So an early start to departing Lapad saw us heading along the narrow coast road to the airport. Last night was very much an early morning affair for the Croatians. They’d crept past the Russians in the Quarter Final of the World Cup on penalties. Celebrations continued well after we turned in. I’d like to think that as repayment for the music, cheering and flares that the coastal mosquitoes dined royally on the revellers. Lord knows Anna and I had been a very tasty starter.The airport chucked up a wondrous hire car – a new Opel Astra Estate with all the accessories you’d want. So after leaving the airport I pulled over and we programmed the Sat Nav and connected my mobile/cell to play my large music collection on the iPhone. The south of Bosnia Herzegovina is the Herzegovina part and is quite arid and mountainous. I was thrilled to get into some wide open spaces and was more thrilled to see some cycle tourers battling the terrain and heat as we trundled along the single lane road. Sunday traffic was light and apart from a few buses there were no large trucks delaying progress.Towns were few and far between as we drove the 80 miles to Mostar. Interestingly there were minarets as well as churches dotted around. At one petrol station we stopped for a coffee to discover that unsurprisingly they didn’t seem comfortable taking Croatian Kuna rather than their own Bosnian Marks. Anna, however, persisted and did obtain two expresso coffees for some Kuna, the change was in Bosnian Marks! The reality was that we had no idea whether we’d got a bargain or been ripped off.After some fabulous scenery we got to a very small busy city. Our hotel was in the old town yet as the Sat Nav guided us there there was a man walking in the middle of the road directing us into some car park he was controlling. As I didn’t slow down he lost the game of ‘chicken’ and we got to the centre and a nearer car park.The Hotel Kriva Cuprija was service itself. We were sat down with a cold drink and our bags put in the room. (Now remember our bags included a heavy suitcase with my camping gear in it!) At this point we were told that the hotel didn’t take credit or debit cards but only cash and not even Kuna. Joy. This was an introduction to a lesser economy and emerging nation.However we were soon out and about on the famous ‘Stari Most’ bridge and perambulating along the narrow streets with their endless tourists trinkets, restaurants and numerous sightseers. Mostar is the capital of the south of the country: the Herzegovina bit. (The Bosnia part has Sarajevo as its capital as well as the country itself). The ‘old town’ is the tourist trap and the rest is an attractive re-built city with six bridges across the River Neretva that splits it. The Ottoman Empire occupied the area for four centuries before the Austrian Hapsburg’s acquired it in 1878. (Hence the introduction of Islam in the Balkans). At this point the Austrians built a further five bridges – up until this point then the ‘Stari Most ‘bridge was the only way to cross the bridge after paying a toll. It has subsequent become a protected UNESCO World Heritage Centre site. Sadly this didn’t stop the Croatians bombing and destroying it in late 1993. Those pesky Croatians eh?The town has a large Muslim population and this seemed to attract international Muslim tourists. You obviously know this by the women wearing hajibs or burkas. In fact there is a large Saudi Arabian Consulate in the town. Our Walking Tour Guide the next day pointed out that Marriott were building a large hotel near the old town to cater for Arab tourism. It seems that the numerous lodging scattered around the town are not plush enough for Middle Eastern tourists.So we wandered about, took photos and returned to the hotel for dinner. The setting was blissful.

After dinner we had another walk and by this time the old town was a sea of lights and restaurants doing excellent business. Being in the old town meant that we had a loud concert playing badly amplified Balkan Electronica (not a genre I recommend) until midnight. This seemed strange to have it punctuated by the ‘call to prayer’ from the local mosques. After 12 am we were allowed to sleep by revellers and worshippers.Next day after sorting out the local currency cash demands of the hotel we met the Walking Tour at The Spanish Square. So named and funded by the Spanish in memory of the 23 Spanish UN soldiers who died in the war. In the party were Americans, Australians, Danes, Pakistanis and us Yorkshire folk.The recent history was that Bosnia declared independence like other former Yugoslav countries in 1992. The Serbs within Bosnia rejected this event as they felt more allied to the neighbouring country (Serbia) rather than the Bosniaks (Muslims) and Bosnian Croats. War developed and the Serbs were repelled. The Bosniaks and Croats then fell out and another war took place. All this left thousands dead and the city badly destroyed. I do marvel that despite all this that life and integration takes places today. I suspect there is still considerable tension but as they say the past is a ‘different country’.Many nations have subsequently contributed to the town’s rebuilding. There are still several bombed out buildings to this day. The guide advised that many nations contributed €11m to rebuild the old bridge but the British didn’t. He did wryly wonder why, therefore, Prince Charles re-opened it! The ambience of the city is a little looser than an organised European city and by being outside of the EU it doesn’t suffer all the rules. People rode motor scooters without helmets and H&S isn’t a concept worrying road construction workers yet. On the streets there were some child beggars being managed by, I presume, Romany adults. On our walking tour a very precocious child joined the group and worked her way unproductively around the group with her hand out. It really wasn’t a disincentive to visit the city but it is worth noting that it is an industry happening on the margins.Needless to say this small nation of less than 4 million people aspires to join the European Union with its various credit lines and cash. Not least for the young is the opportunity to move within the zone. I’m sure it is only a matter of time.

Reluctantly we steered the Opel south. I will come back and regretted that we had had too little time in the country. I was intrigued.

June 30, 2018

A guest blog by Matt Gray

(Matt and Katrina (no relation) were on holiday in Vancouver and then Seattle when the following unfortunate event came to pass. What can you say! 

Matt is a writer, coffee connoisseur, voracious reader and potential Northampton Town fan (he just hasn’t realised it yet). After duress, on Katrina, she has delegated and prevalied on Matt to pick up his pen. Frankly this is so funny and well written that there are unlikely to be any further pieces of his work on my web site).

It was at the end of a traditional delving into the touristic that we found ourselves, having ascended the Space Needle and pottered around the Museum of Popular Culture, at a bus stop in Downtown Seattle, where a rather unfortunate incident was about to occur.

The only thing hotter than the sidewalks were the temperaments and heat-frazzled declarations of the vagrants, which, being British, we dutifully ignored, and ignored admirably.

However, one such declaration came from a gentleman, half shrouded in the shadow of a shop’s awning, which caught our ears before he caught our eyes. 

‘Anyone here waitin’ fo’ the 27?’

The 27, as it so happened, was our bus. I was all set for British stoicism, but my companion, never being one to shirk off the heeding call for assistance, confirmed that we, in fact, were waiting for the 27, as it happened.

Bugger.

The man was bound to a bulky wheelchair, all manner of odds and ends jutting from its rear. He smiled a brown-toothed smile, given life afresh by the lack of complete shirking he was used to. In one hand, a half-smoked cigarette clung greedily to stained fingers as though an extension of his less-than-savoury form. The packet from which said stick had originally been drawn was perched between his feet on the little rest, as crumpled as he was. 

‘You wouldn’t be so kind as to help push me onto the bus, when it comes, would ya?’ He emitted a phlegmatic cough of such deep-rooted rot I thought he may not survive the wait. 

‘Of course.’ With those two simple words my executioner had swiftly dished my sentence. By ‘of course’ she meant: ‘Of course *he* will: the unfortunate owner of that pronoun in this case being yours truly. 

Fifteen minutes passed, in which time I offered for us to, as the weather was rather amiable, maybe take a stroll down to the next stop? I was given the stare a warden gives to the prisoner suggesting he loosen the shackles slightly while he relieves himself by the roadside. ‘But you have to help him onto the bus!’

Bugger.

Then a conflicting duo of emotion at the arrival of the bus: Yes, it’s here!; Shit, it’s here!

I moved to the rear of the shlock’s chair and pushed, nearly doing myself a mischief in the process. I expected it to be a smooth mover but I was wrong. What was he keeping in this dead contraption? Did he live in this chair? Did he, when the sun had descended for the day, slither into the back to nibble upon the supple bones of those who had kindly pushed him?

I managed to swivel the chair so it faced the bus. All that awaited now was for the final grand exertion, the straight-line heave to the finish. 

What happened next was over in a flash, but will forever be etched upon my retinas, reducing me to a giggling mess whenever I ponder the events for too long. 

Fate had deigned that day to place a full, miniature-sized bottle of sun-tan cream directly in front of the wheel I was about to move at a swift pace. Like the train flattening the unfortunate maiden tied to the tracks I did not feel it happen, but its effects became instantly apparent. 

A lady wearing an elegant full-length dress, back turned to us, waiting to board the bus, happened to fall prey to simple geometry. A flag bearer for the maxim ‘wrong place, wrong time’. The lid was the first to go under the chair’s immense weight, springing instantly back on its plastic hinge under the strain. Next came the money shot: a mightily impressive load of viscous white liquid spurted from the bottle in a display that would have made a Pornstar proud. At first I thought it had merely gotten her ankles, but as my eyes ascended I noticed it had arced its way gracefully up the full length of the dress, stopping a mere inch shy of her hair. Snaking tendrils of cream lined her legs and back.

Being dutifully British I said nothing and my face did not betray me. 

The sunken fellow in the chair, however, tried his best to be the good citizen and, the chair now having caught up with her, tried his best to alleviate the issue. She was, it seemed, unaware, had felt nothing of the hot liquid upon her. What she did notice thought was a filthy wheelchair-bound vagrant covering his own hands in cream (cigarette still firmly in place betwixt fingers) smearing it deeper into the fibres. 

She seemed more concerned about the cigarette. However, I wanted to tell her not to worry: with that much sun-tan lotion applied she was highly unlikely to burn anytime soon.

France is undoubtedly the best place in the world to cycle. It has warm weather, sparse traffic away from the cities, plentiful accommodation, delicious food and a beautiful terrain. I hadn’t had a French cycling holiday for sometime. So with the intrepid explorer, Tony Franco, we flew into Toulouse Blagnac Airport with easyJet. The plan was to cycle north east from the airport to the Dordogne where we’d then cycle west along the river and have a rest day. After this then it would be a return to Toulouse knowing that the last day was basically a flat run for home.

In fact we flew from ‘London-Luton’ Airport. It makes you wonder how strong the brand of London is that it necessitates ‘Luton’ having the prefix. London is 40 miles away. ‘London-Luton’ mainly handles budget airlines (used by UK residents) and so who are they fooling with this nonsense? I used ‘Meet & Greet’ for the car parking. This had a slightly worrying feel to it. I drove up to the third floor of a multi storey car park and a fairly scruffy bloke appeared, smiled in a friendly way and took my car keys, hopped into the Merc and then disappeared down the ramp. Manoeuvring two large bicycle boxes onto a trolley and repeatedly taking them off to enter narrow lifts was a chore. Eventually I found Tony and after lobbing his bike into the spare empty box (with loving care) we headed for the check in.

The plan was to re-assemble the bikes in Toulouse Airport and cycle ten miles north to a hotel before embarking on the tour the next day. I had travelled in my cycling kit however Tony hadn’t. Not a problem until he decided to change in the Arrivals Terminal with small children running around. I half expected to leave the airport to the accompaniment of police sirens searching for a British exhibitionist.

DAY 1   Toulouse Blagnac Airport to Bruguiéres – 14 miles 

With my expert knowledge of France I had implored Tony to invest in some food to take with him to France. I opined that France would be ‘shut’ on Sunday evening as regards finding dining solutions. Dutifully we shopped at Luton for food. As we cycled away from Toulouse Airport then the landscape was heavily populated with open restaurants! This may have irritated Tony but as I had stupidly left my food under a seat on the aeroplane then this was a good discovery.

The fairly modern hotel in Bruguières, in the suburbs of Toulouse, was adequate although there was some type of depot nearby and with the window slightly ajar my sleep was interrupted by roaring diesels all night. 

DAY 2   Bruguiéres to Villefranche-de-Rouergue – 74 miles/1,300m of climbing

The next day was Monday morning redolent with rush hour traffic. There were a number of stops and starts as we attempted to find our route to the North East. It was good to be underway and soon we were truly on the open road and aiming for Gaillac. The weather was now in the early 20º’s and no rain in prospect. The lunch stop was a delight with French cuisine (ribs) from a small restaurant in the town centre. The locals were quaffing wine and beer but with so many miles to complete and the potential for dehydration then water was the lubrication.

One striking aspect of riding at this time of the year are the fragrances as you ride along from the crops, trees and flowers. We were en route to Villefranche-de-Rouergue and we were high up and rolling mainly through arable farmland. After Gaillac we came across the beautiful tourist town of Cordes-sur-Ciel, which is an ancient fortified town high on a hill. I had stayed here on a previous 2007 cycling tour. Climbing into the town was done in heavy rain but it soon disappeared and the sun came out for the rest of the day. We stopped for a coffee break and Tony took a couple of business calls (whilst I helpfully added my enormous business acumen on European food trends to his sum of knowledge).  

Leaving Cordes-sur-Ciel we saw a stop for shoe repairs after a mean little climb for a mile. Back on the road there would occasionally be a long descent, which was a relief and delight but the ‘invoice’ was soon presented with a climb immediately when you reached the bottom of the hill. One such arose in 32ºC heat as we bottomed out at Saint-Martin-Laguépie. As soon as we crossed the River Tarn there began a one hour climb. It was all about a 4 to 8% gradient and I ground up in the granny gears very slowly. As all tourers know then you are praying that this is the last hill before you hit the top. Inevitably you turn a corner to find that there is more to come. I often watch the cars coming and going past – what gear are they in and how fast are they going? This can all point to whether they have experienced an immediate climb or descent.

Throughout the week I always stayed in touch with Tony when out on the road. This was a brutal project where you attack the day and cover the terrain whatever the weather, mileage or elevation. Tony had received his initiation in Derbyshire, Lancashire and Yorkshire last year with lots of miles, climbing, late finishes and changing routes. Surprisingly, he signed up for a further larger dose of exertion. 

As I’d cycled over 1,200 miles this year and spent sometime in the Yorkshire Wolds climbing I was in good shape. Tony had been out training when he could but it seems most of his recent cycling had been in gyms in Shanghai, Melbourne, Dublin or Bogota whilst instructing millennials to locally best market their beer. He gets about. So you can take the view that I was his guardian angel ensuring that he was never left behind or abandoned. I, personally, would take the view that I was a nagging pain in the butt, often short of humour if he’d switched off his phone so that I couldn’t contact him or taken a turning that wasn’t fully ‘authorised’. It was on this climb from Saint-Martin-Laguépie that I came to rest wondering how far I was now ahead? – was it 5 minutes or 20 minutes? Did he have any water left? So I was just finishing  leaving him a text message when he hauled into view much to my delight. He ate some of my precious stock of midget gems, took half of my remaining water and we pedalled on. I knew at this point he should be able to get through the week (but maybe I should wait less if he was going to eat my sweets).

Another glorious four mile descent took us into Villefranche-de-Rouergue and we eventually found a B&B. The room only had a double bed and so the landlady told us to go and have dinner whilst she swapped the beds around. This was no problem other than two very sweaty and weary men arriving at your restaurant wasn’t necessarily attractive. As regards conspicuous then apart from lycra shorts then one was wearing the Croatia home football shirt (red and white checks) and the other was in the leader’s jersey from the Giro d’Italia (pink). A full stomach of pasta, a couple of beers and a shower ensured that sleep came easily!

DAY 3   Villefranche-de-Rouergue to Saint Céré – 55miles/1,400m

After finishing the evening before in sunshine we awoke to rain and a fairly gloomy prospect from the bedroom window.

We bonded so closely with the landlady and her husband that we couldn’t shake them off at the door as we packed the bikes to set off the next morning. I blame Tony who can speak French reasonably: I find my limited school boy French soon makes the natives disperse. The road out of town was wide albeit with trucks but well surfaced and the miles were eaten up. I often stop to take photos and on one particular bend I was told by a shouting Dutch lady that I shouldn’t stand there; I was summoned to join her.

Margit was 50 something and domiciled in a small village near Figeac. With her husband, Fran, they’d bought a house 19 years ago and since retirement life seemed to be about landscaping, building, fitting, general construction and moaning about how unsocial the other expat Brits were. When Tony joined us we were invited to their house for a coffee. Why not? I stayed behind to take my photograph. I then discovered that their house was not ‘just off the main road’ and pedalled around for a long time up and down hills trying to find them. Out of the Seven Dwarves then I possibly resembled Grumpy when I eventually came to rest with the smiling Margit suggesting I had no sense of direction.

So we had a coffee and listened to Margit who amongst much information sharing enquired as to my age? Being hilarious I offered her three guesses. By her second guess she had suggested that I was 70 years old. To be positive then the age gap was coming down with each guess but I eschewed the last insult and told her my correct age. She was very proud of her former career in Holland showing international customers around various projects on the disposal of human waste. Mischievously I felt that Tony should now step forward and talk about his world class knowledge on beer. He absorbed this ‘ambulance pass’, with good grace, and as he expanded on my introduction Fran then volunteered that he had drunk most of the brands Tony had come across!

With time flying and the thought of lunch in Figeac we thanked them for their hospitality and headed down the proverbial (and literal) road, over the River Lot, and then into town for another splendid outside lunch in a pedestrian precinct at a small restaurant.

From here came a very tough afternoon as we climbed up from the River Célé valley. I failed to find the most direct route to our next stop. Fortunately Tony never detected the error as we climbed and meandered along minor roads in heavy rain. It was scenic and the only chance of seeing another car was if it was as lost as we were. By way of deflection when we pulled up for a discussion, on the weather, conditions of our legs and how far to go, I proffered him a Mars Bar. Never have I seen such a happy human being.

With my bearings re-established we found Lacapelle-Marival where we dried out by stopping for a coffee before the last push. The weather dried up and the scenery was hilly and rural with odd settlements, however, progress seemed slow. With yesterday’s climbing in the legs and with this latest bout of mountaineering I will never forget the large village of Leyme. It had a long main street that just got steeper until ascension and departure was only possible with the negotiation of a tight steep hairpin. This joy was accompanied by the obligatory dog ‘going off’ like a burglar alarm at my passing a large house and garden.

All over the world dogs sit in their gardens barely raising their head at the passing of aircraft, trucks cars, cats or walkers but as soon as a cyclist pedals past making no noise at all then something makes them go ballistic. (There may be money in identifying the chromosome that leads to this canine madness).

However after passing Leyme there was a long descent into a damp Saint Céré where an adequate hotel had been reserved via Booking.com. The small town had its charm and the next morning it looked like a busy and interesting place to hang around in despite the heavy rain. However the Dordogne now beckoned.

DAY 4   Saint Céré to Sarlat-la-Canéda – 54 miles/ 600m

Quickly we were enjoying the flat roads and made our first ‘pit stop’ for a coffee at a café run by a couple of Brits in Carrenac on the banks of the river. From here on very minor roads we trundled along the river. These were probably the quietest roads we’d found and through the trees we had the Dordogne on our right.

It was the type of route where trucks were advised not to use as their Sat Nav would let them down by picking an impassable route. This came to pass in Floirac where a truck was nearly wedged between two buildings. Tony established this from a local who reported that it was quite routine.

From here the road rose up and fell and we ended up on a sublime piece of road. This led us beside a large rock cliff and gave us fabulous views of the river. Somehow it seemed like the tour had been aiming to reach this very road such were the delightful views. Keeping on we reached Creysse where an omelette and as many French fries as a cyclist can possibly eat in one sitting were consumed.

The route to Sarlat involved a climb and we cycled past one of many monuments you can find in France to fallen members of the Resistance from the Second World War. I like the fact that these young people are still commemorated and their sacrifice is unquestionable but I’ve always harboured a feeling that, at best, some French had a very mixed war.

Sarlat was reached and it was clear that this was ‘Tourist Central’. Beautiful stone buildings with foreign tourists from farther afield, than Tooting and Acaster Malbis, were evident on what I suspect was their whirlwind tour of France. The ambience and attractiveness of the centre was clear but this was maybe not the France I came to find.

Certainly the hotel was not what I came to find. An internet booking went wrong and the hotel were simply intransigent. On discovering the room we wanted was not available, at the price I booked it for, cancellation wasn’t allowed. Paying another €50 seemed the only solution. I argued the toss but made no progress and in fact was made to feel quite shoddy and a bit of a ‘chancer’ by the manager. Anyway the next morning we paid and left. The upshot was this testimonial I left on Trip Advisor. Booking.com gave me half the ‘overcharge’ back in compensation. Frankly I still don’t know what I really did wrong.

This unpleasantness meant that we decided not to have a rest day in Sarlat but moved onto Bergerac. However, the town did offer up the best breakfast of the tour – it was the usual bread, croissants, coffee and juice but this seemed more plentiful and fresh.

DAY 5    Sarlat-la-Canéda to Bergerac  – 46 miles/500m

You might think that riding along the Dordogne would be flat but unfortunately that isn’t the way it works out. We kept to the main road, which wasn’t too busy. There were continuing delights to see including Beynac-et-Cazenac.

After a Croque Madame (cheese on toast with a fried egg on top) in Lalinde we sped into Bergerac. Earlier I’d been sat in a layby ringing a bike shop in York about my front wheel bearings when Tony sped past. I called to him yet such was his concentration and gusto he didn’t hear me. Later harnessing this graft I ‘sat on his wheel’ into Bergerac and marvelled at how he was getting into this touring lark with all the road cyclist deft moves that help you cope with traffic, hazards and still maximise speed.

I’d stayed at the Hotel de Bordeaux, in Bergerac in 2007 and 1997 and so it was familiar albeit much improved. It was spacious and a good place to come to rest after the hard miles.

Day 5   Rest Day

Yesterday’s Stage winner appeared in the room the next morning with a cup of coffee and orange juice for my consumption. It helped me get over the loss of the midget gems (a little bit). From here a lazy day ensued of bike cleaning, a trip to a bike shop to get my front wheel bearings checked over and a short ride to the edge of the town for Tony to increase his wardrobe at Decathlon. Another fabulous outdoor meal confirmed our satisfaction with Bergerac as a rest day stop.

Me and Cyrano – an uncanny resemblance?

Day 6  Bergerac to Valence d’Agen – 69 miles/ 900m

Thoughts were turning to home and the need to get south. To this end we made a beeline for Agen before heading from here east to Valence d’Agen. As it was Saturday the traffic was light and as the sun beat down (it touched 38ºC). This peak coincided with being directed off the main road onto a side road due to bicycles being prohibited. It was one of those tortuous minor roads that offered endless steep climbs. 

If there are a couple of things about my time with Tony that I should report then it is that he gained an appreciation of McDonalds and had begun to swear like a navvy. Being from Italian stock and South London then fast food was a deplorable development until he worked out that whenever you stopped the place was air conditioned, had clean toilets, a safe place to lean your bike, low prices, efficient wi-fi, quick food and didn’t require a major deviation off route. (On a serious note though I am still amazed at all the packaging that comes along with a meal eaten in the restaurant. So much paper, tissue, plastic and wrappers – they really need to pick up their game). As for the swearing then I can safely say that I for one never uttered a profanity or expressed displeasure at drivers, hoteliers, oiks on noisy motorcycles, rain, hills or dogs. I’m not sure what set him off (cough).

Agen was busy and industrial but Valence came into view shortly afterwards. I cycled to the centre and booked a room in the only hotel in town. This was a super place with lots of space and a good price. After a hot day in the saddle the Leffe beer went down well as did the pizza at the only restaurant open on a Saturday night in the town?

Day 7  Valence d’Agen to Toulouse Blagnac Airport – 53 miles/ 170m

The manager re-appeared the next day to serve our breakfast. In the night there had been a dramatic thunder and lightning storm and she described the noise and light by the delicate phrase of “fuck”. Which is what Tony and I thought when this petite and attractive young lady suddenly uttered the word. It transpired her English lexicon had been expanded by a year in Beckenham as a chef! 

The ride began on a canal tow path that was beyond exquisite as a start to the day. For much of the way it ran beside the River Garonne. Dodging the twigs scattered on the path after the storm we made steady but slow progress. Along the way were lots of middle aged ladies walking with hiking sticks and the odd fisherman enjoying the solace and hopefully biting fish. Locks came at regular intervals but seldom a moving boat. We discovered that this was because they were all moored up in Moissac. A morning market was drawing crowds as we passed through.

It wasn’t a difficult ride to the Airport but I thought that we were going too slowly. We needed to have insurance against problems on the road and have enough time at the airport for dismantling and packing the bikes. So we used the quiet roads to get to our destination.

I’m still surprised by how many shops are open on Sunday in France nowadays. In a boulangerie we bought some sustenance and came across this birthday cake. I hope the driver was gentle on the brakes and corners as they took it home!

Packing the bikes was always going to be a chore. First you have to repack your panniers because you can only take one in the cabin. Then you have to break the bike down, protect it and put it in a bag. This took an hour. At check in the airline then said that we could only put the bike in the bag and not a pannier and so we had to re-pack! I have to say easyJet were reasonable and we were allowed to take two cabin bags at no extra cost.

Eventually we got rid of the bikes and grabbed a bite to eat. The next challenge was going through Security with a bag full of tools, metal pedals and other chunky objects. We both got singled out for detailed bag inspection – my heart sank. My inspector pulled out my Swiss penknife and muttered ‘bicyclette’ under her breath to explain this stuff and put it back! Even I was expecting confiscation.

Due to those nice people in French Air Traffic Control we were late taking off and getting to Luton but it went without a hitch. Back in Blighty I helped Tony assemble his steed and then we parted – him for the train and me for the multi-storey car park.

So where next? I may have answers soon…

April 23, 2018

Abu Dhabi is part of the United Arab Emirates. It isn’t running out of money anytime soon with 9% of the world’s reserves of oil and 5% of its gas . However, it is a very small piece of desert with a coast line in a very hot place where a lot of concrete has now been poured. As part of the diversification (for the day when we heat our houses by solar panels or drive our electric cars) they have developed a tourism business.

Anna booked the Sofitel Corniche and it was very much 5 stars with wall to wall smiling, beautifully groomed and trained staff and luxurious and attractive facilities. We’d planned to find some winter sun. It could be argued that we were late in the season but the “Beast Of The East’ had made the preceding weeks icy in the UK and some genuine heat was in order.

It has to be said that there isn’t a lot to do other than lounge about beside a hotel pool. Granted there are shopping malls although they are around 20% more expensive than the UK. An offshoot of The Louvre was to be found. I understand that most of the exhibits of these large museums/galleries are kept in storage and so no doubt finding another outlet seems good business. Ferrari World wasn’t a gigantic car museum but a themed park with rides – at £60 a pop to enter and maybe a little too long in the tooth then we weren’t interested.

So first it was about getting into the swing of hotel living. The first bemusing thing is getting into the lift/elevator and riding 30 floors whilst avoiding eye contact and communication with all the other occupants. However, on exit you then turn to the people you’ve ignored and say ‘goodbye’. Other adjustments were alcohol. In the hotel a pint of lager clocked in at £9. We, later, had access to a free Happy Hour in a Lounge that overcame this potentially ruinous state of affairs.

Leaving the UK is not what it was with a blackout of news from home a couple of decades ago. The Internet and TV provide all the current affairs you can absorb. Sadly this coverage extended to sport and even the coverage of the Aston Villa versus Leeds game – is there no escape from a disastrous season? However some Premiership football and a Grand Prix were better entertainment. Communication with our progeny, Katrina and Sophie, was eventually resolved despite FaceTime and Skype being unusable. Apparently there are encryption disputes with the Government and Apple can’t be bothered to fix them. We used the call facility on WhatsApp. Some of the calls proved illuminating as Katrina explained that at her party she was playing ‘pass the parcel’. In between the layers of paper were sweets and a condom. The prize was unmentionable in pleasant company. I can’t tell you how much we spent on her education, where did it all go wrong?

Food was copious and delicious. We ate in the hotel and also out and about. Breakfast is always the big treat that you seldom fashion at home in the same way – fresh fruit (pineapple, melon, segments of grapefruit, segments of orange, kiwi fruit etc.) , followed by croissants or cereal with ground coffee before a leisurely stroll up to the counter (again) for an omelette or some pancakes. After this you need some exercise and via two pedestrian underpasses we were 200m from the front. Here was a large promenade with joggers, cyclists, some fishermen and a few children. We enjoyed feeling virtuous by walking a few kilometres. On a couple of occasions we took advantage of some ‘Boris bikes’. They enabled us to get further and not least find a café for some iced coffee. We learned to ensure that they didn’t add sugar! Abu Dhabi has a sweet tooth and cakes were everywhere and all the soft drinks seemed too sweet.

 I should have known this, I’d been here before. Back in the day (early noughties) at Moores we did quite a lot of business with a contractor/studio in the town. These exports were several hundreds of £000’s per year and we were glad to have it. Our contact was Lebanese and he wasn’t beyond the odd unconventional arrangement. The first I recollect was that he overpaid for deliveries. This largesse was because after we took the correct amount from the transaction he requested that we placed the balance in a UK bank account – his! The second thing was that he had a Kitchen Designer in the office, who was an employee and wife of another colleague. He brought her to the UK for kitchen design training (along with her very young child) . If the ‘cat was out of the bag’ that they were more than colleagues it came to light when over dinner they were feeding each other dessert with their respective spoons and also retired very early!

In fact in the UAE 99% of the workforce are expat. The 1% of Arabs who work tend to be in the public sector and can be found in the Government departments, airports, police and no doubt counting their money as they manage the Indians, Filipinos, Pakistanis and Europeans who run the country. Out of a population of 9 million in the UAE then 60% are expats with no legal domicile rights or any chance to get citizenship. Remarkably there are 1.8m Indians, 1.2m Pakistanis, 0.6m Filipinos and 0.5m Bangladeshis in the Emirates. 

You can’t overlook the fact that they are keeping their respective homelands afloat with all the money they send back. It seems many have been in Abu Dhabi for decades. Our porter from Bangladesh had been in the Emirates for 10 years, our Filipino hostess in the Lounge had been in the country three years; she was busy sending money back home to educate her siblings. Lastly, Richard out taxi driver was Ugandan. He calculated that he would earn a quarter of what he earned in Abu Dhabi back home as a teacher. This seems so sad to waste such talent. He had plans to buy a farm at home and he’d calculated that was where the money was.

Richard had brought us back from the Yas Mall. This is a cavernous construction near the F1 Grand Prix Track, Ferrari World and, not least, IKEA. (When it came to lunch my wife did suggest a quick trip into the furniture store but I could live without meatballs for a few days!) The Mall had all the major brands but, as I’ve said, the prices were uninteresting but it is an worthwhile visit.

Not nearly as interesting as The Grand Mosque. This is a sumptuous construction and despite the numbers of visitors had a great calm and coolness about it. Anna was made to dress appropriately: unfortunately there was no retail outlet for me to buy this outfit for her. In fact our Mosque guide explained the traditional dress (unconvincingly).

It goes something like – back in the day the men worked in the sun and needed white robes. With no money left then the women were stuck with cheaper black material. Nowadays they can wear white if they want, and I did see one woman at the airport dressed thus. However the reality is that they don’t. Similarly it was explained that women worshipped separately because the men had to touch shoulders in the Mosque and also prostrate themselves. This was inappropriate between the sexes – I had hoped for some dissent from the gathered emancipated Western ladies, unfortunately my eldest daughter was back in London (wrapping condoms). 

The guide, for all the frailty of these explanations in the 21st Century, did have a sense of humour. He showed us a monumental 8 ton chandelier in the centre and after explaining the lighting and weight did comment that in his early days he’d taken his grandmother around the Mosque. She’d not asked a question about the grandeur, King Zayed who instructed and paid for its building, the types of marble from Italy, Macedonia and China or where the carpet had come (Iran) from but did ask how they cleaned this huge suspended chandelier!

Of all the things I found impressive after the splendour of this ‘palace’ was the explanation of Islam to us ‘infidels’. It was gently paced and informative. I am not a Christian but why don’t tourists get taken around (the magnificent) St Paul’s in London (for free) with an explanation of the faith it represents? Are we ashamed?

Taking taxis was the norm. It came as a shock to find women taxi drivers in this male dominated society. The cars were a mixture of high end European models and Japanese for everything else. I still scratch my head at what happened to the British motor industry in the 1970’s. We used to export all around the world and in what seems like months that all collapsed and the Japanese moved in. Forty or fifty years later they still saturate the market with cars, vans, buses, trucks and 4 x 4s. 

So in between our daily trip out I spent time in the gym clocking up a few miles on a bike or groaning on the hamstring curl apparatus. I was even found in the hotel pool – I think this is the first time I’ve been in a pool on holiday for about 15 years (yes, ‘Tony’s most dull fact of the report’). I liked to stroll around the expats shops in the town (Anna less so!) and I could understand the mobile phone and computer shops – these folk needed to talk to home. I could see why you’d need laundry services but why so many stationery shops? I have never seen so many shops selling paper, ball point pens, pencil erasers or staplers – what is going on?

Children seem very welcome and with an absence of alcohol then it works better with them for eating out. There were plenty of facilities for playing and no one seemed put out by their presence (apart from me). Safety was guaranteed. Despite poor urban lighting and shady alleys then single women jogged in the gloom, people wore their finery and jewellery in public places and respect was shown for all. In fact I think this is where we were once upon a time in the UK. When I am amongst this calm and respect I want to live in places like this.

Not all went to plan. After breakfast I left my mobile/cell phone on the breakfast table. My minder (Anna) retrieved this and handed it to me as I was entering the Lift/Elevator. The closing door hit my hand and the phone fell miraculously into the gap between the lift and the lobby. So 43 floors or ⅓rd of a mile later the phone came to rest at the bottom of the shaft. You may be unsurprised to learn that it no longer worked! Anyway the hotel retrieved the pieces and I was left with the job of sorting out a replacement back in Blighty.

The flight was a scheduled 7 hours each way, which is more than enough flying in Economy in less than a week. On the return flight there were UK based Commonwealth athletes from the England, Northern Ireland and Isle of Man teams. Whilst waiting for the loo I ended up talking to a girl who was resplendent in the kit. “So did you compete?” “Basketball” “Oh, did you win a medal?” Silver”. At this point I felt a complete plonker. 

My other flight victim was the passenger sat next to me. He was a lad who was brought up in Grimsby but was an Albanian Kosovan (some might say that wasn’t a lucky escape). He was fascinating and we discussed the Balkans war, language, relations with Serbia, local food and football – I suspect the flight might have been longer than 7 hours for him! Overall a splendid break.

November 26, 2017

So through a cock up we visited Nürnberg a few days before the famous Christmas market. Anna had originally thought that it was being held on the dates we were visiting.

We discovered that it didn’t matter because if you can live without an acre of stalls selling small wooden figurines, glühwein and sausages then you’re not missing much. However, that being said then all I knew about the city was its awful Nazi history and the fact that my Favourite Youngest Daughter seemed to fly in here every month on adidas business. Their HQ is located nearby.Ryanair continue to delight. The flights were ludicrously cheap – £10 each way (which might have been a clue as to the fact the market hadn’t started) but the random seat allocator on the web site put Anna and I 12 rows apart. Of course this could be corrected for £4! The next joy was that Ryanair had the passengers embark through one door, at Manchester, leaving you to queue on the runway and steps whilst it rained. Passengers who had not been seat prioritised (you also pay extra for that) jostled for overhead locker space delaying others getting to their seat or getting out of the rain. Lovely.

Nürnberg greeted us with the famous ivory coloured taxis (not an Uber in sight) and we were whisked into the town centre accompanied by the Everly Bros, The Doobie Brothers and Cliff Richard on the radio. And they ask why we want to leave the EU?

We were staying in the old part of the city and close to all the sights. After checking into the excellent Hotel Five in the centre we encountered the other significant challenge of the trip – vegetarian restaurants. The legal statutes of Franconia (the Northern part of Bavaria) require a German to consume at least a kilogram of pork meat every 24 hours. All very well for me but unfortunately Anna forswore the ‘fleisch’ several decades ago. A lap of the restaurants offering schweinhaxe and quite a quantity of schnitzel but few nut cutlets. However the diner at the hotel came up trumps with a veggie burger. As always the quality of the English spoken by virtually anyone is shaming to the average Brit. Our waiter, of Vietnamese extract, spoke perfect English and this was learned at school.

The German climate, whilst cold is dry in winter (apart from when it is raining, cough) and many burghers can be found at outside tables drinking and, more worryingly, often smoking. This is quite a sight as even in the harder parts of the UK then being outside after dark in the winter isn’t a popular pursuit even for those fortified with alcohol.

Day 2 – The weather was cold but quite sunny and quite pleasant if wrapped up. Generating body heat was not a problem as the next morning I was led up a steep cobbled hill to the Castle (Kaiserburg). Quite a delightful building that very occasionally housed kings and emperors. These chaps rotated around their Bavarian cities collecting money from the well healed to fight their next war. It wasn’t very grand inside and I wouldn’t recommend shelling out to look around. There is continuing refurbishment on the building. It has to said that there is quite a lot of construction in Nürnberg generally and it was worth noting that this included the obligatory blokes in hard hats and hi viz loitering as one or two were actually doing something.

The old city (Altstadt) is very authentic and looks centuries old. Nevertheless this is a reconstruction since the 1940’s. In fact British and American bombing levelled 92% of it. By 1945 it was rubble. After the war the Germans painstakingly rebuilt it all. In fact Nürnberg was the second most bombed and destroyed German city of the war. The Allies targeted it because of its war effort supporting industry and it’s iconic status for the Nazis.

After our mountaineering then we did it again with, Regina, our tour guide. She led the 11 O’clock tour up the hill. She was a Finn but had been a resident for many years. Her talk didn’t skirt the ‘dark times’ but frankly we knew enough about WW2 that it held no real interest apart from some of the practicalities that befell the residents. Nürnberg, following the War, lost its industry, or it never came back, and today it is mainly service led. Tourism is popular and the Rhine-Main-Danube Canal brings cruises all the year round through the town. They disembark for, wait for it, glühwein, sausages and small wooden figurines. They also probably partake of the magnificent cake that you can find at many cafes. We felt it necessary to sample and in fact over the next couple of days did ample research. Delicious.

