It’s the little things…

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Well, nearly across Ohio now; having a rest day today (Saturday) at Van Wert, with the usual non-rest activities – washing clothes, shopping etc.

Ohio’s been… Pleasant, I suppose. The riding is easy (temperatures in the 70s F / low 20s C, and there are plenty of towns to slake my thirst and indulge what is fast becoming a serious ice-cream habit). And I’ve been lucky with the wind, which is pretty light.

This is farming country, so the scenery has its limits in terms of stunningness. And when the highest things in the state seem to be farm silos, you’re never going to get the big vistas that you find in the mountains (or anywhere with any hills). I came through a town called Ottoville yesterday, where the school football team (or maybe baseball – what do I know?) is called the ‘Big Green’. An entirely appropriate description of the whole section of Ohio that I’ve seen.

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So if the scenery is nice but not inspiring, you have to look to the smaller things. I had a great breakfast yesterday just outside Findlay. On my way in, I encountered four, erm, comfortably-upholstered gentlemen with a combined age of around a quarter of a millenium. We chatted about my ride, and whether I was doing it for charity. One of them claimed that the four of them were fighting anorexia. I had to admit that it was a battle they seemed to be winning. They laughed, thankfully.

And then I got to my campsite last night, and was given a 50% discount because I was by myself. Nice. There were kids riding bikes with cards stuck in the spokes to simulate engine noises. So I got a few minutes of nostalgia – used to do the very same thing a hundred years ago when I was a kid.

And then a beautiful finish to the day. Just as it was getting dark, the area around the tent lit up with a load of fireflies of some sort shaking their little electric booties. To round off a day with something you’ve never seen before is a proper pleasure.

Anyway, enough of Ohio; tomorrow I just need to get about ten miles down the road before I’m in Indiana. Maybe the ‘Bigger Green’ for all I know, but I’ll keep an eye on the small picture as well as the big scenery from now on…

Apols for no pics, by the way. The Big M’s free wifi here is diabolical. Consider yourselves lucky the text is there…

UPDATE – campsite wifi much better than the burger stuff; big green picture should now be visible (and representative, if not inspiring)…

A Month In, and Country Number 6

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Well, this is a surprise.  I thought this would be a little retrospective glance at the trip so far (yesterday was the one-calendar month mark since my departure from Greenwich), written from another location somewhere in Southern Ontario.  Instead, I arrived in the seething metropolis of Sandusky, Ohio.  Country number six already, and this one will last for a little while.

I’d intended to head for the big border crossing at Windsor in Ontario, which drops you into Detroit.  I’d built up an impressive collection of shocked facial expressions from the various Canadians regarding this plan.  Responses ranged from “turn left and ride like [insert four-letter-word here]” to “you’re going to ride through Detroit on surface streets?  That’s suicide.”

Now, there may be an element of exaggeration to these reactions.  All the people in Southern Ontario live in a delightful, semi-rural or rural environment with (as far as I could see) very little in the way of crime etc, and no big cities.  So maybe they were overstating things.  I have a standard response to this sort of thing, which is to research.  And a good job too; turns out that the Windsor-Detroit border is very difficult to get a bike through.  The whole place is set up for trucks and cars, and I’d need to bag the bike, put it on a bus, and so on and so on.  Looked like a nightmare.  And the alternative border crossing at Sarnia would take me a few days out of my way to the north.

One final act of Canadian goodwill was to come; a tip-off about the small ferries which run out of Kingsville (the most southerly town in Canada) to Pelee island (the most southerly island in Canada), past Point Pelee (the most southerly point in mainland Canada).  Lots of ‘southerlys’ there, then…  It should then be possible to get another ferry to the US from Pelee Island.  And it worked beautifully; I’m in the USA a few days earlier than expected, having had a nice boat ride, and a very friendly, quick and non-problematic entry to America.  A good route for any bikers heading this way.

