How I became a sailor...

The idea was first propossed to me by Roberta, who suggested that I should try and find a spot crewing on a yacht over to the mainland. I felt this was an excellent idea, so bright and breezy on my first morning in La Paz, I strolled down to Marina de La Paz to pin up my notice and catch "The Net" - what basically amounts to a morning gossip session between sailors via VHF radio. I got on the radio and put out my generous offer of help to the sailing community of the capital of Baja Sur. For some reason there was not an instant clamour of voices on the radio taking me up on my offer, I just couldn't figure it out. At this point I met Valaska and Philip, an Austrian cycling couple, who had been on the road for three years, they were also looking for a spot to crew over (the ferry was $100 a head). Over coffee they enlightend me to the evil ways of this capitalist world: spots on a boat where in short supply and high demand, we -the potential crew- were in high supply and short demand. Hence the boat owners could pick and choose at their descretion and mess around with timing as much as they pleased and we could either lump it or piss off and take the ferry. They had been trying for three days and had decided that this was their last (a ferry was leaving the next evening). I spent the morning with them chatting up people at coffee hour, chasing potential leads around marinas and ultimately at the ferry ticket office in dissapointment. At that moment I decided I'd give it one more try in the morning and if unsuccessful I'd cut my losses. So the next morning a call comes over the net: "looking for crew over to Puerta Vallarta"- bloody brilliant, to cut a long (and tedious) story short I got a spot on the boat heading out in three days time. I have become the very essence of thrift on this trip, consequently I packed up my panniers and cycled out of town with my new Austrian friends, they to the ferry terminal and me to the free camping beaches 10 km further north. Here I met Mo and Lynn a couple of snow birds from Vancouver Island who treated me like a grandson, feeding me coffee in the morning and delicious meals at night. On the second day came Dom and Sadie a British couple travelling the world. Now Dom and Sadie were the first young British people I'd met and the inevitable outcome was the three of us getting a little merry on the old tequila in Mo and Lynn's caravan, while they looked on in bemusement. I like to think I'm doing the Brits proud out here. Two days after I was steering captain Bill's 42 ft cat, Moontide, out of La Paz harbour. This first day was just a hop down to a bay from where we'd make our passage across the Gulf of California. After a spot of whale watching we spent the next morning doing boat projects, downing tools at noon sharp: "Do one project a day and if it takes you past noon, its a two day job". The afternoon was spent sunning oneself beside the pool of a luxury hotel drinking beer, reading, generally enjoying ones leisure time. The next morning we left before the sun had cleared the horizon, setting out for Bahia de Banderas (and neatly steering round an island penal colony in our path). After a little more whale watching and a superb sunset Bill informed me I'd be taking second watch 10-2. Now I had never done a night watch before and to be put in charge of the fate of this craft and our two lives made me a touch anncey. Accordingly I completely failed to fall asleep before my watch, however all was ok: my nerves (and overload of caffeine) kept me up and down like a yo-yo checking the radar, scanning the horizon, trimming the sails; you name it I was doing it. After my heroics I figured on a nice long sleep, not a bit of it. Back up again at sunrise so that Bill could sleep after his 8 hours of watch. I was starting to get the old itchy eyes when I noticed some sea gulls off to the left: "supper time" I'm thinking, as I change the course 90 degrees- where there are sea gulls, there are fish. Well these fish turned out to be, not fish, but a pod of 20(ish) dolphins and as the boat approached they came to swim with us diving out the water in triplets and racing under the hulls. After taking us off our course for a couple of miles I realised this might not go down too well, so after a quick adjustment of course, I went to get Bill up and take a nap myself. After cat napping on and off all day I was still tired going into the second night and then Bill informed me I'd be taking 2 of the night shifts, hmmm. Well like a good trooper I signed up for them and to be fair the second one was fine, with plenty of coffee in me and interesting things, like islands, to look at on the radar, and the sunrise, a little before 6 to enjoy. The first one however was real hard work, I allowed myself only one cup of coffee (so I could sleep between watchs), so had to constantly fight the tirdness. It is amazing the lengths I came up with to keep myself occupied: I had a pack of 6 oreo's I allowed myself half every 5 minutes, that's one hour squared away, bosh; a ship came up on the radar I spent half an hour working out its course and speed from the radar blips (I know half an hour is a long time but I was tired). At 10 when Bill relieved me I hit my bunk with a crash and was out before my head had touched the pillow. Sailing into Banderas bay, the huge surf crashing around Punta Mita, I got my first sight of mainland Mexico. To be honest I was a little surprised. I was expecting something pretty similar to Baja, maybe a bit more in the way of agriculture maybe a little more greenery but not this. This was mountains shooting up out of the sea, teeming with Jungle and a steamy heat pouring off it...I did not fancy my chances of long days on the bike in that stuff. My Sailing story was completed with a last night on board (actually on board Glen's boat) drinking more of Mexico's finest with Bill and two of his friends, Glen and Dave. I'm not entirely sure how we made it back to Bill's boat in one piece and dry but in the morning I woke up with a delightful throbbing about the temples and the prospect of my first day on the mainland to look forward to.

