tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53109403849469139262023-12-02T04:37:26.993-03:00Pedalling (from the) NorthOn February 19th 2010, Phil Bingham and Liz Hurran started cycling northwards from the very bottom of South America. On December 18th, we finally dismounted our bikes after an epic journey through the Americas...Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-12872457549599939492011-01-30T08:14:00.006-03:002011-01-30T08:45:51.868-03:00Telling tales!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGR2oI2uj5AJOah-DvvDVRMVrC8A_Mg861vCMpwAoixX72MOzO1PEpt3Nf5C1ItKdT9nB3DDgR1GCjyxaM3nLAW8xFrwef8kZCHnByxQ2m1Ipz-tIapMCIGBmcLhKmcgj25RzjQ9QHUK_/s1600/2011-01-07+001+2011-01-07+017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGR2oI2uj5AJOah-DvvDVRMVrC8A_Mg861vCMpwAoixX72MOzO1PEpt3Nf5C1ItKdT9nB3DDgR1GCjyxaM3nLAW8xFrwef8kZCHnByxQ2m1Ipz-tIapMCIGBmcLhKmcgj25RzjQ9QHUK_/s200/2011-01-07+001+2011-01-07+017.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>We named our little silver car Tina.<br />
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We hired her for a galavant around some last parts of Patagonia we wanted to explore after the cycling was finished. We named her after the country that we had spent most time in on the whole trip. Argentina. Which means silver. And since our little hire car was silver, and pretty tiny, Tina seemed like the obvious choice.<br />
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We loved our adventure in Tina. We sped about the country, listening to Christmas Carols from our ipods, laughing at the ridiculous wind that tried to blow even poor Tina off the road or stop us opening her tinny doors and telling each other stories. Stories of our trip.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
One of the things we had enjoyed most about our time away was writing about it, telling our tales. We had so much fun over that last three weeks reflecting on the stories of our amazing year. We made lists out loud of animals we had seen, things we had learned, the most glorious descents, the best meals, the worst meals and on and on and on. We tried on one long journey to list in order all the places we had been. We had spent the night in well over 200 places in our 11 months away and we could remember each and every one. The police cell, the glam vineyard, the school....we relived them all.<br />
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It was a wonderful way to make a transition back to our lives at home, this time to relax and reminisce.<br />
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We had been so lucky to have the chance to do all that we had done. We received such amazing support from home from friends and family, such wonderful generosity from people we'd met on the road, such encouragement through our blog to keep going. We are so grateful for all the people that made it possible.<br />
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And I, sitting beside Phil in the tiny Tina tinpot, was so grateful to have been able to go on such an odyssey with him.<br />
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If you will indulge me for a moment I must tell tales on him and confess to you what an incredible travelling companion he made. He made my bike for me everytime it needed rebuilding, he did all the heavy lifting the trip required and toured with a much much heavier load than I, he managed all the complex negotiations with policemen, locals, officials in his amazing fluent Spanish whilst we journeyed in the South, he put his thumbs up from far away everytime he had made another deal that meant we had a roof for the night, he made it up stupidly steep climbs and down scarily steep downs, he me laugh, he made the camp food, he made me keep going, he made my day, he made the trip.<br />
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And so, when on the penultimate night of our trip he made me an offer on bended knee I didn't hesitate for a moment.<br />
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And Reader....I'll marry him.<br />
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Thank you so much for following our trip. It was the adventure of a lifetime.<br />
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We'll be telling tales of it forever.<br />
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xxxLizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-56300195475093582962011-01-29T21:20:00.000-03:002011-01-29T21:20:06.206-03:00The End of the Line<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FHOSPzNTQQ1rQBgsKSrKVhed9ZMrq7kjpyW3grkNvYnBUigcYaECsKf44D9kf7lu6Eizj8uiYE5iQsi65X5Ag4L3MGcH84mpOnnwcwI3ry7Mnwc8JrpdzSI9Pa4cGilFJRTF3k4G6jv2/s1600/2010-12-18+001+2010-12-18+050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FHOSPzNTQQ1rQBgsKSrKVhed9ZMrq7kjpyW3grkNvYnBUigcYaECsKf44D9kf7lu6Eizj8uiYE5iQsi65X5Ag4L3MGcH84mpOnnwcwI3ry7Mnwc8JrpdzSI9Pa4cGilFJRTF3k4G6jv2/s200/2010-12-18+001+2010-12-18+050.JPG" width="200" /></a>What had begun with a wine fuelled idea in a bar in Hong Kong, grown over a more sober cup of tea with the inspiring Tracy and Andy, been planned in a cyclone of lycra purchasing, bike part assembly and internal panicking and then executed through months of leg spinning and general all round japery, was coming to an end. </div><br />
We were about to head for the finish and conclude our thin red cycling line.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
<div>After several weeks of battling (again) with the Patagonian winds and trying to push our way south back to Tierra del Fuego we had decided to choose a different end point and finish in style. </div><br />
<div>Having come to our decision, however, we realised that our new final destination was likely to take us only two more days of cycling.</div><br />
<div>And it was an odd feeling, that. Suddenly after all those months of journeying the end was upon us. It felt a bit abrupt now the moment had arrived.</div><br />
<div>All that lay between us and laying down the bikes for the last time on this trip were two days and two hundred and twenty seven kilometres.</div><br />
<div>It was weird.</div><br />
<div>I had imagined the end so many times. I knew, of course, that it wouldn't be the way I imagined but I had imagined it none the less. But everytime I had thought about it I had not really known how we would mark it, how we would feel. I had sometimes imagined the sun shining, othertimes speeding to the some finish point and lying triumphant in the road, still more jumping and skipping and hugging Phil and perhaps running into some imaginary sea! But I knew I had no idea what it would really be like.</div><br />
<div>I did not know as I mounted my bike on that penultimate morning that it was going to be all that and more and that the last two days were going to be a sort of homage to all the experiences we had had over the previous ten months.</div><br />
<div>We set off on December the 17th for the minute hamlet of Fitzroy. I was so excited to be finally going to it. We had so often talked of it, a place that we had whizzed through by bus months before as we fled the Patagonian steppe. We had marked it down on our mental maps as the only thing for a hundred kilometres around and as a place that would mark a last gasp of civilisation when we imagined heading back South. </div><br />
<div>We had eighty kilometres to travel to get there. Not a lot for us by now, but far enough if the wind did not play ball.</div><br />
<div>The first few kilometres out of Caleta Olivia were OK. We got almost blown over by an evil little dust devil, a tiny intense tornadoey type affair that blasts you with muck and sand before spinning on its way, but were able to make reasonable progress and start tucking the distance away under our belts. The wind wasn't fun, but it was reasonably under control.</div><div></div><br />
<div>So it wasn't heady progress but it was steady progress and as lunchtime approached we had broken the back of the day. We saw ahead a fairly decent climb and Phil calculated that it might be the last major climb of our trip.</div><br />
<div>THE LAST MAJOR CLIMB!!! </div><br />
<div>As he said those words I started to feel very strange. We saw the tell tale yellow sign with it's wiggly black arrowy line and I looked at it with completely different eyes. Was this the last time I was going to stare into the eyes of one of those lines? Was this really, REALLY it? </div><br />
<div>Day after day after day I had faced that kind of sign and girded my loins both physically and mentally to grind out what was required to get to the top. I went into a sort of shock at the prospect that that kind of hutzpah might be over at the summit ahead. </div><br />
<div>We decided in celebration that we might push to the top of the climb and then have our lunch. We sailed up the ascent and just before it peaked spotted the perfect place.</div><br />
<div>A storm drain.</div><div></div><br />
<div>Ahhhhhh.... a storm drain. Storm drains are the touring cyclist's best friend. A place often out of wind and sight where you can hunker down for a time. We had had so many lunches in them that in honour of all those stops we knew we couldn't resist.</div><br />
<div>We laid down the now quite worn groundsheet, pulled out our panier packed lunch and tucked in.</div><br />
<div>It was the usual scene of isolation. The road stretched back down the hill we had come up and sneaked up through the final few yards ahead. And all the rest was nothingness. </div><br />
<div>I realised that we had seen so much emptiness over the year. In the beginning it had frightened me to see so far and see so little but we had become completely atuned to it and totally at ease with it. It was just us and some tiny lumps of vegetation, a lot of stones and a huge sky.</div><br />
<div>So often over these lunches we had found some small thing that fascinated us. Many times the sheer desire for food rather limited chat and allowed us to stare into the middle distance and notice what might otherwise pass us by. One lunch two beetles completely absorbed our attention. One was chasing the other with amorous intent and we watched them for ages as their little drama unfolded. We discussed them this lunchtime as we started to reflect, something that became quite a theme over the next twenty four hours.</div><div></div><br />
<div>Because with the end coming we began immediately to look back. We had done so much living in the present over the few months we'd been away, but the deadline allowed us to start drawing things to a close, to start making conclusions. So just as we had seen the last climb so we ate our last storm drain lunch, the final dulce de leche and biscuits, later that day we faced the last stretch with the wind against us and as we pulled into Fitzroy after a harder afternoon than we'd imagined we saw our last petrol station haven and our final random small town.</div><div></div><br />
<div>Fitzroy was the perfect spot for us to spend our final night on the road. It fitted the bill of art house movie location perfectly. It had an YPF, a few short roads that led to nowhere, a random memorial or two and literally one horse! </div><br />
<div>We found a surprisingly delightful place to stay for the night with a kitchen and satellite TV, set up by an enterprising local who had seen the potential for good accomodation in the last place for miles, and then we set about the rituals that had become our habits for months and months and months.</div><br />
<div>We sorted out our belongings, we had a shower and then we took our cameras and as the sun set took photos of this tiny place.</div><br />
<div>I loved our photo sessions on this trip. Phil and I would wander around a place, armed with our little digital cameras and take snaps that tried to sum the spirit of it up. It would look at things really closely in ways that we might not at home and sear them onto our memories forever. </div><br />
<div>We had so much fun that evening and went to our cosy bed very satisified with the world indeed.</div><br />
<div>The final morning dawned sunny and clear just as it had in my imagination. We had our breakfast, packed our paniers for the final time and headed to the local cafe for a fortifying coffee. We had one hundred and forty seven kilometres to do until we reached the coast at Peurto Deseado. We knew it was a tall order but we thought that since the wind would be behind us once we turned East towards the sea it should all work perfectly.</div><br />
<div>And work perfectly it did.</div><br />
<div>We could not have asked for a more perfect day of cycling than the last day of this trip.</div><br />
<div>We trundled off with a pretty healthy sidewind as our companion for the first hour. The road was wide and fairly flat and all around us was a huge open plain. Signs for Peurto Deseado started to appear and I got a feeling that we were beginning a build up to the end.</div><br />
<div>Then ahead I saw our turn and I realised that we were about to make the last turn of our trip. Once we took the road to the coast we were going to go essentially straight until we got to the sea.</div><br />
<div>It was brilliant.</div><br />
<div></div>We stopped at the turn to register the moment and the side wind was by now becoming extremely strong. This meant that once faced East it was going to be the most almighty direct tailwind, one of the best we would have had. I got my camera out and filmed the wind so that I could always remember what it was like, the ferocious sound that had been so exhausting to us at so many moments.<br />
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<div>And then we turned and everything went quiet. And in the most blissful peace we cycled at an average of almost thirty kilometres an hour, down a beautifully smooth, deliriously straight, fractionally downhill, newly tarmaced road, with wide open space all around us, for four stupidly easy hours. It was perfect. Literally perfect. Perhaps the most brilliant day of cycling of the whole trip. All for our last day.</div><br />
<div>And to make it even better we realised that the kilometre posts were counting us down to the end. We were gradually heading for number 1. We were whizzing to the end in real style.</div><br />
<div>We had lunch at a disused railway station, positively giddy at the speed of our progress and then we flew on to the end.</div><br />
<div>For the last couple of hours we listened to our ipods. We used them very selectively on the trip having to judge when the road allowed us to do so safely. But when we did use them they were always so helpful. Music, BBC podcasts, comedy had all lifted us at times when we had needed it. I owe Eddie Izzard, and the recordings of his stage shows, so much for getting me up some of the worst parts of mountainous Peru. The four hour climbs were significiantly less awful as I giggled away to his hilarious rantings.</div><br />
<div>In the spirit of the end I used this journey to listen to all my favourite tunes from the trip, to the playlists that had got me through. The mood of the afternoon was becoming well and truly sentimental!</div><br />
<div>I spent two hours musing on the highs and lows of the whole experience often making myself well up recollecting particularly special times, or grimace in amusement at some of the less edifying moments. It had been such an extraordinary adventure, I wanted to relive it in these final moments.</div><br />
<div>With ten kilometres to go we turned the music off. We retreated from our private worlds to share the last bit together. </div><br />
<div>Puerto Deseado greeted us from a good way out, heralding its imminence with huge white Hollywood style letters announcing its name. Its proximity also brought a last hurrah from the wind who, anxious that we should not arrive in too much glory, sought to make us walk the last kilometre or two as it whipped freezingly round the cliffs of the town, funnelling down roads and lashing us this way and that.</div><br />
<div>But we stuck it out on the bikes and were greeted by the sight of the emerald green waters of the Atlantic and the quite fantastic inlets and coves of the river that flowed inland.</div><br />
<div>We cycled into the town and realised we needed to chose a place to stop. A place to finish. We had made amazing progress and had got there in just over five hours, completing our third longest day with remarkable ease.</div><br />
<div>We wove our way round town slightly anti-climatically before suddenly spotting a memorial on the shore. This spot looked straight out to sea and had a little amphitheatre down to the water. We had found our place.</div><br />
<div>And so we pulled up and got off the bikes and stood there.</div><br />
<div>This was it. We had done it. We had finished our biking trip.</div><br />
<div>It was a funny sensation.</div><br />
<div>All the things I'd thought we might do and here I was and in truth I didn't really know what I should do.</div><br />
<div>We had a hug. We said 'We've done it', we jumped about a bit and then we looked at one another.</div><br />
<div>Here we were. That was that.</div><br />
<div>The place was amazing, the sea was dramatically glowering all around us, the wind was whistling hard and the sky was looming dark.</div><br />
<div>I texted my parents. I texted my brother. I texted my freinds. Phil did the same.</div><br />
<div>And then we had an idea. We would mark the end ourselves. We would make our own little monument.</div><br />
<div>And we did.</div><br />
<div>In stones on the ground we laid our the numbers......10,325 kms. That was how far we had gone. In one hundred and forty days of cycling we had travelled further than I had ever thought imaginable. We had had experiences that will stay with us forever and we had done the whole thing together every inch of the way. </div><br />
<div>It was a giggle making our mark. So much so that we made a second one that said 'The End'. We vowed to come back the following morning to pay homage to them.</div><br />
<div>And then.....</div><br />
<div>And then....</div><br />
<div>Well....then we got BACK ON OUR BIKES!!! and cycled off to find a place to stay! </div><br />
<div>And that was when I realised something. <br />
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The biking wasn't over at all.</div><br />
<div>We had reached the end, but just for now. We had reached the end but only for this trip. Because as we discussed that evening over the champagne we drank watching the perfect sunset, and through our delicious dinner at the great local eaterie, and as we wandered the streets after dark under the light of a near full moon we had only really just begun....</div><br />
<div>One adventure was done...</div><br />
<div>But lots more were waiting to begin.</div><div></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-64752791172731143872010-12-22T20:29:00.010-03:002010-12-24T17:59:53.721-03:00Time and the hour..<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnrMJg4TEC6ZkOyOt616ottoi8MJYxgQpBL7LpiWXK03WIFvxOR0FDi4TG9Ibkcs2dL9TxI4D0KyMD0vCtm0iPV95y8lFoetwT3_8IA2kK6V7Mje1xTIo1ffi86qOVjpvl-9FRN9fWkp0/s1600/2010-12-13+001+2010-12-13+001.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554349726274757666" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnrMJg4TEC6ZkOyOt616ottoi8MJYxgQpBL7LpiWXK03WIFvxOR0FDi4TG9Ibkcs2dL9TxI4D0KyMD0vCtm0iPV95y8lFoetwT3_8IA2kK6V7Mje1xTIo1ffi86qOVjpvl-9FRN9fWkp0/s200/2010-12-13+001+2010-12-13+001.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 112px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>Perhaps it all started with the blizzard.<br />
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<div>It was, after all, a fairly Shakespearean moment. There we were biking through the beginnings of the Argentine summer, heading for the sea and sand of the East coast, and being bombarded on the sides of our faces by vicious needles of ice. All around us was excrutiating emptiness. It was Macbeth´s `blasted heath´ writ large. If three broomstick waving witches had hoved into view, chucking frogs into cauldrons and chanting in rhyme I don´t think it could have been any more surreal.</div><br />
<div>I have often thought of Macbeth on this trip. Not because I feel a particular affinity with the regicidal monarch of Shakespeare´s imagination, but because his character says some pretty useful things.</div><br />
<div>My favourite, when the going was particularly tough, was ´Come what may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day´. Not perhaps something you want to churn out cheerily to your biking companion (who may hit you for your pompous literary mumblings as they push their bike up the day´s ninth gravel slope) but a quiet internal comfort that, however horrible the conditions, at some point the day would stop and presumably so would we!</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div>I called upon that comfort again as the snow bore down on us, and cackled with Lady M-like demonism at the sheer hilarity of it all.</div><br />
<div>But, maybe I should have seen it as the first sign.</div><br />
<div>The first sign that things were not going to go according to our best laid plans. Again.</div><div></div><div>Throughout this trip we have adjusted, adapted, arranged differently. We have scoured maps, websites and guidebooks and we have become the scourge of the locals trying to look ahead, and work out what will be achievable, what route we should take. Those of you who have followed our unconventional journey have seen the fruit of those labours.</div><br />
<div>In coming back to Patagonia to try and join up our biking line we worked harder at trying to predict our best option than ever. We knew our biggest enemy was the climate and we turned into mini-Macbeths, obsessively seeking advice on what we should do, albeit from sources more conventional than three `wise´women. Just as he and his cronies wanted them to `look into the seeds of time´, so we tried to.</div><br />
<div>We thought about the Argentine eastern coastal route first, then ruled it out as too lonely and empty. We thought about the western ripio route next, then ruled it out as too windy and bumpy. We chose the Chilean ripio route at one point, heading for rain and climbs, but then ruled that out when trying to make it west to begin it became impossible in the furious storms of Rio Mayo. </div><br />
<div>So, we returned again to the options and churned them over and over and over reading the runes, stirring the tea leaves and trying to calculate the lesser of evils, until finally going back to plan A and heading East thinking that at least loneliness was doable with better wind. </div><br />
<div>And then there was the overbearing tailwind to Sarmiento that taught us that even a wind in your favour can be your foe. Time was starting to tick. `Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow´ kept bounding by rather than creeping and we were running out of room for manoeuvre. </div><br />
<div>So it was back to the drawing board again. Finally after another great load of belly-aching we decided to continue the journey East, go as far as Peurto San Julian, take a bus West to the equivalent latitude and cycle East again to the end. All this cycling East was to try and outwit the prevailing West wind. It just blows and blows and blows across the steppe. We knew that it wouldn´t be a continuous red line of biking but we would at least cover the southern part of Argentina by hook or by crook. We could wait for days of lesser wind, we could bike long days when we got that chance.</div><br />
<div>We felt satisfied with our plan. We were both very keen to honour our promise to ourselves made back in February at an empty kilometre post. We knew we were capable of the distances, we knew we could stand the privations of wilderness with no habitations, but we knew that we could only manage any of this if the wind let up enough to allow us to do it. We hoped that with patience this plan would finally be the one.</div><br />
<div>And then came all the other signs. </div><br />
<div>After a day's rest from our 150km ride to Comodoro Rivadavia we set out for Caleta Olivia. A journey of 'only' 80 kilometres. The wind was blowing from the side but it did not seem too bad and the weather forcast told us it would calm down as the day progressed. 20 kilometres in to the ride it brought us to a standstill. Having gusted so hard from our right, through a gulley in the coastal hills that it had almost blown us into the traffic, we had to stop.</div><br />
<div>We hid out at a shrine to the virgin. </div><br />
<div>From this holy vantage point bedecked with icons and flowers we watched as the wind attacked the landscape around us. We also watched the horrendously busy Ruta 3, a single lane road with no hard shoulder heaving with traffic into which we had been fighting not to be blown.</div><br />
<div>Two hours went by and neither force showed any inclination to lighten up a bit.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We chatted to the plaster cast figurines around us. There were three wise looking ones who I consulted particularly intently. With my Macbethesque desperation I pleaded with the nun, the shepherd and the odd looking Jesus...what should we do? If either of these influences was going to continue how could we comtemplate setting off on 300 kilometre stretches with no habitations? We would need to be able to complete these challenges in no more than four days since we wouldn´t have many hiding out spots or access to water. At this rate the journeys would take us ten days!</div><br />
<div>As we sat there watching the displays of force, a great deal of the fight to take Ruta 3 on was draining out of us. Perhaps it was the zen like influence of the shrine but we were starting to give in to the wind. We decided to push on to Caleta and reassess.</div><br />
<div>But we still weren´t quite getting the message obviously!</div><br />
<div>We set off again since we were risking not making Caleta before dark. The wind seemed marginally better and we pushed on for another painfully slow 20 kilometres, saved from being crushed by the strategy of cycling through the construction site of the new road being built alongside the 3.</div><br />
<div>Eventually however that treat disappeared and we were back on the main highway where divine providence sent us yet another message.</div><br />
<div>It didn´t arrive in a bolt of lightening, it wasn´t carried by pigeon and dropped at our feet, it wasn´t plasetered on a huge advertising hoarding in flashing lights....it came in a white mini bus.</div><br />
<div>This white mini bus was either not concentrating, or was in such a hurry that braking wasn´t an option, or was driven by someone who hates cyclists. Whichever way, it came so close to both of us that it drove us off the road and left us breathless staring in its wake. </div><br />
<div>We were properly scared.</div><br />
<div>I have had a pretty pathological fear of traffic throughout this trip. Before we left people kept talking about the dangers of poisonous creatures, of odd diseases that I´d never heard of, of stories of theft and kidnapping. They were all legitimate fears, but in the end the greatest danger to our safety has always been other road users. We have by and large, however, had great experiences. Trucks have pulled out for us with lots of time, their drivers have hooted and cheered and waved, most car drivers have done the same. We have taken very quiet routes in general and we have worn our yellow jackets, flashed our jolly red lights and used our wing mirrors to maximise our visibility and our ways of seeing. In one manoeuvre however, this driver cancelled out all that and left us shaking. With the added factor of the side wind, we simply couldn´t continue that day on the road.</div><br />
<div>We stood lost for a moment. </div><br />
<div>On this trip, we have found that when one of us is down the other always rises to the occasion and pulls us through. At this moment we were both briefly a bit thrown. We were trying so hard to find a way to complete this journey and yet repeatedly we were being stopped in our tracks. We were fit enough to do the distance, we were robust enough to push hard through long days but we were too human to risk our lives for the prize.</div><br />
<div>However, we took stock and decided that we should continue to Caleta on the ripio edge that had recently appeared by the road and at the moment that that ran out, hitch into town. We agreed that we would go no further on Ruta 3 by bike but take a bus from Caleta and head west again to cycle some more.</div><br />
<div>Luckily the edge stayed and although it was super slow going we were able to dig in and churn out the remaining 40 kilometres. The wind eased a bit and the coast was so beautiful that we had a satisfying end to the day. It was crowned with the most glorious sunset as we rolled into town at 10pm. We grabbed the first hotel going, inhaled some food and collapsed.</div><br />
<div>We arose the next day with renewed vigour. We now had plan number 950!! We were going to take a bus South and West to El Calafate, visit some wonderful mountains and glaciers and then cycle to Rio Gallegos on the east coast as a biking finale. Hurrah!! We were a bit sad that our little red line wouldn´t be continuous but we knew why. So that was the plan. That was what we were going to do.</div><br />
<div>Er....no we weren´t. First there was a bus that would take our bikes. We turned up for the service at 10.30 pm that day and then were told that they wouldn´t take them. ´Come back tomorrow´. So we checked back into our hotel. One day down.</div><br />
<div>The next day we established that no bus would take our bikes again. Oh, and anyway, all buses had been cancelled because the wind down the road was too strong. Day two was disappearing.</div><br />
<div>Ok. Car hire. Let´s drive to El Calafate. ´There are no car hire companies in Caleta Olivia´. Oh really? Ok. Let´s call some in Comodoro Rivadavia. Erm....´Well most have no cars for hire until February and if they do it will cost you about $5000 to have one large enough to take your bikes´. Ah... ok. So, there is no way to get our bikes to El Calafate. No.</div><br />
<div>No.</div><br />
<div>No.</div><br />
<div>No.</div><br />
<div>Again and again. At last we´d got the message.</div><br />
<div>We can´t get to El Calafate, we can´t cycle south because of the conditions and we can´t get out of town anyway because there is a bus ban and we are seriously running out of time. </div><div></div><div>We took a deep breath.</div><div></div><div>We are not going to finish our red line are we?</div><br />
<div>No, not in the way we had hoped.</div><br />
<div>And suddenly that was it. It was so calming and relaxing to finally admit it. Like Macbeth who, towards the end of the play, finally lets the fates decide and gives up trying to interpret the future, we had to too. </div><div></div><div>We had gone so far and seen so much that was amazing. We had crossed the Andes, we had cycled a great long chunk of South America and North America, we had met such brilliant people that to battle on and end miserably hitching out of the middle of nowhere was not the answer.</div><br />
<div>And so we had to think again.</div><br />
<div>We looked at the map. We now had fresh eyes. A new priority presented itself. We really wanted to finish our cycling on a high. We hated the idea that we would have already ended having limped into Caleta Olivia with no real fanfare or sense of closure. We needed to go some more.</div><div></div><div>How were we going to do that?</div><br />
<div>As we stared at the map, and poured over the options a place presented itself. Puerto Deseado. The Port of Desire. Now that sounded fun! It was 225 kilometres East of where we were after a shortish day south to a place called Fitzroy. Once we had got there we would turn East and with the wind behind us head down this peninsula to the coast. We would finish at the sea on the East coast of Argentina nearly 7000 kilometres from Lima on the West of Peru. We would have a lovely joined up red line and we would feel like we had ended somewhere great. Magellan and Darwin had been there surely this was good enough for us!</div><br />
<div>And so that become our desired finishing port. That would be our grand finale.</div><div></div><div>We thought we´d do it just before new year and hire a car in the meantime to visit the mountains and glaciers west. As it happened we had to get on with it immediately since a fuel crisis (of course!!) meant that hiring a little car was inadvisible until later.</div><br />
<div>So, we prepared to set off as soon as we could.</div><br />
<div>And if we had ever needed confirmation that we had made the right decision it came with the two further days we had to sit and wait in Caleta because of the wind before we were able to go. Twiddling our thumbs again. Every time we looked out of the window and saw the wind barracking another bush or tree we breathed an internal sigh of relief, everytime it slammed a door inside our hotel we knew we´d done the right thing.</div><br />
<div>Seven days after the blizzard had blown us into Comodoro we had travelled just 80 kilometres up the road. All the signs had aligned, and we had been bowed into submission, and at last we had a probably doable journey ahead. A lot of time and hours and gnashing of teeth had passed but we were able to go on.</div><br />
<div>The finish line awaited.</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-87584231366840916752010-12-22T19:44:00.002-03:002010-12-22T19:49:19.181-03:0010,000km<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6kHjiE94muGm8dv6casyFFgppzhlVXZcW8Hj_v8dr0oLDKYtHLO5RJpxbTO6aPFbdkN8vXZSJf8ImYOH7QhlYKo6pic4Z9A2rcCu0nlATdrcZ22CZ8tdDkxS2Cir4r8Y9O_DUhJwcTGW/s1600/2010-12-10+001+2010-12-10+015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6kHjiE94muGm8dv6casyFFgppzhlVXZcW8Hj_v8dr0oLDKYtHLO5RJpxbTO6aPFbdkN8vXZSJf8ImYOH7QhlYKo6pic4Z9A2rcCu0nlATdrcZ22CZ8tdDkxS2Cir4r8Y9O_DUhJwcTGW/s200/2010-12-10+001+2010-12-10+015.JPG" width="186" /></a></div>Finally - FINALLY - we left Sarmiento.<br />
<br />
That is no particular reflection on what was the embodiment of your average, smallish, perfectly decent Patagonian town. But to be brutally frank, there is only so much fulfillment you can get out of such a place. Especially as we became increasingly conscious of the ever shrinking number weeks left of our trip. And the sense of claustrophobia in a place like Sarmiento is only exacerbated by our well engrained sense of impotence against <em>that </em>wind.<br />
<br />
We left fully five days after arriving. Not many tourists are treated to such an experience. There are no open top double decker bus tours of Sarmiento. There aren't even any double decker buildings - they would get blown over. After the second night, we had done Sarmiento's restaurants. The liveliest bar in town peaks at 10.00am, when the gauchos doff their berets to fuel themselves for a day's work with shots of something not far removed from unleaded.<br />
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To give a sense of what it was like, 'entertainment' in a place like Sarmiento includes:<br />
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- Taste and cost comparisons between the coffee on offer in the two different petrol stations. There are no cafes in Sarmiento.<br />
- A comical walk to the bus station, where we were promised we would find the nearest Sarmiento offered to a proper cafe. This was an exaggeration. What was more exaggerated still was the wind en route: the kind that whipped up mini dust storms along the ripio sections of the streets and stopped you dead in your tracks, battling at a 45 degree angle to the wind. You really couldn't be outside.<br />
- Laughing at the coordinated zebra skin patterns of the curtains, bedcovers and tablecloths in our room. Cabin fever set in to some degree, and we ended up naming the bathroom door. You get the picture.<br />
- Flicking through the tomes on offer at the Biblioteca Municipal - impressively stocked, in fact, but notable for how the multi-volume history books on the shelves all start, curiously, either in 1492 or 1810. Not much 'history' before that, it appears...<br />
- Hanging out in the internet joint - as and when it decided to be open / have reception / not be filled with cigarette smoke (delete as applicable).<br />
- Perusing what we dubbed the Chinese Container Shop - full of more cheap and tacky Christmas decorations, plastic pencil cases and kitchen utensils than you could shake a 10 peso note at.<br />
- Pondering the life size dinosaurs at the optimistically named 'theme park'. It didn't quite measure up against the last one we visited, in California...<br />
- Enjoying double bills of the BBC series 'Spooks', whose downloads have kept us out of trouble in recent weeks.<br />
- Chatting to local residents, whose favourite topic of conversation (like the English with rain) is - you guessed it... the wind.<br />
- As ever, chatting to local canine wildlife.<br />
- Laughing about the wind. Again and again and again.<br />
<br />
One way or another, we escaped. <br />
<br />
And having built up such a head of steam, we were pretty much ready for a big day. Little did we realise quite how big a day. Indeed, the first 25km, across a huge, flat plain just South of lakes Musters and Cohuel Huapi, had us thinking it might less eventful than we feared. The wind was broadly behind us, and our waiting and careful reading of the meteorological tea leaves appeared to have worked.<br />
<br />
The next stretch led us over a short pass and down to another 30km plain, somehow dodging the rainstorms that we could see on our horizon. By now, we were well into Argentina's oil heartland. On both sides, those telltale, garishly coloured nodding donkeys pumped away, extracting the black stuff that fills the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of YPF and Petrobras tankers that have passed us the length and breadth of Argentina this year.<br />
<br />
Of course, it is not just the tankers, but all the support and technical teams that come with the energy sector. We must have been passed by 500 grey or white pick ups that day, plus dozens of yellow 'PetroSar' buses, shuttling oil professionals and workers to and fro. And then all those trucks laden with piping, and supply trucks for the workers, and so on and so on. We reckoned 80% of all traffic in this part of Argentina is oil-related.<br />
<br />
This has its upside for the cyclist. Crossing this plain, we saw a sign for an YPF service station that couldn't have been more welcoming if it had said 'Complimentary Weeks in the Caribbean and Massages Available'. If we have learnt one thing on this trip, it has been not to trust roadsigns until you see physical evidence. In this case, however, it was spot on, and we found one of the great YPFs to spend a couple of hours in. Great, partly because it came just after a stiffish climb; partly because it started to rain as we were propping our steeds up against the familiar plate glass windows alongside the forecourt; and partly because it was stuffed with friendly oil workers launching into huge parrillas that were arriving from the kitchen sizzling and smelling irresistible. Even the Christmas decorations were tasteful. We are fully paid up members of the YPF fan club.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the cashier's advice on the road ahead was accurate too. She rolled her eyes and said it went on up for a while. And it did. For about another 25km. We hadn't counted on this. Immediately after we left, the landscape became like the bleakest of Scottish Highlands, with the road snaking up it. After a few kilometres, the rain returned. A few hundred metres further on, it became noticeably colder. The rain started blowing at us hard from the right. Another few hundred metres and it became hail - like being in an ice hairdryer, only wetter.<br />
<br />
This was not great. We had left behind the comfort of the YPF and its Christmas tree, and were now 85km into the day. We had been climbing for an eternity, and still had nearly 70km to go. There were no other inhabitations marked on our hail-obscured map. Luckily, I could listen to Justin Langer and Matthew Hayden, the two great Australian batsmen, on my iPod as they grumbled about the intense heat in Australia during the latest test match. Oddly, it helped. What did not help was what came next.<br />
<br />
We thought we'd experienced most kinds of weather on this trip. 40c heat, -20c cold, 100kph wind, thick fog. We've been lucky with the rain, admittedly, although it had done its best to make up for it when it did rain. But there was one missing. Snow. Not any longer. The higher we climbed, the fluffier our 'hail' became. And soon we were in a blizzard. Flakes of snow the size of ping pong balls were hurtling into our faces, ice was gathering in the creases of our gloves and waterproofs, and the ground was going white. I looked anxiously at my thermometer as 3c dropped to 2c and we were still not at the top. The one thing we didn't want was for the wet roads to start to freeze.<br />
<br />
In fact, it only lasted for less than an hour. Mercifully, the mercury never dropped below freezing, and Argentina's notorious drivers once again acquitted themselves well - plenty of hazard lights and careful driving, to say nothing of some of the best faces and reactions of the trip as car occupants stared out at what could surely only be recent escapees from Sarmiento's loony bin. A few waved so hard you could see the car bouncing.<br />
<br />
At the top, we began crossing a plateau. It was one of the most beautiful few minutes of the trip - the bare Patagonian steppe dusted with pure white snow, a watery sun glistening off it and a wheel-deep layer of steam rising from the road. Soon after, we started descending. And that was it for the rest of the day. It was down and down for 50km, winding down sparse, shrubby valleys as those yellow PetroSar minibuses and pickups sped past us.<br />
<br />
It's funny how, even when the air is close to freezing, a steady 40kph descent can warm the spirits - even if not the fingertips. And a good solid milepost can even warm those frozen digits. We had all of these things that afternoon. After 135km we rounded a bend and there, in the far distance, was a thin blue strip of ocean. The Atlantic. Our first sight of it since February in the early days of our route North. We had completed an unbroken line across the South American continent from Pacific Lima to Atlantic Comodoro Rivadavia. Not exactly the most direct route, but certainly one of the more eventful.<br />
<br />
We paused to take it in, and as we did so I looked down at my bike computer. It said 10,001km. Somehow the fates had conspired to take us through our biggest statistical barrier so far at the exact same time as we spied the Atlantic. It was an emotional moment for both of us.<br />
<br />
By now, on something of a high, the final kilometres flew by. We rolled merrily through the traffic lights and truck showrooms and high rise apartment buildings along the waterfront and into the familiar streets of Comodoro Rivadavia. Who would have thought that 152km could feel so good? There must have been some adrenalin playing a part. It was our second longest day of the trip, and had included one of our longest and least expected climbs. We toasted our arrival over a huge pizza and better than average Torrontes.<br />
<br />
So there we were, back in Comodoro after all these months. It was a curious sensation of familiarity mixed with a sense that we were now viewing places like Comodoro through a lens shaped by rather more time on a bicycle than back then. We have definitely done some stuff since February.<br />
<br />
That didn't mean we weren't going to enjoy Comodoro in similar ways to last time, though! We returned to our favourite sandwiches de miga joint (whatever happened to the egg and olive ones we'd been so looking forward to?!), and gorged on the best 'tenedor libre' buffet in town. It is a very underrated and overinsulted city within Argentina, with most Argentines imagining it to be no more than a filthy oil hub. In fact, it has all the comforts, facilities and prices that go with oil. Oil tankers float at anchor off the coast and big-engined foreign cars cruise up and down the main streets of Rivadavia and San Martin. There is a palpable air of wealth to the place, with women in designer sunglasses cruising the streets dedecked in boutique shopping bags like Christmas trees. It is the nearest Patagonia comes to Buenos Aires. And it might as well be a different country to the northern provinces.<br />
<br />
Finally - FINALLY - we had reached the East coast.<br />
<br />