The town centre with its outdoor Germans was also a hive of joinery as all the stalls were being built for the market. The influx of tourists, mainly German is immense and the market runs all the way up until Christmas. Which brings us onto another interesting fact. The Germans appear to be quite interested in Christianity. In the UK it is in dramatic decline but here the churches appear quite well supported and references to religiosity seem more prolific. Regina advised that if you belonged to a church then tithes were collected at source – 8% of the amount you paid in tax went to the church you nominated. I can imagine active marketing campaigns for new membership!

The population of Nürnberg is 501,000 and whilst most live away from the old town then many do visit the large centre and it’s shops just across the small Pegnitz River, which splits the city centre. This was vibrant and at the weekend it came alive. On the pedestrianised streets were a lot of street vendors selling delicacies, vegetables, cheeses, flowers, sandwiches and the like. It was always buzzing.

Evening dining was later solved at a Vietnamese restaurant, which was delicious, and joy knew bounds when Sky News was found on Channels 1035 on the hotel TV. Only I would trawl through so many Channels! The hope was to learn more about the Ashes, which were not in complete disrepair at this stage of the series.

Day 3 – Anna led yours truly toward the railway station. As she pointed out you could tell we were getting closer to the terminal as we passed a large old hotel, Tourist Information, McDonalds and beggars. We were bound for Bamberg. Forty miles north of Nürnberg. Or were we?Negotiating the ticket machine resulted in obtaining two tickets costing over €38. Further review of the ticket revealed that one would have been sufficient and that we now needed two other adults and four children under the age of sixteen to get the full value of our investment. If that was a disappointment so was getting on the wrong train.

Let’s call her ‘Heidi’. She was quite gentle as Anna presented our tickets and enquired if we were on the correct train? We were not and although the train was going in the correct direction it was a sort of inter city train rather than the smaller affair that ran locally. So we were ejected at Erlangen. Now slightly uncertain about the tickets we decided to visit the ticket office. Yours truly was despairing at German efficiency as two little old ladies took an age at the counter to be served. I imagined judging by the engagement and activity of the assistant that they were exploring the cost and connections involved in travelling with a small farmyard animal from Erlangen to Motherwell via Athens on a long Bank Holiday weekend in 2019 paying with Bitcoins. Eventually a counter became free and in immaculate English the lady confirmed our new travel arrangements… and without prompting reimbursed me for the extra ticket we bought erroneously. “All good in the ‘hood” we both thought.

Bamburg has importance as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. For a short time it was the centre of the Holy Roman Empire and had religious importance and still today has a number of important churches and a monastery. My eye was drawn on Wikipedia to the golden years of the 17th century when about one thousand victims were claimed in the witch trials. Those crazy Bavarians.

So we wandered around had more coffee and cake and then ambled down an alley ostensibly heading back toward the barnhof. German architecture is solid and attractive but the level of graffiti is awful. For all their discipline then it appears that many youths take delight in spraying bollocks on beautiful emulsioned walls in a variety of colours. If I were a resident then I could be attracted to joining a vigilante group to coral these morons for some 21st century ‘witch trials’.

However, grumpiness was lifted by finding a second hand record store. The Germans do have some superb shops and other masochists who read my blogs know that I have driven to Stuttgart twice in the last couple of years to visit a brilliant shop there. Here I bought a German compilation album of a British band called East of Eden. It was pure nostalgia because I saw them supporting the Jack Bruce Band at The Queens Hall, Leeds on October 8th 1971.

On the train back to Nürnberg it was rammed with school kids. Anna deduced that they were weekly boarders who were let off early in the afternoon. I remember that I used to read books and listen to music on these journeys but now like the rest of the human race I scroll through rubbish on my mobile phone. If on leaving the EU we lose our free data roaming rights then I may get my life back when on holiday.

As compensation for being accommodating on Anna’s dining limitations I was allowed to select Bratwurst Röslein for dinner. This was a large hall with wenches in bustling red dresses over their white blouses who seated you at long wooden benches and proffered menus with dishes that were probably popular a couple of centuries ago. I had the pork schnitzel that covered the full plate and Anna had a potato goulash that didn’t seem to hit the sides, on the few occasions I looked up from my emptying plate and large wheat beer.

Day 3 – Rain! We had a morning to fill and the heavens truly opened. Anna thought the best way to avoid this was by going on a tour of caves under the city! There is quite a complex under the city that had two main purposes. The first was a place to ferment lager up until the mid 19th Century. The brewing process requires a cool temperature and as the average German drank 500 litres of beer/year back in the day there was a large industry to keep Fritz and Helga blotto. However after brewing didn’t necessitate being stored underground the mainly empty labyrinths were vital as an air raid shelter. Such is the network and its depths that it limited the death count to 6,800 in the war. This is still terrible but in the most bombed city, Dresden, it was nearer 25,000.

In line with our new protocol we proceeded from the sandstone depths to a café for another piece of cake before catching the metro to the airport. All went according to plan and we got back to Manchester on time.

Splendid. Get your tickets booked. We barely scratched the surface of all its delights.

October 19, 2017

Sunday was a perfect October day. Bright, still and not yet too cold. On this basis I managed to lure the present Mrs Ives into the Morgan and we set the controls for Salturn-by-the-Sea.

Located on the North Yorkshire coast this small resort of about 6,000 people is nestled into the former heavy industry conurbations of Teesside. The town has always existed as a resort, established in the 19th Century. Boasting a long attractive beach and restored Victorian pier there is a lot to like but the town on the cliff behind is quite a small affair and not overly prosperous. Frankly you’d be hard pressed to give it a definable status in the 21st century other than as housing community for commuters to Middlesbrough.

For me it is redolent with memories. In 1965 at the tender age of 10 years old I was despatched to Saltburn Manor School to board. Seventy miles from my home. Any visit for me is an examination of a distant memory with some diverse recollections.

The school was located on a hill detached from the town by valley gardens. The link into town was via a classic 19th century 200 metre long iron footbridge. Need less to say this bridge fell into physical decline and was demolished in 1974 but by this time the school had shut. I long remember the short walk into town across this bridge. The loss of the bridge and school is quite a significant ‘erase’ and a visitor wouldn’t know of their former existence without research.

Our visit started at the pier and in stark contrast to 1965 I found three Muslim girls on the pier attempt to take a selfie. I helped by taking a group photo. We then observed the fishermen at the end of the pier wondering what fish they might haul up before ascending the steep cliff back into the town centre.

The heart of the town is dominated by the railway station and a selection of shops that at best seem remnants of more prosperous times. 

In one of these shops I remember buying my mother a record for a present. It was “Strangers In The Night” by Frank Sinatra. Another memory was the organ pipes at a local church. On Sunday mornings we were marched in a ‘crocodile’ into town for a church service. As a child I spent many Sundays sat on pews and gazing around these fairly austere and chilly surroundings, which were always leavened by some colour. Most church organ pipes are not painted but these were. Other memories include the manufacture of balsa wood models. This involved glue and dope for the paper clad wings. More brilliantly for a small boy it also included a fiercely sharp scalpel like knife to fashion the wood. I still have the scar where I managed to remove a flap of skin on my thigh!

I only spent one year here before I was sent to another boarding school in Harrogate.

On our stroll we found a local delicatessen cum grocery and enjoyed a coffee before finding the car and returning home. We found an epic winding route from Stokesley to Hemsley. Things were a little quiet on my left hand side during the journey. I later received the terse comment that I had enjoyed the Morgan on the demanding roads pushing it a little too fast though the corners. Nonsense.

September 18, 2017

September 12th was our 30th wedding anniversary and a break was planned to another European city we’d not yet visited – Helsinki. We’d both ticked off most of the other Nordic capitals together or separately but never this far north. My knowledge of Finland was limited and knowledge of anyone famous really stopped at the former Bolton Wanderers’ goalkeeper. So this trip quietly excited your intrepid explorer.

I am not that devoted to loyalty schemes but I’ve had a BA American Express air miles card for some years and occasionally cash the miles for a journey. A return flight to Helsinki in Business Class was booked!

Part of the deal of cashing these ‘miles’ is that everything flies out of Heathrow. So we plummeted down the M1 for an overnight stay prior to a flight the next day on Finnair. An evening meal was hastily planned at Newport Pagnell and a Turkish restaurant called Capadocia was selected. Anna and myself like Turkish cuisine and she could select a vegetarian selection with ease. The restaurant was busy for a Wednesday night and our meal was fine. The Turkish proprietor who floated around the tables introduced himself and asked how we’d found out about the restaurant? ‘Trip Advisor’!

Oh dear, light blue touch paper and retire…

From here he recounted a brutal review of a day earlier from a diner that had given him one star. In fact he visited the table twice to show genuine hurt and pain and even brought up the review on his smart phone to show us. The diners had thought that the food bland. “Why didn’t they tell us when they were here? We would have changed the meal or given them some money off?”

His lament continued at the low score. “Maybe three stars would have been fair?” He’ had looked through their other reviews and establishments visited recently and even opined that they were saboteurs who preferred another local Turkish restaurant and was attempting to hurt his restaurant by posting this review!

As I say the place was busy with happy customers and getting so upset over one review was not worth it. However, it does highlight the damage and outrage some reviews on Trip Advisor can create. In fact you don’t have to stay at the hotel or eat at the restaurant to write a review. By the way, my main course had little flavour! I will not be noting this with a review on Trip Advisor.

Terminal 3 is not a venue that I have any affection for. We stayed 3 miles away from it but it still took 25 minutes to reach in the rush hour. It is a tangled web of entrances and various phases of construction and I pity an elderly or less mobile traveller using it.

We were chipper however as we had use of the Business Lounge and copious coffee, fruit and pastries were consumed along with our free newspapers before embarkation. Ordinarily then any turn left would cause me discomfort but on entering the aircraft a platinum blond goddess looked at our boarding pass and sent us toward Business Class. Oh deep joy!

I had often trouped past these little cubicles after an uncomfortable long haul flight envying the lucky so and so’s who luxuriated in these pens whilst I had got a crick in my neck and little or no sleep back in ‘cargo’. Now it was my turn but sadly for only 2 hours 50 minutes. It did cross my mind to suggest that they took the ‘long way round’ to Finland to enjoy this experience more. It was bliss and a wonderful way to travel.

Helsinki airport is modern but was hellish on our arrival. The trek to the train station is past endless Duty Free shops and not only was it a long walk but the place was rammed with travellers. Most I would volunteer were Chinese nationals who transit via Helsinki before flying onto China via the shorter northern route.

We eventually made the train and had a pleasant 30 minute ride to the city centre. From here we had another walk to the hotel. We could have used an Uber or some such but it’s not our way, we’re addicted to the step counter on the iPhone! A taxi only seemed a good idea as the rain started to steadily fall.

The Four Star Boutique hotel was a 19th Century converted prison! Anna found this on Trip Advisor and it was a little strange to check into three converted cells via a heavily fortified wall but everything was quite classy and plush. In the basement they had kept one of the original cells and encouraged recent visitors to write on the walls. It was utilitarian, brutal and dimly lit – any lengthy stay here would have been hell.

We wandered the short distance into the centre near the front for dinner and dined at ‘Toca’. This was a gourmet dinner which didn’t run to à la carte menu but various choices were explained to you and then modest but adequate portions of modern cuisine appeared. It was surprising and delicious… especially as we had selected it at the hotel thinking it was a pizza restaurant! The bill before the tip came to €110. This brings us to Finnish prices. Certain things were expensive but overall the prices were fine. Food and drink was a high price but frankly eating in the centre of any major capital is never cheap is it? Everything we ate was usually delicious and beautifully presented.

The next morning we did a walking tour of the centre of Helsinki. We’re avid walking tour fans and I reckon I could write a guide for those leading them to maximise the entertainment. Our guide failed to mention that whilst the tour was free that she’d welcome tips. A lot of the folk abandoned her after two hours, literally receiving a free tour. The guides are usually students trying to raise extra funds. I think we tipped well.

Finland, like a number of the Nordic nations, is quite young. It only has a population of 5.5 millions and around 11% live in Helsinki. Over the centuries either the Swedes or the Russians have occupied it. It only gained its independence in 1917 when it took advantage of the Russian Bolshevik Revolution to break free. In the meanwhile they have a very long border with the Russian bear and know that if they want to come back then not a lot will stop them! The Soviet Union was very hostile and repeatedly tried to occupy the country during WW2 and eventually took some territory.

The Finns seemed very calm, organised and open. We were struck by how a large sand pit used by children in a park had toys left scattered around for the next day’s play. In the UK these would be locked away and the sandpit surrounded by a high fence to stop the local youth doing something horrid to it overnight. Around the city were embassies and Government offices that all looked very vulnerable to easy entry and terrorism should a malign party wish to cause harm. This Scandinavian innocence is quite a contrast to our UK world. (As we were in Helsinki then the Parsons Green Tube explosion was reported).

In the afternoon the sun came out, briefly, and I found a few vinyl record shops to look around and Anna looked at the shops in the centre. I was short of time on my tour and didn’t buy anything but found a great jazz record store where the owner seemed to be having a great time playing his personal favourites. Next door was a record store specialising in reggae. Love it.

That night it was a couple of drinks in a local bar and an omelette.

The next day we had a leisurely start and got the ferry to Estonia. It was a two and a half hour sail to Tallinn. There were cars but most of the passengers were going by foot. Near us in the queue was a party of primary school teachers going for an overnight stay and a night out. In fact many of the passengers seemed to be getting into a party mood on the ship and there was much imbibing. (The return sailing saw lads wheeling on cans and cans of beer and many others wielding carrier bags of booze. It seems a long time ago that the Brits visited mainland Europe on booze cruises, or do they still do it?)

Tallinn was beautiful. The old town was beautifully presented with its cobbled streets and old buildings. Again another walking tour filled our time and we learned quite a lot about this nation of 1.3m people. It was the usual story of occupation over the centuries by Swedes, Germans and Russians. Whilst they celebrate 100 years of independence shortly then they only got rid of the Russians in 1991. From here they achieved the Holy Grail for these small nations by joining the EU in 2004.

It is easy to see that the EU is an attractive option for these smaller nations. You get access to markets, you get subsidy, you get an internationally recognised currency and not least you get an umbrella of supposed security by being part if a larger group. Especially useful if your neighbour and 25% of your population is Russia or Russian. Add NATO membership and you may even start to dream about another 100 years of independence.

The guide for all his earnest explanation about the history and economy did excel at talking about the Estonian character. They don’t like people and seldom, if ever, socially greet each other. They are not tactile and the concept of dating is foreign to them! Meeting the opposite sex was described as either as a sort of stalking for several weeks and pretending it is a coincidence to run into the desired target repeatedly. Or the popularity of binge drinking and finding yourself, the next morning, beside a partner that you couldn’t remember meeting seemed common. I suspect this is rubbish but it did give an illuminating insight into this small nation.

Our visit to Estonia, and back, never involved the inspection or even presentation of passports. I am not sure if they are in Schengen but it seemed that terrorism could move easily between the countries. Back in Helsinki we had a pizza and checked the football results back in Blighty. Yet more rain as we walked around but never very cold.

The next morning we took a couple of bikes from the hotel and toured the peninsula where we were staying. The icebreaker ships were moored here along with other more traditional forms of sailing craft.

So from the hotel we got to a quiet Sunday airport and relaxed in the Business lounge before the flight home. Whilst Business then the cabin wasn’t the new layout, but everything else was pampering! We picked up the car and, listening to the football, drove to York.

August 31, 2017

Before I share some thoughts on Canada then it is only apposite to mention that we never nearly made it to Manchester Airport. The drive from York suffered delays due to traffic jams. After reaching the M60 via a tortuous route over Saddleworth Moor, we started to move nicely for the first time in over an hour. At a junction an old Audi came onto the motorway and in heavy traffic made a dash for the outside lane. The only problem was that he was steering directly into the side of our car at 70mph. I swerved toward the barrier in the centre, our car hit the grass and gravel and we slewed along as the Audi made the outside lane but kept accelerating. Thanks to presence of mind and a great car, with superb handling, we kept control, didn’t hit the barrier, go into a spin and take out the cars behind us or those beside us. This fool could have killed 5 or 6 people in a heartbeat.

Anyway more than a little shaken we made the flight to Toronto. I’d been here in 2015 and thought it fabulous. Arriving and exiting by bicycle was a very different experience to that of doing it by car. My time on the bike was spent by Lake Ontario and then when arriving at Niagara I only ever saw the Falls (not the town) before continuing south into the USA via Buffalo.

Toronto is organised and attractive but busy. Our hotel was massive and choked with international tourists passing through. Our city bus tour was remarkable for revealing that Toronto might be modern and important but it had no history that you could repeat or remember. In fact I remember more about the Toronto Blue Jays playing baseball at the Rogers stadium and the window cleaners at the large children’s hospital dressing as Super Heroes to entertain the young patients than anything else. The tour involved a trip across the harbour to some islands.

The main reason for this stop over in the east before heading to the Pacific was to show Anna Niagara Falls. The drive to Niagara Falls was on a rammed motorway and when we got to the waterfalls we saw the resort, just off the main drag past the Falls. This rather reduced the magic of the natural phenomena. It is literally ‘kiss me quick’ hats, burgers and amusement arcades. However, you cannot take away the majesty of these wonderful waterfalls and I can barely imagine the impact it had on the first Europeans who came across it.

From here we drove to Niagara-on-the-Lake and it was simply delightful. A small resort on Lake Ontario at the head of the Niagara River (that is part of the waterway between Ontario and Erie). This quaint and historic town is beyond manicured and full of tea shops, restaurants and most things that would carry the tag of ‘upmarket’. The flower beds and hanging baskets were a vision to behold. 

Needless to say there were many other tourists there. The surrounding area is planted with vines and it appears a considerable wine producing area. We tasted some ‘icewine’. This is fermented from grapes that are frozen at the time of picking in winter. It was very sweet, like dessert wine. After this it was back into the traffic and back for a vegetarian meal in the centre of Toronto.

Our flight to Vancouver, to complete the journey west was another four hours. This is a very large country with the 4th biggest land mass as a country but only 36m inhabitants. You quickly learn that everyone lives broadly up against the US border and some Provinces (out of the 10) such as Yukon, only have a total population of 36,000! Clearly the terrain and climate offer no incentive to live there or many places north.

Vancouver is a fine city and Anna booked us into  a more luxurious hotel this time near Downtown where we were to discover the first of a lot of German tourists. They flood across from Europe and love the west coast of the Americas. We did a Chinatown walking tour on our first morning, which was surprisingly engrossing. The Chinese came in the 19th century to build the railways. As part of British Columbia becoming part of Canada it needed a rail link. The Chinese, from the Pearl River Delta, can be viewed just as indigenous as many of the Europeans. However it was a long road for their equal rights, they even had to overcome racists laws in the 20th century. Our Canadian Chinese guide slightly gilded the story of local ethnic Chinese heroes bringing about change. I’m sure their efforts were vital but in fact the post war Universal Declaration of Human Rights adopted by the UN in 1948 meant things had to change for the Canadians. (The plonker with the Mohican is from Australia…)

Coming up to the present day then several conversations talked of ‘Asian’ immigration or property buying throughout the main cities. These properties were not always to live in but as a speculative investment. (A lot of nations in post communist countries buy property speculatively outside their homeland e.g. Russians in London). In addition there were hundreds of Mainland China tourists in the resorts. This even led to the recycling bins having script in Mandarin to ensure tins didn’t go in the wrong bin! Like York then they are bringing considerable revenue to these tourist destinations but the cultures of China, Europe or North America do appear uncomfortable together at times. 

Even more energy sapping was being behind two people who’s first language was not English in a shop. Such was the accent that they either spent sometime repeating things to each other or, even worse, one poor lady at a fast food joint I went to only partially got what she came in to buy. Who’d be an immigrant? This partially explains the lack of integration I expect.

In Vancouver we tried to get over the jet lag, ate well, rode bikes around Stanley Park and soaked up the more laid back vibe of Canada. Eventually we picked up our second hire car and headed for Victoria Island. I paid scant attention to the holiday booking details and getting a ‘compact’ car seemed fine. It ended up being a little small and under powered. The power was undermined by the statutory North American automatic gearbox. To dust off an old politically incorrect comment then our little Nissan couldn’t pull a sailor off your sister. This meant that on some busy winding roads putting your foot down to overtake took courage and blind faith. I am a Leeds United fan: I coped.

To get to Victoria on Vancouver Island (on the south tip of the island) meant an hour and a half ferry and we absorbed the majestic views before we disembarked and made our way to the hotel. 

Here one of the staff, a chap called Waddingham, told us of his family’s origins in Hull. All good although we did correct him on his name’s pronunciation of Waddingham and not ‘Wardingharm’! Victoria is the Province capital of British Columbia and has a legislature and fine older architecture. I find it quaint that they still have ‘British’ in their name and, frankly, any residual attachment to the UK. In 1931 Canada gained their independence and any involvement of the British Parliament went in 1982. The Royal Family is still affectionately regarded. Will and Kate visited Victoria fairly recently but frankly when the Queen passes I think the majority of the Commonwealth, let alone Canada, will call time on any remotely formal connnection.

We saw the city by bicycle and here Jessica steered us up and down hills and kept us away from traffic. Vancouver Island was the first settlement in British Colombia and hence it became the capital despite being detached. 

Today Vancouver is several times larger but the Parliament resides here. I expected a distinct difference between the USA and Canada to be evident: it wasn’t. The Canadian’s accent, TV channels, road signage, chain stores, cars, types of food, ambience etc seemed just a continuation. Even detail like the yellow school buses were evident. To this end the shadow of the USA looms large and not larger than Trump. In fairness he has freaked out the world with his language, behaviour and perceived priorities. He has many people all caught like rabbits in the headlights and for better or worse then sensibilities and fears of many are heightened to the extent that he is a preoccupation. I sensed it in a few conversations and as always you could rely on the ubiquitous CNN to talk negatively 24/7 on all things Trump – I don’t doubt some of the negativity is well earned. 

From Victoria we weaved on a motorway and then minor roads to Ucluelet on the west coast of the island. There are several names that originate from the Native Indians or First Nation people who were here long before the Europeans. In this small coastal town there was tourism and also facilities for fishing trawlers. The trawlers brought ashore hake (for McDonalds!), salmon and other white fish. We had a fabulous trip off the shore in a launch with other tourists. The expedition was to find Grey Whales but sadly there were none to see. However we saw many Sea Lions, Sea Otters and Bald Eagles. The tranquility of the sea near the shore and the clear fresh air were glorious and enervating. Back at our apartment we dipped in the jacuzzi and ate our store bought provisions. The following morning we sadly had to depart but not before a quick hike around a trail directly on the shore. Wonderful and I think we’ll be back.

So another ferry and then a straightforward drive up to Whistler. Whistler is a skiing resort but in the summer there are some scenery seekers, like ourselves, but also hundreds of mountain bikers. When we got there we discovered competitions which brought in many young chaps on expensive bikes. However many others with the right head and body apparatus took the lifts to the top of the mountains and came down on the trails. During the winter then these would be the various ski slopes. It looked great fun for all ages as the gradients, like ski slopes, were graded. We were in a hotel with some catering facilities and on arrival popped out to the supermarket. Licensing laws meant that the store didn’t sell alcohol and as it was 9 pm nowhere else was open. To rectify this crisis I went to the hotel bar and returned to the lift with 2 pints to ascend to the room. A crowded lift turned toward me to note my 2 pints. I felt clarification was necessary and I did blurt out”they’re not both for me!”

It was here that it struck home how expensive Canada was. Two people eating out with a drink and basic fare would bash £50. I wouldn’t pretend that we didn’t budget for this but you do get to a point where it isn’t as if you are doing more than refuelling at a high cost. 

Whistler hosted part of Vancouver’s 2010 Olympic set up and it is a well laid out town with great facilities, links and transport for skiers. However, frankly it wasn’t suitable for folk like us passing through with just scenery and relaxing in mind. I think it’s reputation blinded us and so we went. Don’t go unless you’re on a mountain bike or skis. 

One notable thing to mention about Canada is pedestrians, of which Whistler had many, and the car. The pedestrian has priority and courtesy is shown by the motorist at all times. Not only do the cars wait for walkers to complete their progress to the kerb but hold back some distance. This courtesy is extended to cyclists. It’s just in the culture. There is endless debate in the UK about making the roads safe for cyclists. Solutions include car exclusion, cycle lanes on roads, specially built cycle paths, execution for offending drivers by beheading etc. Frankly a good start would be the elevation of the pedestrian and cyclist, when sharing the same space, to be respected and protected. Costs nowt an’ all.

The drive to Kamloops, the biggest town in this part of the Rockies, was tough. It was single lane and slow traffic made the going miserable. On the odd occasion that an overtaking opportunity arose I gunned the poor little Nissan within an inch of its life past a bus or dawdling SUV. I’d never heard Anna pray out loud before…

Our first stop for some lunch was Lillooet where our sandwiches were prepared by a lady from Glasgow. Her escape to this absorbing scenery and clear mountain air made a lot of sense. This small settlement has had many incarnations, not least as a rail stop and mining town. The heritage of the town is preserved by a number of graphics that mainly hark back to the 19th Century. However, one piece of recent history was the incarceration of the Canadian Japanese population in WW2 after the bombing of Pearl Harbour. Many were shifted from the coast, where they traded and were fishermen, to the interior. In retrospect then this seems very harsh and wrong. If, given the issues, you can understand that then maybe not the confiscation of Japanese property and assets which they received scant compensation for, if any. They weren’t allowed freedom of movement until 1949 or an apology until 1988. 

A brief stop at Blue Water was to again break the journey and buy an ice cream. This settlement had experienced forest fires and the road had been closed recently. It was pleasing to see that a sign in the Welcome Center offered fire fighters free drinks. Attached to the Center was the Gift Shop. The Canadians are no slouches in every part of British Columbia or Alberta at flogging swag. As I sauntered back to the car my bride bought four very nice coasters made of slate and etched with the images of elk or moose. Pleased with her purchase as we drove off I volunteered that a First Nation Indian had not spent a winter’s day sat on the unheated clay floor of his wigwam holding the slate between his feet whilst he chipped away with tools made from flint and animal bones. More like that a man called Mr Lee based in a large factory on the outskirts of Shanghai had been the machine operative who was producing about 500 coasters per hour. Naturally this ‘negative’ comment was dismissed until she established the country of origin on the box. She was partially correct in that his name probably wasn’t Mr Lee but Mr Wang.

Kamloops is a large town and due to the lack of other big towns miles around it seems to be the centre for every car dealer, motel, lawyer, appliance showroom in the area. We were located just outside of town at a hotel that might be described as more of a ‘country club’. It had a gym, bikes to ride, swimming pool and a wedding! We partook of the first three and then drove back into town for dinner. The weather was getting warmer and despite being in the Rockies, and our experiencing some rain, then we were regularly above 20° C.

Rain greeted our residual drive to Jasper. The first thing you feel is the deep local welcome when you get there: from Australia. There appears to be an acute shortage of bar staff and shop assistants throughout the Rockies. Australia (and New Zealand) has stepped into the breach. Many of these millennials have been here for some time. We talked with a few, usually the opening line was, ‘you’re a long way from home?’ Many had come and stayed. Given the flight time and cost to the Antipodes I can see how they had ended up residents. By way of variation the present Mrs Ives had booked us into a log cabin on the banks of Lake Patricia.

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Everyone likes a picture of a train, be honest.

Jasper is small, mainly summer driven, resort overwhelmed by Brits, Germans and Chinese. It is on the famous Canadian Railway line and hosts the tourist train that pulls through every day. It is also ideally located for local lakes – Maligne, Pyramid and Patricia. It’s on the latter that we stayed in a log cabin. (Just to return to an earlier theme, then on Lake Pyramid you could hire canoes by the hour – $40). We tripped out to see the lakes and absorb the beauty. It was chilly and overcast for some of the days and the beauty is cast into monochrome only to fully hit you when the sun comes out and glorious Technicolour abounds.

Anna had so wanted to see bears and as you drive along then there are many road signs warning of wildlife. Needless to say our sightings were limited but we did see one bear on a bank near the road. That was it. Elks were not so hard to find and this moose was caught early evening grazing.

The Icefields Parkway is the 180 mile stretch of road that takes you south in a long valley. Either side are lakes, glaciers and creeks can be found often with bus loads of other tourists. 

Our pleasure was taken in a steep hike to the top of a very tall hill/mountain to look down on Lake Peyto. The colour of the water is made by a fine silt that is found in the lakes.

Our last stop was Canmore, a mere stone’s throw from the famous Banff. This is an upmarket little town full of expensive second homes and a main street selling specialist bagels, artisan coffee, gifts and craft beers. Our B&B was exceptional and a very Continental breakfast afforded talking to the other guests who were mainly Canadians. Topics from Bonnie Raitt, Alberta oil sands, speaking French and that bloke Trump (again) were discussed. There were a selection of great eating options and one owned by a brewery that did small samples for $10.

We drove back to Banff to see what the fuss was about and it was just a little bigger with more tourists and shops selling stuffed elks, key fobs, cushions with Mounties on them and similar tat. I believe it is more important in winter when the skiing season will fill all the hotels on the outskirts.

Back in Canmore we rode bikes along the river, drank coffee, drank beer and headed back up the road past Banff to see Lake Louise. It was so named after Queen Victoria’s fourth daughter. The graphic telling this described Victoria as the ‘Queen of England’ – slightly disappointing to read given Canada’s place in the Commonwealth.

To celebrate our disappointment we ascended 1,000 feet for over 2 miles for a cup of hot chocolate and a large piece of banana bread – a fair exchange in my book. The step count on the iPhone said we had ascended 79 floors!

A return to Canmore for a bagel was bewildering. I was asked by the young man, resplendent with tattoos, hat and piercings, what I wanted? Such was the enormous choice that I took some time to answer. Like all attentive youngsters dealing with older people he patiently smiled and then repeated the question. I did gently ( a major concession on my part) say that I understood the ‘kin question but was considering my choice. His mother loves him.

It would be remiss not to talk about what the Canadians have done to our language. Despite some British spelling then they mangle ‘aluminium’ like the Yanks. Their metal is pronounced aloominum and Hyundai is bastardised to Hundi. By way of forgiveness we did enjoy some of the language such as a dog accessories shop was called ‘Mutt Hut’ and the children’s section of the menu at one restaurant called ‘Cub Grub’. I would add the establishment was called The Grizzly Paw.

Our last day was spent in pursuit of retail joy. We found two malls that sold CD’s and vinyl LP’s and Anna found Gap and Coach. The Canadian economy benefited. 

Whilst waiting for Anna to pay for the unbelievable ‘bargain’ purchase I chatted with the young lady handing out ‘50% off’ vouchers at the entrance. She is a student and this is a Summer job. She hopes to become an optician. She suggested that the 27° C weather outside would soon fall apart and that Calgary would be cast into a freezing winter and only emerge in May. No thanks. The Mall attracts a lot of tourists and many from Mainland China bulk buying – Anna followed a lady at the till buying 9 identical bags no doubt for redistribution back home.

We wended our way to the Airport and dropped off the hire car. A diligent chap looked around the car for damage, checked the fuel and what not. I did advise that the engine was missing. Now usually my profound hilarity is met with ‘tumbleweed rolling across an empty street’. However, being a bright bunny he did reflect and surmise that such an underpowered car in the mountains was sluggish and disappeared to provide a $5 free coffee card and a free car upgrade the next time we rented with Alamo. Being a prat does on occasion pay off!

The flight home, via Heathrow to Manchester, was routine. 

So Canada? Kind, beautiful, genuinely interested in the environment, organised, quite expensive compared to the USA but similar in taking a lead from, culture, food, language, appearance and system. A bit ‘vanilla’, somehow too gentle and giving the impression of a new country that’s still finding its identity.

So where next?

July 17, 2017

‘Lord I was born a ramblin’ man’ sang Gregg Allman in 1972 and the riff from this classic Rock song is one that everyone knows because it became the theme to Top Gear. And so this is me again, the latest jaunt sees me load Samantha (Morgan Plus 4) onto the Hull to Zeebrugge ferry with a vague idea of where I am ramblin’. I enjoy driving the car, French camp sites, seeing new sights and generally being off the grid for a week or so.

Any holiday that starts on a ferry has a large frisson of excitement and despite spending a disproportionate amount of my children’s inheritance on this tug every year then I still have the same anticipation when I get on board.

Day 1

The pleasure starts when you drive off and attempt to drill into your numbskull that Johnny Foreigner drives on the other side of the road. Anyway with the hood down I soon strode across Belgium under sunny and then stormy skies.

First stop was the Decathlon superstore at Lille, their head quarters. Daughter No 2 (or Number 1 in her mind) worked in London for the French sports retailer and I just love the selection and prices! So I got to the store with the hood down and came back to the parked car (hood up!) to be in one hell of a summer downpour. This deluge continued as I headed south east down the main motorways for several hours.

Eventually the sun appeared but my once immaculately clean car was filthy and with this dark cloud over me I headed into some motorway services on the French / Luxembourg border. I only ever thought of this little country as a tax haven and irritant by being involved in World Cup qualifiers but also I really don’t like its foremost politician – Jean Claude Juncker. With Brexit looming he made a speech in French eschewing English given that we will be soon gone from his club. I thought this was childish and the prevalence of the English language unstoppable. And so it was in the services with the cashier clarifying matters for all people in English!

Border security has now been reintroduced and at every border there are traffic jams as gun toting police scrutinise the cars and trucks as they file past them presumably in search of terrorists. The implication was that I lost considerable time on all the borders. The longest delay was between France and Germany. Ironic really because I’ve noted that the Germans do not indicate their borders!

Eventually the motorway became too wearying and monotonous and in the late afternoon I find some side roads and look for a campsite. The car is bliss on windy smaller roads providing the road surface is good. The two most horrifying words in French a Morgan driver can see are in the photo below:

Eventually I find one. I last visited it in 2011, by bicycle, in Verdun. I passed this way when looking at the French and German WW1 battlefields. Job done for the day.

Day 2

A bicycle day starts early because there are big distances to pedal. However in the car it is a lot more leisurely. Also I was only sauntering down the road to Villey-le-Sec, near Toul. I have visited this campsite in the car in the last three years and some of scenery is staggering. The Morgan is wonderful with the hood down but if you take the temperature above the twenties then it is like being put under the grill. At McDonalds in Toul where I used the free wifi then the air conditioning was delicious. More memorable was the idiot trying to open my toilet cubicle door and twisting the handle until I came out. His face was a picture of contrition as he thought his work colleague was within (instead of me). Those crazy French eh?

At the campsite I take a familiar spot opposite the Moselle. I have previously seen working barges but over the time I’m there I only see a few pleasure cruisers. I pop out and get some provisions and when I return it’s a literal procession of people who come up and admire the car. Lots of questions about the engine, where it’s made and even one Belgian admirer has one at home. As much as I love the car my heart gently sinks as the next Dutchmen slowly approaches asking if it is still made with a wooden chassis. In fact such was the love that I started getting paranoid. The next morning as other campers passed me saying ‘morgen’ I had to stop and not confirm to them that they were correct and it was in fact a ‘Morgan’.

With this admiring audience I wash the car and then chat with two German cyclists who I tease about carrying too much luggage. They defended the lugging of a cold box several hundred miles on the basis that they always had cool drinks to hand. I wonder if they’ll be so smug when they find more hills as they push on to Marseilles. Also on occasion you come across a lunatic cyclist tourer who is doing it all wrong…

A chap on a mountain bike comes into view pulling a child carrier trailer. In the trailer is fido. However within the trailer are no tent, cooking equipment, clothes etc. So this deranged cyclist finds a tree next to the river to shelter under (a good idea given the heatwave and tropical rain storm combination) and unfurls his sleeping bag, ties up the dog and then goes to sleep. Surprisingly he’s still there the next morning despite the considerable risk of his rolling into the river and floating downstream to the lock.

I imagine like me he was woken by four rooks that are making a spectacular din as they play/fight between the tents. Given that the French seem to eat anything then I may have a solution that appeals to them.

Day 3

So well awake and up I get on the road and decide that I’ll have a look at Strasbourg. First I stop at Decathlon in Nancy to buy Anna some cycling shorts. Apparently the padding is in a different place to boy’s shorts? I come out to lots of Morgan admirers. One besotted Frenchman after seeing my car and viewing the engine compartment drags me across to see the engine of his BMW Z3. Oh ffs

The decision to go to Strasbourg and avoiding the main roads takes me through some minor mountains on empty roads. Despite the midday heat then the wooded climbs keep me cool and I swoop and climb for many miles. My wife would have been thrilled as I saw a deer amble across the road as I slow for another hairpin bend.

What becomes clear here and in many parts of France is the rural abandonment that probably started 60 years ago but continues at a high pace. A lot of settlements have derelict hotels, mills, shops and houses. It seems the jobs went and so did the people. Whilst these places are not terribly remote then I can imagine, back in the day, telling a teenager who’s 25 miles from ‘civilisation’ that this is a fun place to be would be a challenge. Clearly if you’re a Brit with the dosh you can get a lot for a song.