Baja Sur

As I can now reveal, after exhaustive research, Baja is in fact just a big old strip of desert hanging from some mountains running down its spine. Now to start with I loved the novelity of the desert and this lasted till about 2 minutes into my dirt road experience. After 3 weeks of it, I've got to be honest, I got real bored; espeically as the last clip (250 km) into La Paz was along 2 long straight roads (and a third with a few bends thrown in for novelty factor) with just enough head wind to make me really pissed. So it might be easy to conclude that I hated my Baja experience, on the contrary I loved it. I know your all asking yourselves, hanging on with bated breath: how can this be? Well luckily for you, I'm here to endulge your curiosity: 3 towns, 1 village, 1 descent, 1 climb, and lots of great people. To start: the cycling: the best descent I have ever done, by a country mile: coming down from Volcan de tres Virgenes (great name), to the Sea of Cortez at Santa Rossalia. The speed and swiftness of descent had my eyeballs thrust into the back of my head as I tried to shout with pure joy but the speed of the passing air ripped the sound away from me and the g's created going round the tight bends had my knee almost to the tarmac (thanks be to Schwalbe for producing tyres with such fine grip). The ascent: there were several good un's but the winner has got to be winding up through a canyon, which had cut a rift through the vertical cliffs fronting the Sea of Cortez at Luigi. The climb was 30 km's long and the scenery was immense throughout, with steep dropoffs into the canyon on the right, horseshoe roads and gravity defying standing stones on the messa towards the top. The towns that made the greatest impression on me where each slightly different. First came San Ignacio. Now to be fair any town coming after nearly 300 km of desert is going to seem like an oasis. However when I cleared the final cardon studded hill side and found myself staring down into a valley of date palms with a river winding through its center, my happiness knew no bounds. After a dip in the river, to wash nearly a weeks sweat and sun cream from my alternately red and white body, I headed into town. I people watched in the square as the pilgrims headed to Sunday Mass, I headed in the opposite direction to a taco stand and a full belly. The happiness was complete when I meet some other tourists (on a bus), beers where had and stories swapped. The next town was Mulege, nestled just off the coast in the centre of a near ring of mountains. My love of this town is largely due to two people I stayed with there. Bill my host is a 69 year old waiting to sell his house so that he can go tour the world by freighter. His ability to be so alive (and his constant swearing) had me smiling the whole time. Staying with him was Dave, another cyclist, who has toured from the UK to Cape town and travelled in most other places, was great to talk to and drinking beers with the boys after a great supper by the beach was a great end to my Mulege experience. The last town (litterally as it was my jump off spot) was the place I got to know best: I found $5 (25p) tacos, had my morning coffee spot before a stroll down the Melacon (beach front) and spent much time talking to the sailor's at the marinas around town. This and the beauty of its beaches to the north made it a firm favorite with me. The place that I loved most though was El Juncalito. It is as close to paradise as I found on Baja, with its bay pointing out to a string of islands and backed by 600 ft vertical cliffs, covered in vegetation (thanks to the recent hurricane): sitting on Roberta's (my host) terrace, with her dozen hummingbirds ducking past my head to get to the feeder, looking out across the sea to the islands with the early morning sun on my face was very special. Also Roberta and Vickie (her neighbour) require speical mention: feeding me and entertaining me with their stories and conversation I was truely reluctant to leave after my two nights in El Juncalito.

