travel

Not in Kansas Anymore!

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Never waste a tailwind.

If there’s one rule that I’ve picked up in my travels so far, that’s it.  Especially on the great plains, where the prevailing westerlies are notorious.  If there’s a tiny element of the wind that’ll help, you take it.  Make as much ground as you can, so the ‘Cycling Zen’ can kick in when conditions are less favourable.

I’ve piled on the miles in the last few days, finally escaping Kansas on Friday (hooray!), and hitting Colorado in the coldest temperatures of the trip so far (boo!).  I’ve also met my first dog in a bicycle trailer (a slightly nutty labrador called Nimbus, who is heading west from Kentucky), which was exciting, although I believe there’s another canine making similarly effortless progress along the TransAm to my north.  The dogs are clearly cleverer than their owners; sitting curled-up and protected from the elements in a trailer while their humans sweat and strain from dragging the extra weight around.  Very smart…

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And now I’m resting up for the day in La Junta, Colorado.  This is the time to take a break for several exceptionally good reasons.

Firstly, there are three route options to consider to get to the mountains.  I can head a little north to rejoin the TransAm trail in Pueblo, or I can head south-west to Trinidad and the RAAM route.  Or I can go down the middle, and get to Walsenburg, rejoining the RAAM route a little into the hills.  Decisions, decisions…

Secondly, I’ve hit a couple of big landmarks, which required a small celebration.  Friday was the end of my second calendar month on the road (this seems completely outrageous to me, as it already feels like months and months of changing places, languages, food and cultures; it’s been quite a ride…).  And I hit a big mileage landmark yesterday; 3000 miles on the road.  That was worth a couple of beers last night.  A day off to take stock, look after a slightly achy head, and establish some perspective on how far I’ve come (and how far I still have to go!) seems entirely appropriate.

And thirdly, the strangely freezing weather of the last few days has left me with a bit of a cold.  Common sense says that I want to try to get shot of that before tackling the Rockies.

So, a bit of thinking to be done and a little planning required, along with the standard laundry, refuelling and bike tinkering.

Colorado seems nice so far.  A bit more relaxed than Kansas.  The Hispanic influence, which really started to be noticeable in the west of Kansas (not surprisingly, as the Kansas section of the Arkansas River, which I’ve been riding along, used to be the border between the US and Mexico), is stronger in Colorado.  It’s a reminder that I really need to get past Unit 2 of my teach-yourself-Spanish book!

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And after the cold snap, the skies are now clear, and the temperature’s back to the low 80sF.  Pretty much perfect riding weather, as it will get a little cooler as I get higher.  And it looks like it will hold for a while (hopefully, I can get through the hills without blizzards or freezing rain, which would be nice).

Just need to clear my sniffles and head for the hills on Monday…

Deja-Vu and Cycling Zen in the Wild West

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There’s every chance that the picture below will look slightly familiar.  Compare and contrast with the road picture in my last post.  Yes, there’s a tree in this one.  Yes, the hard shoulder of the highway is a little wider.  But there’s not much doubt that we’re still in Kansas, is there?

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For the record, this is about two-hundred miles from the previous picture, and not a whole lot has changed.  The grass desert just rolls on and on.  As I write, there’s another thunder-storm battering the roof (and presumably the tent, which is some way distant, but hopefully up to it).

And the headwinds just keep on coming, together with more heat, though this is apparently about to break properly.  But I think I’ve cracked those evil winds through Cycling Zen.  I’d copyright it, but I actually have no idea whether it has anything to do with Zen (yet another layer of ignorance reveals itself); it just seems like a good label.

After the rest day in Newton, I was raring to go again on Sunday.  I’d been half-listening to the conversation between the other three bikers on my first night there, and decided to follow Ian and Alejo’s example by switching routes from the TransAm to the Race Across America (RAAM) route, which finishes close to San Diego.  It cuts a little further south across the Rockies, but still drops me out on a good line for Monument Valley and the Grand Canyon.

With the remnants of a tailwind(!), I made 80-odd miles that day, charging across the featureless plain like some sort of caffeine-and-sugar-fuelled buffalo.  On wheels.  Roughly.  I reckoned I’d make it to Dodge City (who could miss the real Wild West if passing reasonably close?) in another day, easily.  Just the same again, thanks.

