North to Alaska: The True Story of an Epic, 16,000-Mile Cycle Journey the Length of the Americas 1711310794, 9781711310794

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For my Parents – dearly missed. Their courage to let go allowed me to live.

The true story of an epic 16,000-mile cycle journey the length of the Americas TREVOR LUND

TL Publications

Contents 1The Great Outdoors 2A Lust for Adventure 3Ushuaia–Punta Arenas 4Punta Arenas–Puerto Natáles 5Puerto Natáles–Puerto Montt 6Puerto Montt–Valparaíso 7Valparaíso–San Pedro de Atacama 8San Pedro de Atacama–La Paz 9La Paz–Cuzco 10Cuzco–Nazca 11Nazca–Huaráz 12Huaráz–Cuenca 13Cuenca–Quito 14Panama City–Guatemala City 15Guatemala City–Tucson 16Tucson–Death Valley 17 Death Valley–Chilliwack 18Chilliwack–Vanderhoof 19Vanderhoof–Fairbanks 20Fairbanks–Deadhorse 21Homeward Bound

Chapter 1 The Great Outdoors

Snow lay pure on the ground outside the window. The sky was grey but empty and it seemed the best of the weather, as far as I was concerned, was now over. The large convector heater on which I sat, clicked, and wearily rattled back into life. It was a favourite sitting place for students and had buckled under the weight of hundreds of sixth-former’s posteriors over the years. Wendy and I chatted about very little, as we had done many times before. I was attracted to Wendy, though I’m not sure just how much I was aware of it back then. I was a bit of a coward when it came to girls all those years ago, something I rue now for I hadn’t been short of admirers. Wendy had a lot of what I looked for in a girl: she was pretty with thick, dark, shoulder-length hair. She was fun, with a warm, infectious laugh, was into sport and seemed to enjoy my company. She was also very tactile and I couldn’t help but notice how she would touch my arm or my leg on occasions as she talked to me. Perhaps it was Wendy that spurred me into action that lunch break. Pool balls chinked on the pool table in front of us. There was something very soothing about that sound. Had it been miserable outside, I could quite happily have sat there for the whole break. But on this day, the snow beckoned. It stood, bright and thick on the branches of trees, which hung, mournfully, just feet away from me. It was crying out to be picked up and moulded, and soon I could resist no more. ‘Anyone fancy a snowball fight?’ Silence. All preferred to stay in, even those who – in the summer – were only too happy to start cowpat fights on our walks home from school through the fields. Some looked at me as though I was mad, while others laughed at me because they knew what I was like. Alone, I left the warmth for the great outdoors. Leaving my coat where it was, I put on my gloves and headed out into the cold. Here the snow had barely been touched and it made a pleasing squeaking sound as it compressed beneath my footsteps. I picked up a handful, moulded it into a ball and threw it, low and hard, at a wall, where its journey ended with a satisfying ‘splat’. I climbed the steps onto the school playground, which was empty at this end, the end that looked down onto the sixth-form common room. I

aimed snowballs at the posts that held up the net fencing and lobbed a few at the common-room window in the vain hope that others would be tempted to join me, but in a matter of minutes, still alone, I was bored. At the far end of the playground, some forty or fifty metres away, a large gang of lads from the fourth and fifth year, two and three years younger than me, stood chatting. I don’t know what it was like in other schools in the mid1980s but here sixth-formers were positively hated by those in the lower years, particularly by those disinterested in school; sixth-formers were viewed as poncey, soft, upper class and intelligent. Soft I may have been, but poncey, intelligent and upper class? No way! My family were undoubtedly working class, and I would have been deeply insulted at that stage in my life had anyone dared to label me ‘intelligent’. Later that year I left the sixth form having failed all my A levels. I was far too busy messing about to concentrate on my studies and had no real ambition and no foresight. The gang stood, huddled, hands in pockets, chatting to one another. I felt mischievous and wanted to provoke somebody into having a snowball fight with me. If I could achieve the distance, they were an easy target. I picked up another handful of snow and pressed it into a hard, heavy ball as I eyed my quarry. None of the group was looking my way as I took a number of steps towards them and launched my snowball high into the air. I watched it expectantly as it soared, seemingly halted, and then began to fall to earth, bang on target. It landed in an explosion of white on the ground in the centre of the huddle, somehow missing every one of the group. Those around it took a sharp step back, startled, and began to look around for the person who had dared to throw it. I was the only one in the centre of the playground and didn’t mind advertising the fact that I was the one stupid enough to have disturbed their lunchtime chatter. I stood with my arms out wide as further provocation, smiling pathetically as heads quickly turned my way. As twenty fifteen- and sixteenyear-olds stooped to each pick up a snowball, muttering to one another, I quickly did the same. A number flew towards me, breaking into thousands of pieces as they hit the ground and scattering, harmlessly enough, over the compacted snow around me. One of the gang then broke away from his group and began to run at me, snowball in hand. Others followed suit and my bit of lunchtime fun was suddenly looking a little more serious. I turned to run, quickly picking up speed once my shoes had gained traction. As I passed the sixth-form common room, angry mob in hot pursuit, I noticed Wendy peering through the steamedup window and I felt pleased she now had some proper entertainment. I neared the gate at the top of the steps which led back to the school building and I believed safety was within reach, only for the gate to be slammed shut by a breakaway group who had raced down the path adjacent to the playground to cut off my escape. All exits blocked, I slammed into the fencing, shockwaves reverberating along its length.