But little did we know that progress from there would be even more stuttering.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-10732527821481637902010-12-07T20:45:00.000-03:002010-12-07T20:45:43.000-03:00A Hitchin' Time Takes Spine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF3o33ZBqNVELJ9tOjsTbD4E_lkYUal_ob5stz2g1zUFcBbDkNlAe_qjwQxygXv3cKa2pPG8_l5yx7usmpdneA-dWUxaIuUyjYh8mcqiqhg7EqQ3WLpBDJa2sQygxnMjdpi2O-6iiilX7J/s1600/2010-12-05+001+2010-12-05+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF3o33ZBqNVELJ9tOjsTbD4E_lkYUal_ob5stz2g1zUFcBbDkNlAe_qjwQxygXv3cKa2pPG8_l5yx7usmpdneA-dWUxaIuUyjYh8mcqiqhg7EqQ3WLpBDJa2sQygxnMjdpi2O-6iiilX7J/s200/2010-12-05+001+2010-12-05+008.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Patagonia, as you may have gathered by now, just wasn´t really designed with bicycles in mind.<br />
<br />
Whether it´s good old Zephyrus the rock star, or the Broom of God that we encountered in February in Tierra del Fuego, or the -25c winter temperatures that we have heard about, it does its level best to make two wheels plus two pedals a poor choice of transport. Either you freeze to death or get blown off the road.<br />
<br />
So now that we are right in the thick of it, we are having to resist the temptation to face it off directly. Swaggering into the teeth of it, with our guns (or paniers) swinging in their holsters, just isn´t an option. Instead, we are having to outwit it with cunning and stealth and deviousness. Or at least optimism.<br />
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Oh, and motorised vehicles.<br />
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The last few days have been a tale of hitching lifts. By hook or by crook, we have still managed to cover every part of the road between Lima and Sarmiento, where we are currently holed up, by bike. So far, the wind has not defeated us and our pretty red line on the map remains intact. But it has been a battle of wits and patience that has tested us.<br />
<br />
After our marathon 174km day to Facundo, we had veered dangerously towards ´confidence´ territory. Perhaps this wind <em>could</em> be our friend after all? We should have known better. On our next day on the bikes, the wind reduced us to staggering at 2.7kph along the road West to Rio Mayo, struggling to avoid being blown off our feet. It was time to pull the ripcord and limber up our thumbs.<br />
<br />
Three hours later, and half an hour since the last vehicle passed, we were still waiting, huddled from the cold wind behind a distinctly unfit-for-purpose crash barrier. Granite coloured clouds were looming over our shoulders and time was running out. It was getting cold. Plan B was to try to set up our tent behind a row of poplars in the valley below and get through a night there. This was not an especially appetising prospect.<br />
<br />
So imagine our joy when Pablo turned up. Pablo was stocky and unstoppably smiley and has the kind of shiny ringlets that a 1980s South American football star could only have dreamed of. His white van was half filled with boxes of his electrician´s tools that he would need for his job near the Chilean border, but we somehow managed to shoehorn our bikes and 12 bags in and around them.<br />
<br />
That was nothing compared to the circus contortions that Liz and I had to perform for her to squeeze onto my lap in the front seat, head bent over to fit under the windscreen so that all she could see was the wing mirror. But Pablo was full of the joys of life, clearly a bit of a man about town in his native Sarmiento as you might expect from someone with a chopper motorcycle that he charges (no pun intended) around on at weekends. And he would accept not a peso from us to thank him for his efforts over those 50km. A thoroughly good guy who really had saved us.<br />
<br />
We had decided to spend a day off in Rio Mayo. This was not least to reassess our decision to take the Chilean route South. During our time there, we decided on a change of plan. The Carretera Austral offered us several hundred kilometres of steeply undulating ripio, combined with a good chance of rain and snow, and the need to take a notoriously rough 4 hour ferry crossing, walk the bikes along 22km of unmade muddy paths and probably hire horses. Suddenly tarmac, even in the spring time wind of the East coast, seemed a better idea.<br />
<br />
But first we had to take on Rio Mayo, Argentina´s National Capital of Sheep Shearing. What a place. We never saw a sheep shearer, nor many sheep, nor a bona fide sheep shearing shed. Mind you, plenty of the buildings we <em>did</em> see in this dusty, remote little town might have made such sheds seem rather an attractive option. It is not in the best condition - there just isn´t the money around to maintain things. As we sat in another reliably warm and friendly YPF station, the wind swirled outside so fiercely that thick clouds of dust came tumbling down the rocky streets and oil drums were blown around like loo rolls. Outside was not the place to be.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, we found the Hotel Covadonga. The manager, Dionisio, assured us that it had been built in 1943 by the Spanish and that it was ´todo auténtico´. It certainly felt like much of it was at least 67 years old, not least the gas heating system that produced enough surplus gas to make us distinctly twitchy about turning the lights on and off. Any hoover they had appeared to have been on sabbatical since before the end of World War II. <br />
<br />
That evening, we sat in the echoey dining room as the only diners, admiring the tangerine coloured vinyl of the bar (complete with matching faux leather armchairs - probably not 1943...). Dionisio served us a bowl of thick pasta soup each. A few minutes later, we began to wonder if we were expected to take the bowls through to the kitchen ourselves. As we pondered, Liz looked up at the television screen in the corner. "Ah, that´s where he got to". Sure enough, there was Dionisio, holding forth with considerable gravitas to an interviewer. This was the Rio Mayo Cable Channel in all its glory - broadcasting live from the house a block up the road.<br />
<br />
Now Rio Mayo is a town of 3,500 inhabitants. And it doesn´t actually feel as big as that. The television channel was something to behold. It was as if we´d arrived in Middle Wallop and found the Queen´s Arms pub beaming Middle Wallop TV through to the 4 assembled drinkers. The interviewer was struggling to stifle yawns, the background hoarding (which was largely obscured by interviewer and interviewee respectively) sat at a slight list, and the adverts dividing the broadcast were for such global enterprises as Tamy´s Kiosko - believe it or not, in Rio Mayo.<br />
<br />
What Dionisio was elaborating on - and actually doing it rather well - was the following day´s annual showdown on the football field. The two Rio Mayo teams, Tony ´A´ and Tony ´B´ would each be playing one of local rivals Facundo and an invited Chilean team from across the border 120km away. The Tony teams were run in memory of a beloved local coach who had trained Dionisio´s generation until his death 10 years ago. This was the mysterious Tony´s memorial tournament. We simply had to go.<br />
<br />
And we did. Next day dawned much calmer and therefore better for football. After lunch we stumbled our way along a few blocks of loose ripio running through the town centre to the Club Atlético de Rio Mayo. Wembley this wasn´t. If we had thought the Peruvian match between Moquegua and Tacna was slightly lacking in raw talent, we hadn´t seen anything yet. And yet we loved it. This was local and international rivalry and friendship at its best, the Chileans taking on the might of Tony B in the opening encounter. Local support was barely into double figures, and yet crucially there was a high, barbed-wire topped fence all around the pitch to prevent invasions. The spectators stayed largely in their cars out of the wind, drinking maté or bottles of Quilmes and hooting whenever a goal looked likely. We ran into Blanca, our rotund hostess at the albergue a couple of nights previously in Facundo. It was that kind of event.<br />
<br />
The players belied their bewildering range of ages, girths and hairlines and took it supremely seriously. For the home team, there was the robustly efficient and robustly built silver-haired gent in centre defence for Tony B, the scowling middle-aged goalkeeper in the Chelsea top, the diminutive but angry guy in the beach shoes on the right wing, to name but three. Yet the goal they scored in the first half was a thing of divine beauty, a flowing move down the left that will have those involved propping up the tangerine vinyl bar for the next 12 months.<br />
<br />
The bad news was that both Rio Mayo teams lost. This did at least mean we wouldn´t have to spend a second day in the town to see the Sunday final. For all its merits, if Rio Mayo wasn´t going to show us sheep being sheared, we weren´t staying.<br />
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So the next day, we headed back to the YPF. We were blowed (again, no pun intended) if we were going to cycle those 50km to get back to the main road to the East coast. It wasn´t part of our re-re-jigged route. So we decided to revert to hitching. What we hadn´t realised was that Sundays are quiet in Rio Mayo. Although it is on Ruta 40, it is just where the tarmac runs out, so most sane motorists try to find alternative routes.<br />
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Sanity was not important to us, however. A lift was. We wanted to get back to our road and on to Sarmiento, ushered along by a roaring tailwind. Two hours later, we were still sitting in the warmth of the YPF, chatting to our friends behind the counter and slurping their excellent as ever cafés cortados. As Chief Negotiator, my main achievement so far had been securing a lift leaving between 3 and 4pm in an ancient, rattly converted bus - Patagonia´s answer to a Californian RV, but at least 30 years older. It was an enticing prospect on the basis of its pure randomness, but would leave us with a bit of a rush to cover the 70km to Sarmiento.<br />
<br />
Just then, an equally ancient Ford pickup burbled into the forecourt. I immediately computed our needs and saw that he had a largely empty back area and no passengers. Perfect. I shimmied up to the driver. ´¿No vas a Sarmiento...?´ He wasn´t going all the way, but he was going to our junction, which was just fine by us. <br />
<br />
Then he got out of his vehicle.<br />
<br />
I blinked.<br />
<br />
We had blagged a lift with a monk.<br />
<br />
This was Brother Andrés, in all his flowing brown-robed glory, sporting a magnificent wooden cross round his neck and a broad smile. After our travails in finally finding Pablo two days before, this could only be divine intervention. Andrés turned out to be an exceptionally good guy. He is 30, speaks excellent English, and is doing missionary work on secondment from his monastery´s base in Entre Rios. The three of us chatted away merrily for an hour, admiring his unorthodox driving technique of focusing his attention largely on the left side of the road. He splits his week between Rio Mayo and nearby Rio Senguer, and tries to convince locals to return to the church. It is a tough job, but we were left in no doubt that he must be better at it than most.<br />
<br />
We liked him very much indeed, and swapped email addresses and hugs as he left in the howling wind at the junction. He had had to choose between his girlfriend and the church in his early twenties, and opted for the latter, but is still friends with the former. His whole approach was refreshingly non-dogmatic, and he has friends from all kinds of other religions around the world whom he has met through his work in various parts of Argentina. We hope he comes to London one day to see his friends there and in Liverpool - and indeed us.<br />
<br />
The promising strength of the tailwind at that point, however, soon became more than promising. We found a vaguely sheltered spot for our tuna paté sandwiches, but by the time we stood up again we could barely stay on our feet. We learnt a lesson that afternoon. After the first few kilometres of direct tailwind, something became abundantly clear to us: unless it´s <em>directly</em> behind you, an 80kph wind is no good to the cyclist.<br />
<br />
We wobbled our way through a hilly section, finding ourselves buffeted by winds funnelled from unpredictable directions through the hills, but then emerged onto a broader valley. That wind cannot have been more than 15 degrees away from the perfect tailwind, but with our fat paniers acting as sails, it simply pushed us across the road at 45kph. It was too dangerous to go on. We pushed for a while, our heads trying to process the idea of pushing the bikes downhill with the wind behind us and the brakes on, but even like that we were being blown off our feet.<br />
<br />
We would have to wait for a lift. How long would it take this time, 2 hours, 3 hours, longer? We put down the bikes, turned around and held out our thumbs wretchedly to a white pickup 200m away from us. It stopped. IT STOPPED! We couldn´t believe it. Perhaps hitching wasn´t so tough after all. As Liz ran to retrieve my helmet which was blowing wind assisted cartwheels down the road, I hauled the bikes into the back and clambered into the spectacularly overheated cab with strong-but-silent Carlos at the wheel. We chatted away with his bubbly wife, Gladys, and 10 year old daughter Angélica. Gladys multi-tasked, keeping 6 month Maia happy on her lap, whilst Angélica charmed us completely and we told her about England´s foibles. 45km later, they delivered us to the centre of Sarmiento, where the wind appeared to have all but petered out. Frustrating, but at least we weren´t stuck out there.<br />
<br />
So in a way, it made us feel better that the comical gusts of wind hit the town later that evening as we sat eating raviolis. We discussed how it´s actually quite a healthy experience, to find yourself completely at the mercy of the elements, up against a properly irresistible force with no way out except the unpredictability of hitchhiking and no protection from it. In a way, it was as disorientating as the Salar de Uyuni had been. You just have to deal with conditions, and our expectations have definitely been managed downwards. With wind like that, you go nowhere, no matter what direction it is in. We have to view this leg of our journey like climbing a mountain. If conditions open up, we have to go for it. If they don´t, we have to hunker down and wait.<br />
<br />
Yesterday morning, we wanted to beat the wind and get back early to the point that Angélica and her family had picked us up the previous day. We took our now unladen bikes back to the main road and set out our stall on adjoining corners to find a lift back up there so we could make our way back to Sarmiento. Such are the ways we will have to find to complete our trip. We stood there for three hours.<br />
<br />
At the end of those three hours, we had become quite familiar with the rock carrying trucks ferrying back and forth, pickups heading around locally, and even the petrol pump attendants whom we weaved around to buttonhole potential drivers at the pumps. We even saw Pablo the Electrician again - alas, he was going the wrong way. There were plenty of smiles, friendly "I´m just going up the road" gestures, and discrete flirtations with Miss Hurran. But nobody wanted to take us. And by then, the wind that we had hoped to avoid by getting there early, was back to its strength the previous day. We hoisted the white flag.<br />
<br />
Crestfallen, we headed back into Sarmiento, for a day of passing the time, visiting the arrowhead-filled paleontology museum, drinking coffee and posting photos. And so this morning, as we resumed our same posts. It was like Groundhog Day. But it felt like our luck was due to change after yesterday. Sure enough, on a much stiller morning, it took barely an hour before our casting resulted in a fish biting. And what a fish it was.<br />
<br />
We have come to the conclusion that the more unorthodox the vehicle, the better our chances of a lift. And the ancient bus that Caio and his sidekick Toto have converted into a mobile Patagonian mini-department store qualified with ease. You simply could not make this one up. We shuffled the bikes along what would once have been the bus aisle, propping them between clothes hanging on either side in dry cleaners´ plastic coverings. Liz sat on the one passenger seat, juggling plastic footballs in netting bags that kept jumping off the wall at her; I stood in the footwell; Toto perched on a shooting stick behind the gear lever; and Caio drove.<br />
<br />
What a character he is. Part ageing hippy, part entrepreneur, effusively charming and hilariously irreverent as only a pure blood Argentine can be. We chatted away animatedly about his life - how he dumped his ´boring´ financial job in Chubut´s provincial capital of Rawson 30 years ago, set up a small business that ended up as a substantial network of shops, and then left it all behind (including two small children in the hands of family) as he and his wife packed their backpacks and took a multiple-month overdue honeymoon to Europe. He was in Europe for the fall of the Berlin Wall and the 200th anniversary of France, and came back enlightened but with no clue of what to do. There was only one thing for it - get into the fish filleting business on the coast. As you do. Perhaps I should consider it?<br />
<br />
One way or another, he has been running his mobile store for 18 years now. It sells everything from high fashion to bicycles and mattresses. He must be an institution around these parts of Patagonia - and elsewhere, to judge by stories of his trip to Tunisia earlier this year with his wife. Toto couldn´t get a word in edgeways.<br />
<br />
As a by product of our Magic Bus Experience, we did indeed manage to get back to where we´d ditched it two days earlier. And now the sun shone, and the wind was gentle and all seemed right with the world. We belted down the hill and onto the Lago Musters flood plain to Sarmiento at an average of 25kph. This time a gentle tailwind was at our backs and ever more beautiful combinations of pale blue cornflowers, heathery purple flowers and indeterminate splashes of yellow flanked the road.<br />
<br />
By the time we reached the poplar protection of the flat Sarmiento area, we could almost have been on the pampas of Buenos Aires Province - cattle grazed contentedly, grasses were verdant and soft, irrigation canals were home to elegant herons and strutting geese and the occasional parrakeet. This was how Patagonia can be when the wind grants its permission.<br />
<br />
And so the next stop should - wind permitting - be Comodoro Rivadavia, on the East coast. As and when we get through those next 140km, we will have completed our coast to coast line across South America, and passed through the 10,000km mark. Both of which would be rather satisfying in a somewhat geeky way.<br />
<br />
For now, however, we have to keep our fingers crossed that the 80kph gusts forecast by Accuweather and Yahoo for the next two days don´t materialise. As snow dictates terms in the UK, we are having a similar situation with the wind.<br />
<br />
Only this stuff doesn´t melt. We´re just going to have to outwit it.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-47647034733192311092010-12-07T17:42:00.010-03:002010-12-07T21:22:51.190-03:00The Curious Case of the Padded Pantaloons<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8M643jJDSkHuiipidqXJ2Fh1kX8dvZkRX_rnpvP3XUt1p3uQHHR-4gVNlouT3okIcbKqjKFIQjxkyHKcyec3P-8EdcWCcJ8zOdCYyokZhJaCAzfbuFTz5Z6t4iT28J8K4rref99bpxo/s1600/ST+2010-12-04+039.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548098137925695682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8M643jJDSkHuiipidqXJ2Fh1kX8dvZkRX_rnpvP3XUt1p3uQHHR-4gVNlouT3okIcbKqjKFIQjxkyHKcyec3P-8EdcWCcJ8zOdCYyokZhJaCAzfbuFTz5Z6t4iT28J8K4rref99bpxo/s200/ST+2010-12-04+039.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 112px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table.<br />
<br />
"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"<br />
<br />
What could Watson make of it? He had been presented with a most singular narrative of which he, at present, could make no sense.<br />
<br />
"I am afraid I must desire you to tell me the sorry saga again Holmes. I cannot see any logical explanation."<br />
<br />
Holmes drained his coffee cup and placed it carefully upon the saucer. It clinked softly as if to punctuate the silence with a delicacy that directly related to the sensitivity of the matter in question.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
"Very well Watson" he began. He spoke slowly this time to allow his distinguished companion a little more time for reflection.<br />
<br />
"This morning I received a letter from two travellers in Argentina. The mystery they describe began when they found themselves in a tiny town, far from anywhere, and in need of the services of a laundry.<br />
<br />
The outpost, named Rio Mayo, could not however offer any formal business dedicated to this task and so they were forced to seek the aid of their hotelier.<br />
<br />
The hotel in which they were staying was of a ancient sort, perhaps glorious in its day, now rather tired and faded. It was one of only two available in the town, and the authors of the letter had been persuaded to settle upon it because of the warm nature of the owners. They had been interested in the travellers, who pursue their journey by bicycle, since making such a long journey in that manner is a habit that is unusual for residents of that part of the world. The owners had expressed their shock and admiration for such an adventure. The hoteliers were a pleasant couple, with two children and a large collection of dogs (one of whom, a Bulldog, lounged almost permanently on a sofa in the communal area) the travellers liked them and felt very welcomed.<br />
<br />
It was therefore with no hesitation that they petitioned the female owner for the opportunity to use a sink in her establishment in order that they might solve their present problem and wash the clothes themselves. They describe in their missive the importance of regularly washing their clothes since they travel with so few of them. They therefore guard them closely and feel most attached to their garments. Many of their garments are highly specialised, carefully chosen for the prime activity they undertake, and therefore require sensitive washing that they might remain repeatedly usable.<br />
<br />
Upon appealing to the hotelier, she saw their laundry dilemma and after a moment's reflection offered to perform the duty herself for a reasonable fee. They deemed this a very satisfactory outcome for all concerned and handed her the garments to wash.<br />
<br />
A few hours later they checked on the situation and were informed that the clothes had nearly been cleaned and would be hung out to dry. This was all as they expected although they did wonder about the delay in having them washed. Since however the process was underway they left and undertook other business.<br />
<br />
Their other affairs occupied them for the rest of the day and it was not until late evening that they returned to their hotel and sought to collect their clothes. Upon their arrival however there was no-one present. They hunted around, knocking on several doors, but to no avail. It was not long before it would be dark and they needed to pack and so they decided to see if they could find the clothes themselves and retrieve them.<br />
<br />
It was the work of only a few moments to establish that they were hanging on a line positioned at the back of the hotel. They decided to perform the job of removing them from the line themselves in order not to further disturb the owner. The task was a long one since the clothes had been attached to the line with meticulous precision, many times over, since the area is famed for its strong winds. The travellers reflected on the care that had been taken to hang the clothes out. <br />
<div><br />
<div></div><div>Shortly after returning to their room, however, they realised that one garment was missing. A pair of half leg pantaloons that they described as cycling shorts. Assuming they must have dropped them on their return they went to look for them. </div><br />
<div></div><div>But they were nowhere to be found. Perhaps they reasoned the owner had hung them elsewhere to dry or maybe they were still in the machine. They decided to wait for her return. They were rather vexed. These were a vital item of clothing, specially designed to allow a cyclist to sit with comfort on a bicycle. They were also one of the most expensive pieces the travellers bought.</div><br />
<div></div><div>It was an hour or two before the owner returned. The travellers were waiting and this is where the trail ran dry. For, you see, the owner could not find them. They were not in her laundry machine, they were not sitting on any surface near the machine, she had employed a friend to hang out the clothes (the lady who had so judiciously done so) and this lady did not remember seeing a black garment with a green squishy inside. A search was conducted of the laundry area and rendered no sign upon the ground, or anywhere nearby. "</div><div></div><br />
<div>"The wind", interrupted Watson. "Surely Holmes the garment was simply carried away in the very strong wind."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"The travellers themselves suggested this, but Watson remember the friend has taken such care with the clothes. All the others remained upon the line. In addition she could name so many of the items involved but could not recollect the padded pantaloons. They conducted a very thorough search of the whole area and they could not be located."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"Then the owner stole the pantaloons. She guessed they were valuable and took them. "</div><div></div><br />
<div>"Come, come Watson. The travellers were at pains to point out how charming the owners appeared. Remember too, that the garment relates to a very specific activity. An activity not commonly undertaken. The garment would appear ugly and unappealing to anyone not seeking to cycle a very long way and its value would be obscured."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"Someone else stole them, perhaps?"</div><div></div><br />
<div>"If one presupposes that someone might want such a thing then it is possible. However, the area at the back of the hotel was fairly secluded. Who would have known they were there and why not take other items too?"</div><div></div><br />
<div>"I see your point. Then, they were destroyed in the machine, or maybe never made it into the machine in the first place."</div><br />
<div></div><div>Holmes smiled indulgently. "You are closer, Watson. Perhaps they indeed never made it into the machine. They were certainly not destroyed in it as that too was checked and the travellers searched all their own possessions with great care. They were sure they gave them to the owner."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"Oh Holmes, I do not know. The item cannot simply have vanished into thin air."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"Well, Watson, it seems that perhaps it did. That is exactly why the travellers have written to me. It is a terrible mystery. No solution could be found. They made a trip to the local constabulary to report them missing and spent a very interesting half an hour in the company of a young female officer of the Argentine force who helped them complete a report to present to their insurers here in London. They commented on her efficiency and how she seemed to measure up well to the criteria for policing posted on the wall of the office. She was the right height to be an Argentine police officer, she must have graduated at at least level three from her educational institution and she was obviously without record or blot herself. Her report however, is all they left town with. They never found the pantaloons and will have to carry on with their female cyclist reduced to using one pair."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"That sounds most inconvenient. But Holmes, I know you, I can see a glint in your eye. You know do you not, who is at the bottom of this strange tale."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"Not who, Watson, what."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"What?"</div><div></div><br />
<div>"What, Watson, what."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"You´ve lost me."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"There is a candidate for the theft that you have completely overlooked. A creature not a person."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"Go, on."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"The hound, Watson, the hound. The hound that lounged around. It was one of many, so perhaps is not the exact candidate, but there was a dog, Watson, on the premises. I know you are fond of the canine kind but they have a propensity for sneaking soft spongy items to play with and `kill´. I would wager that whilst the washing was sitting on the floor waiting to go into the machine the hound pounced and carried the pantaloons away. My suspicion is confirmed by the fact that the owner herself mentioned that sometimes the dogs carry washing away."</div><div></div><br />
<div>"Good Lord Holmes. No!"</div><div></div><br />
<div>"I fear so, Watson, I fear so. No other explanation is possible. I suspected an arch-paw from the very first moment the crime was revealed. The Hound of the Rio-Mayovilles. That is what this case must be called. The travellers will have to comfort themselves with this and no other solution".</div><div></div><br />
<div>And that, dear reader, is exactly what they did.</div></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-84541186084851902842010-12-06T18:13:00.012-03:002010-12-06T23:03:50.689-03:00Zephyrus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1xVlb8BliN1WcEAxPDa0QUyGanK-TAP89Z6Sd2wYDSHe4Icy9RfAVEOIt6pq7xXHeG01LnMqeWC7WJCoBplt01YZbSIwDsobBC5TlK640Z28BG-zPklcumi2G2cdKCuRWIdCu_t46dU/s1600/ST+2010-11-30+047.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547753553387794530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1xVlb8BliN1WcEAxPDa0QUyGanK-TAP89Z6Sd2wYDSHe4Icy9RfAVEOIt6pq7xXHeG01LnMqeWC7WJCoBplt01YZbSIwDsobBC5TlK640Z28BG-zPklcumi2G2cdKCuRWIdCu_t46dU/s200/ST+2010-11-30+047.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 112px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a> In Greek mythology the god of the west wind is Zephyrus.<br />
<div><div></div><br />
<div>Zephyrus is a handsome firm skinned youth with soft curly hair and gossamer gold tipped wings. He is considered generally to be sweet and gentle. He heralds balmy spring days, lightly kisses the cheeks of fair maidens and flutters the fronds of plants and trees in a playful, delicate manner. He is a wind you welcome with open arms. </div><div></div><br />
<div>He is a good wind.</div><div></div><br />
<div>Well, dear lovers of the classics, I have news for you.</div><div></div><br />
<div>NO HE AIN´T!! </div><div></div><br />
<div>He is a bad, bad, baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad wind.</div><div></div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div>I know we´ve gone on and on about the wind, and I would forgive you for being bored, but it really will be the thing I´ll struggle most to convey effectively to those who are at home. </div><br />
<div></div><div>The wind in Patagonia is unbelievable.</div><br />
<div></div><div>I´m with the Greeks though in making the wind into a person. It should be personified because to me it really feels like a living creature. It takes on a life and a personality all of its own.</div><div></div><br />
<div>My Zephyrus though isn´t a sweet boyband dreamboat. My Zephyrus is an angry aging celebrity rock star with sagging skin and a cigarette-addled shout. </div><br />
<div></div><div>This is how my Zephyrus behaves.</div><br />
<div></div><div>He is very inconsistent and keeps odd hours. Sometimes he will sleep until lunchtime before suddenly rising with a sore head and stamping about and shouting at his cowering staff. Othertimes he is still up at dawn, having partied all night long, and although in a good mood is rushing around sending orders this way and that and keeping exhausted minions from their beds. </div><br />
<div></div><div>He blows hot and cold. He can be all warm and rather fierce in his intense embrace or frostily furious pouring cold scorn on anyone in his path.</div><br />
<div></div><div>When he is up, you are up. He is relentless in his intensity and he has sudden creative bursts when he is rushes around madly for a minute or two and grabs at every idea, at every creative impulse.</div><div></div><br />
<div>He is extremely violent. He has a tendency to trash anything in his way if he is in a rage. He whips himself into a frenzy of destruction that means the safest place to escape to is the floor where you lie down hoping to miss the raining debris and pray hard not to get stamped on. Even his fun behaviour can be terrifying. If he slaps you on the back it is a bit too hard, if he shuts the car door it is with a slam, if he pushes you onto the dancefloor you struggle to keep your footing.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And most of all he is noisy. Very, very noisy. He specialises in music of the relentless teens-in-the-garage variety all banging drums, clashing sounds and rather yelled lyrics. He yells and yells and yells. He jumps and writhes and wrings the life out of his guitar, often finishing with the sort of finale that involves banging it on the stage. He no longer knows how to be quiet and is only dulled into submission occasionally when mellowing narcotics prevail. Otherwise, if he is around, be prepared to be able to hear him and only him for hours on end.</div><br />
<div></div><div>You see, no mild mannered winged creature he. I think the Greeks would have characterised this West wind better as one of their rogue or tempest winds. These they called ´deamons´. And the winds we have encountered since leaving Esquel certainly fall into the demonic catagory.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We were leaving the land of evergreens, floral luxury and clear blue lakes for the wastelands of the Patagonian steppe. The landscaped changed almost immediately from all that lushness to bleak beige sand and low scrubby bushes of muted green and brown. Every plant is tiny and looks as if it dare not grow any taller. </div><br />
<div></div><div>And that is because of the mean West wind. </div><br />
<div></div><div>We were venturing back into the area which had defeated us before where the wind had just been too strong to cycle in, trying to beat the direction by coming from the North. Looking at our maps it is easy to see why this area is so at the mercy of the elements. Sailors call this part of the Southern Hemisphere the `Roaring Forties´because at the 40s latitudes there is almost no land mass to get in the way of the winds swishing around the globe. Nothing but this jutting section of South America which gets to bear the whole brunt.</div><br />
<div></div><div>As we set off, Zephyrus swung into action straight away. Travelling from Esquel to Tecka he got behind us and gave us a great big shove. The sensation is similar to when you are first learning to cycle and your Mum or Dad, just after taking off your stabilisers, give you a hearty push to send you careering on your way. You feel not entirely in control of the bike. But you go very quickly and the first 48 kilometres out of Esquel were knocked off in just over two hours.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Then however we had to turn slightly to the right and have Zephyrus come a bit over our shoulders. That is when things started to get more interesting. Then the enthusiastic parent morphed into a devilish sibling, the sort who enjoys catching you out with a sudden shove to see if you will fall off your bike wailing onto the pavement. In order to avoid this you have to bike at an angle, leaning into the wind and struggling hard with your down-wind arm to keep the bike travelling in something like a straight line.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And as the wind winds itself up, resting becomes almost impossible. There is nowhere to hide in a landscape without barriers of any sort. For lunch on this first day we tried eating in a sort of ditch on a bend. However it turned into a wind tunnel with sand blowing at us from everywhere and making every bite of our sandwiches unnaturally crunchy. We lasted about ten minutes. Whilst we were lodging there, a coach went by and I was hugely amused by a woman on the top deck who seeing our bikes lying by the road, and the two of us cowering on the ground, dropped her jaw with cartoon like horror, put her hands to her face and I imagine gasped.</div><br />
<div></div><div>So, instead of being reduced to a side show, we sped on. We rested only once more on the whole trip, where we shovelled in the rest of our sarnies, making it to Tecka rather battered and filthy at about 6pm.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Ah, Tecka. First of the wind drenched towns. There is a particular look about these small places that are, by most people´s standards, in the middle of nowhere. It is utterly surprising to happen upon them and they have a slightly eerie feel. First, like the steppe plants, they are all very low. Almost no buildling rises above one storey. They can´t! Secondly, because of the weather conditions most people stay inside and so no-one is occupying the dusty roads. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Being in these places, you realise the civilising power of tarmac or paving. It makes places feel a bit more permanent as if, by laying a road, you stake a claim on the landscape and bend it a bit to your will. In Tecka that hasn´t happened and so the sand blows around in vicious little twisters making you wonder if one day a particularly violent storm will whip the whole lot away.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We found the local hospedaje. It wasn´t easy. In this town hiding from Zephyrus it was squirrelled away behind a shop. It was quite probably being run on the sly, with no book for us to sign into and no sign above the door. But we didn´t mind. It was warm and wind free. </div><br />
<div></div><div>The hunt for dinner was equally opaque. A tiny building, with a few names of food stuffs scrawled in black pen oddly on the outside wall, served as the Casa de Comidas. It was like a Masonic lodge. It looked completely closed and we almost walked away. However, we had the door unlocked for us and were fed in the minute dining area along with three ancient locals and a truck driver. Food was delivered to our waiter by hands belonging to an unseen body through a little hole in the wall. It was all extremely strange. </div><br />
<div></div><div>The greatest contact we made in the town was with the hospedaje owner's dog. He liked you to throw stones for him and indicated this by placing them on your foot and then waiting. It seemed he could play the stone game for hours at a time. I guess you have to make your own entertainment in a place like Tecka.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Gobernador Costa, which we wobbled to in a similarly wind propelled high speed and jaunty angle manner the following day, had comparable qualities. The same empty streets and dust strewn humans but a bit more to keep them occupied. Gob Costa (as it is reduced to) had both a Museum and Library, both of which we launched into and hugely enjoyed. It also had brilliant shops that, presumably due to the town´s size, multi-tasked. We were so thrilled to imagine what the inside of an establishment that was both a stationers and a bike shop could look like that we just had to go inside. One side had brightly coloured note paper and boxes of pens, the other side had tyres and spanners. Of course. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Very importantly though Gob Costa had an YPF. Those petrol stations from heaven with coffee and snacks and wi-fi. And it was lucky that it did because, although we didn´t know it when we arrived, we were going to have to spend a bit longer in Gob Costa than planned. </div><br />
<div></div><div>You see, Zephyrus got angry and had one of his proper tantrums. We were sitting having dinner in the restaurant of our brilliant motel, run by Rosa, the most charming, and smallest, lady imaginable, when our attention was drawn to his furious shouts. The wind was blasting against the window, banging to be let in. Over the road it was harrassing a street sign. It had previously been standing quite still, and looking all wooden and strong, but now it was wobbling like a boxer in his corner trying to recover enough strength to go another round.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And the following morning Zephyrus was at it again. We gingerly cycled to the edge of town, all kitted up and ready to go, only to have to stop because we couldn´t stay on the bikes. We couldn´t even keep hold of them. I´ll have you know that Philip Bingham is a jolly strong chap and so you can image how appalled I was to watch him having his bike literally ripped out of his hand by a blasting side swipe from our winged westerly combatent.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We took forty minutes to drag ourselves back down the road to our former lodging, Zephyrus punching us the whole way, where our hostess greeted us with open arms and a concerned motherly look. She had gone out, attempted a trip to the corner, nearly been blown over and gone back in!</div><div></div><br />
<div>We went back in too and, like children who have been told that school is unexpectedly closed, watched TV sitting on our bed for most of the rest of the day.</div><br />
<div></div><div>With relief the following morning, Zephyrus had decided to chill out a bit and spend the day ambling about instead of hurtling around. He didn´t get going really until lunchtime and then he had the grace to mainly dance his merry dance at our backs. This was lucky as we had decided to try for a really Herculean distance by our standards. There was simply nowhere to hide our heads for a vast stretch of road and so we knew we had to go a long way. We set ourselves the target of Facundo, 174 kilometres away. Our longest day previously had been 123 kms. But we really didn´t fancy a night in the desert with nothing but a light bit of canvas to protect us so we decided to give the distance a shot.</div><br />
<div></div><div>It was a big undertaking and it was very hard work. Zephyrus was sometimes with us, sometimes satanically against us but nine and a half hours of sitting on the bikes later we pushed into the town.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Facundo was another place in hiding. This time in the bottom of a valley. It was its only chance of existing in such a wind blasted spot. A town of 200 human souls, it had everything a tiny place needs including a Municipal Alberge. The policeman told us where to find Blanca who settled us in there. It was basic but perfect. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Everyone knew everyone and Elvira, who made us some dinner told us that she knew we were on our way into town well before we arrived. Both Blanca and Elvira asked us very searching questions about where our lives were going and what we were up to. Clearly gossip was afoot. Despite then Facundo being in hiding from Zephyrus there wasn´t in fact anywhere to hide once you got there!</div><br />
<div></div><div>We had really reached a properly remote part of the world. A part where so few folk choose to reside that becoming familiar, as we would discover over the next few days, is not tricky to achieve.</div><br />
<div></div><div>The next day took us West to Rio Mayo. We had been wrestling for days with which way to head further into Patagonia. Our choices were down to head East to the coast of Argentina and more wind or west into Chile to colder weather, lots of rain and ripio but hopefully no wind.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We had chosen West and would make our turn just outside Facundo where the road divided.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Zephyrus had other plans however.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We tried leaving Facundo by the most direct route but his hideous power meant we kept falling off our bikes on the gravel road. So we retreated to the tarmac to try another way and did well until the directly western turn. Here the headwind was so bananas that after just a few kilometres we were brought to an enforced stop.</div><br />