It took two days.  And pretty much two whole days.

It became apparent yesterday that the headwinds were back with a vengeance.  And the weather people were talking about 25mph winds for today (they were right, by the way).  I mindlessly deployed the same tactics I’d used on that horrendous day to Eureka, put my head down and put the pressure on as hard as I could.  More sweat, more aches and pains, and a grand total of 42 miles covered in a total of eight-and-a-half hours, including about a thousand stops for water and to ease sore muscles.  A one-legged tortoise would find that a tad on the less-than-quick side.

I spent the evening considering my position.  This was not fun.  This was not even sustainable; remember how horrible that ride to Eureka had been?  Could I even face another day like that?  Clearly, a new approach was required, which is where Cycling Zen came in.

I had about another 40 miles to get to my target campsite at Dodge City.  You can walk 40 miles in a day, at a push.  And however slow I ride, I’m always going to be (a little) quicker than walking.  So I was going to make it today.  That was a fact.  And the speed didn’t matter.  Another fact.  The wind could do what it liked, and I’d just go as slow as necessary to take the pressure off my legs.  I’d retreat into a little bubble of non-worry, telling myself amusing stories (these are unprintable, so don’t get your hopes up), and try to enjoy the ride.

My moving average speed today was 8.4mph.  That one-legged tortoise is killing himself laughing.  But I rode without pain or effort, and with a smile on my face.  A slightly loopy smile, but still…  I only stopped a couple of times for drinks, and for lunch at a truck stop.  And somewhat miraculously, within six hours, I saw this:

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So…  Going slower in headwinds makes you quite a lot faster over the course of a day, and happier to boot.  There’s a lesson I didn’t think I’d learn.  And a new weapon which will get me through the headwinds.  Don’t fight it, just relax, switch off, and enjoy the ride.  Cycling Zen.  Or arguably, just what cycling should be all about, anyway…

There’s a lot of history in Dodge City, so I’m taking tomorrow (Wednesday) off to explore.  More from the Wild West soon.

Oases in the Grass Desert

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I’m not sure how it happened, but I’d hit a fairly low ebb a few days ago.  The constant thunderstorms and heat had probably got to me, or maybe it was just too many days in a row of ploughing west across the USA (I think I might have mentioned that it’s quite big).

It got worse before it got better.  Kansas is where the US begins to stretch out; there’s less to see, and ever larger gaps between towns, shops or petrol stations.  This picture is pretty typical of the east of the state – outstandingly long, fairly flat, and almost featureless.  Road and grass and telegraph poles.  And I now know that the west will be very similar.  Some people call it the Grass Desert.

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I’m having to carry extra water for the first time since Spain, and for the first few days in Kansas the elements were not kind.  By the time I shambled into Eureka, after 50 miles which had felt like a hundred, and with a rather artistic batik-style design of dried sweat all over my clothes, I was nearly in pieces.  But coming the other way was another tourer (the first I’d seen for days), who turned out to be Kat, from England.  I can’t explain how good it was to get some food and have a few beers and a long chat with a fellow Brit, especially one who’d also spent the day being pasted by heat and headwinds.  Kat is in the middle of riding the TransAmerica trail from Oregon to Virginia (a chunk over 4000 miles).  As I’ll be following her path (in reverse) until the Rockies, she was also a gold mine of useful information about my days ahead.

Yesterday was a case in point.  First, Kat had given me a target to aim for; Newton Bike Shop, of which more later. And I now knew that the TransAm route from Eureka to Newton only has one place to buy water and supplies in over 70 miles, and that there are a couple of sections of gravel road (which is fun, but very slow).  It’s mainly westerly, but with about twenty miles of north thrown in as well.  The wind flipped around to the north-east in mid-morning, and without the inside info, I’d have been straight up the TransAm route, and would probably have run out of water in a cloud of headwind-blown dust way before I got halfway there.  Oh, and there were thunder storms forecast, yet again, and that sort of distance with virtually nowhere to hide could have been nasty.  This didn’t look like a good idea.

As it was, I made an informed decision to leave the route, and head towards El Dorado, before cutting back up to Newton.  This worked a treat, breaking the northward stretch into two smaller chunks, and ensuring I was closer to shelter and supplies.  The only downside was that it was all highway riding (see that picture above again for what the road looked like; it’ll serve for most of Kansas).