IMG_0209The Pelee area of Ontario is quite interesting, by the way, and not just in its role as an important stop for migrating birds, of which I’m sure you’re all aware.  Remember Terry from Brantford?  He’d told me about Point Pelee when we were discussing places to camp, and said that it was so far south that it was level with Northern California.  This seemed extremely unlikely to me, so I checked up.  And it’s actually true; there are tiny bits of Ontario which are to the south of the California / Oregon border.  Who knew?

In any case, I’m getting set for the first day’s ride in the USA; basically I’ll be heading roughly west-south-west for a couple of months.  The plains, the Rockies, the desert and the landmarks of the West (Monument Valley, the Grand Canyon etc) hopefully lie ahead.  Plenty more from the US to come, I’m sure…

Southern Ontario: Easy Riding (mainly)

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So, the flight was caught, and I was on my way to North America. Leaving Lisbon an hour late, and with the bike entrusted to the tender mercies of airport baggage handlers, I was really looking forward to being deadline-free in Canada. I was imagining gentle rides around the edge of the sun-kissed Great Lakes, rolling farmland and meeting some friendly Canadians. And I got all of these (lucky boy!) until this afternoon, when the sky decided to drop two-plus inches of rain on my head (and everywhere else).

It didn’t begin that well. I arrived pretty much on time (good), to discover the bike box in the state below (bad). After a bit of frantic checking, it looked like the box had taken all the beating, and the bike was intact – result!

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After a day’s jet-lag recovery, reassuring the bike that nothing so traumatic will ever happen to it again (a bit of a fib, if I’m honest), and some map checking / semi-planning, it was back on the road. A gentle run along the shore of Lake Ontario to Hamilton in the morning, and then the old railway line (now a nicely-surfaced bike path) towards Brantford. I met Terry, who was out on a long ride with some friends. Terry was built like a rugby hooker because that’s exactly what he used to be. And once he heard roughly where I was heading, he invited me back to his place to stay the night, where I was treated to bed and breakfast and many cups of tea by him and his wife Barb. A first taste of the generosity which has characterised all the Canadians I’ve met so far. Even the drivers give you half the road when overtaking – compare and contrast with my comments on Portugal…

Anyway, after breakfast in Brantford, Terry rode out with me to the start of another ex-railway line path which took me all the way to Port Dover on Lake Erie. And I’ve been within a mile or so of the lake ever since. It’s a really big lake.

The next night’s camp was a double-whammy; Long Point provincial park is now both best camping location and most expensive campsite of the trip so far. If Ontario could sort the pricing out, it would be properly brilliant. I ran into a nice family who lent me a hammer (an inexplicable omission from my kit), and then insisted on filling me with (very delicious) chicken wings. I think I might have repaid them by setting their son on the path to bike-touring lunacy, but them’s the breaks…

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And it was all sunshine and easy riding from then on; I’ve met a couple of guys from Chicago who are ‘circumventing’ the lake in a clockwise direction, and a Chilean who’s most of the way across Canada from Vancouver to St John’s (that’s an impressively long jog, by the way). And not a single bear to worry about to date.

Today started much the same. I stopped at the tiny town of Palmyra for some coffee and muffins (very good and cycling-friendly place – a little cafe and shop called the Crazy 8 Barn, who gave me a really good map as well as a bit of a caffeine and sugar rush). As I was leaving, there was a little comment about hoping I’d beat the rain. I’d not seen the forecast, as I was pretty convinced the sun would last forever. Uh-oh.

Made it to Blenheim dry, but with black clouds building. Finished lunch to discover rain bouncing enthusiastically off the pavement and the poor bike. A couple of (Harley-type) bikers showed me the weather forecast, as they finished zipping themselves into their rain gear and chuckling about how wet I was going to get. Not good at all.

I had another cup of coffee. I waited. The rain stopped, but the road was still soaking. Decision time. Go on, or give up for the day and find somewhere for the night. I thought about it. I dithered. I procrastinated (one of my more obvious character flaws). I was brave (read ‘stupid’). I went. I got very, very wet indeed all afternoon. Doh!