Snowballs rained in at me from close quarters as the gang closed in around me. I offered them a nervous smile as if to say it was just a bit of fun but they didn’t quite seem to view it that way. I felt claustrophobic as kids known for their fighting rather than academic abilities jostled through the crowd. One put his foot behind my heel and hands on my shoulders, pushing me hard. I lost my footing, waved my arms in mid-air and crashed onto the ground with a thud. The gang laughed and twenty pairs of feet kicked snow at me until the colours in my clothes were barely visible. Freezing snow crystals found their way down my jumper and up my trouser legs as I clutched at my clothing to try and seal the points of entry, wrapping my arms over my face. My assailants had soon had enough and I struggled to my feet, still closely surrounded. I attempted to push my way through the bodies but each time they regrouped in front of me. They were only taunting me, teaching me a lesson, but one of them wanted to take things a little further. I knew Phil from the village where I lived and we’d always got on well. We had been in the Scouts together and we’d each had similar routes on our paper rounds, often bumping into each other and pausing to chat. Phil was a pretty tough kid and, strangely, he thought I was too, telling me so on many occasions. He stepped forward, purposefully and very coolly. ‘You wanna fight me?’ he asked. ‘Come on, you and me.’ The others laughed and goaded us to fight and I felt intimidated. I couldn’t believe he was doing this to me and must have looked puzzled. ‘What are you doing, Phil?’ I wondered. ‘Come on, it’s me. What do you want to fight me for?’ Others began to join in, pushing at me, jostling me. ‘No, leave him. Just me and him,’ he instructed, holding out an arm to keep them back. He spoke as if he didn’t know me, looking into my eyes with menace. He was calm and extremely confident but he had reason to be with so many of his friends around him. Even if I did fight and even if I won, there’d be a whole queue of others who’d want to challenge me. I shook my head and turned to walk away, half expecting a punch to the side of my head but no punch arrived, only taunts and jeers, which I did my best to ignore. Out of sight I shook myself off, ridding my clothes of any remnants of snow. I composed myself and headed back to the common room to tell my tale. It was the briefest of events in my life but my actions that lunchtime pretty much sum me up, even today: I love having a story to tell, I enjoy the thrill of taking risks and I thrive in the outdoors. Throw an attractive girl into the mix and there’s no telling what I might do. This is my story of a time in my life when I took a risk by leaving all things familiar behind, to head into the unknown in search of an adventure. It is a time I now look back upon with a great sense of pride. I still have many evocative memories of that journey, some of which catch me very much by surprise, returning to me in the strangest of places and with no warning, and others that

come to me with great regularity. All these memories I feel extremely grateful and fortunate to have. They are a part of my patchwork quilt of life. I never want to stop adding to that patchwork.

Chapter 2 A Lust for Adventure

I’ve

not always been into transcontinental cycling but I’ve always loved the outdoors. As a young boy I chose to spend my days in fields and wooded lanes close to my home where I would build dens with friends, rather than playing football in the park or sitting in front of the television like other boys my age. There were the family camping holidays with my parents, my older brother and my twin sister. Mum and Dad would load our old Ford Cortina estate up to its roof with every conceivable item of camping gear and we’d set off to all corners of the United Kingdom two or three times a year from our home in a suburb of Leeds. There were the camping trips with the Scouts, followed by my first camping trips with friends – our parents would take it in turns to drive us into the Yorkshire Dales and leave us alone for a couple of days at a time. I didn’t enjoy school. My place was in the countryside – in the fields and the woods, messing about in rivers, digging in sand dunes, swimming in the sea. Organising trips away was my way of escaping and I’d switch off in lessons and daydream about my next weekend adventure. I first had the idea of leaving home to do some serious travelling as a twentyyear-old. I was on holiday on the Spanish island of Majorca with four friends – a good holiday by all accounts, but as I bobbed up and down on the Mediterranean one day, lying on my lilo, I hankered for a proper adventure. I had the audacious idea of travelling around the world and was naïve enough at the time to believe that I would be one of only a handful to do such a thing. I would leave home for a year and would have the opportunity to camp out in wild and beautiful places, the likes of which I had only seen on TV. On my arrival home from that holiday, I told my parents of my plans and spent the next year deciding on where I’d like to go, busily saving money from my job as an admin assistant in the Civil Service and desperately trying to get others interested in coming along. I talked excitedly about the opportunity with them and sent a number of identical letters out to friends, telling them what an amazing adventure it would be and offered advice on how we might save money. My efforts were fruitless for months, my friends not willing to give up their jobs or to limit their drinking sessions in order to save cash. It was my closest friend, Dave, a friend for more than sixteen years, who was the saviour

