Loretta Henderson – Page 29 – Solo Female Cycling Around The World

Cheers! Archive Post 4/30/09

I feel like an arthritic old lady at the moldy age of 37 with a humped back from years of calcium deprivation and hard work in the fields. Hard work in the fields would of conditioned me a bit better for this voyage. With every push of the peddle, I am reminded that peddling a bicycle is nothing like reading about it. My neck is conditioned to being propped up by pillows a sufficient position for reading. The same great reading neck is freaking out with the new found angle of grinning ear to ear over Pandemic’s bicycles handle bars as I head north into the icy breeze. The throbbing of my neck and shoulders is occasionally replaced by the late winter icy temperature of the ocean air. The freezing rain might have bothered me if I wasn’t so intent on making it across the big old bridge I have been grinning at for the last 2 hours.

I hadn’t realized there are two bridges to Wales. A fact I might of realized if I had of stopped smiling long enough to buy a map of the area. The old bridge is 40km or 23 miles further down the potholed latent neighborhood road. Bicycles are not allowed over the new bridge, I was to find out on approach. It is a good thing there is a rich history of bicycle travel in England because everyone within sweating distance seemed to already know that I was not going to be able to cycle over the new bridge. I am told by the sweat soaked helpful crowd to continue on another 40km/23 miles. My throbbing neck doesn’t like this idea but my frozen smiling face peddled on, head strong into the freezing wind and rain towards the Old Bridge.

As the wind blows me backwards instead of forward over the long bridge to Wales my thoughts are replaced by the sense of accomplished that I had actually cycled to Wales. Despite the seemingly gale force winds blowing me the wrong direction over the bridge, overwhelmed, I couldn’t help but pause and while holding down my hat in the wind, peer through tears at the ocean view from on top of the bridge and know that what lie ahead would be worthy of proverbial toast.

The toast may be that I had actually made it Wales or that my favorite adventure cycling book no longer had any appeal or more importantly that I could no longer remember the aching feeling of being 4 1/2 months into my final dark cold isolating winter of Alaska. I had peddled out of England across a huge international bridge, through freezing rain and a seemingly near gale force head wind. The Pandemic, my magic bicycle and I have made it to Wales.

The Bike Shop! Every Story Starts Somewhere…

I went out the door of the bike shop with a new fancy green European bicycle. At times I am so happy about my new fancy bicycle that I convince myself that it is a magic bicycle. The new fancy European bicycle is a very dignified dark green like the green in the fairytale Jack and the Beanstalk sure to propel me without effort up the coast to Ireland. I change the name of my new fancy European bicycle according to how I feel at the moment. The big talk in this neck of the woods in Somerset, England is the bird flu pandemic. So my new bicycle’s name has become ‘The Pandemic”. It is a lofty distinguished name for the bicycle that I hope will fearlessly spread as fast as the pandemic that has been sweeping across Europe and the world at a moment’s notice.The bicycle mechanic who assembled my bicycle said I could cycle over the ocean bridge connecting England to Wales if I headed north/west on the rural road. So out the bicycle shop door I went riding without a map on Jack and the Beanstalk the magic bicycle with full intentions of spreading as fearlessly as the bird flu pandemic. As well as my grandiose thinking, I had exactly zero km/miles of cycling experience and exactly zero amount of time invested in getting fit enough to cycle to Ireland. In my elation to be breaking free from the isolation of Alaska I had merrily somersaulted over this fitness step in the planning. I had spent the last two years reading about bike touring. However, I am reasonably sure that reading doesn’t qualify as physical training.

The bicycle mechanic in the bike shop as I headed out the door was so encouraging as to sarcastically wonder if I was a real cyclist. Real cyclist? No, what’s that? There are about a dozen folks in all of Alaska who are determined to bring the cyclist culture to the far north. They cycle 3km about 2 miles to work or school from June until September sometimes in forty below freezing temperatures dressed in full winter regalia like soldiers heading for the cold war. Every year at the end of a short cold summer, the weather chases them inside until the roads thaw in the spring or about 8 months later. I myself never joined the hearty frozen bunch. Instead, I had found myself to be satisfied to be lazy and read my Adventure Cycling Handbook and daydream myself to sleep each night in my warm bed.