Back road Baja

After spending the best part of two weeks staying in and cycling through cities and suburbier I was massively keen to get out into some desert landscapes, you know, get away from it all. My first foray was met by edgy border patrols, who took my efforts at free camping near the border as acts of illegal immigration and drug smuggling, unfortunately for them they succumed to my charm and left smiling and waving. The next night I stayed in Ensenada, and despite my host's best efforts, convinced myself that the best way south down the peninsula would be head out East, adding about 50 miles and more importantly 105km of dirt road. On a map this looked fairly benign, I mean after all I was the great conqueror of the casscades, who had dared go where no other biker would (they have more sense). In comparison this would surely be a piece of piss, on the map there were no major inclines. So I happily clipped into my pedals and headed off for a two day jolly to San Felipe and my first taste of the Sea of Cortez. On the way I encountered many dirt bikers, a truely arrogant race - with a few notable exceptions. They were preparing for the Baja 1000, the biggest, bestest, most important thing on the face of the planet, ever. The fact that I hadn't heard of it coupled with, when explained what the race was, the complete and utter failure of my jaw to hit the floor or a total lack of a gleam of hero-worshipping awe dawning in my eye, did not go down too well, not too well at all. I mean how hard can a 1000 mile dirt bike race be, they do it in teams and they have fricking engines! I managed to escape these fiends of the road about a days ride south of San Felipe (Where I met a con on the run from US law enforcement). Here is where the dirt started. The first couple of Kms where bad, the next 3 practically unrideable, with the kind of gradients I would have struggled on with a road of beautifully laid tarmac, combined with loose gravel and sand and rocks pushing you to the edge of the cliff, I struggled up about 1.5 km, riding the rideable, walking the rest. A pickup came past, stopped and offered me a lift to the top. I looked at the rest of the track, it was even worse. I didn't even hesitate. Descending down the other side, every bone in my body attempting to shake itself loose, I consoled myself, this was just the construction site detour, tomorrow the road would be better. I was so very very wrong. The next day started off with sandy tracks, which when more than half an inch deep, bury the front wheel and fishtail the rear flinging me into the road. This is usually not so bad as the landing zone is normally just as sandy as the crash site but every now and again you hit a rock. The worst one took the weight of both me and my bike, at a good tilt, right between my quad and hamstring, allowing me to unleash my Peter Griffin impression on the unsuspecting desert. The real problem with this injury was that every-other pedal stroke the two mussels squeezed the bruise between them, not fun. I managed to do 35 km of the 45 km stretch to the next water supply, before I was once again offered a lift (cars pass by about once an hour), by this time the road had headed into the hills and the 4x4's were travelling at about 10 mph and I was walking about 90% of the time, so I excepted. However, when he said he'd take me back to the tarmac I said no: I wanted to finish this road otherwise from now on i´d be afraid of going on dirt tracks. In Spanglish it is hard to put across this kind of psychological argument. I tried to set off that afternoon but a bolt in my pannier rack sheared off, leaving me neck deep in trouble. A dirt buggy passed by after a couple of hours of me trying to pries the bolt end from the eyelet, and they take my stuff back to the water hole. I follow and heading down to the Campo (beach side community of, mainly, Americans) I spot a guy working in his garage. Peter drills the bolt end out, dismantles my rack, puts it back together with new bolts and then does the same to my rear rack. Not finished with his generosity he then insists on me staying for supper and then gives me a bed for the night. I am truely grateful to Peter and Donna for helping me out when I was at my most vulnerable. The next day was pay(back)day for me taking those two rides. I reckoned if I could do the remaining 60 Km of this hellish track then I could call it quits with my ego. I preceded much the same as the day before but without the truly appalling sections of road (I didn't have to walk more than a couple of hundred meters at any one time to get out of the deep sand or over the ridiculously rocky sections). However I was only making progress at a rate of 5 kmph, slower than walking pace and by 12 had covered half the distance, with less than half the days light left. For the last day and a half I had been riding out of the saddle, it was just not possible to sit down and maintain any kind of control or keep my posterior from turning black and blue. As it was I stacked it more times than I can count on all my fingers and all my toes but I kept pounding away and by 2 had reached Coco's corner, where I was able to drink aenough beer to dull the ache in my feet, legs, hands and arms. Then on again: I finished the day 8 kms short of the road huddled in a canyon trying to keep out of the wind, feeling oddly extremely happy. The next morning it took me another hour to get back to the black-top but by 8 I was having huevos Rancheros and giving my legs a bit of a breather.

So. Cal.

Cycling wise this is the most miserable experience you could hope to put yourself through. I mean honestly, who puts a beautiful coastal road there to tempt a cyclist and then puts two major cities in the way with a traffic light every 200 meters and fills the road with arrogant bastard drivers trying to push you off it? Not all was doom and gloom however, although the cycling was not fun I stayed with some great people: first was Mr and Mrs J Dutton in LA, Delyth was the perfect hostess and I wanted for nothing as I took my first proper break from the saddle (a luxurious 4 days!) and explored a little of what Santa Monica has to offer. Next in San Diego I stayed with Michael and Bernadette, who treated me like a son, feeding me almost too well (detecting an extra spare tyre on leaving) and helping me get myself geared up for my push into Mexico. Along the way I met the usual characters on the street, including a 50 year old guy, who apparently set up Ultimate Cage Fighting and is now in a multi-million dollar law suit with some fat cats who stole it from him, meanwhile he´s working as a street sweeper (hhhhmmmm). I also treasure a conversation I had as I was borowing a pump from a bike shop. The owner comes out to talk:

Him:"you know your cycling the world´s most popular bike route"
Me:"come again"
Him:"the PCH (pacific coast highway) through So. Cal. is the most popular bike route in the world"
Me:"Say´s who?"
Him:"Well I came up with the phrase but in 20 years no one´s ever challenged it"

At this point I´m thinking that 20 years is far too long for such a stupid, obviously bollocks statement to go unchallenged, I set about erring the ways of those who have gone before:

Me:"I´m not so sure buddy, have you ever cycled the route from Jasper to Banff I hear that´s meant to be pretty special"
Him:"Who cares about some beautiful remote route, I´m talking numbers of cyclists."

