Icarus on a bicycle

My route from Trujillo led me back into the moutains. Following the rio Santo on dirt roads up through the magnificent Cañon del Pato, through its many tunnels and out into the valley between the cordelerias blanco and negro, with the towering snowy peaks to my left, I arrived in the mountain climbers' delight that is the town of Huarez. Here for the final time I met up with Philip and Valeska, my Austrian friends, who had spent a week hiking in the surrounding moutains, while I had been getting myself back into the saddle in Trujillo. After a few beers that night we took an early (for me, late for them) start together and continued up the valley untill our paths seperated at the entrance to the national park guarding the Cordeleria Blanco. They were headed down to Lima and I was headed across the mountains towards Bolivia. My dirt path led me up to the guard station and at 4100 m it was incredibly cold and the park rangers were kind enough to let me sleep in their station and feed me with hot food for both supper and breakfast the next day.

I had just spent over two weeks at sea level and my ascent from 2000 m to my present 4100 m had taken me 2 days. A note here about altitude sickness: it is not the absolute height you reach that is important but the relative change of height and the speed at which you ascend. I had climbed high, fast and I was paying for it with a thumping head-ache. However after a rest at the guard station and some tea, I felt much better and ready for my climb the next day over the two passes ahead of me, the taller of the two at 4880 m. In the morning I felt good and despite a shortness of breath after relatively little exertion I was confident. This lasted untill about halfway to the first pass I was at about 4600 m and my crushing head ache was back with avengance. The smart thing to do here would be to go back down and spend the day acclimatizing. However I figured that if this pass was too much I could use the low point between the two passes to camp at and acclimatize there. By the time I reached the top of this first path my head ache was crippling but none of the other symptoms (lack of co-ordination, lack of focus, extreme cold) of Acute Mountain Sickness (yes I did my homework) were present. So I decided to keep going and hoped that the 200 m descent down to the low point would ease my head ache. It did not in fact, it got worse and a listlessness started to creep into my attitude and I realised I was too high to stay at over night, if I remained here I could be subject to two fatal conditions (HAPE and HACE, which are scarrily common causes of death in mountaineers).

Like Icarus I had tried to go too high but my only way out of this mess was to go yet higher. Unlike Icarus my machine was working fine, it was my body that was melting away. As I tried to cycle on the rough road bumping me around made my headache exrutiating and combined with the exertion and the gain in height I felt like I was about to vomit. I knew that if I did this I would loose all my strength, I would need all of this. So I got off my bike and started walking up the slope. As I climbed my co-ordination started to go and I kept stumbling on rocks, every 50 m I had to pause for a break to get my breath back and fight down the waves of nausea. Despite my worsening condition, I was not oblivious to my surroundings and I walked past glaciers on one side and snowy mountains away to the other. After 2 hours of struggle I crested the pass only to see the road, after an initial short dip snake up again round the next mountain. The next hour was one of the hardest of my life, the knowledge that dark was coming on and that if I didn't start to descend soon I was going to be in big trouble kept me moving despite the useless state my body and mind was in.

With half an hour of light left I crested the final pass and as I did so the rain started, first as a drizzle and then as a downpour. I was already cold, being at that height the day time temperatures combined with wind chill were below freezing and I was wearing 4 layers. The rain soaked me through despite my waterproof and the additional wind chill from descending rapidly penetrated all my layers. Icarus descended from the skies to the rocks below, I descended from altitude sickness to hyperthermia. My recovery from the altitude was as quick as my descent and felt almost like it had been a nightmare that had never actually happened. As my mind unfogged I realised that if I didn't find shelter from the rain and wind soon I was again in serious trouble, my whole body was already shaking uncontrolably, my feet and hands were blocks of ice. The trouble was the nearest settlement was about 30 km's away. Then as night fell I came upon a mining camp. I begged them to let me sleep in one of their porta cabins (by now I was down to 4200 m and only a head ache persisted), I think they could see I was in a bad way because they they let me in with little argument. I got into the porta cabin as fast as I could and started striping off my clothes, not an easy task given how hard I was shacking and the numbness of my hands (zips had to be done with my teeth). As I pulled on all my remaining dry clothes there was a knock on the door and one of the miners appeared with a mattress I grinned and mumbled my thanks and then climbed into my sleeping bag, curling into the fetus position and willing the shacking to stop. It did, and as it did another minner appeared with hot soup, chicken and rice. After inhaling this food I was almost hot and feeling like a different person. I feel I'm pretty lucky to have escaped this episode with no lasting damage and I don't think this would have been the case without the help of the minners, it seems there's a guardian angel looking out for me. Maybe its Icarus taking care of those with equally foolish ambition, those who try to travel too close to the sun.

Down but not quite out

I should have realised that bad things were to come when my first night in Peru was ominously terrible: I had finished the border crossing with about half an hour of sunlight left to me. I spun past the straggling shanty of a border settlement and took the first track I could find off the main road. This shortly led me to a wood and what has, traditionally, been perect camping territory. I whipped out my cooking kit and got the rice and veg combo onto cook before having a look around. What I saw was this, spiders. Hundreds of bloody huge spiders, dangling from their webs between the trees, fangs glistening with arachnic intent. I'm not one to freak out about insects in general so i kept my cool. Found some open ground around a path through the wood and layed my sleeping mat down. By this time it was dark, I dug out my torch and flashed it around, thousands and thousands of tiny beads of light flashed back at me. It took me a few moments to realise that these beads where spider eyes reflecting the torch light back at me. My heart jumped, instead of the relatively few creatures confined to the trees, I was surrounded by legions of the eight legged beasts carpeting every possible surface. Supper would have to be to go. I packed up as fast as I could, taking care to leave any unwanted guests behind, and hit the road. Finding a new camping spot by torch light was going to be a little hit or miss but I thought I had hit the jackpot when I found another side track to an unused field. I had my food while inhaling the scent of mint I had crushed beneath my feet, congratulating myself on a job well done. That was untill I lay down and realised that I had landed myself slap bang in the middle of a swarm of mosquitos. The blood sucking did not let up till after I was back on the road with the dawn and my skin was a painfully itchy pattern of red blotches.