on this occasion. With about six months to go before my anticipated departure date, he decided he’d like to travel the world with me. We bought air tickets to get us three quarters of the way around the world, managed to save up an additional £600 each (not a great deal of money even back in 1989), arranged seasonal work in the United States and got in touch with distant relatives in Australia to plead for some temporary accommodation once we arrived there later on our journey. After a tearful farewell, we turned our backs on our parents and friends and boarded our flight to New York on 16 July 1989. The next few weeks were something of an eye-opener for these two young men, still very wet behind the ears. We feared for our safety on our arrival in New York at night with nowhere to stay and were hassled by gangs of unsavoury-looking characters when our bus from the airport despatched us late in the evening at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. On later catching a bus to Buffalo, we again arrived in the city at night and used a compass to find a street which headed east out of the city, east being the direction of our prospective employer. Drunks were staggering out of bars as we walked with shiny new rucksacks on our backs. We were later told that the street we’d followed was perhaps the most dangerous street in Buffalo. That night we attempted to sleep beneath the stars for just a couple of hours beside a baseball pitch but a big American patrol car, its engine humming, shone its headlights over us for a time and made us too nervous to rest. Our employers let us down the next day, apologising for not having work for us but suggesting we try the following year. We spent the next night sleeping in a fire station. Our journey took us into and across Canada, to the Rockies where we tried again to find work, but with no success. We walked fifty-three miles through stunning, remote mountain scenery where camping was free, naively taking insufficient food as we thought we might pass a shop on our way. The trails were not as clearly defined as the footpaths in England, often petering out to nothing, and our map was a simple line drawing provided by the Tourist Information Centre and not intended for navigating by. We supplemented this with a cheap compass. It was a combination of good judgement and a huge amount of luck that we arrived back in civilisation and at our intended destination, weak and extremely hungry, five days after setting out. Dave and I finally found work in the town of Chilliwack, seventy miles east of Vancouver. We initially picked corn for a builder who had his own little field of the crop as an additional source of income to his building work. The work was only for a few hours each day but we were soon ‘promoted’ into his building company and managed a few full days as labourers. The work was somewhat erratic, however, and when we were offered more substantial hours on a nearby farm, we packed our tent and moved home. Because the farm was six or seven miles out of town and away from the supermarket and bars, we decided we needed some cheap transport. We

scoured the two local bike shops on numerous occasions before finally opting for two second-hand racing bikes at around £20 each – an absolute bargain, we thought. Mine was a white Omega with a whopping twelve gears, while Dave’s was a sort of autumnal orange colour and had the words ‘10 speed’ proudly transferred across the crossbar. We enjoyed our rides into town and back along quiet country lanes in warm sunshine, beside clear streams and through farmland and, after five weeks, had become quite attached to our bikes. Work on the farm was now drying up, so much so that Dave had moved jobs to take on the role of chief dishwasher in a local hotel. In early October, it was time to leave Chilliwack, our home for almost two months. Our next flight left Los Angeles for Hawaii in two months’ time and all we had to do was get ourselves to the airport there. We had managed to save some cash but it had to support us until we arrived in Australia in late December and found work there. Bus tickets, of course, would cost us and we would still have to occupy two months of our time somewhere between British Columbia and Los Angeles. I put it to Dave that we cycled down to LA – after all, we already had our transport. Dave initially seemed unsure but warmed to the idea. We bought and filled two pannier bags each and threw any remaining gear in our rucksacks, which we strapped over the backs of the bikes. With lots of good wishes but very little optimism from all those we’d met, we set off for Los Angeles. We planned to cycle into Vancouver, up the Canadian Pacific coast for a time and then catch a ferry onto Vancouver Island. From there it would be south all the way, through the states of Washington, Oregon and sunny California. For a twenty-one year-old this was an amazing adventure. To me it was seven weeks of true freedom and exceptional – but economical – living. We got up when we liked – often early, cycled in wonderful, fresh air for five or six hours each day, cooked over open fires, camped in stunning scenery, saw new sights and met new people every day. I had never experienced a time quite like it. We pedalled past snow-capped mountains, got a soaking in a temperate rainforest, weaved through giant redwood forests, glided across the Golden Gate Bridge and undulated along the famous Highway 101 along the magnificent, rugged Pacific coast. We camped almost every night, anywhere we could find a flat spot for the tent, often on campsites closed for the winter, and sometimes we slept directly beneath the stars, waking up occasionally with frost on our sleeping bags. But for me, the best thing was the independence. We had nobody to tell us to get up at 7am and no job to be at by 9am. We motivated ourselves, planned our days, studied our maps, calculated our anticipated arrival times, ensured we had enough food to eat and planned for any minor emergencies – and we did it well. It was seven weeks of growing up. With southerly progress came warmer temperatures. We made it to LA with one or two mishaps on the way (including a fall, which resulted in a lengthy stay at a sympathetic doctor’s house while the swelling

