My name is Lydia, and I am geek about food and how it’s grown. I want to better understand the agricultural situation of South and Central America from the view of my bicycle. This is a view hopefully slow enough to allow serendipity to lead me to people and organizations that will share their experiences with me. I’m curious to see how the changing circumstances created by global climate change and global markets are affecting the possibility to live as a small farmer. I hope you will join me on my journey and that we experience the power of breaking bread together!
Author: Loretta Henderson
Anna Kitler
“My name is Anna and I just recently graduated college in the U.S. Growing up in Germany, I always loved traveling and experiencing new people, food or scenery. After four years in New York, I felt like I didn’t know a lot about the United States, so I decided to turn my cheap road bike into a touring bike and start touring across America. On this adventure, I am not planning on following any of the major bike routes, but rather old high ways and smaller streets that will take me into little towns and neighborhoods that haven’t seen any bicycle tourists. So far, this rather adventurous approach has paid off, because people have welcomed me into their homes and showed me around their areas a great deal. I am planning on being on the road for at least seven months so that I can cover about 8000 miles. However, I am already contemplating to extend my tour and ride through more states. You can follow my adventures on myfacebook page“
How Would You End A Bicycle Tour?
I am tired now, I think I will go home Forest Gump’s brilliant words come to mind as I push the pedals on first gear up the Cordillera Blancha road in N. Peru’s national park. My legs towing the weight of my bicycle bags, they are strapped behind me on the rack. The pedals spin round as they have for 5 continuous years of touring, a 40 country, 5 continent effort that will soon complete my first bicycle tour.
It’s about the journey not the destination I remind myself while percolating with gratitude at all the places I have seenin the past years. Peru’s high altitude glaciated gorgeous mountains vistas north of Huaraz strain my eyes, my cold hands clasps the handlebars. I lean forward and continue up the mountain to 15,000ft.
The goal of cycling a line around the world was accomplished, 2 weeks ago, when I reached the coast at the Pacific Ocean south of Lima. I am cooked, done, chewed, crispy, burnt, finished; it is time to move on to the next life chapter. The lessons learned from bicycle touring I will always cherish. The basic kindness of humanity all over the world will stay with me, the beauty of living simply I will take with me to my next home.
However, the exit plan has gotten as logistically complicated as the cycling around the world goal.
Solo Female Cyclist Dream Road
A paper work problem on moving to a farm, 6 miles from the ocean on the east coast of the USA, (I am Canadian) prevented me from flying out of Lima and then an expired bank card furthered the delay. Allowing me to gratefully be able to pedal N. Peru and speak to the Huaraz, Peru newspaper about women’s bicycle touring.
Once you rush through something you have already decided it isn’t important…I cheer myself up from another delay and remind myself of what I love best of about slow bicycle travel and this weeks facebook and twitter post:
Photo bomb a mountain? Took a wrong turn at 15,000+ feet, went down a trail into a valley N. Peru, (a jokester of a woman in the village insisted I was going the right way). Then I proceeded to push my bike + 55pds of gear back up the steep loose rocky path for 6hrs. Eventually, I decided it was time to start having some fun. What a perfect opportunity for my new “photo bomb’ hobby. Moral of the story, when lost and getting your ass kicked by altitude and confusion a photo bomb can greatly improve the situation.
The only thing that remains now is how to end this world tour. Forest Gump it? I am tired now, I think I will go home…just stop. Interestingly, carrying on is not an option, not unless I rename Pandemic The Magic Bicycle ‘Wilson’ from Cast Away. Socially speaking, I am long over due for a stable social life.
I read somewhere that to go around the world, one must cycle in a continuous direction a minimal of 18,000 miles (29,000 km) and cross the equator at least 3 times. I have never been interested in mathematics, my actual mileage is unknown but since I cycle everywhere except when removed from my bicycle because of security that I have doubled or more likely tripled that distance. Ending on the equator, on the Pacific skinny dipping with a beer in my hand, that sounds good? How would you complete a bicycle tour?
Will I ever meet THE ONE?