I sure do wish I had of known in advance that only these real cyclist people could purchase bicycles at this particular bicycle shop in Bridgewater, Somerset, England. Although I am not a real cyclist I am going to give it a try. I am going to try to cycle The Pandemic through England over the ocean bridge to Wales, up the coast of Wales then The Pandemic and I will catch the ferry to Ireland and try to peddle on from there.

Rain Snot Dirt

Another rain drenched frozen booger splatters me in the face as I splash down the hill. I am dodging snot, dirt and freezing rain pellets. The late autumn rain is so intense it has gotten ridiculous. So ridiculous and cold it is humorous to try to be out here. So this is what the shop keeper meant this morning when he said the weather was coming in. The locals are laughing AT me until I start laughing and then they laugh with me. Some cars just honk and give the thumbs up others just laugh as they pass by. I try to avoid such fun interactions only because if I stop peddling my body shivers into a deep freeze. The only thing stopping me from carrying on is that I can’t see through the rain, snot and dirt. The triplets of inclement weather are interfering with my visibility and lady like appearance. This is my new definition of inclement.

I finally call it a day and cycle into a campground.I feel like a used wet Kleenex tissue tattered and torn from over use, the kind you can only find in the rubbish.On top of being really disgusting, wet and cold I am hungry.7 huge tacos, a bag of popcorn, a chocolate bar, 1.5 litres of orange flavored water and then 2 lamb chops, a bowl of green beans and a plate of rice later I lift my drooling floppy mouth, breath, sigh,breath and think ok what can I eat next?

3 more tacos,2 cups of hot chocolate, ice cream, a cheese roll (grilled cheese sandwich), a handful of cashews and raisons, some yogurt and some cookies I breath, sigh, breath. I may be the first person in the history of cycling in the Catlins, New Zealand to become morbidly obese while cycling into the oncoming rainy winter. Until I pop a tire or split my pant zipper I don’t think I will worry too much about it. More rain is predicted for tomorrow and a hole lot more eating my way to the morbidly obese benchmark! After all it is important to have goals!

The Other Butt Cheek: Mongolia

I hit a huge rocky dirt rivet in the trail and bounce right off Pandemic my magic bicycle’s seat and land on the solid steel cross bar. I think I just gave myself an episiodomy. I immediately stick my hand down my throbbing pants to check for blood. I am grateful I haven’t seen anybody for a few days and can only imagine what they would think of this strange white woman alone in the desert on a bicycle with her hand down her pants. There isn’t any blood but I am fairly certain I have rendered myself infertile. I am cycling out of the Gobi desert, Mongolia into China. My 2 month visa time is ticking away like rosary beads at a prayer ritual.

By that afternoon I am sitting on the sandy floor of the Gobi desert, my bicycle wheel laid out in pieces. I am concerned about the tube part that appears to have been hit again by an array of machine gun shrapnel. I am at least 80 kilometers lost or I think I am lost. The hardened clay labyrinth trails are like cycling through a bowl of spaghetti. I have been picking a path in the spaghetti maze and taking it with confidence, that all of these sandy hardened clay “roads” will eventually lead south to China.

I am thirsty and repairing yet another puncture, each puncture gasps for air as it leaks through multiple stab wounds. I am scrapping the bottom of the barrel of my trusty patch kit and the spare tube is holier than a preacher at the pulpit on Sunday morning. Each full patch, I cut with my nail clippers into two or three tiny patches. I begin to examine the 7 fresh holes in the tube and patch each one with a freshly cut, tiny jagged edged patch and a whole lot of glue. I inspect the tire for the cause of this multiple stab wound puncturing madness out here on the semi-arid desert floor. The villainous culprit is a tiny coral looking fraggle rock with hair of sharp rocky thorns. The wind is at a constant howl and the tiny thorny fraggle rocks appear to blow with ease and loiter in crowds on the hardened clay “roads”.