This statement encapsulates all that is wrong with the Californian psyche, but I´m happy, it keeps those tools off the nice roads.

Me:"well I was always told it was quality not quantity that counts"

I encounter a stony silence for the next 5 minutes, happy with my work I potter off.

Vanity

I thought this would be a suitable topic seeing as I'm in LA. However I don't want to talk about the wonderful individuals, native to these parts, who have occasional difficulty seeing past their new nose job or pec implants. Instead I want to talk about the vanity of cyclists. Again you get the LA type, who care more about how they look on the bike than about where they cycle it, in fact the more crowded an area the more people to see them look absolutely super in their white bib shorts and on their $3500 carbon racer. However the tour cyclist suffers from a different type of vanity. For starters the men of this group look like bums: unwashed, unshaved, a mad glint in the eye; the women (somehow) manage to always appear clean and fresh, never too sweaty or exhausted, however they do not bother about make-up, their hairstyle is dictated by fitting under a less than fashionable helmet and both sexes are clad in supremely unattractive, practicle outdoor gear. So a tour cyclist doesn't (and definately shouldn't) suffer from vanity of apperance. However they definately suffer from ego of their trips. The common questions: Where did you start? (shit - early than me) Where are you heading? (Ha - I'm going further) How much weight are you carrying? How many miles are you doing a day? Take any detours? Every cyclist you meet is weighed and measured against yourself. Those who deny this are either Buddha like individuals, who have foresaken human nature, or full of bull. I have two things to say about this habit of nature. Firstly it is a good thing: it inspires and makes you want to push yourself to go that little further, take more of those little detours: in fact experience more and have a better trip. Secondly, it is pointless: every trip is completely different, even if you've headed down the same roads. The people you meet, the weather you encounter, the thoughts you have, the songs you sing, all are utterly different and no one is better than another.

San Fransisco, Big Sur and The big smoke (Oct. 24 - Nov. 2)

San Fransisco passed by in a blur. I spent my first day rebuilding my back wheel (I'd had it re-trued (professionally) twice, had three broken spokes in a week and was re-truing it myself 3 times a day). Only took me 4 1/2 hours, when the bike shop could have done it in 40 mins but apparently they were too busy to help out an itinerant English pedal pusher. However they did let me use their tools and gave me advice; since then I've had no trouble with it. After this the next couple of days past me by, I just enjoyed the sights, sounds and people of this amazingly characterful city. In San Fransisco I'd been staying with Cyndi, who it seemed opened her beautiful house to a stream of cycle tourists, with huge trust and generosity. The first night I stayed there I met Amaya and Eric, a couple who have been cycling round the world for the last three years. They were hugely inspiring and I loved to hear their stories, hopefully I will run into them again in southern Mexico or Guatemala.

As I'd come into San Fransisco the traffic had rapidly increased and it did not diminish again till I reached the Big Sur coast 120 miles south. During these miles I passed through Santa Cruz, Monterrey and Carmel; I'd stayed in a lighthouse, got sandblasted by a big wind whipping across the sand dunes skirting Monterrey bay, had a picnic on the white sands at Carmel, and met countless more great people (including Jacob my riding partner for a day). However despite this I longed for a little space, I missed the freedom I'd felt up in the Casscades on the way to Crater Lake. It was OK, I got that in spades when I reached Big Sur: a 90 mile stretch of coast running from Carmel to San Simeon with the most dramatic and beautiful cliff roads I had yet been treated to. I camped in the redwoods there and spent a day walking some of the trails and relaxing, that gave me the space I needed. In San Simeon I met Greg, touring by motorbike. I hoped on the back (which made think perhaps I had chosen the wrong transport for this trip) and he treated me to a great supper and offered to sort me out with a friend of his in Laguna beach, a very generous guy, who loved to meet new people and chatted up just about everyone we came across that evening, your typical extrovert Yank.