from my wrist diminished sufficiently for an X-ray to reveal that nothing had been broken) and I felt a great sense of pride as we arrived at the sign that told us we were at the city limit of Los Angeles. We had pedalled 1,826 miles on bikes we had bought for just a few dollars. For me, those seven weeks were one of the highlights of my life so far. I felt our time in Australia did not live up to expectation after that journey, as we viewed that country largely from behind a bus window. I now found this type of travel extremely monotonous and totally unrewarding, and I longed to be back on a bike. On my return home, I thought fondly of our cycle journey along the American Pacific coast and thought of all we might have seen had we continued beyond Los Angeles. We had met a couple of Canadian cyclists who were cycling a hundred miles or so beyond LA, across the border and into Mexico. For an Englishman, whose greatest long-distance cycle challenge would be to cycle from John o’Groats, in the north of Scotland, to Land’s End, some 950 miles away in south-west England, the thought of crossing a border by bike and entering a country with a different language and very different culture was just mind-blowing. What’s more, the road didn’t stop there in Mexico. Indeed, this very same landmass stretched right the way down into the southern hemisphere, not only crossing language borders and passing through different cultures, but traversing mountain chains, deserts and tundra – from Arctic to Equatorial and almost on to Antarctica. This was surely the greatest longdistance cycle journey in the world and some day, just maybe, I would give it a go. For nine years, the thought of attempting this journey barely left my mind. There were times when it was not always at the forefront but it was always there, nagging at me. I did lots of cycling closer to home during this time and also managed a cycle tour of New Zealand alone and another of Costa Rica with a friend. In 1998, just over a year through a degree course in Ecology at Bradford University, I was told of the opportunity to take a one-year work placement at the end of my second study year. Many of my friends at university decided that this was what they’d like to do but I had other ideas. The thought of cycling from one end of the Americas to the other had once again been burning at my mind: I already had eight or nine years’ work experience, I was single, and I had my own house which I could let out to help pay for my travel. This was my chance and I just couldn’t afford to let it slip by. For years this idea had turned over and over in my head and if I didn’t give it a go now I would always wonder, what if? I felt I had no choice – I had to go. I applied to intercalate from university for a year, the staff had a meeting to discuss my application and permission was granted. I had just under a year to gather my finances, find a travel companion, buy my gear, carry out a little research into my journey, do up my house, find somebody to let my house, learn some Spanish and get some publicity. This was all on top of completing my

second-year studies at university and working fifteen hours each week at a local financial services firm. I advertised for a travel companion on The Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree website and was completely underwhelmed at the response. A number of people replied with messages that I considered unhelpful or patronising: ‘it is not possible to cycle over the Andes – the roads are not like the ones you have in the Alps’. Others warned me of the fierce northerly wind that blew down across southern South America and suggested I should cycle from north to south instead, something I felt I could not do because of the seasons and the timescale I had available to me. One Argentinian guy – Diego – from Buenos Aires, was a little more helpful and offered advice on a possible route through Argentina, while Elina, a Finnish girl spending a year in Bolivia, was also very supportive, offering me a place to stay were I to pass through La Paz. This was extremely important to me as I now had my first two contacts in South America and also a possible address for post to be forwarded to. Only one person wrote back to me expressing an interest in joining me on my journey. Owen was in his early thirties – around my age – and was from the south of England. He’d given up his job as a civil servant to go travelling but had returned prematurely from Mexico a few months earlier after breaking his leg in a quad-biking accident. He was now ready to set off travelling again and wanted to see something of South America. I told Owen of my plans in a little more detail and he decided he’d like to be included. It soon became apparent that Owen liked to research things on the internet and he’d be up into the early hours doing just that. It was also obvious that he was constantly on the lookout for potential hurdles. His phone calls became more frequent and their content would generally be somewhat gloomy: ‘I’ve been looking at weather conditions for Tierra del Fuego in September – it’s going to be fucking freezing down there. There’s going to be too much snow on the roads to cycle.’ Each hurdle Owen went in search of I would simply brush aside with a sort of naïve assurance. It didn’t stop him looking for trouble. ‘What are you taking sandals for?’ he once asked. ‘What if we get into a fight and have to kick our way out?’ Another late night on the internet led to, ‘I’m not taking combat trousers. I’ve read that we might be mistaken for guerrillas in some parts of South America and could be shot.’ Owen had the most vivid imagination and seemed to have tarred all South Americans with the same, broad brush. In his mind, anarchy prevailed in South America. I decided I wanted to do some good out of my journey and went in search of a charity to raise funds for. I opted for Marie Curie Cancer Care, who were attempting to raise three million pounds to build a cancer care centre in Bradford, just a few miles from my home. They were extremely thankful for any help I could offer and put me in touch with a local bike shop they were