The next few days took me down through pampa (prarie land) to the coast and into unrelenting headwind kicking up sand and dust, from the desert surrounding my road, into my unprotected eyes. This three day struggle along the barren coast was terrible but as I reached the town of Paijan, cane fields and shelter from the wind I was just half a days ride from Peru's second biggest city Trujillo and a planned stop off at the world famous (cycling-world that is) Casa de Cyclista's. I was in good spirits and after twenty minutes of cruising through the fields of cane I saw a few guys by the road side next to their moto-taxi (the Peruvian answer to the rickshaw), not an unusual sight and I waved them a greeting. At this moment the foremost hombre drew a long kitchen knife from behind his back and wielded it in an unmistakingly threatening manner. I was only a few meters away from him and that distances was rapidly diminishing. My natural instinct was to swerve away, out of slashing range. This manouvre killed my speed and the bandito was able, after a couple of strides, to just grab the last item on the bike, my helmet dangling from the rear. He managed to drag me back in and taking a firmer grip hurled me into the center of the road, my bike landed on my chest and I was pinned against road. In an instant my attacker was joined by two more ladrones as they attempted to rip off my bags while dragging my bike to the side of the road. I clung onto the bike tight, with two of my panniers between the bike of the road and my leg round a third they were only able to get one of them. When the assailant with the knife realised his efforts at dragging the bike away were being hampered by my grip. He brought the knife a little closer to my face than comfort dictated and I let go. Two of them picked up my beloved machine and chucked it into the roadside ditch before making good their escape.

It took me a while in my shocked state to realise that leaving my bike behind was not benevelance on their part but a practicle measure, they couldn't have fit it into the moto-taxi and by chucking it into the ditch they reckoned on buying themselves enough time to escape. They were right. My bike had a gear lever ripped off, both rims were bent and the handlebars were at right angles to their accustomed position. I took stock of what was missing: one bag out of four it could have been worse. That's when I realised it was my bag containing my passport, my bank cards, my money, my camera, and the two most irreplacable items: all my photos on their memory cards and all my notes and contact details of those I had met along the way. At that point I have to admit that I thought it was game over and thiss thought hit me like a tonne of bricks. And if it had not been for the help and support I received in the Casa de Cyclista's this might well have been the case. This amazing place, home to any itinerant cyclist who finds their way to Trujillo (and most who cycle South America do), gave me a place to stay, other traveller's to get advice from and distracted me by hosting a world record, by a co-resident, of spending an incredible 33 hours wheeling round the main square in his wheel chair, without break. Acting as support team in this event helped me get over my problems and after 11 days in Trujillio I had a money card couriered out from England, my insurance was handled, a new passport ordered and most importantly Luchio, finest bike mechanic in Latin America (no exageration) and the man behind Casa de Cyclista's, had worked his magic on my bike and it was now better than new and I was ready to head up into the mountains.

The avenue of the volcanoes

Type these magic words into google, hit "Images" and enjoy pictures of towering mountain peaks, stunning sunsets and erupting volcanoes. If on the other hand you decide to cycle through this route in May don't forget to bring your rain gear. I spent about a week toiling up and down the valleys that run at right angles to my route. This means to get to that point, just over there on the other side of the valley, so close you can almost touch it, you in fact have to turn to your left and follow the road for km after km down to the unbelievably inconsiderate river cross the bridge and then sweat your way back up the far side. This maybe would not be so bad if it was an occasional punishment but it is continuous, in the Ecuadorian Sierras the word plano (flat, for the linguistically challenged out there) does not exist. It also would have been bearable, maybe even enjoyable, if these alleged views had been visible. However in my week of Ecuadorian mountains I developed a vitamin D deficiency and turned from carribean-tanned to bed-sheet-white from lack of sunshine. Hyperbole aside, I managed to catch a glimpse of one volcano for about 5 minutes before it was again swallowed in cloud and these "stunning valleys" were 9 times out of 10 no more to me than a swirling mass of cloud and fog.

There were a couple of highlights to this section and, as always seems to happen when nature lets me down, these came from people. The first was when the weather let up enough for me to camp next to a river in, what I thought was, a secluded cannon. Above me, perched on a shelf in the cannon, lived a family of indigenous farmers. When they realised that they had a gringo guest camped out below them they whipped out the welcome mat and, after my futile protests, handed me chocla (corn on the cob), peaches and apples, straight off their respective plants. Never has corn tasted so good as it did in the mouth of a hungry cyclist, after a day of struggling through valleys and so fresh it was almost alive. The second highlight came when I eventually met up with two Austrian cyclists. I had first met Phillip and Valeska way back in December on the Baja. We had got seperated by the crossing to the mainland and had since taken different routes. However we had kept in pretty good contact and finally in Ecuador we managed to meet back up and have a few days of riding together to Cuenca and finally into some sunshine. This Austrian couple are exceptionally inspiring, having now spent over three and a half years pedalling the globe, at a much faster pace than any other couple-bikers I've met. Their attitude to what is an amazing feat of endurance however is incredibly relaxed, in Phillip's case utterly childish in the most entertaining of ways, and is summed up by the name of their website: http://www.2-play-on-earth.net/. So with many an entertaining story from their travels and the occasional fart-gag from Philip the rainy km's to Cuenca slipped by.

Cuenca itself is a good looking colonial town, something seemingly scarce in these parts, and I enjoyed a few days there, waiting for my cycling shoes to finally clear customs. Here I departed from the Austrian duo as they decided to get down to the coast and out of the rain, while I, ridiculously, decided to stay in the mountains and give the elements another chance. After two and a half more days of pants weather I finally cleared the last of the clouds with a pass out from the town of Loja. That evening just as I was searching for a place to camp, I came round a corner and saw the town of Catacocha perched on it's hill, with swirling cloud, golden with the setting sun, surrounding its base. I have never seen a sight that looked more like it belonged in a book of fairy tales. The next day saw me pass up and down my final Ecuadorian valleys and into the flat lands of Peru.

Quito

They say that first impressions are important so when I arrived exhausted after nearly 100km and 1500m of climbing, soaking wet from the driving rain and unable to see anything but low smoggy clouds I felt me and Quito had got off on the wrong foot. I trudged, driping the equatorial rain, into an internet cafe to look for a hostel and saw I had a message from a Quitoñian cyclist I had contacted. After a quick phone call, I had a place to stay and as I walked out the door the sky was brightening and the sun was threatening to make a welcome breakthrough, things were looking up. 30 minutes later I had been greeted by Luis, my host, with a big bear hug and was tucking into a delicious lunch. Things kept on improving: Luis had spent 6 years living in London so he knew well the British sense of humour (aswell as being fully supplied with tea and marmalade) that I had been missing; on top of this both he and Margarita worked as guides in Ecuador and so I learnt a great deal from them about the country I was now passing through.