So, yesterday afternoon, I rolled up to Newton Bike Shop.  Not too tired, and not wet, bedraggled, or struck by lightning.  A good day.

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I’m resting here today (Saturday). I’m bang in the middle of the TransAm, and pretty much in the middle of the US.  And it really is a little corner of touring cyclists’ paradise, with a hostel section, as well as laundry facilities and bike repair (not that The Beast seems to be in any need of repair).  It even has an indoor ‘bike shower’ to properly pamper the machinery.

There were three other cyclists here when I arrived, although they’ve all headed off today.  Ian and Alejo are heading for San Diego, so it’s not impossible that we may cross paths again, while Debbie is heading east on a modified TransAm route.  Pizza and ice-cream and chats about cycling last night; more therapy for my psychological bumps and scrapes – it’s a lot easier to deal with when you know there are others out there having the same issues.

And finally, I found a real contender for ‘best loo-roll holder of the trip’ (a new competition that I’ve decided to set up to fill my emptier hours):

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There are, needless to say, no other contenders at present…

Back on the road tomorrow, with the western half of Kansas still ahead before I hit Colorado.  I’m well rested, well fed, and have even had a shave and haircut.  I may not recognise myself in the mirror anymore (I wasn’t quite aware of how yeti-ish I was getting), but I’m hopefully back on form and ready to push on.

Frustration

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Well, I’m in Kansas. Just about.

I was held up by a big belt of electrical storms at the edge of Missouri. There was another big one here in the early hours of the morning, and now I have a dilemma. The weather services say the system has gone through and is gradually heading east. My eyes say different. But it’s hard to know whether I’m just looking at hideously dark clouds, or a day of rain-soaked misery. Do I stay or do I go?

Tricky, tricky. Kansas seems a tad unpredictable. I arrived yesterday morning to a very British light drizzle:

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And by mid-afternoon, it was more like this:

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It’s immensely frustrating. Having a rest day for every riding day won’t get me across the country quick enough. But getting hit by baseball-sized hail (which they had here a few days ago) won’t get me across the country at all. I’ve already waited until ten o’clock, so I won’t leave until at least eleven by the time my stuff’s dry. So I can’t get a full day’s riding in anyway. But I need to feel I’m making some sort of progress – sitting around for days just doesn’t do that.

I probably need to find some positives here. Well… Another lovely family at my last camp in Missouri. A couple of free beers last night. Oh, and I’m part way through the trip of a lifetime. Really mustn’t forget that…

Time to stop moaning and get on with it, I think.

Thunderstorms, the Queen and Crocodile Dundee

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I watched a thunderstorm being born the other day, as I biked ever-westward along the Katy Trail. It’s an impressive process, as clouds organise themselves into columns before merging and blackening. And eventually dropping vast amounts of water everywhere. In the end, as you might be aware, they look something like this:

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Which is lovely, as long as you assume that your local weather tipster is correct, and that storms always go along the river, and not across it. I met an Irish tourer called Phillip a couple of minutes after taking this picture. Unfortunately, after a couple more minutes chatting (he’s doing a loop around all the 48 US mainland states), it became alarmingly apparent that the storm was not playing by my weatherman’s rules, and was, in fact, about to attack.

The couple of minutes chatting turned into an hour-long incarceration in a very tiny (but dry) post office, which at least gave us plenty of time to discuss frames, disc brakes and spokes, etc, etc. There really is no end to the excitement in touring cyclists’ conversations, and we were both slightly surprised to see that the postmaster hadn’t committed suicide from sheer boredom by the time we left.

I just had time to hoof it to Missouri’s rather beautiful state capital, Jefferson City before dark.

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I finished with Katy yesterday, in the pretty town of Clinton. It was a messy break-up, as I’d not been so lucky with the storms. An absolute monsoon hit at around 1205 (I’m never going to assume that ‘rain in the afternoon’ means about 3 or 4 o’clock again), which converted me into a half-drowned wretch, and the trail surface into sticky gloop which got everywhere.

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On a slightly different note, I’d been waiting for a fortnight to be mistaken for an Australian. This has happened reliably within a couple of days of arrival on every trip to the US. This time, it’s taken four states, but Missouri has enthusiastically taken up the slack with five misidentifications in three days.