As I reassemble the wheel and pack up the trusty patch kit I sit back and get stabbed with a sharp rocketing pain. The final puncture of the day has been to my gluteus maximus. I quickly stand up and pluck the fraggle rock out from my right butt cheek

After 6 more days of cycling, I cross the Mongolian/Chinese border and I find myself sleeping in my sleeping bag on my belly, bottoms up. Each evening and morning in the tent I touch the growing bump which I have named Helen. Helen has taken over ½ of my buttocks. Half Ass Helen is named after Mount Saint Helen the volcano in the pacific northwest region of America. Half Ass Helen has a cone shaped top and is increasing in painful pressure and is threatening to erupt. I don’t have a mirror so I can’t see her and can only touch her with a dirty finger. Half Ass Helen’s location is a bit of a mystery. I have antibacterial hand wash so I have been rubbing that on Half Ass Helen since her debut to the center stage of my butt crack sometime last week.

I stand up and peddle for 30 kilometers(22miles) and then push Pandemic the magic bicycle in the dark another 15 kilometers(10miles) towards the street lights of the town of Sonid Youqi in Inner Mongolia, China to contemplate the impending eruption going on inside my pants. After another night of bottoms up, I wake and push Pandemic the concerned magic bicycle to the town center in search of a bus. Hohott, the region’s capital and a computer are about a 2 hour drive away. Hohott would have medical supplies, a mirror and a computer so I could contact an ex-boyfriend who is a doctor in America. An old friend that likes to laugh at the predicaments I get myself into then helps me sort them out. Half Ass Helen the volcanic butt wound will not disappoint the doctor.

The bus terminal is bustling with activity but I am denied a bus ticket to Hohott. Perhaps there isn’t a bus or perhaps they won’t accept magic bicycles. I don’t speak Chinese so I am not sure which. Therefore, I do something I am normally very opposed to doing and start acting like a rich tourist.

White tourists in Asia have the reputation for being very affluent. I have never related to this image much. I subside on a meager diet, always travel on a budget of limited means and share or trade what I do have with those around me. But the seismic activity brewing in my pants makes this a special occasion. I take out my Chinese map and 200 yen (about $37) and bring Pandemic over to a taxi. I point to the map, the bicycle and the money. The taxi driver just shakes his hand at me, which is Chinese for no, no, no.

A man standing in the center of the bus terminal courtyard notices what I was doing and comes over. I show him the map, the bicycle and the money. He smiles and takes Pandemic over to the trunk (boot) of his car. Pandemic even without her wheels won’t fit into the trunk. His friend comes over and picks up Pandemic and her wheels and tries to fit them into his trunk. And then his friend and his friend and his friend repeat the same effort. But Pandemic the stubborn magic bicycle will not give an inch. Asking a whole bunch of men lingering at a bus terminal in China, to fit a bicycle into a trunk of car could be a sitcom all of its own. China is a country where the ratio of bicycles to people is 10:1 and each of those people has a PhD in bicycle.

A caucus of dissertations and head scratching debates fills the courtyard as Pandemic the magic bicycle floats from one trunk to the next to the next splattering her sandy Gobi remnants across the courtyard. Eventually, as a result of a lengthy seven way debate, someone points to Pandemic’s back rack and motions for me to remove it. I have the allen key tool in my pocket but I am enjoying the how many clowns can you fit into VW bug circus act far too much to do anything about the rack at the moment.

A woman shimmies through the testosterone filled circus and grabs hold of my arm; she is waving her cell phone. She presses the cell phone up to my ear. She had called her English speaking friend and wants to invite me in to her café for free Chinese dumplings and she wants me to have a nice visit to China. She motions for me to leave the courtyard circus and the bicycle which is in view of the café window. I sit like a geriatric patient on my left butt cheek and have a nice visit via cell phone translations over dumplings and tea.

I return to the court yard of circus bicycle engineers and remove the carrying rack from Pandemic’s bicycle frame. The driver has won the prize at the circus and fit a square through a round hole and gotten Pandemic to fit into the trunk, a puzzling success. I stand on my feet for 2 1/2 hours while squatting in the back seat of the VW jetta. We rush towards Hohott, the regional capital. Half Ass Helen is about to erupt, hot pusy lava is gathering pressure and heat in explosive anticipation.