I had originally planned to spend only a few days in Quito but this changed to over a week as I waited in vain for ash-delayed shoes to arrive from England. However a combination of language school and Luis's energy and passion for cycling and promoting our fine sport kept me extremely busy. Luis quickly put his network of contacts in gear and before my 8 day stay was over I had done an interview for a national radio station (you can hear the complete terror in my voice in the first half before I managed to relax a little), an interview for a Quitoñian cylcing campain, ciclopolis and given a talk at Luis's sons school. The last one of these was by far the most enjoyable as talking to and interacting with kids, who seemed genuinely interested by the idea of my trip, was surprisingly rewarding and also gave me a chance to really assess my trip to date and the people and places I had seen.

However not all was work: on the weekend we headed out towards the volcano, Pichincha, that dominates (when the clouds allow) the western Quito sky. As we dropped into the adjacent valley, that holds an easier route to the summit, all memory of the big smoggy city melted away. The countryside was strangely very English with lush green fields dotted with cows and of course plenty of cloud. The cloud was so abundant that after a delicious lunch of typical Ecuadorian food (a root, similar to a new potato, and big green beans stewed together, served with fat corn on the cob, potato cakes and roasted pork) we decided it was pointless to try and climb the Volcano and so on a whim we stopped off at a Hacienda on the way home. We spent the next 4 hours walking round the grounds, playing football and I even tried my hand at miking a cow before sitting in front of a roaring fire drinking hot choclate, made from the milk I'd just been skwirting into a bucket, chatting with the owners of the Hacienda, who were also very keen cyclists.

On every Sunday a very special thing happens in Quito: they close to traffic a route through the city, around 30 km's from North to South. On this route only vehicles without an engine are allowed, the most common is of course the beloved bicycle but there are also plenty of walkers, joggers and kid's on push scooters. This weekly event gives an amazing opportunity to see the city and with Martin, one of Luis's sons, I took full advantage of this and together we cycled the length of the route and back again, passing through the modern commercial center, then the historic old town before heading into the Southern suburbs and finishing in a beautiful city park. After such a long stay and having done so much with Luis and his family I was sad to be leave them and the weather mirrored my mood as I peddalled out into a torrential downpour. I had one final treat waiting for me in Quito, a meeting with another cyclist. Mario had spent four months cycling round Ecuador, written a book about his adventures (I am now a proud owner of an auotgraphed copy) and was putting the final touches to preparations for cycling round his home continent, a 2 year trip. Cycling the back roads of Quito listening to Mario talk about routes and places to visit on my way down to Peru was a fitting end to my stay in this phenomenal city.

When the going gets tough...

Easy is not the word I would choose to describe my ride as far as Medellin. However I had been on the road for six and a half months and up till then any problems I'd had were one off's: trouble with my front rack, a particularly hard stretch of road, or fighting through rain and wind. All these problems were temporary or a quick fix was available and generally speaking my ride had been trouble free. Hard work, yes but I had never felt like everything was falling apart. That is untill the Southern half of Colombia.

My troubles started innocently enough: I was staying with a Colombian cyclist in the Zona Cafeteria, the heart of Colombia, and he wanted to take me mountain biking to show me the area around his finca. A great day was had, bumping and skidding down (and back up) a beautiful river valley. Unfortunately my bike was not made for aggresive down hill biking, so when I had a look at my bike a couple of days later I was not completely surprised to find cracks radiating from several spoke holes. I guess after 7,000 miles of carrying me and my kit the mountain biking was the final straw. However all was not lost, only one crack looked like real trouble, the other ones were just hairline, so I fancied my chances of making it to Cali (2 days down the road), where I was sure to find a replacement. After 2 days of searching every bike shop in Cali (no mean feat in just 2 days), I concluded that finding a replacement would involve a 10 day wait for one to be shipped in. This was not part of my plan so I bit the bullet and went to get the severe crack welded. Now this is quite a desicion as welding aluminium is a tricky job and I had heard plenty of accounts of frames and racks being destroyed at the hands of cowboy workmen, on top of this for the second time in the trip I would have to rebuild my wheel only to have the prospect of repeating this three hour operation (that's right, I knocked an hour and a half off my previous time) when the rim gave in down the road. However el maestro did a superb job and after a few hours of reconstruction I was back in buisness.

The day I left Cali, for my ride up to Popayan, the weather was fine but as evening approached the clouds started to gather quickly and the rumble of thunder sounded over the mountains on both sides. I found a spot to camp and had just finished eating my supper when the heavens opened. Great timing I thought, luck is with you. Luck was not with me: it rained and it rained and it rained, easing off with the approach of dawn. Now so much water had fallen from the skies that despite being well up a slope I was now camped in standing water. This would not have been such a problem at the beginning of the trip but by now my kit was starting to show the inevitable wear and tear of life on the road and both my tent and one of my panniers had holes in them. This meant that about half my kit was soaking wet and I would need to spend time drying it out if it ever stopped raining. Well it didn't stop raining and so when I rolled into Popayan that afternoon I was looking forward to a hot shower and dry clothes. I, being the team player I am, put all my kit out on the balcony of my dorm room, not wanting to subject my fellow guests to the god awfull stink of damp cycling kit. This turned out to be a gigantic mistake: the next morning I went to see if all my things had dryed out over night only to discover that my shoes were missing, but for some reason the rascals had chosen to leave my stinky cycling rags behind.

The upshot of this was that I had to cycle to Quito, a week down the road, in shoes that were little more than slippers (Colombian's have tiny feet and Icouldn't find replacement cycling shoes anywhere). Every pedal stroke was agony as the soles were too thin to prevent the pedals digging into the soles of my feet and the grip on them was so lacking that my feet were constantly cramped with the effort of hanging on. Still though this was character building stuff, that was untill I choose the wrong tap to fill my water bottle from. The next 5 days were horrendous, struggling up and down vast mountainsides, constantly feeling weak and like my guts were going to drop out, not being able to eat much as it quickly made its return to the outside world in various new and disgusting forms. A couple of nights were so bad that I was forced to take rest days to recover, I will remember the two nights of pain I spent in Tulcan, just on the Ecuadorian side of the border, for many years to come. So at last on my trip, seven months in, the going got really tough and how did I react, did I get going? Well for two days I definately did not go anywhere apart from regular trips to the bog. However I managed to keep making progress (at about half the speed I would normally have made) and so I'm pretty happy to conclude that this trip has made me half-tough, quasi-Bear-Grylls maybe a camp Ross Kemp.