Nearly every social interaction I have had for the last 3 weeks begins with one simple question. “Solita?(alone?)” followed by porque (why?). I can be entirely oblivious to my single, one woman status and all of a sudden I am all boo hoo hoo very much alone. The lonesome ache of travelling about alone by bicycle creeps back into my stomach like a long forgotten cramp. I’ve daydreamed about Mr Right, Mr. Wrong and just about every other kind of Mister in order to fill the familiar ache of lonesomeness. I am tempted to give rewards to people for NOT asking if I am alone, gifts of sweets? hugs? It happens so infrequently that I could even afford to give folks a crisp 20USD bill. On the 20USD bill it would say “thank you for recognizing that a woman travelling alone is not a safety hazard, she can take care of herself”
Yesterday, while pedaling, as I was pondering the tattles and tales of twenty dollar bills, some government road workers stopped their white pick-up truck to say hello, a pleasant change from the white trucks that slow down and drive next to me just looking. This friendly driver’s reflexive orange vests draped over his belly. His elbow protruded from the open window.
“hola” I said hoarsely, my throat was dry from not talking to anyone for a few days and from the altitude 15700-14100 feet (4800-4300 meters). Grateful to have someone to say hello to I smiled.
“Solita?” The man said, a shiny wedding band was secured around his finger, his hand firmly gripping the steering wheel. His black leather boot was pressed firmly on the brake pedal holding the truck back on the steep mountain road between Cusco and Nazca, Peru.
“Yes, solita” I said, trying not to roll my eyes or bust out in hysterical laughter at the mundane boredom.
Just saved 20usd, that guy doesn’t look very huggable anyway and his teeth don’t look very good, sweets would not improve his oral health situation…and I don’t think the color bright orange should be in his or anybody’s wardrobe, it does nothing for his eyes I think to myself
“Yes, solita…” I said
Like an x-mas tune in December, the incessant drawl of a repetitive conversation begins again.
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A never ending valentine show of twosomes unveils before my eyes as I pedal along, funny faced alpacas, llamas and rare Peruvian vacuna line the emerald green valley, all of whom are paired up, some mating for the moment, others for life. A Quechua elderly woman, the shadows hidden within her wrinkles reflect the frigid morning sun of the high altitude Peruvian Andes. Her head tilts in greeting, her smile grows as she sees me approach.
“Esta Frio? (Are you cold)” The elderly woman questions, her weathered well used fingers hold a piece of firewood that she has collected from the road side. Her three layered skirts dangle over her blue wooly leggings. Her ankles are covered in knitted alpaca fur leg warmers. She places the firewood on the ground and covers her shy grin with her strong coarse fingers.
“Hola, ques estes yamos?( Hello, What is your name?)” She asks. Her piercing kind eyes sparkle with years of wilderness wisdom. They are clearer then the nearby cascading stream.
What a great morning, it is 6:30am and I have a new friend, a Quechan and Spanish speaking beautiful indigenous woman. I genuinely enjoy meeting old people, full of history and culture, my favorite museums. Perhaps in this life time, I have already met THE ONE, the love of my life… the love of TRAVEL! I love the unknown, not knowing who I might meet, what will happen with the day, where I will sleep, what I will eat, where I might bathe. And just when I get so lonesome that I think the ache might do my head in some magical moment unfolds before my grateful eyes, reminding me how much I truly love to travel. My new friend did not even ask me if I am alone and she definitely looks huggable. Often, I find the indigenous population in any country to not be as concerned about such things, just one reason why I love travel amongst the indigenous peoples. I smile to myself as I push the breaks and say
“Buenes Dias (Good Morning), it is so good to meet you, My name is Loretta, I love to travel and like most loves there are some trade-offs. Thanks for being you!”
How To Practice Gratitude, Cycling and Meditation
Just a few months back, I was tossed like a ragdoll after getting hit by a bus miraculously suffering nothing more than a mildly bruised arm, a couple of shredded fingernails and destroying a bunch of expensive replaceable gear. The vivid memory drifts into my conscience while pedaling towards Cusco, Peru.
Breathe in, breathe out, focus on breath…push, pull, push, pull, coast… My legs repeat the circular motion of pedaling.