Still, all in all, it’s been great here in Southern Ontario so far. Fantastic cycling country, and top people. Hopefully, I can dodge the showers tomorrow, and then it should clear up as I approach the US.

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Incidentally, the observant among you may have noticed that I’m heading in entirely the opposite direction from that stipulated in the so-called plan which I started with. After the rush through Europe, I reckon it’s time to slow down a little and meander a bit more. This way gives me a bit more time in Canada, and a shorter (in miles) stretch across the US; the theory is that there will be more people to meet and places to see, and I don’t want to miss them in a blur as I whiz past. So the plan’s in the bin already. I think that’s the way it should be.

The End Of Europe; Now For The New World

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I shot across Portugal.  Partly because it is quite a thin country.  Partly because the bit that I chose was pretty flat.  But mainly because I had a plane to catch, and planes don’t wait.  Two days across a whole country; impressive and wrong at the same time.  Deadlines will do that to you; I’ve moaned about them before…

I nearly fell in love with the place on day one.  Not at first sight, as the hills were evil (but mercifully short) on the Spanish border.  But the beautiful town of Portalegre, followed by many, many miles of brand new, almost empty highway (and a tailwind!!) almost got me.  Not to mention that my rewarding half-litre of beer at the end was only €1.60.  That’s roughly a quarter of London prices – I’ve been drinking in the wrong place for too long.

IMG_0190Thankfully, it was only nearly.  Yesterday would have been a bitter disappointment otherwise, as the traffic, heat and (self-inflicted) 130km to Lisbon nearly did for me.  There’s nothing like a constant stream of trucks passing within inches of your elbow for hours on end to keep the adrenaline pumping.  Especially when most Portuguese drivers don’t quite seemed to have worked out that just because you (the driver) are past whatever you’re overtaking, it doesn’t mean that the rest of your enormous truck / bus / BMW is past too.  Braking to avoid side-swipes became commonplace, and I quickly learned to check my shoulder whenever I saw something coming towards me, as anything behind will always choose to hit the cyclist rather than the oncoming traffic.  What they won’t do is slow down and wait.  Ever.  Grr…

So, to beautiful Lisbon.  I wanted to get here yesterday, to give me a day to play with, as I’d not managed to secure a box for the bike – the airline I’m using insist on them, and I’d been hoping a local bike shop would be able to help.  With no offers by this morning, I was anticipating a long day flogging around town looking for cardboard; a fun way to spend any time off the bike.  Instead, I was sorted out by half-past ten (courtesy of the lovely people in Decathlon opposite the campsite), and the bike is now packed away, awaiting only an oversized taxi to get it to the airport in the morning.  All appears well.

And that’s the end of Europe for a while.  My flight to Canada awaits tomorrow, and then it’s the New World all the way for a while.  A long while.  Many countries, many hills, and many bears.  And pumas and rabid raccoons and things.  The end of an era, and it’s only been just over three weeks.  The longest three weeks I’ve had for a while, and home seems a million miles away.  It seems to have taken forever, but really, it’s only just begun, hasn’t it?

I will update the map etc at some point, by the way.  Part laziness, part odd internet gremlins 😉

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Farewell Spain…

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I’m about 5km from the Portuguese border this morning (closer in a straight line, but road builders rarely seem to use them). Another grey morning, which should mean easier cycling; we’ll see, as that nasty sun is bound to chase away the clouds. And there are a few hills about.

This is where I stayed last night. Best campsite setting by miles so far.

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The bendy roads mean I’ve already done almost the mileage I expected to reach Lisbon, meaning the schedule is really tight again. I really need to get across Portugal in two days, so that I have a day in Lisbon to get the bike packed up for the flight to Toronto on Wednesday. This is going to hurt…

Deadlines are a proper bugbear when you’re cycle touring, making you stress and maybe push too hard. I’ll be very glad to gain a bit of flexibility in North America. You may well see plans shift a little to reduce the relentlessness a touch. A grim sense of satisfaction from having finished another hard day is all very well, but this is supposed to be fun, too.