This post has been pretty glass half empty but now that I have the luxury of looking back at it, I can slip on the old rose tinted glasses and appreciate some of the great things during this part of the trip. To start with was the staggering beauty of the mountains: three times I climbed over 3000 m as I headed into the Andes proper and thanks to the proliferation of rain, when it cleared I was cycling above dollops of clouds left in the valleys below, giving a sureal feeling. Next was Miguel, a Colombian cyclist I travelled with for a couple of days, allowing me to see yet another side of this great country. And as always the people I stayed with were phenomenal, espeically Miller in Cali, who has opened his house wide to cyclists and is always ready, with advice and a smile, to help out his fellow pedal pushers.

Colombia es pasion

This slogan is pasted across trucks and dotted on walls in many Colombian towns. It could not better sum up what Colombia is all about. From the moment Windfleet, the boat that carried us from Panama, rounded the point into Sapzuro bay the vitality of Colombian life sprang out at you: from the colour splashed across every building, to the people laughing and joking with each other in the streets. Every person you meet is immediately engaging and lively, from bums still pissed from the night before, through other cyclists (and there are a lot of these) to Finca owners, everyone wants to talk and there is never a dull moment. In every town I've passed through, the streets have been teeming with people chatting and doing buisness.

For the first four days of cycling in Colombia I was with Binya, a czech cyclist who had also come over from Panama on Windfleet. Binya claimed he was more of a traveller by bike than a cyclist but this was now his second long tour and his pace was almost identical to mine. This, his laid back attitude and love of lunch time beer made him the perfect travelling companion for me. Those four days took us across snooker table farm land, up and down and up jungled river valleys and then the climb into the highlands. This turned out to be in fact three climbs and to reach Medellin (1500 m) we climbed somewhere between 5000 and 6000 m. This was also the most spectacular scenery I had encountered since Guatemala and included my favorite road so far. I'm not going to say exactly where it is because as soon as the word, that Ed Herbert sage of cycling lore has determined the "Best Road between Vancouver and Medellin", gets out the place will be teeming with lycra clad thighs and the streets will echo with the clip-clop of cleats on cobbles. Let it suffice to say that the road passed up from the busy main road into the Alps-like mountains, through a beautiful village clinging onto the steep valley sides before snaking its way ever upwards to a pass at 2400 m about 800 m above the lorries left far below. Along this road in 2 hours I tallied: 4 motor bikes, 2 cars, 3 trucks, 1 pot hole, it doesn't get much better.

So considering this I should probably quit now, I mean if this is the best then its all going to be downhill from here, surely? Well I quite want to go past active volcano's in the north of Colombia, cycle among snow capped mountains and eat guinea pig in Ecuador, climb through passes of upto (and maybe over) 5000m, visit Manchu Pichu and colonial cities in Peru, pass through the salt plains in Bolovia, cycle through vineyards and beef country, and watch the junior rugby world cup in Argentina. So probably now is not the best time to stop, plenty more to see and do.

My stay in Medellin was one of the most amazing in my trip. I met Eduardo and his brother on a road perched above Medellin, with the city lying snuggling in its broad mountain valley below. They had spent the day up in the mountains and were now on their way back home, they invited me to stay and so I did. The descent down into the Barrio of Blancazal was exhilirating, following the boys on their motorbike while dodging the buses coming in and out of every side road. Blancazal is surely one of the poorest Barrios in Medellin but the Colombian vitality and passion is as alive here as anywhere else and Eduardos huge family (Mum, Dad, Uncle, four brothers and sisters (all with espoza(o)), and countless cousins) welcomed me in like another member of the family. I have never met people with so much kindness and giving about them: over the two days I spent with them they cared for me so well: cleaning my bike while I was asleep, washing and mending my rag-like excuses for clothes, shopwing me the city, sharing their food with me (it was an uphill battle convincing them to let me contribute) but most of all they opened themselves up and truely let me into their lives with their laughter and caring. When I left they insisted on carrying my panniers to the top of the hill for me, I thought this meant to the top of the steep hill fust outside the house (maybe 200m). At the top of this hill I stopped to retrieve my things, I was told no, they were going to take my bags to the top of the pass out of town and before I could protest they had set off. 2 hours, 1000 m of climb and 42 km later we arrived at the top of the pass and our final goodbye, there were tears.

Although Eduardo's family is the most amazing display of the Colombian spirit, its essence has been echoed many times both before and since. From people sharing their time or some fruit (or a Antioquia cycle club water bottle), to people that have taken me into their homes and shared their lives with me, I have been truely stunned by this fantastic country. Colmbia truely is passion.