The financial loss of the accident or bus assault is the least important of the potential outcomes. I find myself grateful to new sponsors for replacing some of which was destroyed. However, all these months later, when I am passed by a big hard bus while pedaling, I can still see the blurry smoky blue color of that boisterous bus that hit me at 94km/62mph in my peripheral vision. The holler of scratching metal against my shoulder and bicycle has faded but the memory of the noise remains in my ears, near body trauma or possible death does have some lingering effects. I cycle on feeling extremely fortunate and very grateful to still be around.
Breathe in, breathe out, focus on breath… Push, pull, push, pull, coast…
A repetitive cathartic rhythm I find meditative propels me northward through South America and into Peru. The altiplano of Peru at 13,000 feet provides a spectacular backdrop of red hued mountains, Inca ruins and lush cascading rivers, a perfect location for meditative, rhythmic cycling and practicing gratitude.
“This is better than a Buddhist Vispassana retreat, more effective that sitting meditation and much more fun than an indoor yoga class, Thank you Peru”
I say out loud while leaning over the handlebars. The road is descending rapidly out of the high altitude altiplano region before climbing again into Cusco. Peru’s cultural center infamous for the Machu Pinchu Inca ruins.
“Thank you, Peru for large road shoulders AND putting up ‘caution cyclists in the shoulder signs’, what a great effort” I say while chuckling, bubbling with gratitude and bursting of new exhilarating oxygen supplies.
Herds of shaggy sheep, their lean bodies covered by a matted mass of superfluous fluff waddle across the road in search of the adjacent river’s hydration. Villagers clad in vibrant purple crinoline lined skirts carry bundles of fresh green sticks tied to their backs. Their blue and white checkered smocks protect their skirts from the falling leaves. Sombreros (hats) of every variety protect their bronzed faces from the craggy mountain’s sharp sun rays.
“Thank you to the people of Peru for being so beautiful and for wearing hats. I love hat countries and Peru is definitely one of the best hat countries I have ever seen”
I say to myself as I steer around the populated roadside. Plenty of bicycle carts congest the road shoulder, large rectangular metal signs erected by the Peruvian government provide a constant remainder to motorized traffic to stay alert and slow down, providing parochial Peruvians time to wave, smile and honk as they pass me.
Focus Retta, Focus…Breathe in, breathe out…push, pull, push, pull, coast
The mountain road begins to climb.
“Being off the bike for a month to see a dentist in La Paz, Bolivia is the best idea I have ever had. Thanks to Christian at the La Paz Casa De Cyclistes for the great stay. Thanks all at Dental Mundo, I love my healthy teeth”
I blurt out through my sparkly pearly whites to the shaggy sheep in need of haircuts.
Breathe in, breathe out, focus on breathe, breathe in, breathe out…push, pull, push, pull, coast…
Rounding the world alone by bike for the last 5 years is how I have developed my instincts to stay safe in every imaginable situation. Taking the occasional month long break and resting those instincts is how I have developed my instinct endurance. The ability to try to stay tuned on and tuned in to my surroundings at all times and being as genuinely happy as possible through the practice of active positivity.
“Thank you, well rested instinct endurance… practicing gratitude is fun, the more I practice the easier it rolls with me… this has got to strengthen the instincts” I say to the steep mountain incline. The road is a never ending platform on and of which to be grateful.
Focus Retta Focus… Breathe in, breathe out, upward, onward…push, pull, push, pull, breathe
Peru…Photos and Gringos
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| Absolutely beautiful kind old woman who I befriended today. She grabbed my hands gesturing hello and tapped me on the shoulder with a huge grin when I met her on the street twice today! |
“Gringo (foreigner in a disparaging sense)” I hear growled from the roadside market stand. The ladies rough holler captures my attention about as fast as the site of what she is selling at the market in Peno, Peru. Her beige sombrero hat hardly shades her from the grouchy scowl placed across her face.
A stark contrast to her nearby market vendors, smiling toothless welcomes. They wave their bronzed sun aged hands over their goods displaying coco leaves, dried llama fetus and every other remedy used for Peruvian traditional medicine. The locals market in which I wondering with my camera isn´t exactly in Peno´s tourist brochure.
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| I love this woman´s style. Notice the coco leaves stuck to the side of her face. After taking her photo, I showed her my pictures, her toothless kind energy put a huge smile on my face |
“Gringo” The one woman persists and chuckles with the insistence of a harmless 8 year old school yard bully.