Half Ass Helen erupts for three long days burping out red puss and blood on a rhythmic hourly schedule while I lay around on top of a towel in a sterile hotel room. Helen doesn’t ground any planes or anything; however, the volcanic shaped cone blows her top and exposes a deep canyon lake, an abyss large enough for antiseptics. The lake has since dried up, the abyss has healed and all that remains of Half Ass Helen the volcanic abscessed butt wound is a scar the size of coin and a story to tell.

Perverted for Penguins

Notice the one in the back singing and playing the tuba

I have temporarily renamed Pandemic my magic bicycle, Regatta the magic bicycle after the great sailing conditions the Otago peninsula is producing today. I am hoping that the wind shifts once again and sails Regatta the magic bicycle up this 70 kilometer cascading hill. The wind sounds like I am at the opera and harmonizes with each new bend in the hill I peddle. The musical westerly, easterly and northerly winds blend into a bellowing rhythmic percussion that insists on chilling my frosty ears. I peddle and thrash at dawn through the icy windy song on schedule.

I have an important appointment to keep. I notified the yellow eyed penguins yesterday that I would be coming. But just in case they didn’t receive my message, I have brought along three tins of sardines. I figure it couldn’t hurt to smell like fish while I hideout and wait in the tall grasses at Sand Fly Bay beach. The stealth bomber hideout and hope to see penguins, while looking up for albatross, mission has begun.

The yellow eyed penguins are shy little ocean critters that prefer a lot of privacy. They can’t waddle that fast so they are a bit self conscience of their figures. They are quite selective of when, how and if they will come to shore to their nests. They always have to have it their way, that figures. However, I let them know ahead of time that I thought being 21inches (1.9 feet) tall, sporting black and white feathers and possessing yellow banded demonic eyes made them pretty damn cute so they need not to worry about being so self conscience. And, they could feel free to waddle about their business free of judgment or criticism. My only trepidation about the first meeting is that they might think I am some kind of voyeuristic pervert lurking in the tall beach grass salivating to pitch a look.

It has been three days now. The tall grass that engulfs my little green tent is bending over in defeated boredom. The stealth bomber hideout and hope to see penguins while looking up for albatross mission has been …….. oh wait…..is that a tuba I hear…….no……it’s them….here they come. Marching out from the ocean like a St Patrick’s Day parade, in full waddle and dressed in their Sunday’s best plumage on a mission of their own to climb the grassy embankment to find their nests. They don’t seem to see me or smell my rotted 3 day old sardine stench. This is a spectacular sight even for a perverted for penguins cyclist who has been patiently waiting in the tall grasses to catch a glimpse of the yellowed eyed penguin colony and all their waddling glamour. I will continue looking up for albatross as I cycle on into the southern tip of the south Island.

As I sail back down the 70 kilometer hill with wind power and satisfaction at my back I grin through the cold winter air over Regatta the magic bicycles handlebars. I am bubbling over with the overwhelming gratitude of a mission complete. The stealth bomber hideout and hope to see yellowed eyed penguins while looking up for albatross mission has been a success.

Ass me, I Mean Ask Me?

Me and My Gluteus Maximus with Pandemic The Magic Bicycle (In Ireland last year)

How’s your….she lowers her eyes and blushes, your ….ah… she points to her pants….your…..she finally finds the word….bottom, doesn’t it get sore? I have a great seat, I answered. I have been asked this question many times in many countries by people from many countries. My bottom has become a topic of world renowned curious mystery. I have always thought that my bottom was cute but to be mentioned so often is a bit humbling. How my bottom feels, is one of those unsolved mysteries to the walkers of the world.