<div></div><div>It was horrible. It is so hard to describe the ludicrous power we faced. Imagine every reporter you have ever seen making his last broadcast in a hurricane before having to retreat into the news van and beat a hasty retreat. That is about the right level. The wind was so loud that we couldn´t hear each other speaking!</div><br />
<div></div><div>We realised we had to get out of there but were at a loss as to which was to go. Should we push on West to Rio Mayo or turn tail and let the wind blow us East and face the music on the coastal side. It was properly dispiriting. Having come so far and become fit enough to be able to travel a long way on our bikes, up hill and down dale, to be stopped is very hard.</div><br />
<div></div><div>But that is the power of the wind. I guess that is why the Greeks, the Norse, the Celts and so many other cultures have turned labelled it a god. Sometimes the gods just decide your fate. Major historical events have turned because of the wind. The English were invaded by the French just at their weakest moment in 1066 when the winds turned to the Norman's advantage. The English were saved by the 'Protestant' wind in 1588 when it turned the Spanish Armada away. Sometimes you win, sometimes you loose.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We chewed it over and in the end we decided to continue West to Rio Mayo (another 40kms) and reassess there. It took us nearly three hours to get a lift which finally came in the form of the heroic Pablo and his little white van. Bumping down the road he left us in Argentina's sheep shearing capital (oh yes!) at its YPF. This YPF was so wind battered that its sign had long since blown away but it was the usual haven of coffee and comfort. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Another local hotel called and we settled wearily in knowing we had come to a real crossroads. Lots of fun and larks in Rio Mayo lay ahead but as we collapsed onto our bed one thing and one thing only was on our mind. Zephyrus was howling away outside and impossible to ignore.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Which way were we going to turn our sails next?</div></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-54946015124359579412010-12-04T21:21:00.003-03:002010-12-05T19:24:57.496-03:00Winding it up again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwTu6frRDhHFXfBb6wGqR6jyQXGdrAJ0RnLI13vCP1xzkHTl2sgXxzo3XXD0HtBOYgf3uyAdlUCYOuXO7Oub5BaBq-xBDdtSnNjyRzlAdw1ChMMPYUVjZdlV6tgC_2O8OE20PekF3Pl8Ff/s1600/2010-11-25+001+2010-11-25+011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwTu6frRDhHFXfBb6wGqR6jyQXGdrAJ0RnLI13vCP1xzkHTl2sgXxzo3XXD0HtBOYgf3uyAdlUCYOuXO7Oub5BaBq-xBDdtSnNjyRzlAdw1ChMMPYUVjZdlV6tgC_2O8OE20PekF3Pl8Ff/s200/2010-11-25+001+2010-11-25+011.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Our poor bikes. Martin and La Pinguina, our trusty and beloved steeds for over 9,000km to the Mexican border, must have thought it was about time for a <em>proper</em> rest. OK, so they had a few days puffing and steaming in California whilst we rambled around in a car. But almost before the stiffness had eased from their spokes and chains, there they were back in another cardboard box; frozen in a couple of aeroplane holds; shoved in and out of Buenos Aires taxis and then - as if all that wasn´t enough - thrown onto an overnight bus down to Patagonia. We really should be kinder to them. They have been extraordinarily good to us.<br />
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But there is no rest for the wicked, not even the remarkably resilient steel-framed wicked. Their holiday will have to wait for now. They did at least get a full overhaul in Bariloche and looked as good as new. But we are back on the road again.<br />
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This is the final leg of what has become a complicated route. We set off from Bariloche a couple of weeks ago. We took the road South on which we had originally hoped - but for that Tierra del Fuego wind - that we would have come North. We are now attempting to get to the bottom of Argentina so as to have a pretty dotted line on our map to show for it. The kind that belongs on one of those ancient weatherbeaten maps that Phileas Fogg or Indiana Jones might appreciate.<br />
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And so we climbed onto Martin and La Pinguina as the sun shone out of a deep blue sky and headed South. If we are honest, a small part of both of us was thinking "why"? We had already been a long way, and experienced the kind of trip that only the luckiest few can. It might have made sense to quit while we were ahead. But we were both keen to get to the bottom of Argentina, a country whose least visited parts we have spent so many months discovering this year. We liked the idea of using the wind to our advantage this time (we hope). And, frankly, we´re both pretty stubborn. Oh, and there´s also the small matter of ´reality´ that neither of us feels a crushing urge to return to <em>just</em> yet.<br />
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Within the first kilometre, we were pushing the bikes. Those hills to get out of Bariloche are not to be trifled with. The view over Lake Nahuel Huapi was spectacular, but as we sweated our way up it was an instant reminder that this section was to be no pushover. Fortunately, however, we were in for a magical next few days.<br />
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As soon as we were out of town, we found ourselves cruising along between explosions of roadside 10ft high yellow gorse, bordering lakes so vividly blue that it made you think you were cycling across some kind of impossibly huge Boca Juniors shirt. That first day was a tale of cloudless skies, perfect temperatures, the deepest pine greens, and distant snow-covered peaks.<br />
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And we were going faster. A crucial piece of advice we would give to anyone contemplating a long bike ride through South America is to do a long one through North America first. It´s all about units. In the USA, we had finally grown accustomed to miles. It had taken a while, and in the early weeks it was marginally morale-sapping to have to make do with 50 miles in a day rather than 80km. 80 just sounds better than 50. And to average just 10-11mph. But now that we were back in the land of the metric unit, it was all change. Suddenly, on smooth, empty tarmac we could cruise along at 18kph - a clear improvement on our speeds last time we were here. We appeared to be going places more quickly.<br />
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But that didn´t stop us marvelling at the flowers. Now, I am no David Bellamy. I can tell a daffodil from a crocus, and I´m pretty much there with lillies and hydrangeas, just don´t ask me for too much more detail than that. But I´m learning. You can´t fail to be intoxicated by Argentina´s wild flowers in spring. As that first day back in the saddle wore on, we hit lupin territory. At the risk of sounding like a botanist, lupins must surely be some of the prettiest flowers out there. And here they were by the roadside in such numbers that it almost made your eyes ache. Massive battallions of them, in every shade from deep purple to the palest pink, standing tall and elegant as if to say "Wilds of Patagonia, huh? Pah!" They were to accompany us for several days, and became etched on our memories.<br />
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That evening, we stopped early. We simply couldn´t pass the "camping" sign with the ghostly white tandem hanging from it. It was a sign! And sure enough, we enjoyed a wonderful night´s camping in an orchard protected from any wind by a thick line of poplars. The sun was still high in the sky, the grass soft and comfortable to sleep on, even the tent pegs went in easily. Being back on the road was good. So far!<br />
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Inside the lodge alongside the orchard, Raúl and Martha ran a wonderfully dishevelled but charming setup. Effectively a log cabin, it doubled as memorial to the indigenous people of El Foyel who, we learnt, were amongst the last to be duped into surrendering to the invading troops in the second half of the 19th century. We heard yet more disturbing stories about that era from Raúl that evening, as we launched into local trout ravioli and stout. We especially learnt as he held forth to a film crew who were the only other guests that night. They were interviewing him as part of a documentary about the history of the Argentina/Chile border for a Japanese television channel. And the sound girl, wielding a massive furry microphone, came from Acton. It´s an international old world out there!<br />
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Next day, we ran into our new Spanish friend Jose as we left. We had met him the previous day as he sunned himself by the roadside. He is cycling around central Argentina and Chile, and - having come off his bike early on in his trip and broken his arm - has had to shorten it somewhat. As a nurse, however, and not wanting to waste time, he decided to remove his cast after just three weeks. The last few weeks have been his convalescence! A great guy, with plenty of refreshing attitudes. Yet another reminder that with Spain´s economy in its current state, this year wasn´t a bad one for not being in Europe.<br />
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That day, however, we were on a roll and left him trailing somewhat - the wind caught us, the road seemed eternally downhill, and we hit a memorably delicious rhythm on the bikes. We only had about 50km to get to El Bolson, and it took us barely two hours. Two hours through idyllic valleys, past glacial meltwater streams straight out of mineral water adverts, tall waterfalls, and acres of lupins and gorse. We were there in time for lunch, time for (at least...) two doses of Jauja ice cream in their branch there, and time for relaxing in our charmingly diminutive guest house that felt like a cross between a set from a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale and a gnome´s house.<br />
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Next day, we left the province of Rio Negro and crossed the border into Chubut. Chubut is really where classic Patagonia begins. But not quite yet. We still had to endure most of the day through hillsides carpeted with pine forests, artesanal jam makers selling their wares from Swiss style log cabins, and yet more floral roadside delights. But the scenery was beginning to adjust. The snowcapped mountains were becoming rather more patchy now, more resembling a line of gigantic freisian cows. The lupins were beginning to give way to verdant bushes of small pink briar roses. Valleys were becoming flatter and rusty little settlements protected by poplars more the norm. We spotted a couple of herds of those mini-mountains being herded along the road by gauchos on horseback with their dogs.<br />
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As lunchtime rolled around, we saw Jose´s bike outside a small restaurant and joined him. Good thing we did, as that was the last place to eat for about 150km. The valley view out at the back was magically Alpine, but we resisted the (frankly minimal) temptation to join Jose on 100km of ripio, as recommended by several of our enthusiastic fellow lunchers.<br />
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Instead, we stuck with the considerable compensation of tarmac. We moved into harsher territory, although no less impressive in its own way. Trees disappeared, Patagonian scrub reappeared. The wind became less friendly and more blustery. Still nothing to worry about, but a factor once again. And it felt like it was all a steady climb. We were therefore more than relieved to find that it wouldn´t come to pitching the tent in the middle of nowhere.<br />
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Instead, we were once again treated impeccably by Argentina´s much maligned police force. The Leleque road police outpost is 80km or so from any real town, but Cristian is the man in charge, and from the moment we met him he was a delight. "Please, feel free to camp out at the back here; so nice to see you, you´re the first cyclists this season; the others usually go out there behind the trees, out of the wind...". A true gent.<br />
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He does shifts of 24 hours on, 48 hours off, and shares the spot with a group of forest firefighters, who came and went several times as a generic mass in the back of their bouncy old pickup. He joined them later for an hour of evening football nearby, but came back and was only too happy to offer us his bathroom to shower in. It was fascinating chatting with him as he explained the problems he has with Chilean truckers who don´t know how to use their brakes, insufficient budgets for icing or repairing the roads in winter, and why he loves it there, near his hometown. By the time we had enjoyed our dinner in the well sheltered garage, chatted with his venerable dog and her litter of puppies and taken to our tent, we felt thoroughly contented. Even the wind dropped, hospitably.<br />
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The following morning, we were woken by hot sun pouring in through the tent canvas. Another seemingly perfect day dawned. But it wasn´t to be quite as simple as that. Today, the wind returned with a vengeance. From the moment we pedalled away from Cristian and his colleague at their roadblock near their base, the wind appeared set on persecuting us. I say that, but in fact Liz handled it much more phlegmatically and patiently than me. To me, it just felt that all day, it was out to get us. Even after we had spent most of the morning climbing gradually, any downhills were hindered by that all too familiar thunderous noise of wind in our ears.<br />
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But there was compensation. Mid way through the morning, we spotted condors. These were the first we had seen that we were confident were indeed condors, and we stood by the road transfixed. Two flew close by overhead, and one came down to no more than 20m or so above the ground. Those telltale flared wing tips, barely needed to beat as they circled upwards on the air thermals. The elegant surfing on air and that overtone of silhouetted black menace. These are birds that can take lambs when they look for prey. It was thrilling to watch.<br />
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As the afternoon wore on, we were reduced to less than 10kph and struggled onwards across bleaker landscape than we had seen since the Peruvian desert. The wind sapped our energy and our will power. Dark grey clouds rolled in and the temperature dropped substantially. Thank goodness Liz was able to keep team spirits up. At one point I found it was marginally quicker to walk my bike for a kilometre or two. It wasn´t even really uphill. Grrr.<br />
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As we always do, however, we got to our destination in the end. Esquel was to be our base for three days, and by the time we rolled into town we were as broken as we had been in ages. The great thing about the sun setting after 9pm at this time of year is that you have time on your side. But boy, we needed it! As we finally paused to leaf through our trusty Lonely Planet for potential lodgings, we ran into Evo, and diminutive young Italiano who was whizzing like the Duracell bunny towards Chile.<br />
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It was he who prompted us to reconsider our options for how best to get South from Esquel. We spent much of the next three days pinned on the horns of a three way dilemma. The options were: the iconic but isolated, wind-pummelled, hilly and rough Ruta 40; the out-and-out bleakness but tarmac of wind-pummelled Ruta 3, the ´unbikeable road´; or finally, Evo´s route - Chile´s iconic, less isolated, less wind-pummelled, hilly, rough and potentially snowy and/or wet Carretera Austral. Option 3 was likely to involve at least two ferries and horses. Hmmm. You see the problem? By the end of three days of intense discussion, we thought option three sounded least bad. But it´s still under discussion!<br />
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We liked Esquel. On the second day, we rented a tiny car and headed to the nearby Parque Nacional Los Alerces, famous for its ancient alerce trees that have been compared to California´s sequoias. Whilst that particular comparison may be optimistic, the park itself is blissful. As we drove along beautifully maintained gravel roads, we wondered if anywhere could claim, in full confidence, that it is unarguably more stunning than here. Parts of Canada, maybe, New Zealand perhaps, Norway might have a shout. But this place must be right up the list. The colours of the fjord-like lakes, the intense green forest, clarity of the air and the light, the splashes of floral colour and the snowy mountains that act as a backdrop to it all. We had lunch on a deserted lakeside beach, and walked later that afternoon around a deserted trail that passed crystal clear rapids, rare ancient trees, mirror-still lake surfaces, and high Andean glaciars. And still that saffron yellow gorse at every turn. Very, <em>very</em> lovely.<br />
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We spent the rest of our time in Esquel poring over maps and guide books and eating excellent homemade pasta in our (rapidly identified) favourite confiteria. We went through our usual process in a new Argentine town: find a base, and then track down - in no particular order: the best ice cream in town, the YPF (coffee and breakfast medialunas, wifi), supermarket, cash machine, laundry, decent spots to eat, a good bread/cake shop, a bike shop, and the tourist information office. We succeeded on all these fronts.<br />
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We hunted down Bruce Chatwin´s favourite Old Patagonian Express, ´El Tronchito´, as it steamed nostalgically out of Esquel station, stuffed with tourists, on its twice weekly trip a few kilometres North up the line. Wonderful to see how perfectly maintained it is, a real example of how Argentina´s legacy can be taken full advantage of.<br />
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We also enjoyed pottering through the Plaza Mayor on one of their summer ´Culture Sundays´. This meant the main blocks being closed to all traffic larger than bikes and skateboards, demonstrations of folkloric dancing, kick boxing and volleyball, live local bands, chess competitions and empanada making on trestle tables. It was Esquel´s answer to a regular village fete. Everything you could wish for short of welly throwing or a coconut shy.<br />
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But it was time to push on South. After the comforts of those early days out of Bariloche, we knew it was only likely to get harder going for Martin and La Pinguina. It´s only a few hundred kilometres to go, but those bikes and their riders are going to have to earn them.<br />
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It´s all about that wind from now on.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-72528765685798924272010-12-01T21:56:00.000-03:002010-12-01T21:56:59.049-03:00Back in Argentina? Gorse we are<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFLg9hCIyhtFQLb6nr0PnWKbJAjOMak1goUcD7OijUBUFuPS3bZ6YkZulOww0aYhN0XCUUf7GfiT62otixa9w_FfB9m2g575qo_nCcOYj_WeI_FpPzibX2EeWjLNtu9GSadCQN04EHlmoR/s1600/ST+2010-11-22+018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFLg9hCIyhtFQLb6nr0PnWKbJAjOMak1goUcD7OijUBUFuPS3bZ6YkZulOww0aYhN0XCUUf7GfiT62otixa9w_FfB9m2g575qo_nCcOYj_WeI_FpPzibX2EeWjLNtu9GSadCQN04EHlmoR/s200/ST+2010-11-22+018.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>And so we reached the end of 10 special weeks in North America.<br />
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There was so little to dislike, so many truisms and fallacies about that part of the world disproved to us, so much to love about the West Coast. The bike lanes and considerate drivers, the Pinot Noir and fresh salmon up North, the Giant Redwoods, the drive-thru coffee stands, the great cities of Seattle, Vancouver, San Fran and LA, the raw and underdiscovered coastlines of Oregon and Washington, the beaches of SoCal. And just that ubiquitous cycling-is-good vibe pervading that side of the USA. We met a wonderful selection of characters along the way, and caught up with (and indeed introduced each other to!) several of our most important friends who live there. And then that mad week of Disneyland, Vegas and LA.<br />
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By the time we arrived at LAX on November 14th, complete with our now familiar caravan of cheap/old/unwanted/large suitcases and heavily taped bike boxes, it had almost become a blur. But one that it was time to move on from.<br />
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We were jolted back to reality by the practicalities of avoiding being charged for excess baggage. Amazingly, Avianca, Colombia´s impressive national airline, allowed the bikes on for free. And we sneaked under the luggage weight allowance thanks to my subtle (I think) and cramp-inducing foot levering whilst the cases sat on the scales. No matter, we got away with it.<br />
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As we took off, we banked away from fabulous views over the LA coast that we had been cycling down just a few days previously. We flew South over part of Mexico´s Baja California that we might have been cycling were it not for political and time concerns. We couldn´t quite hear the gunfire emanating that everyone warned us about, but it looked dry and barren and empty. We reckoned it was something that could wait.<br />
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Our transfer in Bogota was a thing of almost poetic elegance and comfort. Indeed Bogota airport, despite heavy rain falling outside, put the rather jaded LAX completely in the shade. And astonishingly, we managed to find not only a camera to replace the one that had been attacked the previous night by an aggressive Venice Beach bannister, but also a pair of sunglasses for Liz. An hour and a half later we were airborne again. Sitting in those exit seats, with our legs stretched out, we felt like globetrotters David and Victoria Beckham.<br />
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Neither of us slept, however, and by the time we touched down in Buenos Aires the morning sun was rising in the sky over Ezeiza and we were feeling distinctly woolly headed. Fortunately for all concerned, our comically smooth passage continued. All of our luggage was already on the carousel by the time we came through immigration. In moments, we were back at the same airport cafe table that we had sat at on February 4th, drinking the same overpriced cafes cortados and rubbing our eyes only marginally less bewildered than all those months ago.<br />
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The deja vu didn´t stop there - sitting in our minivan taxi into town, with the boxes and cases (and Liz) in the self same configuration as in February, it really took some processing. When we arrived the first time, our intention had been to head North from Tierra del Fuego, and just keep going. We never expected to be back in Buenos Aires, far less to be arriving again by aeroplane. And yet here we were, in spring sunshine, buzzing past the Aerolineas Argentinas and Movistar billboards and greenery en route to the grey blocks that flank the autopista nearer central Buenos Aires. Weird. It was all so familiar, and so carefully planned from North America, and yet so surprising to be there.<br />
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We made it to the wonderful haven of the Sibbalds´ flat in Palermo, where Toya charitably put up with our jetlagged gibbering for a couple of hours as she packed for the weekend. That shower was one of the more important ones of the trip, for we were soon back out on the pavement hunting vainly for suitable sized taxi to take us to Retiro Bus Terminal. Nearly an hour later, we were both close to passing out from exhaustion and still no sign. Time was running out, an our deliciously hatched plan was looking like hitting the rocks.<br />
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Not so. Along came our knight in shining armour (or rather, a Renault Kangoo) and bundled us in. In our mild state of delirium, it was hard to be sure we weren´t hallucinating, but the extraordinary purple colour of the flowering jacaranda lining Buenos Aires´ broad avenues was almost blinding. Everything was that kind of vibrant green that only spring can provide.<br />
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As was the light at the bus station - almost before we knew it, the bikes and cases were in the safe hands of Via Bariloche and at 3pm sharp we were settling into our deliriously comfortable flat bed seats on the lower deck of the bus, whirring past the docks of Puerto Madero and out onto the lush green pampas outside BA. I barely made it through the wedding scene of ´What Happens in Vegas´ before I was asleep.<br />
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The bus journey was 21 hours, but rarely can a bus journey have been more appreciated. We both slept for more than half of it, and spent the rest of the time watching DVDs on our individual screens, gazing out of the window at the changing scenery, eating the trays of food brought to us, and sipping on the Scotch the steward gave us before bedtime. Who wants the Orient Express when you can have Via Bariloche?<br />
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Pulling into Bariloche´s bus terminal, the air was fresh and springlike, the sun warm, the mountains still snowcapped on the far side of Lake Nahuel Huapi, and huge yellow bursts of flowering gorse were everywhere you turned. It was almost as though the town had been built in a field of oil seed rape. Squinting slightly, and at leisurely pace, we arranged a camioneta taxi and a small apartment to spend a few days recuperating and preparing for the next leg. The flat was priceless: a few blocks up the hill from the town centre, it was a perfect throwback to the 1950s, complete with rattly gas hob, faded formica kitchen cupboards, well aged vinyl floor and a sliding door into the bathroom. But it was just the ticket for our purposes.<br />
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We spent five days in and around Bariloche. There was no rest for the wicked when we arrived. We´d hoped to be there in time to coincide with Stu and Laura Seymour, whose wedding in England we had sadly missed the previous weekend and who were on honeymoon in Argentina. And sure enough, when we wandered down to the appointed bar later that evening, there were the Happy Couple, Laura giving Stu some lessons in gin rummy over a large cold Quilmes.<br />
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Having used Via Bariloche to recharge our batteries, we had a fantastic evening with them, starting with a celebratory bottle of fizzy Chandon overlooking the lake, followed by an exceptional parrilla during which Stu managed to retain his unblemished record of ´at least one steak every day´ with some aplomb, and topped off by our return to the Holy Shrine of Jauja - the best ice cream in the world. Well, I say our return. Obviously we hadn´t waited <em>that</em> many hours to go back. We´d been for our traditional 1/4 kilo already that afternoon.<br />
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Next day, we were collected by Seymour Limousine Services (OK, perhaps limousine might be overstating it slightly) and headed off as a team of four to explore. It was a joy, for one thing, to be in a car, with Stu taking the strain on the driving front. We spent much of the day bumping happily along a narrow ripio road to and from the Ventisquero Negro - or Black Glaciar. One of the mild irritations about North America had been the whole ´World´s Only´ thing. In the case of this glaciar, however, it was hard to refute the uniqueness.<br />
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We marvelled at the deep brown/grey of the iceflow, the icebergs bobbing in the water beneath it looking for all the world like giant brownie chunks in chocolate milk. Above that glaciar were the menacing overhangs of the more traditional glaciars of Cerro Tronador. Stringy waterfalls of meltwater cascaded down the rock faces high above us, and distant condors circled on the thermals from the black craggy cliffs. Throw in the bright green spring foliage of the trees around us and the deep blue sky and it made for one of the most invigorating views we have seen on the whole trip.<br />
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We headed back to Stu and Laura´s fabulously stylish and cosy lodge a few kilometres the other side of Bariloche above the lakeshore where they generously treated us to a great dinner. We may not have improved the romance quotient of their honeymoon, but we loved seeing them and being eased so enjoyably back into all things Argentine. By the time we went to bed that night, we were starting to believe that we were indeed back.<br />
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The next few days were invaluable to us. Grey clouds rolled in and the wind blew and we did not venture outside town. We did, however, achieve plenty. Emails were written, photographs updated, bikes rebuilt (a now well-honed five hour process to get them really squeeky clean and ready for action), food bought, pizza eaten, wine drunk, wedding presents arranged, camping gas restocked. It began to feel quite like home in the end.<br />
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Thereagain, anywhere we have spent a few days on this trip has begun to feel like home. Indeed, having spent the night in over 180 different places so far, anywhere we don´t move on from the next day usually qualifies as home. We have ´lived in´ a lot of places.<br />
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But Bariloche does have a special something about it. Its setting is unique, its pre-season vibe relaxed and sophisticated, its people bright and cheerful and active, much as you might find in an off season Chamonix. We have spent several days there twice now, on this trip, and in a way it has become the fulcrum of South America to us. By the time our departure date dawned, however, we were well prepared to move on.<br />
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And so, for the second time this year, we pedalled away from Bariloche, Patagonia bound. Only this time we were heading South.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-29318733515009555882010-12-01T21:54:00.002-03:002010-12-04T12:40:33.627-03:00The Good, The Bad and The Ugly<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4c7u9KdYUWXAwuDSavM3FgpyP3vjtxZPyT8Sd00SsfMK5nRrFvYVbfi5_KjoC9mQAfF817CBjldO2xVdPr2jCNAq9OfvPmOcEZDUlGrHsx7MOiGPAu_crqgedZNjZXFbT2KPiKgMoYcg/s1600/2010-11-12+001+2010-11-12+010.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545874663556143122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4c7u9KdYUWXAwuDSavM3FgpyP3vjtxZPyT8Sd00SsfMK5nRrFvYVbfi5_KjoC9mQAfF817CBjldO2xVdPr2jCNAq9OfvPmOcEZDUlGrHsx7MOiGPAu_crqgedZNjZXFbT2KPiKgMoYcg/s200/2010-11-12+001+2010-11-12+010.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a> The first improbability about Las Vegas is that it exists at all. The second is that its name means 'the meadows'.<br />
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<div><div>As we approached it after dark, heading East across the desert, there seemed absolutely no likelihood that a city could exist in the middle of such a desolate area. More pertinently it was impossible that something as lush as a meadow was on the cards. It was all very Wild West. Vast and empty and harsh.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We were heading in the Ford 'Escape' to seek out the riches of this town as part of our six day frolic through the sunny sillinesses of the south western USA. We had visited Disneyland, we were going to Vegas and our final stop was going to be LA. We were enjoying ourselves at the end of our cycling and I was excited to visit Vegas since I had never really seen it.<br />
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</div><div></div><div>And I wasn't at all convinced that I was going to now! I really couldn't imagine it being there. However just after we crossed the state line into Nevada from California we got our first hint that a sizable inhabitation was round the corner. </div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div>We were greeted in Nevada by the town of Primm. A more inaccurate name for a town has surely never been invented. As soon as the gambling law gloves are off Nevada takes advantage of the situation and Primm is a hot bed of vice and sin. Glowing in front of us was 'Whiskey Willie's' and 'Terrible's Casino' and looming behind them an enormous rollercoaster. 'Free Drinks', 'First $10 stake supplied', 'Rooms free with Casino entrance' were the enticing invitations. I guess it was a place for those who couldn't make it as far as Vegas to get stuck in.</div><br />
<div></div><div>As we whizzed on by a strange celestial light appeared on the horizon. An earthly kind of glow that looked as if it eminated from the belly of a UFO. Vegas proper was hoving into view. We crested a hill and suddenly there it was laid out in front of us, like an enormous glowing mess of tea leaves in the bottom of a huge mountian tea cup. It was at least 20 miles away still and yet its light spill was making it possible to read things in the car.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We were able to spot our hotel from this far away as well. The Luxor, shaped like a pyramid, has a huge spotlight on top of it which shoots a beam of light into the sky that can be seen all over the Las Vegas valley and from far beyond. We could spot it easily from the car. At forty two billion candle power it is supposed to be the brightest spotlight on earth. Rather less edifyingly, it burns the same amount of electricity in an hour as the average US household take two weeks to get through. Which seems excessive.</div><br />
<div></div><div>But then as we were very shortly about to discover that excess is what Vegas is ALL about. </div><br />
<div></div><div>We pulled into the huge car park for our hotel, travelled on a moving walkway into its ground floor and gawped. Suddenly it was just like all the films. All the flims I had ever seen about this town. There were banks and banks and banks of slot machines, there were black jack and roulette tables and there were girls in improbably small outfits trundling about with silver trays heaving with alcoholic drinks. Lights flashed everywhere, cars and motorobikes perched on podiums or shined from within boxes, music boomed and reception was nowhere to be seen.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We finally found it right on the opposite side. It was reminiscent of check-in at Heathrow Terminal Five, although rather less glamorous, with a weird snaking ropeway for us to wriggle through and banks of desks. With our key came a great pile of leaflets and a map with which to navigate the hotel. We scurried to our room to inspect our loot and discovered that most of what we had been handed were inticements or adverts encouraging us to do things.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Here is the list of things you are encouraged to do in Vegas. You are encouraged to do all of them to excess:</div><br />
<div></div><div>1. Eat - at one of the inumerable buffets. These come in a number of forms from the worryingly cheap to impressively expensive and can be on a meal by meal basis or enjoyed with an 'all day' pass. That is so that you can eat all day if you wish. All day, without ever leaving the buffet.</div><br />
<div></div><div>2. Drink - happy hours are available all day. There are a million promotions encouraging you to imbibe, some come with gambling chips thrown in, most come with dancing girls in attendence, all contain supersize alcohol options.</div><br />
<div></div><div>3. Gamble - Clearly this should be number one on the list, but the first two are provided so that you can enjoy this third in comfort and very possibly inebriation. There is a very direct correlation between the amount you are encouraged to drink and the amount you are encouraged to gamble. In fact you can drink alcohol for free whilst gambling.</div><br />
<div></div><div>4. Shop - So that you can dress appropriately for all the above activities there are shops everywhere. Everywhere is in fact a shop and there are an extraordinary number of malls. These malls contain all the usual labels and all the super labels and some items of such expense that clearly success at all of the first three is required for you to be brave enough to splash out.</div><br />
<div></div><div>5. Gawp - When you need a rest from the exhausting pursuits listed above you can go to a show in Vegas. Huge names perform here or have performed here. Singers, magicians, comedians. In addition to those there are musicals and circuses, wild animals on display and rare fish in tanks and fountains that dance and girls that do too. You can see it all. All at a cost.</div><br />
<div></div><div>6. Party - Nightclubbing, bar hopping, room swapping, any kind of party you want to start you can start it and someone will help you host it. And then send you the bill.</div><br />
<div></div><div>7. Get married - It won't take long, and it might not last long either, but you can do it, anytime of the day or night and people you have never met are happy to witness it and cash your cheque.</div><br />
<div></div><div>8. Lie in the sun, lie in the spa - both are available in abundance. Both may be necessary to recover from any of the above.</div><br />
<div></div><div>9. Thrill yourself - Ride an enormous roller coaster, get thrown off a tall building on a piece of string or spun around or dropped from a horrible height.</div><br />
<div></div><div>10. Theme yourself -You can immerse yourself in any one of the myriad 'worlds' that exist in Vegas. Hotels and resorts are built around concepts, be they fairytale castle, mock up city or simply just how over the top or enormous they can be. You never need worry about being disorientated though, they all have casinos and branches of all the shops you know and love.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We surveyed this list of options in our Egytian themed hotel room, looking out over the rear end of a concrete sphynx and decided to do something not on the list.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We decided to go for a walk.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Fools that we were, we thought we might stroll out of our hotel and check out the 'Strip', the long line of hotels that runs along Las Vegas Boulevard. We had failed to realise that whilst there are many things you can do in Vegas walking is not amongst them. </div><br />
<div></div><div>It is virtually impossible to get anywhere with any speed on foot. It is actively discouraged. You are meant to move from hotel to hotel, from casino to casino by monorail, by taxi or by using your own car. If you must walk then you should not try and do it outside. You should move from place to place through the connecting maze of shopping malls and stay indoors at all times. You must follow the signs to other hotels and join the moving travelators or foot bridges that run between them. You may scratch your head that most signs lead you in an almost complete circle past all the gambling, eating, drinking, shopping, gawping, thrilling options en route but you should not fear because eventually you will get there. You may travel a bird's eye distance of only a few yards in what seems like hours, but don't be afraid because time is meaningless in Vegas. Inside some hotels it is permanent daylight, or daylight inside when it is night out and night inside when reality is reversed. </div><br />
<div></div><div>IT IS SO WEIRD!</div><br />
<div></div><div>So, feeling slightly disorientated on that first evening we walked a very short distance. We looked right down the Strip at its reported fifteen thousand miles of neon lighting and then bundled ourselves into a burger joint for a quick un-buffet dinner.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We didn't need to worry about leaving hungry though despite the fact that we had to order what we wanted. 'Fat Burger' have made plenty of provision for excess. It is the first time in my life I have ordered food using a dress size system. Burgers are small, medium, large, extra extra large or 'bring a wheel barrow'. Phil and I ordered according to our size and left groaning under the weight of grub. We needed to walk it off and so it was lucky that the quarter of a mile back to our hotel was in reality about five.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We slunk into our hotel room and got ready to undertake Vegas<strong> properly</strong> over the next thirty-six hours. We were preparing fully to really go for it on the silliness front. We looked at the list, made a plan of attack and then did another very un-Vegassy thing. We got an early night.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We woke with renewed vigour and began our day in a buffet. The Luxor breakfast buffet seemed like it would offer us everything we needed and we were right. We piled into mountains of fruit and other tasty offerings fuelling ourselves all the while on sizable amounts of coffee. There was literally everything we could have wanted available. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Then we took to the Strip. We had decided to explore the hotels near us and then head right to the other end by monorail before returning to the middle for the last part of the day. We planned just to look at it all and gawp as instructed.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And so it was that leaving the glamours of Egypt we went to the exotic Mandalay Bay, a hotel with a gold interior, a huge casino, a shark tank and a massive theatre where one can see the Lion King. Then it was on via the Excaliber and waving to New York New York, to the MGM Grand, the largest hotel in the world, where we saw real lions and another big casino. Then on by Monorail to the Stratosphere where the casino is topped by a huge tower which we whizzed up and got a great view over the whole city. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Vegas lay before us by day baking in the desert sun all parched and dry and massively and continuously under construction. Beyond there were extraordinarily beautiful mountains looking on bemused at the desert of taste nestling in their midst.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We jumped in a cab (getting good at Vegas now) and rushed to the Bellagio where under an extraordinary chandelier of bright glass flowers we met up with Garth and Dee, our Canadian biking friends who were winding down from the coastal route with a bit of Vegasing too. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Together we launched on a trail of Italian luxury passing through the Bellagio to Ancient Rome at Ceasar's Palace. Here the curving escalators and Forum of luxury shops led us on for yet more 'bella' diversions at the Venetian where the odd internal daylight allowed us to stroll along their recreations of the Grand Canal and St Mark's square. </div><br />
<div></div><div>It was hilarious. Some of these places are amazing and quite beautiful in their audacious over the topness, others are pricelessly trashy. We were loving it.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We then all headed for perhaps the only properly glam spot in town at the Wynn hotel. Here 'theme' has been suspended in favour of sumptuousness and, if one can ignore yet another huge casino, it is luxury in a very pleasing way. We whiled away a very happy hour or two sipping delicious cocktails and gossiping by an enormous and beatifully lit waterfall. They even put on some quirky and inventive light shows for us. It was very cool.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Then we went to Paris. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Well, actually to the hotel of the same name. There we ate in a very nice restaurant under the Eiffel Tower which, if its waiter had been rather less California in his ebulliance and accent, was a dead ringer for a small side street bistro in that famed city.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Finally we took a deep breath and we rounded the night off with a spot of gambling.</div><br />