In Strasbourg the intended campsite is reached, nicely within reach of the centre by walking. However, I am turned away as it is full! When I last drove to the site in 2016 it was shut as it was being refurbished. I don’t believe that I am meant to ever stay here! Positively, however, then I’m offered an option 5 miles away but it takes over an hour to reach. Kehl is on the other side of the Rhine but as there is a border then those cunning Germans have made entry on this busy route into a one lane affair and in the sizzling sun I broil as I inch toward the border. The campsite is super and the obligatory man over 50 appears to drool over the car (a bit like a scene from The Truman Show when a man on a walkie talkie advises the actors that I am now on the campsite and a man must appear to admire the car) and then a bloke from York seeks me out. He regularly comes here. So often in fact that he stays with the campsite owner! Anyway bonding done and I walk back to the bridge/border to get a free tram into Strasbourg.

What a beautiful city. Lovely architecture, probably owing more to German than French design but sumptuous and a magnificent cathedral. My mind wonders as to how much it would have cost to build originally. Mind-boggling.

Strasbourg is the other home of the EU and the MEP’s are meant to move between here and Brussels. The reality is that is a pointless double centre arrangement but unsurprisingly the French veto any talk of ‘shutting’ Strasbourg. ‘Non’.

So after a good walk around I find an outside restaurant and the result was excellent. I was only offered two cooking choices – ‘red or medium’! I get back on the tram to Kehl and then saunter back to the campsite. Another striking factor is the ethnic mix on the both sides of the border. There are many many people from the Middle East and Africa. I guess that there were a lot of newcomers long before Angela tore down the border for refugees.

Back at the campsite I find a German lady who is admiring the car. ‘Ageing crumpet’ will save me a lot of words in describing her (apologies to the Thought Police). She has come to Strasbourg on her bike to meet someone to do something but tomorrow she is planning to escape the heat by going swimming with a Russian girlfriend (…you think I make all this up!) Anyway back in the ’90’s she visited the Morgan factory on a professional photography assignment and was relaying this to me with considerable colour – ‘oh, you should have seen zee factory with all zee walls covered in porno’.

Why she is travelling alone is now becoming a little clearer.

Clearly it is a long time before Page 3 girls were prohibited from being posted on lockers but I remember those years well. Not a loss. All in all I’m disappointed that this was her main memory of the most exquisite of British motor engineering!

Day 4

Anyway no rooks next morning but quite a bit of rain and being Sunday I drive into France to find a supermarket. Germany ‘does’ Sunday and no retail shops are open other than in tourist areas. A little face peaks through my car window as I park up and asks if I speak English? “A little bit”. “May I take a photo?” “Mais oui”.

The drive to Stuttgart up the E5 was horrid. I drank a litre and a half of water in 3 hours just sat still in the car as I toasted alive hurtling east. Along the way with pending late afternoon thunderstorms I decide on a hotel and find one on the internet. Through heavy traffic I get to the hotel in late afternoon to find the door in North Stuttgart locked! I ring the intercom and am advised to type in a code and a key pops out of a hole! The room was hot but it was good to get out of the storm and try and find my lost prescription sunglasses.

Day 5

Alas they were not to be found and I decided to solve the problem by going ‘old school’ to quote Daughter No. 1 (who definitely knows that she is No. 1) and planned to get some clip on’s. Very ‘1985’ I hear you saying but continuing on my travels squinting was not an option. Up the road was an optician and in the morning he had the solution and was prepared to cut the lens to fit my glasses. All for €19.

In downtown Stuttgart I found an underground car park and went in search of Second Hand Records. This is a truly brilliant vinyl record store for anyone collecting older stuff. In fairness they had lots of new but I bought some Humble Pie, The Nice, Santana & McLaughlin, Millie Jackson, Ten Years After, Candi Staton, Cat Stevens, Average White Band and Alvin Lee. Blissfully happy I steered Samantha into the Black Forest on the B roads.

Now this was the sensible way to head south west again. It is lovely although I expected a larger area. I got to St Peter and found a campsite that for views and shower block immediately makes the ‘Tony Ives Top 10 Campsites’ and all for €9 with great wi-fi. In speaking to Anna I demonstrated the rugged side of my nature as she listened to the rain falling on the tent. However real manhood would have been demonstrated as she heard the thunder and lightning that I endured until the early hours of the morning. I genuinely thought that the ground would be so waterlogged that I couldn’t drive the car off the grass next morning. It wasn’t.

In gentle rain I continued south and made it to Mulhouse. Here I popped into the shop to buy a couple of T Shirts at the French National Motor Museum. I went around it in 2013 and it is probably the best car museum in the world. I replaced a much loved T Shirt I bought back then.

Now it was up the mountains in the Vosges. This is where the car excels and it is a pleasure to surge up the hills and take the corners tight on the way down! I pushed onto another Google find in St Maurice-sous-les-Côtes. This campsite was a field of mirabelle plum trees with spaces and a small mixed shower block. In asking a lady when Reception would open I made a friend in Susan and her husband, Immer. She was an English woman, married to a Dutchman, who tuned pianos and painted oil pictures of our currently conflicted world… Trump, Theresa May, discarded plastic bottles in the ocean and miners with bird faces (so very Tony, I know). Knowing that she was a gentle soul I felt compelled to discuss Brexit! ‘Light blue touch paper and retire’ comes to mind. Anyway I hope I assured her that the world will continue to spin and Boris Johnson’s mum loves him even if Remainers don’t. I return to the tent to find the ‘neighbour’ shaving her legs (and trimming her moustache, just joking about the second part) but the Dutch are really a practical nation as was another Dutch lady changing her top in the mixed shower block the next morning!

All in all a lovely very French site with an owner selling local produce and being so courteous and helpful that I must find his site on Trip Advisor to anoint him. Maybe we bonded when he talked about the car on a TV programme that he watched about someone refurbishing a Morgan.

Day 6

In more rain I head north. Now I’m thinking about the ferry home and edging closer. Again Google finds a site as I’m sat in a McDonalds in Reims charging the iPad and using the ‘whiffy’. I drive to Guise and find a gem of a town with a fabulous campsite. “Where can I pitch the tent?” “Anywhere”. Correct answer. So that means away from the kids and other folk at the bottom of the site! Here in the now warm evening I wash the car. Originally I got the really grim dirt off it at a car washing centre with a high pressure jet but back on the site some further detail work needed doing. After is a stroll into town to meet Stella (Artois). Then back for another episode of House of Cards Season 5, nicely held on my iPad after a Netflix download.

Day 7

Again a leisurely departure and a drive north through arable land and past French and British World War One cemeteries. All poignant. A stop at a supermarket in Roubaix to get some vittles for the ship and then onto the ferry.

There are signs warning about illegal migrants stowing away on trucks and at the ferry port security are checking cars. I am exempt from the search as it become plain that my fitting into the car with luggage is difficult let alone a bloke fleeing Afghanistan.

A routine sailing with me catching up on the blog with a pint of Guinness later.

Day 8

Into the Hull rush hour and then home.

July 4, 2017

Day 1

So back on the road… how exciting! After a winter of injury then to actually pack the panniers and gingerly advance on my trusty steed toward York Station was quite a thrill. Frankly I’m not fully restored but I was anxious to see how the knee behaved as I had planned a tour that by any standards was not a gentle re-introduction.

Lord knows Cross Country Rail is not a thing of beauty and even less so as it arrived 35 minutes late as I wended my way down to Derby to start the ride. The first challenge was loading the bike onto the correct carriage and then ‘hanging it up’ in a special recess. That went well but at the next stop, Leeds, another cyclist was moving my heavy bike to create space for his and clattering it as he grappled with its weight. I was heard to utter a loud ‘whoa!!’ to indicate my displeasure at his manhandling. The weightlifter in question objected to my objection and pointed out that the ‘train wasn’t my personal property’….’’maybe, but the bike’s my personal property”. Anyway I went back to my seat hoping he had an unfortunate accident with a car outside Wakefield Station when he alighted.

Eventually Derby came and I met up with Tony Franco who’d had to hang around the Station until I arrived. Tony and I met in 1985 when we studied at the University of Bradford for our MBA’s. Tony has a busy work schedule but is a cyclist, runner and swimmer. However such a long trip was new to him.

The Marketing Guru led off through Derby traffic for our evening accommodation but gave an indication that it might be three days of intensive supervision when he forgot the directions on the way to his parent’s house! To confirm my suspicions then on this short trip he managed to get a puncture.

Anyway we left Mr & Mrs Franco’s and were later fêted like Kings at his sister and brother-in-laws’ house in Littleover and then retired to contemplate the expedition ahead.

Day 2

A grey and chilly morning greeted us as we cycled to Etwall to pick up Sustran’s Route 68 – ‘The Pennine Cycleway’. This was on country lanes par excellence and made even better by the sighting of an early morning E Type Jaguar on its way, no doubt, to a Show or some such.

The road rose and fell a little but Ashbourne was reached with little distress. We nearly missed it as we were diverted around the edges of the town but stopped at the beginning of the Tissington Trail for a teacake and cup of tea. After this we had a gentle 10 mile uphill ride. We joined a Hen Party on their hired bikes, sporting sashes, grinding along uphill stoically. Being cheery with this hung over party was not completely well received and the future sister-in-law did confide that she was looking forward to the pub stop (it had been promised) not too far away. It also was busy with walkers on the Trail and there were a lot of small teenagers hidden by enormous rucksacks out in the wilds doing their Duke Of Edinburgh awards.

The views of the Peak District were fabulous as we pedalled along and we left the route briefly at Hurdlow for some lunch at a pub. The complete joy of long distance cycling is that you can eat what you want with impunity… we did. At this stop I instructed Tony how to operate his expensive Garmin Sat Nav/Computer sat on his handlebars looking, up until this point, neglected.

Up until this point Tony and I had been jauntily suggesting that our wives could have completed and enjoyed the ride so far and so let’s have them invest in those padded shorts and get their diaries out. As the day progressed then this idea seemed less promising.

After gentle gradients then gravity took a more serious and unwelcome role in our lives as we approached Buxton. Figures like 13% started to appear on my Garmin as I reached for the granny gears on the bike. Close to Buxton the frailties of friendship and consultation reared their ugly head and instead of logically following a trim female road cyclist on a carbon bike up an A Road to Buxton I gave the option to Tony of following the map or the cyclist. Anyway the upshot was a long walk on a shattered track resplendent with boulders and loose stones. If I am to blame for this mistake then it was not to have questioned in more detail a very nice gentleman picking up litter near said track. I just enquired as to whether it was a quick route into Buxton, which he confirmed it was. He also did add that it was quite a decent road surface until all “the four by fours fucked it up”!

We eventually got to the delightful town that is Buxton in warm sunshine and partook of refreshment before contemplating the next part of the ride.

This meant a very serious ascent out of the town and by now I’m feeling like I am punishing Tony with the amount and severity of climbing. He was, in fairness, cheerful and game throughout but maybe my planning had been a slight over optimistic. Toward the top of the hill outside of Buxton the map directed us up another terribly steep hill to where the road became a stony track. Once in a day is careless but twice is stupidity and so a plan was hatched to stick to main roads from here to Glossop. This decision was immediately rewarded by a several mile descent toward Whaley Bridge. A man in a small Peugeot convertible passed with a washing machine in the passenger seat, I wondered if he had ever thought that online dating sites might bring him more success?

At the bottom I rang the pub that we were staying at for the night to be treated like a retard and told there was no reservation. I had arranged everything in early June and so this was not only inconvenient but also simply ignorant. Trip Advisor will inform the world of their oversight: I promise.

So with Tony consuming gel bars and Mars bars we climbed into Glossop and completed our 65 miles for the day and clocked up 1,676 metres worth of climbing. The last few miles were enormously steep gradients. For a novice this was a remarkable baptism of fire… sorry! The Travel Lodge in Glossop had space and after a shower and some food we both separated to sleep soundly

Day 3

I think Lionel Ritchie once volunteered ‘Easy like Sunday morning’. Not if you’re with me Lionel! We went into Wetherspoons for breakfast and consumed a complete ‘heart attack on a plate’. Delicious. I did ask the waiter if they actually served alcohol at 8 am? He said that they didn’t until 9 am. He did say that some lost souls actually did buy booze at 9 am. He liked to think they were off a night shift somewhere but he knew they weren’t.

In line with a developing pattern we climbed out of Glossop and went in search of Route 68. Stopping to ask the locals was quite funny as we asked one chap who gave a very good plan of how to get to it only for him to leave and another bloke to dismiss his directions as tosh as ‘he was new around here’. I can’t pretend we nailed the route to start with but eventually we made progress north until near Holme Moss. Here I foolishly, in retrospect, followed the ‘Trans-Pennine Way’. If that was foolish then the Park Ranger who gave us further directions was even more of a fool. We were sent on a trail that wasn’t fit for bicycles or well marked. The upshot was that we pushed our bicycles up a long grassy hill/mountain to a stone shed that was clearly a dead end.  One interesting discovery was that in a space of several hundred square miles cows can crap copiously on a small strip of grass path – the only place where you can push or ride your bicycle.

Holmfirth was eventually reached in lovely sunshine and predictably heaving with tourists. All no doubt seeking a cup of tea at the famous café used in Last of the Summer Wine. It was early afternoon and we had over 40 miles to cycle so we pushed on. The Sat Nav said Huddersfield next and we entered the home of Premiership football in no time and then reaching for our crampons climbed out of the town leaving the speeding cars below us. Tony was now starting to understand long distance touring and was developing his own nutritional solutions – Peppa Pig Gums.

Elland was a wonderful discovery only because of the amazing descent shortly after you pass beneath the M62 and from here we aimed for Halifax. It was here that my nutritional solution was adopted – McDonalds. Being a cool dude then Tony had heard of this fast food outlet and apparently close relatives of his frequented these popular temples of delight. Unfortunately, he had not sullied the premises in his living memory and I’d like to think I helped him overcome some psychological barriers as he ravenously consumed a Chicken Legend, fries and two large Cokes.

Pleasure was short lived as Halifax provided more steep climbs and continuing heavy traffic before a long descent into Hebden Bridge. Here we checked out letting the train take some of the strain and found out we could get to Burnley on the 16:52. So a quick spin around Hebden Bridge and even a look in a record shop before back to the Station to catch… the wrong train. Anyway Manchester Victoria was nice and Tony bonded with an older lady who remonstrated that the train driver had failed to stop at Smithy Bridge (no, we had never heard of it either). We felt her pain and no doubt so did the train driver who she bolted toward when we came to rest.

Given my accumulating transgressions for this murderous route then I was keen to re-apportion blame for this mistake and Tony accepted my opprobrium with good grace. So catching another train to Burnley we got there with a bijou 13 miles to complete to get to Barnoldswick. I had telephoned ahead to the hotel/pub to advise we were coming but worried that we might not get food on a Sunday night in this little place and urged Tony for one last push. Poor chap he was cycling on memory by now but uncomplaining and up for the challenge.

So through Burnley, Nelson and Colne we pressed on in the early evening sunshine noting the differing communities and the surprising number of elderly immaculate Mercedes and BMW’s being driven by young Asian lads blaring out the Top 20 from Karachi. Another feature of the communities was a sewing machine shop! There must be many dressmakers to keep a shop in business and it momentarily reminded my mother and her dress making back in the day.

The Fountains Head was a noisy pub with rooms upstairs – yet despite our being late, smelly and it being very busy with many patrons we were ushered in and fed magnificently. The room was super but to be honest we could have slept on a clothes line by now.

I am a great believer in the maxim that you should only tell the truth if it serves a useful purpose. To this end whilst paying the bill at the bar a fairly well oiled woman perching on a bar stool made the perceptive observation, probably driven by my being in an orange lycra jersey, cycle shorts and looking knackered that I had been riding a bike. I confirmed her assertion and then went onto to outline the route (“never heard of Glossop, is it in Kent?”) and the distances involved. She then opined that as I was ‘getting on’ then clearly this was an achievement…. I never did like Barnoldswick.

‘Scores on the doors?’ – 54.2 miles for the day and a mere 1,360 metres of climbing. (Sorry, again).

Day 4

Rain! This was the greeting as we stepped out of the door after our ‘thank you’s’ to Carole, the owner of said hostelry. However before this we were befriended by Dave Dee (or Duxbury to his bank manager and doctor). Dave made breakfast, sadly not a core competence, and then regaled us with his disappointment at large families living off Benefits whilst he made do on a lot less, his time as an undertaker (loved the job), Night Club Singer (Tamla is his forte), his broken earlier marriage, child bereavement and his discovery that his real father (he was adopted) sang on cruise liners. We needed some quiet time on the bike to process all this…

Carole suggested picking up the Leeds to Liverpool Canal towpath at Skipton. Between Barnoldswick and Skipton was a poor path apparently. So we joined the Monday morning rush hour on the horrific A59 to Skipton – awful!

Once in Skipton I found the canal as Tony sped past into the centre of town with me bawling “TONY!… Pay attention 007”. He dutifully turned around. The towpath after Skipton became a muddy track with large stones and tree roots – no fun and after a coffee stop in Silsden I was thinking that I cannot ride this for another 25 miles into Leeds. Fortunately about a mile south of Silsden the track became a made up towpath and from here into Leeds got progressively smoother and faster. After the earlier two days I owed Tony something flatter and the ride into Leeds was a gradual descent from the top of the Pennines.

This canal was opened in the early 19th Century and cost £877,000 to build. However miraculously you could leave Leeds on a Wednesday and be in Liverpool on the Saturday. I expect that the railway soon led the canal to lose its traffic and with the motor vehicle the waterway is now a beautiful relic. In fact we saw few barges and if you did it was as they were queuing or within the locks that help the barges deal with the terrain. The canal was picturesque and the towpath sparsely populated.

There was a lot of development near to the canal as we progressed toward Leeds and I expect residents wanted a view of the canal and its calming influence. You could see some imposing and large converted mills along its length that foretold a very different history to the de-industrialised world we now cycled through. A beautiful ride and easy to boot. Frankly, I am not sure why I have not heard of more folk doing this.

Lunch was taken at Rodley in the outskirts of Leeds and then we literally cycled past the entrance to Leeds Station where Tony bought a train ticket to London with the rejoinder that for the same price he could have booked a return flight to Barcelona!

This ride from Barnoldswick totalled 38.1 miles and a mere 159 metres of climbing.

I then dragged my weary body up and out of Leeds and found some of my regular cycle routes near Thorner. These took me back to York where I amassed 62.8 miles for the day and 469 metres of climbing. I didn’t envy Tony who had to reawaken those screaming muscles at Kings Cross and persuade then to function through London rush hour traffic on his ride home.

A great whirlwind of a trip. Great company, memorable cycling and at times captivating scenery. Can’t wait for the next one.

April 9, 2017

I couldn’t shift the words ‘Flew in from Miami Beach BOAC…’ by The Beatles out of my head as we flew into Miami and then took a taxi across to Miami Beach in biblical rain. BOAC doesn’t exist anymore and neither does the USSR despite some residual expansionary plans by Russia. We were here for a day before heading up to Fort Lauderdale to meet our Royal Caribbean cruise liner.

Miami Beach is a strange combination of big hotels, old Art Deco buildings, enormous wealth, Jewish communities, multi million $ yachts, sandy beaches, people who are young, old and quite a few gay men. It also has a brilliant selection of super cars cruising up and down Ocean Drive. Ferraris, Lamborghinis & Bentleys proliferate but we were told these were rental cars, which nicely fits into that false facade that the area presents. 

The very American way of life soon hits you – TV adverts aimed at older people for blood thinning drugs or solving constipation. Fox News with impossibly attractive and coiffured women discussing dull proposed educational initiatives by certain States. CNN preoccupied, as if like a rabbit caught in the headlights, trying to pull apart or denigrate Trump in every newscast. The sudden vocabulary that assaults you with words like ‘intentionalities’. Back on the streets a high presence of police cars and prices that meant that we paid $50 every time we sat down to eat basic fayre (and we ain’t no fancy eaters y’hear). Lastly there was Anna leaping into a four lane highway to retrieve dollar bills, fluttering downwards, thrown from some high rise balcony only to be told that she should keep them. The $5 sorted out her holiday spending money nicely, I told her.

After two nights of reasonable sleep as we tried to cope with the jet lag then we were ferried up to Fort Lauderdale to ‘The Serenade Of The Seas’ for 11 nights cruising around the Caribbean. 

The ship, built in Germany and launched in 2003 is still quite serviceable and our Deck 4 cabin included a porthole but with not a lot to see as we sped at 20 knots toward Antigua. There appeared to be more lists of prohibited behaviour on the ship than in the Old Testament and mainly about not consuming your own alcohol. Buying Royal Caribbean booze is eye wateringly expensive ($16 for a glass of Rose?) and so our smuggled on board wine and Scotch needed to satisfed most of our cravings in the cabin until we alighted at former parts of the British Empire and found a bar. Our fellow 2,179 travellers were 72% Americans, many north of 65 years old (oh so, you’ll were amongst your own then Tony, I hear you muse…) and with appetites that make perambulation a significant challenge due to their girth and our worrying suspicion that they were attempting to die in transit by an excessive consumption of omelettes, bacon, ice cream, mash potato and waffles. The food is clearly why many are on the ship and so ‘fill your boots’ is the mantra three times a day (and in between). This unbelievably is prepared by 140 cooks out of a total staff of 850. One officer commented that these 36 different nations spoke one common language – broken English! 

There are other ages and nationalities amongst the passengers on board but one Brit did turn up for dinner one night in a Tottenham Hotspur home shirt – I just hoped it was hiding the flail weals on his back after a damn good whipping for letting our nation down sartorially. 

We were 0.35 miles (return) from the main dining room to our cabin, including seven flights of stairs; we expected to lose weight although temptation for cake, ice cream, pancakes, eggs over easy, hash browns, hot dogs, creme brûlées etc. is a terrible thing isn’t it!

We opted to share a table at dinner the first night and out of the eight of us then we included Texas, Georgia and Sweden amongst the diners. The couple from Sweden own two small islands, he sold Volvos and they were both proud of Abba (not typical Swedes then…) The Texans are really a retired peripatetic Californians on their 23rd cruise who are on the first of back to back cruises on the same ship. We got to chat and sit with Norma and Bob quite a bit and they were delightful and not without a little humour. The folk from Georgia had a captivating charm and turn of phrase: whilst discussing cruise food and ‘desserts we have known and loved’ then Don declared – “If you had a piece of Melting Chocolate Cake on your forehead then you’d beat you brains out with your tongue trying to reach it”. I knew what he meant and how delicious it must be.

Amongst other distractions then the internet was not to be one. I’m went cold turkey and seemed to cope. Like a teenager then much of my life has become controlled by my iPhone and waking moments are spent ensuring that I haven’t missed that vital promotional email from Tesco (that I always delete without reading) or seeing which person I loathe on Twitter has posted their latest recidivist bile. The gym came back to compensate for incarceration whilst at sea but that was further away than the dining room! 

Antigua

Antigua was our first sortie off the ship and our first step onto the Leeward Islands. I felt that we’d see some sandy beaches, very verdant countryside and maybe some signs of a less prosperous and laid back life… and we did. It’s a small place with a population of just over 80,000 and the economy is based on tourism although several pineapple trees were pointed out to us, along with bananas and other local produce. It was hilly – short and sharp inclines and drops. The road surface was rutted as we wove and bounced along the byways in our little Nissan mini bus. 

The first stop was at the highest church on the island. They do appear to be a God fearing people and so there were quite a few churches. Here we got off the bus to look at the small building. Anna became engaged in conversation with a gentleman who was requesting $1 as a donation for his failing roof. I joined his immediate congregation and brought the conversation around to a former religion popular on the island, namely cricket, and not least the other omnipresent Being who was born and bred here, Viv Richards. The gentleman claimed to be a cousin of the said man, I was so impressed that I thought about a selfie but then thought maybe not.

I found in general that cricket is still popular in the West Indies but there are other sports that frankly offer the best an opportunity to move to the United States, particularly, basketball and American Football. The other sport is football in Europe. Both continents offer lucrative professional careers for the talented and so the national cricket team doesn’t get the most able West Indian sportsmen. Cricket is a very poor relation and the best West Indian cricketer (Chris Gayle) doesn’t even play for the national team whilst he can play One Day cricket in India and Australia and earn a fortune.

Of course the British brought some colonial misery to add to the islands history but we have left their best tourist attraction, which is Nelson’s Naval Dockyard. Here the fleet was repaired and restored in the middle 18th and early 19th Century amidst terrible British mortality due to yellow fever, heat stroke and a general inability of Europeans to cope with the climate. Our inglorious history predictably involved using slaves we’d probably kindly shipped across from west Africa. Anyway this restored complex now helps make the island money and appears to be their No. 1 attraction. I enjoyed the actual museum as well, within the Dockyard, with its artefacts and graphics, not least about Horatio who did a three year tour of duty out here mainly keeping the cheeky Yanks away from the islands with mixed success. It wasn’t war (we’d lost that) with the Americans but mainly we didn’t want them trading with the islands as before, that apparently was a privilege reserved for nations that paid taxes as our colony (and quite right!)

It is worth talking about the Caribbean population that includes many ethnicities but the vast majority are descendants from Africa (90%?). This means that they were originally shipped by Europeans, in inhumane conditions, across an ocean to spend the rest of their lives in servitude. As regards the British colonies then it wasn’t until 1834 when an Act or Parliament abolished slavery. However that still left a lot of

people of African descent a long way from their (or their forbears’) homes and still working in jobs with minimal reward as the only option for survival. I think that some Jamaican politicians still talk of reparations but we, white tourists, faced no aggravation (obviously as we brought hard currency) but it is humbling to think on their past.

There are odd plaques that refer to the past and the eventual independence of the islands, mainly in the 1960’s and 70’s, which refers to the journey these folk have made.

Sorry to include a photo of some squalor. I know these are poor places and I am lucky to be wealthy compared to these folk but on other later islands we saw more pride and care over their immediate surroundings. This is why if you were compiling a tour of islands to visit in the Caribbean then you might not pick this one. Although it seems fair to end by mentioning that Antigua promotes its beaches rather than its sights.

St Lucia

Well after being frankly being very underwhelmed by Antigua then apprehension was the word for St Lucia. A nice man in the ship’s theatre with an out of focus PowerPoint had advised that St Lucia (current population of 185,000) had changed hands 14 times between the French and British before coming to rest as a British Colony in 1814. However whilst the French didn’t leave their language they did leave the place names. In addition (for you pub quiz devotees) then it is the only country with a female name in it. His other information was to do with his repeated enthusiasm for the banana plantations. Funnily enough we were not.

So in bright sunlight and sweltering heat of 29 degrees we disembarked at the port in Castries and clambered on board a very long wheel base Land Rover and, proverbially, took to the hills. Again an island of steep hills and hairpins but wider roads, more prosperity and a greater pride in its appearance although worryingly the 16th highest murder rate in the world. Crystal, our guide, reserved her longest explanation of events for the 2016 T20 Cricket World Cup Final where you may remember England lost due a desperate last over of bowling from Ben Stokes. We heard her out and all then, I suspect, on the bus enthusiastic about English cricket made a mental note about the size of her tip at the end of excursion.

What a green and plentiful place – lots of bananas, coconuts, pineapples, cashew nuts and other exotic fruit. This all added up to a significant agriculture business with plenty of employment. In Crystal’s running commentary then Hershey took 90% of the cocoa production but apparently the UK were appreciated for our importation of bananas. They also had quite an industry in oil extraction of various plants. Tourism ranked top. She also noted, giving the British some credit, for the 1834 abolition of slavery. Frankly it seems a pitiful achievement but other nations were slower: it took the US another 31 years (and a civil war).

The open top Land Rover was fun with the wind on our faces and sun on our heads as we flew along. However my hat blew off and so, talking about island fruit, I returned to the ship looking like a ‘Guernsey Tom’ – not a good look but Anna was able to see me in the dark with the lights switched off for a couple of nights.

Yes so thumbs up for St Lucia. The guide was a fun delight including throwing herself off from the top of the waterfall. The driver, Bubbles, was one hell of a driver managing to persuade a very heavily laden Land Rover up and around some very demanding inclines. This island was lush, organised, great folk, beautiful to see and no little fun.

Barbados

Barbados (population 280,000) was the next port of call and we’d decided that bouncing around in a bus/truck for four hours on each island

should be rationed to preserve the pleasure and so we got a taxi into Bridgetown, the capital, and declined the various excursions available around the island. We found a working town but on a Saturday it was also a shopping/market day and the place was fizzing. First job, however, was finding wi-fi to FaceTime the children and not least Katrina who’s 26th birthday it was. We found her sipping champagne at some swanky place in the centre of London with lots of her friends. That’s my girl, well done! 

So on into town and we saw lots of fruit and veg stalls with items I couldn’t recognise and all the women shoppers also seeking bargains in clothes, hair products, groceries etc as we ambled around the streets. It was vibrant and colourful and interesting to see how they conduct their day to day lives. However after a couple of beers we were back on the ship and thinking where next?

The Captain announced a couple of things over the PA every day and sadly thought he was a comedian as well as the ‘Jolly Jack Tar Numero Uno’. (He’s Norwegian for Heaven’s sake and we know humour is not a national attribute!) Disembarkation comes with his advice to take a camera should you arrive back late for embarkation. This is because you will be able to take an excellent shot of the ship as she sails away. Not quite as funny as one female comedian who did a stand up show and picked on the audience. She was quick because when one innocent volunteered that his name was Duncan she shot back “Duncan? As is in donuts?”

In fact there was a programme of entertainment on the ship and you can select from a singer/guitarist in a pub, staged theatre shows or reggae near the pool at various times during the day and night. We liked all the staged productions with dancers and singers. They were well done but I truly loved the band who accompanied the theatre productions. Five in the brass section along with drums, keyboards, guitar and bass. On one evening the chaps bowled up to the centre bar and played a selection of jazz. I think this was the type of music they would ordinarily play for themselves. Quite fabulous.

Grenada

We literally had a pit stop in Grenada (110,000 population), the southerly most island in the Windward Islands. We disembarked at 7.45am and were back on for 1pm. This is because of the long next sail to Bonaire. So Pumpkin, our driver and guide squeezed us into the Nissan bus and again we headed toward the centre of the island up a mountain. It was so fertile an island that we saw eucalyptus, papaya, nutmeg, bamboo, bananas, turmeric, ginger, cocoa, cinnamon growing in such a lush setting. I felt had I dropped a piece of paper it would shortly become a tree. 

Our first stop was Douglaston Plantation employing 65 people on 200 acres. Here we touched and smelt various spices in a demonstration. Next we went into a rain forest park with a lake. That was pretty enough but on our way there we had to drive through a crowd of about 100 teenagers and youths mostly off their faces on whatever and many covered in mud. They were toward the fag end of an all nighter. They were in the road over a 150 metre stretch and still dancing on this country lane to a sound system that made the bus vibrate. Quite odd to wend up and down these little empty roads in dense tropical undergrowth for a long time to suddenly get to above 1000 feet and come across this party with obviously wrecked kids.

Pumpkin, his name and not my imagination, touched on the US invasion in 1983 and explained that after four years of Marxism after a coup and a build up of Cuban troops (and influence) then the US invaded to kick them and the regime out. It came to a brief war and USA soldiers and Cubans lost their lives. (Frankly Reagan wasn’t going to tolerate Cuban mischief and expansionary ambitions in his ‘backyard’). The suspicion was that Grenada would provide an excellent Soviet/Cuban launchpad for Marxist insurgency in Central America, not least as a refuelling stop with a new military capable airstrip under construction at the time. 

Pumpkin said Grenadians were grateful to the US and lauded Ronnie but went out of his way, unprovoked, to suggest Obama was terrible as a President! More celebrated by the locals was the fact it was 43 years since they gained their independence from the UK – we saw quite a few pictures painted on the walls commemorating this event in national colours. Grenada for all its fertile lands is very poor and tourism is the major earner not least from American tourists. Apparently unemployment is 28% with little welfare support but apparently very low crime. None of this is helped by the necessity of considerable rebuilding of the island after phenomenal devastation to housing and crops caused in 2004 by Hurricane Ivan, including 39 deaths. It seems to me that processing some of these amazing agricultural products should be the next step and so increase the value of the exports.

So after a visit to an old British/French fort we were deposited back at the ship and the next decision, before the buffet, was a tip. Clearly as a Yorkshireman then this pains me. I recognise service but where it becomes frankly begging or harassment then I’m not happy. Pumpkin was well worth the $10 we handed across. However, on the trip we went to see a waterfall. Very nice but no I didn’t want to pay to see someone jump off the top of it, no matter how many times you shake the tin aggressively at me. Also thank you for the compliments as you walk beside me along the path back to the bus strumming a guitar (badly) whilst singing about my great generosity of spirit and high standing in society but no it isn’t worth $1 for this 20 second serenade. These are poor places and we chipped in regularly, over and above the excursion costs, for guides, drivers, spices, church roofs, samples of mango etc but I found some of it wearing.

Album of the trip was I Got Your Medicine by The Shinyribs. They were new to me but I was detailed to review this for Americana Music Show podcast and actually thought it was a stormer! A soul rock throw back to the 1970’s. I pedalled many a mile in the gym to this.

Bonaire

Next we were headed to places that I may have heard of but they simply hadn’t registered with me. The first was Bonaire just off the coast of Venezuela with a population of 19,000 and a beach life existence for the residents. It was actually part of The Netherlands rather than a colony still. Due to this then the infrastructure was in a lot better condition and made getting around easy.

This Dutch island of diddly squat size is completely flat, arid and has wild donkeys wandering around the scrub – as the guide said “India has cows that roam free then we have donkeys”. I did wonder if he-aw he-aw he-aw he always said that. This proliferation has something to do with the fact that they once needed and bred for hauling stuff around and when they were replaced then they were released into the wild to fend for themselves… and this they did!

The island produces salt and aloe vera but like the other islands makes its money out of tourism. The tourists either scuba dive, snorkel or sunbathe. Even Dutch Royals visit the island every year to show their faces and greet the natives. Given the entertainment options then we chose to cycle round part of the island in the midday sun (dodging donkeys) on electric bicycles. We ended up cycling over 20 miles albeit with considerable help from the bikes into a persistent gale. (Some of us were jolly pleased to work on their suntans). 

The slaves up until the 19th Century helped harvest the salt that accumulated in vast ponds. Salt in these times was a precious commodity sought after for food preservation. Given this mineral and its value then the Spanish and Dutch fought over the island many times. In the burning sun against a white glare then it must have been a hellish job for the wretchedly unlucky Africans. There wasn’t a lot to see but our Belgian guide showed us his parent’s property rental ($3,000/week), the brick huts the Dutch kindly built for their slaves when there was talk of rebellion and bought us a beer. As you can see the sea was crystal clear and oh so blue.

Less unfortunate as regards the salt ponds were the migratory flamingos who used the pools to find salt water shrimp. At 7.30 pm we set sail again.

Aruba

Next morning we woke up in Aruba. This is part of the Netherlands remaining empire and is a small island but with over 100,000 people on it just 15 miles off the Venezuelan coast. Again like Bonaire tourism is a major dollar earner contributing 75% of its earnings with some agriculture and petrol refining tagging along. It is quite a prosperous place and you feel that as you visit the capital, Oranjestad. The Spanish and Dutch fought over it for a couple of centuries and the place, which has few natural resources, was used for livestock breeding, including horses. They were quite useful for conquering South America.

We strolled around and found a Starbucks and caught up with our email (nothing from Tescos regrettably) and then looked around the town noting that all the brands were here but at a high price. In every cruise port we visited there are high end jewellery shops – watches, diamonds, rings etc. In addition there are salespeople on the ship promoting these shops. They do this by invitations to seminars on the ship, handing out ‘shopping maps’ when you disembark, discounts for shopping, invitations to shops ‘which will be fun and involve complimentary champagne’ and then a whole TV channel in your room that babbles on about opportunities and bargains for 24 hours a day. I would be worried about parting with serious cash in some of these countries to later find a problem back in the UK. I think maybe for some, with money to burn, then this is part of the holiday.

Oranjestad is an attractive town and well organised with a lot of Spanish and Dutch influence in evidence. The present Mrs Ives left me on one corner as I used the free wi-fi to, in effect, disappear. I looked up concluding that I had been abandoned and so returned to the ship, but found no wife. So I went back through the security checks and all that hassle back into town to the very corner where I last saw her. However no wife! At this point I was imaging a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean involving her abduction and my sailing to Florida alone. So eventually after a look around I returned to the ship. I asked Security if she had embarked? She had, in fact she was so worried about our parting that she’d gone to lunch on the top deck by herself. As you were.

So there were two days left to sail back to Florida. The present Mrs Ives worked on her tan before some serious retail therapy at a Miami mall 

and Terminal 5 at Heathrow, by which hangs a story… We were meant to fly from Miami to Philadelphia and then onto Manchester. Our Miami flight was delayed to a time that meant we missed the Manchester connection. Apparently there was wild weather between both places. 

The drama meant standing at the check-In desk whilst the staff sought out Plan B for us, the last thing we wanted was to wait another day in Miami. This they did and we flew from Miami to London and then onto Manchester adding 4½ hours to the return time. Having not slept since Lord knows when then keeping awake on the drive back across the M62 was tricky but we managed to get home.

(Must add that I saw some interesting films on the flights of which ‘Manchester by the Sea’ was brilliant – surely the rightful Oscar winner (?) but ‘Whiplash’ was good).

So a splendid time was had by all. I now know a lot more about the region and its people and could actually tell you where these islands are in relation to North America, South America, Puerto Rica and Cuba. Tourism is the way forward for these islands but you deep down hope that they can develop other ways to make a living that are sustainable and self fulfilling for the residents. Travel broadens the mind and I returned broader in more ways than one!