supported by, who in turn contacted cycle manufacturers and managed to get a free bike for my journey – a middle-of-the-range Dawes Edge hybrid bike. The bike had 26-inch mountain-bike wheels, which the bike shop changed for ones with ceramic rims. It had mudguards to help keep spray from the road off me, pannier racks to the front and rear to enable me to carry plenty of kit, twenty-four gears and a V-brake braking system. It wasn’t particularly sexy but I didn’t want it to be. I could have had a mountain bike instead but decided that would be much more attractive to bike thieves. The shop also supplied me with clothing and tools. In addition, I sent out almost a hundred letters to outdoor stockists asking for further equipment donations, with some success. I arranged a large party in a pub function room before I left, charging friends and relatives a small amount for their tickets. Over ninety people attended and I was able to sell raffle tickets also, many local businesses having donated prizes. As another form of fundraising, I had a batch of T-shirts printed showing a simple map of my proposed route and displaying the Marie Curie Cancer Care logo. These, too, were sold for a small profit. All funds raised through these sources were used to pay for my flights, while sponsor forms were circulated to raise money for my charity on the completion of my journey. Owen, in the meantime, had bought his own bike and equipment, having been unable to muster up any kind of support from his local charities. He therefore decided not to take the fundraising option. We met in Bradford just the once, a few weeks before our departure after I had appeared in the local papers and had been contacted by a couple who had cycled in South and North America some years earlier and who invited us to their house to show slides of their trip and offer advice. I had a really good evening but Owen acted as if he didn’t want to be there. At the end of the evening, rather than staying at my house, he decided to get on his motorbike and ride the 230 miles back home. It was after midnight. I couldn’t help thinking Owen was a bit of a loner and feared we might struggle to get along. Owen hadn’t managed a smile all evening. I let out my house to three female students, one of whom had already lodged with me for over a year, and their rent payments would pay my mortgage and leave me a little left over to help support me while I was away. I worked out that I could allow myself a budget of just £50 a week during my trip, assuming all rooms in the house remained let for the majority of my time away. This budget was to cover everything once I had landed in Tierra del Fuego right up to catching my flight back home from North America – food, accommodation, bike repairs, nights out, correspondence, camera films, additional clothing and so on. Before I left home, I made the mistake of reading a travel book written by a cyclist and it almost put me off going. It had a picture of the author on the front, on his bike, somewhere along his journey. I don’t think I’m being unfair when I say he looked like a bit of a tramp. He was wearing the oddest combination of clothes, which looked like they’d been found at the side of the road, had considerable beard growth and had a real mismatch of luggage on his bike. He

looked like he hadn’t eaten for weeks, which was perhaps his excuse for not having brushed his teeth. Friends would laugh when they saw the cover and would tell me I’d soon be looking the same way. Inside were stories of hardship and ordeal, of robberies and sickness. There were few stories which told of the delights that cycle touring has to offer, of the immense satisfaction at travelling great distances under one’s own power. To make matters worse, the book was based on a journey in South America. For somebody like me, who had picked up the book for inspiration, it was an awful read, and I need to make sure that anyone reading this book for the same reasons doesn’t give up on their dream. I lived the lifestyle I describe in this book because financially I was very limited and because I was also extremely pushed for time. With that limited budget and with the one year I had available to me, I wanted to fulfil a dream that had nagged at me for almost ten years – it was a case of do it now or risk never doing it. Had I had the luxury of another six months to complete the journey and if I’d had twice the amount of money, my story would have been a completely different one. I very much doubt whether I would have been writing this book because my adventures would have been more mainstream. I met a number of other travellers who told me I was travelling too fast, that I couldn’t be enjoying myself at such a pace and that I must be missing out on an awful lot. Looking back, I would argue that I experienced much more. I could not always stop in paid accommodation in the tourist towns because my budget would not allow such luxuries. Instead I enjoyed (or endured) the elements, camped in some beautiful and some not-so-beautiful places, occasionally relied on locals to help me out and, just now and again, got myself into trouble. I do not regret one single moment of my journey. It was often a struggle but I took great satisfaction in overcoming all the problems that were put in my way. This was a year I will never forget and a journey I am so glad I was determined enough to have pursued. It was, for me, a year of real living. I now have a fantastic story to tell and this is it.