<div></div><div>I should emphasis the 'spot'. It was super light weight gambling. With only $32 as a stake we nudged nervously to a roulette table. We were too freaked out to bet straight away and had to watch for a bit before getting up the courage. Then Stacey, who was the croupier on our table, had to explain to us, slightly long sufferingly, what we had to do! We listened carefully, dived in with gusto and twenty minutes of heady thrills later we left the table with....$32. As you can see we really took to it like ducks to water!</div><br />
<div></div><div>We had had a great day. We had done just about everything on the list, with one notable and probably wise exception (I'll leave you to check) and waved off Dee and Garth really very respectably late. It had been great to see them.</div><br />
<div></div><div>The following day, nursing slight hangovers, we rounded off our Vegas experience with another buffet. This time, back at the Wynn, it was a very delicious and varied delight. The food was incredibly good and we ate an awful lot of it. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Dining to such excess we reflected on the madness of Vegas. We had seen so much that was so extraordinary, so sublimely ridiculous. Yet the concept of making these massive adult playgrounds, some so extravagantly conceived, is such a contradictory one. In some cases it is odd and beautiful; in others it is odd and really very horrid. The ugliest part of it all had been for us the disposible, wasteful and temporary nature of everything. Stay in the prescribed pathways and you will only see the 'glamour'. Wander away even slightly and the whole sham comes crashing down. We had accidentally found ourselves on some back stairways in a couple of hotels. Here it was all breezeblocks and rubbish and casually disposed bits of fake Roman statue. None of it is meant to last. They build these big hotels up only to tear them down a few years later. They pump them full of precious resources like water and electricity, spending them as if there is no tomorrow and encouraging their clientele to do the same with the precious resources of their lives. </div><br />
<div></div><div>We also noticed how strange the lives of those who frequent the Strip and all its glories is. Returning to the Luxor at one in the morning, the cleaning ladies were hard at work servicing rooms. Vegas is a place which never sleeps and where all normal behaviour is contravened. Perhaps the saddest sights of all were those sitting at the slot machines at nine in the morning, drink in hand, cigarette in another hitting the machine's 'Play' button again and again and again. It didn't have a very playful look to it.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We were pretty content therefore to 'Escape' in our hire car. We sped down the freeway to the relative sanity of LA! </div><br />
<div></div><div>We were laughing that we were going from one mad house to another, to the craziness of LA LA Land. </div><div></div><div>But it turned out not to be silly at all.</div><br />
<div>We spent a blissful forty-eight hours there, perhaps because the emphasis was on socialising. We stayed with Phil's friend Joanne in her glamorous Hollywood pad. She gave up her room for us so that we could sleep divinely, which was perhaps a bit silly but so kind. We hung out with her and also my friends Ian, Sarah and Mhari. In addition we were able to visit Phil's cousin Sonia and spend the most wonderful afternoon with her and her family. Sebastian and Evie seemed very delighted to meet 'Uncle Phiiiil' and we got to tour her new home just as it was very sensibly being kitted out with a new bathroom window and all sort of other very down to earth things. </div><div></div><div>Joanne spent a whole day with us driving us around LA, showing us the sights. We saw the beautiful and slightly silly people jogging in the Hollywood Hills as we posed by the famous sign, we sipped cocktails as the sun came down over Venice Beach and we whizzed through the streets in her lovely car waving to Rodeo Drive, Sunset Boulevard and Mulholland Drive.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We therefore got a very ordinary perspective on the city. That of locals. After the unrealities of Disneyland and Vegas we were back with feet firmly on the ground with people who live and breathe sunny southern America everyday. We drank coffee in a homey kitchen, we met Joanne's production mates and joked about hand models and lip models, we learnt about the realities of trying to carve a career as an actor and about the places that are good, the places that are bad and the places that are ugly. We heard about friends' immigration struggles, the pitfalls of their ordinary working lives and some heard some great scoops on famous names. We noticed the LA locals love of dogs and heard about which dogs were 'trendy' and currently 'in'. We found out about our friends' dogs and heard their life stories. We churned over politics and day to day living and caught up on each others lives. </div><div></div><div>It was the perfect way to end our time in the USA. With people we love in a place we'd loved visiting.</div></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-40072668637929018642010-11-28T20:42:00.004-03:002010-11-28T20:58:20.707-03:00Of Mice and Men<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh2oxbk-tY_eA70WhG_YqDYvyxmpdNT5amJmdVC68PCeucxEjasnr2Yb4r8BsDflmjw9InE_n5fCm95CHGD4b1_mg4Fxb9dC_m3e63r6NW8wJkans9e0_nFPfK5bhLLYT028zAj_0xON8/s1600/2010-11-08+001+2010-11-08+050.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544706140013754754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh2oxbk-tY_eA70WhG_YqDYvyxmpdNT5amJmdVC68PCeucxEjasnr2Yb4r8BsDflmjw9InE_n5fCm95CHGD4b1_mg4Fxb9dC_m3e63r6NW8wJkans9e0_nFPfK5bhLLYT028zAj_0xON8/s200/2010-11-08+001+2010-11-08+050.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 142px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>"To all who come to this happy place: Welcome. Disneyland is your land. Here age relives fond memories of the past, and here youth may savor the challenge and promise of the future. Disneyland is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America, with the hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world."<br />
—Walter E. Disney, July 17, 1955 4:43pm<br />
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When I was young every child I knew wanted to go to Disneyland.<br />
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In the United Kingdom of the 70's however that privilege was reserved for a very select few since it was so far away and so incredibly expensive to get to that only the children you loathed ever got to go. Now of course there is a park just a hop and skip from Paris, and visiting Disneyland is rivalled by all sorts of other amusement parks based on other themes and filled with rides more dramatic and daring than anything it offers.<br />
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However, Disneyland California was the second most visited themepark on earth in 2009, second only to Disneyworld in Florida, and nearly 16 million people went. So it still has a bit of cache and I was still VERY excited at the prospect of going when we stopped cycling.<br />
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I had been once before to the Californian park with my parents and brother during my university years. We had such a fun time, despite all being old enough to know better, and I was really looking foward to going there with Phil who had never been.<br />
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Because, for whatever reason, the idea of going has a magical feel. One maybe an super-cool, ironic, hip late-30-something (and I'm not saying that I am any of those things) but there is something appealing about suspending all your cynicism, popping your brain in a jar, handing over your life for a day and being swept along in a sunny, ever-smiling world of make believe.<br />
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That prospect is even more exciting when you don't have to pay. Guille and Jano, who had us to stay so generously in their lovely Orange County home, swept to the top of the 'most amazing hosts of the year' competition by lending us their two 'Annual Passes' to the California site. This allowed us free entry all day to Disneyland, the sister 'California Adventure' park and to the car parks.<br />
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And so having woken up early with the tingling feeling of Christmas morning or a birthday we leapt out of bed, rushed through some breakfast, jumped in our hire car and headed off.<br />
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Getting there was ridiculously easy. Guille and Jano live about 25 minutes away. All we had to do was drive to the I-5, join it northbound and then follow the signs to Disneyland. Our car, appropriately named a Ford 'Escape', practically guided itself there and before we knew it we were pulling up at the entrance to an enormous car park.<br />
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There must have been space for something in the region of thirty thousand cars. I imagine it´s a car park you could in fact see from space. It is the largest single tarmac car holding area I have ever seen. It presented our first challenge. Would the attendent look closely at the Annual Pass and spot that I only bear a passing resemblance to Guillermina de Leonardis or would we sail effortlessly in?<br />
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The answer was the latter of course. With a beeeeeep,a smile and a hearty 'have a nice day' we were admitted to the car park and followed the arm waving attendents to our parking spot.<br />
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And 'ridiculously easy' was the tone for the rest of the day. We were guided to a bus transit to the park. As we approached the stop a bus glided up. We boarded along with other excited people, some already sporting mouse ears, and moments later were driven about half a mile to the entrance. From there we were only seconds away from the large row of admission gates where a bank of cheery octagenarians wielded ticket zappers. We strode confidently up, popped our thumbs over the pictures on our Annual Passes, were zapped efficiently, handed a map and allowed inside.<br />
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And there we were. Disneyland. A flowerbed in the shape of Mickey's head confirmed it. The sun was shining, ten hours of visiting time lay before us, we had a glossy map in our hands and a welcome sign told us 'Here you leave today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow and fantasy'!<br />
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Wow. Could it really live up to all this portentous sentiment?<br />
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Well, the answer is yes. Definitely yes - if you go on a Monday in November. Because then you will have the place relatively to yourselves. You will only have to share Disneyland and the California Adventure park with twenty two thousand others, not the seventy plus thousand who come on peak days. No queue for a ride will be longer than ten minutes and most rides will have no real queue at all. It will also not be as achingly hot as it is in the height of summer and you will not fall over anything like as many squealing four year olds as the park has the capacity to entertain.<br />
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And they really plan to entertain you. No moment is allowed to be dull. If you should have to wait for a ride then they will have someone chatting to you and telling you things, or stuff to look at on the walls or videos playing or music pumping out. It is as if the park has been designed by a frantic parent desperate that you should never cry or be unhappy or bored.<br />
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We were none of those things. We looked at our map, formed a plan of attack, and got going. The park has a central point from which all the 'lands', Frontierland, Adventureland, Fantasyland, Tomorrowland etc. radiate out. At this central point stands a statue of Walt and Mickey, Man and Mouse locked together for eternity at the heart of the whole enterprise. We decided to head for that point and then visit the attractions in a clockwise direction one 'land' after another.<br />
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It worked like a charm. We spun our way round the park enjoying one ride after another and going on over twenty during the course of the day. This, considering the occasional queue, the fact that the rides last anything from three minutes to seventeen, that one has to navigate between them, have the occasional rest and a bit of food really meant we got a lot of bang for our utterly unspent buck.<br />
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We went on water rides where we got soaked, we went on thrill rides where we were thrown about, we went on theme rides where we were scared or immersed into an imaginary world. There were fast ones and slow ones, outside rides and indoor rides, laughs and screams and oohs and ahhs.<br />
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One thing we were struck by was that they know how to tell a jolly good story. Most rides were really were a journey through a tale that we were already familiar with from its Disney film. There was pleasure in reliving those stories and the delight of recognition of characters we loved as children. There was a clear trajectory in everything and you the visitor were always treated as an audience.<br />
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We loved the Haunted House, the Splash Mountain ride, the Thunder Mountain Railroad, the Pirates of the Caribbean, the Winnie the Pooh ride and the Adventures of Mr Toad. We flew with Peter Pan, we shared a jeep with Indiana Jones, we went to Sleeping Beauty's Castle and we saw Mary Poppins dancing in the street.<br />
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Each part of the park was a mini film set, moving you from one place to another. There was Main street, a super shiny version of the central street of any small American town and which for all the world looked like Florence in Oregon or Anacortes in Washington or one of so many others where I had declared, 'It looks just like Disneyland'. There was a recreation of New Orleans, there was an area that was like the Wild West in the Gold Rush era and in the California Adventure there was an Alpine village. All beautifully landscaped with mature trees and lovely plants and with paths and roadways that were meticulously kept.<br />
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It was preternaturally clean. We could only imagine in the end that there was a twenty four hour staff beavering about constantly making sure that there was no rubbish on the ground, that no litter bin ever got full and that no surface was allowed to be messy or corner filled with dust. Every ride looked as if it had been refurbished yesterday. There were none that felt old or outdated or where you laughed at creaking machinery or wax figures that looked worn and tired.<br />
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Every staff member was pleasant, every cast member was professional, they had the whole thing down to an art. I needed some lip salve halfway through the day but was sure that no Disney shop stuffed to the hilt with cuddly toys and bejewelled tops would have it. I asked however and was told that every store stocks 'essentials' whereupon someone open a cupboard for me that was filled with basic medicines, tissues, batteries and all sorts of other practicalities and handed me the lip salve I was looking for.<br />
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In a word it was perfect! A proper Fantasyland. Fantasyland being my favourite part of all. For this area lies behind the famous Sleeping Beauty Castle, the one at the start of every Disney film, and contains sweet gentle rides and really magical air. Here carousels drift lazily round, tea cups spin wildly and the air is filled with music. The characters here are all from the classic Disney films like Snow White, Pinocchio and Alice in Wonderland. It is like an out of body reimmersion into innocence where baddies are defeated and goodies win the day, where cats can speak and elephants can fly and where all your dreams come true.<br />
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I thought this part of the park would be completely dominated by children, patient parents at the side. Whilst there were lots, we quickly realised that there were a lot of people like us. Grown ups out alone. There were couples, groups of friends, gaggles of golf buddies, bunches of business associates, mothers and daughters, sisters and brothers, retirees, honeymooners, people alone, all pointing and saying 'oh look it's Pinocchio's daring adventure...let's go!' or 'shall we visit Cinderella's house next'.<br />
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I was particularly amazed in the queue to meet...THE MOUSE! We had wandered into Toon Town where everything looks as though the world has lurched into a permanent cartoon state and even the sky doesn't look real. Here we could visit Mickey. I was a bit dubious about it, wondering if we would be sharing the experience with only small people and a bit awkward that we didn't usefully have some with us. I need not have worried. Most of the people in the queue had left childhood behind a lot longer ago than Phil and I and were utterly ruthless in their pursuit of an audience with a minature performer in a mouse suit (almost certainly a girl but don't say I said so) and ready to spend several minutes being photographed with them. And even though I knew all that, it was still fun and we had our photos taken too!<br />
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We grew up rather at five thirty when we went across to the other park, California Adventure. Less visually appealing than Disneyland, it is still rather under development and is being designed to compete with other parks that offer more spectacular 'thrills'. Here we went on our most adrenlin fuelled ride of the day, the California Screamin' rollercoaster. Hurtling you into the start like a bullet out of a gun, it then proceeds to throw you about with steep descents, sharp curves and upside down parts and is so much fun that we did it twice and made sure we were right at the front the second time. It was the best rollercoaster that I have ever been on and proved, if proof were needed, that unmitigated silliness is very good for the soul.<br />
<br />
We were bouncing as the day drew to a close, the sun went down and the whole of Disneyland turned into an array of glittering lights and sparkling corners. We spent the last couple of hours of our visit watching a slick parade of singing and dancing characters and enjoying a final few rides. As the park began to empty we enjoyed the most magical bit of the day wandering around it in the quiet and reflecting on the fun we'd had.<br />
<br />
We sat in front of Sleeping Beauty's castle which was all lit up and like a floating pink vision and watched the world go by. The castle looked so like the drawing at the start of the Disney films that I kept expecting the shooting star that goes in an arc across it to appear and recreate that moment.<br />
<br />
We talked of how possible it would be to pick holes in the whole enterprise. Clearly Disneyland is a massive money making enterprise. Everything is so marketed that even the sprinkles on top of the cup cakes are in the shape of Mickey's head. There is plenty of merchandise to be bought and a rather odd insistence on 'Celebration' that makes one worried for the residents of Disney's town in Florida that bears that name. How on earth are the staff that nice all day? Surely they must start to go a bit mad. Perhaps that madness is just below the surface. It feels possible that some people like the suspended reality of a Disney world with its simple rules of good and bad, right and wrong, light and shade rather too much and forget that a infinitely more complex world with real problems exists and that the kind of perfection created there has a marginally fascistic quality that doesn't allow for any refusal.<br />
<br />
However, we had had a wonderful day. We loved it and we left feeling that criticism would be utterly churlish.<br />
<br />
We did as Walt had wished. We stepped outside of reality for one whole day and went to the happy place he envisioned.<br />
<br />
And like all the best things in life. It had been free!Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-8565967345742439802010-11-22T00:18:00.001-03:002010-11-23T19:30:38.108-03:00SoCal - So Cool<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ112R1bTswn40O_E21oTxHD9XXoWEvGYcZG0hgnPExVD01VU2651e-ZHyb8eJA-CjK-mo4ucVHbAC-gK2OIEmlw0R2zhdAB8TIlL-3EkfDNk6V5MkO5neQYBVwn1lXQFNEs1PDEAUnGGp/s1600/2010-11-03+001+2010-11-03+102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ112R1bTswn40O_E21oTxHD9XXoWEvGYcZG0hgnPExVD01VU2651e-ZHyb8eJA-CjK-mo4ucVHbAC-gK2OIEmlw0R2zhdAB8TIlL-3EkfDNk6V5MkO5neQYBVwn1lXQFNEs1PDEAUnGGp/s200/2010-11-03+001+2010-11-03+102.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>We've both been a tiny bit conscious, as we've blogged our way through a decent chunk of the Americas this year, that reading our missives our trip may have seemed a bit black or white. Either we've been enduring abject misery through wind, cold, altitude or lack of decent ice cream; or it's been one long, unremitting whirl of gobsmacking scenery, delectable people, once-in-a-lifetime experiences and the world's best ice cream. To some degree, we have indeed tried to focus on the more 'interesting' bits, so that has probably come through. Whilst everything we write is absolutely true, we certainly try to make the subject matter worth reading.<br />
<br />
In the case of Southern California, however, even if you wanted to you simply couldn't exaggerate its wonders.<br />
<a name='more'></a>From the moment we swept down those 7 miles of descent into Santa Barbara, the hair dryer wind parching us, we were in a film set. In one of those 1980s television series that you knew couldn't be for real. And in a place doing a very passable impression of Cycling Paradise.<br />
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Take Santa Barbara, for a start. After Big Sur and then the arid inland wine country we'd rolled through for a couple of days to get there, this was something quite, quite different. We knew this was the start of a new chapter for us from the moment we hit the T-junction with the oceanfront road running through it. To our left, a line of mature palm trees curved along the beach as far as the eye could see; ahead of us, an elegant and typically SoCal pier stretched away from us; and to the right, the sun was sinking so that every time we looked over our shoulders as we pedalled South, the oranges, purples and blacks were ever more like some improbable movie set backdrop. We rolled along that bike path, slaloming between evening runners, roller bladers and push chair pushers thinking all our Christmases had come at once. Was this how it was going to be for the next few hundred miles?!<br />
<br />
And the answer was unequivocally 'yes'.<br />
<br />
We spent that night a few miles further on, just outside Carpinteria, in the Sandyland Reef Inn - a gloriously dated but deliciously adequate little motel that we just scraped into as darkness set in. If there was one cycling challenge in Southern California, it was that once the sun sets, that's it. Several times, we would stand slack-jawed, admiring yet another sunset ('this <em>must</em> be the best one yet'), only to find that 15 minutes later, someone had turned out the lights. We were nearer to the tropics, and around those parts the sun doesn't loiter in the hallway. But that's hardly a complaint.<br />
<br />
The next day, we were into the SoCal coast proper. We realised that we had hit an abnormally hot period of November when we had to seek shade at 9am for our roadside coffee stop. The lycra clad locals had already finished their morning rides and were hogging the shadier seats. It was already seriously hot. The only thing for it was to stick to the coast and keep some kind of breeze blowing at us.<br />
<br />
We rejoined Highway 101 and spent much of the morning cruising along the Pacific. Whether we were on the hard shoulder of the main drag, or on a parallel road or bike track, the surf was breaking a stone's throw to our right, and surfers were catching waves so close to us that we could hear their conversations. And in amongst it all - suddenly - there was a school of dolphins.<br />
<br />
Yup, there they were. One guy we chatted with, who lived in his RV and had been parked there for a few days, said said it was their morning commute, slinking their way along the coast and weaving through the surfers. We watched transfixed. All along that road, it seemed that half of California was padding their way, clad in wetsuits, either to or from the surf. All through Oxnard and Ventura - places where the roads have names like 'Seahorse Avenue', 'Coral Lane' and 'Surfrider Road' - the locals were wandering along the promenade, or meandering along on bikes fitted with surfboard carriers. But it would have been oh so churlish to suggest that this might be part of the reason why California's economy is on the rocks. No, it was just too much fun.<br />
<br />
That afternoon, after a picnic lunch on a deserted stretch of sundrenched beach in Port Hueneme, we passed two extremes - first an unashamed display of US firepower just outside Mugu Naval Air Station, a veritable crop of missiles pivoted at rather rude angles; and then, just a few miles down the road at the famous Point Mugu break (we learnt), a similar number of what must have been near professional surfers strutting their stuff magnificently as perfect tubes of water rolled in. Call us softies, but we kind of preferred the latter.<br />
<br />
Later that afternoon, as we wheeled merrily along the coast to Malibu before the sun set, we passed the Ventura county line and entered Los Angeles county. By now we were well into Malibu, a 27 mile coastal strip of beauty and luxury that reaches most of the way to LA itself. Everything you imagine about Malibu seemed to be true. Those stilt-propped beach houses that line the pristine stretches of sand are each perfect in their own way, whether weatherboarded and a little tired or designed by the architect of the moment and all plate glass and stainless steel. One thing they do all have in common, however, is their price bracket, which looks something like an LA telephone number.<br />
<br />
It wasn't difficult to imagine Courtney Cox, Johnny Depp or Leo DeCaprio sauntering along those exclusive sands. And perhaps in those massive pillared schlosses up in the hills to the left, the more grown up of the Hollywood fraternity lording it over the Pacific. This is their natural habitat. And if they happen to have $25 million to spend on a house, who can blame them?<br />
<br />
We, on the other hand, camped. But this wasn't any old campsite - Malibu RV Park just may have one of the best views of any campsite around. The tent area was on a broad ledge right up at the top of the hill. It was there that we ran into our biking friends Rich, Bruce and Sue who were the only other campers there to share a view that extended over the Pacific from the setting sun on the right all the way to the distant towers of Santa Monica on the left. It was magnificent.<br />
<br />
We had dinner that evening with my old friend Joanne and Liz's old friend Raza, both of whom live in LA and drove out to join us. We sat in the beach area of nearby Paradise Cove restaurant, the sand between our toes, the banter flowing and facing up to a serving of calamari that you could have hiked across it was so large. Life seemed really very agreeable. The night, however, was a rather different matter - having been so smug about camping above the RVers, we realised that the shallow layer of mist that was cooling the immediate coast wasn't going to reach us just a few feet higher up - and we sweltered through a night under canvas that never dropped below the mid 20s celsius.<br />
<br />
The next day, however, lack of sleep soon faded as a problem. We packed up early to try to avoid the worst of the heat, but soon found ourselves in trendy (we learnt) Marmalade Cafe, confronting a pile of breakfast pancakes marginally higher in altitude than our tent had been. No chance that mist would have reached the top of these babies. Suitably fuelled, we headed for LA. The bad news was that it was bin day in Malibu, so we spent a number of miles slaloming between wheelie bins that had taken up temporary residence in our 'bike' lane.<br />
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Before we knew it, however, we were led away from the main road into Santa Monica, past the spread of beach volleyball courts and onto the beach path. Wow. Wow. And again I say... you get the idea. There we were in hot sunshine, pedalling along a perfectly flat and near deserted path that wove its way all the way along equally deserted Santa Monica beach. It was, as they say, a 'pinch me' moment. We'd pedalled here from Canada. And we were rewarded by the fact that it was like that for most of the rest of the day.<br />
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By the time we had been under Santa Monica's famous pier, we were ready for refreshments, and we stopped on the Venice Beach promenade for a fresh lemonade and - more importantly, of course - people watching. We sat there in merciful shade observing everyone from tourists to dreadlocked artists to sweaty weightlifters and sleek rollerbladers. Oh, and the shouty man who'd clearly had one cup of coffee too many. <br />
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Onwards we went, constantly assailled by friendly fellow cyclists (albeit on Venice Beach mostly out for a couple of miles of preening) wanting to know what on earth we were up to. We discovered that LA shouldn't have such a bad name as a non-cycling city - we barely rode on a road until well after lunch. Instead, we followed beautifully marked cycle paths around Marina del Rey, and on along Manhattan Beach. Under the flightpath of LAX, where two planes tend to take off in parallel, and then the aptly named Hermosa Beach, with its beautiful adjoining beachfront cottages all along the bike path, and trendy restaurants and little shops just a block up the hill. We went to not-quite-so-trendy Subway for a 'footlong' in their blissful aircon.<br />
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It was only after lunch that we felt any pain at all - as temperatures topped 100F (we later learnt - unheard of in early November), we had to break inland at Redondo Beach, and a couple of hours slogging through busy bikelane-free streets was a trial. The sun was strong enough that your heart sank if a traffic light turned red and you weren't in the shade. Properly hot.<br />
<br />
However, we emerged to follow the dried up concrete canal that goes by the name Los Angeles River along to Long Beach. Where we ran into the Queen Mary. There she was in the dock, apparently having been turned into a hotel. Quite surreal after an already surreal day. By now, the sun was sinking behind the ubiquitous palm trees and, having negotiated yet another quite delicious bike path along Long Beach, bad light stopped play in Huntingdon Beach.<br />
<br />
But our luck didn't leave with the sun. We pulled up, by complete coincidence, outside Outspoken, a newly established bike shop run by Dominic and Shopcat. Dominic couldn't have been more welcoming, letting us garage our bikes and kit in his office overnight and thrusting a beer into our hands, all whilst quizzing us about our trip of somewhat longer than most of the beautifully customised beachcruiser bikes in his shop would be used to. But Shopcat the Kitten was the real star of the Outspoken show - about the size of a loo roll, she had been rescued by a powerless Dominic a fortnight earlier and had taken up very happy residence on his desk. Priceless.<br />
<br />
We spent a lovely evening with my old friend Guille and her husband Jano in their fantastic Mission Viejo home, launching into Jano's outstanding asado and setting the world to rights over flowing Malbec. But the next day, it was back to business. Well, kind of. We actually didn't start from Outspoken until nearly lunchtime, having had a very pleasant morning hanging out in Mission Viejo at the house and catching up with Guille and her brother Frankie, my long lost Buenos Aires flatmate from 1996. This made for a shortish afternoon on the bikes, but we managed to find time to take advantage of yet more spectacular bike paths through the rest of Huntingdon Beach, and on to deeply civilised Newport Beach, complete with more palm trees, expensive haircuts and open top Mercedes than you can shake a stick at.<br />
<br />
On the way, we chatted at length with the very charming and urbane Carl, a Texan by origin, who had recently finished the Pacific Coast in the other direction - 'it was sort of lonely going that way!' We also cruised along possibly the prettiest part of beach path so far - on the run in to Newport Beach, we rode along a beach front row of the most attractive, colourful little houses, each designed totally differently, but each with lovely balconies and double doors opening straight onto the bike path and the beach just beyond. As we sat on the little ferry across from Balboa Island to Newport Beach proper, it was hard to argue with all this as a way of life.<br />
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Yet another stunning palm-fringed sunset, this time over San Clemente, yet another cheap and cheerful motel room ($50, linguistically-challenged subcontinental manager, aircon, cable telly, two double beds, fridge, microwave, strong shower... who's complaining?), and yet another sultry California night outside.<br />
<br />
The next day was extraordinary - we felt like rock stars. It's dangerous, this could all go to our heads. Let me explain... Saturday morning in Southern California is evidently cycling time. The clubs are out in their matching jerseys, individuals are out training, pelotons sweep past, and husband and wife teams are out blowing away those midweek cobwebs. And in their carbon fibre, lycra clad elegance, they all seemed truly fascinated by what us two cart horses were up to. We've never felt so indulged! There must have been at least two dozen separate incidents of cyclists riding up to us asking 'hey, where are you guys heading' or 'where are you coming from' or (geekily) 'nice set up - are those gears Rohloff?' or - in one particularly odd case - 'are you guys German?'<br />
<br />
The culmination of this came near Camp Pendleton, where the marines had been out exercising, doing what appeared to be three-legged and egg and spoon races. Liz found herself sipping alluringly on a cool drink surrounded by more doting fans than at any time since her acting days, each one hanging off her every use of exotic phrases like 'the Andes' and 'Bolivia' and '5000 miles'. It was as close as I've seen to her treading the boards.<br />
<br />
Earlier, on the way to Camp Pendleton's sweeping army exercise fields, we had had a particularly good chat with Carl and Debbie. They have four daughters aged between 17 and 26, plus a female dog - 'I start apologising before I wake up in the morning', Carl assured me. They were a fascinating pair, he having helped launch Romania's national baseball team in 1992 with his legendary LA Dodgers pitcher brother-in-law Tom Worrell. Their eldest daughter works in Cambodia prising young girls out of prostitution. Carl and Debbie are the kind of people that this trip is all about, I found myself thinking.<br />
<br />
By the afternoon, the cyclist feeding frenzy had died down and, as grey clouds started accumulating for the first time since Big Sur, we passed through the seaside towns of Encinitas, Cardiff (where we passed through the 9,000km mark) and Del Mar in quick succession, each with its great expanse of beach and yet more surfers. La Jolla in the late afternoon was indeed a jewel - refreshing for its wiggling, undulating seafront and stunning houses. And everybody seemed to be getting married there - we must have passed three separate weddings getting underway on our way through.<br />
<br />
But the light was going, and alas we couldn't dawdle. We raced along Marine Promenade, perhaps slightly more quickly than might have been wise given that many pushchairs and couples on their evening 'paseo', and reached the outskirts of San Diego as the light went. Fortunately, San Diego's twinkling skyline of high rises and the well lit bike path around the harbour was sufficient. We were guided easily around to the sweet little ferry across the harbour to Coronado Island.<br />
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Coronado Island is where Liz's wonderful friend Vanessa lives, and we almost decided to stay permanently ourselves. And not only because of Vanessa's fantastic welcome (5 Trip Advisor stars at least!) and staggering view of the waterfront from her balcony. It is a low key haven from the hustle and bustle of San Diego itself, full of wide, palm-lined avenues, elegant homes, and golf courses. We went out that evening in her trusty but mature set of wheels Princess Hercule (named after its string of European and/or royal former owners) to the Corvette Diner downtown, where we gorged ourselves on diner grub and Oreo flavoured milkshakes big enough to do laps across. It all felt wonderfully tropical and exotic and happy.<br />
<br />
Not least because we knew the next day we were Mexico bound. After nearly 2000 miles, we set off in bright sunshine with just 20 odd miles between us and the border. We were making the proverbial break for it. We were swept along by the wind and no little adrenalyn, around the smooth, lawn-lined streets of Coronado Island, and on down the long Strand breakwater.<br />
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And then, after picking our way through a final outskirt of San Diego, we were into more rural scenery. Suddenly, the roadsides were dominated by equine ranches and half of the almost non-existent traffic consisted of men in big moustaches riding horses. We rounded a corner in the lane, and came face to face with two mounted border patrol guards, bedecked in fancy dark green uniform and wide-brimmed hats. 'It's easier to get up into the hills on these than in 4x4s', they assured us. Half a mile on and there were three more of their colleagues. We looked up into the hills and saw The Fence. We had reached the Mexico border.<br />
<br />
Interestingly, it's not just one fence - there does seem to be one main one, about 5m high and made of a kind of high tensile grill, but looking along it even this one seems rather bitty. And we counted at least 3 other former fences, none of which looked entirely convincing. No wonder they need some manpower. They are there to keep what they assured us is a considerable number of illegal Mexicans from making a run for it, even a good few miles from the hot spots of Texas.<br />
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And it is hot, this border. The only kind of threat we felt was from the 3ft snake that Liz ran over on her bike right there, but the 28,000 deaths in Mexico as part of the war against drugs declared in 2006 had convinced us that even popping across the border to nearby Tijuana would be unwise. That's a proper warzone, and seemingly nowhere in Mexico is immune these days. Every Mexican we had met in California (as well as every mother at home!) had warned us against it. So we didn't go.<br />
<br />
But we did ride along the border and - in our curiosity to follow two border patrol guards on bikes across an agricultural area - ended up in discussion with one of their motorised colleagues. He told us that we were 'in a very dangerous area'. Before directing us out of what turned out to be no man's land, however, he did tell us proudly about his girlfriend in Blackpool, and Liz ended up suggesting he look up Nick Park's Creature Comforts on Youtube for a proper insight into Blackpool life. I suggested she must be very special to want to trade Southern California with Blackpool. We parted on good terms.<br />
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And so that was it. We made it to Mexico. We stood there for a while watching cars drive through the famous Tijuana crossing point where the overhead gantry simply announces: Mexico. It was a strange sensation because, for all our quiet excitement and pride about achieving another of our aims on this trip, getting from Canada to the Mexican border, the truth was that neither of us really wanted this part to finish. We have had to hurry through the last few weeks somewhat and it has been a kaleidoscope of wonderful people, impossibly exotic coastline, and surely some of the best places to bike anywhere. But what it did mean was that we had a full week to sample the other joys of California without the bikes.<br />
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There was only one thing to follow all this.<br />
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Disneyland.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-33598761589780235582010-11-21T09:50:00.010-03:002010-11-21T14:18:17.225-03:00Sideways<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojhaVNwWFZS_qVnYm9RK1PzU7Rpd3NCFRToivHuNJJnmj-7iAZYVy502HqZ7aiQbhpYh_KU8R9gjmgoUjsjlVYZHVwIBScqJcWcRxwD06yYKoliiUtQhIUmhIbDoIDS607wN3ziRfXLA/s1600/ST+2010-11-02+003.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542039776383000130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojhaVNwWFZS_qVnYm9RK1PzU7Rpd3NCFRToivHuNJJnmj-7iAZYVy502HqZ7aiQbhpYh_KU8R9gjmgoUjsjlVYZHVwIBScqJcWcRxwD06yYKoliiUtQhIUmhIbDoIDS607wN3ziRfXLA/s200/ST+2010-11-02+003.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a>I think we have mentioned before that for the Pacific Coastal route we had special maps. Maps published by the Adventure Cylcing Association. They told us exactly which road to take, how many miles things were and what services we would pass on the way. More or less we followed their suggested route.<br />
<br />
<div></div><div>And then shortly after a place called Lompoc we ignored them. We turned left, we went off piste, we went sideways.</div><br />
<div>We had heard from our friends Garth and Dee of an alternative route to Santa Barbara through the Santa Ynez Valley. This valley was famous for its vineyards. It was the wine country that had featured in the film 'Sideways'. We were promised beautiful rolling hills, row upon row of grapes and one nasty climb out of the valley and back to the coast. </div><br />
<div>We had been coast hugging for a while and so we felt ripe for a change. Especially when we realised that the route the maps were suggesting was on a reasonably busy section of Highway 101, which would in places become a freeway, and was inland anyway.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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There had also been promises of fabulous taste sensations. Not just the possibility of great wine but the chance to eat some serious food. Featured in the film was a restaurant called the Hitching Post II where you could sample the hosts own Pinot Noir and tuck into a serious steak.<br />
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<div>And we were in need of a taste sensation. After staying in the Dwelles' gorgeous beach house in Cayucos and hanging out there for the morning, we had had another half day to a place called Pismo Beach where we had tried an experiment.</div><br />
<div>We had eaten our emergency food.</div><br />
<div>This food had been a VERY long way with us. Purchased in London before we left it had sat in panniers for nearly nine thousand kilometres and sat in suitcases for tens of thousands more. It was moon food. Special dried food, to which you only had to add boiling water, that was designed to be used as an extreme measure. We had never needed it, it weighed a ton and we had bought a lighter version in the US to take on our last stretch through Argentina. So it was time for it to go.<br />
<br />
</div><div></div><div>I did suggest that we perhaps just threw it away. I had never much liked the look of it. It orginated from Germany and was covered in alarming labels in about nine hundred languages telling you how to reconstitute it. There was a picture on the front of wholesome looking, but definitely hardcore, individuals enjoying this silver foiled grub by starlight next to a roaring fire. However, the food was called TravelLunch which suggested that they were only half way through some worthy special calorie induced day. Something about it all just didn't look right. Whichever way you viewed it there was nothing that made 'Chilli Con Carne Mit Rindfleisch, Kidney-Bohnen', 'Huhn in Curryrahm Mit Reis' or 'Vanille Pudding Mit Himbeerren' seem in any way appetising.</div><br />