February 1, 2017

To be honest I wanted something relatively flat as a holiday route and cycling to Copenhagen from Europort (Rotterdam) offered that solution. In fact it was 500 miles before I got anywhere near a demanding incline, assuming that you don’t count several bridges over Dutch canals.

A winter of keeping fit after cycling down the USA, had led me to be riding 100 miles a week including tough rides in the Yorkshire Wolds. On one such ride then I could barely keep the bike upright as I ascended a 25% gradient outside Birdsall at which point my left knee complained (not unreasonably) and I picked up an injury which stayed with me from thereon. A summer on the road was still a priority but maybe with a few less hills.

I had intended to cycle up to the top of Jutland and then return to Rotterdam but as you’ll read then one of the joys of being on a bike expedition, with no return ticket and no time constraints, is that things change. This tour took place between July 31st and August 13th.

If you know me (bad luck!!) then you will know that as an experienced tourer. I haven’t dwelt on all this stuff in the blog.  I have all the right camping gear, a good bike and enough of a sense of humour and resilience to get me across a long distance. If you have any questions about tents, luggage, maps and the like then drop me an email I am sure I can help you with any insomnia.

Day 1 – York to Hull

From being a young boy then a trip on a ferry was always the absolutely best way to start an adventure/holiday and I left York to catch the Hull to Rotterdam ferry’s evening sailing. It is always a bit spooky to cycle up onto the ferry amongst the queues of cars. 

On the way there I cycled through Melbourne – a sleepy farming village and it is strange to think that my father was posted here at a local RAF Airfield repairing Halifax bombers during WW2. When my father told my grandmother that he was to be stationed in Melbourne she thought he’d been despatched to Australia!

The sailing was smooth and a bite to eat and my last pint of English bitter was had.

Day 2 – Europort to Amsterdam (82 miles)

On the ship were other disembarking cyclists, the guy in the ‘Omega’ shirt was cycling to Berlin. Leaving with other cyclists can be excellent because exiting a port with its side roads and warehouses can be confusing and difficult – much better to follow someone who knows the way out. Arriving on a Sunday meant it was extra quiet out and about on the overcast Dutch roads or cycle paths. 

In the Netherlands you can get nearly everywhere on a cycle path – in fact you are directed to do so! Frankly this isn’t bliss unless you are steering your ‘sit your up and beg’ into a town centre to do the shopping. If your plan is to ride 70 miles a day then it is infuriating to be often sent on very indirect routes literally ‘around the houses’. There are numerous cycle path junctions controlled by traffic lights where I could have deployed a shaver given the time I seemed to spend waiting and as is always the case then cycle paths are never maintained like roads and you could crash along the asphalt as cracks and holes might abound. That being said it does get many Dutch out and about because of this safe cycling and often amazing infrastructure. However, you don’t see businessmen or many blokes who wouldn’t ride bikes in the UK: it is women, young adults, children, pensioners and avid cyclists in lycra.

So I headed north and got lost! Well I kept heading north but not in a straight line. This was a combination of the wrong setting on my Garmin Satellite Navigation and maps that weren’t detailed enough. I regrouped at a McDonalds and was offered a beer by a lively group boarding a coach in a car park at the restaurant before heading off to presumably drink more beer – I thought this was a good introduction to Holland!

The sun came out though and I started to see the flat countryside when I left the built up areas. The Dutch like their dairy products and the pastures are full of cows and so is their smelly tell tale calling card. I couldn’t imagine living near many of these fields.

 In the early evening then my thoughts turned to finding a campsite. I was now back in the large conurbation that is built up around the capital. I had researched possible solutions before travelling but that went out of the window as I got behind schedule. Whilst attempting to get through the outskirts of the city I stopped two other commuting cyclists and got some directions around Amsterdam – as always they had immaculate English. In fact I ended up cycling past the Ajax football stadium and loads of evening crowds milling about before I found a campsite just south of the city. Quite a nice site albeit very busy as it serviced the capital. I like a plain campsite with few facilities other than an opportunity to charge my devices and get a shower. Less neighbours the better! Oh well not this night. It was different and unusual to find kids huddling around the shower block smoking cannabis but hey… welcome to Amsterdam.

Day 3 – Amsterdam to Oldemarkt (77 miles)

With navigation sorted then the next challenge was to get across the Gooimeer – a stretch of water separating south and north. The bridge took some finding on a bicycle but as I looked down on the water I felt that I was on my way.

Holland has major populations in its cities but in between it is quite rural and obviously flat and straddled by cycle paths. For all that there isn’t a lot to see and I just trundled north appreciating the ease of passage but little else. I found camping via Google Maps and my Garmin and in Oldemarkt there appeared to be a couple of options.

Not to my choosing I found a large site with lots of facilities (bad) and children (worse). I cycled around the site before checking in. I did this to see where I’d like to pitch. On Reception they accommodated my desire for peace and quiet and stuck me in a back field.

However, your average Dutchmen and woman likes to camp, quite a characteristic of this nation, and revel until late into the night. There isn’t much sound insulation in a tent (I do carry earplugs but they only help to a point) and the folk all around kept up a steady din until past midnight. Predictably the volume picked up as their consumption of alcohol increased. It was much to my displeasure. 

The usual routine on site was to pitch the tent, get a shower, do the laundry (pitch your tent near to a hedge or tree so that you can hang up your washing to dry) and then make something to eat.

As regards communication with Anna or the girls over the couple of weeks then it was by FaceTime on an iPad or iPhone.

If I was lucky enough to get a wi-fi signal at the tent then I could do it in relative warmth, shelter and privacy but otherwise on the trip I might find a spot during the day when they were free where, with earphones in place, we would catch up.

Day 4 – Oldemarkt to Drieborg (74 miles)

So refreshed (not) I trundled north past the cows and occasionally being berated by motorists for venturing off the cycle path and cycling on the road! Holland is held up as the model for the promotion of the bike and it is but the infrastructure is such that the driver is seldom compromised, there is none of this living tolerantly with each other stuff. I came to a junction near a canal and in a sparsely populated area with no traffic; not sure about which way next I came off a cycle path onto a road and was about to pull up to look at the map when a motorist wound down his window and gave me a mouthful about not being on a cycle path. I was a lot less than impressed.

I didn’t know that cannabis was legal outside of Amsterdam and in Veendam I cycled past this coffee shop. Frankly I can agree with the argument that alcohol is a destructive drug and that frankly we’d have been best not inventing it and that cannabis is less destructive but I’m not sure that I’m keen to see is legitimised.

I was in shape to reach the German border and got to Winschoten to find a supermarket to buy something to eat that night and also to get some wi-fi to find a campsite.

I don’t ‘switch on’ my roaming capability on my iPhone when touring. It is there as an emergency solution but due to the cost and the general availability of wi-fi then I can usually get a signal for my smart phone and iPad.

One of the challenges is to work out the suitability of a campsite before getting there. Otherwise it can involve cycling, say, 15 miles, to find it is shut, only for RV’s/camper vans, fully booked or whatever. I was struggling for choice at this point but found a site near a very small town called Drieborg.

So I cycled into the polders (recycled land) and saw no settlements or people and just cereal fields as far as the eye could see. I was not feeling optimistic and time was moving on. Even if I resorted to Plan B of stopping in a hotel then there wouldn’t be anything out here. I went around a bend that had a couple of houses and a tree on it and lo and behold in someone’s garden was a type of shed with a shower and WC in it and you just pitched on their lawn. This worked out fine except as night fell and the dew came then a sea of slugs appeared on the lawn. 

Further down the flower bed a young Swedish guy and his German paramour cycled in and pitched their tent. They’d done about 20km during the day and now needed to rest! Also there was a Portuguese girl in her early twenties who was working in London but had come across to Holland for a walking holiday – I secretly suspected that she was doing research on cows. I was bemused at her strolling out here without anything to see and asked if she listened to music? She did but had exhausted her playlist. She seemed delighted to get the advice of hooking up with a few podcasts. Podcasts have accompanied me across Continents and some are so great that I can tell you where I was during the most memorable ones.

Day 5 – Dieborg to Brake (82 miles)

The tent packing was done in the rain and I pushed off in a persistent miserable drizzle. The weather so far had been fine but things were about to get a lot wetter and colder overall. I was at the German border quite quickly and hoped to get the photo of the border sign but ended up with this sign. There is no formal border, it is denoted only by a sign telling you that there are different speed limits. I was surprised at the level of integration. It helps to start explain why the British priority of controlling our borders seems a very foreign idea to Johnny Foreigner. Immediately Germany was busier, more built up areas and a lot less attractive. In fact it started to look not a lot different to the UK, except that we don’t have as many factories making things! Still the road was flat.

Stopping at a bus shelter to probably put on a rain jacket then this bug landed on my leg. The last time I came across this type of insect was in Kansas, I didn’t expect it here! 

Cycling through Leer then inevitably there was a cycle path junction (yes, I know I had left the Netherlands but the damn things persisted) and I queued up waiting for the train to pass. So apart from more industrial activity I also started to notice a different mix of ethnicities. I think in this area they were very happy to welcome immigrants as the area looked industrialised and there was a need for labour. This is contrast to the south of Germany where I had driven through in June andwhere the population appeared different in composition.

The ambition for the day was to reach Bremerhaven. To get there I would have to cross the estuary of the Esser. Here I would stay in a hotel and drink copious quantities of German beer whilst feasting on schwein knuckle. The crossing was not possible by bridge but necessitated me to catch a ferry at the top of the estuary on the coast. I know this because the map said so. I mentioned earlier that if things don’t work out at the intended destination then you may have cycled for hours and done many surplus miles. Well…. I have to say that the signs I saw as I cycled up the estuary did suggest trouble ahead (see below). However, it wasn’t until after I stopped at a bus depot where I accosted some mechanics who with immaculate English said the ferry was ‘kaput’. So what do you do at 6.30 pm at night without a campsite or hotel nearby? I held hopes that back down the estuary toward Bremen there may be a ferry or bridge and so I cycled back through the mazy countryside, occasionally glimpsing the estuary but feeling I was getting more lost.

(I have to add that I always carry some food and water on the bike and if disaster struck then I could survive the night in my tent but what about that German beer?)

So as I’m pedalling down a country lane a railway barrier in front of me starts to fall. I’m not happy as I envisioned watching a long train go past for several minutes when I had pressing problems to solve. I noticed a path to the right though and steered up this and found myself on a railway platform. The train pulled in and as it was heading toward Bremen I thought why not push the bike on and get a free ride and so I did! about 10 minutes later I was in Brake and looking for accommodation. 

This gasthaus came into view and very shortly after that I had a room. You can see by the other photo then all things really ended well!

Day 6 – Brake to Heide (81 miles)

I was left a large breakfast on a tray outside my room. Other residents had left at about 5 in the morning and I was vaguely aware of some noise outside my room at the time. In time honoured tradition I had my breakfast and used as much of the surplus up to make some sandwiches for the road. Obviously the first step was to find a ferry! I found it back up the road and waited patiently with two German middle aged ladies who were crossing to the other side for a day out with their bicycles.

A conversation ensued, as usual with faultless English, and the usual types of thing were exchanged but it was quite delightful and sincere to be asked “and how is your Queen?” 

The other side was quiet and the run up to Bremerhaven was along the river albeit much of the time it was hidden by a large high flood barrier. Along the way there were thatched houses. Bremerhaven was the first step toward cycling up to Cuxhaven. I’d identified that I could get a ferry across the Elbe (which linked Hamburg to the North Sea).

Getting to the ferry terminal was a problem as there were several jetties with ferries going in different directions and I was tight for time as I found quite a large ship that would take me up the Elbe to Brunsbüttel. I found time to absorb more German culture with a couple of sausages, a bun and mustard.

It was quite incongruous in proportions as this large ferry ship docked at a purpose built jetty for this small town that was on the same peninsula as Denmark – Schleswig-Holstein.

So I had in mind to get as far north as possible and Heide looked like quite a large settlement. I do get into some difficult situations when touring but I love them! They are the experience that I am looking for. Character building is the phrase that comes to mind. This was such a hairy event. To explain then, I got to Heide in the early evening. It was a working town, not pretty and not a lot to it. Googling had shown some hotels but I could not find them as I cycled around and I, in effect, started to circle the town losing hope.

By this stage my mind is working overtime about options such as staying in the Railway Station overnight and what time could I hang around in the McDonalds until etc.

I had found an awful looking pub/hotel that I had decided I wasn’t going to stay at. As I am on this fruitless circuit the sky turned black and it rained biblically. So I am now sodden in a darkening town and without accommodation. I had been touring around for an hour and so I relented and cycled to the awful pub/hotel and presented myself at the Reception. A man appeared at the desk to behold a sodden bedraggled cyclist. He had no rooms! I think he just didn’t like the look of me and despatched me out into the storm. My parting shot was ‘well do you know of any other hotels?’ He half thought about it and pointed down the road saying that there were a gasthaus down there. I’d been down there but felt I should try again.

So I entered a residential area and saw a sign. I came to a large house and sure enough it had a sign indicating accommodation. I knocked, rang, knocked, found other doors and no answer! Eventually someone answered and a lady who had worked for British Airways in another life, let me in! She said that she only had a €50 room left. No problem providing that I could escape the rain and dry out. When inside I asked if I might use the tumble dryer!

Day 7 – Heide to Tønder (64 miles)

So when I got outside my accommodation I came to the decision that I should travel alone. I had had a passenger stuck to my bag, since Holland, and so I set off in the rain slug-less. 

The route north was into a steady headwind with sun and occasional rain, still on cycle paths. I had not experienced a proper hill since leaving the UK and so any tribulations with the knee never arose throughout the tour. 

As I got closer to the Danish border then I started to get the feel that I was entering an area where there were lots of holidaymakers. I cycled through Husum, which was located on the coast and was quite a buzzing place with a funfair and market. I bought a map and made a mental note that I should plan to get some Danish Kroner as soon as I got across the border when the Euro ceased to be legal tender. Germany had been very affordable.

As I crossed the Danish border I came to a town called Tønder and entered the town to find an ATM. This had a beautiful cobbled pedestrian precinct and it was very busy with tourists. I later learned that the town hosted a superb Americana/Country/Folk music festival a little while after I had been there. Certainly an attractive town.

I decided to make camp here. There was a site close to the main road and town centre and it looked tidy and quiet. I had never come across a community block with ovens as well as microwaves etc. before and so that was a first for me. Other small stuff really cheers you up like some dedicated washing lines to hang up drying laundry and the additional joy of finding clothes pegs. This facility was also covered which probably tells you all you need to know about Danish weather.                        

Just a quick photo of dinner. The sauce is there to be seen but I would add some pasta nicely cooking in the kettle. One of the pleasures of the trip is to accumulate movies or episodes of TV boxsets that I would watch. I upload these onto my iPad. I loved every episode of ‘Mad Men’ and I think I polished off the last of Season 7 in a Danish field!

On other cycle tours then I kept a daily blog. On this trip I didn’t hence this catch up. However I did post a few videos on Facebook – often when I had time to do so on a ferry. I would have posted them here but there a technical constraints.

Day 8 & 9 – Tønder to Esbjerg (59 miles)

A really wet start to the day and the misery of packing up the tent in a steady rain. However, as I cycled out of the town I came across a McDonalds and was able to compare a Danish Egg McMuffin with those I have eaten elsewhere across the globe. Small!

I had in mind to get to Esbjerg and find a hostel. There was one listed and I planned to take a rest day in some shelter. I say that because the weather was now quite cool, rainy or overcast and a stupendous headwind for most of the ride. I should have got a clue when I noticed that wherever I looked there was a wind farm. The Danes are famous for their manufacturing these large whirling beasts and they were evident on this west coast where a gale seemed to blow off the North Sea all the time.

There was little scenery but a steady flow of cars up and down the coast and I was still confined to cycle paths. I had an address for the hostel but as always it took some finding although I eventually did and checked in and got a single room at what was a reasonable rate. I say that because Denmark is very expensive. I have no real complaints about this because I saw it coming and could afford it but when you are used to much lower prices for everyday things then it still surprises you.

The hostel was a mixed blessing in that you had a great room, wonderful kitchen, bike shed, washing machines and proximity to a supermarket. However, on my floor were multi bed dormitories full of children who were in town for a football tournament (Brighton & Hove Albion lost to Sturm Graz in the quarter finals I was told by some weary coaches in tracksuits waiting for their bus to ship the kids back to Blighty the next morning). That night due to poor supervision – you know, blokes in their twenties glued to their smart phones down in the communal areas  – their kids ran riot in the dorms at quite a late hour.

However things changed when a weary looking old bloke in baggy shorts and flip flops appeared (looking a lot like me) in the communal area and asked pointedly if they were responsible for the noise upstairs? Things were managed and quietened thereafter. The moral of the story was to ask at check-in where the room was and who might be your neighbours.

On my rest day then a quick glance outside the window confirmed heavy rain and wind – tee hee! I wasn’t riding into it today. In the corridor were some Asian guys in cricket kit. I struck up a conversation with one player and discovered that there was a dormitory full of Pakistani Danes from Copenhagen over here to play a league match. Fascinating and I wished them well although I expect that they never got a ball bowled and were on their way back east by lunchtime.

I ventured out on my bike to look round Esbjerg and not least see the four large white men stationed on the shore.

I got soaked cycling round and retreated to the bike shed to clean up the bike and then back to my dry room. Here I had a Messenger conversation with Jannie, who is occasionally from Copenhagen, and I had met her in Alabama the year before, in weather that couldn’t have been more different. Now in South Africa she sympathised about the weather, told me about her current work with cheetahs and wild dogs and not least tried to explain why the Danes had little circles over certain letters in their alphabet.

I’d originally planned to do a circuit of Jutland and then back to Rotterdam but I was now thinking that getting to Copenhagen was attractive. I’d been there a couple of years ago (in my Morgan) and thought another visit was interesting and then I’d get a flight home. There was only a certain amount of rain and cold I could willingly plough through before my morale collapsed.

Day 10 – Esbjerg to Vedersø Klit (64 miles)

This was a windy ride north up the coast and literally involved nearly all four seasons in one day. It was a beautiful ride out of Esbjerg on the cycle path which avoided the rush hour traffic.

What was clear was that this was a tourist area and lots of Danes and probably as many Germans on view. All squirrelled away in cabins on the coast in between ventures into the blustery sunshine.

Part of the ride took me along a very long strip of land separating a concealed lagoon called Ringkøbing Fjord from the sea. To get along this long sand bar was into the eye of a gale that was hard to cycle into. The route was along a sandy path and I passed a few other cyclists and some young touring cyclist couples – this would test their courtship I concluded.

Along the sandy path up the sand bar was a large hill/dunes that concealed the actual coastline and no doubt protected the housing from the gale force winds. I did however park the bike and ventured over the hill to see the beach and the angry sea. The sand was whipping up off the dunes and stung my legs. 

Halfway across was a town called Hvide Sande that was a harbour as well as inlet onto the Fjord. It was a mixture of resort and working harbour with some small tug size ships that probably worked offshore. I stopped here for some lunch and mingled with the holiday makers.

Eventually I came off the sand bar and left behind the tourist enclaves and headed north on a main coastal road. It was hard going and now wet and my mind turned to camping. As seemed to be the pattern then campsites were few and far between and badly sign posted. It was getting on as the bike ride on the sandy and windy paths had been slow going – I had only averaged 9.6 miles per hour for the day. Eventually I came off the main road and found a small village that had an established campsite. The proprietor understood the challenges of pitching a tent on the coast and recommended that I try and do this very close to the wind break provided by a cabin on site. Much to my joy then there was a restaurant on site and so I didn’t have to cook and it wasn’t long before I was snuggled down in my flapping tent calculating that my weight within it should stop it becoming airborne. This would be my last night of camping on the tour.

Day 11 – Vedersø Klit to Aarhus (94 miles)

So after the coastal brutality of heading north then this was a day heading east and I went well – 12.4 miles per hour! The plan was to get to Aarhus and then get a ferry to Zealand the next morning. The middle of Jutland is simply arable farmland. What can I tell you? I was still guided onto a cycle path and much to my surprise the landscape did occasionally offer a bit of an incline. I found an Englishman (expat) behind the counter in a sandwich shop. He ruminated on the fact that the UK had voted to leave the European Union, something I gathered he was unhappy about. He commented that the Scots were also unhappy – he had determined this after a trip to Edinburgh recently. Despite his inner turmoil he did deliver on the Danish preoccupation with elastic bands. It seemed to me that most meals came with one! Maybe the wind necessitates things being secured?

This was to be my longest day in the saddle and I have to say that there is always great satisfaction doing a long ride day. After this speedy ride then Aarhus arrived in the early evening and on the way into the city centre a McDonalds came into view. I am not ashamed to admit I entered the temple for sustenance.

I wasn’t going to camp because the weather was poor and I reckoned a hostel was the solution. There are a chain of hostels across the country and the quality was superb. I investigated the options and tried to book online but it was difficult because when I input my details it only looked for single or dormitory accommodation and there was none! So I cycled to the hostel in the middle of a wooded park to get offered a 4 berth room at a discounted rate. As it was late on then I expect for them it was rent the room or not.

Day 12 – Aarhus to Tisvilde (42 miles)

Given that it was August 10th then I didn’t expect the day to hit the dizzy heights of 11ºC (52ºF)! Clearly I was relieved at the conditions otherwise I might have had to put on sun cream and take off my 3 layers and full finger gloves. So I waited around in Aarhus for the time to go up to the ferry port. What a beautiful city centre – certainly worth a visit on another day. The ferry was large and there were many passengers heading to Zealand in cars. I’d waited in a room close to the ticket office until boarding due to the rain and temperature. Disembarking we were at the west end of Zealand and I was in no hurry to get to the east and Copenhagen today.

All of a sudden the road started to rise and fall and the scenery was made up of smaller farms and quite regular settlements. Beautiful. You may have detected that I had a downer about the weather. Can you imagine my incredulity on climbing a steep hill to discover vineyards! I mentioned this later to a few Danes who, to a person, suggested that it was expensive urine (and a similar colour). Clearly someone thinks it is worth cultivating. Even more surprising about the wine was an optic in a supermarket allowing customers to sample the (imported) wine before buying. I can think of a number of towns in Yorkshire where they might be queuing down the street to sample the wine if it was free!

For the first time I cycled with someone! A lad from Odense, who worked in a bike shop, was cycling toward Denmark to stay with his grand parents and we trundled along together for a short while but he wasn’t a climber and the different speeds meant a parting was a kindness to him. I ended up in Nykøbing and had some lunch.

I was going to head along the northern coast and try and find a hostel about halfway along and the next day roll into Copenhagen at a time that the hostel would accept me. What seemed to be evident was quite a holiday environment with holiday cottages and marinas packed with yachts. I had to stop for a little while in Rørvig to wait for a ferry. This was to be my last – seven in total for the tour. Look at those skies.

From here I cycled to a type of holiday park which also let out its small apartments and took a type of chalet. This was in Tisvilde. After the sequence of shower and laundry I climbed onto the bike later and cycled into the town for a pizza that I ate at the takeaway which had a couple of tables. I was amongst some money in this town and after falling into a conversation with a father and son, who like me were working their way through a Margherita, I discovered that the coast is within commuting distance to Copenhagen and many have a place up here. Nice work if you can get it. As I climbed back on the bike the heaven’s opened and I got back to the chalet drenched.

Day 13 – Tisvilde to Almager (Copenhagen) (53 miles)

An Amnesty was granted, on my last day of cycling, by The Rain Gods and I had a lovely ride to the capital. I kept broadly to the coast and poodled down country lanes and past some lovely and hidden away housing. As you start to stop going east and, in effect head south to Copenhagen then you start to get a feel of prosperity.

I will never be a credible advocate for cycle paths but this was my favourite one! For those in pursuit of a quality/car grade surface with a wide lane then head just south of Hornbæk (damn I never asked her how you pronounced this). So the idyllic ride continued into Copenhagen past even more expensive yachts and then into the ‘cafe society’ of North Copenhagen. By now on the cycle paths.

there was quite a lot of bicycle traffic and I am being overtaken by ‘yummy mummies’ in heels – you’ve got to love the spirit (also taking this photo at 12 mph with an iPhone is quite an achievement as holding onto my handlebars and avoiding other road users was a priority at the same time!) Getting through Copenhagen was nearly joyous as the infrastructure included an amazing flyover bridge (near the railway station?) to get across the various rivers that separated the centre of the town from the south. I would have taken a picture but there was no place to stop on this ramp. I got to the south of the city and found the hostel. This night I was sharing accommodation in a dormitory that ended up only having one other man in it.

Day 14 & 15 – Copenhagen

This is the hostel – I have taken a photo of the interior as well. It was fabulous along with its secure bike shed. I have managed to behave as regards complaining about the cost of everything in Denmark but much of it was outrageous but I think these two nights in a hostel only cost about €70 which was remarkable.

So you chilled out on the day before your flight out?

I in fact resolved the last challenge that all cycle tourers face and that is to get a bike box to pack your bike into. I’d emailed a bike shop before getting to Copenhagen and they were happy to let me have a box for free. This was kind but then you have to get the damn thing back from the town centre to the hostel – this means looking quite odd lugging this thing through the streets and then onto the metro. Back at the hostel you have to try and dismantle the bike sufficiently to make it fit in!

However, before the return trip I wandered around Copenhagen and was drawn to the record shops and spent quite a while perusing old vinyl and making investments. The selection was fabulous. I had been in Copenhagen in 2011 and done the sights (on a bicycle tour) and had no inclination to do that again but knew it to be a friendly and attractive place. I must admit that I still haven’t done the Tivoli Gardens and no doubt I will need to tick this off eventually.

Just keeping back sufficient Kroner I arranged a taxi for early the next day and made it to the airport in good time for my Easyjet flight back to Manchester. (I didn’t book this flight until Esbjerg).

At Manchester Airport I had to re-assemble the bike. This meant disposing of the box! I tried to abandon it in the Arrival area and was told I would create a security alert and needed to put it outside of the building!

So after doing as I was told I wheeled the bike to the nearby railway station and embarked onto a through train to York. Got off there and rode it home.

Conclusion

So my final thoughts?

Door to door I rode 836 miles. It was very flat! I know how attractive that is to many tourers but being flat does take away a lot of character from the countryside and also encourages agriculture! So predictably there are many many arable fields to ride past (or evil pastures with cows) on often straight roads; that isn’t interesting. I had the interesting destination of Copenhagen which is a bonus and I always like a coast line, however it wasn’t until Zealand that I saw much of it.

The places were very civilised and there wouldn’t have been a problem that couldn’t have been quickly solved. The ferries were always a treat and a well timed break often on a long day. Germany surprised me and seemed different to other parts of the country that I had visited. Denmark is different in the way that the Scandinavian countries are – the economy and attitude to social welfare is different and ordinarily the country is very tidy and smart but there is a price, literally.

Had I sailed along in glorious sunshine on still days then I wouldn’t have been in these countries (!) but the weather was poor for the time of year and I would caution anyone to note this. I always plan for the worse and had the correct clothing  but whilst I expected rain I was shocked at the temperature. (I was told in September the weather was sensational). 

If you, say only had 5 days to do a short European tour then a trip around Zealand would be perfect.

Lastly I talk about my tours and have presentations that last up to about an hour (listed on the website). I ask for a few pounds for the charity that I am a trustee of. If this grabs you then I can be contacted on 07970 455616, tonyives@sky.com or on here. I would travel further afield than Yorkshire, in the UK, but you may need to help me with some petrol money.

February 12, 2019

 This is Part Two of my epic bike ride from the Atlantic coast to the Pacific coast. Part One (an earlier blog) took you from the Atlantic to Kansas and this blog picks up the rest of the tour. The scenery and weariness changes along with the temperature!

Originally this blog was on a Google blogging site and this re-posting on my site tidies up the typos and some of the mystery English (!) that occasionally surfaced as I wrote this on the road whilst trying to get an internet connection. Enjoy, I certainly did.

31.   Girl’s Talk (Dave Edmunds – I prefer it to the songwriter’s original – Elvis Costello)

Larned to Ness City 65 miles – August 19 2014

These small towns all have parks. Usually it contains a swimming pool and a baseball pitch as well as some benches and grass. So Larned was prepared to put up a cyclist and I took advantage of these fairly basic facilities. Due to weariness and an attempt to get up early I got into the tent at 8.30pm and kept very still to stop perspiring! As I am looking at the tent roof a rowdy basketball game starts up between the local yoofs nearby. Sadly there is street lighting to enable this. Also another recidivist in his Dad’s 5.7 litre diesel pick up is lapping the park. The real fun for him is the deafening noise of his accelaration for 20 yards before braking. As I am listening to all this, plus nearby highway traffic, I hear….”hello camper?” (…not now Britney)

It turns out that Misty who allowed me to use the shower at the other site has tracked me down to the park and is advising that a heavy storm is due overnight and would I like to sleep in her living room. Much to my relief her partner is beside her. He is about 3 stone lighter and prettier. I was actually in the picnic shelter area with a canopy and it would have taken me ages to break down the tent and pack and so I declined her kind offer despite feeling mean. She was  right, at 1.25am thunder and lightning began but after my initial awakening I fell back to sleep snug in the shelter.

The same team built the bridge over the River Kwai

The cycle to Ness City is standard Kansas, a gradual but continual climb, toward the Rockies and a persistent headwind. At one point the road offers a concession and I get to cycle north for 19 miles to Rush Center with a tail wind. ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ comes to mind. 

At Rush Center, a cross road between two highways, I am planning a cup of coffee and the largest piece of cake known to mankind. The cafe says ‘shut until Fall’. I stand there crestfallen as a man is driven across this busy highway by his 8 year old grand daughter, in a golf buggy, to the front of the cafe. “You can have a coffee and cookie but there ain’t nothing else”. Seems good to me and as I enter there are some seniors discussing floral arrangements. One lady looks at me in askance and I explain the invite! She shakes her head at his invitation and pours me a coffee and asks “would you like sugar and creamer with that Sir?”

Through out the USA because I am hitting these restaurants/cafes at early times I come across seniors shooting the breeze. Of course, everyone drives and so they drive up and yak!

Eventually Ness City comes into view and it is on the brink of ‘furnace time’. I get directed to the park by the Police and set up camp. No showers and so my trusty large bag and rose is brought out and does the job.

Scrubbed I face the heat and go looking for some lunch. Behold I see a bicycle and inside are three people who are cycling including a legend. It seems so long since I have seen a cyclist let alone had a long chat. Catherine and Jim ‘Legend’ McTaggart are crossing West to East. Jim has done this twice before and I expect that he won’t mind me adding that he is a septuagenarian. I had read his previous blogs and his route, spirit and practicality had been an inspiration when I was looking at my project. Catherine was on her first long USA ride and was going about the challenge with enthusiasm, energy and a cheerful approach, I can think of a few wives who would be in awe of her!

Jerry Saravia is a New Yorker, albeit no longer a resident, who is going East to West on the Trans Am and had an unplanned rest day in Ness City. He’s going well at his own pace but sadly his girlfriend has had to abandon the trip after picking up an injury and Jerry’s battling on solo.

It was good to chat and we dined later together (after I made an earlier brief visit to the town bar). I think everyone was pleased to find new people to talk to and learn from. Catherine gave me advice on medical supplies and Jim on how to save 4,000 feet of climbing in Colorado.

So eventually back to the peaceful park for a long wonderful sleep.

(Blog title? Well with Misty and Catherine either looking after me or telling me her brief recent life story it seemed appropriate)

32.   Dirty Linen (Fairport Convention)

Ness City to Scott City 55 miles – August 20 2014

I had a great night’s sleep in the park and agreed to ride with Jerry to Scott City. The ride was quite short and the usual Kansas conditions prevailed. We stopped in Dighton for breakfast, which was my best brekkie of the trip, and there again were the seniors sat around talking and drinking coffee before they all collectively left to presumably attend something like Combine Harvester Maintenance for beginners.

The facilities at Ness City were basic and so had been Larned’s. To arrive at Scott City at lunchtime was a bonus and I was hoping for an upgrade in accommodation. Here there was a private gym and pool and for $12 you could get a shower, swim, wi-fi, have a small room as well get acquainted with the owner’s two huskies. In fairness it seemed like divine retribution to the species that you would place two huskies in Kansas in August.

At the pool there were a number of kids swimming and I posed the standard question of “name 3 Brits?” The first three names I got back were members of One Direction (they had to explain who they were to me although Zane rang a bell) and then when pressing further I got Simon Cowell (which I also get a day later at a diner). So ahead of William and Kate or even Harry then the whole talent show circus represents Britain amongst the American nation.

Knowing how to have a good time then it was down to the laundromat. One heavily perspiring lady was washing all the sheets from a local motel. She explained that she was from Minnesota originally but Scott City was home. “So where would you go to do your major shopping or have a night out?” She didn’t volunteer anywhere else, Scott City seems to have it all. Some of these towns seem like small cages to me knowing what lies further away in the larger cities.

So the day drifted by with the mundane. As always I get asked in a supermarket where I am from and where am I going – it helps to walk round in lycra to spark the questions. One lady helped me unsuccessfully search for ravioli and then when leaving proffered 3 small cucumbers in the car park to add to my groceries. I am fairly certain doesn’t have the same Italian message as receiving a dead fish or horse’s head.

33.   Goodbye Yellow Brick Road (Elton John)

Scott City to Sheridan Lake 79 miles – August 21 2014

Jerry now feeling confident after his romp into Scott City is game for a bijou saunter of 70 odd miles along to Sheridan Lake. So setting off in the dark. “Let’s get up at 5am to avoid some wind and heat and get on the road at 5.30am Jerry”. So we departed just after 6am after lots of Jerry pfaffing about. I say nothing (cough).

Riding in the dark means that sharing directions and signals becomes difficult. So when the first one came then I apologised for tardy communication and said that there would be no further problems as it was just another 75 miles straight on the US Route 96. Outside Scott City there are cattle stations where the beasts are given feed as probably one of the last stages of their growth before becoming a beefburger. Even though it is dark the smell tells you that there are a large number of cattle in pens.

So Jez follows until daybreak and then zooms past to disappear up the road, he’s feeling good. Mr Worldly Wise aka Agreable thinks he should conserve himself, it will be a long day.

So after 25 miles we stop in Leoti for a break. The town is just a crossroad with enormous trucks and noise. I set off before Jerry and sure enough he falls way behind. At the two thirds point we reach Tribune where at a diner the “name 3 famous Britains” question chucks up Simon Cowell, David Beckham, The Spice Girls and Adele. What do they teach in school?

After this guzzle of a late breakfast, Jerry, the only man to cross the USA on a bike with an umbrella gives the impression that he’s staying in Tribune. Adios amigo.

Not only have I gained an hour by entering Mountain Time I also acquire another State.

So I exit Kansas. Thank you Kansas you were kind and generous but your countryside always made me think you were at work. A continual stream of trucks, tractors, arable crops and farmers in pick ups. Whatever Kansas contributes to the US or world economy then someone is working hard.

The ride into Sheridan Lake is routine in the now developing heat when I pass two girls pushing a pushchair (with their worldy possessions in it). Christy and April have been on the road since late March walking across the USA. As all travellers seem like lost waifs I give them a bag of almonds and a Snicker bar to worrying gratitude and continue to my church for the night.

Virgil and Melanie are the Pastor and his wife, but first I am met by Ruth, who I presume is one of the congregation and she is tidying an immaculate kitchen. So I settle in, have a shower under a hose pipe in the garden and then a long chat with Family Ives via the very wonderful Skype. Everyone seems quite busy at home.

Later, Jerry arrives! He had had a puncture to add to his longest day ever. Then the two walkers arrive. So the peace is over but there is enough space enough for us all.

I caculated about 3,700 miles for the trip and I have now clocked up 2,127.

34.   Fly Like An Eagle (Seal, preferred to the Steve Miller Band version)

Sheridan Lake to Ordway 91 miles – August 22 2014

I calculated that I had two day’s riding to Pueblo (bright lights, vegetables, beer and music) and if possible then today I would put in a long ride. So leaving a bleary eyed Jerry and his perambulist buddies I was gone by 5.35am heading toward the County capital, Eads. 

Dawn

So into Eads where I found a box of croissants. Maybe not much to you but treasure to me. Onto Haswell where I started to experience a… be careful the next word contains flash photography, TAILWIND. Gone were the aching feet, the annoyance at the flies, the distraction of the Knaresborough problem because I was flying. Clearly staying at a church the night before may be the explanation. I am prepared to consider this as divine intervention as it was so fabulous.

Before Eads I came across Barry and Karl. Barry, from Sacramento, was heading to Witchita before flying back west (am I starting sound like an American now?) and Karl was from that most magnificent country, Holland. I love the Dutch, I have had such positive experiences of them when cycle touring in France. So we discussed the route and Karl’s recumbent bike when Karl with that spectacular insouciance the Dutch can have got out of his contraption and lit up a fag. Not in itself remarkable but not many long distance cyclists stop for a drag!

Barry & Karl

So the last 40 miles were a lot easier as I hit Ordway. The map offered me three lodging solutions. I don’t often explain what takes place but the major trauma of the day can be about to start at this point hence the delight in meeting cyclists who have visited these towns to give advice.

Looks like Kansas, can’t you see the tailwind?

Firstly, a campsite. This was an RV cum trailer park near a lake. The lake on some of its shore had some industrial use judging by the trucks and mounds of gravel. From what I could see of the park it was the usual combination of scrapyard and dilapidation that characterises these places. Not for Tony.