Bottom is the New Zealand word most often inserted into the sentence, how is your ______ ? A rather polite word always said with a reserved gesturing and softened accent. My tooshy, my backside, my bum, my butt, my duff, mon derrier, my behind, my arse, my ass, I personally prefer the wonderful latin word gluteus maximus. Defined by webters dictionary as ”the greatest gluteal muscle and the biggest muscle in the human body. The gluteus maximus forms the bulk of the buttocks. It acts to extend the upper leg, spread it, and turn it outward. ………” The use of the latin word makes me feel that my bottom has reached a certain lofty international status. Bicycle seat isn’t defined by the Webster’s dictionary but that is the reason my gluteus maximus so enjoys peddling through random countries.

My brooks leather seat, a queens thrown in which I perch myself day after day to see the world. It is a fine leather seat that has been molded to my gluteus maximus after over 13,000 or so kilometers of pedaling. When I first purchased the brooks leather saddle/seat it was stiff and as hard as a granite counter top. That first day in England with each push of the peddle, I could feel the bruises making their way to the surface of my gluteus maximus.

I chose to leave Pandemic, the magic bicycle and her queens thrown out in the rain on the very first evening that I purchased her. Then, come the next day I sat on it and rode back to the bike shop for final adjustments of the handle bars. When I arrived at the bike shop, the mechanic looked horrified as to the condition of the new leather seat. It looked a few years old after only one night. I smiled proudly and tried to tell him that the seat was just a bit hung-over from a rough night but he wasn’t very entertained.

My reasoning behind taking the new leather bicycle seat to a party in the rain was because when I left the bike shop it felt as stiff as new figure skates. I grew up in Canada where the boys played hockey and the girls figured skated. I wanted to play hockey with the boys but was told I was too small and that girls don’t play hockey. I was too young at the time to debate my mom about sexual discrimination so I figured skated with the rest of the girls. Each winter my sisters and I, when we got our new figure skates, would soak them in the bathtub and then walk around the house wearing them to break them in. I figured that all the stiff leather bicycle seat needed was a good soaking and a ride to break it in and my gluteus maximus would be fine. The leather seat has been as comfy as a recliner on Superbowl Sunday ever since. Would you like a pillow for that recliner? Otherwise known as, padded, spandex bicycle shorts. I have never ventured into the “pillowing” of my gluteus maximus. I figured if my gluteus maximus eventually needed a spandex pillow to enjoy the view from the royal saddle I would seek one out. No need occurred, so I am still riding bareback, spandex pillow free and enjoying the game.

SIDE NOTE: I am still waiting in Dunedin for a new bank card from Alaska ‘cause some fraudulent hooligan stole my debit cards and went shopping at Walmart in Alabama, archive post “I have a candy problem”. So I have been sitting on my gluteus maximus for a few days. Another reason I decided to write about that gluteus maximus and her favorite seat.

I Have a Candy Problem!

I am running down the streets of Dunedin like a lunatic at a Spanish bull run. The metal on the bottom of my cycling shoes is clamoring like church bells against the sidewalk. I am on a timer, I have 60 seconds to get to the bank machine and then back to the computer head set that in my hustle I left dangling in the internet café. I shouted to the internet café employee please don’t touch that computer, I will explain later, I will be back in sixty seconds and ran out the door. He looked at me as if to say is this some kind of game show?

I wish I had been elected for a game show but I haven’t. I wish I had a great cycling story to share full of triumph and glory but I don’t. However, while I was cycling through the mountains in central Otago some fraudulent hooligan stole my debit card numbers and went shopping at Walmart in Alabama. The thieves made out with $250 worth of stolen goods and I don’t even like Walmart. The fraud department caught on quick and put a hold on my bank card and it stopped working sometime last week.

I called the bank and used up the rest of my skyppe online phone credit. I convinced women number one from the fraud department to push her magic computer button and open my card for 60 seconds so I could run to the bank machine and withdraw money. I hit the maximum amount allowed and then the card was shut down for good and I said goodbye to all access to money.

I am in Dunedin, New Zealand camped by the beach waiting for a bank card to arrive from Alaska. Pandemic my magic bicycle is perched by a picnic table and enjoying the ocean air acting awfully patient under the circumstances. After talking to a dozen or so bank officials I think they have sent me a new bank card. Women number six wasn’t sure if they had received my signed fax and special request to express mail me a new card in New Zealand. And after having spoke to the entire office and their entire office women number twelve simply picked the phone up and said, are you the women trying to get a bank card sent to New Zealand? I believe she made about 4 more phone calls and I am now fairly confident a new bank card will be on it’s way to New Zealand in 3-5 business days.