<div>Yet it just isn't in our natures to be wasteful. We realised that we had to eat it. So we contravened every basis upon which it was meant to be used and bought a bottle of wine, put the stove on to boil on the doorstep of our motel room, settled into some comfy chairs and set about it.</div><br />
<div>And my oh my was it revolting. It was 'out of this world' horrible. Sitting at the bottom of its foil grave, this was food at the very lowest end of the spectrum. We couldn't look at it sitting there and so poured it into bowls to eat where the still powdery bits floated about like so many ice bergs traversing seas of murk and slime.<br />
<br />
</div><div>We bravely made it through most of a version of Chilli Con Carne and some yellow gloop that was meant to be Chicken Korma and then we set about the raspberry pudding. At this moment my stomach revolted and wired my mouth shut. I simply could not shovel it in. It was off-white and lumpy with small red knarly splodges and looked for all the world like wall paper paste or (sorry) cat vomit.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We decided to desist in our attempts to consume the food and instead feasted liberally on the wine to drown our sorrows. It was a very amusing evening. </div><br />
<div></div><div>I am sure that if we hadn't been in a nice warm motel room and we had been really really hungry that the TravelLunch would have tasted like ambrosia and we didn't want to seem ungrateful but we were certainly ready the next night to eat something rather more special and tasty.<br />
<br />
</div><div></div><div>And so, after a nice morning where we bumped into fellow Brits Roger and Glen (whom we had seen periodically throughout the whole route) along with the recumbant Aussie cyclist Gary and all ridden along for a bit we took our left turn and headed East.<br />
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</div><div></div><div>It was, as billed, rolling and viney. It was such a treat to see this part of California. Most of the way down the coast we had been aware of the copious agricultural activity just inland. Those times where our road had strayed from crashing surf we had seen endless fields of strawberries, red peppers, cabbages, brussel sprouts, artichokes and the rest, all hypnotically arranged in industrial sized straight lines and filling the air with verdant aromas. But here it was mostly vines. Vines and gloriously wooded hills rich with California Oaks, some as much as seven hundred years old. It was a windy wonderland bathed in late afternoon autumn sun which accentuated the golden leaves and softened all the edges of the world.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And there was obviously going to be excellent food. The first major place we came to was Buellton, home of the 'World Famous' Anderson's pea soup. We, being innocents, had never heard of this soup but we were excited at the prospect of it. So much so that we chose to stay in the Anderson's Pea Soup Motel, complete with pea green doors and a 10% voucher off the soup! The main attraction in Buellton, however, was the Hitching Post II. We booked a table and mosied up the road and rubbed our hands in glee at what we saw. There we dined finely on soup and salad and 'World Famous' steaks and a gigantic and gooey chocolate brownie and washed it all down with Pinot Noir. Ah...Pinot Noir. A true discovery on this trip. A wonderful, wonderful wine. With every sip the emergency food became a dim and silly memory.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We explored the bar of the restaurant and saw where the film had been shot. We had a great chat with the waitress all about how it had been to become so on the map as a result. With LA within striking distance we were getting our first feel of Hollywood glamour, getting closer to the stars. We walked home to a sky full of them, replete and happy and ready for a great sleep in our pea soup room.<br />
<br />
</div><div></div><div>The next day dawned all about Denmark. The sizeable chunk of this valley region was settled by Danes and their influence is writ large. Nowhere more obviously than in the town of Solvang, a short ride into our journey. We had been fuelled by an enormous array of delicious Danish pastries at breakfast in Buellton, but the sight of windmills and red and white flags and hotels like the 'King Olav' and the' Hamlet' tempted us to stop and have coffee and soak up the Scandi vibe. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Our coffee came in delicate white china artfully shaped with the emphasis on style for which that northern region is so famed and was seriously delicious. It was served by a cutely clad waitress dressed up on the nines in traditional kit who, when we asked her which part of Denmark she was from, promptly replied Guadalajara!</div><br />
<div></div><div>Ah Mexico. It was calling us, edging closer and closer. </div><br />
<div></div><div>And so as the day progressed it was good bye Denmark hola, all things Espanol. We passed more vines and more windmills but slowly a more Hispanic influence was creeping in. Most towns now were San-this or Santa-that, missions started appearing and then a very un-Danish hill swept into view. We crawled up the San Marcos pass through temperatures of a hundred degrees, slowly conquering a hill which ranked as our largest climb in the whole North American section. Thank heavens for the steak because we would never have made it on the emergency food.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We finally reached the crest at 4pm and then we were treated to a swirling seven mile descent back to the sea. The views ahead of us were extraordinary, the endless Pacific stretching away and the final section of coast laid out before us.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We cruised into Santa Barbara and knew that the last phase of our US journey had begun. Down the wide palm lined boulevards, littered with boutique stores and hipsters sipping hibiscus tea with shades at a jaunty angle, our eyes feasted on white washed buildings and red tiled roofs. We caught voices chatting away in Spanish and signs that were in two languages.<br />
<br />
</div><div></div><div>We had slipped Sideways, visited Denmark and now we were ready for the last push.</div><div></div><div><br />
Arriba! Arriba! To Mexico.</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-45941201785194667032010-11-20T18:43:00.016-03:002010-11-21T09:45:53.339-03:00In a Big Sur state of mind<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHv7MHmmMUJ4W9oq6xtBzEghTbw3xvx42rJndw4RDoE2F4jzADgeC7BVQmWY5ft2QXl1u8NDBGvwd95yQgsfRxzVoJUJI1v7S5Pz1Cm3mx7NwDICJlBZuW5smD0rgWNGIgodPGxHa8dg/s1600/2010-10-29+001+2010-10-29+003.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541817750909728450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHv7MHmmMUJ4W9oq6xtBzEghTbw3xvx42rJndw4RDoE2F4jzADgeC7BVQmWY5ft2QXl1u8NDBGvwd95yQgsfRxzVoJUJI1v7S5Pz1Cm3mx7NwDICJlBZuW5smD0rgWNGIgodPGxHa8dg/s200/2010-10-29+001+2010-10-29+003.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 112px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a> A lot is written about Big Sur.<br />
<br />
<div></div><div>An awful lot.</div><br />
<div>A lot is said about it too. </div><br />
<div>When people found out that we were cycling down the US west coast almost without exception they asked, "Are you going down Big Sur?" Sometimes this question would be followed by a tale, their eyes would light up, their face would become all aglow and they would tell us about the time they too went down Big Sur. Sometimes they had travelled in an open top car, sometimes they had gone by motorbike, occasionally they had gone by bike. "It's beautiful", "It's awesome", "It's stunning" - that was the sort of thing they said.</div><br />
<div>Waxing lyrical (or lyrical-ish) about this sparsely populated, slightly undefined mountainous region where the Santa Lucia range bursts straight out of the Pacific was clearly de rigueur. Shortly before actually hitting this mythical and fabled section of the road I decided to look it up in the guidebook. This gave it the grandest write up of all. It described Big Sur as 'a state of mind'.<br />
<a name='more'></a>Holy Cow! A state of mind? Now I was really intrigued. I anticipated epiphanies, nirvanas and visions or becoming so completely at one with nature that I would roll over its peaks and troughs on some kind of blissed out plane.</div><br />
<div>We were pretty blissed out as the journey began. A night of delicious comfort care of Walt and Lynn Dwelle in their glorious Pebble Beach home, where the banter and welcome had been as glorious as the twinkly blue sea view, had left us very chipper indeed. We weaved our way back to the main road through uber-glam Carmel with its chic shops, sunkissed residents and ridiculously steep hills. We stopped at Safeway and bought supplies, we bumped into some Aussie cyclists and laughed and joked, we lunched barefoot at a soft yellow sand bay and paddled in a sea the magical colour of Sunday paper travel supplement waters and re-mounted our bikes with a warm glow in our hearts.</div><br />
<div>We were content and in a very relaxed state of mind. </div><br />
<div>And state of mind on this trip has often proved to be very important. Some days everything seems doable, some days everything seems hard. The same road can be a wonderland or a nightmare depending on how we view it. Just as Phil described in his last blog how the weather and the consequent experience over two days can be as diametrically opposed as it is possible to describe, so can two states of mind and the resulting feeling. </div><br />
<div>And so it proved as we launched into Big Sur. The full length of the suddenly very cliff hugging Highway 1 through this stretch is a bit over 90 miles. Too much for one day, no obvious half way point. So, after a late start from Pebble Beach we had decided to do a third on the first day and two thirds on the second. That meant that we were extremely calm about only having to journey about 35 miles in total that day. We would make it through the last towns before Big Sur and get through a decent portion of it. It is always when you are a bit casual about the distance that you get caught out. Shortly after leaving our lunch spot our 'easy' day took a rather different turn. </div><br />
<div></div><div>We were hit by headwind. Stonking relentless headwind that slowed us to a revolting near stop. We were also being pursued by a storm. The sky greyed over, the temperature dropped and so the wind was not only reducing us to a glacial speed it was also chilling us to the bone.</div><br />
<div></div><div>The much touted Big Sur began and we could do very little waxing lyrical. The wind made looking ahead hard because you had to squeeze your eyes to a narrow slit in order to reduce the volume of involuntary crying. The wind made the cliff side drama pretty scary since it made us wobble rather on the hairy precipices. The wind made hanging out and looking at the view impossible since we were so cold.</div><br />
<div></div><div>The other twist in the state of mind state is that when you begin in one frame of mind and then the day doesn't meet your expectations the effect can be to plunge you to the other extreme with real violence.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And so, as the light began to fade and our hands turned to ice we spiralled from super relaxed to super exhausted. We were weary, fed up and hacked off.</div><br />
<div></div><div>To make matters worse, as we struggled into the rambling habitations of the town of Big Sur the first place we tried to stay had been filled with a thirty strong group of blue lycra clad road cyclists who had passed us earlier in the day. Unloaded, on whizzy bikes and catching each others' competitive draft advantage, they had sped in before us and were drinking beer and pointing at us through the windows of their cozy hotel. Grrrrrrr.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We finally made it to a motel. It was over priced but we had ceased to care. We slunk into our room, our egos battered and filled with proper fear that if the weather kept up there was simply no way we would make it through nearly seventy miles the next day, a day filled with some of the biggest climbs of the whole pacific coast.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Our mood was further ruined by some internet investigation later that night. Our Canadian cycling buddies Dee and Garth (they of quite serious road biking pasts) who were a few days ahead of us up the road had posted a blog about the exact route we were taking the following day. They had faced revolting conditions and it had taken them seven hours of continous biking to make the route. They, who usually made infinitely better time than us, had had their slowest journey of the trip. It had rained the whole way and they had struggled to see anything.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Now, this was not good news. If it had taken them seven hours the odds were it was going to take us a LOT longer. It would be one of the longest day distances of the trip for us, there were five big climbs to slow us down, the wind was predicted to be in our faces and there was a serious chance of rain. I calculated that based on the speed we had been doing at the end of the day it was going to take us nine hours on the bikes. That was an hour and a half longer than we had ever done (and believe me anything above about five and half ceases to be particularly funny) and would, with a lunch stop, take up all the available light.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We resigned ourselves to the fact that making it was unlikely. This would mean finding a very rustic campsite somewhere since there really weren't any towns for nearly seventy miles. All, all bad.</div><div></div><div>So we went to bed in a very unrelaxed state of mind. We decided we would give it our best shot and go as soon as it was light at about 8am. We tried to sleep.</div><br />
<div></div><div>I have found throughout this trip that when the day ahead is going to present a really serious challenge, be it a huge climb, a scary road, a very long distance, I cannot wait to get on with it. It is like the night before an exam. I want the sleeping to be out of the way so that I can start. And so that night I saw 2am, 3am, 4am, 5am, 6am before finally leaping out of the bed, jaw set at 7am raring to get underway.</div><br />
<div></div><div>As soon as we were ready, we launched straight into the first big climb.</div><br />
<div></div><div>One hour and four miles later we were at the top. It wasn't raining and the wind, whilst not in our favour, was only mildly blowing. </div><br />
<div></div><div>We pushed on. And on, and on. In fact we worked very very hard all morning, nailing two more climbs and arriving into the little clifftop town of Lucia for our lunch at just under the halfway point. We had calculated that we needed to be at the end of the serious climbing at the town of Ragged Point by 4pm to be able to do the last eighteen miles to San Simeon with the remaining light of the day.</div><br />
<div></div><div>By lunch the state of mind was starting to turn. It looked very likely that we would manage the distance. It would be a gigantic achievement for us to go so far with so much climbing and the wind unfavourable. We started to feel pretty sunny.</div><br />
<div></div><div>So did Big Sur. The sun was in fact properly shining. If we kept looking South it all looked very pretty and bright. If we looked north we were being dogged by cloud that was advancing towards us. We were staying just ahead of it, biking as fast as we could. </div><br />
<div></div><div>We bumped into the Australian cyclists again. We were pretty cheery, we had even started enjoying the view.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Now we could wax lyrical. The wind was allowing us to see, and today we could see what the fuss was about.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Highway 1 through Big Sur is a magnificent road. Cut ludicrously into the cliffs, it was the result of a New Deal incentive and made largely by convict labour. How they built it is anyone's guess. It is a road that has to be constantly maintained because of rock slips and weather damage. It twists up and down, round and back the cliff edge, often perilously close to healthy drops, sometimes reduced to a thin spine of bridge crossing a deep ravine. It has one lane each way and some corners so hairpinny that cars are reduced to twenty miles an hour. It isn't a road for doing quickly. It is hard to look at the view whilst you are travelling along it, lest you should accidentally end up in the sea.</div><br />
<div></div><div>So, you have to stop to appreciate it or be a passenger in one of the endless open top Mustangs that passed us on that second day. At either end of Big Sur there must be the world's largest Mustang hire shops. We were passed by so many. And the contents were always the same. Two sunglass clad travellers, hair flying in the wind, chins floating up in the air as if their heads were being pulled up by invisible strings controlled from the sky. They were soaking it up.</div><br />
<div></div><div>There was a lot to take in. Steep plumetting cliffs with tiny beaches at the bottom which could only be reached from the sea. Onto these beaches swirly and crashing azure water. In some places the water was shallow enough and so clear that you could see right into the sea and pick out rocks and seaweed on the bottom. Seaweed filled the rocking Pacific here. Long brown shiny tendrils with big knobbles at the end slurped about. The knobbles looked like heads and sometimes you weren't sure if they were seaweed ends or sea otters bobbing about. You could hear if you were still the 'ark, ark, ark' of the colonies of sealions and if the wind blew up past them you could smell them too. On the slow winding ups we had time to take in vibrant bottle brush trees, coastal redwoods, small purple flowers. Big Sur has heavily wooded slopes and sometimes the road plunges you amongst them into shade and cool. It was an assault on the senses.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And at its most spectacular it was all lengthy coastal vista. We reached a high point and could see for miles. Headland after headland jutted out into the sea and the emptiness of the cliffs gave them the wild, pre-time, raw look that has got all the writers so excited. It was properly remote and the slit of road clawing across it looked temporary and vulnerable.<br />
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</div><div></div><div>We pushed on along it for the afternoon. One of our favourite sections was the second biggest climb of the day which came just after lunch. It was a fairly gentle gradient, it was splendidly snaking, it was quiet and warm with amazing views and we suddenly realised that we were going to get to our destination. </div><div></div><div>We loved that afternoon.<br />
<br />
</div><div></div><div>We had had such low expectations at the start of the day and now we were being delighted on every front. We sailed through Ragged Point right on time and there we met some brilliant jovial motorcyclists on huge matching Honda Goldwings listening to Puccini, and refuelled with a Pepsi. Then the terrain changed and became undulating and close to the sea. So close at one point that Phil was nearly drenched by a wave that crashed right across the road. Then the sun began to go down with a delicious sunset and as San Simeon got within skipping distance we saw on the beach a brilliant group of elephant seals.</div><div></div><div>Long nosed and comically floppy with a call that is like a cross between a belch and a groan they were frolicking at large on the shore. Elephant seals have made a resurgence in this part of California, coming to the same beach year in year out to mate. The males fight for females by pushing their necks up against each other in the shallow surf whilst the ladies look disinterestedly on. They were such an unexpected treat and perfect heralds for our triumphant ride.<br />
<br />
</div><div></div><div>We pulled into San Simeon in the last of the light. We had been on the bikes for just over seven hours. We had faced down the wind, the hills and kept just ahead of the storm. We had had a wonderful day in Big Sur and finally seen what all the fuss was about with this remote corner of California.<br />
<br />
</div><div></div><div>The following day we had another 'relaxed' day although this time our state of mind was completely in tune. In the morning we cycled to Hearst Castle, the ertswhile home of William Randolph Hearst, a fairytale lodging perched high in the hills looking down over a giant sweep of coastline we had already conquered and more that we had still to do.<br />
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</div><div></div><div>Visiting the castle was like a sneaky peak into WRH's state of mind. A defiant building project that had stretched the minds and patience of all who were employed to realise his dream, it is a fantasy collection of buildings and objets d'art that was the playground of the great and the good of the early to mid part of the twentieth century, everyone from Churchill to Chaplin. Hearst was a kind of magpie who avidly collected things from places he visited and recreated rooms and styles he loved throughout his home. He had a Gothic dining room, a Renaissance drawing room, a Roman swimming pool and faux Greek temple. He had Spanish style, Italianate style, Eyptian style all with hot and cold running water and hot and cold glamour. He filled the hills around his home with zebra (we saw a herd), Roebuck deer, llamas and housed bears and other beasts in special pens. It was quite a place and we adored our visit completed as it was with an Imax film narrated in portentous tones about the importance of vision and of having dreams.<br />
<br />
</div><div></div><div>We positively skipped away, our state of mind all elevated, our hearts bursting with wonder. It was therefore a swift and delicious coastal journey that took us to our next destination. We went only twenty five miles to stay in another family haunt of Lynn and Walt Dwelle. This time it was a beach house a bit further down the coast at Cayucos.<br />
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</div><div></div><div>We walked through the door as the last vestiges of sun lit up the waves crashing straight ahead of us through the picture window. It was yet another heavenly haven. We poured ourselves a glass of wine and sat quietly in wonder until the world went completely dark.</div><div></div><div><br />
And then we talked about Big Sur. </div><div></div><div><br />
We talked about it a lot.</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-13660877879384925912010-11-02T11:47:00.000-03:002010-11-02T11:47:29.854-03:00Come Rain or Shine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcEsJjbx11ycl-eglf1f3zAcmdDYRsNGSZO2b9o2GCBsMWSplYcq8vjWH_6KKtzttcyNUV-CmIHaFimOoTb7Q8_YYwK3A_Q7AUGvkoYqu8k3VxWDLcGrmz0Zl-pqt0V8yOoLm4wT3j-oxK/s1600/2010-10-26+001+2010-10-26+035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcEsJjbx11ycl-eglf1f3zAcmdDYRsNGSZO2b9o2GCBsMWSplYcq8vjWH_6KKtzttcyNUV-CmIHaFimOoTb7Q8_YYwK3A_Q7AUGvkoYqu8k3VxWDLcGrmz0Zl-pqt0V8yOoLm4wT3j-oxK/s200/2010-10-26+001+2010-10-26+035.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>And lo, it came to pass that on the 114th day of bicycling at last it did rain upon us. And when it did, yea verily it did so with great vengeance and furious anger, and at one point it appeared that Noah himself may sail past us, such was the volume of the wet stuff falling from the sky.<br />
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Until the day we left San Francisco, we had endured negligible rain. In a trip of nearly 9 months, you could count the number of times we had got wet on the fingers of one hand. An hour of heavy drizzle in Tierra del Fuego, another outside in San Luis Province, Argentina, and a decent two hour drenching on the Canada/USA border. And that was it. Truly, we had led a charmed life. So by law of averages we were due a decent soaking.<br />
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And you couldn't say we hadn't been warned - the weather forecast had given '100% precipitation' chances for our restart date for days beforehand and it had already rained relentlessly for 24 hours. And so we set off from the sanctuary of the Williamses' wonderful pad, hermetically sealed in our expensive and foolproof rain kit, cheerfully looking forward to unfamiliar conditions and a decent test for Endura's finest materials.<br />
<a name='more'></a>Within yards we were sodden. Even wheeling through the weekend peace of San Anselmo, Mill Valley and Sausalito, there was a new dimension to our challenge: cycling <em>up river</em>. Unsatisfied with the torrential rain and driving winds, the weather gods provided the kinds of rivers flowing down those streets that wash cars away when you see them on The Weather Channel. We literally had to pedal harder to battle against the current.<br />
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By the time we reached the Golden Gate Bridge, our long held hopes of a triumphant, landmark passage across, complete with clicking cameras, brilliant sunshine and passing cars hooting in admiration had been washed over its handrails and into the menacing grey waters swirling far below. We pushed the bikes across. The wind was such that there was no way we could have ridden. One drenched guy we passed just before reaching the Golden Gate warned us, in a moment of brilliant understatement: 'Watch out, it's windy out there on the bridge'.<br />
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The bridge itself was almost completely enshrouded a dense cocktail of heavy rain and cloud. The crowning moments came as we pushed past its two supporting towers, which seemed to create a kind of vortex of 70mph winds around them. We ended up feeling like King Lear in the storm, all but blown off our feet. We had to shelter briefly in the lee of the towers before venturing back into the teeth of the Pacific storm, pushing our fully laden bikes like prop forwards with a scrum machine.<br />
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By the time we reached the San Francisco side of the bridge and caught our breath, we were wet through. It was quite clear that even the best waterproof gear this side of the Ziploc factory wasn't up to rain like this. We stood shivering outside Safeway, surrounded by crates of giant Hallowe'en pumpkins, eating soggy sandwiches for lunch. We wrang the water out of our t-shirts. It rained more that day than in the rest of our trip combined. It was misery. And even when the rain and wind abated late in the afternoon, they were seamlessly replaced by steep hills blanketed in coastal fog that reduced visibility to 50m. These were, indeed, 'unfamiliar' conditions. But not ones we wanted to repeat in a hurry.<br />
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And so it was with considerable relief that we awoke the next morning in our room at the Montara Lighthouse Hostel to clear blue skies. There was still evidence of the previous few days - the sea at the bottom of the cliffs outside our door was topped with foam with the consistency of whipped cream. It was flopping over itself as the waves slopped in to the rocks. A workman at the hostel explained: 'It's the sea cleaning itself' - all the sediment stirred up during a major storm apparently naturally ends up in this thick gloop.<br />
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So, from the ridiculous to the sublime. After our worst weather day of the trip, in the following few days we reverted to our charmed life. California was just delicious. Yet more spectacular sun-drenched coastal views, with roadsides and cliffsides carpeted with the soft reddish green spikes of ice plants and palm trees beginning to crop up alongside the cedars and pines as we headed further towards Southern California proper.<br />
<br />
All along the roads were pumpkin patches. These are, as you might imagine, huge patches strewn with hundreds of big orange orbs. This being a seasonal business, the owners make the most of their assets at this time of year and mutate them into kinds of agricultural pumpkin theme parks, complete with hay bale mazes and tractor rides.<br />
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We were also into Californian fruit and veg' growing territory - we passed hundred acre fields of everything from artichokes to strawberries and red peppers to brussels sprouts, smelling heady and strewn with hundreds of small Mexican pickers. All the crops were perfectly aligned in beautiful parallel rows, the earth was the colour of coffee grounds, the irrigation systems were in full flow and the workers were all picturesquely bedecked in bright colours.<br />
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We even visited California's oldest organic strawberry farm. It offered an honesty till for the coffee, pumpkin pie and strawberry truffles we feasted on and a 10% discount for cyclists wearing helmets! It was all very wonderful. Unless, perhaps, you are one of those Mexican workers?<br />
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As we moved further down the coast the surfers multiplied, like black brussels sprouts bobbing in the water. We watched them each day at lunchtime as we sat at one idyllic beach picnic spot after another. At Waddell Bay, it was kite surfing that had taken over, with dozens of the multi-coloured parachutes looping and diving elegantly around each other and their handlers doing the same over the waves. Perhaps their biggest surfing mecca of all has been Santa Cruz, famed for decades for its surfing breaks and surfy attitude to life. School children go to the beach for breaktime, and we heard that the university encourages surfing over organised sports teams. We loved the atmosphere of Santa Cruz, right from our leisurely sunset pedal along the front when we arrived, slaloming between families, dogs and surfers and catching up with our Cornish friends Roger and Glen, whom we hadn't seen for a few days (it's becoming really quite a social event, this chapter!).<br />
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In fact, we liked Santa Cruz so much that it got us up early, for a pre-breakfast walk along the sunny pier. On one side, the early morning surfers were out there surfing the break at Steamer's Lane, on the other bikinied foursomes were starting a couple of beach volleyball games in front of the famous old theme park. Below us, sealions belched, jostled, wobbled and stank. The only thing that could have improved it was a good breakfast. And the massive omlettes we shared with Roger and Glen fitted that bill just perfectly.<br />
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The next highlight down the coast was Monterey. Yet another wonderful evening drift into town, this time along the Cannery Row seafront bike path, past diving cormorants, swooping pelicans and bobbing silver harbor seals. The following morning, after a slap up diner breakfast in the sun, we headed to the 'world famous' aquarium. We have been consistently amused down the West coast by exactly what qualifies as 'world famous'. Do the diner in Orick, or the salt water taffy shop in Defoe Bay <em>genuinely</em> provoke ripples of excitement in Sydney or Shanghai? Perhaps, but our best interpretation of the phrase is 'pretty well known around here, visited by at least one foreigner'. However, here was a place that truly justified the tag. Wow.<br />
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We arrived at 10am as it opened, and left shortly after 3pm. That gives an idea of how good it is. In the meantime, we were transfixed by sea otters eating their lunch with their hands, leopard sharks and rays gliding menacingly around their collosal tank, leafy sea horses indistinguishable from the sea plants they shared their tank with, and feeding time for November the giant octopus. November was almost exactly my height, and fascinated us - yet another fantastically informed staff member told us all about how she changes colour with mood, recognises her favourite people by smelling them with her suckers and has the same intelligence as a domestic cat. I don't want one for a pet, but I'm glad we found out about her.<br />
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Just outside on the sunny boardwalk, we could see where the 'exhibits' mostly come from - sea otters frolicked in kelp tangles and seals splashed around with each other. As families and joggers meandered their way along the front, it became clear why the Monterey Peninsular is such a sought after place to live. And this became even clearer when we hopped over the hill behind town later that afternoon to Pebble Beach, where we had very kindly been invited by Walt and Lynne Dwelle, Ali Williams' parents. We had a fabulous evening with them and a selection of their friends for Walt's annual golf extravaganza, all rounded off with a viewing of that evening's first game of baseball's 2010 'World' Series (again, 'world' - interpret as you will...!).<br />
<br />
By the end of the 9th inning, we knew our strikes from our balls, and Walt's excellent explanations had us hooked. We More importantly, the San Francisco Giants had trounced the Texas Rangers 11-7, and were 1-0 up in the 7 game series. Go Giants!<br />
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The following morning, once again to bright blue skies, we left Chateau Dwelle and headed on an idyllic cruise around the famous 17 Mile Drive to Carmel. If you haven't done those 9.6 miles (of <em>course</em> it's not <em>actually </em>17 miles, silly), try to imagine combining aquamarine ocean lapping onto pristine beaches, beds of ice plant, some of the most beautiful golf courses in America, ancient cedar groves and mighty houses that take the Amalfi coast and double it in size and modernity. When you are actually biking around all this on a sunny weekday morning, any thoughts of cynicism directed towards this haven from the real world just evaporate. It is simply lovely.<br />
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And so we rejoined Highway 1 and reached the start of Big Sur. As landmarks go, this surely ranks alongside the Golden Gate Bridge for a biking trip like ours. We crossed everything that the weather wouldn't give us a repeat performance...Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-34191457375509427912010-11-01T00:40:00.005-03:002010-11-01T03:39:33.084-03:00Two diners in one day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfPZQj8lm_M4_qHZQYW9wrnXRKCiAw8PcxvKFOH5wvYTrJjDCLd-23QqRsK-C8jkKvzJmmZ638XKvJKk14hyphenhyphenDkbxZVo8dgLkDCYuWpxgePlOImYj253WnK2rDtSg7IKFPcyLf3WajbdU0/s1600/ST+2010-10-21+039.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534445055968710722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfPZQj8lm_M4_qHZQYW9wrnXRKCiAw8PcxvKFOH5wvYTrJjDCLd-23QqRsK-C8jkKvzJmmZ638XKvJKk14hyphenhyphenDkbxZVo8dgLkDCYuWpxgePlOImYj253WnK2rDtSg7IKFPcyLf3WajbdU0/s200/ST+2010-10-21+039.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>We can get very hungry on this trip.<br />
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<div>The food monster can catch us unawares at any point. And even though we try and stave it off with a hearty breakfast, a decent size lunch and a several course dinner it can still overwhelm us, causing us to lurch into our panniers rabidly and reach for Lord only knows how many Haribo gummy bears, oat and honey cereal bars or gigantic fistfuls of peanuts.</div><br />
<div></div><div>It seems to really let rip however on our days off. Then we have been known to consume quite obscene numbers of calories in a bid to quiet its stomach growling, light headedness making, jelly leg wobbling rapaciousness.</div><br />
<div></div><div>A case in point, our 'sightseeing' day in San Francisco.</div><a name='more'></a>The day started early with a commuter lift into town from Duncan that deposited us at Mel's Diner at around 7.15am. As daylight fully dawned we were tucking into corned beef hash, omelettes, chipped potatoes and several rounds of toast, all washed down with lashings of full throttle coffee.<br />
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<div></div><div>Three light sightseeing hours later and our eyes rested, in the ernomous food complex of Nordstrom's mall, on two of the largest chocolate eclairs you have ever seen. It was as if in a horrible science fiction experiment several smaller eclairs had been attacked by one giant eclair and been morphed into super sized version which was plotting to take over the eclair world.</div><br />
<div></div><div>I was actually faintly appalled that I managed to eat it, but manage I did, and with several thousand more calories on board I was ready to face the further hardships of being a tourist.</div><br />
<div></div><div>So exhausting were these that only two hours later, in a sweet suburban neighbourhood, we were ready to eat again. This time Mexican. A fine dining establishment saw fit to serve us with two foot long burritos stuffed to the gills with rice, beans, sour cream and guacamole, salsa, chicken and salad. Mmmmm.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Having consumed this I did have the grace to feel full. </div><div></div><div>But not so full that when, four further exhausting and edifying hours later, we joined the Williams family in Bubba's diner back in their home town of San Anselmo I was unable to order and eat a cheeseburger with salad and coleslaw and an Oreo cookie milkshake of quite monstrous deliciousness and embarrassingly alarming size.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And you'd think it would all stop there. But no. Eight thirty struck and the Williams' friend Brandon popped over and so we celebrated by eating again, this time sharing beer and cookies as the night became long with chat. </div><br />
<div></div><div>And so to bed. The food monster marginally quieted.</div><div></div><div>We had at least managed to munch our way through some culture during the day as well as calories. Cramming some in, in the scraps of time afforded after chewing! The diners themselves were boni fide tourist stops. Mel's was the star of the 70's film 'American Graffiti' and as authentic a diner as one can get, and Bubba's had recently been featured on TV in a food programme. So as well as providing much needed sustenance they were also hugely edifying.</div><div></div><div>There is nothing like an American diner. From the booth style seating to the swivvelling-at-the counter seats all covered in slippery faux leather; from the endless coffee delivered from a height to the floppy laminated menus with no-nonsense but endless egg choices; from the juke box tunes to the slightly too bright strip lights it is all idiosyncratically and unavoidably USA and served by servers who range from alarmingly 'peppy' to wearily 'seen it all love'. We have loved them.</div><div></div><div>And between our two diners we soaked up some very tasty San Francisco visual treats. </div><div></div><div>A city that has survived earthquake, wind and fire, it perches audaciously on a series of hills around a sweeping bay offering great vistas on its ludicrously slopey streets down to the waterfront or up to fine monuments. Some of the streets are so foolishly steep that they have either had to be reduced to steps or contain as many as ten hairpins. We loved marching up and down then and soaking up the fabulous views.</div><div></div><div>We chomped our way through many of the distinct districts. We wandered from the huge commercial towers of the finance district to the fancy hotels and Grace Cathedral of Nob Hill, shambled pasts the turrets and crennellations of the pretty Queen Anne style homes Haight-Ashbury to the open greenery of Golden Gate Park, and dodged through restaurant crammed Chinatown to the liberal book havens of the 'red light' district. </div><div></div><div>We visited things, we learnt things, we photographed things. We window shopped, we read information panels and we even visited a whole museum. The 'California Academy of Sciences'. There we gawped at their butterfly, bird and wriggly beast filled rainforest exhibit and their profusion of fish, pulsating jelly things and crocodile filled aquarium.</div><div></div><div>And as many things as there were, so there were ways to be transported to them. We took a cable car, a street car, a bus and a ferry to navigate our way from place to place, as well as stretching our legs with a good chunk of walking. </div><div></div><div>San Francisco is a place that has had to invent a number of ways to get about. Its geographical challenges are multifarious. Perhaps the most amazing of its achievements are the two metal arms that stretch up from its northern shore and connect it to the land that surrounds its bay. The bridges.</div><div></div><div>We travelled repeatedly over the glorious Golden Gate and saw the two tier Bay Bridge pouring people into and out of downtown. These great conduits and the commuter ferries allow people to travel from the huge surrounding residential belt in and out with remarkable ease.</div><div></div><div>And we joined the general crowd, travelling in from our base in north of the city San Amselmo. In all, we went to the centre of the city three times, each time enjoying it in a different way. The first time we visited our friends Deanne and Garth in the fortieth floor suite at the Mandarin Oriental where a good friend had swung them a deal of three luxurious days away from biking. Here we sipped wine, munched cheese, swapped tales and indulged in the stunning skyline as the sun went down over San Fran. Then we had our intense sightseeing and eating day and finally we went in for an early evening stroll and a refined dinner and had a wonderfully romantic ferry ride home across the bay as the lights of the city faded in front of us.</div><div></div><div>Home.</div><div></div><div>Yes, we went to a home. A proper grown up home, which was perhaps the greatest treat of all in our San Francisco break. Duncan and Ali Williams housed us in their lovely San Anselmo residence, complete with carpet, huge bed, hot and cold running generosity, BOOKS and an extraordinary number of levels. They live in their hillside home with the delicious Olivia and Rex, 4 years and 16 months old respectively, who kept us hugely entertained with antics that ranged from climbing into the toy oven and shutting the door behind to a full scale guided tour of the very classy Wendy house and a lengthy explanation of why food colouring should be added to milk.</div><div></div><div>It was such a fabulous break. We enjoyed some great catch up chatter, an introduction to the Giants' bid for the World series, pure relaxation, email catch up time and the chance to babysit. </div><div></div><div>Yes...we were left alone with the children! </div><div></div><div>Ali gave us very clear instructions and seemed very confident that we'd be fine and that Duncan would be home soon and then left us to it. Phil turned to me and said, 'You knew what she was talking about didn't you? You've done all this before, right?'. I really wanted to say yes but was forced to admit that no, I had no real clue at all. Thence followed two glorious hours of feeding, bathing and putting to bed that saw Rex tire of me so much at one point that he picked up his pyjamas himself and started putting them on. He looked at me sort of sympathetically as if he realised that I had clearly no idea what I was doing. Phil was introduced by Olivia to Danny and the Dinosaur and spent a very happy half and hour in their company, finally boring her to sleep, and so it was that when Duncan arrived home, things had a reasonable aura of calm and we had not had to resort to bribery with the Haribo bears, the oat and honey cereal bars or the peanuts. </div><div></div><div>Ah, food. Glorious food. We had a fully stocked kitchen to play with and fantastic supermarkets and coffee shops on our doorstep. And so we ate and ate and ate and ate and put that food monster right back in its place.</div><div></div><div>And finally, five sophisticated days later we were hungry for biking again.</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-87483060740544028812010-11-01T00:30:00.000-03:002010-11-01T00:30:09.228-03:00Southbound to San Francisco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnMkRdaYOU60NvnawybPr28G7LaNAi-QBYaz4v-spfybVVb1ag9GODt8zx9UT_EZTZa7KhaPl8Vu501bdQti2CAzMGSxh9yRGl472hFhPSu-29DYI0eCMMy2XZlkyFSvU8oEus85f8knz/s1600/2010-10-17+001+2010-10-17+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnMkRdaYOU60NvnawybPr28G7LaNAi-QBYaz4v-spfybVVb1ag9GODt8zx9UT_EZTZa7KhaPl8Vu501bdQti2CAzMGSxh9yRGl472hFhPSu-29DYI0eCMMy2XZlkyFSvU8oEus85f8knz/s200/2010-10-17+001+2010-10-17+008.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>And so, with the majestic Redwoods behind us for now, it was time to branch off back to the coast and make our acquaintance with Highway 1. At the little town of Leggett, we turned West, and headed for what many cyclists had made sound like something akin to the Andes of California. We had heard tell of 22% gradients, altitude sickness, hours and hours of relentless climbing. We were getting Andean deja vu.<br />