Chapter 3 Ushuaia–Punta Arenas 0 miles cycled

Are you at home? Sitting in your favourite chair, perhaps? Take a moment to look at that chair. Think of what that chair means to you and how secure you feel in that chair. Look at what you view from that chair – perhaps it overlooks the garden you’ve tended for years, or maybe it’s in front of a wood-burning stove you enjoy staring into on cold, winter evenings. What about your kitchen? A place you prepare delicious, hot meals, take chilled food from a fridge, boil water at the flick of a switch. And then there’s your bathroom where you turn a tap and hot water comes gushing out, enough for you to fill a bath, allowing you to soak away the tensions after a hard day. Imagine how you’d feel if you didn’t have your bed to sleep in; that bed in which you can envelop yourself in your duvet, pulling it around your ears, the walls and roof around you protecting you as winds roar and rain lashes against the windows. Think about favourite places: places you enjoy with friends – your local pub, a football stadium, a coffee shop. Think about those people; your favourite people, those most dear to you – a partner, a friend, your Mum, your workmates you share laughter with. Picture their smiling faces. Sense the love they feel for you. Now imagine walking away from all of this, turning your back on all things familiar for a year, through choice, because it’s something you feel you have to do. Imagine knowing that for that year all those luxuries will be stripped away from you. Imagine knowing that in order to earn the right to such luxuries once more – to earn the right to see friends and family again – you will have to punish yourself physically on an almost daily basis, standing up to the elements with no backup and little idea of what challenge might be thrown at you next. With no external pressure at all, that’s more or less what I chose to do. ◆◆◆

I was experiencing so many emotions as our plane began its descent into the little airport of Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego. It was night-time in the middle of September, early spring in the southern hemisphere. The snow-covered mountains below reflected the light from the moon in our direction. Thirty-nine hours earlier I had said goodbye to my parents and my good friend, Dave, who had all accompanied me to Manchester airport. After a final hug, I had made the terrifying walk away from them towards the departure lounge. ‘Don’t look back’ I had told myself, as I knew it would tear me to pieces. It would be such a long time before I’d see them again and I had no idea of all I might have to endure before then. All strength seemed to have been taken from my legs and I had struggled to put one in front of the other. I turned a corner and they were gone. An image of my Mum, smiling bravely, now burned in my mind. The hum of the engines and gentle whoosh of the air conditioning lulled me, their tones putting me in a state of near anaesthesia, swallowing up the foreign chatter of other passengers and leaving me alone with my thoughts. Owen sat beside me but our conversation up to now had been minimal. I wanted to stay up here where thinking was all I had to do. The cabin crew would do everything else for me – serve me food, bring me blankets if I felt cold, ensure my seat belt was fastened when it needed to be. Things would be very different in a matter of minutes. I was soon going to have to fend for myself and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. I didn’t even know where I would be sleeping that night. There was no taxi waiting at the airport to whisk me off to a hotel room and no relatives to take me back to their home for a lovely hot meal in front of a roaring fire. There was no prospect of such things for months to come. Just me and Owen and the great unknown. Earlier that same day I had been looking down on the vast Amazon for several hours and now, below me, were snow and glaciers, close to the bottom of the earth. Before the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon and darkness had set in, I had viewed the parched and barren landscape of south-eastern Argentina from this same plane, a landscape void of trees and crops and largely void of habitation. It had seemed to go on forever. I wondered how long it would take us to get back up through such an empty land to the warmth of the tropical rainforests and couldn’t help feeling that it would be an absolute eternity. Owen and I were soon unpacking our bikes and assembling them in a corridor of the new but tiny timber-construction airport terminal where we were joined by a couple of young airport security staff. They chatted with us and gave directions to a number of nearby campgrounds where we’d be able to catch up on a little sleep after our marathon journey. It had been some time since I’d had a good night’s sleep, apprehension having kept me awake on many nights, even before I had left my home. The security staff were wanting to close the building as it seemed we were on the final flight into Ushuaia that night. They helped

