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.