But first, there’s Portugal. Just a few miles up the road. Country number four, and one that I really liked the couple of times I’ve been (albeit only to Lisbon, with its faded grandeur and fantastic pavements).

So farewell to Spain, the beautiful but hard, and hóla to Portugal, with more unknowns around the corner…

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Extremadura

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Plasencia. Fairly sure there was a comedy Roman called something similar in a Carry On film. This one is a nice enough town with a nice enough campsite. For most of yesterday, it was an elusive goal (kilometres on signposts appear to be strictly guesswork, and have even been known to go up as you get closer), as I had my first encounter with Extremadura.

Extremadura is basically the bit of Spain nearest to Portugal. To my English ear, however, it’s a combination of ‘extreme’ and ‘endure’, which seems very appropriate.

The man at the campsite yesterday morning was dubious (as well as doing that thing of ignoring my lack of Spanish). “Plasencia? That’s 90km. The first 10 are OK, but after that you’re stuffed” was the gist of what he said. His extensive miming skills further informed me that he used to be a truck driver, so he knew what he was talking about.

I’ve already done many 90km days, so was not overly worried. Even when I stopped for coffee at ten-thirty to see the town thermometer already showing 32 degrees C. I did make it in the end, thanks to roadside springs and a long siesta, but it was a bit touch and go. Extremadura – it’s beautiful, but it’s hard.

One advantage of travelling by bike is that you get to notice things that you wouldn’t see from a metal box on wheels. And during my enforced afternoon rest, I discovered the sport of ant wrestling. I should point out that no ants were harmed while I was there. In any case, find a place with some of those big mountain ants (the tiny ones from home are too small). Then accidentally drop a honey-covered peanut on the ground. Then watch in bewilderment as the ants begin fighting with each other, the peanut and occasionally themselves in a desperate battle to be the first back to the nest with the prize. Ignoring the fact that they can’t actually carry the peanut (they’re not Sci-fi mega ants, and they are stupid). Hours of free entertainment you won’t get in the car. And maybe a potential commentary comeback for Phil Neville after his dire World Cup performance; you couldn’t go wrong talking about ant wrestling…

This morning, another Extramadura surprise. It’s drizzling and cloudy. Good news for me, with a shortish (and hopefully flattish) day to come before the climb up and out of Spain begins. Just the coffee to finish, and I’ll be away…

Highs and Lows in Spain

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There’s no point blaming the sun and the wind; they just do what they’ve always done. They really don’t aim to make life a misery. But sometimes, it really feels like the elements are out to get you.

In reality, I’ve made good ground since my last post. I’m in Madrid, where I’ve successfully linked up with my Mum, who’s here on her first solo holiday since Dad died. This is all good. From a cycling point of view, on the other hand, Spain is hard, Spain is windy, Spain is hot and Spain is very, very lumpy.

From Pamplona, I struck south-west toward Madrid, hitting the shoe-making hotspot (really) of Arnedo, and getting a bit of Russian practice in with a fellow called ‘Alfredo’ from Armenia before climbing my first 1000m-plus pass en route to Soria. Literally the high point of my travels in Europe (at least until the return journey).

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So, all good so far. Then I made the terrible mistake of taking some well-meant route advice from a fellow cyclist. Or I made the terrible mistake of asking the wrong question to a fellow cyclist (it’s not impossible that me telling him I was heading for a plane in Portugal may have influenced things).

Whichever of those actually happened, and I’m still not sure, the result was the same. Cutting a long story short, I ended up on a 100km detour, with two days of 35+ degrees centigrade heat and constant headwinds. Two days of grinding endlessly up hills before being pushed backwards by the wind on the downhills. Two days of sweating and sunburn and diesel fumes. Yuck.

