterday, in addition to getting my bike serviced and about half of my hair length severed, I had time to consider Peru.

Peru has opened its border with Bolivia. Until this happened, it had been my plan to fly from La Paz to Los Angeles, but under my original plan, I’d fly from Lima. The challenge now is that you may recall, Peru in 2021 was 13th most dangerous country in the world, according to the Crime Index, and 5 places higher than Argentina. I was ok with this, but did a bit more research, and consulting with my new best friend, Enrique, bike shop owner in La Paz, the issues in Peru are at the border, where many desperate Venezuelans are trying to move to other countries, including through Bolivia to beyond and into Chile. I also understand that unlike Argentina, issues faced by travellers are more likely to occur in rural areas as well as cities.

In weighing up the risks, I’ve reflected on those lucky enough to have escorts through such regions, such as Mark Beaumont on his journey from Alaska to Aconcagua. He was fortunate enough to be able to simply contact the Beeb (BBC) and it would be arranged. Personal bodyguard and security there as soon as requested. For me, I am about to have a conversation with Greg McAleer, and to find out just how extortionate 12 days of security will be…still, you have to try!

Who’d have thought I’d be having a Microsoft Teams call on my adventure of a lifetime, but that’s what happened! Greg was charming, and fortunately also a runner, ex decathlete and now cyclist, so regardless of any outcomes, it was an invigorating chat.

Global Guardians are a business who seem top of their game, responsible worldwide for the safety, extraction and protection of big industry and governments, and not typically involved with a middle-aged mother of two, trying to fulfil a long-held dream. Greg seemed very much to love that I’d lost a cycle shoe in the middle of the Patagonian Desert, and that I was on my way to see my dad in Canada, albeit the long and arduous way round. In sharing my experience thus far, and preparing me for costs equivalent to a king’s ransom, Greg shared his and operations telephone numbers and with me regardless, and said he’d go and investigate what was possible in terms of support. Let’s see…at worst, I have a new follower 😊

Just as my call with Greg finished, my UPS parcel arrived! A quick swap of tyres and boxing of a left shoe, sleeping bag, some tyres, a pump and an old pair of cycling shorts, I took to the streets of Mendoza once again, this time in pursuit of the Argentinian post office experience. The first and most convenient post office was closed due to technical issues, so another 2 miles and I’d arrived at the city flagship facility and joined a queue. When it was my turn, the assistant and I communicated silently with Translate, as he explained that customs need to inspect before shipping is agreed and costed, all of which could only happen on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday morning. I explained to him what I was shipping to gauge the likely problems if I returned, and also told him what I was doing. Silently, he wrote into Translate: “seriously!” And then “you are completely crazy!” Given neither of us could speak each other’s language (and I’m proud to say I could speak more Spanish than he English), in this silenced giant postal hall, I laughed a tickled and loud chortle, whilst bewildered customers stood watching, with no clue as to why anyone could find such merriment in a bland and sterile hall.

The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to come up with a plan so I didn’t have to return in the morning to have my items checked by customs and then sent at some cost, if at all. It would also have meant a 2-3 hour delay to my start and I was itching to get going. With UPS Argentina charging three times as much to send for the same size package as UPS UK, a creative solution had to be found. With time on my side and another hour walk back to Gerardo’s apartment, I imagined repositioning and zip ties. Gerardo doesn’t know it yet but he has a donation of two pretty new tyres and inner tubes, a powerbank and I have a frame with two pumps and a lumbar support of a sleeping bag. Admittedly not that aero, but I think it will work! Old Assos shorts met their grave and having said goodbye to my American buddy, Suzy, at dinner last night, Friday at dawn will see me ready to roll again, bike looking like new and a body full of carbs and good food.

As if Mendoza was telling me it was time to go, the city was battered by a hailstorm from Hell, which shook this 7 storey building block to its core, and left the streets in first a thick layer of ice boulders which as they fell, sounded like gunshots, and in its wake left the streets first white, and then with green carpets where every tree had been smashed to smitherines whilst a shopping centre roof collapsed.

If you’ve not already seen it, I’ve created a video montage of Part 1, which can be viewed by clicking the link below:

https://youtu.be/xasUZkILlsA

Pongamos este espectáculo en el camino! Hasta la vista!