At this point I'd like to point out a cultural difference between us and them. In England Halloween is a minor blip in our lives merely an excuse for Pykies to chuck eggs at houses and little obese kids to add an extra tyre to aid their Michelin man impersonation. In America however it is their 2nd largest holiday (in retail terms), they go to town on this night. Little children will be preparing their costumes for months in advance, houses will be decked out in cobwebs (fake naturally, a mere $4.99 + tax), skeletons will hang from trees, while ghouls stalk the front lawn. And apparently this is also the night for getting hammered with a fellow English man and a Frenchy. I met this anglo-franc alliance: Francis and Steph at Refufio beach (I got there for a glorious sunset over the channel islands - the Yanks love to steal our names), which was packed out for the festivities. They generously shared with me their booze, their cheese and their stories of living in the US and travelling in Central America.

Two days later, after driving through Santa Barbra (a remarkably beautiful town but containing some questionable individuals - "I'm sorry I can't help you, its the day after a holiday, this is SB and we know how to party, my head is just everywhere"- tool), I arrived within sight of a brown smudge on the horizon, my first glimpse of LA. I was in Malibu and I for one was massively disappointed by the paucity of scantily clad young ladies frolicking on the white sands, could it be that Bay Watch was a sham? I entered this ridiculously large sprawl of habitation (it covers an area of 470 Sq miles), along a six lane highway - a mere pup compared to their twelve lane freeways. I had had a growing feeling of the bike being a rarer and rarer form of transport (the cloud of smog supporting this) but in LA I felt like an alien. It didn't help that I was covered in bike grease, a healthy beetroot colour from the attention of the sun and dripping with sweat. You could see the hesitation in all the drivers, they just did not know how to cope with this freak on their beloved asphalt. After taking a wrong turn and having to stop to ask directions a couple of times, I started to climb away from the smog and into the hills of Brentwood and eventually arrived at the house of Catherine's (a university friend, who could teach angels how to be graceful) parents, my home for the next four days.

The Lost Coast and Highway 1 (Oct 17.-Oct.23)

So being a typically foolish individual, I followed the advice of Paul (from Eugene) and some guys in a bike shop in Eureka and took the Lost Coast road south from Eureka. I should have known better when I saw the glazed look in their eyes and the talk of these deserted roads with spectacular views. There is only one reason why cars do not follow a road and that is because their is an easier way. However in my naivety I happily clipped into my pedals and pottered off to Ferndale, about 20 miles south, and the jump off spot for this legendary route. Knowing I was letting myself in for a bit of a climb I had a quick beer in a victorian pub in Ferndale and then went to find the road. It did not even wait to get out of the town before it began to snake skywards into the clouds, for an hour I pounded away even having to resort to my granny gear at times. Eventually the road began to flattern and I paused to take stock, this is when I came across Winnie driving in the opposite direction. We chattered and when I said I'd find any old place to camp she advised me that the locals don't take kindly to trespassing and I should ask in Cape Town (a megatropilis of 4 buildings). As I reached the top of this first climb the sun burst through the cloud and hit the mists curling up from the pine trees in the valleys below, eagles and vultures were circling overhead and to say I was euphoric is a slight understatement. I hit some beautiful switch backs descending down onto a plateau of grassland and a higher than average density of no trespassing signs (Violators WILL be prosecuted), maybe Winnie was right. As I descended into Cape Town with the sun setting over the ocean I began looking for lights in the three houses I could see, there were none. I knocked on each door, no response - shit. I looked up the road and saw another near vertical climb, I did not fancy facing it in the gloom. I had just strapped my rear light on and was preparing to pedal on, when I noticed 500 yards down a dirt road smoke and light. I headed down the dirt track (past more no trespassing signs) and began to get nervous as I heard laughing and shouting, maybe it was a lynch mob getting pissed up before heading out to find trespassers to punish? Then a dog started barking and I was committed. I headed up to the house and was greeted with "What in the hell are you doing?", I excused my interruption and asked if I could camp on their land next to the river. Jason as soon as he realised what I was after, told me it was his 30th birthday, that I'd stumbled into the middle of his party and that I should grab a plate and join in. I hesitated but as soon as I saw the food I got heavily involved. The rest of the evening past by in a flash of red wine, debate about everything from health care to which are harder Rugby or Football (American) players and a lot of laughter. Joyce and Mike (Jason's parents) couldn't have made me feel more welcome in their home and I am blown away by their kindness to a complete stranger. The next morning I woke with a splitting headache and a mouth that tasted like home to a badger. I set about punishing myself for my excess with an immediate climb out from the farm. This climb was a lot shorter than the one the day before but a lot steeper and my cold mussels screamed at me, I screamed at them to man up and they eventually complied. Then came the descent down "The Wall", my speedo was broken so I'm not sure how fast I was going but I'd topped 44 mph a couple of days before and this felt faster, I then breakfasted next to the sea before heading inland. I had two major climbs left before rejoining the highway, the first wasn't too bad but the second was relentless. For an hour and a half I climb through countless switchbacks - after 40 minutes I could still see vertically below me the place I'd had lunch, as the crow flies I had gone less than 1/2 a mile. Eventually I reached the summit and headed into my final redwood forest where I stayed that night. The next morning I awoke at 3.30 to rain falling on my face, I hadn't bothered to pitch my tent as it had been dry and warm that evening. After trying to keep as much of my stuff as dry as possible as I packed it away I headed off into the rain, I had an 110 mile day ahead of me and had to keep a good pace to achieve it before night fall. By 5.30 I had reached Fort Bragg 20 miles from my camp spot and I was confident of reaching it before it got really dark at about 7. I had not factored in the hills and after an hour had done a little over 10 miles, it was getting dark and a sea fog was rolling in. Well I was up shit creek and my paddle allowed me to see approximately 2 meters in front of me with the density of the fog. The road was hanging on to a cliff edge with lots of nooks and crannies for cars to hide in. After 45 minutes of adrenaline (brought on by utter terror) pumping through me, I eventually crossed a bridge and got off the switch backs, my pace had slackened to a crawl so that I could see the edge of the road ahead and when I turned up after 8 having finished my mileage I was utterly exhausted. At this point the author would like to recommend not to cycle at night, in a dense sea fog along a cliff face with an under powered head torch, it is a rapid route to gray hair and stomach ulcers and I for one will not be repeating this experiment. The next three days took me down highway 1 and into San Fransisco, parts of this road were some of the best cycling I've ever had the pleasure of doing: beautiful views across the pacific, with descents that felt like they were going to throw you into the ocean before curling round themselves into a tight hairpin and always a gusting tailwind to help ease you up those climbs, I would like to give particular praise to the section between Fort Ross and Bodega Bay, during which I couldn't wipe the grin off my face...More pictures to follow!