The Road to Nowhere

Having spent 10 days doing around half the cycling I was used to, then 10 days sitting on a beach, drinking beer, chatting shit (particularly Andrew) and occasionally popping into the water for a brief surf, I had grown fat and used to the comfort I had been embracing. Well now was time to whip myself back into shape and try to claw back some of the money I had been hemorraging on the Samarian beach. I set myself the target of reaching Panama city in 10 days, that would average at almost exactly 100 kms every day and allow me to catch a boat sailing to Colombia. The first day was tough, the heat was fierce and to get away from the coast the road sprang up and down like a jack-in-the-box. However that night, camped in the back garden of a friendly Costa Rican, I congratulated myself: 110 km's done, $5 spent and only some mild cramping. The next day was a different story though. It started off fine but as the day wore on and the clouds burned off the heat become really intense, and before long I was completely saturated with my sweat, being able to ring out of my clothes. Despite drinking 10 litres of water that day my body started to protest hard: first shortly after my lunch break my left knee blew out, making progress agonising work. Then the cramps started: first my feet went, then it slowly spread to my calves, up my legs to my quads then hamstrings, my hips went first before my stomach, ribs, chest and even the left side of my jaw followed. It felt like I was having a heart attack (I have since been told it was heat exhaustion), but being in the middle of nowhere I had to struggle on, and after 5 km's of utter agony and testing my will to the limit I made it to the top of the hill leading down into Costa "del sol" Rica, the area surrounding Jaco, which is all to reminisent of the Spanish South coast, or the southern Californian one. On the descent my body cooled enough to allow my cramps to ease off a little. That night I lay out on a beach praying that the next day would find my knee in good enough condition to ride. To start with it was solid with stiffness but thankfully the coast road was flat and I was able to warm it up and get it functioning. That day was equally hot but this time instead of the paltry 10 litres I consumed close to 13 and this seemed to keep the cramps at bay again I ended up sleeping out on a beach with a stunning sunset, only to be continualy woken by crabs investigating my prescence all night long with their claws. The next two days took me along lovely jungled roads, through rolling pasture land and finally up to the Panamanian border: 5 days 550 km done, $40 spent, I was on track. Three things immediately struck me about Panama: soldiers, cars and a complete and utter lack of bicycles. Costa Rica is extremely rare in that it was no army and so for the last three weeks I hadn't seen camouflage uniform's strutting up and down the streets like the cock of the roost. So immediately crossing the border and being confronted by this sight was a bit of an unpleasant shock (I'm not a big fan of automatic weapons being waved about). Most of Central America is a very poor place so the numbers of private cars is relatively small, this is not true of Costa Rica but I had been sticking firmly to out of the way roads, so after 2 months of few cars, coming into Panama was like entering rush hour London for me, thankfully though the Pan-American highway comes fully equipped with a nice wide shoulder for the rare cyclist. Rare because Panamanians don't seem keen on the method of transport. Originally I thought it was because they were all rich enough to afford cars but then I started to cycle pass carts being pulled by oxen. I think the reason is because of the quality and speed of their bus service, which speed pass me every few minutes at break neck pace, often providing moments of great hilarity, like dogs calmly standing on the roof while being whisked along at 60 km/h. Unfortunately due to my target of making it to Panama city, so as to catch my boat, I had to stick to the Pan-American throughout Panama. This meant tediem and plenty of it but the glimpses of the real Panama I saw when I turned off the road for food (best chicken I have ever had) or a place to camp, gave me the impression that with a little more time this country had plenty to offer the touring cyclist. 10 days after pulling out of Samara I crossed the bridge of the Americas and into Panama city and the end of the road (almost). In the ten days I had shed my beach flab and was as fit as I had been when I had entered Costa Rica a month earlier, this gave me confidence as my next target was Medellin in the Colombian Andes and all the work I had done over the last 5 and a half months would be put firmly to the test.

Costa Rica

My rapid pace (for me) through Central America had been due, to a large extent, to the fact that my sister, Susie, was coming to join me for 10 days of cycling. So everday for the last 3 weeks I had been pushing out 100 km plus days with only 4 rest days (one of which was spent mountain biking in Guatemala). So, with my typical clarity of judgement, on the eve of our rendevous, and with still 55 km left to cycle by 1 O'clock, I decided to attend a birthday party and not hold back on the rum and beers. This, coupled with a headwind along the shores of lake Nicaragua, made for extremely painful progress. However I still made it to the border crossing (20 km from Susie and the poison finally sweated away), by 11. This should be fine, I said to myself, as I breezed through the Nicaraguan side of the formalities. After all between all the Central American countries I had had no problems (lets not talk about Mexico though), that is untill now. I cheerfully strolled up to the front of a busy looking immigation window and asked to be admitted into Costa Rica, I was told unless I wanted to pay a bribe to get to the back of the queue. "What queue? The one over there" indicating a line of about 20 people "No, that one over there" indicating a line stretching round two sides of the large building and then snaking off into the car park "Oh, shit". An hour later I was again at the front of the line and soon clipped into my pedals and rolling towards my rendevouz. I eventually arrived in the town of La Cruz only 5 minutes late, dripping with sweat and grime and comically I had applied sun screen to only 1 arm (I blame the booze) so while one was a glowing bronze the other resembled that of a patient in a burns ward. Meeting Susie was, surprisingly, a very normal moment. I had been expecting a huge outflow of emotion at seeing my first family member for 5 months but to be honest it felt like I'd been away for only a week. Susie had come equipped with a mountain bike and so of course she wanted to explore the dirt roads, of which there are many, around the Nicoya peninsular. Over the next week we camped on beaches, in national parks among semi-wild horses, and next to a fishing village. We spent days watching monkeys (Susie had studied them in Costa Rica for a year and so was amazing at explaining their behaviour), saw epicly-sized iguanas, fishing eagles and camen. We swam in jungle pools and at stunning bleached-white beaches. And of course we shook our bikes and bodies to pieces along the gravel tracks Costa Ricans pretend are roads, shooting through fords, across narrow suspension bridges and up and down countless jungle shrouded tracks. Eventually we arrived to the perfect half-moon bay of Carrillio. Here Susie would enjoy a couple of days of beach time to relax before heading back to the daily grind in the English winter. While this would be my one proper holiday from my travels: I took ten days to relax completely, get fat and attempt to surf with two of my friends from home, Kate and Andrew. The only low point was Susie leaving and all the emotion that had been missing from our meeting was here in spades. I hadn't realised how close we had been, cycling together for a week, teaching each other from our experiences: Susie teaching me about the monkey world she had been absorbed in for a year, and I teaching Susie my bike life and daily experience over the previous 5 months. And so the fairwell was a teary one and it took a few Imperials to restore my good humour that afternoon.