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Fortunately, with the Andes still sufficiently recent in our memories, it turned out to be a breeze. A fantastic 3.5 mile ascent through dense pine forests, up sinuous, almost traffic-free roads. Although the sunny patches were steamy and sweaty, the intoxicating smell of pine and eucalyptus in the cooler shadier parts helped us to the top with little trouble. We patted ourselves smugly on the back. We thought the climbing was done for the day...<br />
<a name='more'></a>We descended 2000ft back to sea level through more shadowy forest, complete with backwater farm yards and their rusting old pick ups, all carpeted in rusty redwood leaves. By the time we reached the bottom of the hill, snaking our way smoothly round each hairpin, the temperature had fallen and the sea mist had rolled in. This was fortunate, as the next climb, though only half the height, was steeper and meaner. With lunch still sitting in our bellies, we needed things in our favour! Another climb, another descent - and seeing the Pacific churning in front of us for the first time in a few days, we knew the hard work was done.<br />
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We should have learnt from Peru, really. Unless you are in Holland, coasts are generally not flat. My cry of "now let`s push up our average speed for the day" was foolhardy. What a muppet. Far from having conquered the day gloriously, we now began a 20 mile slog along relentlessly undulating coves and mini valleys running down to the sea. It was the Peruvian coastline in miniature. We would swoop down a valley to the RV park or tiny creek delta at the bottom, before having to spend several times as long slogging back up its mirror image on the other side. We just never got into a rhythm and our legs burned. Even Haribo jelly teddies and Pepsi, our newfound late afternoon energy cocktail, couldn't save us properly. We staggered into Fort Bragg, and our lowest quality motel to date, after dark and with the temperature in single figures.<br />
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This continued for much of the coastline down to San Francisco. Maybe we were tired, maybe it was the lack of rhythm, maybe it was just that the stunning, rocky coastline meant our minds were not properly on the job. Whatever, it was hard work! <br />
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Alleviating our travails, however (and, let`s face it, we hardly need sympathy pedalling through California!), were the little towns we passed through. There were tiny places like the joyously named Elk (population 250), with its ancient petrol pumps and one-stop-shop weatherboarded general store; home-from-home Albion; and waterside Marshall, where we picnicked overlooking shimmering Tomales Bay whilst sitting on oyster shell gravel. And then there was deliciously positioned Mendocino, propped on its perfect promontory and crammed with cute (oh yes, we can outcute the most died-in-the-wool American tourist!) wild West style clapboard houses and bookshops; and Bodega Bay, which still felt and smelt like a 'proper' fishing town.<br />
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As we neared San Francisco, Point Reyes typified so many of the charming NorCal towns we'd passed through. We stopped for a late afternoon cup of coffee and soaked up the atmosphere. It was imbued with a sense of self-aware, home cooked decency that the outside world may not appreciate alongside the stereotype of the introspective American. As ever, the first display table you saw in its independent bookstore was overflowing with books on America's political, financial, environmental and dietary howlers, alongside appreciations of trees and nature, organic cookery books and guides on more down-to-earth careers. Down the street is a huge organic farm shop, selling only local products. Battered old pickups and shiny SUVs are matched in number by Toyota Priuses. You won't see a plastic bag for dust. America may be a crumbling empire, and away from the West coast the reality may not yet have sunk in, but on the West Coast they do seem truly to 'get it'. And many of the inhabitants are reassuringly keen to adjust their views and ways of life in response.<br />
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For generations, there has been external influence on the West coast of course, but one of the most striking examples we saw was the Russian style architecture at Fort Ross. Why Russian? Well, if you were a Russian in the 19th century whose furs at home weren't up to scratch, then there was a good chance you would go for a wander to track down some decent ones. Across the Bering Strait and a few thousand miles down the West coast, in fact. Amazing. And they didn't even have bicycles.<br />
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All the way down Highway 1 to the Bay Area, the coastal scenery continued to give us one spectacular bay after another. The volcanic stacks have stayed with us all the way from Oregon, and the Pacific shows no signs of calming down. Those rollers we first admired in Peru were - unsurprisingly - still crashing in. But we continue to be hypnotised by them - minty green, aquamarine blue or just stormcloud grey, they somersault opaquely into the shore trailing their broad white manes of spray. Often we could see them breaking for miles down stretches of the coast as we pedalled. And by now they were starting to be dotted with black clad surfers. We were getting closer to surfing's spiritual home of SoCal.<br />
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This part of California, though, is perhaps more famous for its dairy herds. When we diverted inland on the 1, we rolled through expansive and arid cattle pasture lands, dotted with magnificent steaks on legs and idyllic looking old wooden barns. The agricultural smell of cow dung often added an extra <em>je ne sais quoi</em> to the eucalyptus and sea mist. We also enjoyed the mixture of trees along the highway - some of the lonelier coastal cedars were blown at comical angles, but when they clubbed together they could form some spectacular tunnel groves which blocked out the sunlight almost entirely. We have seen Patagonian style lines of poplars, and explosions of colour from other deciduous trees along the way, and are just getting towards Californian fruit tree land.<br />
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On our penultimate day before getting to San Francisco, our peloton of two expanded by 50%. Now, we've biked with plenty of other cyclists on our trip of course, but when one Mr Duncan Williams joined us in the appropriately named Gualala it was the first time in almost 5000 miles that we'd actually organised for anyone to come and play with us. Not unexpectedly, DW added a certain extra dimension - noisy, energetic and relentlessly ginger - to our riding, and we ended up doing our second longest day of the trip at nearly 70 miles. But it was great.<br />
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The following day, he sadly had to leave early to head in to work (no mean feat at 50 miles). We were to catch up with him later that evening - this time at our own elegant and well-honed pace! But before he left a rather dank and dewy campground, whom should we run into but Richard - our fellow Thorn rider whom we'd first met in Vancouver. In the gloom, Richard greeted Duncan effusively with 'hello, big man, how are you?!', only to be hear the reply, 'I am a big man, but I'm not <em>that</em> big man'. A great moment.<br />
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And so on we went to San Anselmo, 10 miles North of the Golden Gate Bridge and home of the Williams family. We arrived some time after dark, by which time our legs, bottoms and minds were truly feeling 6 consecutive days on the road. The idea of being 'at home' with no guy ropes to tighten or motel furniture to rearrange has rarely felt better.<br />
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And we suddenly realised that we were less than a month away from leaving the USA and that time was beginning to go into fast forward.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-64648446188746727202010-10-25T01:04:00.006-03:002010-10-25T03:57:53.493-03:00Standing on the shoulders of giants<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhJLplX1oYpyNqwsY-UoYBvKAPctbcFjmRi5sRf1tIUgLxMBobmT2Cpps8acvcuYzEAtpHupTbm13qCA8Ws5PY_9NNIb22lC51o28154rcrn1nYPksScaREkjKzY0cQCo8FEr8L1YaEA/s1600/2010-10-07+001+2010-10-07+034.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531873178748237538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhJLplX1oYpyNqwsY-UoYBvKAPctbcFjmRi5sRf1tIUgLxMBobmT2Cpps8acvcuYzEAtpHupTbm13qCA8Ws5PY_9NNIb22lC51o28154rcrn1nYPksScaREkjKzY0cQCo8FEr8L1YaEA/s200/2010-10-07+001+2010-10-07+034.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a> Do you remember the Cadbury Flake adverts from the 1980s? A woman reclines in a wonderfully bubbly bubble bath, lying back and really luxuriating in it and then reaches for the ultimate indulgence, a deliriously crumbly, flakey milk chocolate bar that Cadbury have cunningly crafted in the shape of a log.<br />
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<div>Well, I felt like that woman when I woke up the other morning in a treehouse.</div><br />
<div></div><div>I was not, of course, in a bath at forty seven feet above the ground (although we did have a fully functioning shower suite in this treehouse). Nor was I eating chocolate first thing in the morning (although that isn't impossible) but rather I was luxuriating in splendour and I was eyeing up with gobsmacked awe a real log of rather more epic proportions. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Phil and I were being treated by the neverendingly lovely Nancy Blessing to a night at her 'favourite treehouse hotel'. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Now, that is a good statement to start with. To have visited a treehouse hotel at all is fairly unusual, but to have a 'favourite' one is pretty splendid and then to be lovely enough to treat us, and my Mum and Dad, to a visit to it confirms Nancy as one of the absolute highlights of our trip.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And so it was that Phil and I found ourselves spending a night in the 'Majestree'.This was one of several treehouses in the 'Treesort' of 'Out N' About', inland from the Oregon Coast up the gloriously forested Smith River. </div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div>This was a genuinely magical place. The hard earned dream of a single visionary, it delights you with its childlike playground brilliance. You climb to your night's abode up wooden staircases that wind improbably round sturdy tree trunks or across fairy-light guided rope bridges. Once there you hoist your luggage up behind you using a fantastically fun rope and pully device before finally shutting the door high aloft and enjoying your haven in the sky. </div><br />
<div>The puns abound. Attendants at the resort wear tops that have 'Securitree' emblazoned across the back, everything you need to know about their 'Facilitree' and the 'Activitrees' you can take part in there can be estalished by sending them a 'Treemail' and once there you can stay in treehouses like 'Serendipitree', 'Pleasantree' and 'Forestree'. </div><br />
<div>Each treehouse is different. Ours was the tallest in the resort and was truly amazing. It was a properly luxury spot with en-suite bathroom. It was all made of wood and had both an attic area where you could stare through a skylight at the nightsky and a deck where you could sit out and enjoy the sounds of the forest. We had incredible uninterrupted views of the leaf canopy (all the houses are situated so that none is overlooked, rendering curtains or blinds superfluous) and a huge solid trunk rising right up through the middle of the room from the tree that was hosting us in its upper reaches. </div><br />
<div>The trunk was wonderfully knarled and solid and very, very wide. It's surface looked surprising like a Cadbury's Flake with folds of bark rippling across it. It was so present that it seemed as if there was another person in the room with us.</div><br />
<div>Waking up with that tree and a view of the sky and the gently moving leaves surrounding us, and then glancing sideways and watching the sun gradually creep across the wooded hillside opposite is one of the most special memories of the trip so far.</div><br />
<div>And it was the perfect introduction to the next part of our trip.</div><br />
<div>Nancy had arranged this excursion just as we approached the border between Oregon and California. And so with six miles to go to that fateful moment we parked the bikes in a kind lady lawyer's office (expert scouting by my parents), jumped in their hire car and drove inland to our palace in the skies. En route we wound up the Smith River, the northern reaches of a series of State Parks that celebrate one of the most famous trees on earth. Our relationship with those trees really began, however, when we returned the next day to surge into the Sunshine State and straight onto the Redwood Highway and into the land of those giants of the tree world. </div><br />
<div>And we stayed in the land of the giants for the next seven nights.</div><br />
<div>We began in the tiny town of Klamath, a short hop into California and notable really as a jumping off point for forest exploration. Our entry was heralded by the huge 'Trees of Mystery' park where you could take a ski lift like 'Sky Train' through the Redwoods. Such are the contradictions of enjoying this area which range from the headline grabbing, tourist friendly tallest this and highest that, to the low key trails and hikes detailed on obscure State Park maps that allow for proper off-the-beaten track experiences with wild camping and the ever present possibility of a wee chat with a bear.</div><br />
<div>We did it all. </div><br />
<div>We paid our money and held our breath and squeezed the hire car (with much back seat directing and anxious shrieking) through a Drive Thru Tree just outside Klamath. We took short trails to see the Giant Tree, the Tall Tree, the Immortal Tree. We ogled with wide eyed wonder in the quiet of the forest heart the fallen splendour of the Dyerville Giant - a 362 foot tree that fell in 1991 after a nasty knock from another falling tree and ended its nearly 2000 years of standing with a crash that could be heard half a mile away. We pulled the car over in quiet spots and wandered into the forest just to be amongst them. We drove down the scenic byways and The Avenue of the Giants and then we cycled down them. We stayed near the trees, we slept amongst the trees. </div><br />
<div>And they are, to use an very American expression, awesome.</div><br />
<div>They are so huge it is ridiculous. In a country very conscious of its giants, be they personalities or places or achievements, a country where every town has a first, or largest, or only, or widest, or strongest, or biggest, these trees really do stand head and shoulders above other things. When you are amongst them you just gaze and gaze and gaze. And then you prod one another, and call one another and say again and again and again, 'look at that one, it's huge'. The canopy waves so high above you that you nearly fall over looking up.</div><br />
<div>And the effect of being amongst them is to enclose you in deep, warm, sound filled silence. The forest is always making noise but it is heavy noise that is sort of sonorous and slow and so feels like no noise at all. The light is also different. When the sun is shining above it is filtered in strong direct shafts or hazy leaf spangled splodges and when it is not you are enclosed in shade that is several stages darker than outside the wood and makes the day seem as if it starts later and ends earlier.</div><br />
<div>Things hide in the woods, and so the feeling of comfort and serenity that you can find amongst the trees can also change and the mood can shift to one of conspiracy and lurking and nerviness. There can be odd noises that make you jump and whilst they might just come from something bouncing its way to the forest floor from hundreds of feet above, might also come from a properly wild creature like the Elk we happened upon one afternoon. You never know what you will find.</div><br />
<div>The Redwoods stretch of California contains a multitude of sins including a thriving Marijuana industry where rings of plants encircle the bases of the trees so that they can't be seen from prowling helicopters above, and those who partake can drift through the backwater towns with blissful mind softness and never be bothered by the law.</div><br />
<div>One such town was Arcata, our second base in the area. It was a charming Victorian town with a picture postcard square, a great 1914 cinema where we enjoyed a wonderful night at the flicks and an impressive record of recycling and general all round environmental loveliness. It also had an unmistakable aroma of naughtiness on every street corner and a lap of the town left you feeling positively woozy. This was repeated in equally pretty Ferndale and Garberville and Benbow with their glorious technicolour wooden houses all perhaps the products of somewhat addled minds. These palaces reached their apotheosis in the brilliantly named Eureka, stuffed full of extraordinary edifices. Ah ha, we cried, all sorts of things can be found in the woods.</div><br />
<div>We waved my parents off from Arcata and then headed deep into the woods again this time on our bikes to experience their wonder once more in yet another way. </div><br />
<div>Riding through them was such a delight. We wound our way down deserted roads and onto The Avenue of the Giants. This thirty three mile stretch of crowded Redwood loveliness was quite amazing. It was cool and quiet and wonderful pedalling. Each of us was lost in our own worlds on the bikes and able to quietly soak up the splendour. I found myself fascinated by the way creeping plants grow up the sides of the trees, clinging to them and making them look as if they have just been covered in confetti. Or how defeated and broken and yet indestructable they can look once they have fallen and crashed onto the forest floor, where they will lie and rot and support thousands of species in their slow return to the earth.</div><br />
<div>We camped half way through the Avenue and had a proper romantic outdoorsy night complete with campfire and toasted marshmallows. Once it was dark, we walked out on to the road and looked up at a spectacular gash in the trees through which a sky thick with stars was visible. We stood and looked and listened and soaked it all up and felt very, very lucky.</div><br />
<div>The following morning some gallant campers offered to share their hot breakfast with us. The generosity and fun of Greg, Steve and Jim was the icing on the cake. We chatted and laughed and ate a lush feast all washed down with killer coffee before riding with them and completing the route.</div><br />
<div>We loved the tree based camping so much we did it the next night too and said farewell to these magnificent trees with lots more contemplation and wonder.</div><br />
<div>It was with some sadness (and a rather aching set of limbs courtesy of the hills) that we climbed our way out of them to return to the sea. Their spiralling branches, Cadbury Flake like trunks, their gentle dropping of rust red ferny leaves and wonderful fallen cross sections blazing in shades of orange and red, their odd soft bark stuffed full or moisture and their massive wide root systems had all become familiar sights over the course of the week.</div><br />
<div>They had made us philosophical and meditative as we had wound our way through them and they had humbled us by their age and stature.</div><br />
<div>As we hurled down Rockport Hill and left the last of them behind a strong cold blast of sea air blew all that romance away. I well and truly had to get out of that luxuriating bath as someone turned on the shower of salty spray.</div><br />
<div>We turned left at the junction.</div><br />
<div>Goodbye Redwood Highway. Hello Highway 1.</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-53419480428567215282010-10-20T16:25:00.019-03:002010-10-24T04:23:16.796-03:00Pioneers and Adventurers<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHk_kxDXaN0dxBOdnEAxPq17X00BC0zD3wfOqD1KBiYZiI6lbOiwp5KYsWLlE6kSgAtCEcxmyXk-gSU2WQQPeW1gcM_vki1EfQGNHS-boW04SPS4KMWc-VepD1GtkaPJtGP6-TjqTa4sk/s1600/ST+2010-10-10+015%5B1%5D.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531503751872540402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHk_kxDXaN0dxBOdnEAxPq17X00BC0zD3wfOqD1KBiYZiI6lbOiwp5KYsWLlE6kSgAtCEcxmyXk-gSU2WQQPeW1gcM_vki1EfQGNHS-boW04SPS4KMWc-VepD1GtkaPJtGP6-TjqTa4sk/s200/ST+2010-10-10+015%5B1%5D.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>We have had both good maps and bad maps on this trip.<br />
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<div></div><div>Some have been driving atlases with big scale bare-bones information, some have been topographical plans indicating worrying climbs or thrilling descents and some have been drawn on little scraps of paper by helpful locals and more or less accurate depending on their knowledge.</div><br />
<div>We spend hours looking at them and trying to work out which route to take calculating how different maps compare. We try to work out distances, where major stops should be, what might be viable in any one day and what we will pass en route that we might want to stop at. It is one of our most basic activities. We look at our route maps every single day.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We have had some hilarious nonsenses. In Bolivia and Peru the maps we used often indicated places that no longer existed (or perhaps never actually existed at all) and utterly failed to mention others that were significantly large and very definitely there. So we have always had to use several maps and supplement them with internet research and local knowledge and a healthy dose of guess work. No one map ever did it all.<br />
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</div><div></div><div>Until now that is.<br />
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</div><a name='more'></a>The maps we are using in North America have been a revelation. They are published by the Adventure Cycling Association of America and we have four that detail exactly the route of the Pacific Coast. They are specially designed for touring cyclists. They are waterproof and tearproof, they contain step by step written instructions for the route both northbound and southbound (including the locations of towns, supermarkets, campsites and motels), they have elevation information so you can see just how climby or flat any day will be and they ensure that wherever possible we take the quietest roads available. They are brilliant. And the best thing about them is that they refer to what we are up to as 'Adventure Cycling'!!<br />
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<div>We are Adventurers forsooth. Huzzah!</div><br />
<div></div><div>It added a sense of mystery and excitement to our journey to be thus labelled.</div><br />
<div>In fact, since we have arrived in North America, more and more people have very charmingly referred to our trip as an 'adventure' and I have to confess to rather liking the term. It makes us sound a bit intrepid and interesting and it rather perfectly sums up the mix of delight and diligence that this trip has turned out to be. It feels a smidgen fraudulent though to apply the term just when the comfort level of our journey has sky rocketed and the privations very definitely decreased. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Despite the much lauded loveliness of biking here though, there was a rather wild and woolly adventure feeling to our coastal route through southern Washington and Oregon. We found this especially when we are directed off the main highways and onto the forested back roads. Things became rural, quiet and remote feeling very very fast.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We often found ourselves cycling along for an hour at a stretch without a single car passing us, or without passing a single home. We cycled up hill and down dale, often with a view of the sea but when sticking to the coast became too tricky in quite lonely feeling forest.<br />
<br />
</div><div></div><div>Something that surprised me about the whole area is how that remoteness inspired a real sense of the pioneer, and a sense that it had been a place for adventurers. For a good long time the northern West coast of the North America remained far from the clutches of European conquerers and a place of mystery and challenge for them. The names of the coastal peninsulas are rendolent with hazardous exploration. Sir Francis Drake briefly stopped in Oregon in Whale Bay when looking for a Northwest passage, Captain Cook floated by searching for the same and named Cape Foulweather in Washington en route (doubtless for obvious reasons) and a whole host of other luminaries stuck their heads in, named places but failed to really get a serious foothold for a good long while. The whole area was relatively beyond their grasp and although lots of countries laid claim to it the Native American populations were left relatively unmolested until the nineteenth century.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And then Thomas Jefferson did a deal with Napoleon. In 1803 he bought, on behalf of the people of the United States, the French territories in North America, named Louisiana. It is an extraordinary idea that countries bought and sold bits of this continent, but there you go. Napoleon needed the money and the USA was keen to expand. The wily Frenchman had another plan too. He was struggling to defeat the British fleet at sea and imagined that if France was unable to crush them a newly expanded United States one day might be able to. All heart, old Napoleon.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Anyway, having bought the land Jefferson commissioned a trip across it by land to get the full measure of what he'd bought and to find a land crossing to the Pacific Ocean. He packed off William Clark and Meriwether Lewis to do the honours and they duly set off from St.Louis Missouri to do just that. Poor Lewis and Clark did not have the Adventure Cycling Association maps with them and so had a number of larks and misadventures before finally spilling out onto the Oregon coast a good year after they had left. </div><br />
<div></div><div>Lewis and Clark followed us everywhere in southern Washington and northern Oregon. We biked past places they had camped, places they had walked through, viewpoints they had come to all diligently signed on the Lewis and Clark Trail. There were statues of them, tributes to them and endless little brown and white signs featuring their images. We felt rather in tune with them as we wound through silent empty forested roads and imagined them struggling through dense undergrowth looking for their way.</div><br />
<div></div><div>They encountered some serious wildlife in that undergrowth. We saw lots of signs for Elk, and we saw skunk and racoons sadly dead by the side of the road and heard the calls of all sorts of preying birds who swooped about us hoping to capitalise on an easy lunch.<br />
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</div><div></div><div>And there were bears.</div><br />
<div></div><div>Two hundred years ago, before the ravages of hunters, Grizzly bears could be found near the coast. Now, only the generally herbivorous Black Bear roams these parts. I say 'only' with sincere caution, since I imagined it would still be fairly sobering to be staring one in the face.</div><br />
<div></div><div>It was 'bear warnings' that upped the feeling of adventure in these parts. There were plenty of them. Every State Park we went through contained details of bear activity and what to do and what not to do, and we met people in shops and restaurants who would casually refer to sightings as if they were a rather run of the mill occurance. What really made the whole thing more alarming was that received wisdom of what to do when actually confronted by one varied so wildly. From suggestions that you should definitely NOT run upon seeing one but try to smile pleasantly and back out merrily on your way, to fighting 'by all means possible' should a bear decide to attack, via suggestions that you play dead, let the bear maul you a bit and then bury you before considering attempting to get to a place of greater safety, none of it left us feeling that reassured.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And so we did feel slightly daring and adventurous on the really quiet roads (rich with all the lush smells Phil described in his last blog) when there was a rustling in the bushes and no one to be seen for miles around before we remounted our bikes and pedalled on our carefully mapped out way.</div><br />
<div></div><div>When the roads then opened up again to the coast we were met by wind swept vistas, sheer drops to the sea, the frollicking of whales and sealions and an enormous number of lighthouses. It became apparent as we passed one of these after another that one of the main reasons for the Pacific coast remaining unsullied by European hands for so long was that it is incredibly dangerous to navigate. Wreck after wreck after wreck finally convinced a fledging US Coast Guard that something had to be done to make it all safer and the second half of the nineteenth century saw a huge increase in lighthouses. We visited a few and were struck by what a lonely and isolating existence it must have been for those early lighthouse pioneers living and working there in these relentlessly blasted spots with so few habitations nearby.</div><br />
<div></div><div>We were able to access rather more locations although they were still often rather few and far between. The towns we headed through obviously saw a boom in the late nineteenth century since the architecture of Astoria, Florence, Port Orford et al. was all very Victorian. You only have to look at the dates of the founding of the states of Washington and Oregon (1889 and 1859 respectively) on the back of the state dedicated 25c coins to realise why that was. These were states that were late to the party and flooded with people surging West then. The main streets were lined with oddly named 'Queen Anne' Victorian buildings of both the high flat front sort and the graceful turrets and ornate cornicings variety. We could really see how people had arrived and gone about setting up a town from scratch with all the essentials such as a post office and a general store, and dug in to start a new life in the wild west.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And so as we forged a path through this frontier land moving seemlessly from town to country we were followed and led by two other adventurers. Phil referred to the visit of my parents in his last blog but it was a properly pioneering experience for them and they rose to the challenge amazingly. </div><br />
<div></div><div>They armed themselves with (appropriately) a 'Town and Country' Chevrolet people carrier and they sped about the roads with us dispensing brownies and Pepsi and charging ahead to the towns we thought we get to, to negotiate great deals on motels and organise food for dinner. They met all the demands of that unplanned an enterprise with true adventuring spirit. They cheered us on and made us feel as if we were amazing and they had an extraordinary ability to incentivise us with ice cream just at the moments in the day when we needed it most! One of our favourite moments of their stay was when we spotted them from afar doing star jumps by the side of the road and chanting a cry of 'Hot Tub, Hot Tub', as they celebrated the next location's star attraction. I cannot thank them enough for making our two week trip through the wilds of the western frontier so much fun.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And they had another great skill. They paved the way for us each day. They would come back to find us as lunchtime passed and let us know what we were in for on the road ahead. Sometimes they were able to suggest one route over another or warn us of things in our path. They provided a service that enhanced those Adventure Cycling maps to a truly stella level.</div><br />
<div></div><div>And so we survived the wilder parts of the west with great ease and burst through the border of southern Oregon (past the fruit inspection point!) into Northern California. We were so excited since we felt that we were entering a whole new country not just another state in the same one. I suppose that feeling is fair enough since it is far larger than our own nation and so distinct in character.<br />
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</div><div></div><div>And looking at the maps, we could see some some great days ahead.</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-22883805633970108552010-10-07T03:59:00.000-03:002010-10-07T03:59:37.199-03:00We're in Quite a State.[I do hereby declare that I am in no way receiving financial or other remuneration from the Oregon Tourist Board for the words laid out below - honest!]<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5JZVKvWTs88mG1VZSM9ztdwJwDPhVEYKDnGFjl3Io0SCGxIyTHaTtQi7R0KRLtC5PcpDNWPXTpu8KxaxExFv7vQZmX975-iSTdbO0lNjOcVvieGev62kQSnUeX-V5f_jbgV8pCjWNcm6/s1600/2010-10-02+001+2010-10-02+046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5JZVKvWTs88mG1VZSM9ztdwJwDPhVEYKDnGFjl3Io0SCGxIyTHaTtQi7R0KRLtC5PcpDNWPXTpu8KxaxExFv7vQZmX975-iSTdbO0lNjOcVvieGev62kQSnUeX-V5f_jbgV8pCjWNcm6/s200/2010-10-02+001+2010-10-02+046.JPG" width="200" /></a>I am sitting in a duplex apartment in Port Orford, 70 miles North of the Californian border. Through the windows, I am watching small fishing boats bobbing as they await winching by crane into their 'dry' harbour. Behind them, the Pacific: fringed by rugs of pine forests, it is studded with giant lava stacks surging out of the water and speckled with frisky white horses. Late afternoon sunshine is bathing the whole scene in gentle light. And in amongst the whole scene jets of water are spurting periodically from the backs of giant grey whales, surfacing during their 12,000 mile migration South from the Arctic to Mexico. They are just a few hundred yards away. We keep seeing them. It's a tough gig, this long distance cycling game.</div><a name='more'></a>We loved Washington State. We took it to our hearts and revelled in its beauty and home comforts after the challenges, starkness and aridness of Bolivia and Peru. In fact, by the time we crossed the imposing Astoria Megler bridge into Oregon a little over a week ago, we were quietly determined that Washington should be unbeatable on our journey with those whales down to the Mexican border. So many people had raved about Oregon's coastline, that it was - surely - impossible that it could live up to its billing. Wasn't it?<br />
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The truth is that we have seen so many mind-bendingly, eye-crossingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful coastal scenes since that bridge that Oregon has been at least the match of Washington. And who's getting competitive anyway? Given that we've been blessed with almost unrelenting blue skies and barely a drop of the North West's notorious rainfall, it's been almost impossible to take it all in visually. And it's even more difficult to put into words. So I'm not going to tell you what we've seen. I couldn't do it justice. I'm going to tell you what it all smelt like instead.<br />
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On a trip like this, basically straight South down the coast, you can follow your nose. Granted, we no longer spend weeks at a time on one single road, as was often the case earlier in the year - there are too many interesting detours for that - but our noses are essentially our GPS. But we've been following our noses in more ways than just directional ones. The smells have been intoxicating. Early in our trip, in Argentine Patagonia, we met a man who languidly assured us that the best thing about being on a bike rather than a car is that 'you can smell the wild flowers by the road'. How right he was.<br />
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I spend half my time on the bike these days just sniffing the air like some rabid blood hound.<br />
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The smells of the sea are inevitable. Our route has rarely branched far from the Pacific coast since we entered Oregon, and the salty air is just delicious. Oregon claims to be one of the world's biggest oyster producers, exporting around the world. Those smells of the sea have been exacerbated by fleets of venerable oyster trawlers that chug out to sea under bridges we have crossed, and by massive heaps of oyster shells by the roadside. At one point we passed piles so large that a couple of bulldozers were working to keep it under control. That's a lot of oysters. And quite a smell, even for an oyster lover!<br />
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But if you think oysters are strong, try sealion breath. We spent time in Newport watching male sealions one morning. Like some maritime soap opera, they jostled and wobbled for position on their precarious stretches of boardwalk below us, barking rancid fish breath into the air at deafening levels. Hilarious to watch, provided you breathe through your mouth.<br />
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The smell of fish can be excellent, though - we learnt back in Seattle that this year has been the North West's best for salmon since 1913, and we have done our best to take advantage of this. Salmon from around here is invariably succulent, free range, deep pink and irresistible. And what to go with it? Well, Oregon produces far more wine than the outside world would know, what with California's domination of the US market. The pinot noirs have been outstanding, our in-camp sommelier Robert Hurran choosing one good bottle after another for our dinners. To say nothing of 'Oregon's finest martinis' at the excellent Pacific City Inn, which fully lived up to their reputation...<br />
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Returning to other sea life for a moment... The other afternoon, we spent an hour or so watching whales. I had never seen whales. I never expected to see whales. Ever. In Defoe Bay, as we stood admiring the thunderous surf crashing into the rocks below the roadway, someone saw a plume of spray a kilometre or so off the coast. And then another. And then we saw the backs of the grey whales and they surfaced to breathe, blow out 400 litres of water, repeat the performance several times in quick succession, before finally diving deeper to feed, with a magnificent 'fluking' of their tail. As we continued down the coast, racing against yet another impossibly perfect Pacific sunset, we found whales ever closer to us. Eventually we were watching one barely the length of a cricket pitch down the cliff from us, feeding peacefully amongst the inshore algae. We found ourselves quite literally pinching ourselves. It was one of the loveliest things I've ever seen.<br />
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Back to practicalities. The finest roadside smell a cyclist can detect in these parts is coffee. We have continued to patronise drive-thru coffee shacks with reckless abandon. With names like 'Higher Grounds', 'Jazzy Bean Cafe' and 'The Human Bean', you just can't <em>not</em> stop. Especially reassuring is that we have barely seen a Starbucks in several hundred miles. It's all about independent little places around these parts. Many times, we have been greeted by 'I've just brewed a fresh pot'. It's paradise to the coffee drinker and/or all-day cyclist. We still haven't risked riding and drinking hot coffee all at once, but our mid morning coffee stops, often in stunning locations, are heavensent. Along with drive-thru espresso places, incidentally, we have now identified drive-thru post offices, ATMs, chinese restaurants, and pharmacies. The old adage is true - Americans really don't have to get out of their cars for much.<br />
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Evidently practice makes perfect, though. With the exception of the odd frothing-at-the-mouth lunatic passing us, the road users of the USA have been impressively well behaved towards us so far. We were alarmed to discover the other day that you only need a car licence to drive a 36ft 'RV' motorhome towing a massive 4x4 behind it, but we are now well past back-to-school time this year. Most of those driving big outfits are well into retirement, including the delightful retired Wisconsinites we met recently for whom Oregon was the 50th and last state they have visited in their RV - and 'right up among the best'.<br />
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The other big occupants of the road are logging trucks. These impressive beasts thunder along the local highways and byways with around a dozen massive pine trunks jammed between front and back jaws of their trailers. We've been untroubled by them, but have loved being engulfed in the sweet scent of pine sap emanating from their loads. It's the kind of smell all loo cleaner and air 'freshener' producers are trying, and failing miserably, to replicate, and just makes you want to fill your lungs. Perhaps even better than the raw pine smell is the big box trailers that haul tonnes of wood chippings from the logging plants - even sweeter and vaguely reminiscent of carpentry lessons as a 10 year old...!<br />
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Of course, it doesn't need trucks to remind you that we are in logging country. This corner of the US is dominated by massive forests. Whenever we are inland from the coast, we wend our way through forest roads, breathing deep of those moist, verdant, rich forest smells. Often, it is pine - seemingly the dominant type of tree grown by the major forestry players. But there are plenty of wonderfully natural and long established forests too, full of a melee of trees, shrubs and undergrowth coexisting. Often, the branches of the bigger deciduous trees are draped in moss, lending them a certain Lord of the Rings ethereality.<br />
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This beauty is enhanced even more when shafts of afternoon sunlight cut through the branches and illuminate the steam or thin mist lurking within the roadside glades. But we have seen the beast too: the damage that hurricanes can do to forests like these, leaving them scattered like twigs and only the a handful of rather smug looking big boys still standing.<br />
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Dotted along the stunning coastline and tucked into the forests, there are the towns. Northern Oregon is blessed with one picturesque little spot after another, starting in Astoria where the earliest pioneers had such trouble navigating the perilous mouth of the the Columbia River. Today, it still full of 'historic' 19th century weatherboarded houses and recently reconverted riverside wharves, all dominated by the 4 mile stretch of the bridge to Washington. We learnt that the bridge has the longest 'truss' in the world, but have yet to learn what a 'truss' actually is.<br />
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Further down the coast, other highlights have included peaceful Seaside (the clue is in the name) with its Le Touquet style expanse of pristine sand and miles of coastal boardwalk, and the mellow little towns of Manzanita and Cannon Beach, full of attractive shops, ramshackle antiques shops, architect designed glass-fronted seashore holiday homes, sweet smelling coffee and chocolate shops, and - in true Monty Python style - wild white bunny rabbits. All of these places must be infinitely more chaotic during the holiday season, but in the autumn they are paradise.<br />