with our bikes and gave us water for our bottles before wishing us luck as we wheeled out into the freezing night. Owen insisted on having a cigarette before we left and stood blowing smoke into the cold night air which attacked my warm breath and turned it into a silvery cloud of condensation each time I exhaled, giving the impression there were two of us smoking. He finished his cigarette, pulled on a thick pair of gloves and told me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to go fast as he’d done no training. I couldn’t believe it. He’d had months to prepare for this trip and had done nothing to ready himself but look for potential problems. I felt furious and hoped he didn’t slow me down. We wobbled initially on our heavily laden bikes along the newly surfaced road towards the city of Ushuaia, its hotchpotch of timber, concrete and corrugated-steel buildings dishing out a smattering of light from an otherwise dark and imposing landscape of jagged, glacial peaks. We stopped a number of times to heap on more clothes during the two- or three-mile stretch of good road into the outskirts of the city, the severe cold coming as a shock having departed England in late summer. There were very few people around and the streets seemed to be overrun by vicious dogs, which sprang out of the darkness to severely test our speed as we tried to outrun their snapping jaws. The road soon turned to mud, which was partially frozen, causing it to crackle beneath our fat tyres. A slight hill had Owen off his bike and pushing and I wondered how he was going to cope with the might of the Andes. Already he was complaining, already he seemed to be pointing an accusing finger at me and already he was making excuses. I remained patient – I had to at least give him a chance. As we left the city behind, bonfires burned in a nearby scrapyard, sending glowing fragments of burning material dancing into the blackened night air – air so cold it caused my throat to sting. Another pack of dogs had seen our approach and raced from beyond a shabby security barrier. In the darkness the sound of their rapidly padding feet over crisp mud first alerted us of their approach, even before their blood-curdling snarls were audible. I pushed hard on my pedals as the mongrels tried to get alongside to take a bite, eventually losing them as they spotted the slower-moving Owen behind me. I continued at a slower pace, catching my breath, chuckling with relief as the din of half a dozen or so hungry dogs drowned a stream of expletives from Owen. It was just a seven-mile ride from the airport to our camping spot for the night and our dynamo lights whirred as we dipped down a little track to the right, the glow lighting up the partial canopy of bare, twisted branches which hung above the entrance to the large field, areas of frozen snow patchworking its surface. There were no other campers – this was hardly the camping season – and there was no sign of life. We pitched our tents in the centre of the field, beneath the silhouettes of snow-covered peaks, and I was straight into my sleeping bag, pulling on thermals and my balaclava, my sleep system of a one-season

sleeping bag, thin fleece liner and silk liner hardly suited to such conditions but as much bulk as I had wanted to carry. I slept only periodically during the night, the cold regularly waking me, forcing me to put my head into my sleeping bag to allow my breath to warm its contents. At 6am the draw of a new environment forced me out of my cocoon and I dressed to leave the tent, viewing my magnificent new surroundings in daylight for the first time. A beautiful, golden light spilled across a landscape which had surely only recently been released of its heavy burden of winter snow, the brown vegetation as yet showing no signs of a new season’s growth, and any remaining snow was now confined largely to the mountains. I had a wander, trying desperately to find a way into the shower block, but found all entrances locked and no open windows. Owen was soon up and the two of us walked to another little building nearby that proudly displayed a sign claiming it to be the world’s most southerly railway station. A large pot-bellied stove burned welcomingly in the entrance and, without even saying a word, we were directed by a staff member to the nearby toilets where I managed to clean up just a little in wonderful, warm water. Owen decided not to bother. By 10.30am we had dismantled our tents and packed our panniers, leaving our empty site to cycle the remaining nine miles to the end of what the Argentinians claimed to be the most southerly road in the world and the official starting point for our journey. It had seemed an obvious starting point when studying maps. Just a hundred yards or so beyond the southerly tip of this road the Beagle Channel washed the shoreline. Across the Beagle Channel was a jumble of islands and, beyond these, the Southern Ocean and Antarctica. With its history written in maritime folklore, the shores of the Beagle Channel seemed a fitting place to begin what I had hoped would prove to be an epic journey of my own. Our route from here was undecided. We had an offer of a place to stay in La Paz, Bolivia, and I had friends close to Vancouver. We would make the rest up as we went along. I had estimated the Arctic Ocean to be around 14,000 miles away and had calculated our average weekly distance would need to be close to 380 miles to get us there by late summer. Wispy, white clouds sauntered across a pale blue, winter sky, occasionally veiling the tired sun, turning off the heating. The upper portion of the mud road had just begun to thaw, its surface waters glistening as we steadily ploughed along. I had expected Tierra del Fuego to be extremely barren but here at least this was certainly not the case. We were cycling close to the coast, through the Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego, and the scenery was stunning. The hillsides were wooded and the vegetation often dissected by rivers and inlets. A different mountain would appear around every corner, its snow-laden slopes dazzling white and in complete contrast to the rich russet, ochre, auburn and vermilion of trees, shrubs and grasses which basked in the relative warmth of the early spring sunshine lower down.