Pick up's, RV's and other road considerations

As you might imagine i've had a fair amount of thinking time on the road and I would like to share with you some of my ponderings about my fellow road users. Firstly the pick up, that great American institution, they come in all shapes and sizes from the standard European size to the monolithic giants (standard American ones). More importantly i've identified four different types of driver: Gents, Lads, Shitheads and Rednecks. The gents are great: they see you on a road and slow down, if there is a hint of a corner or the meerest suggestion of oncoming traffic they wait patiently behind you, give a wave and maybe a friendly toot of their horn as they ease pass. The gents all live long happy lives and are going straight to heaven, no messing about at the pearly gates. The Lads: first of all it is neccessary to explain that the average width of your American pick up is about 9/10ths the width of a lane and a Herbert on bike is about 1/10th the width a lane. The Lads, who make up the vast majority of your pick up driver, know this. They are not malicious but equally there is no way that some snot nosed cyclist is going to slow them down. So if there is no oncoming traffic they just carry on past, if there is oncoming traffic they just carry on past and you get at least an inch of breathing room, very generous some might say. This is where the Shithead comes in. He's had a good look at his pick up and in general he likes what he sees, a fine ve-hi-cle that demonstrates his manliness in spades, with plenty of room for all the guns, dogs, dead deer, barbed wire, beer and jerky a man could use in a lifetime. But there is something troubling him: his pick up is taking up 9/10ths a lane of road, this means that for every dollar of tax he pays on road building and maintenance he's only getting 90 cents worth. Like every hard working man he wants his money worth but as mentioned his pick up is plenty big enough, then comes the eureka moment: he extends his rear axel by a foot, each wheel arch by six inches but leaves the rest of the pick up the same. Genious, now he's taking up the whole lane without a bigger load space and at the same time making it a lot easier to run those free-loading, hippy cyclists off his beloved tarmac. Lastly comes that special breed, the Redneck, with hate in his heart. I have had three run ins with Rednecks and so far i'd say i've had a win, a loss and a draw, so about par for the course. The draw: I am cycling into town along a wide road when I get a loud blast of horn from behind me and an encourgement to get the f*** off the road. 50 yards later I join my fellow motorist at a red light thus giving a perfect opportunity to exchange our philosophies on road use. The loss: I am cycling along a section of road with no hard shoulder, from behind I hear a series of loud honking and the hearty reving of an engine, tuned to vibrate at the resonant frequency of a cyclist's guts, I am in their cross hairs. I squeeze over, cycling on top of the white line seperating the road from the ditch, this is not going to be fun I think. I am not wrong, a green blur flashes past my left ear so close that I can almost smell the dog turds the driver uses as soap. The win: I am out my sadle climbing a short, sharp rise I feel a pick up behind approaching pretty close, weird I think: there is no oncoming traffic. Never mind he won't hit me, he does. I get clipped on the elbow by his wing mirror. My elbow is fine not even a bruise, his mirror is shattered and is now decorating the tarmac, you've got to love karma.