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Newport felt like a 'proper' fishing town, with whale and fishing related murals on the warehouse walls and a chunky fleet of fishing boats in the harbour, to say nothing of that whiff of sealions. Florence, too, was a joy - we stayed in a motel overlooking the river and classically designed bridge, and could sit on our balcony as the sun set watching salmon jumping clean out of the river, cormorants spreading their wings wide to dry them, and a couple of seals bobbing around. A true highlight, even before Terry and Kim (coming up shortly!). And Wheeler and Garibaldi felt as authentically 'American' as you can get - full of effortless Americana, all trimmed with hanging baskets and vintage cars. If they have changed in the last 60 years I couldn't say how.<br />
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It has not all been vintage highlights. Places like Reedsport and South Bend have showed us a distinctly mundane side to Oregon and the US. They are essentially the archetypical sprawling concrete splodges of JC Penneys, Safeways, and other warehouse brands. The Comfort Inns are comfortable and the coffee shops sell coffee (after a fashion), but they are hardly destinations in their own right. The advertising hoardings outside supermarkets are priceless: 'Will clean anything; $8 an hour; especially enjoy fishing'. You what?! And 'Ed's Towing Services has now been taken over by Bob's Towing Services. Will tow anything...'. You get the idea. But you know that just beyond them is coastline to dream of or forests to bring alive the deadest of nostrils.<br />
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Whilst most people head back to work or school from these places come Labour Day, those who are left have the chance to produce more smells for us to enjoy on our bikes. Each neat little home has its classic American mail box at the end of its drive, RV and pick up truck parked in the front yard, and the owner mowing the lawn on their ride-on. Either that, or bonfiring those autumn leaves. Either way, our noses are twitching in pleasure.<br />
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Talking of local inhabitants, in Florence we spent a hilarious evening in a bar. The aforementioned Terry, whom we met outside as we wandered by, lured us in with the promise of music from some of the world's musical greats. To our surprise, they did indeed seem to have some considerable pedigree, and won us over by playing the blues version of Rule Britannia in our honour. Thereafter, Mustang Sally took over. From our table we could see the stetsons bobbing up and down on the dance floor like the fishing boats outside. Terry retired early 25 years ago and was excellent company, as was his lovely wife Kim who clearly had his high energy approach to life and martinis ('Swedish water') under control: 'he amuses himself'. Between assuring us that he had saved us Brits ('well, my dad flew fighters') in World War II and apologising for not being able to join us the following day on our bikes ('between you and me, I've got a colonoscopy in Eugene tomorra' mornin'), we also learnt of the Oregon/California rivalry. Evidently, Californians think rather highly of themselves when they head North across the border for their holidays and don't always make friends. He and Kim had met in the bike shop where he was working a couple of years ago, when she came in to buy guitar strings. It's that kind of place, Florence.<br />
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Another character we came across was Carl. Carl is a chainsaw wood carver. I'll repeat that. A chainsaw wood carver. Was there ever a cooler job? In a cloud of chainsaw fumes and wood chippings, he produces brilliant life size cartoon style replicas of local cowboys and bears. They take two days to make and he sells them for $1200. He is onto something here. Plus, he still has all ten fingers and all four limbs. I counted them. And he's been doing it since 'my daddy taught me when I was this tall...'. The ultimate manly pursuit.<br />
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It is important to mention, at this point, the Oregon attitude to moustaches, as exemplified by Terry. It may impede their sense of smell, but Oregonians really go for it. Mostly the men. They wear them as a badge of proper, manly, chainsawing, pine logging pride. I thought mine earlier in the trip was pretty cool for a couple of days. Now I realise I was a long way short of the real thing. Freddie Mercury, Saddam Hussain and Burt Reynolds, eat your hearts out. Oregon is surely the (ex-Middle East) World Capital of the Moustache.<br />
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It hasn't only been the locals that we've enjoyed meeting. We are now part of a something approximating to a southbound convoy making its way down the coast. This is a popular route, with good reason. Glen and Roger are a great Cornish couple who have left their 17 and 19 year old daughters back in the UK to cycle the same route as us through North America. Whether teenagers can keep up with such bouncy and fun parents is a moot point. They must surely envy their mum's fabulous bright red hair. Neither Roger nor Glen had ever done anything like this before and they are an irrepressible force whom we keep enjoying running into.<br />
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Garth and Dee, by contrast, are a wonderful pair from Vancouver via Bermuda who have taken on every athletic endeavour in the book - including representing Bermuda at road racing and cruising through Ironman Canada just a few weeks ago. We are reassured that they are taking this venture at exactly the same pace as us, and with the same attitude to - among other things - a decent glass of wine in the evenings. We expect to see plenty more of them as we head further South.<br />
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Then there is Paul the imposing Californian, ably supported by his wife Liz from behind the wheel of her Toyota, trundling along in a position almost exactly identical to that he'd adopt on one of the many Harley Davidsons that thrumble past us each day. But bemusingly going at the same speed as us.<br />
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And the mysterious Germans (at least we believe they are German) whom we keep seeing and keep admiring on account of their lugging more paniers than us PLUS a small child, but with whom we have yet to communicate.<br />
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Not quite local, but now well established as part of our team, are Robert and Sue Hurran, for whom special mention must be made. Liz's mum and dad have been truly heroic for nearly two weeks now. With them as moral, nutritional and general support, our days now go something like this:<br />
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- wake up in comfortable motel bed;<br />
- wander to breakfast room to eat self-made waffles, peculiar coloured sugary cereal, watery coffee, squelchy muffins and bagels solid enough to throw at the enemy - all from cardboard or polystyrene plates;<br />
- plonk clothes bags in oversized and gratuitously comfortable hired people carrier;<br />
- take delivery of Sue Hurran's legendary packed lunch;<br />
- stretch briefly in the sunshine and apply sun cream;<br />
- bike all morning, breathing in autumnal smells of sea and forest;<br />
- eat lunch at judiciously selected sunny and/or scenic spot;<br />
- bike all afternoon, pausing frequently to marvel at post card coastal views or large marine mammals;<br />
- arrive at carefully chosen and pre-checked in motel (or better) and wheel bikes straight in through the door;<br />
- eat copious home cooked food miraculously created with the use of an intermittently working microwave and a plastic spoon;<br />
- examine maps for next day;<br />
- fall into heavy sleep in comfortable motel bed.<br />
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We are feeling downright guilty when we discuss our cushy existence with our fellow cyclists as they puff and pant along with their own body weight in paniers. OK, not that guilty, perhaps. We'll be right back with them, sharing camping space, early next week. But for now we are revelling in the spoiling - thank you, Team H!!<br />
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One more day of Oregon biking until we hit California. If only it could go on forever. We are wanting to tease these days out so that they never end. When you find yourself delaying getting to California, you know things are good. Life has rarely smelt so sweet.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-90373986632449811782010-09-26T02:44:00.011-03:002010-10-02T03:15:46.711-03:00Blessings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1MyXDjkOrxJDkb23mLdEGayrSaSKxSyCRoXDchzbmbtJC9Eiis8hka9eGhEA0KOW2UO5yDscbSAwnqnAoSdMpglEL0ofzC-JDyByAMZ4ya6erDwAfsf5bWOAVWrnewhz45K7j3Vvo2gy1/s1600/ST+2010-09-29+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1MyXDjkOrxJDkb23mLdEGayrSaSKxSyCRoXDchzbmbtJC9Eiis8hka9eGhEA0KOW2UO5yDscbSAwnqnAoSdMpglEL0ofzC-JDyByAMZ4ya6erDwAfsf5bWOAVWrnewhz45K7j3Vvo2gy1/s200/ST+2010-09-29+010.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>It is 6.15pm.<br />
<br />
We are cycling towards a campsite in a Washington State Park.<br />
<br />
We had hoped to be there by now.<br />
<br />
We still have 15 miles to go.<br />
<br />
We are slightly wearily realising that we are probably going to have to bike the last part of the day in the dark, pitch our tent in the dark and make our dinner in the dark.<br />
<br />
We are girding our loins to be stoic and hardy.<br />
<br />
A lady flags us down.<br />
<a name='more'></a>Now. From afar I had the impression that maybe this lady's car had broken down. As I sped towards the scene I was wondering how on earth we could help her. Perhaps she wanted us to bike on to the next town and alert someone to her plight? As I approached however I realised that she was chatting avidly to Phil about cycling and then within thirty seconds of my pulling up she was offering us a room in her home for the night and hurriedly giving us directions to it.<br />
<br />
She had pulled us over to invite us to stay. It was a miracle. She had appeared by the side of the road like an angel of loveliness just at the very moment that we needed her. She was smiley and charming and enthusiastic and she was willing to let two rather grubby strangers into her home.<br />
<br />
And her surname was Blessing!<br />
<br />
And what a blessing she proved to be. And what a star. Nancy lives in a glorious house overlooking Puget Sound. The room she prepared for us was one of the nicest we have stayed in on the whole trip. The bedding was soft, the rugs sponged joyfully under our feet, there were scatter cushions, lovely magazines and glorious books about tree houses and just the most incredible view. In the en-suite (EN SUITE) bathroom hung posters for the 'Tour de Lopez', the uber-relaxed cycling event round the nearby island of Lopez that we had just visited.<br />
<br />
And therein lay a clue as to why Nancy was being so lovely to us. She is a bonefide hard-core cyclist herself. Ten years ago, for her sixtieth birthday (please note - sixtieth) Nancy decided to celebrate by cycling from one side of the U.S. to the other! Coast to coast, over 3400 miles, in 50 days. A truly incredible achievement. She knows what it is to be out there on the road, fancying a comfy bed and a shower and a jolly good meal.<br />
<br />
And she gave us all of these. And more. We had the most fantastic evening. We chatted about adventures, we looked at her photos and memories of her trip, we compared notes on life the universe and it and we went to bed inspired and revived and full of delight at the spirit of human kindness. What a great lady. What a lesson in how to live. We felt very lucky.<br />
<br />
We had been having a discussion earlier in the week about the differences between American English and English English. We had commented on how whilst the English might use the word 'Lucky', the Americans would probably choose the word 'Blessed'. It was a little premonition.<br />
<br />
It is also a suitably religious connotationy sounding word suiting the tone of our first North American stint of cycling. Because we have found ourselves, since recommencing on our bikes and travelling 260 miles from Vancouver back to Seattle, in Bike Heaven.<br />
<br />
Bike Heaven, where the blessings don't stop with Nancy.<br />
<br />
Let me describe Bike Heaven to you.<br />
<br />
In Bike Heaven there are bike lanes. Everywhere. In Bike Heaven some higher power has decreed that cyclists are good and must be looked after and loved, and feted and adored and so they must (wherever possible) be given their own little lane, or designated street or special separate autonomous path. And in order that this delicious information be shared amongst those already good, or aspiring to be good, there must be specially designed bike maps, clear, beautiful and easy to follow, widely distributed and easy to lay your hands on.<br />
<br />
And the delight must not stop there. For once the good are on the road there must be bike signs for them to follow. Beautiful green and white signs that show these routes of righteousness in simple, idiot proof glory. So detailed are some of these signs that they will even warn the unwary of thinning lanes, or disappearing paths or (my all time favourite) of places where nasty sea shells might pierce their wheels and render them punctured, alone and sad.<br />
<br />
Oh yes, the Canadians and the residents of Washington state are truly switched on to cycling. There are unbelievably civilised ways of orientating oneself by bike around huge metropolises like Vancouver and Seattle. It is possible to cycle right through the heart of these places and be allowed to do so without fear of overt hooting or general driver abuse. <br />
<br />
And the drivers are ludicrously respectful. One gets used on a bike to being considered by those behind the wheel of a car as no more significant than a slug or a worm (please forgive me, small creepy things) and therefore ripe for all sorts of abuse, hounding and attack. Here, people kept stopping. I would look confused, hesitate and wonder if there were traffic lights I'd missed and then realise that they were stopping for US! For us, little old us, on our bikes.<br />
<br />
Significantly we were not alone on our bikes. Lordy no. We were surrounded by others, who bike everywhere and had the holy 'bike zeal' in their eyes. <br />
<br />
We have had so many conversations with cycling enthusiasts. They sidle up beside you as you are chugging along (usually on sleek, speedy, sexy road bikes) and they ask you where you're from and what on earth you are doing on your clunky great touring bike, covered in bags. And they are friendly and interested and incredibly helpful - "You don't want to take that road. You want to take the next left, follow the road by the shore (no shoulder, but hey there aren't many cars) and you'll be there in no time at all".<br />
<br />
It is (to use another American English word), Awesome!<br />
<br />
This brotherhood reached a pinnacle in the Washington town of Bellingham. We stopped by the road to see if there was a map of the town in the petrol station and a guy on a bike rode up. "Where you guys headed?" "Chuckanut Drive." "Well, I'm going that way. Follow me and I'll point you on the right path."<br />
<br />
Following Bo included being given a bike-by of the towns highlights, info on where to get wi-fi and our clothes washed, shown a great spot for lunch and shown the road we needed to follow. All, just because. Every town should have a Bo.<br />
<br />
And there have been some great towns. Leaving our waterfront haven in Vancouver we headed back to the U.S border and in rain-drenched glory passed the Peace Arch and squelched into the harbour town of Blaine. As close to Canada as one can get ("We just tell people to drive north until the Canadians ask for your passport and then turn left") it is not a big or seemingly exciting spot. But we loved it. We began in the petrol station by asking for directions to a motel and were immediately charmed by the warmth and humour of those we met. Hugely amused by how wet we were and full of great jokes about how tricky it must have been to 'cross the pond' on our bikes, they graded the motels for us in order of loveliness and gave us a quick run down on the three places to eat. <br />
<br />
A great night's rest, and some good grub later we wandered onto the one main street, past the numerous fluttering stars and stripes, and had a fantastic cup of coffee and breakfast in the 'Little Red Caboose' cafe. This mini waterfront establishment was run by a charming couple inside an old railway carrriage. We were joined in there by the guy from the petrol station the night before and as the coffee (free refills....Huzzah!!) flowed, so did the chat. There had been a long discussion that morning about the end of the world. The locals had heard of a man who was selling all his possessions and giving up his job in preparation for the apocalypse which he had calculated as due in May 2011. The general consensus was that this was a rather specific date to be focussing on and that perhaps he should give himself a wee bit of latitude since calculating the end of the world, considering all the changes in calenders that there have been and other such complications, was a tricky thing to do. We heartily agreed as the conversation flowed on to big trips, the state of Washinton state, politics and sandwich fillings. <br />
<br />
This set the tone for our journey back to Seattle. We found some fabulous small towns, with fabulous coffee and eating spots and fabulous local chat. In the bar we ate in, in Blaine, replete with endless glowing tube beer adverts and fifteen television screens, we were charmed when our request for wine was met with a peppy, "Sure thing. I got three kinds. Red, White and Pink". In the 'Skinny Latte' cafe in Friday Habour, a doorway width long shop wedged between two buildings, we were regaled with tales of recent clients who had included Chevy Chase and Tom Hanks. In the 'Rhododendron Cafe' just outside Burlington, the owner gave us fabulous local info whilst we tucked into the home brewed coffee and tried to answer questions between mouthfuls of ice cream covered brownie. In the 'Poulsbohemian' cafe in oddly Nordic Poulsbo, the owner had instigated the knitting of a 22 mile scarf and whilst we contemplated this oddity we ate her Snickerdoodle cookie and nursed cups of strong coffee overlooking the smooth waters of Puget Sound. And in the Anacortes Inn, ("Not to be confused with the Anacortes Bay Inn on the other side of town") Bill had us giggling off our stools with his tales of silly guests and local goings on ("This property was paid down free and clear a long time ago, and so we don't need to bone guests to make a buck"). <br />
<br />
We loved the road names, the house names, the cars that passed us and the fabulous Motel culture of huge rooms with at least two beds and a microwave and a fridge and a coffee making machine as standard.<br />
And then there were our new favourite places of all: drive through espresso joints. That is correct. Places where you can drive on either side of a little hut and buy a coffee of just about any permutation (flavoured with mint, flavoured with peanut butter, frothy, wet, dry, non-fat, soy milk, sprinkled with chocolate, sprinkled with moon dust) and then drive on. We learnt to bike through and boy what a joy that was.<br />
<br />
As was the chow we were washing it down with. In our South American biking days, with sizable gaps between places and long hot days, you have read of the perils of endless sardine sarnies spiced up with only the occassional foray into canned pate or cooked ham. Now, we found endless joys at our disposal. Aisle upon aisle, cart upon cart of Paradisical offerings. So much choice our minds were slightly blown. Salad bars where we could fill boxes with every colour of fruit and veg, huge varieties of every grain bread and smoothies made with one hundred percent health juice. Washington State, lush and green and rich, is a haven for the lover of grub and populated by the discerning consumer who wants organic this and free range that and even stuff from abroad! <br />
<br />
Equally alluring were the evil delights of every form of cheesecake known to man, cookies of such soft sugary chocolate chippiness that they just leapt off the shelves into our hands and buns and donuts and yoghurts and cheeses and things that we had forgotten existed. <br />
<br />
And the food blessings went on. We discovered to our amazement was that we could eat in the supermarkets too. Often by an alluring mock log fire. This made the biking life so ludicrously civilised as to be slightly laughable. We bought our things and hunkered down and gobbled to our wide eyed delight.<br />
It was a wonder however, that our eyes could drink anything in since the perhaps the greatest blessing of this whole stretch was the scenery. We passed through some serious loveliness. We sought out coastal stretches and scenic routes in the hope of great views but what we were met with far surpassed our imaginings. <br />
<br />
First we enjoyed the cliff hugging and board walk brilliance of Chuckanut Drive, an early highway carved audaciously out of the cliffs, that one moment had us perched high above the water and next had us curling through dripping fir forest. We biked through in the cool afternoon light of a brilliantly sunny day, and as we swirled and dodged round the hairpin bends light would fall slanting in our way and vistas of glorious water shimmeriness would surprise us corner after corner.<br />
<br />
Then we branched off the mainland and went round three of the San Juan islands. If Chuckanut Drive was heaven then these were truly paradise. These deliriously magical places, little worlds of their own, sit between Vancouver Island and mainland USA. There are 170 islands or so in the archipeligo, only some of which are inhabited. This is desirable land to own. We knew we'd arrived somewhere reasonably coveted when just about the first place we saw as we stepped off the boat was the Sotherby's estate agency! <br />
<br />
These islands are quiet and calm and perfect for cycling. We enjoyed endless views of the water, of little harbour areas filled with gently bobbing boats, more dramatic cliff side locations where we could enjoy birds and jumping fish and seals, and Phil even saw an Orca Whale loping smoothly out of the water, blowing from its spout lacadasically. When we went inland we were treated to long farmland roads with berry-full hedgerows and vineyards and animals nibbling contentedly and lovely large farms where the sounds of tractors buzzed reassuringly and the air smelt of freshly mown grass. We started a list of new favourite USA things, upon which went old farm barns, those end of the drive post boxes with the flapping lids and the titles of fantastic local papers like the 'Skagit County Herald' and the 'Kitsap Times'.<br />
<br />
Also on the list were the services of the impressively organised State and National Park system. We kept stopping at well signposted sights, from nature reserves to places of historical importance, all supplied with great facilities and often with camping sites (with, of course, specially dedicated hiker/biker sites - this is Bike Heaven after all!) and lovingly preserved plaques and information centres.<br />
<br />
One of our favourites was English Camp on San Juan island. We felt duty bound by our nationhood to visit (!) since it marked the spot of an army encampment kept by our motherland during the mid nineteenth century to protect their interests in a long running dispute with the USA over territory. The Americans had their camp too (on the other side of the island) and the whole lot nearly came to blows in the fortunately resolved Pig War (don't ask) before finally allowing the Kaiser of Germany to mediate and send them all merrily on their way. Whilst the history was edifying, more wonderful for us was the glorious vista and the great wildlife. Our eyes have been opened on this trip to all sorts of birds and beasts and we were indulged at English Camp by a fine display from an imperious looking owl and a bit of chicanery from a very impish fox.<br />
<br />
And we employed a bit of chicany of our own. Because all this island hopping allowed us to use our new favourite form of transport. The Ferry.<br />
<br />
We chose a route that allowed us to weave our way back to Seattle,whizzing backwards and forwards across little nooks of water and taking full advantage of the Washington State Ferry Service. <br />
<br />
What a brilliant way to travel if you are on a bike. We would pitch up at the ferry terminal (usually flying down a long queue of cars sitting patiently on a long downhill slope) with less than quarter of an hour to go, buy our ticket, join the waiting pedestrians and then be the first on. Since we are in Bike Heaven they make plenty off arrangements for bikes. Once you are on, you tether your darlings to the front of the boat with pieces of yellow rope and then of course you are first off and speeding away to another glorious location long before the cars have even turned their engines over. During the journey you can then desport yourself in the capacious lounge areas of enjoy the incredible views from the decks, leaning Titanic stylee over the front of the boat.<br />
<br />
And again, what views. Most wonderful was our early morning ferry from one San Juan island to another where the mist and low cloud moved elusively around us, now revealing this island, then revealing that and encasing us in an ethereal, mystical wonderland where it really felt as if we were travelling at the very edges of the world. I had the impression at some moments, when the light was cast in such a way as to seem to suggest coming to a precipice, that we were simply going to sail off the side and fall into oblivion.<br />
<br />
Every sense was tingling. You can feel the mist, or the sun, or the wind on your skin, you can taste the salty air, you can hear the splash of seagulls or cormorants landing in the water and you jump out of your skin when the ferry blasts its horn, your eyes are feasting on the bobbing heads of seals or the plastic bag imitating monster jelly fish and you can smell the powerful aroma of the sea and the sweet softer scents of verdant damp woodland and early autumn fires coming from the shore. <br />
<br />
Adjectives defy it. It was spellbinding.<br />
<br />
We enjoyed some of the most memorable biking days of the trip so far during this route. The loveliness carried on as we ferried and bridged our way from Whidby Island to the Olympic peninsula and to Bainbridge Island before finally was Seattle hoved back into view across the sound in all its 'Frasier' skyline glory. We had been blessed with mostly sunshine and just so much wonderfulness that it had caused me to declare, "I rather like this bicycling lark"!<br />
<br />
And after days of luxuriating in this blissful wonderland we headed to Sea-Tac airport for perhaps the greatest potential blessing of all. <br />
<br />
The arrival of my parents.<br />
<br />
My parents who had promised to hire a car, and carry our bags and make our lunch and do all sorts of other angelic behaviours.<br />
<br />
Bike Heaven and the Blessings. Long may it last!Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-63099269589002494282010-09-21T05:07:00.003-03:002010-09-21T05:09:18.055-03:00Vaneattle and Seacouver<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcJuaJvOlAxklv9v5xAaZ20-BNh59Fj7s4PGGVe4pmLvYNPV9hWs_oj_ztx1qTkR842Be_a6IV5ZT-Aw-EfzeJRr8BsyTLzFVrYoNfzWa6Tl_LU57CjxbiN0rl29zHefIbhk7dCo_c0_7/s1600/2010-09-16+001+2010-09-16+011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcJuaJvOlAxklv9v5xAaZ20-BNh59Fj7s4PGGVe4pmLvYNPV9hWs_oj_ztx1qTkR842Be_a6IV5ZT-Aw-EfzeJRr8BsyTLzFVrYoNfzWa6Tl_LU57CjxbiN0rl29zHefIbhk7dCo_c0_7/s200/2010-09-16+001+2010-09-16+011.JPG" width="145" /></a></div>And so to North America...<br />
<br />
We arrived in Seattle nearly two weeks ago now, and have been soaking up just about as much of the USA's Washington State and Canada's British Columbia as a fortnight would allow. We spent more than seven months in Latin America in the end. But our madcap rush to Lima, the epic 31 hour bus journey to Ecuador, and our final few extraordinary days in the Galapagos Islands, meant that the emotions, impressions and impact of our transition to the Northern Hemisphere have taken a while to form.<br />
<br />
Certainly, as we sweatily rushed about Guayaquil airport late into the evening, wrapping bike boxes and negotiating seat allocations with Galapagos sand still between our toes, there was little opportunity for reflection. Even on Delta's excellent (business class for barely more than economy!) flights to Atlanta and then on to Seattle, we were still rather zombied out.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, there we were in the Seattle Airport arrivals area - confronted by trolleys costing the same $4.00 to rent as dinner for two on the Bolivian altiplano, and a taxi ride into town costing the same as a 31 hour international bus journey. Even in our sleep deprived state, this was a wake up call. The gentle metaphorsis that we had originally envisaged as we moved serenely from South, through Central, and into North America had suddenly mutated into an instantaneous cultural caffeine fix in a mere puff of jetfuel.<br />
<a name='more'></a>But where better to deal with such a jolt of energy than Seattle? We spent three days there, loving it all. Before we knew it, we were checked into a downtown hotel, staring down from our window at shiny 4x4s gliding by, stars and stripes fluttering from hotel awnings and high rise glass-fronted office buildings. But through all this, just a few blocks downhill from our window, there was Puget Sound.<br />
<br />
First thing the next morning, fortified by a good night's sleep, we trundled straight down to the waterside Pike Place Market - the original Seattle experience. We spent a couple of days meandering the area, revelling in the acres of Alaskan salmon and Dungeness crab on display, florists selling explosions of flowers, quirky little shops and coffee emporia everywhere you looked.<br />
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Our favourites included:<br />
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- The olive oil shop selling every conceivable flavour;<br />
- The cheesecake shop offering miniature landmines of calories from 'quadruple chocolate' to 'raspberry and mascarpone';<br />
- Davidson's the bike shop, in which ornately decorated Jack Taylor's bicycles from years gone by hang portentiously from the ceiling and are held in an esteem somewhere between impressionist originals and the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments;<br />
- Watson Kennedy, a delicious shop groaning with delightful little books, smells, games, prints, CDs and other quirky European trinkets;<br />
- The cheese shop where you can watch curd-shovellers through the window actually loading their whiffy white blobs into cheese moulds;<br />
- Left Bank Books, a bookshop with a refreshingly rebellious streak whose 'recommended' shelves a stacked with books questioning the USA in every respect, from the financial system to foreign policy to the work ethic.<br />
- Lowell's, the classic Pike Place Market restaurant, where you can launch into mind-bendingly good fish and chips whilst watching the Victoria Island ferries gliding along Puget Sound.<br />
<br />
That was what Seattle was all about for us - the location. Being right there on the water's edge just adds something special to the place. Either that or the caffeine overload. We 'enjoyed' a ceremonial final Starbucks in the very first branch right there in Pike Place (there are now 10,570 other outlets in the USA alone), but thereafter kept returning to the infinitely preferable Seattle Coffee Works. SCW is just around the corner from several branches of Starbucks, and runs 10,570 fewer branches in the USA. And yet it seemed forever to be losing out to in terms of numbers. Somehow, the Great American (Global?) Public just keeps on falling for it, Starbucks' mantra of 'Take Comfort in Rituals'.<br />
<br />
We spent time one evening with the charming Topher, one of the coffee experts at SCW. He explained how Starbucks' coffee, for all its Seattle heritage, is simply filth. It comes from a rough blend of more than 100 different kinds of beans, many of which are burnt to a cinder. SCW's, as an example of a 'proper' coffee house, is roasted twice a week, and every second counts in the process. We were shown the big orange machine gleaming out at the back of the shop, their pride and joy. Whilst Starbucks proudly proclaim that 65% of their beans come from farmer-friendly contracts, this means who-knows-how-many millions of coffees a day globally come from downtrodden farmers, abused by the monstrous Starbucks behemoth. SCW have individual relationships with every one of their farmers, whether in Guatemala, Brazil or - ironically - Peru.<br />
<br />
Enough ranting - we know where the coffee is best! Another thing we loved was REI. REI is as much of an institution as Starbucks in the USA. It is a cooperative outdoors store, whose 100 year old founder still comes to visit the Seattle flagship store in her wheelchair. It is a store so huge and so exciting to anyone with an outdoors/adventurous bent that the 108,000 sq.ft. floor size quoted feels like an understatement. We spent hours there, joined the (10% dividend!) cooperative, replaced defunct kit and simply gawped at one gleaming piece of kit after another.<br />
<br />
The Queen Anne area was another area that tickled our collective fancy. We had to head there for laundry, but found it hard to leave. All up and down the main street we stumbled from long-established diner to cupcake shop to book shop, finding it hard to pick holes in the good old American way of life. If you can afford it, that is.<br />
<br />
There is another side to Seattle that was all too clear to us even in our few days there. The previous week, John 'Trouble' Williams, a partially deaf native American wood carver based for many years in Pike Place, had been shot in the street by a policeman who said his knife was threatening. Clearly carvers of totem poles shouldn't carry knives. His story was dominating the Seattle headlines whilst we were there, embodying ever more heavy-handed police brutality and the ever smaller chance that the underprivileged in society have of making a decent life for themselves. Williams was one of 12 children, several of whom had died from alcohol, drugs or just hypothermia.<br />
<br />
There was evidence aplenty of others going the same way, with no shortage of homeless, drunks and drug addicts wandering the streets of downtown in varying states of befuddlement. We weren't sure that the American Dream was alive and well for them.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it was better in the past? We spent an afternoon around Pioneer Square, the original centre of Seattle. It was here that the gold rush provisioners had been based in that heady Klondike winter of 1897-98, and where the original 'Skid Row' was located - so named after the slippery logging chute down the hill into the water at the bottom. In the 1970s, 40 blocks of the original city was saved by the (even then) stubborn and slightly irreverent Seattlites, and a good thing they were - today, it is the prettiest part of the city, enjoying old cafes, bookshops and plane tree shaded squares.<br />
<br />
From there, we found our way to the railway station - still under reconstruction but beginning to recover its original features. The Amtrak Cascades took us and just 70 others on a wonderfully under-crowded journey four hours North to Vancouver. We genuinely wanted to spend longer on it. The train wove its wave along the banks of Puget Sound, right down at water level, sometimes so close to the edge of the Sound that we could have dropped things out of the window and into the water. We passed wading fishermen casting quietly in the early evening, families barbequeing on the beach, and marinas with motorboats bobbing restfully. And all to the backdrop of a stunning Washington State sunset. We were so enamoured with it all that there was only time for one episode of Spooks on the laptop before we reached Vancouver.<br />
<br />
Our arrival immediately gave us two unusual concepts to deal with. First, a <em>friendly </em>immigration official, even late in the evening. As my answers to his questions grew increasingly fishy ('What job do you do?' - 'I'm unemployed'; 'Where did you work before?' - 'For a family office from Latin America'; 'What countries have you visited this year?' - 'Argentina, Brazil, Bolivia, Chile, Peru, Ecuador...'), he somehow grew increasingly amused and welcoming, and let us in with a broad smile.<br />
<br />
The other new concept was rain. R-A-I-N. Not something we have experienced with any degree of vigour since April. And here it was. Wet stuff, falling liberally out of a dark Vancouver sky. Our brains could not really compute, so we went to bed.<br />
<br />
The next day, this same unfamiliar weather phenomenon continued all day. We had installed ourselves at the excellent Jericho Beach Hostel, but could not take advantage of what we'd been told would be a glorious position. What we could manage, however, was an excellent all-Canadian brunch with my old friend Mel Horrell, who has been in Vancouver for several years now, followed by a slightly soggy cruise across the Burrard Bridge, through Downtown and around Stanley Park. A tantalising glimpse of how it could be if the sun would only come out.<br />
<br />
We were also able to find a spot of culture: we had stumbled upon the Vancouver Fringe Festival, and found our way to a couple of excellent small plays on Granville Island, where it is based. Although no Edinburgh, there is something endearingly manageable about it. Where Edinburgh is a collossus, you get the feeling you could see everything you wanted to in Vancouver without feeling rushed or frustrated.<br />
<br />
Just when we thought we might have to spend our time indoors in theatres, the next day the sun - S-U-N - came out. And we were in a different city. The Jericho Beach Hostel became a spectacular haven of sun-drenched tranquility, just 100m from the beach and the peaceful running/ walking/ cycling path threading its way along the waterfront. The Sound was dotted with supertankers at anchor, the water glistened and just across it there was the start of the Sea to Sky Highway, cutting its way across thickly forested hillsides. Over to the right, there was Vancouver the city: a domino pile of shimmering high-rises curving around its bay, completely at odds with the beach and forests all around it. Surely one of the great city settings anywhere.<br />
<br />
We spent one afternoon walking all along that waterfront to the city, now wandering along shell covered sandy beach, now scrabbling over slippery rocks with hands and feet, staring up at spectacular houses above that overlook the view to end them all. At least when the sun shines, that is.<br />
<br />
It was a happy four days in Vancouver - hanging out and catching up with Mel and her really charming and erudite, all-Canadian Joel, perusing the shops and cafes of Kitsilano (Vancouver's coffee doesn't lose out to Seattle's), and taking time to rebuild the bikes in the sunshine and get ourselves prepared for the next stage of cycling.<br />
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The Canadians we met in our all-too-short sojourn in British Columbia were, without exception, a delight. It is hard to see how Canada is not somehow more of a global influence, given its size, resources, and intelligent, urbane people. But then when you discuss it with them, it soon becomes clear: there's a certain all-pervasive national reticence, a tendency towards passivity and the laissez-faire, and a sense that the rest of the world somehow has one over them in some respect. Despite having given the world brands as diverse as Blackberry, Bombardier and Massey Ferguson, having a banking system in rude health, and having more natural resources than almost any other country, the people seem happy to keep themselves to themselves. And enjoy their lives. And be nice to one another. And eat well and drink well. And to enjoy some of the most beautiful scenery anywhere.<br />
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Perhaps that's why they don't want to tell more people about it.<br />
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We weren't the only foolish cyclists there. As I was finishing rebuilding the bikes, and applying finishing touches, an imposing figure climbed out of a taxi with a resounding cry of 'I've got one of them!' Richard (http://richardlldavies.wordpress.com) had just stepped off a flight from London and was brandishing a box filled with a beautiful Thorn steed almost identical to ours. He is doing the same trip as ours down the Pacific coast, but starting off with a different first few days to us. His trip had become a solo one just 48 hours before he was due to leave, and was putting on a brave face despite the changed nature of his plans. But he is a great guy and will do well. We gave him a suitably strong send off. We will unquestionably see him again before long.<br />
<br />
Shortly after Richard's momentous departure, we sneaked back onto our bikes as well and wobbled off down the road to begin kilometre no.6005. I was in first gear and nearly fell off with the first pedal stroke. Perhaps it's not quite like riding a bike after all. It was special that Mel was there to send us on our way, as she is the first of our friends or family that has actually seen us in action, however briefly.<br />
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We're back on the road again, after a break of nearly 3 weeks, and pedalling never felt so good.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-28172812647091414712010-09-21T05:04:00.000-03:002010-09-21T05:04:13.074-03:00The Origin of Species<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0crm7a_8yO1cr48hi1_G_QEkLMh_4OlsBr3mEZ7gyBcZknouiEOIvr-QNl4I6SxKqHwMH_b7gQdjw23cFeUESlcZjGIyH7uIn9wsEPujf-RU9vi1TMsqEsPxGrQf8bmwUNCuLqLmGAt2v/s1600/61130_496332763083_612288083_6983548_1349048_n%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0crm7a_8yO1cr48hi1_G_QEkLMh_4OlsBr3mEZ7gyBcZknouiEOIvr-QNl4I6SxKqHwMH_b7gQdjw23cFeUESlcZjGIyH7uIn9wsEPujf-RU9vi1TMsqEsPxGrQf8bmwUNCuLqLmGAt2v/s200/61130_496332763083_612288083_6983548_1349048_n%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>There are places on earth you never think you'll visit.</div><br />
You see them on the telly, you coo over photos in the 'Sundays' magazines, you glance surreptiously at guidebooks about them amongst guidebooks of more sensible and economically viable places that you are actually travelling to, but you NEVER think you will find yourself there. Never.<br />
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For me the Galapagos was one of those places.<br />
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Four years ago or so I watched (with dinner on my lap and a lump in my throat) the lush and wonderful BBC series on the Islands. It was magical. The swirling overhead photography of those volcanic outcrops bursting audaciously out of the sea, the glorious underwater footage of sealions and whales, the fabulous images of creatures weirder than imagination could create all accompanied by the honey dripped tones of Tilda Swinton (who sounded as if she was eating the islands rather than narrating a documentary about them) seemed all about a place so remote and extraordinary that I imagined I could only dream of going.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
At that point I had a rather tenuous grip on geography and so it made sense that I imagined all I could do was dream. I thought the Galapagos islands were somewhere completely unreachable way off the bottom of South America, attainable only by a boat that went there once a year and which took about three weeks to arrive. I really had no idea that there were very regular one and a half hour flights from mainland Ecuador and that lots of people visit all the time.<br />
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Then my hurriedly bought bulk-Amazon-guidebook-parcel arrived.<br />
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I pulled out the guide to Ecuador and lo and behold it included a section on the Galapagos. <br />
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And then I actually <em>looked</em> at a map.<br />
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And then a little plan started to form.<br />
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<div></div>And then I got excited.<br />