There’s no point in blaming the sun and the wind. But I still do…

There were a few bright spots.

The old man who completely ignored the fact that I spoke no Spanish (this seems to happen all the time), and dragged me off to look at some giant fish in the river. I think he wanted me to try and tickle the trout with him, but I didn’t really have time. And then he (I think) gave me a quick run-down on all the local Roman ruins.

The toothless Spanish farmhand in his dying little van who tried really hard to give me and the bike a lift to avoid the midday sun. And then drove off, cackling and whirling an index finger around his temple (no idea what he meant), in a cloud of black diesel fumes.

And, of course, the warm glow you get when you discover that someone else has paid for two nights in a hotel in central Madrid for you. Thanks, Mum!

The delights of sub-dial-up internet speeds mean that photos are few and far between again. I’m sorry. I’ll do better, I promise.

Milestones

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I’ve hit a few milestones over the last few days, which make progress seem a little more real than just a continuous stream of ’95km, 350 metres of climbing’.  Some of these were intentional, some not, but as I roast in the midday sun in Pamplona, they do give me a little confidence that this trip might be doable.

Let’s see…  I’ve hit country number three (including the UK), entering Spain yesterday.  I’ve hit the 1000km mark in terms of distance, and I’ve endured my first day with over 2000 vertical metres of climbing (crossing the Pyrenees).  And, entirely accidentally, my first 100 mile day.  Not too bad, then.

On the other hand, there are a few issues.  An annoying rattle on the bike (or in the bags) which I can’t trace, problems with routinely getting enough water (saved by roadside springs yesterday), and a nagging feeling that I’m spending too much money.  Still, must be all sortable, I guess.

I flew through the rest of France due to an improbable tailwind and some magnificent cycleways (and, let’s face it, it was flat).  An example of a magnificent cycleway can be seen below.  Something the UK and Spain could both learn from, I feel.  The UK seems to be under the impression that a decent cycleway consists of some paint on the road, while the Spanish don’t really seem to have any (though, to be fair, I’ve only seen a few km of Spain)…

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Though I kind of knew the Pyrenees were going to be a big test, I was able to forget about them for a few days, and put in an accidental 100 mile day while outstandingly failing to find a campsite.  I’ve no intention that 100 mile days become the norm, but it’s nice to know you can if you want to.

After eight days in France, I was feeling confident that my French had improved sufficiently to pass for a local.  An illusion shattered as I rolled into Bayonne.  I stopped in the town centre to check my map, and was immediately interrupted by an Australian voice asking if I needed any help. In English, naturally.   I looked up to see a tandem, with a fairly typical Aussie bloke (tats, shades, three-quarter-length shorts, goatee) on the front.  And an oriental (maybe Chinese?)  lady in a floral summer dress and floppy straw hat on the back.  After establishing that I was heading south, I then got verbal directions for the next 30 miles.  In 30 seconds.  None of which I managed to memorise.  Oh, well…  I have no idea whether these two just hang around the town centre waiting for cyclists to arrive, or what, but it was a nice (if slightly bizarre) welcome to a lovely looking town.  But I couldn’t dally; the mountains awaited.

Yesterday was the day.  I’d pre-planned roughly where to cross the Pyrenees, spotting a nice low(ish) pass at 600-and-odd metres.  My valiant (smashed but pluckily soldiering on) iPhone guided me there, and I ticked off my first ‘mountain’ pass!  Pamplona was only another 60km or so.  It was all too, erm, Pyreneeasy.  Sorry.

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Unfortunately, relying entirely on the phone meant that I missed the fact that my intended road into Pamplona became a semi-motorway from which bikes were outlawed.  Never mind, I’d take the old road; must run pretty parallel…  Some hours later, trekking up a second, 700m-plus hill, I was not a happy bunny.  Over 2000 metres climb in a day is for the racing snakes of the Tour de France, with their lightweight carbon-fibre bikes and back-up cars.  Not really for an elderly gent lugging 40kg of bike and bags.  Let’s just say it was a long, long day.