When this adventure started 9 countries ago I was convinced the fraud department at my bank was opposed to this idea of me cycling around the world. Every country border I peddled a crossed they would put a hold on my bankcard and I would have to figure out how to call them. At the time, I didn’t have my online skyppe phone number so I would have to figure out how to make a phone call from various phone booths, a remarkably difficult task, which proved to be far more time consuming and exhausting then cycling up a mountain. I have now decided that the fraud department at my bank is very supportive of the adventure because $250 isn’t all that much considering the damage they could of done. Besides all the goods that the fraudulent hooligans made off with are from Walmart so the goods will break soon.

Dunedin is a great place to be poor. The city’s famous tourist attraction is the albatross colony and the yellow eyed penguin colony. I will be cycling out to the tip of the Otago peninsula, an easy day ride, to hide out on the beach and wait for the yellow eyed penguins while looking up and watching for albatross. There is an expensive tourist viewing center for both bird colonies but planning and scheming a stealth hide out mission is more within my budget right now and more fun. The campground during the last couple of days has been great. It has free hot showers so I am superclean, the kind of clean that even sparkling military white gloves would approve of. The camping park is designed for families on a holiday so the camp store has the most extensive selection of penny candy I have ever seen and a Henderson can stay pretty happy and go pretty far on a daily dose of candy. As long as my teeth hold up waiting for a new bank card has been pretty sweet.

Nice Earrings Buddy!

The numbered earrings are a medallion warn proudly for how many cyclists she has taken out!

They have even built themselves bovine mobile carts so they can keep up. They were feeling a bit jealous of all the speedy cyclists!

Holy Cow!!! I mean who stands in the road and doesn’t move when there is a bicycle bombing down a hill straight at you? The answer to that is cows do. In South East Asia chickens, pigs and cows team up and block the roads to cyclists trying to pass. But you can’t really blame the animal folk in South East Asia, with the language barrier and all it is to be expected. The farm animals of SE Asia don’t believe in birth control so there are a lot of baby farm animals blocking the road to cyclists in that part of the world.

I have never really felt that bad for eating cows. In fact I had steak for dinner tonight. After all New Zealand beef is world renowned for it’s quality due to the free range farming practices. However, after cycling through an obstacle course of free range cows on a rural road on my way to the coastal city of Dunedin today cow seems to be heavily on my mind. I can’t say I understand cows; I am not so sure there is all that much going on upstairs. If you look really deep in their eyes I don’t think they all that bright. I guess that’s why people eat them. I am generally skived out thinking about eating dog or horse because they are animals of great intelligence. But a lot of people don’t mind eating cows because they are a few flanks short of a kabob.

The trucks on the north Island of New Zealand proved to be quite the obstacle on my cycle south from the Auckland airport and were freely given the right of way. No cyclist in their right mind is going to take on a triple length logging truck. But having to push my magic bicycle through cows because they don’t quite get it is something I wasn’t expecting. At first I just carried on and peddled through the bovine crowd but the problem with that is they get spooked and try to run into you. I swear they are saying to each other you go left and I’ll go right that’ll get her to push the bicycle and slow down. I also tried mooing at them and making fun of their earrings but they just looked at me like I was weird or something. So steak it was for dinner tonight in the coastal city of Dunedin, home of the yellowed eye penguins. A delicious steak dinner, a peace keeping and safety measure for cyclists around the world!

Dansey’s Pass

I went out on a date the other day. I am still not sure if it was the best date or worst date I have had in my life. The man who took me out goes by the name of Dansey. He made a pass at me and to my surprise I kind of liked it. So against my better judgment I began flirting with disaster and agreed to go out with him. He is not the first man to make a pass at me but his bad boy allure and sexy mountainous curves made him hard to resist.