A bench in Arlington and resting the feet whilst I check the map

Secondly, “ask for Gillian” said the map. Everyone knew Gillian but it took three people to eventually get me to her farm. Did you say farm, Tony? Well there were goats, chickens, signs about horses etc and whilst it was all small time I found the path to her front door past animals and dilapidated caravans discouraging. When, despite hearing her voice, no one answered my knocking on the door. I took it as an omen and it brought to mind a conversation with April. She had the towns wrong but she had said Gillian gives you accommodation for an hour’s labour around the farm. Me working with goats in 38ºC, are you kidding?

Lastly, a hotel. Not my preferred solution given my three nights of comfort to be arranged in Pueblo. However, I relented and walking into the lobby of Hotel Ordway I noticed the “don’t bring your bikes inside the hotel” instruction and rang a bell. Carol appeared and was in a rush so that she could return to child supervision, bloody customers eh!

 She said did I want a hostel or hotel room. So for $40 (or $45 if I paid by credit card) I could have the hostel solution which meant going up the corridor for my ablutions. Fine, but the credit card disincentive seemed steep and her list of instructions about towels, the air conditioning unit and the storing of the bike all seemed a bit high handed. So she took the cash, took no details about me and gave no receipt. We call this ‘cash in hand’ in the UK.

There are thousands of abandoned vehicles in the Mid West

So then as I am wearying of her she asks “do you have wi-fi?” “No I don’t, but I have a tablet” “That’s what I meant, obviously a language misunderstanding.” “Ho ho, how right you are (chuckle, chuckle) and so what is the password?” After imparting the magic information she gave several more instructions and then suggested I would not see her again and disappeared to look after the child (no doubt she had left the child with the instruction, in her absence, not to put the toads, bats wings and hazlewood into the cauldron until she returned).

Spoke later in the evening to Jack who is near to finishing Missouri and the Katy Trail. He seemed chipper. Spoke to Jerry who had returned to sleep after my departure and spent another day at Sheridan Lake. Texted the South Carolina Belle who said that she had already cycled 112 miles today, with a tailwind, and she was cycling another 25 miles this evening to join the crew at Sheridan Lake, let’s hope she remembered to stop.

35.   You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) (Dead Or Alive)

Ordway to Pueblo 54 miles – August 23 2014

Rest Days – August 24 2014

Firstly I am aware that I receive some ‘Anonymous’ comments on the blog and even more tantilising I receive anonymous donations. I always thank donors personally, so anything anonymous prevents me doing that, and so please be aware I don’t take that generosity for granted – thank you.

Oh dear….look what’s in the distance. Hills!

When I left Sheridan Lake early last Friday I passed a sign to a historic site – Sand Creek Massacre. To visit the site meant a detour probably to see very little but as I have cycled across this vast land the presence and legacy of the Native American is imprinted on much of the Mid West. They were here first but their decimation was completed by the white man.

At Sand Creek in 1864 675 American (Coloradan) troops slaughtered a large number of Cherokee and Arapahos Indians (around 150) mostly women, children, old and young males. The Indian older males had mainly been absent hunting bison. The Indians under various agreements and flying the US flag were meant to be safe. The slaughter didn’t just mean being killed but many Indians were scalped and mutilated. There were subsequent investigations and hence the suffix of ‘massacre’ rather than battle. No one was fooled about the murder.

What antagonism between the white man and the Indians could have led to this cowardly massacre? This is where your mind wanders. 

The Indian leaders/Chiefs had waged war on the local white communities but various treaties from the middle of the 19th Century had meant to normalise relations. The white settlers were often terrified of the ‘savages’ and Indian attacks and the death of white families could be common from some splinter factions of the tribes. This gave, presumably indignant settlers their justification.

Initially large tracts of land were reserved for the Indians in Colorado, Kansas, Oregan etc. but renegotiations took place as the white man decided that such treaties would preclude them from getting at gold deposits. In fact treaties were negotiated giving Indian tribes a fraction of what was originally agreed. Presumably in return the Indians received something but it can scarcely have been worth what they surrendered. 

Eventually it was the wholesale slaughter of the bison herds by white men for their hides at a $1 each that robbed the Indian of his way of life, food and many other basic necessities that caused them to no longer have a significant presence in these lands. From herds of bison that made the horizon ‘black’ up until the 1870’s with their plentiful number through to their eventual decimation the Indian was defeated. 

The British have an often inglorious history of self serving priorities with subordinated peoples that have left many disadvantaged or dead but this history shows how ‘wild’ the US West was and how barbaric.

My ride into Pueblo I hoped would be a gentle trundle. The wind had turned around and getting to the major town on my route (population of over 100,000) was a morning of considerable work. Leaving Ordway I passed more prisons. I have seen a few on my ride. The US imprisons 2.25m people. The rate is 764 per 100,000. The UK by comparison is 154 per 100,000. The route was flat and followed the railway line with still more coal deliveries. Being terribly sad I counted the exact number of coal trucks being hauled by one train, it was 120 trucks.

In Pueblo I got to the main drag where all the hotels, supermarkets, fast food outlets were placed and found the Super8. This weekend it was busy in Pueblo because the Colorado State Fair was on (which is based here) and accommodation was scarce. However, Super8 came through for me.

Riding a bicycle to the hotel was frankly preposterous. It is a six lane highway outside the hotel. I just went for it, changing lanes to get in the third lane to turn off at a junction required summoning some courage, with a slow overladen bicycle, but I write to you still in one piece.

On my first rest day I tripped up to Walmart (the traffic was light being Sunday morning and I had a lighter bike!) for provisions and then I went into Pueblo. I sought out a couple of record stores to peruse. Bliss is to look through racks of CD’s. Obviously they are cheaper over here. As I am sending a parcel home with a barely used chair and surplus maps and so I thought I could invest. At the first store the young guy running the store was playing an album by Pole. If I ever need to clear a building quickly I may get a copy. That was ‘Pueblo Records & Tapes’. Then by chance I was heading through town when I heard a woman with a partially shaved head dressed like Annie Lennox singing loudly (badly) outside a shop. This was ‘Independent Records and Video’. They let me pull my bike inside the store to secure it and I looked over their selection. The young ‘hip dudes’ were playing Michael Jackson which was surprising. In approaching the counter then I think they were playing it because it was vinyl.

                                                                                                    Mokki

So in talking to Mokki about vinyl then like the UK the kids are very taken and not only old vinyl is sought after but contemporary artists are issuing material on vinyl. For me the format offered great excitement as a boy but its fragility and tendancy to scratch meant the CD with its flexibility, size and quality was an ideal replacement. With palpable excitement, on a Jack White album, he showed me an angel dancing in the area between the centre hole and grooves when he used his mobile as a projector, how one track enabled you to pick an electric or acoustic introduction to a song, how one side played from the centre outwards and lastly if you sped up the rpm to 78 there was an extra track hidden there. I felt the need to depart to lie down after such information was imparted. For me anything that keeps record stores going is excellent.

36.   Merry Go Round (Kacey Musgraves)

August 25 2014 Rest Day

Couldn’t quite believe the luxury of another day off the route. However, because I am in the north of Pueblo I reckon that I must have ridden about 25 miles on my two days off. So much for resting the Knaresborough problem! 

So first stop was the US Post Office in the centre of town to send a parcel back to Blighty. This contained my wonderful but under used folding chair and the CD’s I bought yesterday. From here then I thought I would go ‘downtown’ and have a coffee. Lo and behold there was Jerry recently arrived from Boone. I bought him a latte and left him in intense discussion on the Trans Am route with a retired Major whilst I caught up on my emails. 

Where I haven’t had a regular dialogue with donors then I have been composing personal emails to these generous people. Frankly it is the least I could do.

I hung around here before a spot of lunch and then back to the Super8 for a long super Skype chat with Anna. She’s plodding through the compilation of her annual accounts for Mungo Deli. I usually help and so my absence was very inconvenient! 

Pueblo hosts the annual Colorado State Fair and I cycled the 5 miles down there to look round. The South Carolina Belle was in town and invited me to meet up but she couldn’t come to the Fair and so we said goodbye as she headed north to Boulder. I wandered around and saw the fairground rides and the delicious food (think of the chemicals that made this) for $10!

I discussed pick up truck engine sizes with salesmen, got a grip on Colorado fine art, analysed Colorado farming data, listened to some scratchy fiddle playing and tried to understand why one Stand were attempting to garner votes for the rights of unborn children when killed in motor accidents. Meanwhile Jerry arrived (the Fair was his idea). We toured around.

However, with the skies looking very angry with imminent rain we departed and for the fourth time we said “goodbye”. Sorry to lose you buddy, I have enjoyed your company, and as you Americans say, the ‘way you roll’. Don’t hang around as you now take a different route to me heading North West (although I am sure Christmas in Oregan will be nice).

Lastly, Wendy put on Facebook a request for a ‘selfie’ of her friends taking a drink as she ploughs through her chemo. It is my absolute privilege to be on #teamwendy.

37.   Rocky Mountain Way (Joe Walsh)

Pueblo to Cotopaxi, Colorado 82 miles – August 26 2015

My heart sank as the cars and trucks coming in the opposite direction gave off the smell of burning brakes. Despite now, after nearly 6 hours of climbing, when I should be nearing the top of the climb I obviously wasn’t. These vehicles were descending and needing to leap on the brakes to cope with the tight corners.

I had left Pueblo at around 6.30am and avoided the majority of the rush hour. Today was an end to the flatlands and it was up and into the Rocky Mountains.

Despite the map suggesting that I would be on the flat until the mountain range then I seemed to be climbing from the start. The traffic was generally light throughout the day but pick ups, often with trailers, simply barreled through, despite blind summits and double solid lines in the middle of the road. The thought of braking never entered their heads. The driving is getting more dangerous. What is the rush?

In the last two hours before I reached the summit or frankly the plateau I had only covered 9.5 miles. The gradient had touched 8% but generally it was a lot less than this. It was a 45 mile hill climb with no respite. Over 6.5 hours is a long continuous bike ride before stopping. This came about when I found a diner in Silver Cliff. I entered this empty hostelry wet through and frozen. With altitude comes different climates and at a further 1,000 metres up I found heavy cold rain and 10ºC. What a contrast! Sherri, when asked if the rain would stop did suggest that the forecasters were saying Friday, I was hoping for 3.30pm today! 

So after carrying some heavier clothing through a heatwave for a month I was finding a doorway in Westcliffe to put on these additional layers. In fact had I been riding in this weather in Yorkshire then I would have worn tights and gloves (not mitts).

Despite the cycling challenge then the overcast skies, mist and rain had not obscured some world class scenery. The plateau showed the mountains to their glorious best and I was looking around literally grinning because I was moving between these enormous structures. Ranches were common with beautiful horses grazing with cattle nearby. This was the countryside I had seen in endless ‘cowboy and indian’ films – lots of grass, amazing rock structures, distant mountains and running water.

Talking of which, after leaving Westcliffe I was descending and the temperature rose and the rain stopped. Descents are tremendous but every cyclist knows that what goes down inevitably goes up. My map indicated camping at Cotopaxi (a name for a volcano) and after over 8½ hours I found the site. The site is run by KOA (Kamps of America). The pitch cost just under $30. A lot for a piece of fine gravel, a bench (in the drizzle), a shower and one hour of wi-fi. I saw this coming as they are known to be expensive and don’t have a pricing policy for solo travellers or cyclists. Out here I had no options. However there is always Tripadvisor to express an opinion!

38.   Gimme Shelter  (The Rolling Stones) 

Cotopaxi to Sargents, Colorado 57 miles – August 27 2014

Let’s call him Don. ‘Don’ was arriving at the Salida McDonalds at the same time as me. He had come from the west, I was heading west. A burly older man wheeled his bike and two trailers to the wall and then secured it with a heavy link chain. The set up was one of inexperience. He had a tent that McDonalds could hire as a marquee strapped to his trailer along with a gallon of water. Don himself was in tennis shoes, shorts and T shirt and had that tatty look that those of us on the road eventually cannot avoid.

I didn’t really want to bond and so the camera didn’t come out, I had tasks to do before a mind boggling mountain climb and Don seemed like a guy who I couldn’t have a useful conversation with. He was heading to Denver to get a train home, he had started in Nevada and had covered some of the ACA route but I couldn’t work out where he had been or where he was exactly going next. More to the point he couldn’t understand much of what I said. When I spoke there was that lag in response that reminded me of those who contacted space craft. A number of older Americans find my accent impenetrable.

However, Don munched his way through his Big Mac, fries and chocolate milk shake and told me he was 69 years old and had been on the road since June. He admitted to not really enjoying his trip. As I tapped away on the iPad sending an email home he stared into space.

He seemed a little lost in more ways than one. This is not a terrain I would want to be aimlessly wandering around in with a bike and trailer. He made to go and emphasised the importance of having lots of water in the desert and a couple of ideas, if I got into difficulty. I think he was a nice guy and maybe I short changed him.

I feel that they are probably posting him missing in his home town and I have found him. Or some of him.

From here I went about continuing my climb. The scenery is large and impressive, it is high, green and often with some contrasting rock out crops. This is an American scene and I wanted to see it.

I had another 1,300m to reach the Monarch Pass summit of 11,312 feet (3,450m). I headed out into the breeze/wind on the lower slopes. The pace was terrible due to the wind and I knew this would take hours. In fact it took 5.

The road was a main highway but imagine running a busy A road straight through the Lake District with 5 or 6% gradients, little or no hard shoulder and traffic that seemed to be driving at 70mph and pulling a trailer. It was truly awful. I was given clearance but steering a heavy bike in a straight line on these gradients with a headwind knowing that a pick up towing an enormous caravan is going to pass you with 2 or 3 feet to spare is daunting. These Coloradans do not slow down.

Spot the hard shoulder!

So I ploughed upwards knowing that this 28 mile stretch was something that other East to West tourers had done. The prevailing wisdom is that you minimise the headwinds going West to East. This was proof. As time went by and little by little I got there I eventually found it getting chillier, about 2 miles from summit I put on a coat. As I breasted the summit it was less than 6ºC. Why or why didn’t I carry those gloves?

I plummeted downwards with hands that eventually lost all feeling. It was now raining to add to the chill and on the bike with numb hands clutching the brakes to keep me on the road I am starting to bodily shake with cold. I thought I was putting myself at considerable risk along with the pressures on the body due to altitude.

After a 10 mile descent I am at Sargents. Basically a petrol station and diner with a few cabins and RV’s parked behind. I dash into the diner and stand in the heat and attempt to thaw. I am happy to just stand and let my body get back in balance.

I was going no further and with the temperature at this lower altitude still beneath 10ºC then I am not about to pitch a tent either. Reasonably the proprietor knocks down a cabin price down from $45 to 30 and I take shelter.

That single malt Scotch I’d carried so far was a reward I had earned.

39.   My Favourite Things (Julie Andrews)

Sargents to Sapinero 62 miles – August 27 2014

“Excuse me, do you sell gloves?”

The two Walmart Sales Assistants broke off from their chat, with each other, and said that as it was not yet Winter and they didn’t have any in stock yet.

I could have debated the comment that it wasn’t Winter. I had woken in my snug cabin and even contemplated another day within my sleeping bag doing various things on the iPad. However a joint desire to escape this ‘weather’ and get to McDonalds in Gunnison in time for their Breakfast Menu still being served got me on the road (I am not a complicated man). It was below 6ºC and I became fixated on buying gloves. Like all cyclists then I have cupboards full of gloves at home, I couldn’t justify buying another expensive pair and so Walmart would do.

The ride to Gunnison was downhill but with a very gradual fall in elevation and an obligatory wind; I had to work and started to warm up. By the time I reached Gunnison it had scaled the heights of 11ºC and my hands were not numb.

After breakfast and some time on the internet I went and found Walmart. Gunnison is a smart little town which seems to have its own draw as a tourist resort and also has a branch of West Colorado University. Passing through towns of populations above 5,000 is usually quite exciting for the plentiful retail and restaurant opportunities they offer (“but you always go to McDonalds?” “Yes quite”).

So I wandered about Walmart collecting bits when I drifted down the discount/ end of line aisle and found these gloves!

Beside myself with joy at finding bargain price gloves I found one of the sales assistants to show her the error of her ways.

“Oh, yes. I didn’t think about the hunting gloves on sale.”

Fluorescent orange gloves for hunting? I already had a picture in my mind of portly men dressed head to foot in camoflauge crawling through the undergrowth manfully clutching a high velocity rifle with something akin to a large bright belisha beacon attached to their heads. These are gloves for hunters?

Anyway thinking that she was probably on placement from an institution I left her to it.

Departing Gunnison I found a shop claiming to sell souvenirs and wondered if they might sell postcards. They did! Along with all sorts of bits of dead animals. It was quite morbid to my eyes. Being the wag that I am and having a captive audience I regaled the owner with my hilarious fluourescent glove story at Walmart.

Once wandering around a nearby hill

“Absolutely true, hunters need to wear a certain amount of orange when hunting so that they can see each other and not shoot each other”. Well I never. I asked her whether the hunting season had started. It had for those who wish to crawl through the undergrowth and kill Bambi with a bow. The gun season had yet to start. I just don’t see the pleasure in it.

If anyone wishes to explain the presumed colour blindness of elks and deers then I await your report with interest.

I saw this fellow beside Route 50 and recollected that the only song I knew with a goat in the title came from a certain film and then decided the blog title. So for everyone who hasn’t got a key fob and as a ‘gimme’ to Peter Crockford, what is the association between the blog title and one of the photos?

The route west was windy but reasonable but as I left Sapinero, the next meaningful settlement after Gunnison, and as I started to climb I saw an RV Park and thought that I would be prudent and call it a day in advance of more Coloradan mountains to climb in a couple of days time. Sadly this camping location brought a new meaning to squalor, I will save you all from further detail.

40.   Colder Weather (Zac Brown Band)

Sapinero to Ridgeway 63 miles – August 29 2014

I hated this campsite and wanted to leave at the earliest opportunity. I broke camp in 50 minutes and was on the road at 6.50am. I packed badly, mainly because everything was wet and needed separately bagging and because it was so cold that hanging around was not an option.

The ride started with a long climb and then a 6 miles descent to Cimarron. Usually I wouldn’t have complained but despite my new gloves the icy wind was blasting onto my exposed legs. In Cimarron I breezed into the General Store and began to thaw with a coffee. The owner declared that the day had started at 37ºF and when his assistant took my change for the coffee she declared how icy it felt! There was no breakfast here and after finishing my drink I began the climb away from Cimarron and then took a long descent into Montrose. This was a 35 mile and 600m climb ‘pre breakfast’ spin.

Montrose has a population of over 19,000 and seemed an interesting place. I hung around as the sun appeared, as did the heat. A visit to a bike shop called Cascade enabled me to purchase some leg warmers (lycra to cover the leg between the shorts and the socks). As the sales assistant was selling some cycling shoes to a fussy lady I strolled into the workshop at the back to get some service.

I worked for 6 months at Cycle Heaven in York, a year or two back, and it felt familiar to be amongst bicycle components and young guys chatting mainly, in this case, about the delights of KFC. Whilst I was there I got talking with Hollis about my future route, given his local knowledge….”oh I wish I could do what you were doing”.

From here a visit to an ATM and Safeways and then a fairly flat run to Ridgeway to a booked hotel. The usual routine of laundry and drying out everything that I packed wet, was the order of the day. From here then out with the map and where am I going tomorrow? Predictably the days of the week and date simply become unimportant until you discover that you are in a tourist area and everything gets busy on a Friday and Saturday night and, oh yes, it is Labor Day weekend and I am in a resort area with a massive influx of people needing accommodation.

After how awful last night was then this was a sight for sore eyes. Too tired to worry now. Tomorrow’s another day.

(The song/blog will be unfamiliar to most but this Country/Rock artist is stellar in the USA and this song makes reference to Colorado (and its weather) and a man who like to wander. Seemed to fit).

41.   Roll With It (Oasis)

Ridgeway to Stoner (Priest Gulch Campsite) 74 miles – August 30 2014

A leisurely start due to my mojo not being fully engaged until 8.15am and I started to climb out of Ridgeway up the Route 62. Out of nowhere then Americans on bicycles suddenly appeared. Not something I have seen since Virginia, they were participating in a charity ride called Project Axel that raises money to buy bikes for 5 year olds or under. Very laudable but if they want to get children on bicycles I suggest a fire at the Harley Davidson factory and a speed limit of 30 mph for all other vehicles on the road.

I am passed by a lot of lycra clad, mainly 30 something, men and women spinning past on their carbon road bikes. They all see the Union Flag on the back of the bike and wish me well or chat. One such is Brian, a local, however, he has been to Skipton, Yorkshire and remembers the ‘Bradford Riots of ’95’, which was more than me. A splendid fellow out to win the ‘best dressed’ competition by dressing in a tuxedo and dress shirt and dickie.

Even Cascade Bikes were out supporting and as I passed Hollis he did volunteer to carry my bags in the truck up the 600m climb. I didn’t waiver and cycled on. It seemed like a lot of fun until the gradient kicked in and people had only one use for their breath. Weirdly I was handed a piece of crisp cooked bacon by one supporter as I cycled up the hill – I have, probably, innocently joined some outlandish cult by accepting this meat. Hey ho, they have to catch me first.

Again as I trundle upwards I get called by some English voices and meet Sarah and David who are not in the Charity Ride but are cycling the Western Express. They run an airport transfer business in Morzine, France and this is their free time to holiday. They have already done the Trans Am as well as cycled across the USA by another route on other trips.

This was a day of two mountains and they let me tag along. They were faster due to age, lighter luggage (not camping or cooking) and being fresher but because they kept stopping to eat, take off coats etc. they stayed in my eye line. It really helped me achieve the 1,700m for the day in good nick. As they stopped in Rico at a booked hotel I continued down the valley to a campsite at Priest Gulch near Stoner. What a wonderful campsite: the best of the trip by a large margin.

As always the Colorado scenery is epic apart from one Harley Davidson biker who called me an ‘asshole’ for being toward the centre of the road. I am now in the ski reort area of West Colorado and it is very touristy with RV’s (“look out for the ones from Texas” – Hollis). This, however, is one of my last days in the mountains.

42.   Leader Of The Pack (The Shangri-Las)

Stoner to Dove Creek 60 miles – August 31 2014

I thought you may be interested in what I have as a camp meal. Tonight was boil the kettle and then pour sufficient water out to make a cup of tea. Put dry pasta into the kettle and cook until done. Replace the kettle with a mess tin that has the contents of a Campbell soup (Vegetable Beef). Get that hot and chuck in the drained pasta and then leave to bubble for 5 minutes. 

This campsite at Priest Gulch was fabulous and I could easy imagine spending a rest day there but places to go etc. The first 25 miles were downhill into Dolores and whilst that is good, then at 4º C it is very cold! However, frost bite was averted by new gloves and leg warmers and as I rolled into Dolores the sun was properly out and time to take off the layers. I had a breakfast burrito that I can highly recommend with a large coffee. The sales assistant indicated that coffee was to be selected off a board with about 20 types of coffee, however, not different beans but some horrible abuse of coffee with honey, vanilla, sprouts etc. So playing the numpty abroad I pleaded for a regular coffee. Not quite home and dry because then I got asked what type of milk I wanted. “From a cow?”

Entering the cafe after me were three bikers. Colorado is a destination for hundreds of bikers on their one type of machine, the Harley Davidson. As an owner of a Morgan sports car then I know all about ‘bright and shiny’ and ‘ancient’. That is my view of these bikes. The riders however are caught between homosapien and chimpanzee as regards the hierarchy of primates. I told you about yesterday’s little event on the road. These chaps don’t think bicycles should be on the road. They think that the highway is no place for the odd bicycle.

The statutory weight for a biker is about 16 stone and solid (overweight), usually they have a grey beard and tattoos. The whole look is rounded off with leider hosen that probably coordinates with the leather luggage and tassles on their motorbike. I don’t like them. I get the impression that they’d like to be members of Hells Angels but in fact during the day they repair vacuum cleaners or attend AA classes. Hopefully as I exit the mountains I shall see less of them.

So after Dolores I had ambitions to do another 65 miles and get to Monticello, just inside Utah. I have a few difficult days coming up with little accommodation or food outlets and this would be a good springboard. However, I got to 60 miles at Dove Creek and saw a motel room for $45 and thought I go’d no further. I was weary. This, however, has put me marginally ahead of schedule and tomorrow I will fall behind it. I shall now start eating into my contingency days.

At the motel David and Sarah eventually arrived. After they showered we found a bar where Waylon introduced himself. Waylon (named after Waylon Jennings – Google it Steve), thirty something, tall and looked quite something asked about our origins but then under questioning he sang like a canary.

First we went through our reasons for being here and I pointed out that David and Sarah had cycled twice across the USA….”no shit huh?”

Born and bred in Dove Creek. He worked in the local oil industry and we were surprised to learn that the oil on the first drill was different to that which followed. The first draw went to the cosmetics industry and what followed went to automotive. The sunflowers, that seemed so delightful ended up in biodiesel! Beans were a major crop either pinto or anasazi and wheat played a part.

Then we touched on the legalisation of cannabis in Colorado and, shock horror, gay marriage. He seemed accommodating of it all but thought the cannabis was bringing the wrong people, as tourists, to the State and it was leading to growth in the use of other drugs.

“So Waylon have you ever been out of the country?”

“Err well only once and that was to Mexico” at this point he went very coy about the trip.

“So was she pretty?”

This unpicked the lock and he had been internet dating and she suggested he travelled from Colorado and she’d join him from New York. Its long over and she’s married now with 2 kids and texts occasionally.

Sadly the bar was closing, early because it was Labor Day tomorrow, and so we parted. I feel we might have learned more!

43.   Wherever I Lay My Hat (Paul Young)

Dove Creek to Blanding 48 miles – September 1 2014
Blanding to Hanksville 128 miles – September 2 2014

So just over the Colorado border there are a few settlements but they soon run out and the accommodation or food outlets stop. As a consequence it is a matter of getting as close to this wilderness before, as the maps say, ‘No services for next 74 miles’ and you ‘leap off’ ensuring that 74 miles is your maximum for the day. 

So this led to a short hop to Blanding, quite a metropolis of 3,375 people, I dawdled during the day and spent a little time in Monticello because getting to a windy and very hot campsite early doesn’t offer much in terms of comfortable relaxation. Crossing the Utah State border ticked off another State and promised some amazing landscapes.

So goodbye to Colorado, you are beautiful but cold in more ways than one. The Kansas and further east hospitality and genuine interest in people started to drop off and I felt I could have been in Europe with some of the attitudes. The scenery was of a scale that can justifiably make the Americans indifferent about Europe. Tourism took over from agriculture and industry and being on the roads with the RV’s (Recreational Vehicles or, in Europe, camper van, but usually very large) and Harley ‘bloody’ Davidsons was a new challenge compared to the pick ups and coal trucks. I will be back but not on my push bike!

I was soon into a barren landscape of short stubby and wiry trees and exposed sandy soil and rocks all covering a rough terrain. The silence was immediate. The soundtrack of America has been dogs barking, the burble of a V8 (night or day), motor bikes, wind and trains! I felt it was similar to parts of Spain and Portugal. However quite soon a landscape started to appear that you have only ever seen on the TV or in a book. It was quite literally amazing. I was genuinely awestruck.The heat and wind made getting on the road at first light (6.30am) essential and as I left the campsite then David and Sarah said ‘good morning’ as they cycled past from their hotel on their epic 120 mile ride to Hanksville. They were travelling light and I would be no match on the hills.

The size of the structures make you feel miniature and in the emerging sunshine their magnificence was overwhelming. Being on the road early means that traffic was virtually none existent for a few hours but now I was truly off the beaten track the only traffic were tourists. Motorbikers, RV’s and cars.

I had a punishing climb of 600m to complete before the furnace heat took hold and I did this and on the descent got flagged down by Kirk and Gretchen, from Washington State, for a photo and chat. Kirk at 68 years old said his long distance cycling days were over. I did point out that he was probably a little on the young side compared to some tourers I had met!

I made it to Hite after 70 miles, it was mid 30’s in temperature. Hite was a spot on Lake Powell. This was a man made lake to service Southern California with water but there was little water in this part of the lake (northern end). The campsite, recommended by the map, at Hite was basically a toilet block and the opportunity to pitch your tent in some sandy land around it. Kirk and Gretchen were loitering in the shade of the block at 3pm. My option was to hang around with them in intolerable heat for 5 or 6 hours before going to sleep or pressing on. I pressed on.

Another 55 miles: what was I thinking in this heat?

So I cycled onwards, initially due to climbing I was watching my distance, what appeared to me, remain the same but I saw daylight ebbing away. I have lights in case I was truly late.

So I laboured away in a canyon which gradually took me higher and the sun started to fall, albeit still blinding me to my left. I had dwindling water supplies but a determination to push on through.

Eventually after 20 odd miles I breasted the summit and then began a furious sprint downhill to reach Hanksville before the campground shut (or the manager who usually took lettings went home) and the light went. After 11½ hours solid riding in mainly unspeakable heat I crested the last hill and saw some twinkling lights in the distance as I rode the last 5 miles in near darkness toward this beacon. This was my longest bike ride ever.

The town had a population of a couple of hundred. This meant a gas station, two motels, a small supermarket and an RV site. I found the campsite which had a diner attached to it. I wondered into the restaurant dazed and asked to check in but could I have a glass of water first, I had drunk my last drop on the bike and had a mouth, as my grandmother would have said, where ‘I couldn’t spit a threepence’.

That done I quickly showered and erected my tent in the dark and returned to the diner. As I entered the waiter appeared:

“Hello sir, good evening, how are you?”

“Err, fine….I was here twenty minutes ago when you checked me in?”

“Ah yes, sorry I didn’t recognise you without your helmet on.”

As I am sinking a beer waiting for some pasta to arrive Sarah walks in. They had made it a little earlier and checked into a motel. David wasn’t with her as he had been vomiting after getting sunstroke. You have to be careful you know.

44.   Better Not Look Down (BB King)

Hanksville to Torrey 50 miles – September 3 2014

Torrey to Escalante, Utah 64 miles – September 4 2014

I had a leisurely start in Hanksville as it was, I thought, an easy stroll to Torrey. The number of settlements would increase but as always it was 50 or 60 miles between each. The sound of French voices were all around and I even met Philippe and Pascal en route to New York just outside Hanksville. It appears that this is a prime destination spot for the French. There are many driving around taking in the sights. I can confirm that they know what they are doing, it is exceptional. I would like to tour from California to Colorado in an RV. to see more of the sights. I would choose an RV so that I could carry beer, vegetables and stop when I want!

The first part of my ride was flat and I soon picked up the Fremont River, which had created a canyon/gorge that was quite exquisite – a little like the Dordogne. There were many tourists along the route and several had stopped to look at the petroglyths. These are the drawings etched onto the rock by the Fremont Indians. They departed in the 13th century to be replaced by the Native Americans. A few centuries later came the Mormons. Their influence and coverage of Utah is considerable. They settled in Utah after persecution and violence in Missouri. Clearly their interpretation of their faith and polygamy was unacceptable to many as latterly were the chart toppers ‘Paper Roses’, ‘Long Haired Lover from Liverpool’ and ‘Puppy Love’.

I have to add that the heat now is very dry and your mouth soon dries and my lips are chapped and my nose is peeling (but I still look amazing).

As I got to the end of this gorge I then climbed 200m and ended up on a higher plain in a strong breeze. I crawled along and these were the longest 10 miles of the 2,900 I had cycled. Time for a rest day I thought, the day after tomorrow.

I got to Torrey, une ville d’un cheval, and checked into a handily placed campsite. I was mistaken about it being a campsite, I think it was an open prison with tent pitches as I was charged $28.66 by a thief who when I gently pointed out her larceny still maintained it was the correct charge and that another local site charging ten bucks less had not updated their web site. I shall investigate to see if this penitentiary is on Tripadvisor.

The next morning at Stupid O’Clock as I was lying very warm and comfortable in my sleeping bag I knew that ahead lay a massive mountain to climb. Given my weariness how would I go?

I pedalled off as dawn broke and four hours later I reached the summit at 9,600 feet (2,928m). I had started at 2085m. I had averaged 5.6 mph to get there. Now that is slow. These are the Boulder Mountains, which were not mapped until 1872. This is even after the American Civil War! The road was quiet. In total four deer ambled across the road in front of me as I drifted slowly upward and one even let me get to within 40 metres before it moved off. It was steep and quite Alpine in its appearance with the pine trees that lined the road.

An eventual amazing descent followed to another small town called Boulder. From here two more spiteful climbs of 300m and then a descent into Escalante named by the Mormons from the river named after some Spanish cleric who passed this way looking for a trail. However, with a headwind I had to pedal downhill.

In Escalante as I looked for my cabin (glamping as one of my offspring has called it) a lady drew up alongside in her Subaru and said she had passed me on the mountain a few times today and was inspired to get her bike out again….why shucks, what can I say.

Despite a fond farewell the day before then David and Sarah turned up for another farewell beer. Actually I think this will be our final farewell as they move off tomorrow as I stay. I spoke to Jack in Kansas who is doing well but I didn’t really have the heart to tell him of what lay in store for him in Colorado apart from super little resorts and amazing scenery.

45.   Work To Do (The Average White Band although the original was by the Isley Brothers)

Rest Day – September 5 2014

Escalante to Panguitch 67 miles – September 6 2014

I thought by way of a change I might run through today as it happened and some of the processes and challenges that are typical but I don’t report. I could be providing a cure for insomnia but the pictures will be nice.

However, firstly a rest day in Escalante without riding the bike was excellent – long chat with members of the family, laundry, shopping for food, cleaning and checking the bike etc. I met Ben (below), at the cabins/campsite, who is the usual twenty something American who is cycling bits of the west before he decides to settle down and make a living. ‘Finding himself’ would be the speak. He’s one of many.

Cabin (with thumb)

The map said a gentle descent before two climbs today. I set off at just before 7am. I had slept like the dead but it took a while to ‘die’ whilst other cabin dwellers seemed to be having a raucous time nearby, I still have the dog pepper spray, it crossed my mind.

So despite what should have been a freewheel downhill is actually a stiff pedal because of a westerly headwind, as Demis Roussos once sang ‘My Friend The Wind’, I can confirm he’s not mine. I have over 60 miles to do today and the first easy bit shouldn’t be a grind at 8mph and not in 8ºC.

I am going nowhere fast and as I didn’t have breakfast I stopped and had a kind of energy bar (seems lots of sticky compressed fruit) and then stopped again for a Twix (oh come on, there has to be some pleasure in all this) and a banana. Despite my complaints then the views still remain truly remarkable.

I seem to be on the first climb now and the temperature is rising and so again another morale mechanism is listen to the iPhone. I put on a podcast from the team who used to produce The Word magazine. It is basically banter about their lives and diversions about if and when Jimi Hendrix went to Marrakesh etc.

Lost in this podcast the climb seems to be not steep at all. The temperature is rising the wind has gone and it’s alright. I am getting to the summit when I notice a coach has pulled into a stop ahead and loads of pensioners are spilling out to admire the view. So I thought well I will have a look. It turns out they are British and on some rambling holiday (walking, not this type of rambling that you are wasting time reading).

Two people come up to me for a brief chat and I learn about their schedule and who they are. As the rest are getting back on the bus a lady delays her alighting and comes across specially to tell me to take care. She didn’t need to but she did – these things I am so grateful to receive and I descend the other side as they depart in the opposite direction.

I am descending to the start of a long climb to Bryce Canyon. This is one of the main attractions on any tourist’s visit to Utah. It means a 10 mile detour for me, I am thinking I will return and do it another time★. As I am taking in the view and listening to a Westlife song a car pulls alongside on a gentle descent. It is two cabin dwellers from last night. The window is lowered and with a blinding glimpse of the obvious one of the two Chinese American ladies says “you left early!” In fact 3½ hours ago and 33 miles covered since. The driver can’t drive alongside successfully and we wave goodbye. Being Mr Agreeable I decide not to raise a complaint about din they were making last night, I am like that.

✭In fact in 2017  I did return to Utah and Bryce Canyon with my wife on a trip to Las Vegas and the National Parks. It was an amazing canyon to see. The day we visited it was bright sunshine and not the squally type of day I cycled past.

So a town called Tropic arrives. The usual small settlement with a petrol station, motel, small supermarket and, in this area, a gift shop. It also has a restaurant. I enter as three French youngsters are attempting to get cash out of the ATM, they spent sometime trying to do this, I am not sure if it ever coughed up.

No wi-fi in the restaurant and so heavy scrutiny of the map along with a Club Sandwich and fries. Outside I apply suntan lotion and get on the road knowing that I have another climb ahead.

One of the best parts about listening to songs is that in these long captive hours you actually listen to the words and try and follow the plot or story line. I can confirm that Side 1 of Jethro Tull’s A Passion Play is complete bollocks although a great set of tunes welded together for 20 odd minutes.

This climb was long but never terribly steep. I am on the smallest chain wheel and on the last two gears on the rear cassette. I have endurance and durability but no real zap; I probably need at least a week off the bike to get that back. That isn’t happening anytime soon. As The Fugees are killing me softly I seem to have reached another summit and there is the turning for Bryce Canyon. However, I am distracted it is raining hard and then it turns to hail. Most of this week has been spent at over 2,000m, it is no surprise that the weather can be so hard.

The hail hurts my thighs but the rest of me is just getting wet. I am relaxed about that knowing that I will personally dry and my panniers are sealed. I do reflect that my cycling shoes are getting saturated and they will be wet and cold when I put them on tomorrow morning. The rain lasts for about 15 minutes and is torrential, I cycle on. In fact I am on the flat, I can live with drowning if there is flat and no headwind.