Still, I made it to Pamplona.  It’s a lovely town, and Spain seems to be half the price of France.  And I tumbled into a lovely quiet hostel for another rest day.  More clothes washed, but I don’t think you need the pictures this time.  And for the record, the red underpants in the last post were nothing to do with me…

So, nothing to worry about between here and Madrid except the heat (30c by eleven in the morning today), and finding my way over or around another set of mountains.  Bigger than the Pyrenees. Much bigger.   Ouch…

By the way, I’ve finally added a map and some stats (everyone loves stats!) to the Progress page, for your delectation and delight.

Meetings on the Road

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Rest day today; relaxing in Royan, on the Atlantic Coast. I’m a bit more than halfway down France, and it’s pretty flat from here (I think). Problems revolve around heat and headwinds in this part of the world – it’s been close to 40 degrees at times.

Everything I read before setting off suggested I’d be meeting other cyclists all the time. By Thursday afternoon, flogging against the wind through the marshes to the north of La Rochelle, I was pretty sure this was nonsense. I sat by the side of the road, wondering how long I would have to wait before I saw another tourer. Fifteen minutes later, I came out of a pharmacy with a bottle of sun cream just in time to see three shoot past. There’s some old saying about buses, which obviously applies to cyclists too…

I caught up, to discover that all three were Brits; two 18-year old lads from Scotland heading for the Côte d’Azur, and a dreadlocked guy called Darryl, who was powered entirely by hemp protein (or something similar) and heading for a festival in Portugal. I was really happy to be running into other bikers, and we made quick ground, sharing slipstreams to a campsite near La Rochelle.

And then we were six. Two more bikers (and two more Brits) had just set up in the same campsite. Just three hours after wondering when I’d see anyone, I’m sat around sharing tips and routes and plans with a whole bunch of others.

On Friday we went our different ways; the Scottish lads headed off with a tight schedule and a master plan (we passed them a little later with their nth puncture of the trip), Darryl remained recharging in his hammock, and I headed south for Royan with a doctor called George.

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It was really easy riding in company; chatting and swearing at French drivers really makes the time fly. We covered 90km (including a top-notch transporter bridge near Rochefort – hopefully pictured) before pulling up in Royan for a rest day, which has included the constructive (washing clothes) and the slightly less so (multiple beers while gibbering endlessly about life, the universe and everything).

Tomorrow, George is swerving east, en route for Italy, while I’ll be back on my own and ploughing south towards Spain. We saw two German tourers this morning who are heading my way; the way things seem to work out on the road, I may well see them again.

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Hopefully above (still don’t trust the software) is a little corner of England in Royan.

568km / 355 miles so far, by the way. A bientôt, all.

First Three Days – London to Portsmouth and through Brittany

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This is a slightly experimental first post from phone app. Hope it all works…

Well, off to a decent start; 309km or 193miles in three days, and out of the UK and into France. Slept on the ferry, in a wood, and now in a campsite. No discernible differences other than the herd of deer stripping bark from the trees all night. Not on the ferry, obviously.

Nearly starved when France closed down entirely yesterday (Bastille Day), but that’s as close to disaster as I’ve yet come. Met lots of friendly French people, some of whom were strangely concerned with my mental state.

And enjoyed beautiful Brittany; now aiming to cross the Loire tomorrow.

Please accept apols for the blog, btw. Think you can only follow if you’re on a computer at the minute… Will have to wait for a rest day to try and sort it. There were going to be some pics, but taking forever to upload; will put some up when I’ve a better connection.

Thanks, all, for the nice comments here and on Facebook. Will hopefully add a proper update soon.

UPDATE – looks like one of the pics made it after all. This is my nephew Tom making sure I left from Greenwich on Sunday.

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