I don’t blame the Americans; it took me long enough to be able to tell a US and Canadian accent apart. No, it’s entirely the fault of the Queen and Crocodile Dundee. If you don’t speak like Her Britannic Majesty, you’re assumed to be antipodean. Especially if you can’t quite kick the (entirely English, I’m sure, just stolen by the Australians) habit of calling people ‘mate’. That’s all most people took away from the, erm, classic film series; Aussies call people ‘mate’, not Brits.

Ah, well. No point getting worked up about things you can’t change. Especially things that don’t really matter. A rest day today by the Truman Reservoir, and then on with the show. Kansas is calling; maybe tomorrow if I go long, maybe the next day. It’s back to the flatlands for a while before the Rockies rear up. And the humidity has eased with the rain, so life on the bike and in the tent are a little more pleasant. Long may it stay that way…

Beat By The Heat; or, Misery in Missouri?

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I’m feeling a bit warm.  The hard-pack trail is kicking up dust.  I’ve downed a couple of litres of water, but still feel thirsty.  The sun is scorching my back as I trundle along the old railway path.  I’ve got sweat in my eyes.  It’s well over 80 degrees F.  And it’s eight-thirty in the morning.

I promised I wouldn’t moan about the temperature or the humidity.  But they finally cracked me today.  I guess you can only ignore heat warnings for so long before they catch up with you.  I got ten miles down the road this morning, stopped for breakfast, and to help a lady with a flat tyre, which let the temperature rise some more.  Made it another five miles before I realised that another sweltering day – it was 100F by eleven-thirty – was going to do more harm than good, and bailed out into an air-conditioned motel.  At least I get to recharge my batteries (both literally and metaphorically) and wash my socks (just literally, I think).

I’ve made decent distance in the last few days, despite shade temperatures which have been consistently in the high 90s and low 100s.  I’ve no idea what the temperatures in the sun on the road were.  And I’ve crossed the Mississippi, which puts me at least into the west of the mid-west, if not the West itself.

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From the famous arch in St Louis onwards, the map starts to fill with those place names that are so familiar from old cowboy films and TV; Kansas City, Dodge City, Wichita, etc, etc.  You cross the old Route 66.  The whole place starts to smell a bit more of adventure; Daniel Boone lived around here (as well as almost everywhere else in the US, it seems), and Lewis and Clark set off west from here to explore for a route to the Pacific.

I rode through St Louis on Sunday.  Partly because there’s minimum traffic then, and partly because I had half an eye on what might or might not kick-off  in Ferguson, which is one of the northern suburbs.  Nothing to worry about for me, as it turns out; as usual with those sort of things, trouble tends to be localised and easily avoided.

I spoke to two cyclists with very different views of the situation.  Unsurprisingly, one was black and from the northern part of town while the other was white and from the (very) wealthy western suburbs.  It’s obviously a very polarising situation, and feels like quite a divided city; from my own view riding through, the obvious wealth differential between their two home areas was stark, and their views on the whole Ferguson crisis were diametrically opposed.  Hope it all settles out, but fear it may take a while…

Now (or at least until my cowardly retreat to the motel) I’m following the Katy Trail up the Missouri River valley.  The Missouri joins the Mississippi at St Louis, and is a fairly impressive river in itself.

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It was up this river that the Lewis and Clark expedition began, so I’m once again following in history’s footsteps.  Though I’m pretty sure they weren’t tempted by bunking off to an air-conditioned box.  Tomorrow, I’ll try to rediscover my backbone and get back out there; on the plus side, there might be a break in the weather in a couple of days.  But I’m not (all that) stupid; weather like this needs to be respected, and the daily mileage may be taking a dip until things cool off.  Assuming they ever do…

Riding America’s National Road

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Since leaving Indiana, I have, as predicted, been sweating like a pig. It’s the hottest week of the year here in south Illinois, and the humidity is genuinely disgraceful. I’m not going to harp on about it, I promise. But just so you know, it’s nasty.

I’ve spent two days riding a national landmark as I head towards St Louis (I’ll still be riding it tomorrow as I head towards St Louis – big country, America…).