Dansey is a curvaceous tall fellow say about 935 meters (3068 feet) tall with sparkling rock brown limestone hair with a jagged pointed sense of humor. He enjoys bathing in the rain and exhausting petit flat chested brunette cyclists. Dansey is multiracial, a gorgeous tempting mix of tar seal, dirt and white gravel pebble rock road. He is equipped with rock hard abs and lickable drop off cliffs. Dansey’s idea of a fun date is 25 kilometers of very steep switch backs, gradient a quazillion in the freezing rain followed by rolling hills for another 40 kilometers into a wet winter head wind. The kind of wet head wind that laughs at gortex rain gear. I considered postponing my date with that too cool for my school Dansey fellow but quickly realized that the rain would be turning to snow in a few days. And since I was already wet, from the rain that is, the plans were set for a cold early winter’s day.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned about this Dansey character’s reputation. The locals chuckled and politely said Dansey? And then silently gawked at me leaving me to wonder what I was getting myself into. Other folks just busted out with it and said Dansey is up to his old tricks again. Normally I would of cancelled a date with a character with such a wide spread reputation for making passes but Dansey had my blood pumping so there was no stopping the encounter. Also, I had just purchased new woolly socks and glove liners and was dying for an excuse to wear them.

Well the socks and gloves didn’t last long they ended up on the floor I mean pannier after the first 10 km(6 miles) and didn’t return until the sub-arctic summit a good 4 hours later when I decided to put on almost everything I had in order to stage my parting with Dansey. Dansey proved to be quite the player he came on very strong, was a little rough and left my thighs burning for more. I managed to escape Dansey’s final play of rescuing me as I froze solid upon his summit. I didn’t want to be considered frigid so I split pretty fast. I avoided the long awkward goodbye knowing I had a huge decent and another 40km(26 miles) of chilly rolling hills home to my icy wet tent. That Dansey had done it again and certainly proven his reputation for memorable passes.

Insecticide and The Great Famine

I have been eating a lot of bugs today while cycling into the wind. It feels like I was peddling through a asteroid bug field. I wonder what the caloric value of insects is? I have been losing weight lately. Bug eating is something I have developed quite the palette for. Today’s diet consisted of mostly sand flies. Although, a giant bumble bee collided into my sunglasses, he looked kind of fuzzy and I bet if I had tasted him he would have had a weird texture to him. On the plus side he was a lot bigger then the sand flies which might of made him more filling. Back in Alaska eating mosquitoes was often unavoidable, they are known as Alaska’s state bird because there are so many of them flying around. But don’t tell Loretta The Chicken that, her feathers would be ruffled to be compared to such a little insect.

In Thailand insects are a delicacy. They look like cockroaches and are served either boiled or fried. In an attempt to be socialable with a new Thai friend I had met in the market we split a kilo of crunchy fried bugs. With my eyes closed they tasted like popcorn and have a certain salty pop when I crunched them within my teeth. I didn’t really want to think about it or open my eyes but I think the crunch must have been their little insect backs. Umm umm good!

I was peddling my way into the wind and through the insect show into the small town of Otematata when the bug eating began. The Town of Otematata when pronounced sounds like the song from the movie the Lion King, Hakuna Matata. I have been singing the song Hakuna Matata in my head over and over all day while peddling through picturesque rolling hills. The Lion King’s hit song, well hit song in my head that is, means no worries…. for the rest of your days, a worry free philosophy…. After having song the song in my head on repeat for 90km (60 miles), I am now thoroughly convinced that the village of Otematata will provide a “no worries” cycling experience. I know there will be plenty of snacks involved, that’s for sure. Hakuna Matata!

Tomorrow I cycle out towards the coast to camp out and look for penguins. I have been told that the stout little fellas are very hesitant to come to shore if they see any movement. They can’t waddle very fast so they are a bit shy about being on the center stage out of the water. Tomorrow while peddling I will have to cook up a stealth camouflaging plan in order to hide out and wait for the penguins to waddle in from the ocean. Thinking up a master camouflaging plan should be a great way to replace the song Hakuna Matata from waddling around in my head. Hakuna Matata!