The Gringo Trail

I had heard a lot of bad stories about cycling in the highlands either side of the Guatemalan/Mexican border. These mainly revolved around armed muggings on deserted roads leaving the cyclists without that vital piece of equipment to continue their journey but some were truly nasty, and sent a tingle down my spine. To reassure myself I contacted the British consul in Guatemala, they surely would have a sensible perspective and would cut through the rumors I'd heard. After several emails and a 20 minute conversation I couldn't have been more worried: my contact was shocked that I intended to cycle alone without support and even went as far as to recommend an armed guard through the region. So it was not without apprehension that I climbed out of San Cristobal, descended stunning switchbacks and spun along beautiful valley roads towards the border and the Western Guatemalan Highlands. Along the way I met three Americans, two brothers from California and an Alaskan they'd met on their way, who had come to join them for a few months. These were the first cyclists, heading the same way as me, that I'd seen for nearly two months, and it was great to spend the afternoon cycling with Chris and chat to the brother's later on. The down side of this meeting was even more violent stories concerning cyclists on the roads we were pedaling towards, my apprehension was mounting. The next day I crossed the border into Guatemala and finally after 4 months in the saddle reached my fourth country of my trip. All did not go smoothly at the border: I had cycled past the migration office and 8 km's uphill in the sweltering midday heat to the actual border only to be told I couldn't cross unless I returned to the bottom. I couldn't face having to do that climb a second time in the mounting heat with sweat and grime already pouring off me, also the worry that had been building in me led to what must be one of the more comical hissy-fits of all time: trying to convince the guard in my broken Spanish, while trying to put across my indignation at having my energy and time wasted. A Chiapan standing by listening to my verbal diahorea, offered me a lift back down to the bottom and gave me money for a taxi back up when I was done (I'd spent my last Peso that morning). As I was sitting in the back of the car I started thinking about the generosity that I had been shown throughout my trip and all the bad stories I had been told about the places I was about to enter: in California I was told that I would get my head chopped off in Mexico (admittedly by a pot-head), yet I hadn't met kinder people when I actually arrived there. This made me determined, not forget, but to place the stories I'd heard to the back of my mind and try to be as positive as I could, after all what would happen would happen and in the mean time I didn't want to keep picking fights with border guards just trying to do their job. Lesson learnt, I settled into my saddle to enjoy the spectacular scenery of the Guatemalan highlands. My initial climb was along a steep river valley cut through the mountains with the afternoon sun shafting down to illuminate the Eastern wall and a river flowing to the West of me. I was rapidly beginning to appreciate that while bad things happened in Guatemala, the average man on the street was a bit of a legend: whenever I stopped for a rest someone would wander over to ask what I was doing or to offer me a drink and give me directions. This combined with some of the finest scenery I had yet been treated to made my fears melt away. My third night in the Highlands I stayed with Carl, an American ex-pat who had been living in the area for over thirty years. I couldn't resist staying for an extra night and enjoying more of Carl's excellent home grown food. Carl put further paid to the stories I'd been overloaded with, telling me that all the worst ones occurred either due to Gringo's getting involved with the local drug gangs or on some really remote roads, where not even Guatemalans should travel. Thus reassured I was able to fully enjoy my spin over to and around the world famous lake Atitlan. I have to say that it did not disappoint. Coming over the crest of mountains to look over the lake with its three volcanoes to the South and ring of mountains to North and East covered in storm clouds while the sun poured onto the lake from the South-West was a truly stunning panorama. The descent down to the lake was at an unbelievable gradient, twice I had to stop to let the rims of my wheels cool as the braking friction was so great I feared the tyres would burst. After a stop over at the lake I had to hit the trail hard to meet Susie, my sister, in two weeks. I descended down into the stinking heat of the Guatemalan coast and continued to spin along the coast through El Salvador. This country was a hugely pleasant surprise, my first night I stayed with a bike mechanic who treated me like a son and interested me to the national dish of Pupusus, fiery pockets of cheese, beans and spinach. I also had the best sea food of my trip, in a restaurant perched on a cliff overlooking pearl divers in the sea below, while I sat out the heat of the day. Next port of call was Honduras, which I had intended to spend less than 48 hours in. Fortunately I got side-tracked by Maite, a Belgian NGO worker, who took me up to the capital for a great weekend of music, drinking and fun before providing me with a new aerodynamic haircut. I then pedaled on into Nicaragua and after spending a night camped out at the mirador overlooking Laguna de Apoya, Granada and Lago de Nicaragua (not a bad spot). I had one of my more entertaining run-ins: cycling in places like Central America it is inevitable that sometimes the call of nature becomes an urgent screaming very rapidly. On one such occasion I quickly spied a gap in the fence to my left, propped my bike against a convenient tree and dived into the bushes to do what had to be done. I was happily doing my business when a van pulled up next to my bike, shit...I'm going to get my bike nicked while I'm taking a dump, could it get any worse? I rapidly cleaned myself up and rushed out to the road to deter these bandits only to be met by a smiling Califonian, John, who had spent 11 months cycling in Asia and stopped every time he met a fully loaded bike on the road. He invited me to stay with him on the beach and I spent three happy nights at Playa Gigante, learning to surf.

Rest and Relaxation

After my tussel with the winds I felt it was finally time to do a little sight seeing and take a little time off the saddle. I made a final climb up to, the surprisingly freezing, city of San Cristobal about 150 km's from the Guatemalla border, and on route I took a lovely little boat trip up the Chiapa's answer to the Grand Canyon, with the cliffs towering a km vertically over our heads. In San Cristobal I would leave my bike and kit, taking a bus uip to the bright lights of Mexico city. My first night in the biggest of big smokes saw me drinking and partying with 20 locals I met through Henny, a new friend from Taxco, I seem to remember at one point tequilla shots in Sombrerros. Other highlights included going to a salsa club (fat old men suddenly jumping out of their seats and dancing like they were 20-and not just chucking out the old cooking pot routine in lounge but dancing like pro's), climbing the 3rd largest pyramid in the world, going to watch wrestling and the arrival of Andrew, the first familiar face I had seen in 4 months, who had sweetly timed his arrival to coincide with my birthday. For my birthday Andrew and I were given a guided tour round the city by Alex, a friend of Henny's, who gave up his afternoon to show off his city, stuff us with supeme Mexican cuisine and get us pissed, before driving us back to our hostel, what an absolute legend. After 9 nine days off the bike and with my batteries recharged (although perhaps with a little too much booze), I returned to San Cristobal to fix up my bike with the parts Andrew had brought me from England and to prepare myself for my charge through Central America...