Now I've said some nasty things about pick up drivers but the truth is the vast majority are great, the opposite is true of RV (recreational ve-hi-cle) drivers. These monsters as tall as a house and wide as a Hull native on a deep fried mars bar diet are a curse to the roads. They are piloted by senile, half-blind, half-deaf fossils, whose sole remaining purpose in life is to cover every inch of road in the US, in the comfort of their air conditioned, aluminium fortresses on wheels. There are two real reasons why I reserve a special pool of loathing for them: firstly they drive like the Lads, they have many miles to cover after all and they will not be kept waiting. Secondly they choose, for the same reasons as me, the same roads as me. This point is infuriating because they can't enjoy the views from their tin cans and the invariably winding road makes them a big hazard. But that tarmac must be driven and that road smote from their list.

Finally a note on two wheeled etiquette: My first encounter in the US with another cyclist began with me getting a little over excited to see a fellow biker, a huge grin cracked across my face and I waved furiously across the two lanes of traffic at him. A huge grin cracked across his face and he gives me the two fingered salute. The grin is wiped off my face I am shocked by his wanton cruelty and rejection. Since I have learnt that on this side of the Atlantic the raised two fingers, far from being a medieval taunt at the French boys, is in actuallity the sign for peace. Ever since I have been giving pretty much everyone the two fingers and my inner child giggles everytime. The middle finger retains its meaning and I reserve it for the RV's and Shitheads.

...Where the Giants live (Oct. 12 - Oct 16)

The descent down from crater lake was epic, I averaged 25mph for 50 minutes, but due to a slightly late leave and more climbing in the morning I missed my campsite by ten miles and did some dodgy camping. The rain started that night but wasn't too bad, it gave me a preview the next day between Rouge river and Grants pass, where I got a flat and very wet. Then I hit the road hard, knowing that I was going into bad weather but naively asumming that once I got the far side of the coastal range and into California it would be all sunshine and roses, I was very wrong. I cycled 94 miles into the storm which turned out to be the tail end of a typhoon. It felt like the Pacific had got bored and decided it was going to hop a few hundred feet up and about 100 miles East. I kept going and eventually in a canyon, on the way down to the coast and about 20 miles into California play was suspended due to bad light. I got a wet nights sleep and an even wetter time packing up in the morning. The canyon continued a little further and then got into the redwoods. These trees are truelly unbelievable, I mean epic. One of the photos shows a car going past one so you can get an idea of their width (this was an average sized tree). The next day cycling through them with the mists curling through the trees was very special . The night after I got wet I stayed in a youth hostel overlooking the pacific (not that you could see it through the rain), I found it by chance and dived into it out the weather. Staying at the hostel where 5 other cyclists all sheltering from the storm. It was great to chat to them and hear their stories. Particularly interesting was Barry, an irish guy who decided to go to anchorage (alaska) buy a mountain bike and head down to San Francisco. The last 2 days have been beautifully sunny and at the moment I'm in a town called Eureka, I think i've done about 1,200 miles but my speedo broke on me yesterday so it's hard to be precise. I'm going to try to make it down to SF for halloween, apparently its one hell of a party. Take care all.

Into the Hills...(Oct. 5 - Oct. 11)

Hello boys and girls, first off I want to apologise for taking so long to update but as Mike and Eric, two engineers/hunters I met at the top of a 6000ft mountain up a dirt track, put it i've been spending a lot of time "in the buttf*** middle of nowhere". To make up for it you are getting 2 posts, the first is about my journey up to crater lake.