As it abates there is a sign on the Route 12 saying cycles can go no further but must divert onto a cycle path that runs alongside. Okay, it starts off with a good surface although going up and down whilst the road seems flat as a lake. The cycle path then falls into disrepair as large cracks from one side of the path to the other dissect the route every 20 yard. I bash through a couple of these accidentally, worrying that I am going to create a puncture, bow a wheel or break a rim. I swear loudly to nobody imparticularly, its worse than ‘bloody hell’.

As this imposition ends and I am allowed back on the highway it is a long descent to a crossroad. I turn right to Panguitch with not far to go. Today’s cycle has been a lot better than I thought. However, the heavens open and it pelts down (sans hail) again. I get to Panguitch and the first priority is to get wi-fi so that I can go onto Tripadvisor to evaluate the accommodation options. I have planned to camp but the potential ongoing rain makes me think twice. Eventually a Subway provides the free wi-fi and I decide on the campsite. I simply don’t want to spend $60 on a motel.

The campsite turns out to be splendid. So throw up the tent and go across the road to Family Dollar to see if I can buy anything to put in the campsite microwave. ‘No’ is the answer. They have a limited range of anything and I cannot face any of their food offerings. So I pedal back into Panguitch and after buying a tin of WD40 to oil my chain at a hardware store I get directed to another supermarket. A good place with a great selection.

So microwave chicken pie and pasta it is. Whilst sorting the cooking out I have a long chat with Vic and Sandy, who are playing pool.

They are in an RV on the site. He is 68 years old and a former attorney now living in Arizona. We talk about my ride and the experiences I have had with the people. I ask about the races and their issues and current affairs. However a major problem is that I am pushed for time as I have to shower, cook, sort out the tent, check out tomorrow’s route and do this in daylight.

So who knows what tomorrow holds, but I know that I will come through.

46.   What Was I Thinking (Dierks Bentley)

Panguitch to Milford, Utah 115 miles – September 7 2014

Packed a very wet tent as quietly as I could, so as not to wake a nearby tent At just after 6am on this Sunday morning and left a very cold and damp town. I was straight into my last mountain of Utah but the State had decided to ‘sign off’ in style and 5 hours later I topped out at over 10,000 feet (3210m) after 1,450m of straight climbing. The weather was cool but there were some magnificent sights on the ascent by way of compensation.

Lake Panguitch

At the top, in the Cedar Breaks National Park, I stopped to look at a magnificent geological sight and met a German in a Bayern Munich shirt. A delightful and affable chap who, as we discussed football, tried to say some positive things about the England national team, I told him to save his breath! However I did revisit the appalling refereeing in the 1975 European Cup Final when Allan Clarke was taken down in the penalty area by Franz Beckenbaur but no penalty was awarded. He shared my pain and then raised his heartbreak in 1999 when Manchester United scored two late goals to win. We both agreed this was terrible.

Cedar Breaks State Park

I am now very much toward the western border of the State and am starting to wonder how Nevada will shape up. I descended in less than an hour into Cedar City. A large town with various attractions. I had initially planned to stay here but, as I sat in McDonalds on this sleepy Sunday afternoon, I saw that due to my miscalculation that I was falling further behind my schedule if I did.

So I decided to ride on for another 55 miles. There was no other camping or hotel solution nearer. I got lucky as it was mainly flat or descending. Riding in the early evening, when the weather has settled a bit and the air is cooler, can be exhilarating. As usual the issue was to reach Milford with daylight remaining. I didn’t quite as I entered the town at 8pm. I was directed by a helpful bystander to a campsite that was basically a park with toilets, I thought that I had earned more after such a day.

In darkness I drifted back into the centre of this small town. On a Sunday night in the literal middle of nowhere I came across a motel, that I had failed to find on the internet in Cedar City, and for $39 I took a room. Appearances can be deceptive as the accommodation was fine.

Maybe next time

So I had a quick shower and then I draped my sopping tent over the bath and got on with the blog. No evening meal but a couple of muffins and a banana sufficed.

Left to my own devices I just push on and seem confident something will work out.

47.   Wild Horses (The Rolling Stones)

Milford, Utah to Baker, Nevada 84 miles – September 8 2014

Setting off, in the morning, from a hotel is better than a campsite because I don’t have to break camp and I know the tent will be dry. This I did and as there was no one at Reception I left the key in the room door and went. My first priority was to find some breakfast as I had not eaten properly the night before. Cycling around this still quiet town then all I could see were petrol stations and so I picked one to ask about a diner.

There was David buying some provisions for the day. They had stayed over in Cedar City and were moving west steadily and had got to Milford yesterday. He was surprised that I had caught up again and the old tortoise and hare comparison came to mind. In fact when I looked in the mirror what with a lack of sleep, a patchy suntan and my wrinkles then I had more in common with the crusty crawler than just speed.

He knew an excellent diner and led me there before setting off with Sarah ahead of me. I partook in an exceptional guzzle and then departed. The map had warned that there were no services between Milford and the next settlement, Baker; this was 84 miles.

It was a nice bright morning with little or no traffic, just a few tourists and commercial vehicles went past. This was the desert, apart from the road, there was nothing. The path I took was north. The route would reach a point in a few hundred miles when I would turn west on a parallel line to San Francisco. With this desertscape then when you reach the top of the small mountain you could see the next mountain and a very straight road inbetween of around twenty miles. What was truly odd was that if a car passed you then you could see it for another 5 minutes. Usually they come and go quickly. Again it was just amazing.

Robert turned up looking ragged after a night wild camping. He was returning home to Dove Creek, Colorado after a loop around here and further north. He was heading to Milford.

The climbs over the small mountains were not steep but started about 8 miles from the summit and so it was slow going in fact I am averaging less than 10mph per day when a mountain is involved. I am used to cracking on and this is taking some getting used to.

The ascent of Wah Wah Mountain was early afternoon and in front of me was a blanket of grey over the mountains interspersed with lightning. The wind was gusting dangerously and I had to stop. It backed off just a little but my ascent was even slower in accompanying rain. At the top was a gradual descent and I came across these chaps. Not that unusual, as we have them in the UK I suppose, but a delightful sight in a bleak and open landscape.

Now the weather changed, the sun came out and the ride became a pleasure. I was about to leave Utah and collected my thoughts. Simply the most astonishing landscape that lasts the whole State. The people were better than Colorado but nothing like the centre or east of the country and again not an obvious place to see on a bicycle. However, see it you must. I am hoping that I can retain these vivid images in my head. Utah, it was a privilege.

The border and then Baker arrived. I had ridden so fast I had gained an hour or had I entered the Pacific Time Zone? I found the campsite and got sorted. During the night it rained heavily. I was snug and dry but packing will be miserable in the morning. Hey ho.

(Quiz question – what Seventies group had a big hit with a song that you’ll be able to take from the images above. To help the Crockfords – “in the desert you can remember your name”).

48.   Heartbreak Hotel (Elvis Presley)

Baker to Ely 63 miles – September 9 2014
Ely to Eureka 78 miles – September 10 2014

Nevada’s terrain is described as a ‘basin, fault, range’. Block building caused by immense fractures in the Earth’s surface, have resulted in no fewer than a hundred ranges, running roughly parallel, trending north to south and separated by expansive flats. As I head west then it is these ranges that I am ‘hurdling’.

The cycling distances are determined by the distances between settlements. There are odd campsites before or between the settlements but ‘primitive’ is the description and they probably don’t have running water. In reality they are a ‘pull in’ for an RV or caravan. Quite a number of cyclists are happy to wild camp but it means having surplus water, to cycling, with you and of course no other facilities. I would have made a very poor pioneer explorer or Native American!

Another feature is that the roads are mainly ‘commercial’ or tourist highways. There are no families or people going to work as nobody lives here. The other reality is that this traffic, sparse mostly, is attempting to get where it is going as fast as possible, after all it is always facing a long journey and the objective is to get there as soon as possible. The traffic in Nevada has been at times the worst on the tour and dangerous. I am quite angry; if it were one of their relatives on the road they wouldn’t drive so close and so fast, they are hoping I keep a true straight course, anything could happen.

Ely was quite a busy little centre with the first sign of neon and gambling.

In fact Highway 50 was quite busy! There is little man made and the landscape can be impressive but it ain’t no Utah.

In Western American folklore there is something called the Pony Express. This service was set up to try and get post to the half million or so living on the West Coast in less than 3 weeks. This was the absolute best before 1860. So a relay of riders and horses was set up to carry the post. Not only was it a long way with few settlements and roads but Tonto was not kindly disposed to the white man charging across his land. In Nevada alone, sixteen riders were killed by Indians. This risk factor pushed up the wages and a rider could earn $25 a week for this job, however life insurance was a bugger to arrange. The logistics and number of stations were immense but the initiative was only to last 18 months before the telegraph was installed and communication was made swift. There may be another story as regards the loss of lives to Indians, that is the unfortunates who built this network.

My favourite question when at a job interview was always “do you know your weaknesses?” To which I was always tempted to reply that “I live with three women, what do you think?”. One I will admit to is a total lack of enthusiasm for hotels. I just can’t see the value in paying anything other than the lowest rate. I don’t use the pool, put on the fluffy dressing gown, go in the jacuzzi and seldom eat there. I have, in fairness, travelled the world on company business thinking it no problem to pay whatever for something in Hong Kong or Dubai but on mature reflection ‘money for old rope’ comes to mind.

So hotels in the USA are variously priced and location can push prices up. This is obvious but not to me when you reach somewhere in Colorado and find it is astronomic. Super8 seems to fit usually but the last two nights show the mystery of it all.

Meet John, Bea (random interloper) and Chris going West to East (a bit late methinks)

In Ely there are about 10 hotels, it must be a hub of some sort. Most of the locations are beneath the radar for Tripadvisor. I was heading for a campsite but prepared to weaken because it is simply too cold in the morning to wake up and break camp.

I spotted a row of motels and based on some nice shrubs outside the Reception I picked the White Pines Motel. She wanted $45, I pleaded poverty and said that the sign outside said there were cheaper rooms and got it for $38. Again American pricing can be a bit like being in a Middle Eastern bazaar and you are not sure of the price until the last thing. That’s when they conclude the deal and then add on Sales Tax. This varies from State to State and seems a dark art. The room was tatty and worn and the shower eventually gave up some hot water. When last thing at night I turned back the bed clothes I discovered that the sheets hadn’t been changed from the last guest. I slept between the blanket and counterpane (Varley’s boarding school description) or bedspread (wife’s preferred description) but I would have dreaded to see Anna’s face.

“Can I help?”….”We could do with a tow, ha, ha!”

So onto Eureka. This is a common name for a town in the USA. I think I have cycled through three so far. I descended into town and there were three hotels to select. Being a tight Yorkshireman I went to the least bright and shiny one on the outskirts of town. The proprietor, let’s just say hillbilly, emerged from the back dressed like a tramp and smelling of booze and said the price would be $60, or $65 if I wanted to pay by credit card. So, fighting back tears, I asked if this was the going rate for the town? He said the other hotels were more expensive. I turned on my heels thinking if it costs an extra $10 for something better then it might be money well spent.

I got to the Sundown Lodge, a much swankier affair, and entered Reception. In walks the proprietor, Hillbilly Deluxe. Oh dear! Anyway $48.10 was the price and he had another customer. Austin awaits.

49.   There Is A Light That Never Goes Out (The Smiths)

Eureka to Austin, Nevada 70 miles – September 11 2014

Firstly, the charity I’m riding for – York Carers Centre. In looking at my web site for this www.localgiving.com/follow-your-arrow-usa then I see that we have raised £1,696. Thank you to everyone who has given, especially as this is a local charity to York, (and offers little to many of the donors and their family and friends). I think a number of people read my blogs who haven’t donated. Fair enough but just a fiver or a tenner can help me get to the magic total of £2,000. Thank you if you add your name to my many donors.

Nevada has come at a time when I have climbed mountains, ridden in ‘furnace’ heat and perishing cold, done over a 100 miles in a day several times and toughed it out with showers attached to climbing frames or eaten rubbish food because that is all the gas station had in seven previous States. Nevada is tough and I must admit clearing the Sierra Nevada and cruising down to the coast is now on my mind and a reward for my ‘heavy lifting’.

The total mileage covered is 3,438 over 47 days cycling, which equates to over 73 miles a day. Yes, I have had six rest days but that is not remotely indulgent. The bike has over 20 kilograms of weight on it (plus me) and everyday usually involves immense climbing. I am fit with no muscular issues but various points of soreness are to be found near Harrogate. I think the fact that I have cycled for so many years and have an accumulated fitness helps as well as simply getting fitter with all this riding but it will be nice to stop for awhile! I thought you might have wanted this medical report!

So many of the towns I am seeing have, frankly, been in decline since the 19th Century. Nevada was part of the ‘Gold Rush’. Austin, had a population of 8,000 in 1862. Today it has less than 200. Austin’s mineral was silver. It appears that these towns quickly extracted whatever mineral they mined and then the miners and the attendant services moved on. Today these towns still have mining in the locality but it is an automated affair and not associated with gold or silver. So accommodation is important for the miners and the tourists. In the towns you’ll find museums and artefacts but the towns are sad shells of what they were. Also due to the scarcity of towns you’ll find Court Houses and medical centres. What amazes me is the bussing distances for the children at school. I wonder if they spend more time on the bus than in the classroom?

Jimmi Lynn (current favourite American girl’s name) had to let a colleague serve two chaps with a beer in the restaurant then I had blueberry pie and ice cream at. She’s not yet 21 years old. From here started a conversation. She has never travelled outside of Nevada and California. However, she’s got her own horse, and rodeo is her sport. I thought it was all about hanging onto a very irate bull for as long as possible. Apparently the sport has many ‘events’ including lassooing calves at a distance of at least 20 yards etc. She showed me photos on her mobile (cell phone) and the outfits seemed worth taking up the sport for alone. I want a cowboy hat.

The road through Austin

I am now in a nice motel room and Sarah and David have just arrived two hours later. I start earlier and cycle through, they start later and dilly dally. I can’t help but notice that they shrug off the difficulty of the route. This is may be because of their lighter bikes, younger ages and less time on the road (having started at Pueblo) – but look ‘all in’ every time I see them. What must I look like? Just saying.

50.   Free Falling (Tom Petty)

Austin to Cold Springs 49 miles – September 12 2014
Cold Springs to Silver Springs 100 miles – September 13 2014

The ride to Cold Springs was over in a flash. I fell all in all 300m and ended up at Cold Springs Station at before noon. I am now starting to descend from the Nevada high mountains and today was mainly about going down and being on the flat. My first day like this for weeks, yippee!

The RV Park is still in the middle of nowhere but there is camping on grass (ooohhh! I hear you say) and had a fabulous bar and diner attached to it. I did stop outside the park and look at the map and think should I continue but I wanted to speak to the family on Skype and also thought that my body deserved a short day.​

The 12th was my 27th Wedding Anniversary. I am a lucky man to have such a wonderful wife who lets me disappear for two months to live the dream. I had wanted to send flowers but organising it in small (miniature) town America was impossible and the internet still required me to call. I also wanted to see what the bouquet looked like. So I turned to my favourite eldest daughter in London, Katrina, and she arranged the selection and delivery. Not bad eh?

(Photo courtesy of Anna)

After setting up camp and laundry I got down to catching up with the blog and doing some research about San Francisco.

I woke early on the 13th and was off by 7.25am. The descent continued and I made good progress into Fallon. To my relief I was back in a town with restaurants, wi-fi and stores. As I had done 60 miles I made the conscious decision to take an hour out of the ride. Walmart enabled me to get some ideas for dinner and Ceasar Salad it was (I will add some pasta). I know this sounds very mundane but into my 7th week, on the road, then getting some different ideas of what to eat is a treat.

Meth Lab (for you Breaking Bad afficianados)

I pressed on to a State run campsite beside the lake at Silver Springs. However, due to a dry winter and summer then the lake had evaporated. It was well off the ‘beaten track’ and I dropped into a small store to get directions. Dwayne helped me and I commented on his Dr Who T shirt. I had seen this merchandise before in the USA and noted that BBC America aired the programme. It is quite big in the States. I said to Dwayne that I remember the launch in the Sixties. “Oh that will have been with William Hartnell.” Woa…respect, Dwayne! Here, literally in the middle of nowhere, a Dr Who afficianado.

The campsite was quite nice if it had had drinking water, electricity and a shower. Anyway, I rigged up my shower solution, had enough water on the bike to drink, and cook with, and some charge in a little solar charger I carry this to boost what was left in the Sat Nav. All bases covered and so to bed after another century ride.

51.   The Fool On The Hill (The Beatles)

Silver Springs to Woodfords 78 miles – September 14 2014

I think I was enthusing about the Americans in the East and Midwest, however, some of the inconsideracy I meet now, in the West, is infuriating. Last night’s site had few facilities and certainly no electricity. So some of these large caravans have external petrol generators, presumably to heat the jacuzzi. Fair enough but with a tent nearby then would you start it up at 6am on a Sunday morning? I expect this brain donor is one of the drivers who has grazed my hip on Route 50.

So up and away and in Dayton I came across a Starbucks. Oh wow….yippee…raise a flag. It is here that I charged my Sat Nav and had breakfast before pedalling onto Carson City. Most of this run was on the flat before I started on my appointment with the Sierra Nevada. In Carson City I found Walmart and bought my dinner for the evening. As I was locking up the bike next to a rather ill looking chap in a wheelchair he called across to me. He was eating a Big Mac that I noted had been brought to him. He asked me if I’d get a large Coke for him and proferred the cash. I declined the money and went and fetched him the drink. When I returned I gave him the drink but he was surrounded by the Police and Walmart personnel vexed by his presence. I ducked back into the store to get my items.

The Sierra Nevada looms in front of me like a wall

Leaving Carson City was hard work with a six lane highway, several sets of lights, an incline, a headwind and surprising heavy Sunday traffic. Carson City is the State capital of Nevada but I think the traffic is a function of it being between major areas of population.

Obviously where Rudolph, Prancer, Dancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Chase, Blitzen and Dasher spend the summer 

Off the mountain came a hard wind. I think the afternoon heat had generated this. I went up and down until I reached Genoa. This looked quite twee with Sunday tourists. Pushing through I eventually left the foothills and started to climb. By tomorrow I had to reach 8,500 feet and here I was at 4,000 feet. As I started on the ascent I bagged my last State – California. I had expected the State sign to be neon and about 20 foot square. In fact I got something akin to a sign that you might get in the UK indicating a footpath.

So with a large number of miles in the legs I began to climb. I had the chance to stop earlier at a primitive camp site (vault toilet and drinking water) but selected a private one another four miles up the mountain that at least had a shower and electricity. Eric, the campsite ‘host’ told me that he had origins in South Ruislip (something that I personally would have definitely kept secret) and then he asked me about why the Scots wanted independence. I had no useful answers and I had to bid him farewell as the light was about to go and I had a tent to put up. However, before I left I asked about morning temperatures at 6,000 feet. In the late 30’s or early 40’s ºF he replied – right I thought, a few layers in the sleeping bag needed then.

Just to mention some of the camaraderie amongst the cyclists then Jack who I met at the first campsite back in East Virginia has offered me a room in his daughter’s house in San Francisco for the duration when I get there. How brilliant and kind. In fact I have booked a hostel but it says something about the bond of the folk who embark on this beautiful, painful and long ride.

Woodfords to Placerville, California 81 miles – September 15 2014

I have decided to push on and complete my tour despite quite a bit of time left before my return flight to the UK. There is no attraction to stopping off in these lesser towns, I like the thought of getting ‘the job done’ and San Francisco looks exciting. I also believe they have meals with fresh fish in them there.

When planning the ride I put quite a bit of contingency into the schedule to cover for injury, weather or mechanical issues. Up to press then apart from one miscalculation on distances in Utah I have had a trouble free ride. As Jim has pointed out to me, by email, then the mileages I have cycled are immense. Not least when you factor in mountain ranges, the bike’s weight and how many consecutive days I have ridden. So San Francisco should be mine by the end of the week. To think I will have gone coast to coast in about 52 days riding is a little hard to absorb. For anyone who hides behind the fact that they are ‘too old’ to do something then think on. I am no athlete (although cycling fit) as a 59 year old and, frankly, anything is possible.

Anyway, I saluted the boy from Middlesex as I left Hope Valley camping and proceeded up the mountain. Such an early start meant a good temperature and no wind. However, I was disappointed to be joined by articulated trucks on the climb.

I know I rant about the traffic but in fairness to these boys then these drivers have been professional and, barring the odd Kentucky coal truck, safety conscious around me on the trip. However their size and noise has been intimidating and when, as in this case, the road becomes narrow, I had to stop to let them pass.

Road works added to the excitement (not) and this lolly pop holder, on discovering my nationality, told me of his one time English girlfriend from Essex. He expressed some shock at her presentation of egg soldiers (again, I can’t make this stuff up) and I told him that in Essex this was considered haut cuisine and for her to have made this dish confirmed her affection for him. Sadly she returned to Stanford-le-Hope, never to return.

I had to claim another 4,500 feet before dropping 800 feet to claim another 300 feet and then down 1,000 feet before up to 8,000 feet again. It was a long morning. I was relieved to have done this and felt that I had maybe seen the last of the ‘heavy lifting’ on the trip. The scenery was, as usual, quite superb and for the first time the trees were all pine. As the heat rose you could smell the resin as it wafted across the road. In fact some of the route started to look European. When I turned off at Cooks Station it was completely French in its appearance and the lack of traffic. When vineyards started to appear I had to take a double take.

Placerville proved a little reluctant to present itself and after my coaching by the South Carolina Belle I asked a local whether I should take a shortcut or follow my map. He confirmed the map was the one to follow. So I went around the proverbial houses and freewheeled into my first proper Californian town. Yes, it had Subway, McDonalds, General Dollar, Mexican restaurants and ramshackle ‘liquor’ stores andso no change there then! Got free wi-fi and checked Trip Advisor and then found a hotel.

53.    The Beginning Of The End (B B King)

Placerville to Vacaville 98 miles – September 16 2014

In the grand style of the Tour de France I thought that if I could get a good distance today then I could roll into San Francisco on the Thursday like the General Classification riders. That is, with no pressure I would just mop up the adulation of the adoring populace who would be lining the route as I trundled in. Oh well the trundle bit is hopefully right.

Today’s ride was mainly on cycle paths or through fruit groves and flattish. However, in line with my contract, the day started on narrow roads with over powered pick ups driven by neanderthals and the obligatory large trucks brushing my hip rather than wait for me on an ascent. I shall miss you boys.

However, after getting help on the directions at Folsom (queue Johnny Cash song lyrics) It was cycle paths all the way past Davis. The sun was hot, there was no traffic and the route was as flat as the river it mainly followed. In fact it was cruel to the souls who rode the Western Express from West to East, just imagine the false sense of security they were being lulled into before they soared skywards on the Sierra Nevada.

On one such occasion of asking directions I was joined by Andrew, a hero who had also cycled the Trans Am/Western Express (West to East, bright boy) a couple of years back and for 20 odd miles we chatted about the route. He had a perfect example of how you start to speculate on small details as you traverse the country. He had started to wonder why all the gun shot holes and dents in the signs in Nevada were randomly spread anywhere on the road sign of a cow or deer. He concluded that the drivers at, say 90mph on Route 50, were discharging their firearms at the signs hence the low precision. However in Kansas this sign abuse displayed a higher accuracy as regards hitting the beast. Did Kansas gun men park up to achieve this higher proficiency? Anyway as we continued we discussed the surprising fact that anyone wants to live in Nevada and what delightful young men the half breeds who ride Harley Davidsons are (did I tell you that I didn’t like them?)

I briefly stopped in ‘historic’ Sacromento before cycling out west. I was starting to notice the higher number of people, the greater number of motor cars versus trucks and the strangeness of a number of people. They could have sold tickets to view the people in the queue at McDonalds. Usually skinny older men badly dressed with pony tails and pointy beards. At Placerville one guy, apparently with his uncle, abandoned his order and went to the back of the queue to calm down before trying again. Frankly, these people with issues are not likely to live in sparsely populated outposts of the USA but rather in large urban sprawls.

Another big difference was the amount of Spanish being spoken. In the Midwest I might hear it down a Walmart aisle but now it was common amongst all. It will be interesting to know where English will stand in 50 years time in many States.

Horse burger?

So after the psychopaths (geddit? Peter, say it out loud and then you’ll get it) I found myself in the fruit groves. They were beautifully arranged in large fields with calm empty roads in between. I abandoned the ACA map, which had me climbing, and let the Sat Nav lead me to Vacaville. Again I haggled at the Super8 for a better rate. David had told me he had a card for pensioners, he’s only 50, and usually got 10% off. I pointed out my age to the Receptionist and also that tomorrow I would be celebrating a remarkable event. It worked.

Later on I bought a tin of 3.2% proof Black Cherry Lemonade at a petrol station and a woman my age asked for my ID to prove I was old enough. I expressed some bemusement despite my youthful looks, and showed her my Passport, to which she replied that her job required to ask all. Upon mature reflection then I can sympathise, if I had spent so much money on a lobotomy to get the job as a gas station cashier, then I would want to get full value.

54.   Born To Run (Bruce Springsteen)

Vacaville to San Francisco 47 miles – September 17 2014

Woke late and departed late! Frankly shattered and the body needs a rest. Eventually I joined the Vacaville rush hour and then found the ACA map route. They directed you away from the traffic and soon I found myself in the Napa Valley vineyards. Their presentation was scruffy compared to the French (bar one vineyard I passed) and also they boasted such landmarks as ‘established in 1982’!

The route was winding and I eventually found myself on a ‘frontage’ road beside the I80. This gave way to a cycle path and eventually I made Vallejo. The map spared the cyclist any bridges or long detours into San Francisco and for $13 I caught a small but high speed ferry that took 55 minutes to deliver me to the iconic Fisherman’s Wharf.

I was excited as I wheeled my ever reliable amazing bicycle off the ferry. However there was another 5 miles to go to reach the Bridge. So with the day tripper tourist cyclists I wended my way to the Bridge. A policeman stopped me crossing the span for whatever reason – wind? I, however, found a poppet from Dallas who did the honours.

The job is done. I have crossed America. Every inch of land covered on a bicycle. Just under 3,900 miles and including rest days I took 59 days.

So, in summary, I learned about America and its values, culture, its often sense of community, its perspectives on the world, and the environment, and the differences usually State by State. 

I saw some of the most inspiring landscapes known to man and also moved alongside its plentiful wildlife. I made some new wonderful friends via cyberspace and on a bicycle.

I completed a physical challenge that has taken pounds off my waist and simply amazed me in my performance. I have raised a little money and raised the profile, locally, of a charity.

Lastly, I have been allowed to pursue my desire to wander by my wife and family. Quite a sacrifice whilst they got on with life back in the UK.

I thank all the readers for being an extra gear or two on the bike – don’t under estimate your contribution.

I have had the time of my life.

55.   Epilogue

Acaster Malbis – February 12 2019

This blog resided on Google’s blogspot for four and a half years but it seemed I should tidy up the grammar and put it on my own site. It has brought back many memories and I think of the trip one way or another everyday still. So much of the daily detail is seared into my brain from remembering stumbling around on a dark campsite without a torch in Colorado to accidentally tipping my planned evening meal off the back of my bike onto the road as I approached my evening stop in Nevada.

The following year, captured by the bug, I rode down the USA in pursuit of music. I rode from Toronto to Nashville, to Muscle Shoals, to Memphis, to the Mississippi delta and then eventually to New Orleans. From here I cycled to Orlando to meet the family who’d flown in. This also currently resides on Google but I plan to move it across. However, a link to it can be accessed in ’Travel’.

In transposing the blog from one platform to another I haven’t transposed the comments at the bottom of most of the daily blogs. These were a delight; always motivational and sometimes very funny. One dear friend, Steve Johnson, ‘accompanied’ me across the country and was seldom short of being hilarious (and rude). On his own amazing South American adventure, in 2017, he discovered he was seriously ill and died shortly afterwards. I can’t tell you my sadness at his parting.

Most of the folk who commented are still good friends or in contact but many have drifted away. Marion from Kentucky corresponded without fail on my ride and said she’d follow me the next year. However technical web access issues intervened and she also made a commitment to meet me in Memphis that never came to pass and our contact ended. Chelsea, my Southern Belle, was in touch for a little while after but scrubbed our link on Facebook and was gone. Jack from California, who so appreciated my calls, never stayed in touch. I occasionally hear from Jerry who was last known to be living in Boston. David and Sarah still take my newsletter and I rely on them for advice about cycling. I remember David was worried about the UK leaving the EU: he must be having kittens at the moment! I mention Bob Sanders in the blog and he’s still covering the USA on his bike and corresponding. To be honest, however, I ploughed on happy with my own company and have no complaints if some relationships have gone.

On arrival in San Francisco I had a week to spare. I spent this in a hostel with a number of interesting young people. 

I generally did the sights and had some nights out with fellow hostel dwellers. I must have walked miles, I certainly had no inclination to get the bike out again! I came back a lot less than impressed with SF but as somebody accurately observed then I was so knackered that I was too jaded to be enthusiastic.

On my return I went onto BBC Radio York to talk about my ride. I offered, on the air, to come along to gatherings to talk about my ride. Local groups were quite engaged and I have done about 15 talks around North Yorkshire since. I have raised additional money for York Carers Centre in the meanwhile. I’ve enjoyed taking them across the USA in an hour!

If somebody is reading this researching the ride or thinking about an adventure. Do it.

December 21, 2018

I made my second long distance bike tour in 2014. The first had been in Europe but this was a whole new type of adventure. For me has become a benchmark for all cycling since then. I kept the blog as I rode along and put it on a Google host – Blogger (http://follow-your-arrow-usa.blogspot.com). However I have now transposed it for my own site and reading through it still brings me immense pleasure at the rich experience, the geography, the people, the culture and some glorious weather. This is the trip from Virginia to Kansas, before riding onto California). This is the first 1,600 miles from the Atlantic coast in Virginia to Kansas.

1.    The Journey Begins

Well the first steps have been taken and today I booked and paid for the flights. On July 19th I fly out from Manchester, England to Washington DC and pick up a car and drive south to Yorktown on the coast in Virginia. From here I then cycle about 3,700 miles over 2 months to San Francisco.

As you may know or have deduced then I am a just retired Yorkshireman who still gets a remarkable thrill from feeling the tarmac pass beneath his bicycle tyres and seeing the world from a different perspective. A little sun and the odd beer adds to his pleasure when en route.

I have been a regular long distance tourer in Europe for 20 years but as time marches on then I thought I better get this big one done. This is a solo ride and what they call ‘self contained’, that is, I will plan to camp and cater for myself wherever I can but the odd comfortable bed and proper hot shower will be needed for me to retain sanity. 

Thanks to a very indulgent wife, Anna, who has allowed me this long absence and who will now be forced into reading my blogs to find out what I am up to now!

The route has been selected after reading up a large number of cyclists’ blogs and carrying out internet research to decide that this is way I want to cross America. 

The thought of cycling across the USA  has me excited and thoughtful. I am well out of my comfort zone although I have been to the USA on many occasions but never cycled. 

I will see lots of different scenery, meet lots of different people including many also cycling, endure lots of very hot and wet weather, experience kindness, experience hostile dogs and drivers, climb a lot of very steep hills and no doubt I will get to California and think that time has flown!

I would be delighted if you could join me on my journey. I will tell you about the route, the people, the sublime and the ridiculous, my charity, the States, fellow travellers and pass across my observations on this great and beautiful country.

My other hobbies include music. I shall take a song title as the name of my daily blog. Let’s hope I know enough songs!

2.   The Route

So deciding when to ride in the year was a quick decision, Summer! However when exactly was determined by attending Sophie’s (youngest daughter) graduation ceremony at Loughborough University and also my being in Yorkshire for the Tour de France in early July. So this means a flight to Washington DC on July 19th and then a drive of 170 miles south east to the start at Yorktown in Virginia on the coast. From here get some kip, dump the hire car, dip the bicycle wheel in the Atlantic and then…’head west young man!’

There are a number of mapped cycling routes across the country and the Adventure Cycling Association publish several. I chose a combination of theTrans America Bicycle Trail from Virginia to Colorado and then I pick up the Western Express Bicycle Route from Pueblo, Colorado to San Francisco, California. This should approximate to 3,700 miles. I am planning to fly out from San Francisco, back to Blighty, on September 25th making this is a two month bike ride.

The maps, which select bike friendly roads, have considerable detail on them including elevations that show the ups and downs and give helpful information on accommodation, food outlets and bicycle shops. The route is very much ‘small town America’ and I am anticipating a few nights without a hot shower and maybe buying provisions from a local petrol station. To help then I will have my trusty satellite navigation system (Garmin 800) should I need more assistance. Unlike on some trips where directions have been hard to find then the guiding principle will be find ‘west’. 

For such a long expedition then the route will involve a lot of different terrains. Virginia and Kentucky appear to be up and down and then those long straight flat roads through the Kansas cornfields. Eventually after battling the prevailing head winds I hit the Rockies and so the temperature will fall but the road will rise before I figuratively freewheel downhill into Frisco. The weather will be hot but when it rains then I am sure it will be a deluge. I have experience of a lot of cycling in the rain in Europe and so it won’t be first time although maybe not with some of the startling lightning and thunder I have read about.

Accommodation will be a combination of motels, the floors of Fire Stations and Church halls and camping. Camp sites are not common and so I may end up in a few town parks or on the odd kind person’s ‘yard’. I always carry food and cooking equipment and so I shall always be able to eat at the end of the day. I don’t think sleep will ever be a problem after 6 or 7 hours pedalling!

3.    My Charity

I have often been asked to contribute to friends’ charity raising. These usually involved a long walk, bike ride, swim or climb for their chosen cause. I have been happy to help. When it came to my previous bike rides then I couldn’t put to one side that these trips were really holidays. This was even when incredulous friends would ask why I was cycling so far and for whom was I collecting?

I always value my freedom and can empathise with folk who don’t have that opportunity because of their caring responsibilities. So in looking around I found York Carers Centre (YCC). They play an important role in the local community byhelping unpaid carers find the support they need. Their mission is to meet the needs of all carers aged 8 and upwards by improving their quality of life, helping them fulfil their potential, living their own life alongside their caring roles. They aim to achieve this by providing support, advice and information, representing carers views and influencing local and national policies and practice. They are a registered charity, operating in the city of York, with a growing demand for resources to help them meet the challenges and demand of this group of people.

So I went along and met Sharron Smith, the Development Officer, 

and we talked about my bike ride. After a little internal consideration they advised that they would like to use any money I raise to take some of the carers of people who are dealing with substance misuse away for a residential break. This might be, say, a brief stay on the Yorkshire coast where they can get away and recharge their batteries. Not least coming together with other carers who have similar responsibilities they can share experiences, talk about solutions that work for them and be a little pampered. I cannot think of a better use of the money.

I have already started on our target to reach £1,000 by using a car boot sale in the nearby Tesco car park to sell some surplus items floating around at home. If I am asking you then I thought I should ‘put some skin in the game’ by getting up at 6 am on Easter Sunday to persuade the good people of York to buy surplus LP’s, spanners, books, old iPods etc. As you can see I was joined by my two daughters, Katrina and Sophie.

We also ran a tombola raffle at Priory Street during Carers Week and in the Mungo Deli grocery shop in Knaresborough to raise more money. The generosity of various people was fabulous as was the products given by the following organisations (see below). As a note to others attempting to raise money then I found organisations were happy to give products to a worthy cause rather than sponsor or give cash – in fairness they are inundated with requests.

Going forward then we are still well short of our target and any donation, of any size would be gratefully received and our donation site can be reached by clicking the following link – York Carers Centre.

Thank you.
 

4.   Media

When I cycled from York to Faro in Portugal in 2011 it struck me that I had cycled a long way and maybe others might be interested. So on my return I speculatively sent an email to BBC Radio York. The next morning I found myself on the Morning Show discussing my trip and the anniversary of the Mr Men book series. So over about 5 minutes I covered my bike ride highlights and identified which Mr Men most resembled my personality, this the price you have to pay for fame. (Mr Grumpy by the way).

With a target amount to raise for charity I thought I would contact local media before this expedition. Our local national newspaper, The Yorkshire Post, in the buzz of excitement of the coming Tour de France to Yorkshire and anything involving two wheels, were interested and their Features Editor carried out a telephone interview and sent a photographer to my home in Acaster Malbis: hence the snap below showing me as exceptionally suave albeit with an indecent amount of leg on show. Sadly my trying to promote the charity with my T shirt failed despite my honourable intentions. The my being made redundant ‘angle’ due to the 2008 recession is theirs but clearly having the time to take off rings true. The newspaper is dated July 1 2014.

Below is an image of the newspaper.

The local commercial radio station was also interested to carry the adventure and more importantly give some further publicity to the charity and I appeared on Minster FM, the York area station on July 18th interviewed by Rebecca Lomas.

5.    Technobabble

The blog will be mainly a travelogue; it will be about people, places and experiences. However when I read cycle travel blogs then I want to know everything about the kit, the route, distances and accommodation solutions. There may be readers who, like me, want some of the technical detail that enables the trip. So if you are not interested then ‘look away’, for the techies then here goes:

The first principle is weight! I probably fail badly but I do start off balancing the selection of the kit or the justification for its inclusion based on grams.

Bike – Airport baggage handling had done horrid things to my original Raleigh Royale and so I never felt the imperative to splash out lots of dosh on something special. So I now tour on a Ridgeback Horizon which is mainly a lightweight tourer designed for Audax. However, I have upgraded the most important components – the wheels and tyres. I have Mavic A719 rims and I use Continental Top Contact tyres. These are 32 spokes and I cannot imagine that 36 spokes are vital unless you are carrying stupid weights and riding off road. The saddle has been switched to something I rescued off an old road bike when the last saddle disintegrated and I have changed the handlebar stem so that I can raise the handlebars to a height that can ease my back. Lastly, I use SPD pedals with clips/cleats on one side and a flat pedal on the reverse – this means that sore feet can rest without being fixed in place for a few days respite.