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Route 40, as it is now, was built to get settlers westwards after the Louisiana purchase. It’s much less famous than Route 66, but it’s fascinating to imagine the convoys of covered wagons and horses heading west along the same route I’m travelling. It was fascinating enough to take my mind off my raging thirst for a few minutes, at least…

The countryside is changing, with less corn and soya (though they are still there), and more woods. And even some small hills – quite exciting after all the flat lands, but a tough ask in the heat. One result is a new contender for nicest camping spot; in the shade, next to a lake with no mossies – spot on.

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The heat’s set to last for at least a few more days, but I am slowly getting used to it. I’ve gained time in the morning, as the clocks are another hour back in Illinois, so I’m trying to make ground early. And then slowing dramatically as the heat takes hold. And I hit the 2000 miles mark on the bike yesterday. Another little milestone ticking by…

There are still a couple of things I don’t quite understand about America (this is a colossal understatement; it’s a few more than a couple of things). The camping in Illinois is half the price of either Ohio or Indiana, which is nice, though the reasons are unclear. And I’m drinking a root beer. Which I don’t understand at all. I’m not sure what it’s made of, or what it’s supposed to taste of. But then, that seems to be the extent of my worries at the moment, so mustn’t grumble 😉

Little Switzerland and Roller-Blading Amish – Indiana Rocks!

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Having tanked up on a bucket of coffee at the edge of Ohio, I headed for my first state line. State lines have a sort of mythical status, derived from old films; make it to the state line, and the police can’t catch you. Make it to the state line and everything changes.

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Having seen masses of fields with nothing but soya beans and sweet corn in Ohio, it was a little disappointing that I crossed the line to find, on one side of the road, a field of soya. And on the other side a field of sweet corn. But I pressed on, and things did, indeed, change.

I stopped at a petrol station for a drink. There was a young guy sat outside, who I think was Amish (might have been Mennonite, or something similar – I’m not an expert, and somehow we never got round to it in conversation). Anyway, Phil had a home-made haircut, a clean-shaven face with a beard sprouting enthusiastically from under the jawline, and was dressed in a sober white shirt and sensible black trousers. We had a chat, with him seeming especially interested in ‘campsite hotties’, which I couldn’t really help with much. And then he got up to leave. On his roller-blades.

It may (well) be my ignorance, but I’m not sure that roller-blading is a standard Sunday morning activity in either the Amish or Mennonite traditions. Phil may well be a dangerous radical within his community, so I’ve changed his name to save him potential grief. But he was a sure sign that things were different in Indiana. I was happy.

Another sign was the amount of horse droppings I was having to navigate around on the edge of the road. There were more blacksmiths around than I’d seen for a while too. And the road signs were different.

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I only saw one actual buggy, which I flashed past at a junction. I guess it was pretty quiet because it was Sunday. But I’m definitely not in Ohio any more.

Pressing on to Berne (the clue’s in the name), I was suddenly transported to Switzerland. Chalets popped up by the roadside, and I sat for a while next to Berne’s magnificent Swiss clock tower. Slightly disappointing that it’s not a cuckoo clock tower (at least literally) but still impressive.

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I decided against heading further south to Geneva, as the alps would be in the way, and turned west towards Marion. I got distracted by ice cream (again) at The Point, a nice little restaurant on the highway. Phenomenal strawberry cheesecake ice cream, incidentally. I headed on, looking for a campsite. Four miles further on, a man had parked his car, and was waving what turned out to be free T-shirts at me. This was the owner of The Point, who’d heard I was English from his staff, and chased me up the road to give me free stuff. Amazing.

I mentioned looking for a campsite, and he stood aside, revealing a sign (I should point out that he wasn’t so big as to entirely block the sign, I was just distracted by the T-shirts). 200 yards up the road, Wildwood Outdoor Escape beckoned.

Serendipity is not to be denied. I’d done a hundred km, so decided to call it a day. I came in, paid for my spot, and had a chat with the owners about the ride. And a few minutes later they came to my site and gave me my money back (and a little extra) to ‘help me on the road’. Astonishing.

It’s fair to say that was quite a day. I’ve been a little bit blown away by Indiana so far, and have to offer my heartfelt thanks to all those who made my first day here so memorable.

Maybe there is something in the old state line myths after all…

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…