The Cruel North Wind

Ok so it was from the North-East but cruel it certainly was: On my descent from Oaxaca I met a quite frankly, charming German couple (miracles happen), who told me I could expect some pretty fierce head and side winds as I crossed into Chiapas, my final Mexican state. They claimed that these are the strongest winds in the Americas north of Patagonia. Of course immediately my natural cynicism went into action: if these winds were so bad how come I was only hearing about them two days before hitting them? The next night I stayed with a bike mechanic who confirmed that the ride the next day would not be the cake walk that the flatness of my map suggested it might. Re-checking my map I noticed the name of one town, Ventosa (place of wind), and a load of wind farms around it, hhhmmm maybe my cynicism should take a back seat and pragmatism take the wheel. So I psyched myself up for a long day in the saddle but still didn't really buy into the hype. In the morning my casual attitude seemed fair enough, the wind was pretty strong but nothing I hadn't seen before or could handle, little did I know that this was just a prelude to what was awaiting me around the corner... Here we pause for a little geography lesson: Mexico is built very similarly to Jonny Bravo, with huge broad shoulders, pecks to put Arnie to shame but then tappering into a tiny waist more likely to be found on your average 16 year old anorexic. At this point the mountains, which had put me to work for the previous month, fade into flat plans for about 10 miles before climbing again to build into the Chiapan highlands. The effect of this is to create a tunnel of flatland between the Carribean and the Pacific, a tunnel which channels all the wind created by the very different conditions in these two vast bodies of water... Ok, lesson over. The tunnel effect means that you don't feel the full effect of the wind untill you are already in it. So as I approached Ventosa I had no idea that once I climbed the slight hill in front of me, I would be entering the cyclists' idea of the worst corner of hell. As I climbed this rise, swerving all over the road to try and contol my bike, being blown several times off the road, a car pulled up and the occupants shouted at me "do you want a ride?", "Absolutamente no. Gracias." They told me that in a while it would get stronger yet, again I declined, after all there was no room in the car. So I peddaled on and topped the rise, to be blown straight off the road by a savage side swipe. I got back onto my bike and somehow managed to get down the far side, dodgeing the lorries coming from both directions. Now at this point the wind reached its peak and instead of mearly sweeping us off the road, all 55kg of bike and kit and 85kg of prime Herbert steak went airbourne, both wheels off the road at once. I was stunned lying at the bottom of the ditch, I couldn't believe what had just happened. As I pushed my bike back up to the road I turned my face profile to the wind and went to take a breath of air, instead of the accustomed feeling, learned and confirmed by 23 years of experiment, of air filling my lungs, the remaining air was sucked out by the vaccum, the cause of the wind rushing past my open mouth. I tucked my head into my armpit and tried to push my bike along the road, holding it at as low an angle as possible to stop it and me being blown into the marsh waiting to gobble me up below. Unfortunately the wind contrieved to whip in under my bike and cartwheel it over my head. After this I sat in the ditch trying to contemplate my next move: I couldn't go back and I couldn't go forward, without being blown either into the marsh or into the path of a passing truck. I couldn't stay where I was: there was no chance of camping in this wind and I had no food and little water, to put it mildly I was fucked. Then my knight in his white pick up truck rode up to my rescue: "do you want a ride", "absolutamente si. Gracias". I was dumped ten km's up the road, still with (by normal standards) a howling side wind but at least I could ride in it without feeling death tapping his watch at me. This wasn't quite the end of my adventures with the wind. The next day I climbed up through a valley into the Chipan Highlands, the wind building as I approached the top, as I turned round the final bend the wind smashed into my side sending me summersaulting across the black top and into the drainage ditch, a couple of meters from a shear drop off of several hundred feet. So what have I learnt from battling the second strongest winds on the two continents of the Americas? Don't cycle in Patagonia.

The Little Gringo who Could

Oaxacañian children waving and shouting "hola amigo" or, from those with a weight of culture and learnedness behind them, "waz up man" will tell the tale of the little gringo who could when they are silvered and bent with arthritis. They will tell of a gringo who for four days danced up one side of their mountains, only to fall down the other. They will tell how he sweated through the searing mid-day heat of their valleys and battled through the oppresion of the humid, black skied mountains, disappearing into the clouds only to reappear with a sea of sweat and condensation in his beard. They will tell how the gringo put away the comforts of home: sleeping among the chickens and the turkeys, camping in fields of sugar cane, curled between the roots of trees.

Upon the dawning of the fifth day the little gringo had 140 km to reach his goal, a bed in Oaxaca. "This is not so very far " said the gringo to himself. Then the gringo felt the wind in his face, "ah that will make it tricky". Then the gringo saw that there were only 10 hours of daylight in which to make his way "this will make it hard". Then the gringo consulted his map and saw the mass of brown and gray through which his mountain road would run "this cannot be done". But then the little gringo thought "if you were of this country, would you be a Mexican or a Mexican't?", he was not sure but he knew that he would have the answer by the end of the day. And so the little gringo clipped into his pedals and headed on his way. All morning he turned his cranks, fighting the hills, bouncing to start with, punching the pedals when he grew tired. The road wound so much that as often as the wind was in his face it was at his back and after four hours he had covered half his distance, he would make it! Just as he started to believe this his back wheel dragged, all the air having been leaked from a puncture. Then a bolt on his front rack sheared. However the little gringo did not lose faith: he changed his tyre, he secured his rack with twists of wire and he climbed bck into his saddle. He had lost an hour and still needed to stop for food. However among the mountains there was no food: the Tienda's were baire, having been stripped over christmas. And as the little gringo lost energy so his pace slowed. But as despare was beginning to dawn on him he encountered a little Tienda that had bannanas for sale, "perfect" thought the little gringo. He reached into his pocket but all he had was a $500 note and the owner of the tienda said to the little gringo "no hay, cambio". The little gringo was crest fallen and seeing this the owner of the tienda, a kindly old woman, took pity on the little gringo and gave the bannanas to him. Re-energised the little gringo peddaled harder than ever and with an hour till the sun set he had merely ten km's to cycle. After half this time, the little gringo stood on a rise looking down into the city of Oaxaca, he had made it, he was the little gringo who could! However the little gringo who could, could not, the next day, walk. That is ok, he made good friends with his bed and the sofa.