Navigation – well you have seen my selection of Adventure Cycling Association maps but I will have the back up of a Garmin Edge 800 loaded with the City Navigator North American Garmin software. This provides a Sat Nav solution but also useful information on local accommodation, shops, restaurants etc.. The Garmin also acts as a compass, mileage recorder, speedometer, altitude measure, gradient calculator, and thermometer. In case this fails, as I pedal along, then I have an old Cateye bike computer to record mileage.

Luggage – like most serious long distance tourers then I use Ortleib. They are immensely durable, cavernous and waterproof. They lack side pockets to stuff odd bits into but that to one side then they are superb. Packing is quite an art to ensure that you can extract things in the right sequence and when you are on the road then you need the ‘valuables’ to hand so that you quickly gather them to carry them with you if you enter a shop or cafe etc.

Camping – I needed to buy a new freestanding tent that I could pitch on hard standing under pavillions. So I selected a Big Agnes Jack Rabbit. I cook with a very lightweight stove MSR Microrocket. Sleeping is courtesy of a Mountain Equipment Xero 300. The mattress is an inflatable Exped, this keeps me 75mm off the ground and is very comfy and folds away to nothing. I carry a large sheet of polythene. Pitching on sodden or wet muddy ground is a problem in keeping the tent dry. It also crosses my mind that if I got caught in horrific rain without shelter nearby then I could put this over me. Possibly contrary to the weight priority then I carry a folding seat – a Helinox – being able to sit down to eat and rest around the tent is a treat and many campsites offer no solution.

Communication – I will buy a ‘Pay As You Go’ mobile phone when I get to the USA. I will use this for local calls. I shall carry my iPhone for photos, use as an iPod, for wifi use when travelling and as an emergency telephone should a crisis mean calling the UK. I use an iPad for Face Time or Skype back to the UK as well as a ‘computer’ for blogging and internet use with wifi.

Food & hydration – I read so many blogs where food is talked about but folk seem to eat so badly. They simply don’t plan or think about their intake as nutrition. I would always want to have some food on the bike even if it is unappetising! This means that I can always russle up some sustenance. I try and have pasta every night! If it is a day off the next day then I don’t (how much penne and ravioli can you eat on consecutive days?) but I simply see the evening meal as fuel. I carry some sauces that are easy to add. Ideally I would want to put some vegetable with this and some protein but it can be a challenge to find a shop. Eating out can be too costly or not possible and something delicious is simply rubbish as nutrition, for example, pizza!

During the day I would also try and eat something substantial and like many tourers then I hope to find a McDonalds: they offer quick hot tasty and value for money food (chicken for me!), wi-fi, seating, air conditioning and table for loads of clobber and clean loos! Frankly when I am not touring then I wouldn’t eat food so high in fat.

With water on the bike then I feel safe. In hot climates then you cannot go far without a regular intake of fluids. Worrying or thinking about getting water takes up a lot of time on the bike. Running out is dangerous and not an option.

Fitness – I ride all the year round and so always have a basic fitness. As the trip approaches then I start to do longer distances and more climbing. My most challenging ride is 78 miles with over 850 metres of climbing but I only do this a couple of times. By the time I depart on this trip I will have done about 2,000 miles year to date. All this is done on carbon road bikes. As I start the expedition then I have to get used to cycling a much heavier bike fully loaded with 20+ kg’s of luggage. After a month or so then I should have improved my fitness and also lost weight and be rolling better/faster. Avoiding injury is mainly a matter of luck but I never exert myself where I can hurt a muscle or joint.

For those with questions then either use the ‘Comments’ section below or write to me on tonyives@sky.co.uk

6.    A Hard Day’s Night (The Beatles)

Stead, at the US Customs & Border Pre-Clearance at Dublin Airport asked me where I was born. “Leeds” I proudly declared, to which he generated some much needed enthusiasm, as he processed the hundreds queuing, and declared that apparently that was where he originated from. I then expected the supplementary question of “do you know a Mrs Smith who lives in Headingley?” Fortunately this never came but he did go through a sequence of reactions of… surprise, awestruck and then the discomfort you might feel if you ended up sitting next to the nutter on the top of the bus when I told him what I was doing in the USA.

So began what was going to be possibly the longest of the days and the one with the most logistical challenges. More importantly then on the way home if they lose my luggage or break my bike it won’t be as inconvenient. So after a straightforward flight I got to Washington Dulles and then had the challenges of finding the bag and bike box, two different drop spots, correct change in dollars for the trolley release, location of the Car Rental bus stop, moving the luggage, getting the car and then heading south. A game, I may add, best played by at least two adults!

After programming the Sat Nav in my Chevrolet Cruze I hit the road south to Newport News, Virginia. At this point I must declare a dark secret. I fiddled about with the radio and found Shenandoah Country on 102.5 FM and slipped into a blissful state with Dierks Bentley, Tim McGraw, Sugarland etc to keep me company. I feel having declared a love for Country music that I been honest with you and that we now know where we stand.

I got to the hotel at around 8pm and smuggled up a very tatty, bike box to the first floor bedroom. I then checked all the wonderful supportive Facebook Posts and emails wishing me well. Anna had emailed that I even made that night’s York Evening Press – wonderful. Turned off the light at 9pm (2am GMT).

However with jet lag I kept the next room guessing “what the hell is he doing at 4am?” with all that clonking and some swearing as I assembled the bike. Now maybe this explains why I travel solo.

7.    I’m Still Standing (Elton John)

July 21 2014 – Newport News (via Yorktown to Ashland, Virginia – 101 miles

So the day after arriving I took care of some tasks such as sorting out provisions, buying a ‘cell phone’, checking out the route and returning the hire car. Highlights were few and far between. I was enormously excited when ‘Britney’ announced she was ‘my waitress’ at a restaurant for lunch, however she did seem rather underwhelmed when I told her that she was the first Britney I had encountered since the Mighty Spears.

So on Monday I was up very early and into the traffic. It seems that most of the rush hour was happening at 6.30 am but eventually it melted away as I found myself at Yorktown for the ceremony of dipping the wheels in the Atlantic. A kindly man from Basel, Switzerland took the photo and then I was off down the Colonial Parkway, this is about 20 miles of concrete road that takes you through Williamsburg to Jamestown.

And so started my history tour. Yorktown was where the British lost the War Of American Independence when George Washington laid seige to the town and beat Cornwallis. The Americans do admit to the fact that this was only achieved with the French Navy and their troops. They are kindly referred to on various monuments as Allies which we all now know means ‘Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys’.

The ride started down the very empty and concrete Colonial Parkway. This was delightful in humid but overcast weather. All along the road, as throughout my long journey there were plaques to explain various historic events.

However, in Jamestown, I took a wrong turn and was scrutinising my map when a large pick up truck came up beside me. “Lost?” a man piped up from his driver’s window – and so began a surreal conversation about Marmite. He found out I was English and then declared he was “half and half” with a mother from Hayes in Middlesex. His love for British food was attributed to his grandmother. Did I know what Yorkshire Pudding was or Toad In The Hole or Bubble & Squeak?! Which led us onto Marmite. He liked it. Lovely really that you can have these conversations. He adored British chocolate and cited Smarties. I was tempted to reach celebrity status by telling him I live in their home town but tempus fugit and I steered him back to the directions that I needed.

So on from here past the Battlefields of the War of American Independence, of which there was immense signage, for the rest of day.

By mid day I had done nearly 70 miles but it seemed too early to stop what with the relatively flat terrain and the cool weather and so I didn’t. Finding food was difficult, there were lots of Americans around and I loved the V8 pick up trucks as they went past with that sensational growl but no shops! Eventually I found this purveyor of hot BBQ pulled pork sandwiches.

So I trundled on past the battlefields and then decided that I would get to Ashland to camp. It’s here in the tent at before 6am I pen this. As with many camps that are really for RV’s they are close to a noisy highway (and now a fire truck siren!) I met my first other Trans Am’er today – Jack. He’s cycling back to California and he tells me there will be no snow in Colorado. Top man.

Today’s key information:

• 10 for marks out of 10 for the patience and courtesy of Virginian drivers
• Favorite name of the day (Katrina – my eldest daughter and member of the Grammar and Spelling Gestapo – favourite is deliberately spelt wrongly…or for my US readers, the American spelling) – Wolf Blitzer. Anchorman on CNN
• Campsite cost of $9.63

8.    The Heat Is On (Glenn Frey)

Ashland to Charlottesville 74 miles – July 23 2014

One of the challenges is to find a scenic route plus food stops and then accommodation. The ACA maps can struggle in this regard. Today I was faced with 40 miles or 95 miles before places to camp using their route. So I abandoned the map and went direct to Charlottesville. Charlottesville seems to be a regional centre and has a large university that generally gives it a certain ambience at its heart and more satisfying architecture. My route out of Ashland was flat, rural and scenic. The legs were not complaining and all was well. Past fields of maize and large wooded areas with houses set well back I moved along. A classic scene from a 1960’s film seemed to be in place as I passed this cafe. I can well imagine the Officer enquiring as to what type of pie they have today.

So trundling along I came to USA Route 250 that was as straight as an arrow and took me to Charlottesville. This road was Roman in its arrow straightness but the whole 40 miles were, in profile, like a set of saw teeth. To lapse into technobabble then these little rises and falls came ever mile and invariably involved a 5 to 8% gradient. By the time I finished the day I had climbed a total of 955 metres. Looking at the map then the real climbing starts tomorrow! I didn’t have much of a breakfast and after this challenge and the onset of the sun I literally staggered into a McDonalds.

I had wanted to camp but again with limited options I booked a low cost motel in Charlottesville bang on the ACA route and by the time I reached it the temperatures were into the mid 30’s. Whilst cycling I reckon that I must have drunk 4 litres in 7 hours. Just as well I fitted the third bottle rack. The heat is now with me and I expect it will start to shape my day and, maybe, distances.

At the hotel I Skype’d the family and spoke to my niece in Savannah. Then followed laundry and food shopping. Looking out of the motel window later then youths/ students were playing soccer or American Football. The latter in 30ºC heat had their helmets on!

9.   I Will Always Love You (Dolly Parton)

(Dolly Parton? – I know Whitney had the hit but DP wrote it and we are in the Appalachians)

Charlottesville to Buena Vista, Virginia 84 miles – July 23 2014

So before I tell you how this illustrates my love for touring with a day that illustrates the effort, sights and living on your wits (with some risk) then let me touch on Carers.

Larry, was an unkempt older chap (nearer 80 than 70) who was sat outside his motel room at 6am drinking a coffee. He’s admiring the bike and the Union Jack flags. He approaches me as I complete the loading and asks about where I am from. From here, as the Americans can do, he starts to tell me about two British hitch hikers he let use his camper van back at his home on the Kentucky border. Larry descibes himself as a ‘hill billy’…there are no grounds to disagree. He’s interested to know about my logistics and more. Virginians are quite slow speaking and often at pains to be courteous, I can only but be patient and listen even though with so much climbing today, in such heat, I am desperate to be off. 

“So Larry, what brings you to Charlottesville?” His daughter, older than me has Crohn’s disease and they are here, again to see a Specialist. He doesn’t seem optimistic when he tells me about the appointment and how awful the bleeding can be. I am riding a bike at my leisure and he’s making 400 mile round trips to expensive doctors, at his age, to do everything he can for his daughter.

I am not worthy.

The route takes me down some country lanes and past exquisite housing. I even see that classical opening scene from an American movie of the little girl, in bright warm sunshine, in her ‘yard’ riding her scooter with a dog running beside her and her chiding the dog for running away. He’s smelt a rabbit. She can’t see the bunny, but I have and it’s disappeared into a bush. 

So down these beautiful residential country lanes I emerge near Afton after a climb that has seen me come to a grinding halt outside a Post Office slumped over the handlebars gasping. A little away along the ’76’ bike route has a sign indicating turn right. I do this and descend on a highway for 2 miles at high speed. Error – the map said turn left and I have this hill to climb again as I am deposited back at the bottom of the first hill but on a road that ran parallel to the first brute.

The route, when I follow the map, is delightful in the gentle morning heat and light. I pass vineyards and vineyards and even see a deer slip across the road in front of me.

Eventually I come to the start of the Blue Ridge Parkway (which is a road). Parkways are akin to a route through a park – they follow historic old roads that are nothing to do with the main road system. This Parkway has a surface for most of its length beyond perfection and newly laid. All along the route are large tall trees, not one is a pine and so no wonder Laurel & Hardy were in pursuit of a ‘lonesome’ one. Tourists drive past and there are a high number of motorsickles. One was blaring out Johnny Cash!

This road follows a route at between 850 and 1,000m high and undulates. In mid 30’s heat I grind upwards on the ‘granny wheel’ gears and then swoop down only to have a major demoralisation at the next climb as it comes into view.

On a day that lasted 9 hours and 45 minutes I spend 5 and half on this road with no services apart from one loo where I filled up my bottles and no signage or routes off the Parkway. The end doen’t seem in sight and I keep climbing and falling, the legs are not good. A good day, where you might brag about your climbing, equates to about 1,000m. Today with a heavy bike I climbed 2,382m. I assume this road leads me to my stop for the night. “Wrong” – the map says turn off at a certain, rare, side road. Only 3 or 4 miles later I discover this and I cannot face all the climbing back to do a U Turn.

So what next with apparently so few accommodation solutions at 5.30pm up on a mountain road going who knows where? I decide I will programme the Sat Nav to the nearest town and at least get some more water. It is warm enough to sleep out in the wild and if I get enough water then I can cook and rehydrate. Not great but I have messed up. I might be on the brink of hurting myself unless I stop soon.

The Sat Nav says Buena Vista and says it is another 8 and half miles, up and down. Such a long way, I shout at the trees, they are not listening – your fault mate.

Eventually a turn off this road arrives and I plummet into the valley at speeds of up to 38 mph. Several hours on the Parkway and minutes into Buena Vista. Not the prettiest town but suddenly I see a motel. This could be a solution but I am trying to survive on a budget. Next I see a sign for a camp site at some playing fields. I get directions from some folk sat on their porch and then I am cycling past the baseball practise session to the Reception. 

For $5 I can pitch near the river or wherever I want. What a day, Buena Vista I will always love you.

10.  The Bare Necessities (Phil Harris from ‘Jungle Book’)

Buena Vista to Troutville, Virginia, 54 miles – July 24 2014

Now Family Ives would not identify me as a man of great interest in wildlife, in fact downright hostile is nearer the mark. By contrast Mrs Ives is ecstatic at the sightings of deer, seals and puffins. My psychological scarring is down to the grey squirrel (but you’ll be pleased to learn we haven’t got enough space in the blog to go through my issues on that score). Bear with me.

So today was meant to be me taking it easy and sticking to the map. So I left Buena Vista and then transmitted the last blog whilst stood outside McDonalds using their free wi-fi. Next I headed into Lexington. From here I was looking for the road out and asked a man if I was heading in the right direction to Buchanan. He was confused, did I mean Buck-Annan? I surely did, however, I still ended up on the wrong winding country lane but was heading in the correct direction. As I trundled past one house then two dogs started up like a burglar alarm and fortunately they were on a leash. Dogs are a feature of my touring and so I have done well to get to Day 4, without being startled by one or more.

On I rode and then hit a blissful descent where I rounded a corner and there was a bear in the middle of the road! The little bear legged it into the woods due to my speedy arrival. I couldn’t believe it, maybe I was seeing things? So as I continued until I espied a chap in front of a house and pulled up to ask him. He quickly said that he was not the owner but was looking for the owner because he’d come to buy basil (be fair I couldn’t make this up) and, yes they had Black Bears in the mountains. I had seen a wild bear!

So I arrived in ‘Buck-Annan’ and stopped to buy some provisions from a very ramshackle grocery and was met with indiference to my sighting of the bear but the BLT sandwich was superb. 

As I stepped out from the shop the heavens opened and did so for the next 5 hours. When I say rain I mean ‘ an’ rain. I was sodden and it had seeped into my panniers (I found out later) and I was miserable. However down the road I saw a little supermarket and popped in to buy some shortbread biscuits (yes I know, I live on the edge night and day). At this point a lady popped out of a parked car and apologised for her two dogs barking at me…”After you had gorn I hit them both with a peece of wood”. As a new lover of all four legged beasts I was a little upset but asked about the bears. Yes they were about and she recounted a story of a ‘momma and babee bear’ emptying the contents of her ornamental fish pond. Seems that a few goldfish are merely an hors d’oeuvre to a bear but I did think that she could sell tickets in Yorkshire if this happened often.

So I then cycled/swam to Troutville and in a torrential downpour managed to call and arranged sleeping in their park under shelter and using the Fire Station to clean up. This then also meant furiously attempting to dry everything out.

Later Connie and Linda, the park janitors on the rota, came around emptying the bins. They stopped by and Linda has a son who lives in Nuneaton. I spent several minutes attempting to teach her the pronunciation and it still ended up sounding like a place on the Adriatic. She plans to visit but no time soon. Connie, however, told me about the freight train that came through twice a night sounding its horn, the prowling copper who will check me out, the prevalence of ticks and skunks in the park and rampant vandalism in the park toilets. I would like to think she meant well.

Did I tell you…I SAW A BEAR.

11.   Forever Young (Bob Dylan)

Troutville to Radford, Virginia – July 25 2014

A post script from last night is that just before going to sleep the park had emptied and I was alone in one corner sorting out some dollar notes that I keep in my shoe for safe keeping. After all the rain then they brought a new meaning to a ‘floating currency’ – they were sopping and stuck together. As I am scattering $460 across the bench a burly elderly bloke appears out of the dark brandishing a torch. It’s Cecil the Park Director. He has this job and title in a town that has a total population of 400! Anyway he didn’t know I was staying and had I rung up? etc. I confirmed I had and then we discussed skunks and…..bears. Eventually he departed.

So an early start. I think I was awake but when a train comes through towns it always blows its amazingly piercing horn. It happened in Buena Vista as well. So up and off down the road to McDonalds to have breakfast and then answer all the kind emails etc.

From here then out into the country. The whole of Virginia is wooded and so you are always in a forest or between two and always climbing or descending. A few elderly folk went past me the other way before a chap with full panniers came into view. It was Bob from Oregon who was close to his finish and off to Washington DC. As seems obligatory I got some more Kentucky horror stories: “and they had to drive him 60 miles for a rabies shot”. 

(POSTSCRIPT 2018 – Bob and I still correspond by email and he’s still riding his bike across this great Continent).

The day before, Brian, a Yearbook sales rep (answers on a postcard please) who caught me up whilst out for a morning spin from home, he recounted doing the Trans Am in ’96 and sleeping on a Kentucky church lawn, with permission, when a man appeared out of a trailer opposite and started unloading his shotgun into the air. Oh how he laughed…

So it was great to meet Bob who admitted to being 74 years old. He then went on to say that all the other cyclists that I had seen were mainly in their 70’s. They were also crossing the country but with someone carrying their luggage. The oldest of this group was 83! In fact one couple were doing this for the fourth time.

Humbled by my youth and their achievement I continued to climb again 1200 metres for the day and I looked up two campsite solutions. Calls confirmed that they were both full up for the weekend. Now that is something I might have to think through next weekend. Plan B was a hotel and not least the opportunity of trying to dry a few thing out.

Still feeling fit and life is good.

12.   The Pushbike Song (Mungo Jerry – a special request from the Fitzmaurices)

Radford to Rural Retreat, Virginia – 63 miles July 26 2014

As I sit and write this at a bench next to my tent, in the dark, there are fire flies floating about: another first.

So I departed the Super8 hotel and continued west. The morning mist was quite heavy for the first hour as I entered the woodlands that are a signature of Virginia. Houses are set back amongst the trees or placed in a striking position with a view. The day warmed up nicely but never became too hot but I slapped on the Factor 50. I reckon whatever barrier I put on everyday then I should have an enviable suntan by the end of September or more likely look like an emaciated prune.

Well to return to a theme then Virginia, like Norman Hunter, continues to bite your legs and the short little hills are quite awful with gradients well above 10%. I can’t tell you the exact percentage because the trees often form a canopy over the road and the Sat Nav can’t read it.

As I am twiddling up these hills on narrow roads then it is not uncommon to hear an enormous growl and crunching of gears as a very large articulated tanker or such attempts to go up a steep hill at 5 mph behind you. If there is a chance for me to pull off the road then I will. The Virginians are not chancers they will ordinarily hang back until the road is clear however long it takes.

However, with a series of spiteful little rises I did contemplate the unthinkable: getting off and pushing. Every experienced touring cyclist has done this and will say that it is nothing to be ashamed about. Absolute bs! The reality is that sometimes you can push the bike up hill at the same speed as riding it. I do feel that if Virginia keeps this up then I may have to relent. Needless to say then it is unlikely I will tell you.

One road ran alongside a motorway for some time before a junction made them meet and I found fast food and wi-fi. More interestingly it was a stopping point for the iconic Greyhound buses and it disgorged its passengers, who came into McDonalds to also refuel. Of note there were black people getting on and off the bus. I see so few. They are separate in their pastimes and where they live and my trail might find a few in service jobs e.g. on Reception at Super8 or in a McDonalds behind a counter but elsewhere there are few to see. Interesting to me then there are quite a few Hispanics who seemed to be working in construction or the peach orchards.

So accommodation tortures me, I like to have it sorted for the next day. Last night’s calls to one number were inadvertently contacting a fax machine (remember those!) However, despite unpromising signage I ended up at a campsite with a lovely spot amongst the trees to set up my tent and a great vista of a lake 100 metres from my pitch. I have a lot of Country songs telling about weekends by the lake and it appears to be true.

So I bothered my distant neighbours for a 10mm spanner and then some pliers to try and stop my front wheel rubbing on the tyre. Not a serious issue but the noise of it rubbing for over 6 hours a days is driving me loopy. I hope I have sorted it.

I understand it is very hot in the UK at the moment. Please feel free to keep it!

13.    Amazing Grace

Rural Retreat to Rosedale, 80 miles – July 27 2014

It is quite a sensory experience sleeping in the forest. Last night after the dark came and I’d gone to bed the insects start up and create a rhythmic throb. I was so tired that I could sleep on a washing line but woke on a couple of occasions to hear distant thunder and see lightning. At 5.30am I was awake to hear it again but closer and heard the rain pitter patter on the tent. I was snug within but the misery of packing a wet tent was to be upon in me in an hour or so’s time.

The ride was through a National Park on a Sunday and apart from one tanker passing too close then there was little or no traffic and I had little to distract me. The first stop was a petrol station and these, throughout the trip, are locations where you can get provisions. Again you wouldn’t shop at a petrol station but I had Hobsons’ choice. The Parks here have Horse Camps and occasionally bowling down the country lanes was a pick up with a large horsebox attached. These horse boxes looked more modern and sleek than the British equivalents and they included people sleeping quarters.

Again the road was up and down all the way until I got to Damascus and collared a couple of women cyclists who were going West to East on the TransAm. They were about to have a day off and were being picked up by a friend. I asked about accommodation and they volunteered a church about 35 miles away.

Being Sunday there were plenty of churches and parked cars for the worshippers.

So I raced westwards to hopefully get there by 6’ish. Cycling through a town called Meadowview a Honda pulls alongside and a man alerts me to an incoming storm from Kentucky that may include a tornado – “better stop and hunker down, buddy” was his advice as he drove away. Hunker down where and was he for real?

First sign with a banjo on it spells danger ahead.

So I cycled on and came to Haytor Gap that served up a 400m hairpin climb. The gradient wasn’t impossible but there must have been about 5 miles of it and I was desperate to see the top. About a mile from the summit a young lad pulls alongside in a very weary Nissan pick up and tells me about the storm coming in….was I going far? I tell him and then he says that if I want to then I can put the bike in the back of the truck and he will drive me there. Somewhat in a British stiff upper lip sort of way I tell him that I want to ride and he waves goodbye. It was very kind of him.

So eventually I climb this brute and come down the other side in search of Elk Garden United Methodist Church and whilst it was raining I get here before any storm (there never was a tornado).

At the door it says come in, eat our food, use our appliances, sleep where you want etc. I couldn’t believe it. So generous and welcoming to the traveller.

Apart from Steve, a first year post graduate medical student from Philadelphia, travelling West to East, who arrived about an hour later telling of attacks by packs of dogs in Eastern Kentucky, we never saw anyone from the church. Steve continued to whittle the stick he had decided was the best solution to dog attacks (see picture, unfortunately you cannot see the rocks he was also carrying to lob at Bonzo). Steve then also wrote in the visitors book, in capitals in a box, that packs of six dogs are to be expected in Kentucky. I’m not sure that a lot of people didn’t turnaround after reading this!

Steve was a Moonie for two years before withdrawing from this Faith. Clearly he still has the same values and love for all forms of life. If only all the folk were not so dull.

14.  Jesus Children Of America (Stevie Wonder)

Rural Retreat to Lookout, 62 miles – July 27 2014

After tidying the Church to the state we found it we both departed in opposite directions. As you can see then the sky didn’t look promising but I have ‘done’ rain before and bring it on if you think you are hard enough. 

 

Following the map I had started on a hill when I was hailed from behind “hey biker!” and due to my current speed came to an immediate halt without skid marks. Chelsea was riding from Yorktown to Oregon, after a brief chat she volunteered that she was going to the same overnight stop and that she would ride me.

“Oh alright then…”

We were headed for another church, this time I was switching my allegiance from Methodist to Baptist. When I get home then I really must find out the difference between Presbyterian, Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal etc., however, I can say that they have been wonderful to cyclists when there are no other accommodation solutions.

Accumulated weariness is becoming a factor. I have been on the road eight days solid and the mileage is just under 600 miles. This has to be explained against the terrain. I remember, in the 1990s, I used to tour for five days with a rest day after the third day and the bike had less than half the luggage.

So now partnered we sailed along with similar abilities. I was a lot more experienced as a tourer but she had 37 years of additional youth on her side. Chelsea is a vegan – not a popular thing in hillbilly Virginia and Kentucky. Life will be one large bowl of oats for several weeks I expect. The countryside was still as green but a lot less prosperous and whilst waiting for a sandwich in Haysi I learned that the local school was being merged with another because of falling numbers of students. It wasn’t long ago that small families had five kids. Added to this is the decline of the coal industry purportedly down to Obama’s anti polution legislation. This is putting the price up and there are cleaner alternatives. There were still a large number of trucks on the road and they were quite courteous unlike the articulated logging truck that whistled past within inches on the steep incline towards Breaks Interstate Park.

Having just watched all the episodes of Breaking Bad meant that coming across a Pontiac Aztec, as driven by Walter White, was quite a exciting.

Eventually we parted from Virginia. Your drivers have been mainly wonderful, your courtesy exceptional, your weather kind to a cyclist and your State is as beautiful as many a European country. I will be back, not on a bike.

So here I am at the Freeda Harris Baptist Center and Rita and Kelly have just departed after delivering peanut butter fudge to go with the kitchen full of food. These are good people. By mid afternoon we got to Lookout not without ‘dawgie’ episodes. Some will yap and are not really up for the chase but one dog on three passes (another story) bolted toward my front wheel. Sadly I was unable to extract my camera, blow my whistle and reach for my pepper spray whilst also accelerating like Mark Cavendish to provide a momento.

PS – Chelsea is outside behind the hall practising her ukelele and recording a tune to send back to a pal on her iPhone. Obvs…

15.   Everyday Is A Winding Road (Sheryl Crow)

Lookout to Hazard, Kentucky, 82 miles – July 29 2014

So I didn’t know it was an ice making machine as I wandered about the Sports Hall at 2 am wondering what the noise was with my torch ablaze. My three other travellers in corners of the Hall, no doubt awake because of this clonking, were probably more concerned about a confused man walking around muttering dark threats.

So an early start to the day and the good news was that I found a large stick outside the Hall. With my sister’s voice and words in my head saying “they are friendly and just want to play” then I thought, with the stick, I could play ‘fetch’ or render them insensible. I think I will await reporting my experiences until Berea, but so far unscathed despite several chases.

The early morning was chilly as the day started with a windy climb up through a forest. Most of the cycling at the moment is on B or C roads and traffic is quite light as they wind around the rivers and mountains. In Virginia there seem to be splendid well tended plots with a house on them. Here there is less ‘tended’ and inferior housing. Often there are abandoned vehicles left to rot for decades and the plots seemed higgledy piggledy at the side of the road.

For whatever their income level may be then the drivers are so respectful. They will dutifully sit behind you rather than overtake if the road isn’t indisputably clear. Then when they do get past they smile sweetly.

The hill climbs are distinctly Alpine, lots of hairpins and gradients of 8% can be typical. The weather is low 20ºC’s and perfect for cycling. These hills and my baggage are putting an immense load on the chain, rear cassette and bottom bracket and I expect some failure in due course.

God still has a serious profile and there are lots of small ‘retail outlets’. We stopped at a set of benches at a Church for lunch and got talking to the kids who were milling about after they had been involved in a ‘fundraiser’ lunch. Chelsea lit her bunsen burner and had oats, I ate a ‘turkey and cheese sub’ that was as appetising as a submarine.

The kids were fun and informed and they seemed gentle and respectful teenagers. Somehow we got onto guns and many had one! One girl who had been earlier talking about her faith was extolling the virtues of her sawn off shotgun. Britney said that she shot her first deer last year but when her family shot then it was to eat the animal not just for the sake of it. I suppose fire arms just don’t compute, in Britain, as a good idea, but the Second Amendment here makes it a fundamental right. 

I felt better today and ground up the steep hills and bowled along on most other stuff. Chelsea had only ever cycled 60 miles as a maximum distance and so to discover the potential of the child we ploughed on for 82.4 miles. I think any residual energy was discharged but sadly the young do bounce back.

In Hazard we got our rooms at a motel and in classic American style got some food delivered from a restaurant to the room.

16.   You Just Haven’t Earned It Yet, Baby (The Smiths)

Hazard to Booneville, Kentucky, 48 miles – July 30 2014

Strange start to the day when the elderly owner of the motel turned to his manager and quietly asked “what is he saying?” This isn’t the English variant of “what’s he on about now?” But he couldn’t understand my accent. I couldn’t understand him either.

No such problems with Brandon at the Mini Market in Booneville (so named after one Daniel Boone) who was delighted to discover my accent and exhorted me to say “bloody hell” repeatedly. This was no problem; he should get a bike and tag along and he could accummulate a whole lexicon of English swear words.

The day started off the map route and with an educated calculation I found an alternative start to the route. Now there is a theory put about by women that men are quite happy to drive/ride around in circles for hours rather than stop and ask someone for directions. This is of course is ludricrous. To suggest my cycling trips are about 15% longer than they need be due to this preference would also be outrageous (cough).

So as we set off and Chelsea made the insane suggestion that we might stop at a small store to confirm the direction we were headed. Being Mr Agreeable I complied and fighting every sinew in my body strolled into the store accompanied. In retrospect I have to that say my over exuberant euphoria having my decision confirmed was maybe a little over the top.

So more of the same country C roads with trees and houses set off the road and repeated climbs and descents. I have resisted taking photos of much of the poverty around. I am not here to be censorious of the area, without knowing the issues, but I took a snap to illustrate what wasn’t uncommon. Again all I can say is that courtesy and friendliness was always in abundance.

The ride to Berea would have been nearer 90 miles and I would have limped in. The road being as difficult as it was came as a surprise as the map didn’t indicate such misery with over 1,000 metres climbed in less than 35 miles. I felt that whoever ‘pulls the strings’, such as fate, was saying as regard my day off in Berea that I just hadn’t earned it yet and I would have to wait.

So via Brandon….”bloody hell”… we found our way to a supermarket that was very exciting as it had fresh fruit and vegetables – yippee. From here to a church where camping was invited. May I say that cold showers, irrespective of the outside temperature, are overrated.

So Berea awaits with 711 miles completed without a rest day yet.

17.   Dog Days Are Over (Florence & The Machine)

Booneville to Berea, Kentucky 51 miles – July 31 2014

Behind the church and outside of the nearby town was my best night’s sleep of the tour and I awoke to fog/mist. So on with the high-viz and switch on the lights and off we go. The fog burned off and the beautiful countryside revealed itself. Gone were the mountains and now it was the hills, albeit challenging as usual. I think you have seen enough images of the roads but very little is flat and it is mainly a nasty little rise and then a swooping descent over too soon.

The construction of properties included brick and the area looked a little more prosperous although the sight of abandoned assorted junk in front of houses was not uncommon. Don’t worry there continue to be churches everywhere.

In McKee I sidled up to a ‘Subway’ to use their wi-fi from outside when Janey cycled up in front of me. Meeting another cross country cyclist is akin to speed dating, in that, in 5 to 10 minutes you extract as much possible information as possible, usually to help yourself and then move on. So:

• From California
• 53 years old
• Husband (his second marriage) following her in a mobile home
• 80 to 90 miles a day but not carrying luggage
• Aiming for Hazard and cycling from Berea
• Advised on crime in downtown Scaramento (if you get lost like her)
• Using old maps

This is inbetween my telling her:

• Former drummer with Showaddywaddy
• Have rowed across Atlantic to get to the start
• ‘Trophy’ husband
• Cycling 120 miles a day
• Loving the hills
• Have adopted four Kentucky pooches

You get the idea. 

Talking of dogs then I do realise that some readers may be actually planning to ride the route and I do feel it timely to summarise it all. There are lots and lots of dogs and the occasions are too numerous to report when they went off like a burglar alarm and started to chase me. In Europe then tourers face the same irritation but they are fenced in. Here the home plots are large and fencing is not always preferred. Hence they come at you. Most want a damn good bark and a 30 yards dash and frankly that is annoying but not a problem. Some come at you and, mainly terriers, are quite committed to making contact. Not fun. I have only had one ‘pack’ situation and two mongrels and two black labradors (who are not killers!) surrounding me. It is quite hard to keep a touring bike upright at low speeds and sort out two behind you, one dead in front and another going ballistic to your side. Usually lots of “NO”‘ and “STOP IT” works and they eventually desist. (It shouldn’t put anyone off riding though, and now I have posted this I may suffer worse, but you will be glad when it all stops).

Lastly as I started a descent all the usual hell breaks loose with a few dogs on the road and bounding out amongst the crowd is a St Bernard. He’s having a yap but is simply too big to steer around, I have to stop. His owner appears and hears my “no, no, no” and calls him off. 

“Don’t worry he’s a soft ol’ poppee. Hey where ya from? Australia?” A two word answer came to mind. 

So the dog doesn’t come to heal but starts to bond with me and sits at my side wanting to be stroked and licking my knee. Deep joy and no Ann Marie I am not getting a dog when I get home.

So cycling on past some Yard Sales and a gang of chaps in hi-viz picking up litter from the roadside with ‘Jackson County Work Reform Inmate’ written on the back seems a civilised development from the Chain Gang of old.

Berea eventually showed itself and I ploughed straight through to the campsite. It is mainly an RV site for vehicles near to an Interstate passing through. After the usual pleasantries at Reception I tell them that I am looking forward to a beer: it is a ‘dry’ County they advise. Anyway it is fine and less than $8.00 a night. I‘m glad to be back amongst wi-fi and fast food!

Later that night whilst returning from a restaurant I go through the old town and there is a Bluegrass ensemble playing some Country and Blues classics. Not a bad finish to the day in the fading light but still over 20 degrees.

Just a quick shout out to thank my wonderful neice in Savannah who helps me keep contact with the family when wi-fi isn’t available. Victoria Kate xxx. 

Also thanks to Harry Gration of BBC Look North fame who Re Tweeted my request for his ‘Followers’ to know about the fund raising for York Carers Centre. Lastly thanks for all the comments, I really appreciate the time y’all taking to read the blog.

Woof!

18.   Ramblin’ Man (The Allman Brothers Band)

Berea to Lincoln Homestead Interstate Park, Springfield, Kentucky 75 miles – August 2 2014

So Friday was mainly a chill out day in Berea eating, drinking (water) and talking to the family at length. I got the chance to look over the bike and listen to my favourite Blues radio show on podcast (‘Nothing But The Blues’ from Vixen 101). 

The only other highlight was debating the attraction of a pair of pliers with a local, which were begging to be bought at $1 a pair. We were both mooning over these at a discount store. He opined that he might use them to extract the hooks out of the mouths of blowfish and avoid being bitten. I had more mundane uses such as gripping the nut in place that holds the front brakes tight, on the front fork, whilst loosening the locking nut that retains the mudguard in place. 

Making pasta for Chelsea and myself – note our tents in lots of space up the field!

So we rolled into the cool morning air and found ourselves heading west again. Instead of the usual calamitous ascents and then the long swoops down this was a bit more gentle. I even saved the life of a tortoise that was making a slow job of crossing the road in morning traffic. I saw a couple of deer that slipped into the woods as I cycled past. In Britain they seem more hidden but I suppose these deer are so confident because of the lack of people and traffic generally. 

All of a sudden Bonzo was gone and I abandoned my stick at Harrodsburg when we stopped for some lunch. A brief stroll around the town showed it to be an administrative centre with few people! 

This part of Kentucky was suddenly more prosperous and attractive. We passed over Herrington Lake which appeared to be quite a resort with lots of boats. The countryside remained green and the sun started to burn hot with temperatures into the mid 30’s. I carry around 2.75 litres on the bike, at the start of the day, and running out isn’t likely.