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And that excitement carried me up the harder biking stretches of South America. <br />
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Because we were going to be going very close indeed to those islands. So close in fact that we could perhaps hop on one of those two-a-day flights and really and truly go there and visit the islands ourselves.<br />
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Now, if I was a scientist I imagine I might have been able to approach the whole enterprise with the sort of calm exhibited by Darwin when he vsited back in 1835. He 'worked hard' in the Galapagos when the Beagle docked there to pick up tortoises for long term lunching on the return trip to Europe. He, the second choice naturalist for the voyage, gathered specimens of 'every plant which I could see in flower' and made his now famous oberservations about Finches and their beaks and eating habits which eventually contributed so heavily to his theory of evolution.<br />
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However, I am not a scientist and so my approach to the islands was not one of earnest scientific anticipation but one of extreme internal jumping. <br />
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Once we decided to go, and booked the flights, I was so excited it was untrue.<br />
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And I was quite right to be.<br />
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From the minute our plane started descending and broke through the cloud to reveal the islands, to the minute (face pressed to the window) the cloud closed back over them and we flew away, it was one of the most amazing experiences of my life.<br />
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The wonder starts when you first see the islands. <br />
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<div></div>They are just sitting there in a the middle of the ocean. <br />
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They seem so small and unlikely and tenuous it is hard to imagine anything exists on them at all. They are little bits of land that don't look big enough to survive the perils of the endless sea around them, let alone manage to allow a plane to land and dispense a cargo of tourists. Where are they all going to go?<br />
<br />
Well their choices are limited since there are not many places to go. In fact, there are not many 'places' at all. Many of the islands are completely uninhabited and those that are, are only so in the most minor of ways. In the main tourists head almost immediately onto touring boats. From there they briefly land to investigate these tiny chunks of terra firma or jump into to the water to explore their surrounds.<br />
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<div></div>What built structures do exist are very simple and low key. The airport is small. You walk across the tarmac to a mini terminal with no real enclosed space. There your luggage is unloaded in front of you and you stroll around to find it before boarding one of a few buses that take you on the five minute trip to the ferry connection to Santa Cruz island where most boat tours begin. Nature dominates and what is constructed is all very open and all very accessible.<br />
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This openess and accessibility is true of the whole experience.<br />
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<div></div>From the moment you arrive you have access to the natural world in an unprecidented way. It feels like arriving on earth before the rest of humanity turned up. <br />
<br />
<div></div>The first creature we saw was a Blue Footed Boobie, flying about near the ferry. A Blue Footed Boobie. It is a thing made up in a dream. A beautiful bird with bright blue feet. Big, webbed, bright blue feet.<br />
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Seconds later a sealion reared its head in the azure clear water, gave us a little look and then swan on. Glancing at the rocks we saw crowds of vibrantly orange and red crabs sitting pretty or skittering about.<br />
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And so it went on. The plant life was strange, the geology was strange, the wildlife was strange. <br />
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We also decided to begin our stay in a strange way. We didn't have a planned tour. We weren't met at the airport by a tour company. We got on the local bus with a few of the island residents, took the one long straight road across Santa Cruz island and headed to one of only two serious sized settlements. And there we stayed for a night.<br />
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It was fun to be amongst those who make the Galapagos their home. It is a funny old place to live, remote and unusual. There are not many places on earth where the pavement can be blocked by a sealion or the roadside littered with pelicans. In the hotels in Puerto Ayora you may find your guests in the swimming pool or you may find some ducks and herons are taking their turn. We took a stroll to the pristine white sands of Tortuga Bay and the local joggers who plyed the route had to dodge basking lizards and pottering birdlife alike.<br />
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Because the animals seemed utterly unconcerned by the presence of humans. Isolated for so long, creatures here have not developed much of fear of them. It is said that in the Galapagos you have plenty of time to kill a fly because it won't be alert to you coming. Darwin thought the birds 'silly' since they were so unafraid he could just pick them up to finish them off. <br />
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This unique situation is what made us gasp time and time again. We were sometime milimetres from animals, able to touch them we were so close. We never did though, since that is the deal here. You can come and see the nature but you must try not to interfere with it. <br />
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And so you come across one of the conundrums of this place because for some people it is home. When the first humans settled they brought the obvious things to the islands like cows and goats, cats and dogs and these introduced species, and the simultaneous killing of endemic ones for food and survival, has wreaked havoc on some of the islands. Over 100,000 tortoises were killed in the nineteenth century. They were fantastic grub for sailors since they could survive without food and water on a boat for a year. Darwin himself ate them. People were not aware of the environmental outcomes.<br />
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The current population of thirty thousand is rapidly growing. It is where they live and work and play. Many would rather not have to imagine they live in a museum and be limited in their activities by a constant awareness of their impact on the natural world. We heard a fair bit from the naturalists we met about a clash of idealogies. There is a lot of research activity there and a National Park program and those it employs are working hard to rid some islands of introduced animals and to instigate breeding programs for decimated native populations. They don't want the human population with its modern demands to grow. Here you have to put those demands aside. If you want to park your car you can't barge a sealion out of the way. You have to park somewhere else. Preserving the emptiness is hard.<br />
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From populated Puerto Ayora we planned our visit. I decided to head out on a boat for three days and Phil decided to get to know the islands from one base.<br />
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And both our experiences were fantastic. I loved being on the water, seeing one island disappear and another approach and he got to integrate himself further with that conundrum way of living, cycling around the island and sitting by the waterside communing with the fabulous creatures also making it their home.<br />
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And boy did we see some fabulous creatures. Marine Iguanas in lazy piles exercising their salt spitting habits, Frigate Birds with their puffy red chests, the Galapagos only Waved Albatross nursing its young, Sally Lightfoot crabs vying for rock spots with Hermit Crabs, the Blue Footed Boobies doing their mating dance, the Nazca Boobies their more glam looking cousins, Marine Turtles gliding slowly under the water, baby Sealions flapping about learning to use their limbs, Lava Lizards exercising their press up muscles, Penguins, Swallow Tailed Gulls, Mockingbirds, Finches, Flightless Cormorants, Giant Starfish, Giant Tortoises, Sea Cucumbers and on and on and on and on.<br />
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Creatures that fly, creatures that don't, creatures that swim, some that just float...animals over one hundred years old, some that were only one day old...some nesting, some resting, some crawling, some sprawling...mammals, reptiles, insects and molluscs...on and on and on.<br />
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We gazed at spotless white beaches and wild rugged lava flows, at Mangrove trees and at Hibiscus flowers, at crystal clear water and at bright blue skies and then at dark rainy skies and angry swelling sea. I swam with playful sealions and turtles, Phil biked with plodding tortoises. <br />
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We saw so much it was quite overwhelming.<br />
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And we both made new friends in our different locations. I enjoyed the company of my companions on the expedition boat. It was inevitable that we would bond quickly, glued as we were by the urge to ooooh and aaah and to say 'quick look over here'. Phil met some great locals and had breakfast in an Galapagon home.<br />
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And I saw some Whales.<br />
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This was a moment that was quite other worldly. It was hard on this visit to keep reminding yourself that it was real. We have seen so many images on television, watched such extraordinary footage that sometimes it feels as if you are still at that one remove. You half expect the dulcet tones of David Attenborough to penetrate your mind.<br />
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Our little snorkelling group was heading out from the main boat when our guide saw a gathering of seabirds circling the water. We had been looking all morning for Whales and had seen a few at a distance from the boat and she suggested this might be some more. So our dingy driver revved the engine and got a bit closer. And then we started to look.<br />
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We all leaned towards the edges of the boat and scanned the horizon.<br />
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We looked and looked and looked and leaned and leaned and leaned and chatted and commented and surmised and then......screamed.<br />
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The front of our boat lurched up as an Orca Whale dived right beneath us it's huge black back fin splashing us as it dived.<br />
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An Orca Whale. Better known as a Killer Whale.<br />
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And then began an amazing half hour. Orcas live in pods and we had come across a family pod teaching a young one to hunt. Its prey was a truly weird Sun Fish, a creature that is pretty exciting in its own right. <br />
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The other small boats from the main boat gathered and we were treated to a proper BBC nature program display. The Whales arched up and dived, they blew shoots of water up into the air and they showed off their proper Killer Whale fins to our arm-pointing delight. They swan all around us and under our boat and we saw them whizzing along at incredible speeds as they played with and injured the Sun Fish. In the air a huge gathering of sea birds waited for the spoils and in the boats we all watched in awe. <br />
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It was completely amazing.<br />
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When the Whales finally moved on we were all left in gabbling silliness, repeating the experience to each other endlessly, laughing and then gabbling some more. Our guide was ecstatic. In eighteen years of working on the Galapagos she had never seen anything like it. We were so lucky.<br />
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That feeling never went away. That night as we drank wine as the sun went down just as we crossed the Equator all the talk was of the Whales. And all the other things we'd seen. We looked at each others photos and shared email addresses to send them on. We were high on the natural life we'd witnessed.<br />
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And for Phil and I that feeling has lingered. Cliche-aware we are both looking at nature differently. I want to know what every bird is now. The Finches that I became so obsessed by on the Galapagos are small, boring looking birds until you know just how significant they are. Now, nothing seems boring.<br />
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Flying away it was odd to think that we were going and leaving all that vibrant life behind. They were just going to carry on, exactly as we left them. <br />
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I found the same every time our small boat left an island and headed back to our floating home. The sun would be going down and the animals and plants would have their dominance once more. <br />
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As they should.<br />
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There are places on earth you think you'll never visit. <br />
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And there are those that it's hard to believe you ever really did.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-46967721860933497752010-09-20T19:44:00.007-03:002010-09-20T21:32:05.195-03:00Thru Peru<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519122167349186082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDp8kfiafkEbj0VmIxVpEexCTqil-Upkai_IBWmdpOH1GXKFWrO6yWeVhqeXY0r4_2dfuWlDL_AQFRjEwuYmCQ6TVe2JnQqU7bvMZkWGIzWmc846H26OIb9dJmrwA1wx76I4uutrR-JZc/s200/2010-08-24+001+2010-08-24+040.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" />Peru was the fourth South American country we visited.<br />
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Coming fourth is the just about worst position in any competition and so it was for Peru.<br />
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It suffered. It suffered from our inevitable state of comparison. It suffered from being, in our minds, either more or less.<br />
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Its roadside shops were more ordered than those in Bolivia, but less so than those in Argentina or Chile. Its road surfaces were more consistently bike-able than <span style="font-style: italic;">most</span> of those in Bolivia but less so than those there that had been flash and new. It had more agreeable sanitation than Bolivia but much less so than Chile. When it was deserted it was more deserted than Argentina but its outposts when you came across them felt pleasantly less remote. It had more ATM machines than we had seen for an age but many fewer than we had been used to when we had started. There was a much more cosmopolitan and abundant feeling than in the remote Andes but then when people had less they seemed to have much, much less.<br />
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More or less, it was more or less.<br />
<a name='more'></a>What made forming an impression of the country even harder was the speed with which we gobbled it up and the route we chose to take. We fairly pegged it through Peru and we did so clinging dramatically to its coastal fringes. On occasion we were so close to the edge that we felt we were hardly in Peru at all!<br />
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It seemed we had skimmed the surface and whilst there was a real pleasure in watching those kilometres whizz by, whilst the wind prevailed generally at our back, it felt like we were doing it a disservice.<br />
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But we needn't have worried.<br />
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Peru had more power over us than we realised and with distance we could see with less bike-fuddled occlusion what made it unique.<br />
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Principally there was a strong feeling of nationhood. Peru seems very comfortable with being Peru. Perhaps that is a reflection of its relative maturity in the South American country game. Peru was at the coalface of the clash of indigenous and colonial worlds and it is the oldest 'new' country in the Americas. It is where Imperial Spain set out its stall and made the 'mountain of silver' in Potosi (now in modern day Bolivia) its bank for three centuries. Everything that was wrenched from the mineral rich mountains and the verdant plains and sent to Europe, was sent there through Lima which held sway over all other trade routes until shortly before the spate of revolutions that led to the forming of Argentina, Bolivia, Chile and the rest. Peru was the 'land of abundance' that spawned all the others.<br />
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As a 'Modern state' it feels old and well established. The European influence has been around for a long time. This was very evident in the beautiful colonial hearts of the towns we visited. The architecture, the church and the culture of Spain spread as quickly through the region as the germs and diseases which the Conquistadors also brought. There are some magnificent buildings and some proper relics, both literally and metaphorically. In Lima we crawled through the catacombs of the San Francisco monastry, giggling nervously at the femurs and rib bones, piled high next to horribly theatrical 'Poor Yorrick' skulls, of centuries of god serving folk who were the spiritual guides of their imperial masters. Then we ascended into the sun and to the gloriously restored centre, all wide boulevards and grand edifices. Perfectly manicured white and red flowerbeds all spoke of a deep rooted sense of permanence.<br />
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<div>But perhaps Peru's sense of stability comes from its long history of regional mastery. It had a impressive record of political capital for centuries before the Spanish appeared. The invading Europeans superceded the last home grown imperial power, that of the Inca Empire whose centre of operations was also in Peru at Cusco. Despite folding fast in the face of the gun-toting cunning and tribe-deviding deviousness of the invaders, the Incas were ruthless publicists who wiped out any history of those who had preceded them, leaving the impression that they were the only really significant civilisation to have graced those shores. However, generations of archeologists have unravelled the truth and the fantastic museums of Lima and an overwhelming number of fascinating regional sites articulate a magnificent progression of powerful humans of which Peruvians are very proud.</div><br />
<div>We learnt about the Wari and the Paracas and the Chavin. We gawped at their pots and jewellery and gulped at the odd shaped skulls, elongated like characters from Star Trek, cultivated to show power and rank. And we saw the extraordinary Nazca lines. Laid out by the Nazca civilisation these are a befuddling floorplan of lines, geometric shapes and animal images which can only really be appreciated from the sky. The Nazcas had to have a lot of time on their hands and a lot of controlled organisation to set about such a mammoth earth moving task. No one knows why they did it or what on earth it all means, although most theories revolve around the spiritual forces they imgaine the Nazca were appealing to.<br />
</div><div></div><div>And so, hand in hand with associations of power, come long associations with religious activity. The truth of this was borne out in Moquegua where we met a visiting Canadian Buddhist monk. Once he had finished explaining to us that since we were 'only ordinary' and not 'spiritual' people he was unlikely to be able to have any sort of meaningful conversation with us, he revealed that his presence in Peru was due to being called there by ancient spiritual voices. He was off to meditate on a mountain nearby, well known to have been the burial ground of the Wari and long worshipped by successive cultures, because it had appeared to him in a vision. He had set off on his journey to find it rather unsure of where he was heading. However, heresay and investigation had led him there and now he felt sure he had arrived in the place he was meant to be. He wondered if we knew whether or not there was a bus he could catch up to the summit. We did, as it happened, and so in spite of not really being able to grasp the magnitude of the event we could at least supply the means of fascilitating it. We also knew where the internet cafe was and where one could get food late on a Sunday night. How useful 'ordinary' people can be.</div><br />
<div>Succesive generations have worshipped these extraordinary mountains. I suppose they had little choice. They are everywhere. We never escaped them in Peru. Whilst we are well aware that there is plenty of jungle lowland on their eastern side, travelling along the West we could simply couldn't shake them off. </div><div></div><div><br />
Peru has an impressive geological record. Whilst you're sweating up one desert mountain after another your mind rarely wanders to the delights of Plate Tectonics. But when one has the leisure to think about two gigantic Pacific ocean bits of earth-crust jigsaw sliding inexorably beneath a massive South American piece, the sheer enormity of what is going on is a bit mind blowing. The Andes are growing. Every year the land is being pushed up a bit more and they get higher and higher. And all this movement is causing all sorts of slow geological chaos. We saw evidence of these gigantic environmental upheavals when we saw swathes of dead coral and great layers of crushed sea shells folded in angel cake hillsides 400 metres above the sea they were once under. The volcanic eruptions and huge earth splits that get caused have left lava hanging around everywhere and the resultant Tsunamis have left coastal towns like Camana regularly shredded of all their glory.<br />
</div><div></div><div>And so for all the Peruvian permance their is also Peruvian transience. A lot of cultures have been and gone, a lot of places have been and gone and a lot of stuff has been and gone.<br />
</div><div></div><div>Plenty of stuff is still being produced though. Cor' dear, Peru is abundant. From the ludicrously fruitful orange groves of the coastal valley (the air positively stank of orange) to the outrageously large Natural Gas Plant an hour or two from Lima, Peru is producing and producing and producing. Rather unfortunately it has also just entered the number one spot for cocaine production, a horrible blight on the lives of its population who suffer from the associated crime and dangers.<br />
</div><div></div><div>Because, whilst so much in Peru felt positive, there is a dark side that cannot be ignored. There were places we passed through on the coach we took north from Lima that we were delighted not to be staying in. We had heard some sad stories too from this region that meant we chose not to cycle through that part. It is a huge challenge for the political forces to deal with and one that will be high on the agenda in the national elections next year.</div><br />
<div>Everywhere, as in all the other South American countries we visited, the campaigns of those hoping to take the mantel in 2011 are displayed in massive posters and in big letter wall paintings. There is the daughter of the former president (now in jail for corruption), there is the radical socialist reformer modelled in the style of Chavez and Morales and there is the old president who wants to come back for another go. Those we spoke to had varying hopes but all hoped that whoever wins does not turn the clock back on current Peruvian progress. <br />
</div><div></div><div>Because to a man (no ladies were drawn out sadly) they felt that Peru has been having a good time of late. That it is on the up. It has well and truly experienced all the mire-filled political horrors that have beleagured so many South American countries, but it seems to have turned a corner. People were very confident that challenges would be faced. In Moquegua, our friend Beto sung the praises of successful political campaigns to ensure the wearing of seatbelts to reduce road deaths and the clearing up of litter to stop the Bolivia stylee feeling of living in a permanent rubbish dump. <br />
</div><div></div><div>Nowhere were these improvements more apparent than in Lima. No one got us excited about Lima in advance of our visit. The guidebook wasn't very encouraging and lots of people told us it was dirty and horrid. And yet we were very impressed by it. There were large posters showing 'before and after' images of big scale public works. There is a new bus metro system, huge regenerated zones and a fantastic fountain park. This park has over 20 fountains that do acrobatic water things to lights and music. We loved it. We want on a warm Saturday evening and shared this great public space with hundreds of delighted locals. Families were out together, groups of friends were messing about together and couples on dates were canoodling fountainside together, all to tunes as varied as Abba and Swan Lake. <br />
</div><div></div><div>We were also treated to a night out on the town with one of Phil's friends. Roberto treated us to a fabulous tour of waterfront Lima (what a magnificent site for a city - where surfers can hang out in the shadow of the high rises) and drinks on the pier before a great Italian meal in a very classy part of town. It was as swanky as anywhere in the world. </div><br />
<div>And the Food. Wow the food. In the last ten years Peru has made some serious waves on the food front and boy is it good. Every Peruvian positively bursts with pride over the food. After the privations of some parts of our South American adventure the abundance of some great meals was music to our taste buds. We had Ceviche, Cuy and Causa and they were all great. The seafood was particularly wonderful, so wonderful in fact that when the Inca empire was in full force lobsters would be run by successive messengers up the mountains to be enjoyed in Cusco. And all these delights were washed down with a Pisco sour.<br />
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Ahhhh...Pisco sours....perhaps our best discovery of all. A fine, fine drink that leads to a great feeling of satisfaction and delight.<br />
</div><div></div><div>And so as we guzzled and tippled away we truly entered into an important tradition and so despite our speed felt we didn't pass too quickly through Peru at all.</div><br />
<div>And as for our comparisons, that was another Peruvian tradition it seemed. Fuelled by the Pisco sours there was a lot of local levelling going on. People would look us deep in the eye and thank God they weren't in as much trouble as Argentina, or governed by a government as crazy as that in Bolivia. And don't start any of them on Chile!! They were more or less very much into their more or less.</div><div><br />
Any by the way....they VERY definitely didn't consider themselves to be the fourth country on any South American podium at all!</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476128436348764185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5310940384946913926.post-63847996788503092282010-09-16T02:48:00.000-03:002010-09-16T02:48:52.403-03:00The Race to Lima<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWjKgYeqNp4R3cVsSoi62tQ432U8gSfoJqkSqWAQRimerNEIE0OS_tp5-5Bwp9xo5tettJn9ULq1BkRVJRGi0btBVdGJzUYZs-l6-4bQljF6vRhhck4m8-_WLHhcHL_buGTCVkxN2mgUh/s1600/ST+2010-08-27+004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWjKgYeqNp4R3cVsSoi62tQ432U8gSfoJqkSqWAQRimerNEIE0OS_tp5-5Bwp9xo5tettJn9ULq1BkRVJRGi0btBVdGJzUYZs-l6-4bQljF6vRhhck4m8-_WLHhcHL_buGTCVkxN2mgUh/s200/ST+2010-08-27+004.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>The more observant reader of our Pedalling North drivellings may have noticed that we find ourselves in Vancouver, Canada. Does this mean that our recent blog drought was on account of a frantic spurt of cycling 400km per day for a month? Erm, actually no. The <em>really </em>observant reader may have spotted that the blog has been rechristened as 'Pedalling (from the) North'. A bit of explanation may be in order...<br />
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In mid-August, sitting in a hotel room in Camana, Peru, we did some sums. It became apparent that Delta's (cheap!) Ecuador-Seattle flight schedule came to an end for the rest of 2010 on September 6th. We had already decided that the US would be better tackled from North to South (prevailing winds and all that...), so this effectively set us a deadline for our main South American leg. If we were to squeeze in a few days in the Galapagos Islands before leaving the southern hemisphere, we had to haul our *sses to Lima, as an interim finishing point, in double quick time. From there we would be able to take the bikes and ourselves to Ecuador by bus. So it dawned on us... we needed to cover a little over 800km from Camana to Lima in 10 days. And so began our Race to Lima.<br />
<a name='more'></a>There are plenty of long distance cyclists out there whose primary aim is to 'cover the ground'. We decided early on in this trip that such an approach would mean missing out on so much of the potential richness of our journey. Consequently we haven't been afraid to stop and appreciate nice places, sometimes for a few days. So a fixed deadline was something of a novelty to us. Suddenly we realised that we would have to ratchet up our average pace. Days off would be put on hold, and we couldn't afford for anything to go wrong if we were to make it to Lima. To give you a sense of how we got on, this is a summarised day by day report:<br />
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Day 1 (58km): After a few administrative hitches (why are airline tickets so complicated to buy online?!), we only set off after 11am. Not the ideal start, as the clock began to tick. We were glad to back on the bikes after a couple of days holed up in unglam Camana with varying lurgies. But those kilometre posts telling us that we still had over 800km to Lima seemed to go by ever more slowly. The scenery was rawly beautiful, the coastal road slicing perfectly through collosal sand dunes to the right and verdant green fields of crops to the left, running down to the mighty Pacific surf. Our lunchtime picnic spot overlooked a shoreline that seemed to go on forever into a thin mist. A dozen black vultures circled overhead sizing up our tuna sandwiches. Today was the day we realised that our race up the coast would not be helped by the topography - the coast undulated constantly, sending us down into sea level valleys before taunting us back up the other side. We made it to Ocona, set in one of these valleys, with enough time for a walk to the deserted pebble beach, a cold shower in our roadside hostel, and a hilarious dinner in a family restaurant in which they were all so engrossed in that evening's soap opera that the 10 year old son had to be sent out to buy our beer.<br />
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Day 2 (76km): Perhaps it was partly mental, knowing that we'd barely made a dent in our target distance, but today felt like biking through treacle. It took all morning to cover 30km, and we were shattered by the time we lunched at the top of a 7km climb. Nobody had warned us about this! The road carved its way along a near vertical cliff so massive that our bikes looked like storm flies on a wall. The ups and downs were constant. There was only one thing for it at lunch: a tasting session for Peruvian fizzy drinks. Cola Escosesa, Peru Cola and Inca Kola all came in for a stern examination, with Inca Kola emerging on top by a short head. It did at least fuel us for an afternoon that never let up. All along the route we were reminded of just how small we were by 12-15ft crashing breakers just to our left, and sand dunes to our right that were so imposing that they often had to be held back from the road by purpose built walls. It was a race against the light to get to Atico that evening, one which we narrowly won. Atico - another fabulously random, sandy roadside Panamericana town with all the hustle and buzz that you might expect, as well as the sense of transitoriness. Vultures sat on the little balcony of our unexpectedly comfortable hostal and the Pacific continued to roll in through the night.<br />
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Day 3 (102km): We spent 7 hours on the bikes today. A necessarily early start, an 'al fresco' breakfast of questionable cereal with drinking yoghurt, as the trucks rumbled into morning life and watery sunshine broke through. Either the route was actually flatter and more manageable today, or we were just getting into the rhythm of it. Whichever, we made good progress as we fairly zipped along cutting a line between yet more jaw-dropping desert dunes and the rolling deep blue Pacific. Truck and bus drivers were on perky form, the sun shone for much of the day, but the breeze was cool enough to keep things comfortable. The twists in the tail were a couple of stonkingly steep climbs late on in the day when we'd started thinking about a sunset beer on the beach. Not fair. We got through them, however, and reached the Puerto Inca Hotel - a glorious spot with no other guests, excellent fresh fish and an ancient history of Incan trade with Cuzco. The perfect bay was all ours, and Inca terraces striped its sides. The only frustration, as we ate our breakfast watching birds and seals diving for theirs, was that we had to leave so early the next day...<br />
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Day 4 (76km): ... fortunately our overnight concerns about the 3km climb back to the main road from the hotel were alleviated by our nice friend in the pick up, who came to our rescue. But in the end that lift didn't make much difference to the first couple of hours on the bikes. The early kms were an endless sequence of ups and downs through rocky little coastal valleys on tarmac road surfaces so bad that we wondered how the Panamerican Highway could justify its grand title. Fortunately, that rarest of things came to our rescue: a strong tailwind! This meant that we could breeze in relative comfort through the coastal 'zonas de arenamiento' (though not without some sandblasting to exposed flesh!), where bulldozers work tirelessly to stop the highway becoming literally sanded over. We actually had a real lunch in a real town - no tuna sandwiches for us today. Yauca was entirely dependent on its extensive olive groves, but also knocked up a mean tripe casserole for us. Our lodgings for the night, having been blown along through rolling desert all afternoon, was simple to the point of hilarity: the Lomas Intercontinental offered us an oil drum with a foot of water in the bottom as the 'shower', and a relentless stream of trucks as company. At first we thought it might have been ideal for an arthouse movie, but in the end it wasn't even up to that! A low point for accommodation, but an amusing one.<br />
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Day 5 (85km): A day of two halves - the first of which involved some gruesome climbing on tired legs and what felt like almost imperceptible progress to the 30km mark. We stopped for 'second breakfast' at that point, and chatted to a couple of roadside policemen who assured us that things would look up just around the corner. How right they were. We knobbled the next 40km in barely an hour and a half, a spectacular sweep down a long, gradual glacial valley and nearly all the way to Nazca before lunchtime. The tailwind was the strongest (some would say 'only'!) we had experienced. An amazing sensation. We rewarded ourselves with a comfortable night in Nazca, at a squeeky clean and beautifully appointed refuge from the hustle and bustle outside. Rarely has a swimming pool been more eagerly flopped into than this one, by two sunbaked refugees from Lomas. We were - briefly - back in Touristland. The Plaza de Armas filled was with water features and pretty tiling. Locals and gringos alike wandered as the sun set. And we knew we didn't have to get up early. Bliss.<br />
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Day 6 (50km): We had decided we could get away with a half day today, and made full use of a full night's sleep and a buffet breakfast. Those extra hours of rest meant that by the time we got underway, after an early lunch, a 50km stretch felt like a veritable pleasure. As small planes buzzed overhead, we stopped off in the middle of the desert to climb an observation tower and look down on the mysterious 'Nazca Lines' - enormous horizontal creations that can only be seen from above, and whose raison d'etre nobody has yet explained convincingly. En route to Palpa, we paused for a few minutes. In amongst our breathless hurtle to Lima, it hadn't fully dawned on me that these were the final days of South American cycling for us. For now at least. It added an extra dimension to our appreciation of how the desert yielded suddenly to the pretty valley of Palpa, its wall-to-wall orange groves and roadside banana trees illuminated by the warm sun of the late afternoon. Every few yards we passed another mountainous pile of oranges, often hiding a diminutive orange seller. Later that evening, having identified the simplest of $4 hostels, we sat in a state of post-cold shower invigoration over massive plates of 'pollo saltado'. We watched entranced as the restaurant owner flicked between the Simpsons and Miss Universe on the booming television in the corner. Four days to go. So far, so good.<br />
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Day 7 (101km): We hadn't done 7 consecutive days before, so this was always going to be a test. And boy, the first climb was all of that and more. Even overflowing glasses of freshly squeezed roadside orange juice couldn't fuel us properly for a massive drag up a climb that looked like a piece of coiled wire just unravelled. Thank goodness for Test Match Special podcasts to listen to. Even when we reached the top, the rest of the morning was a seemingly unending grind, slightly uphill, across long and featureless desert landscapes. There was even a slight headwind. That wasn't in the brochure. The turning point came at lunch, which we shared with a kitten and a tiny puppy (quickly christened 'Mervyn') who both enjoyed a penchant for dulce de leche and a love/hate relationship. Post-Mervyn, it was a more comfortable afternoon, cruising through Pisco vineyards and bougainvillea plants - at least until we neared Ica. Ica lived fully up to its reputation as a hellhole. We threaded our way beside the road for the final few kilometres, through near darkness and cheek-by-jowl mechanics workshops, dodging puddles of unidentifiable liquid, tiny buzzy taxis and tuktuks running amok. And the hooting, oh the hooting. Cacophonous. Deafening. Bewildering. We've rarely been more relieved than we were to see our unexpectedly lovely, colonial hotel which we shared with more staff than guests, a selection of ancient wine making equipment, and - surreally - a selection of rather beautiful peacocks.<br />
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Day 8 (106km): We awoke to a chilly, dank morning, but more subdued traffic and we were soon out of the perils of Ica. For much of the morning, we cruised merrily along flat, windless roads past fields speckled with labourers bedecked in colourful (if unnecessary) sun protectors. We passed one after another pisco winery, often hidden behind exotic double gates and down long avenues of trees. But if our legs felt good, it was our noses that struggled. All day we were assailed by a pungent mixture of battery chickens (housed in the biggest 'Chicken Auschwitz' sheds you ever saw), human excrement, burning plastic, putrifying rubbish and general muck. It just seemed that each successive little town got smellier! Spirits were high, however, thanks to a blend of Eddie Izzard podcasts, smooth road surfaces, and a great new game of spitting orange pips at each other at lunch. It's come to that. Consecutive 100km+ days do that to you. We reached the Ica-esque Chincha as darkness fell and underwent almost perfect deja vu of the previous evening's chaotic stumble through town. Fortunately, we once again located a gloriously perfect spot for the night - where we could ride up to our room door and sit by the pool sipping pisco sours in the twilight. As the number of consecutive days on the road racks up, so does the quality of our accommodation. No shame in that, we reckoned!<br />
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Day 9 (65km): The end was in sight. But curiously, all four of our legs were still feeling strong. Perhaps the last two statements were not unconnected. Whatever, we knew we had two 'doable' days to get to the outskirts of Lima. In fact, today was a relatively gentle one, rejoining the coast after a few days running parallel to it but further inland. Yet more undulating desert, yet more crashing Pacific breakers, yet more battery chickens. Although we were closing in on Lima, the settlements out here were hardly sophisticated. We had lunch on a sandy verge in a small village on the main road, next to a government sponsored billboard proclaiming that the princely sum of $10,000 had been lavished on the place. A man just across from us was building the most basic house imaginable - just him and his hammer and nails and a few bits of wooden boarding. By contrast earlier in the day, we had passed a behemoth of a natural gas plant that had received $3bn in investment; all of its gas is going to the US. Such are the ways of Latin America. By dusk, we chugged into Cerro Azul, a seaside resort so far out of season that even the multitudes of arrogant egrets and prehistoric looking pelicans on the beach seem to have packed up their beach huts for the season. Our hostal's owners were so surprised to see us that we were welcomed in like family. Its rickety pier, tumbledown hostals, gentle surf, angry-looking dolphin monuments and general tranquility were rather soothing and lovely. And surely the calm before the Lima storm.<br />
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Day 10 (76km): We made it. By now, it would have been odd <em>not </em>to have strapped on our paniers and clambered onto our only-too-familiar saddles. It had become like a job. We had begun to see how those 'covering the ground' cyclists must see a country - as a bit of a relentless blur, with little time to meet people except in passing, or to form views about the places you pass through. It was an experience and a challenge, both physical and mental. But, in the final analysis, we both prefer the slightly more measured approach. Much of the final day was a gradual procession toward's Peru's capital, assisted by our trusty iPods. There was still no let up from the 'invasiones' groupings of reed huts in the desert, but we did start to see clues that a city of 8m people was approaching - a massive shopping mall, for example. There weren't many of those in Ocona, a week or so back. As we pedalled, I mused that these were actually likely to be our final kilometres of actually 'pedalling North'.<br />
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An odd feeling, as it was the end of an unbroken route of nearly 5800km on bikes since Bariloche, back in March. We have pedalled every metre of it, over the Andes and all the way up the coast. We're quite proud of that. It hasn't been easy. As we passed a wall appropriately graffitied with 'without women, what would we be?', we broke through the 6000km mark for our trip. Shortly after, with a little help from the guards at a customs outpost, we managed to flag down a bus prepared to take us and our bikes into the Friday evening Lima rush hour.<br />
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And to an unfamiliar existence without bikes, at least for a couple of weeks.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07570079103715683211noreply@blogger.com0