Category: Photos

I would like to announce the upcoming matrimonial vows of Ms. Keene Cycling Sandal to Mr. Shimano Cycling Sandal. They will be married on the shores of Pantai Cenang Beach, Malaysia. In attendance will be a Canadian female bicycle tourist and her monkey. They will arrive by magic bicycle to attend the event and will be cloaked in floral bohemian cotton. The monkey will be wearing a Speedo swimsuit, a banana hammock of sorts to remain politely covered amongst the burka clad local Muslim women. Amongst the guests will be topless Swedish sunbathing tourists, Indian Malay parasailing entrepreneurs and local Malay Rastafarians adorned in decade old dreadlocks. Reggae beats unheard of since the heights of the Jamaican music scene in the 80’s will percuss through the shell lined sandy shores of the Andaman sea on Pantai Cenang beach. The menu will consist of $0.40 duty free beers and nasi goreng pedas (spicy fried rice), the local Malay specialty

Ms Keene Cycling Sandal is a delicate poorly constructed sort with a serial bride burnt out glow and a reputation for short marriages with a 3 month longevity. Her faults lie in the foot bed, angle strap and shoddy neoprene lining. Even since finding the perfect therapist and having new and improved angle straps sown in place, she still proves to be too delicate for bicycle touring. This is Ms. Keen Cycling Sandal’s third marriage in 16 months, she hopes by her union to Mr. Shimano Cycling Sandal to escape her serial bride reputation and turn a new pedal in the rolling game of bicycle touring commitments and longevity.

Mr. Shimano Cycling Sandal is the hearty, sturdy type with 3 thick velcro straps and concrete stiff inlaid spd housing, a rock solid masculine bloke with a stiff upper lip and proven longevity amongst bicycle tourists. This is Mr. Shimano’s Cycling Sandals first marriage.

The Canadian female bicyclist and her Speedo clad monkey have high hopes for Mr. Shimano Cycling Sandal’s sturdy commitment and proven longevity. And after 2 failed marriages, Ms. Keene Cycling Sandal could use a strong, sturdy well constructed replacement. Following the ceremonial exchange of vows, Ms Keen Cycling Sandal and Mr. Shimano Cycling Sandal will be honeymooning on a magic bicycle with the Canadian female bicycle tourist and her Speedo clad monkey in the semi arid Middle Eastern plains and the Africa sub-Saharan desert.

And if it doesn’t work out this time, there will always be lift out of town.

My left calf pulsates as if being eaten by an army of ants, my lower arms radiates with a fume ridden blackening stench, coffee brown grit encapsulates my teeth as I pedal through a battlefield of serenading chaos. I am not alone, far from it, I am crowded in on all sides by a human burr of motorcycle exhaust. I lean over Pandemic The Magic Bicycle’s glistening gritty handlebars to scratch the sweaty reddening hives on my arms. I glance down at my calf through the garden of Jakarta smog to the bouquet of pulsating pollution hives that are shocking my claustrophobic legs of oxygen . The traffic light overhead is shaded in by hobbling ailing exhaust. Thoughts of rigor-mortise and Asian standards of air quality pass quickly as the word rigor-mortise lingers in my stop, go, teeter-toterring conscious. I squint my murky blood shot eyes as my brow sags with pond brown perspiration. The middle-aged traffic light triumphantly flickers as I cough forward in a flu of Jakarta motorcycle dust.

As the sickened smog radiates, dust particles blur my vision as I search for the harbor and ferry terminal for a boat to Malaysia. As I squirm throw the claustrophobic mass of people, I feel something wet land on my leg. I look down and I have been hit, not by a truck, car and motorcycle but by a gooey, sticky, yellowish projectile in possession of nauseating capabilities. A loogie the size of Mexico has landed between two hives on my left calf. And, It is hanging on for dear life as I zigzag and swerve Pandemic The Magic Asphyxiated Bicycle through the trafficked crowd of triumphantly proud world renowned Asian loogie launchers.

The population of capital city, Jakarta remains one of the highest in the world. This is due in part to how challenging it is to navigate through the polluted residence and streets and leave this fascinating all be densely, polluted, populated city of millions. My boat connections from the pornographic jungles of Borneo canceled, an ocean and ailing visa time have forced me into Jakarta.

I emerge baptized by loogies and arrive at the ferry boat to Malaysia. The soat and hives from the urban adventure have tangled themselves into a puzzle of rash, hives, loogies and brown city slim, a sudoko puzzle of urban planning complexities. I decide to rinse my legs and arms in fresh dirty water and bust loose on the Muslim dress code and expose my full arms and legs from the knees down to the ocean air. I am now siting on the ferry boat on the open deck, on top of my camping sleeping pad, tucked under the stairs and while whipping a brown pudding like substance from my face I watch a freshly rinsed dancing bravado of hives and a chorus suitable only for the Sudoko Broadway of smog.

Prior to embarking on this world adventure I sat in my cabin in Alaska pondering all the reasons why I shouldn’t GO. The pondering session lasted 5 years. I pondered my way to Ponderossa and back before I was finally ready to GO.


The thought of not being able to financially afford it lingered like the stench of cooked bacon in the center of my cabin for quite some time. Today, I got out my calculator and did some math. In the last month, my daily expenses here in Indonesia have been $8.56/day. These expenses encompassed total costs for hotels, camping, bottled water, visas, stove fuel, laundry soap, shampoo, insect repellent, SPD shoe repairs, groceries, restaurants, a ferry to Borneo and an expensive coke-cola consumption problem. That’s $8.56 a day, that’s less then I would spend at home and at those costs how can you afford not to GO.

I thought I was too old to travel. Now the funny thing about that is that 5 years later I still wanted to GO and the only thing that had changed was I was then 5 years older. I have since met a 70 year old French man cycling SE east Asia averaging 200km a day and doubling my daily distances. Another remarkable women I met is Jill, a 71 year old kiwi women trekking her way through the Himalayan Mountains in Nepal. I asked Jill about hiring a porter to carry her backpack like the 20 something year old crowd was doing, she laughed and said why would I want a man following me around all day. Jill trekked for 3 weeks and the last I saw her she was climbing the final leg of her adventure to a village at 4000 meters in the Mt Everest range carrying her huge backpack. You GO girl!


I have a house and responsibilities. Here’s where the pondering to Ponderossa thoughts lost their bearings. At the moldy age of 36, I had bought land, paid it off, learned carpentry and built myself a house. I had a boyfriend who was far too easy to part with, my friends and family and a good paying job that I didn’t realize I hated. My favorite person who I have been lucky to have known is my grand-ma, my Gram. My gram traveled until she was 90 and one day while on her way to a senior’s bus trip from Canada to America she said every day I wake up and say thank you for one more day and then I get off my duff and do something. When she reflected upon her life, she remembered with the biggest smile, her 2 around the world trips in the 70s she took with my grand-pa, the time she spent at her cottage and her daughter. So the question is when you are sitting in your rocky chair at 90 reflecting upon your life what will YOU remember?