My maps from the ACA vary in route and accurate instructions compared to Chelsea’s. Her’s are a later edition. I got sent on a three mile detour when riding well ahead of her. This made me late for golf. 

The accommodation for tonight was at the Lincoln Homestead Interstate Park. This was Lincoln’s parent’s gaff back in the day and the house and museum are here along with a golf course. The course has a Pro Shop and a humungus garage for all the golf buggies. I showered here (a cold one, although I did have a locker).

In fact golf buggies are derigeur for the over 60’s. At an RV park walking to Reception would be seen as nonsense. There have been a couple of days when a lift to the shower block wouldn’t have been refused.

So again its a night’s sleep under a pavilion and hoping the laundry dries in the hot evening sun.

19.   Alone Again Or (Love)

Springfield to Falls of Rough, 104 miles – 3 August 2014

When settling down for the night, in the last embers of the hot day, it can be a bit too snug in the tent until the temperature falls away and then you awake to a heavy cold mist. So it was today but despite going out like a light at just after 8pm I was woken at 3am by someone zipping around the country roads on a powerful motorbike and also coming to rest in our car park for a chat with the pillion rider whilst revving the bike. We were miles from anywhere and so this echoed quite profoundly and I was completely awake for the next couple of hours.

However when back on the velo it was a quick couple of hours into Bardstown. There were two maginificent restaurants/cafes serving morning diners with eggs over easy, French toast, coffee, waffles etc and I knew that the family would love such an oppotunity to dine here. I was seeking wi-fi and neither offered it. 

At this point Chelsea trailed in and it was obvious that we were now moving at two different speeds. Yesterday I had waited at many junctions for her to arrive and felt bad that maybe I was wearing her out. Anyway I said we should part and she readily agreed as she wanted to go see some local caves via another route (or ‘rowt’ as she would have it) and our separation was complete. Goodbye South Carolina Belle.

So left to my own devices then all sensible controls were lifted and I headed west. After a brief flirtation with Kentuckian civilisation I was back in the sticks with a little bow wow action…..”NO!” and went along quite nicely as the hills were more gentle and occasionally flat roads appeared. So through New Haven where sadly the Rail Museum was shut and onto Buffalo before Sonora. 

Here I bought a few provisions and then headed into the wilds. White Mils, Eastview, Madrid befor coming to Falls of Rough. Rough being a river. There was more arable farming now and also the occasional Amish buggy with a family on board. The first buggy studiously ignored me as I went past, very un American but on the second buggy it was all waves. I recollect when I worked for Moores visiting one of the parent company’s American cabinet factories to find the Amish working there. How can you work with electricity during the day but return to candles at home? 

This is the first time I have cycled through a time zone and the clocks have gone back by one hour. Heaven knows what time I shall be on the road tomorrow morning! 

So back to my own journey planning I felt more liberated and at ease.

20.   Jesus Take The Wheel (Carrie Underwood)

Falls of Rough to Sebree, 74 miles – August 4 2014

Well I could tell you about the ride and my detour into Owensboro to get wif-fi but let’s talk about some of the people and how I have been touched and learned something today.

As I cycled out of Fordsville, a little despondent at not finding wi-fi and remembering the expression on the Diner waitress’ face when I asked her if they had wi-fi, as she looked over my shoulder to see where I had parked my Space Rocket, I was hailed from the roadside. 

Denny Edge, a Professor Emiritus from Louisville University was on his porch with his wife, Sharron, and wanted a chat. Denny, 70 years old, and coming across as Dustin Hoffman in ‘Meet The Fokkers’ was in bare feet and wanted to tell me about his 15 trips to The UK including York and ‘Edinborrow’. He taught psychology and seemed a bit of a wealthy hippy with a large allotment at the back of his plot with pumpkins, squashes, canteloupes, tomatoes, maize and other exotic vegetables. He told me of his love of the Brits and how he was thinking of doing up a nearby house as a hostel for passing cyclists. What did I think and how would he advertise it? 

Sharron was busily writing out addresses and filling me in on her ancestry that led to them living out here in the sticks. Frankly their more pressing appointments, and the arrival of other seniors, in cars gave me my chance for a get away but you could feel their generous spirit and openness. I think if I had wanted anything I could have had it.

Later that day as I rolled up to the First Baptist Church in Sebree I thought I knew the ropes at churches. This was on a grander scale with five other ‘West to East’ cyclists already berthed in the luxurious accommodation. 

Pastor Bob (over 70 years of age) seemed a little detached as he gave me my tour around this large complex and I was shown where to sleep, cook, use the laundry and then asked to stick a pin in a map of where I came from. After this I was given a little book upon the righteous path that Jesus offers and I took it and put it away discretely. I thought the tour was over and was about to sort out my washing when he invited me to dinner at 7pm sharp…..gulp! 

There were 3 other guests, Lesley, Zac and Greg who were cycling West to East; in their early twenties and seemed to be typical of the young on this trip who seem to be using it as an opportunity to delay making a decision on a career. Then there was me.

Violet the pastor’s wife, a short and compact little matron, made us welcome in their kitchen and after Bob said Grace we were invited to pile into the cornbread, pork fillets, coleslaw, lime beans, squash, cabbage & bacon and canteloupe melon, which I thought was the next course but I can confirm it works.

The conversation steered to their many guests at the church. Violet, a strong figure, brought out the albums, newspaper clippings, postcards etc. Cycling through included Ambassadors, ex-professional cyclists, business moguls, paraplegics, Thais, Koreans, unicyclists and, obviously, two chaps on penny farthings (which apparently are more difficult to ride downhill than up!). She calculated she had 250 guests around her table during the season. Their generosity of time let alone food was amazing. Quite a few of the cyclists I have met are not a group I would feel like opening my house to every night, 7/7.

Her relationship with hard luck stories, such as the Thais taking 5 years around the world who turned up during October (snow…doh!) only to discover that the husband’s mother had had a heart attack back in the Far East and how they helped out with logistics, calls and not least prayer was engrossing.

She led us through all these stories, as Bob cleared up and then surreptitiously slipped a large chocolate brownie with vanila ice cream in front of everyone. What was clear was her belief, her energy and value of community. As my family know then I always have another question (especially in Berlin in the rain) and when she said that she often travelled in the USA giving talks I asked what these were? 

She attended Gideon Bible Conferences and gave her ‘Testimonial’. 

Violet was the 11th child out of 15 born in Mississippi. Her family were share croppers and the father was pure evil. A drunk, violent, womaniser who often spent all their money leaving the family destitute. “I used to sleep with a pillow over my head so I couldn’t hear my mother’s crying at night”. The children never had lunch and after dinner were expected to be out in the fields helping with the cotton.

The father’s control over all the family was horrific as was the abuse, “the girls were never left alone with him”. This family environment spawns misery and 8 of the 10 sons eventually became alcoholics and one ended up doing ‘Life’ for rape.

So this sweet lady talks of her rescue by at first the donated Gideon’s bible, which she absorbed word for word, the church classes she joined and the goodness of the people she met, their funding her education and her escape from this life that no child should witness let alone suffer.

Brownie’s were neglected as she told this story in her Southern drawl with everyone transfixed. The tears rolled down her face as she explained her wrestling with her faith and suffering.

I am sure that Violet and Bob were well aware that they were ‘at work’ with this gathering and their history and faith would serve as some introduction/instruction. However, nothing was expected or sought other than poliltely listening and I couldn’t get enough. I had cycled past so many churches, listened to so many Country music songs and wondered how these people believed what they did.

When at work at Moores on occasion a new management book would float around or I would get bought it and encouraged to read it. Amongst the ‘tool kit’ for success (all usually recycled stuff with a new ‘management speak’ title) included working on your spirituality. Not a religious one but one where you feel good by ‘putting something back’ and maybe use your stature in society to take a larger community role. It makes you feel better. It does. 

I cannot share their religion or God and what drives them is a different ‘motor ‘ but they are good people and I came to find America and tonight I found some more of it and maybe some of this may make me a better man. I can imagine for those in despair, wanting community and or a positive structure to find their way through the complexities of modern life then they would find this ‘brochure’ very tempting.

(I did flirt with using the song title of ‘Rocky Racoon’ by The Beatles. If anyone can work out the connection then a San Francisco key fob will be on order and delivered but not for a while!)

21.    Banks Of The Ohio (Olivia Newton John)

Sebree to Cave In Rock, Illinois 54 miles – August 5 2014

So away from the palatial church and onto a very up and down road to Cave In Rock. Bob had explained that maize and soya were popular crops. Soya looks like a neat short hedge. He also talked about the local chicken farms which battery farmed millions of these chicks per annum. You could tell you were passing one by the smell. Logging was popular and I wondered how many kitchen cabinet oak doors I had sold in my career made with Kentucky oak. It all comes from the USA.

I must show you the rumble strip edge to the road which is the ‘punishment of choice’ throughout the whole State. It meant that you couldn’t use a hard shoulder and if you had to cross it then you nearly shook out your fillings. Awful.

As I cycled through Clay I stopped for an All American Breakfast at Jeri’s and the use of their wi-fi: bliss. Before remounting my steed I called Joyce, one of my followers and friend of the Fitzmaurices and she duly appeared brandishing a dollar coin, treasure and a lovely thought as a momento. It was lovely to meet her and after a quick selfie and a hug I soldiered onto Marion….err…the town not the girl.

I had decided to make this a shorter day and it was. I was tired and getting out of the sun and stopping riding had great appeal. However before that I had an exciting ferry crossing across the Ohio river. Free! Just across the other side it was another State and a quick photo was needed.

 So goodbye Kentucky. Lovely people and great spirit and generosity. A State of contrasts with the challenges of the east and the relative prosperity of the west with your jobs and agriculture. Your rumble strip are not friendly to cycling and I cannot believe that you have chronic narcolepsy amongst the population that needs this road mutilation and as for your dogs….

So set I up camp and whiled away the afternoon. Called the South Carolina Belle and Jack. Both are trucking along with Chelsea having notched up 98 miles the other day and Jack starting to hit 50.

22.   Keep On Trucking (Eddie Kendricks)

Cave In Rock to Carbondale 84 miles – August 6 2014

A peaceful night. Albeit I had a view that might have made members of my family want to sleep alone rather be joined by this 8 legged friend between the fly sheet and tent!

I started to pack when a dishevelled figure pulled up in a car and entered the shower block at before 7am. As he exited then, like most blokes of a certain age, he couldn’t resist a few questions about the bike and trip. However, he had slept in his car overnight and probably avoided the Park Ranger and his requirement for a fee. He said he had flown up here for a family reunion and had a hire car (Texas plates?) Surely a man with those methods of transportation doesn’t bum a free shower and sleep in his car? Before he could produce a loaded Magnum and demand all my spare dried pasta I cycled off. 

Well I was not in good nick. I could cycle but climbing anything above 4% was tough and the road all the way to Eddyville was typically straight with 400 metres of gentle descents followed by 400 metre ascents ending in a 8% rise and a blind summit. I plugged in some music to distract me. 

On yet another rise as I was listening to Charlie Daniels and ‘Uneasy Rider’ when I heard the usual growl of a struggling articulated coal truck (‘semi’) behind me. These boys were confined by the requirement not to overtake, given the blind summit, but if the victim wasn’t too near the top and the truck had a good run then they would gun these heavy babies past me,nice!

The first one just about did, but even they don’t like 8%, however, the truck behind couldn’t see me and calculate what his pal in front was negotiating. So as No 1 edged past then No 2 simply ground to a halt. Thirty metres from a blind summit in the middle of the road he stalled. By this time I was stationery on the grass verge, in fact, up until stopping I think a glacier would have overtaken me. He struggled to restart the truck and execute a hill start. 

Truth betold then in terms of execution I imagine I was more on his mind, after probably receiving his informed opinion that my parents weren’t married in 1955, I am sure he would have wreaked his revenge were it not for an imminent head on collision and a queue of traffic behind.

So the truck eventually started; this enormous tractor lurched forward creating a ‘wheelie’ on the back 4 wheels and then crawled forward. Not even a wave goodbye!

Coal trucks hammered past and they gave a good passing distance where they could. At Eddyville I had an unforgettable turkey sandwich (not good memories) and fortified by Haribos I continued to Goreville. The road gradients reduced dramatically and I decided to continue to a hotel bed, restaurant cooked meal and beer. A day off beckoned and as there were more hills over the next week then some restoration was essential. 

After checking into my Super8 I had some dinner and then strolled to some retail outlets. It was here where I met Andrea from Rotherham. She had reached a dead end with her job back in Blighty and relocated to the USA and was now enjoying a busy career. She did say ‘soccer’ and ‘rowt’ = route and was quickly chastised (I am like that).

And as the day eventually drew to a close I enacted one last religious ritual: I went to Walmart and then went to bed.

23.   Bridge Over Troubled Water (Simon & Garfunkel)

Carbondale to Hawn State Park, 103 miles – August 7 & 8 2014

It is impossible to relax and to stop thinking that you are in a race. The race is of course against time and even on a day off I view it like a pit stop where problems are solved – laundry, get cash, shop for food, have bike checked and get a long decent call to Anna. So in the heavy mist the morning after my non biking day I pushed off at 6.30am in the directions of the Ozarks.

The first town I passed through was Murphysboro (“it’s life Jim, but not as we know it”) and I was glad to escape this busy unattractive place to go south to ride along the Mississippi levee – in pursuit of old men drinking whiskey and rye. In many ways it was cool and glorious as I didn’t see any traffic for a couple of hours and the terrain was flat as a pancake as I followed the river’s path albeit hidden by trees for the most part.

Some of the trains I see are pulling up to 50 trucks and in fact it may be two trains linked to each other. At Cara I came across a terminal where the coal is taken from a barge and then dumped into heaps and then loaded into rail trucks. I like trains as they don’t pass me on the same road. Sadly the barges also put their cargo into lorries and even though I was on an ACA map I hit a plague of trucks. As I have said then these puppies are in a hurry and are so heavy that negotiating bicycles on the blind summits is difficult and so they barrel through. On one particular grind with the deafening roar of large trucks on one side, as I kept to the hard shoulder, I had a sewage farm on the other side causing asphyxiation. Self pity was copious at this stage of the morning. 

Chester was the crossing point of this river causing my distress and also the home of the creator of Popeye. I suspect to readers under 55 years old then he isn’t a well known cartoon character but many of us have devoted days to watching him on TV in the 1960s. 

Talking of Popeye then when back in Booneville there was a tin of spinach left on the church benches for anyone to take. I saw the shop where it was sold and wondered what possessed the cyclist to carry this useless ‘brick’ so far.

So girding my loins I crossed the bridge and bagged another State. I would have loved to have stopped and taken photos of its massive girth, the coal barges going upstream and the various terminals but doing so would have meant getting killed and I had an appointment with a puncture two miles past the bridge to fix. 

Three passing touring cyclists stopped to ask if I was alright and a lady motorist stopped to ask if I had everything. It seems odd that you can cycle for nearly 9 hours by yourself but when a crisis arrives then people appear. Anyway tube replaced and onward toward Hawn State Park.

The Parks run super camp sites although wi-fi would be nice. They are affordable, well managed and have great showers. Unfortunately this one took 103 miles to reach and involved knocking on one door to ask for water. This was no problem and the friendly folk took some chilled water out of their fridge for me. 

I have a feeling that the Ozarks will be a tough few days. No change there then.

(So Janette won the Rocky Raccoon quiz question and will no doubt delay her fabulous trip to the Far East as she awaits delivery of her key fob. I would. The next quiz question to get your hands on a key fob is what is the name of the character below from the Popeye cartoons. Oh yes, and only those who have donated to York Carers Centre can win the prize).

24.   What A Fool Believes (The Doobie Brothers)

Hawn State Park to Johnson’s Shut In’s State Park, Missouri, 51 miles – August 9 2014

Johnson’s Shut In’s to Montauk State Park, Salem, 85 miles – August 10 2014

I have combined a couple of days here as the riding was similar, that is, tough. Frankly some of Missouri is impossible. The last part of many climbs is in excess of 12% and propelling a bike up these hills for 100 metres or more just ‘spends’ your legs. I doubt I will miss this State.

Well the countryside remains the same! In terms of prosperity then it lies somewhere between East and West Kentucky and so that means? ‘kin doggies! Also you have the scrapyard front yards where old cars and trucks simply corrode and get picked over for odd components.

As the roads were busier and the animals on two occasions nearly caused an accident and their own deaths. Why don’t the owners care and lock them up and why does a reduction in wealth mean owning a dog?

So I eventually got to this Park. Apparently Mr Johnson owned the estate once upon a time and a ‘shut in’ is a geological feature (even Steve Johnson doesn’t know this). The park is huge. For reasons best known to the finest tradition of bureaucracy I had to wait before I could pitch my tent. I had to wait for the office to open. You have never been to a bigger site and no doubt the size of my tent needed the office to reopen so the correct decision could be made. So I sat about for 40 minutes. When the officer did arrive it cost me $2.10 for the night. Did I want a receipt? “No I’m good thanks, where’s the shower block?”

To say it was a large site spread over many acres would not be an exaggeration. I saw families putting extra water into their pick ups and taking a packed lunch to enable them to be survive until they got to the site General Store. Even I got around by bicycle.

So next morning up early and off. There were joggers parking a car nearby and I wondered why they were doing this so early on Sunday but maybe they were off to church later? The maps had me falling short on a decent day’s ride and so I thought I would go ‘off piste’ and let my Sat Nav guide me to another State Park. Error. Error. Error.

I ended up going up hill and down dale and following it slavishly. Being Sunday then I couldn’t find any stores open and after Bunker (come on…everyone’s heard of the Bunker Eagles baseball team), which was quiet as the good folk were at church I trundled down some country lanes with the smell of the hot resin wafting all around me from the pine trees. Here I had one of those parallel universe moments where I thought I was in foothills of the Pyrenees and up ahead I would find a boulangerie and a shop selling St Agur and a beef tomato, ahhhhh.

Sadly I got a bullying from some hills that a map would have made me avoid and I huffed and puffed as the sun beat down. Another Sat Nav gem was a detour off the black top down a gravel road. This worked well a couple of days ago. The device seemed to have a plan that I was to cross a bridge at the bottom. I descended loose gravel for a good three quarters of a mile at a gradient best suited to a cable car. When I got near the bottom and saw the river I knew it was wrong. I should not have believed it.

Lisa and Kenny were having a mild domestic as I suddenly appeared on the bank of the river dressed as a cyclist. They couldn’t have been more surprised had I turned up in my Madame Twanky outfit. (I had thought of packing this on the basis many of my trips are a pantomine but space prevented).

 As they enquired gently, in case I was truly mad and likely to brandish a weapon, as to why I was 150 feet below the tarmac road on a virtually unpassable track watching them in their canoe, I expalined my folly, asked them to surrender their names and pose for a photo. After this I then departed. 

I should point out that in the seven hours since I had left the campsite then these were the first people I had spoken to. I suppose you could summarise my day as a perfect ‘work at home’ day barring the cycling.

So my next park got closer until thunder and lightening gave me a sodden arrival. I requested Katy, she of the Missouri State Park, to take a photo of me in the deluge. After some arm twisting she arranged for me to sleep under shelter. Another rain storm like that and I would need a kayak.

So off to the Store where I discovered bread and a tin of baked beans and pork sausages. Now the man who found Tutankhamun tomb’s cannot have been more pleased at this discovery. Surprisingly then we both had something in common. In neither the can or the tomb were pork sausages to be found​.

So as I sit to write this tosh up Lance from Ohio arrives brandishing a bottle of beer and asking about my trip. He’s thinking through a trip over twice as far from Alaska. I salute him, now that is a ride. His generosity and chat were heartening and one of the delights you come across. Time for bed.

25.   Life Is A Long Song (Jethro Tull)

Montauk State Park to Hartville, Missouri 70 miles – August 11 2014

Hartville to Ash Grove, Missouri 75 miles – August 12 2014

Firstly, as regards the last post, I got it wrong and it is Widow Twanky not Madame. This correction came to me as I stared at the tarmac on yet another of Missouri’s merciless climbs. 

A cooked breakfast and the collection of email is a good start to the day despite heading off on my bike in the wrong direction on August 11th. Being very brave I asked someone for directions and then the day started. I cycled into Houston, Missouri and received a fab email from Katrina, somebody buzzing with an exciting busy schedule, but finding time to knock you up an email is truly wonderful (just as the other daughter also has!) and then I posted a blog at McDonalds before tripping across the road to Walmart for groceries.

Walmart seems to have little competition. I noticed a couple of options in a larger town like Carbondale but there are few comparable outlets with anything approaching their choice.

The climbing isn’t particularly long it just has spiteful inclines and unbelievable summits. The pattern remains of woods and houses scattered in them. I can best compare the terrain to a piece of corrugated cardboard: just endless rises and falls. Your morale goes after the twentieth grind upwards because you know there are endless ones to come. For ‘Trans Am’ers’ then there is an alternative route to the North that avoids all this – The Katy Trail. I just wanted to push through but the climbing and weight is causing havoc with my gears and as I reach for the bottom gear as I ascend something steep then the chain can seize. You cannot lug my weight of luggage across a countryside that necessitates so many gear changes per hour and not have mechanical problems. 

I am so used to roads being identified by numbers, since Illinois there are been roads denoted by letters. Yes, not that exciting I grant you.Tonight’s stop would have to be at a location with little or no accommodation. I had a sort of plan to push onto a camp site or hotel but Missouri beat me. And at just before 5 pm with no gas left in my proverbial tank I came to rest in front of the Court House and Sheriff’s Office at Hartville. Lurking outside were a selection of undesirables, best compared to Jesse Pinkman’s friends, who I later discovered were giving urine samples for drug testing: “what did you do today, Daddy?”

As I strolled into the Sheriff’s ofice to get permission to camp. I saw Officer Dibble smirk at his female colleague with that look that says “oh look another loony has arrived”. So there were two places to camp. One was the City Park and the other was directly in front of the Court House. So I said “where would you camp?” Officer Dibble suggested the City Park because I could “clean up better”. So off I went to discover a good shelter, lots of electricity and a toilet. Apart from a large lake in front of the pavilion, in the park, then no there was no running water.

Plan B kicked in and I found a nearby petrol station where they let me fill my shower bag (this is a large bag you can fill with many litres of water and then there is a rose/valve at the bottom. A fine purchase from when Sophie worked at Decathlon) with hot water as well as buy a beer. So on returning I secured the bag to the children’s climbing frame and then had a scrub. Job done. 

I must dwell on fishing. This is very popular in the UK but here it is simply a pre-occupation of men and some women. On my travels I have come across lots of pick ups pulling sleek fast little boats with outboard motors on them and numerous fishing tackle shops. On any piece of lake you’ll find a bloke quitely keeping busy with a fishing rod. I think this also leads to so many of the parks with lakes being popular. Weekend breaks with the pick up, a boat, a fire pit and a few beers is an institution. (It also helps to have warm weather). 

City Parks (or more like village greens) have the downside of an eighteen year old numpty racing around in his Dad’s pick up at 11pm at night, but it worked out quite well and I awoke to cool, which was welcome but expected. 

So trussed up I headed toward Marshfield for food shopping and wi-fi. Elly Fiorentini, of BBC Radio York is sending me emails asking where I am. Who knows I might yet make afternoon radio back in Blighty. 

I wanted to blast through, again, to proper campsites or hotels but I couldn’t achieve the mileage due to the climbing. Imagine a day climbing in the Yorkshire Dales. Little traffic, slightly wider roads, rubbish shops, roadkill, an endless stream of unexpected horrid climbs and 30°C heat. Oh well not quite the Dales unless the Tour de France is passing through. After 75 miles I found myself in Ash Grove. The map details said contact the Police to stay at the City Park. 

So I eventually toured around the town to find the Park and tried to ring the Police. No one in! So I strolled to the pool and a bikini clad beauty handed me the key to a nearby house. “What do you mean, I can stay in there?” Be fair would this type of kindness and facility happen in Britain? So after a shower I tripped into town to buy beer and then back for laundry and to make dinner. Anyone got any objections if I have a Chinese when I get to Pittsburg?

(Quiz question – within the blog the is the name of an old band. Name one of the original members solo albums, this should keep Steve Johnson busy for 5 minutes. San Francisco key fob or tea towel prize to subscribers).

26.   Slave To The Rhythm (Grace Jones)

Ash Grove to Pittsburg, Kansas, 71 miles – August 14 2014

Ash Grove delivered a cooked breakfast at the Copper Grill where I discovered the $6 special and the fact that two Film icons had passed – Lauren Bacall and Robin Williams. This didn’t seem to ruffle the farmers who talked of balers, silage and new fangled machinery before downing the dregs of their coffee and climbing into their pick ups at 7.30am to continue the day’s work.

I rode out of town and got a snatched shot of a massive coal train. It was pulled by one train at the front and pushed by two at the rear.

After Turnback Creek (this image doesn’t show the stairway to heaven beyond the bend) it all started to ease and I made Golden City for a session in their library with their wi-fi and then into a local cafe for a ‘toona’ melt. Quite a lively dialogue between the proprietor and one of her construction customers ensued:

“Just a sweet tea to go”

“What? You don’t want a sandwich or nothin’?”

“No, I already went to Subway”

“Don’t you say that word in here you butthole”

So on a flat road I sped toward Kansas….only someone had stolen the sign when you crossed the State line. You’ll have to trust me on this.

I spoke to the farmer who owned the mail box and truck. Apparently they are 14 inches down on rain for this time of year. His soya is behind in growth. He went on to bemoan Illinois and Indiana farmers with their wet weather who had had such bountiful crops that they had depressed market prices. As always these people would give you time and information.

Pittsburg also turned up my first cross country cyclist for some time. Alberto, from Milan, who was going west to east. We traded information. He had never even heard of Showaddywaddy!

It’s been on my mind as I laboured through this enormous country about why things are the way they are. So let’s talk size. 

After over 1,600 miles then I can see that there are so many natural resources in the USA. On our small island then we tend to be protective of what we have. I spent decades nobly writing on the reverse of every piece of A4 paper I ever had. Since July 21st I don’t think I have ridden without a large forest beside me or in view. How could Mid Western Americans grow up being concerned about saving trees? There is more coal and fuel than they can or are allowed to mine. Wildlife? It is teeming. I can see why deer are extensively hunted – there are a lot. I always wanted to see an armadillo in the wild, sadly I saw very many as road kill. Along with lots of other exotic small animals the woodlands are brimming. The plots of land that people own and place their properties are enormous and cheap. In Britain our pied de terre’s are precious and more valuable by comparison.

So with this spread then the car is king. How else could they lead their lives without individual transport? Sadly it leads to a structure catering for the car. For example, I couldn’t get money out of an ATM unless I walked through a ‘Drive In’ at a bank. You cannot go to a major road in a reasonably sized town where there are multiple food outlets, supermarkets and stores in general on foot. Crossing the road is a speculative sprint between traffic light changes and it is usually four lanes. Fuel costs about £0.55 per litre compared to £1.33 in UK and Europe and so motoring is more affordable.

Mandy, on Reception at the Super8, recommended a laundramat and a Chinese restaurant. The Chinese was a strange experience. The female Chinese staff with poor English, the sullen Chinese men chefs patrolling the buffet to replenish and slightly in contempt of the customers. The dowdy and worn fittings and the clientele, who in some cases were so tragically obese that they should be in Intensive Care rather than at an ‘all you can eat’ buffet. I have shelved a long dreary lecture on the Mid West folk and the crisis of obesity. Why should I be so ungracious to these disarmingly generous and kind people? However I am struck by it whenever I am out and about.

27.    No Particular Place To Go (Chuck Berry)

Rest day….err well sort of, August 15 2014

Well there are things that should be best left between a man and wife or in this case potentially ex-wife. I put in an email to her that things were a little bit sore in the nether regions and now Knaresborough is asking for updates on my backside! For the record then apart from some ointment bought in Farmington I decided to create a gap between me and the saddle by a purchase or two at Walmart. Too much information?

I will keep you posted (not).

So after pursuing the Mighty Fiorentini night and day before my departure for a slot on BBC Radio York she came good and we spoke at length on her afternoon/early evening show tonight or afternoon depending where you are. It was a fun chat about bears (did I tell you that I saw one?), courteous Virginian motorists and my missing wholemeal loaves. Hopefully a few more folk might follow the blog and who knows chuck a bob or two into York Carers Centre. Thank you to Elly and her producer, Jane, great stuff. I am humbled that I got a slot.

(A crack team in the North of England is working 24/7 to convert the slot into a YouTube clip that I will post if possible)

-WARNING TECHNOBABBLE AHEAD-

I mentioned the bike had not enjoyed Missouri and so I parted with $167 to change the rear cassette including adding a lower gear with two more teeth (now 28), which is not easy when you only have an 8 speed cassette. I also replaced the chain, overhauled the rear hub and straightened the rear rim. I do, however, hope that Kansas doesn’t require as many gear changes.

A not untypical sign above!

Lastly Missouri. As usual great people (barring Officer Dibble) but not a place for cyclists. Missouri you don’t need to write to me as we won’t be seeing each other again. I don’t know whether I saw an African American in the southern farmlands that I cycled through but I do know one of your most famous sons: Chuck Berry. He has brought me untold pleasure for decades.

28.    Brass In Pocket (The Pretenders)

Pittsburg to Toronto, Kansas 103 miles – August 15 2014

In some ways I was sorry to leave the Super8. After mastering how the bathroom taps worked over 2 nights. I felt like I would lose the knack and have to scold or freeze myself on my next shower.

So would Kansas deliver? From Pittsburg it was lake flat and if I had the great fortune as I cycled through the day to head North then I could reach up to 20mph. On this basis although a trifle jaded I rolled into Chanute at midday with a high mileage complete.

The countryside was still closed fields with some wooded areas. Soya and maize were prolific along with cattle. Houses were set just off the road and churches were everywhere. Heard this before?

My brother in law (ex) was unlucky enough to find that it was his turn to pay for lunch several years ago on a trip to Ypres. Being high rollers this meant pointing at various delicacies in a patisserie/boulangerie that were coralled and then expertly packaged. The matronly figure, who had responded to our pointing and gesticulations then spoke rapid French to Bill and amongst this torrent was a number of Euros that she required to conclude the transaction. Bill not one likely take an interest in French or a foreign currency then sweetly enquired of her, in English, was she married? Alarmed at this possible amorous development she quickly retorted….”yes”. Good”, said Bill and from his pockets produced vast quantities of coinage and notes, which he proffered to her in cupped hands and concluded by saying “so you’ll know what to do”. 

So I have to say, as a man who ends up carrying enough coinage to cast a small anvil, that I have taken to tipping it onto the counter and inviting tubby teenagers to take what was required. They are quite good at this task, don’t complain and see it, probably, as a service to an old person wandering about confused in their community.

So with shopping and lunch done it was back onto the road. Sadly Kansas offered some inclines but rarely requiring the third chain wheel to be used. However the wind had picked up and if steered remotely South then it was hard work.

Eventually I got to the environs of Toronto (not that one) and cycled off route to get to one of several campsites that this State Park offered around the lake. The helpful lady said I could stay but really I should stay at another campsite on the lake and produced lots of maps to point out where it was. By this stage I had cycled 95 miles and felt that stopping anywhere (including pitching my tent just in front of her counter and collapsing into it) was a good idea. However being Mr Agreeable (again) I duly departed for the other recommended site. So 8 miles later I arrive at the other site on this lake. Cold shower as well but a very quiet night.

29.    Next To Me (Emili Sandé) 

Toronto to El Dorado, Kansas, 58 miles – August 16 2014

In the morning heat a shimmering mirage appearing to be the shape of a cyclist suddenly came into view. This was at the top of the hill coming down toward me. We were both cycling the busy but direct US Route 54. My maps had steered me here and I intended to stay on it rather than eventually leave it and ‘head up country’ to camp at a City Park where the facilities were called ‘primitive’. After my over exertion of yesterday I was attempting to take it easy.

Instinctively we both halted and I dodged the pick ups and cycled to the other side of the road. He spoke the first words and it was an British accent. 

Phil Malone has been on the road for 5 years and isn’t sure whether he is ready to go back to Rochdale when he reaches New York. His travels have taken him to the Far East and South America and now onto the USA. He talked of finding romance and this had extended his time in Turkey but cycling solo we both agreed was the only way to cope with the stress and uncertainties that this nomadic life threw up. We both exchanged photos for respective blogs and did the usual information share. I couldn’t help but note that he was very positive about the direction that I was heading in. I suspect we both knew that you have to find the challenges out for yourself and deal with them. So a final handshake and goodbye.

I have had a couple of emails from cyclists and whilst non-cyclists look at the distances and acknowledge the effort I thought I may tell you about my 6 hours today.

The bike is heavy (I have over 20kg of luggage) and the handlebar bag leads to it being very unstable should you want to get up on the pedals on a hill. Twitchy is a useful description. You have to maintain a certain speed or it becomes unstable. So I usually sit tight whatever the gradient and it is usually a two handed grip situation unless you can allow the bike to wander and you have a good surface. This makes reaching for a drink or adjusting anything difficult on a hill. So today I know that my ‘agreement’ with Kansas to be flat is in tatters after it makes me climb 405 metres. However, the gradients are benign but visits to the third chain wheel are often due to the Southerly headwind.

Kansas has winds and they mainly come from the South although there is definitely more of a South Westerly feel as my average speed today tends to be in single figures. These benign gradients now become tedious spin festivals. I knew it was coming.

The US 54 has for the main a hard shoulder of between 400 and 600mm in width to follow with my twitchy bike. On one side of the white line are trucks, pick ups and crap drivers who go past as if there was nothing on the hard shoulder. It could be a lot busier, it is Saturday. If you deviate from the hard shoulder then there is traffic or a ditch/large gravel area. You have no option but to keep balanced and moving forward at a low speed on a hill in a headwind. Oh yes and most States other than Virginia and Kansas, so far, make the white line a rumble strip.

That it? Well not quite. Today’s temperatures eventually settled between 35 and 40ºC. The weather forecast on the hotel lobby TV says 100ºF or 38ºC all next week. You are continually drinking. As the wind hits your mouth then your lips dry out, your teeth and front gums get dry and even your tongue can get dry – assauging with hot water is your mechanical repeat action, because your bottles are nicely toasting in this heat. It becomes very unsatisfying and stopping for anything cold becomes an obsession.

So body not complaining? A long mileage starts to make the soles of your feet hurt. They are not used to being strapped to a pedal for so many hours a day. Day after day. Today the ‘Knaresborough’ factor kicked in and I rummaged in my rear rack pannier for the Walmart solution. It helped as the road started to flatten and enabled a run at El Dorado (‘Doraydo’ to the locals!)

Just saying!

30.   Telegraph Road (Dire Straits but even better this song played live by the tribute band The Straits) 

El Dorado to Hutchinson, Kansas 83 miles – August 17 2014

Hutchinson to Larned, Kansas 74 miles – August 18 2014 

Well different again. Sunday was the flattest of the tour and I made Hutchinson a little after midday. I never take Sunday off. I use the simple logic that traffic will be a lot quieter. In the USA then Sunday does appear to be a day when a lot of places shut. Maybe something to do with the Ten Commandments I posted earlier. Leaving El Dorado was done with the smell of oil refining in my nostrils. There is quite a lot of oil drilling and refinery in the area.

Throughout the States there are many ‘Adopt A Highway’ signs. This is a voluntary litter collection service on certain stretches of road. Predictably churches are keen to put their names forward but I thought it quite touching that departed relatives are often nominated. Should anything happen then I’ll have a stretch of Stage 1 on the Yorkshire 2014 TdeF.

Maybe next time…

So quite a splendid day at a high mph. Hutchinson disappointed and was a lot like a dump. My camp site failed to be easy to find and when I found a wi-fi signal and checked it out properly it was slated. So I went on to faithful Tripadvisor and found a hotel. This meant cycling through the town of derelict units and shops, a prison, two sets of of railway lines and quite poor housing before emerging in the part of any town with McDonalds, Walmart, Pizza Hut, Super8, Comfort Inn etc etc.

Much to the hotel management horror I made my pasta and fried my vegetables behind the hotel, where the smokers are usually despatched. I just needed something plain, without cheese in it, that has been placed before me after a brief sojourn in a microwave.

 It makes the place seem so interesting!

Monday’s start was just after dawn at 6.30am and I noticed the large fleets of yellow school buses going to and fro. I headed north to Nickerson and then got on the ACA route. The map warned that there was a stretch with no services for 58 miles. I was well stocked up but a break to rest weary limbs and appendages became very necessary judging by the pain threshold that even my morale fail safe solution of eating a peach failed to resolve. Also there is never any shade or locations to lean a bike against. The scenery was absent and Kansas climbed steadily with a headwind but the fields looked as uninteresting, as I had expected, from all the blogs I had read.

 However, getting to Larned was a priority by about 1pm before the inferno set in. I entered the town with ‘Heroes’ by David Bowie playing on the iPhone, which seemed appropriate given how tired I felt, but when Britney followed that song with ‘….Baby One More Time’, then without developing an adult theme to the blog: I am sorry Britney but I have a headache.

Larned appears to make a living with agriculture, a prison, a hospital and a mental institution.

After getting the body temperature back below boiling at a Subway I looked up the Police to get permission to camp at the local Park. This completed I then went in pursuit of a shower that found me at a tatty caravan park (seemed to accommodate permanent residents) at the other end of town where the dogs barked, the insects bit and I got a puncture. By now the temperature was up to 40ºC and so back to Subway to drink, chill and type.

(Quiz question – Peter and Jean Crockford look away now. The photo of the Witchita road sign and the blog title have something specifically in common?)