Category: Int’l Adventures

The Bike Shop! Every Story Starts Somewhere…

RV2 083

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.

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
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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.
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Coffee

Cafe Ole

Winter is approaching on the South Island, NZ, south west of Christchurch in the Canterbury region, which is where they filmed the majority of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I am cycling in the morning with big over gloves and a winter fleece with the hood up. By midday a bikini would be the most appropriate attire for the weather. Each morning and evening there is a freeze dried frost in the air and hot coffee percolating everywhere.
 
May I have a coffee please? The response is long black or flat white thank you? Ahh, long black with milk please. The cafe clerk responds ahh, that’s a latte thank you. Ok, sorry, latte please. The next day in attempt to simplify things, I said, could I have a cappuccino please? The response is would you like chocolate or cinnamon in that thank you? I quickly use deductive reasoning and think that chocolate in a cappuccino is a mochaccino, isn’t it? But no, mochaccino is coffee, milk and chocolate not a cappuccino which is coffee, milk and chocolate or cinnamon. I still have no idea what flat white coffee is but I have learned that some people put a wee bit of milk in their long black but it is not called a flat white or a latte. And cinnamon in coffee? Well, that’s just called plain old good.
 
The folks here also say thank you when the North Americans say please. Just to add to the colorful conversation surrounding the amazing tasting drinks of confusion that arrive no matter what ends up happening during the ordering. I do have a college degree and I am of average intelligence but still can’t figure out how to order a coffee with any reasonable amount of confidence. It is a good thing they don’t offer the North American standards of skim, ½ and ½ or whole milk, I guess that’s because they wouldn’t want to complicate things.
 
Cycle Touring in an English speaking country should be far easier then in Asia where language barriers pop up like a bunion on a toe in sandals. But at times English to English translations are a necessary part of getting a beverage. When I was in a pub in Ireland I spent an evening translating for Jessica a cyclist from Holland who spoke fluent English. I translated fluent although accented English to North American English that the Irish folks who also speak English could readily understand. Jessica’s bicycle which was parked close by was also named Jessica so Jessica and Jessica tried to order a pear cider to drink. The bartender brought her a guinness. I drank her guinness and my guinness then helped Jessica and Jessica order a pear cider. I figured I better keep translating English to English for Jessica and Jessica before I ended up so saturated with guinness that I couldn’t speak at all.
 
In New Zealand the most popular expression I hear is good on you. Whether you cycle in New Zealand, eat 7 home baked cookies instead of 1 or camp for free by the river, the kiwis will say good on you. The Irish will say well done and in North America they will say good job. In South East Asia they will give you the thumbs up and in Mongolia you get a motorcycle honk. As long as the world remains this much fun I’ll enjoy my coffee here, there or anywhere with a honk and a good job topped off with a splash of cinnamon. Thank-you or is that please, who knows.

A 5 Year Unplanned World Tour Begins


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 peddle on from there.