From Astoria I headed south along the coast and stayed in a town called Seaside, I have been struggling ever since to get the Kooks song out of my head. Here I stayed with the Lathams. A couple of days previously I met a lady on the roadside, we got chatting and she said she'd hook me up with someone to stay with, this was the Lathams: Roy, Terry and their son Pat. They took me in, a complete stranger with no reference, fed me and gave me a bed as well a shower and their great company. This generousity has been repeated twice since but through a tourist cyclers website. The next people to take me in were Bob and Vickie, 80 miles down the coast in a town called Pacific city with a beautiful location right on the beach. They and their nephew Jason made me feel very welcome and gave me an amazing supper and breakfast and washed my clothes for me, epic hospitality. Two nights later I stayed with Paul and Monica and their 4 kids: Rainy, Torrent, Dare and Sanguine, in Eugene for two nights. Through games of cops and robbers, sardines and kickball with the kids, Monica's conversation and Paul's help with my bike, his advice and pro pizza I couldn't have felt more at home and I was sad to leave them. Between these amazing people I had biked up from the coast up the wooded Nestucca valley, into the rolling hills towards Salem and south across a broad flat plain through Corvallis to Eugene. Now it was time to hit some proper hills. It took me a day to get into the Casscade mountains from Eugene and that night I found a great camp spot about 20 miles after Oakridge, I swam in the cold river and cooked myself supper next to a camp fire before setting my lycra on fire which i'd put up to wash, clever herbie: clerbie. The next day I only managed 30 miles but 4500 ft of climb mainly up dirt roads (the third photo shows the valley I came up but I still had half the climb left), past snow by the roadside and smoke from a forest fire. This is the day I met Mike and Eric and without them I would have had a miserable night. I was elated after my climb but very short on water, without which I wouldn't have been able to eat. The guys gave me water, Jerky and even a beer, as well as a brief bit of company for which I was very grateful. The next day I mounted my assault on Crater lake. First I headed down hill and back onto paved road, which I followed to Diamond lake and then to the Park entrance. I arrived at the park entrance at 2.30 and it took me till 4.30 to cycle the 10 miles to the crater rim, by this point I had got to 8,000 ft up a relentless climb, a savagely gusty headwind and thinning air. The views at the top sorted me out though, the lake in the crater (second picture, with Wizard island) was mindblowingly stunning, I definitaley don't have the words to describe how beautiful it looked with the sun slanting down. Hopefully my pictures give a hint, and the satisfaction (maybe a little smugness) of having cycled up there, feeling I deserved to see this, whereas those coming by cars (passing by pretty frequently) had no appreciation of the scale of this place.

Towns Visited

Blaine* (x2), Ferndale (x2), Bellingham*, Oak Harbour, Port Townsend*, Sequim, Dungeness, Port Angeles*, Lake cresent (north shore), Forks*, Kalaloch, South Beach*, Queets, Neilton, Humptulips, Aberdeen*, Grayland, Raymond, Bruceport*, Naselle, Astoria

First 9 days (Sep. 26 - Oct 4)

Hi all, so 9 days in and exactly 500 miles done. I have literally just crossed into Oregon so that is also my first state ticked off the list. Washington was Fit (capital F necessary) but had possibly a little cellulite in some areas (Aberdeen AKA. shitsville). I spent most of my time circling round to the north of the Olympic national park, which was truly stunning and was definitely worth the effort to go see. It also provided me with plenty of opportunity for a little camping of questionable legality, and some pleasant skinny-dipping, to try and make me feel vaguely clean. Nicest person award goes to Mike just south of Bellingham, who gave me a basement to sleep in, and a bathroom and kitchen to use. My first few days have not been without mishap, I lost my wallet on day 2 and spent a frantic 3 hours and 25 miles of backtracking to find it again, big big relief. I've also had to re-true my wheels twice already, had my first puncture, already burnt through a set of brakes and lost my towel. Despite this I've had a great time: one day I cycled with a guy called Steve, who runs a custom brass instrument shop in LA, ************************************************* [edited at the request of Mrs Alicia Herbert]. I've had a couple of great camping spots a few nights ago I had a 4 mile beach on the Pacific in the National forest to myself but the prize has to go to last night (in the pretty picture), which was an abandoned campsite just west of South Bend, I also got the moon setting over the same view this morning. Although I've been alone a fair bit of the time its difficult to be lonely with views like this, I'm only lonely when on a boring, straight road with trucks whizzing past my left ear. The other blemmish so far has been seeing the logging taking place in around the national park, whole hillsides are completely ripped down and left covered in a brown mess. It seems incredible to me that a government could sanction this destruction, let alone gloat about the benefits it brings. I'm looking forward to my next section through Oregon, where I hope i'll be doing some surfing and head inland to see Crater lake. Keep well all of you and please send me knews you have (but only if its exciting).

Vancouver

Hi there all, I thought I'd just write a few lines about what i've been up to now that I'm finally about to set off. I arrived in Vancouver on Sunday and went to stay with my cousin Tim, we went for a couple of drinks with some of his mates before going to see Arctic Monkeys in Stanley park which was a little unexpected but pretty cool. The last couple of days I've been in a little place called Tofino on the west coast of Vancouver Island where I (unsuccessfully) tried to do a little surfing, evidence of my now legendary skill can be seen in the accompanying photo. Today I finished up my preparations to set off cycling the bike is pretty good but not perfect so i'll be tuning him up on the road. I'm due to set off tomorrow about midday and I should be camping in the US tomorrow night. I'll update again in 10 days or so I guess.