“Well, At least I am not selling llama fetuses…selling llama fetuses now that´s weird” I chuckle to myself as I continue strolling, my camera strap dangling on my wrist.
Crazy? Well, Only On a Good Day!
“No doubt exists that all women are crazy; it’s only a question of degree.” – W. C. Fields …I read this quote and had to laugh. Crazy? Well, only on a good day & every day is a good day on a bicycle tour! Happy 100th to Women’s Bicycle Touring! Check out over 100 WOWsers (women on wheels) on the Women on Wheels Wall!
Photo: Long story short, I met Kat on route 40 Argentina. Kat´s strap is like that because we were trying to sort out how to fit a lost hungry tiny kitten into a very hot pannier for her ride into town. More stories on the WOW (Women On Wheels) Wall!
I’ve Got Boobs, I’ve Got A Bike
Happy International Women’s Day (IWD)! Check out the many updates on the
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I’ve Got Boobs, I’ve Got A Bike
(an article written for the IWD 2014 website)
“Solita? A woman alone?” The middle aged Chilean man asks. His faded denim shirt buttons barely hold back his protruding belly. The ‘mute button’ on my natural wit switches on, smothering a half dozen wise ass remarks in response to a question that has become as repetitive as a chronic case of travelers’ diarrhea.
“WHY, are you alone?” He raises his left hand to rub his shiny wrinkly forehead. His scratched wedding ring clashes with the gold plate of his bucked front tooth. I have decided to call him Bucky.
“I am cycling around the world alone, at night I sleep in my tent, estoy viaje para bicyclete a totos mondo, a la noches me dormir en me carpa” I say to Bucky.
The early morning breeze ricochets through the bakery’s wooden shutters, cooling the smoke from the red brick oven. His wife stands silently by his side. Her modern designer black leather purse is strung over her delicate shoulder.
I really do prefer my ‘lone women are unsafe especially if travelling by bike’ lectures after my coffee. I only stopped my bicycle at this bakery because I wanted some delicious Chilean flat bread. It reminds me of the bread in Sudan and I don’t even have to wear a headscarf to eat it. While pedaling across Africa, The Middle East, Asia, Oceania and The Americas, I’ ve often wondered if I have been cycling forward or backward in time.
“WHY are you alone?” Bucky the Belligerent man persists with his interrogation. The sarcasm starts shaking my torso, erupting through my muted laughter. I can no longer stop myself. It escapes.
“Herpes” I say and then chuckle.
“I have big problems down there, mucha grande problema” I grin as I point my cycling gloved hand to the rusty safety pin on the zipper of my well warn ‘nomad’ ex-officio grey cargo shorts.
“It’s not safe to travel solo! You sleep alone IN A TENT?” Bucky’s face appears to twist into a sexist spasm. The smell of fresh bread permeates the bakery’s newly painted Kermit green walls.
“Well, other than my ovaries keep getting caught in the zipper of my tent door, things work out ok. My only complaint is these damn tits keep knocking me off balance when I cycle. You would think at age 41 after cycling solo across 5 continents I would have the hang of it by now.”
I utter almost laughing at how ballsy my estrogen is this morning before coffee. His wife laughs, Bucky The Belligerent does not. The energy behind his wife’s smile, an international sisterhood, speaks my language. Her modern black designer purse brushes her husband’s over-sized shadow as she steps forward and says,
“Felicitaciones, Congratulations!”
——————————————————————————————————–Women From Around The World
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Women From Around The World
(International Women´s Day Tribute in Photos)
Why I Love Bicycle Touring
On the muddy road to Uyuni, Bolivia (4100m/13400ft) on the third day of 24hr/day of non-stop freezing rain/hail I decide while significantly stuck in the mud that about all I can do is practice positivity. I start laughing when my altitude frazzled brain decides that all the frozen snut running down my face really isn´t all that bad. I feel so pretty, I think to myself and begin convincing myself that the dripping snut quite nicely complements my high tech plastic garbage bags. My cold hands and feet are tucked tightly underneath my ´oh so sexy´ plastic bag fashion statement. My weeks theme song for cycling into Uyuni during the rain season of Bolivia, the song lyrics “If you´ve got to be dumb, you got to be tuff”, spirt from my frozen sticky lips.