Maincourse Mexico

After the h'orderve that had been Baja California and my break on beach and boat I was keen to sink my teeth into the delicious looking main course of mainland Mexico. As much as I had enjoyed Baja it had felt like an American annex, not so Mexico's Pacific coast. This was full on, my tentaive Spanish received looks of puzzelment, whereas before they would have ellicited a conversation in Spanglish; the roads where bursting at the seems with every type of vehicle from truck to donkey pulled cart and the humid intensity of the heat meant a drink stop every ten km for a refreso or ice cold coconut milk. All this I was expecting and loving; the liveliness and colours made a welcome change to Baja's montone desert. What I had not expected was the generosity of the Mexican people: my first night I camped on a beach in front of a bar, no sooner had I asked if it was ok for me to stay there then a beer was thrust into my hand "para ti amigo, gratis", "muchos gracias". This generosity has been echoed ever since: fruit is regularly added to my load, breakfasts are bought for me, bike mechanics refuse payement. I have twice been given free hotel rooms, although once I had to turn it down because the road was beckoning and the other time I spent half the night listening to the couple next door getting aquainted with admirable persistance. I quickly climbed away from the coast into the state of Jalisco, home to the town of Tequila, and into fields of agarve and huge mountain valleys. Unfortunately I had to follow the main road from the coast to Mexico's heartland and as a result I was twice introduced to the state's ditches by passing lorries. After this I hit Michocan and a whole load of cyclists, they were everywhere in the towns and even a few with flash road bikes on the rural roads. This made for much more pleasant cycling as the lorries no longer held such sway over the tarmac. My first major city I stayed in was Morelia, I had meant to stay for a lunch time and ended up staying two nights. This was partly due to the beauty and life of the city, looking its best on the weekend before christmas and partly due to the people I meet there, which entailed me sweating out an aching hangover heading onto the most beautiful road I have traveled in Mexico. This road wound from Morelia up through a nearly vertical, pine coated valley, into the heights of central Mexico, where the country's two major mountain ranges collide. The heighest I reached was a pass of 3500 m on boxing day, having seen in christmas day in a cantina, which would be flattered by a description of grot hole, but had the fine destinction of a roaring fire, and spent the day visiting the winter home of the Monarch butterfly. These creatures travel from Canada and Northern USA (essentially I've been cycling as fast as a butterfly, hhmmm) and amass in these mountains in such numbers that they can break the branches of trees with their weight. After this awesome display I headed south to Taxco a stunning city perched on a bowl of a cliff. It is fair to say that I had been getting a little lonely over the christmas period, despite the generosity and kindness of the people I met, the scarcity of a flowing conversation (my Spanish is still about the level of a toddlers) and a feeling of going nowhere had me questioning the whole point of this trip. So I decided it was time to get back to the basics of this journey: spend all day, everyday, cycling, camping wherever I met dusk and if this meant spending New Years in a field with an arrogant turkey then so be it. Thus was born the tale of The Little Gringo who Could...

Hats and Dogs

The question of what to wear on your head is one which I know occupies most peoples every waking minute. However for the touring cyclist there is a very practicle aspect to this question. Most cycling magazines will now not allow pictures to be published without the subject fully helmeted, in many countries it is a legal requirement to wear a head case and drivers everywhere will furiously smack themselves on the head if they see a cyclist daring to go bare headed. Despite this some of the most experienced cyclists I have met don't even carry helmets let alone wear one. Why not?! I can hear the nanny state straining at its legislative leash. Well there are a few (sensible) reasons, beyond the superficial one of not wanting to look like a tool: research has turned up the interesting fact that more accidents, involving cyclists, happen to those wearing helmets. The suposed reasoning is that drivers think they won't hurt the cyclist if they hit them; well a helmet doesn't prevent road rash and broken bones. Some cyclists, me included, believe that if you get smashed by a lorry traveling 70 mph, best case scenario from wearing a helmet is ending up in the cabbage patch with the other vegtables. I don't want my headstone reading died aged 40: 22 years with a working noggen, 18 with mush for brains. Much rather have: died 22, living. Or better yet es prohibe hacer agua aqui. Or even better: so long and thanks for all the tequila. The other side of the coin then is if you get hit at 30mph, then a helmet could very well prevent a date with a coma. So I like to take the middle road, I carry my helmet and when I'm getting into urban areas wear it (not very proudly it must be said) but on the open road I take my chances and when neccasary hit the ditch and take a long drink of muddy water for my troubles. The other benefit of being helmetless is allowing me to show off my superb Union Jack bandana. When worn pirate fashion, I like to think that, twined with ample facial hair, it gives off a certain je ne c'est quoi.

The subject of personal safety brings me roundly to the animosity; nay hatred; nay loathing that exists between the cyclist and the snarling satanic pooch . The birth of the dispute is lost in the mists of time but the present situation makes the troubles in the middle east look like two kids falling out over who's turn it is to go in goal. I have been chased more times than I can bear to think of and it is a pleasent suprise to go through any settlement and not receive an hear splitting hollering for pedalling blood. So of course cyclists have their methods to deter the canine from its aim of sinking its teeth into that juicy thigh or calf that has been engorged by months on the road. Many carry a pump strapped to their frame, not to have easy access to firmer tyres but to be able to put metal to snout without the hassle of dismounting. Others like to use projectiles: rocks are a firm favorite but are a pain to carry so you must then stop and hope there are some to hand; one cyclist I met spat in the dogs faces, which he assured me stopped them dead (he reckoned that he was so practised 9 times out of 10 he could hit them right between the eyes). I have been handed a can of pepper spray by an ex-postman. My usaul method is to unclip from the side of attck and take a good swing at them with the reinforced toes of my cycling shoe, this worked fine untill I was beset on by a pack of three dogs, one coming from each side and the third in front stopping my progress. I escaped by edging one of the dogs into oncoming traffic (the fucker dodged the trucks) taking a swing at the one to my right and riding through the third (at this point I'd like to say, for those animal welfare types out there, no dogs have been hurt or killed in the riding of this journey). I also like to mix in my own snarling, hollering growl right back at the dog, accompanied with bared teeth and steely battle eyes a full bloodied charge is often turned into a hurried retreat. Imagine my surprise then when one cyclist told me she just calmly talked to the dogs saying drivel like "it's ok dog I won't hurt you" (with pump clutched firmly in hand behind the back). At the best of times I'm a cynic but this was clearly the worst advice I'd ever come across, I mean peace talks haven't exactly panned out too well in Gaza have they? However I decided I would put these doubts to one side and give it a go: next time I rolled up to a snarling dog, foaming at the mouth with blood lust, hatred blazzing from it's eyes, I turned to face it and buda like uttered the, enourmously stupid, phrase "it's ok perro, calm yourself" the hatred turned to suprise, its rump hit the tarmac in puzzelment and the foam trickled down its jowls in utter confusion, the snarl turning to a perplexed whine. Unbelievable it actually works! Since then I have been a complete convert and talk to the dogs like I'm helping a jumper from his ledge. However I have to admit that after passing through your tenth village of the day and the tenth bombardment of barks it feels ridiculously good to let off your best full blooded battle cry and see the dogs running, tails between the legs. I think I'm starting to see why the peace process in the middle east isn't working so well.