A few hours later while super extra significantly stuck in the mud…
I sure am grateful that the buses honk with the vengeance of a projectile missile before barreling towards me while I wade across rivers up to my knees. It is important to practice gratitude I think to myself as I heave Pandemic´s back end sideways in the river´s mud with about as much force as I can muster. I surprisingly succeed in sending the loaded back wheel out of the way, just in time to duck before getting splashed with the gritty dirty river. The words to the song ´´I am so sexy and I know it´´ bounce through my head like a spastic eighties rocker. The frozen snut continues to uncontrollably roll down my face. My attempts at actually using a tissue prove futile. 3 days of continuous frozen rain has drenched the inside of my pockets and their pockets. However, my rain jacket needed a good cleaning anyway. All this mud is moisturizing, great for my complexion, it IS all the rage at the local spa, I think to myself as the bus barrels by, the dry driver happily waves through his dirt stained window. The mud chuncks stick to my face, the chuncks are not as coarse or sharp as the last ones, things are looking up, I chuckle to myself.
The following morning somewhere near Uyuni, Bolivia, it is still raining.
Wow, que bonita (how beautiful) this morning´s foggy rain sure is sparkly…how puuurdy, I think to myself as I crouch down over my bicycle, my cold wet gloved hand secure my tent inside my pannier. Pandemic The Magic Bicycle is covered with mud but my rohloff gears are hanging tuff and ready for the final kilometers into Uyuni. Ahh, Uyuni, land of popcorn, lentils, apple juice, I laugh at my hungry self. The last few weeks at altitude has considerably shrunk my 103 pound(47kilo) frame. I am still HUGE compared to an Asian, I chuckle as I tilt my hooded head to the right, then peer to the left, my tracks that led me to last evenings camping spot in a gorgeous patch of mud have disappeared in the nights rain.
Ah fuckity, this can not be true, am I lost? In the distance I can see what looks like a road drainage pipe and/or rail road tracks. They must lead to Uyuni I think to myself as I begin dragging my bicycle in a large circle through the mud for ½ kilometer looking for the road. The landscape appears endless, a beautiful endless sea of adventurous mud sure to entertain as I carry on north through Bolivia. A country full of ´´mui adventura (lots of adventure)´´and a beautiful kind hearty people who are quickly warming my heart and reaffirm everything that I love about bicycle touring in Bolivia.
Are You A Traveler or A Cyclist?
“You have got to love a family guy who goes on holiday to the campground in Salta Argentina with every tool possible.” I say as I clap my hands together in gratitude as I wonder how I can thank him for his generosity.
Sparks begin to fly from the family man´s grinder, my shimano pedals appear small under the mans firm grip. The metal picnic table a perfect surface for pedal repair. My double sided (clip/flat) pedals have lasted west across the world from New Zealand until South America via Asia, The Middle East and Africa.
An uncounted number of kilometers, I gave up on the statistics of my ride a long time ago, crossing the land masses by bicycle and the water by boat in a westerly direction. Often navigating by instinct and a hand drawn map, a modern bicycle computer has become a thing of the past.
My handlebars now decorated with memories from heart warming people met along the way, a bracelet from a one legged man in Zambia and a string of shell beads from a prostitute that I befriended in Ethiopia. Gifts that dangle on the handlebars between the breaks and the gear shifter, a perfect reminder of what this journey by bicycle is all about.
“You are better then a bike shop, far more skilled, thank you” I say to my new friend , as he shows me his work. The fresh sharp edges of my pedals appear new and bright, sure to provide enough traction to keep my feet from slipping off my warn out pedals on my way to Bolivia, home of the oldest form of shamanism and the reason I sailed to South America. Having spent the last 4 months travelling by bike in Chile and Argentina, the modern developed world, it is safe to say that cycle touring the developing world is more my thing.
“Mui forte cycliste (strong cyclist)!” The man says as he carefully hands me the hot pedal to look at.
“More of a traveler than a cyclist….Ah labels are for jars not human, all just words we use to neatly organize each other into easily recognizable categories” I say in poor spanish and recede to give him my best travelers grin, a deep sincere smile that often surpasses all language barriers.