There wasn’t a great deal of traffic around but almost all the occupants of those vehicles that did come by spoke, waved or just acknowledged us with a nod or a smile and I was warmed by their gestures. Owen, meanwhile, seemed totally unmoved and a huge branch now jutted from one of his pannier bags, up beyond his handlebars. ‘I’m not going to take more grief from vicious dogs!’ he said. Even with this extra luggage I found it extremely difficult to comprehend his slow pace, having to wait every few minutes for him to catch up, hardly rushing myself, and it took us well over an hour to reach the end of the road. We propped our bikes against a rickety bench and I immediately danced off, childlike, to throw stones in the water, to marvel at my surroundings, to take photographs and to look out across the Beagle Channel towards Cape Horn. I found it a real struggle to conceive that I was where I was. Even at thirty-one, I still felt like a bit of a child, loads of common sense but no real maturity, and I wasn’t sure I actually belonged here. ‘You silly bugger,’ I thought to myself, smiling widely, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’ I felt surprisingly comfortable in my naivety and at my relative lack of research into the countries I was about to visit, considering the scale of the journey I was about to embark upon. I thought of Darwin and Magellan, who would have arrived here with open minds rather than armed to the teeth with guidebooks filled with previous visitors’ opinions and suggestions. I did have a guidebook with me, but planned to use it as little as possible. I wanted to see these places with my own eyes for the first time, so to speak, rather than with a head full of images drawn from the perceptions of others. I would try and tackle each new situation as it occurred and not worry about what just might lie ahead. I felt great excitement well up inside me, an almost drunken state, for here was where the greatest journey of my life was about to begin. I had no idea what the journey ahead might hold and had no concept of the rigours I was about to endure but here, in daylight, in decent weather and with a few other people about, everything felt just wonderful. I sat down for a few minutes and took out my short-wave radio, one of the few little luxuries I had afforded myself on this journey. Expectantly, I fiddled with the tuner for some time, not entirely sure of what I should be listening out for. A whole world of languages and music styles crackled back at me as I flicked at the dial. Owen sat beside me, silently and impassively, a vacant look on his face as I clicked from band to band, turning the tuner. At last, a few words in English as I managed to find the BBC’s World Service, the words audible only in waves between surges of crackling interference. I lifted the radio to my ear and attempted some fine-tuning, a football commentary gradually coming into focus. Owen’s ears pricked up and he turned to me, derisively. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, giving me the filthiest of looks. ‘I’m trying to get the football scores,’ I told him, straining to listen. ‘I want to know how Leeds are doing.’ It was Saturday afternoon in England and the day’s football matches would just be coming to an end.

‘What?!’ he questioned ‘You come all this way and want to listen to English radio? Can’t you do without it just for one year?’ he mocked, clearly not a lover of football himself. I heeded his message and not wanting to upset him further, made my excuses and put away my little radio. ‘Are you ready?’ I asked, keen to get going with so much distance ahead of us. ‘I suppose so,’ he replied, begrudgingly, ‘although it’s not turning out to be quite the stroll in the park I’d expected.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We’d cycled less than twenty miles since our plane had touched down and the road had generally been flat. What on earth had he expected? He always seemed to be goading me into a confrontation, doing his best to be controversial; to upset me. Was this what he was attempting now or was he being serious? His mood certainly seemed to suggest his words were genuine and I felt really let down at his attitude towards my dream trip. I didn’t want him spoiling it for me but our partnership was too much in its infancy at this stage for us to be bickering and I didn’t bite – well, only my lip. ‘It was a long flight,’ I reassured him. ‘We’re just tired. Maybe we should have a rest day and catch up on some sleep.’ This was not at all what I wanted but I felt this might be the best way to spend the day, since Owen had mentioned he was tired earlier. He would have one less excuse to use in the morning and perhaps then we could begin to cover some real distance. Owen shrugged his shoulders, indifferently. ‘Whatever,’ he muttered. As we stood to push our bikes back onto the road, an elderly couple approached us. The woman was able to speak a little English and managed to ascertain that we were attempting to cycle from this point right the way up to north Alaska. Excited to the point of wanting a photograph taken, she passed her husband her camera and enthusiastically embraced Owen who was suddenly loving every minute. Beside herself, she smiled at the camera as Owen too managed to raise the corners of his mouth for the first time since I had met him. She thanked him, shaking his hand and wishing him well, looking into his eyes with adoration, as I was largely ignored. I felt like stepping in and telling her that she’d got the wrong man. ‘Excuse me,’ I wanted to say, ‘you can have your photograph taken with me if you wish. If you’re after a photo with a guy who’s going to cycle from here to Alaska, I’m afraid that one’s useless. You see, I don’t think he’s going to make it. Owen here struggled to cycle the sixteen miles from Ushuaia to this point and he’s already complaining.’ Owen was looking smug. I wondered why she’d chosen him instead of me. At this rate, he’d be back home in London before the photographs had even been developed, staring at his internet screen until the early hours in search of more places to avoid on his travels, leaving me to go on alone.

We made our way back to the end of the road and here Owen and I stood astride the crossbars of our heavily laden bikes, either side of the sign which told us this was the end of Ruta 3, the end of the southernmost road in the world. Buenos Aires, it read, was 3,063 kilometres away and Alaska 17,848 kilometres. This equated to about 11,000 miles – a good deal less than I had anticipated. I smiled as a passenger from a tour bus took photos of us with our cameras, but Owen was again looking more solemn. We leaned over our handlebars and lifted our feet from the ground as we pushed hard on the pedals to set our heavy bikes on their way. We were off, our wheels taking the first of millions of revolutions, turning the corner which took the sign and our starting point out of view for the very last time – our journey north had begun. We pitched our tents just two miles into our northerly journey to allow Owen some rest. As we entered Ushuaia the next day, I was thankful I had him with me. Even though he’d complained as we’d cycled that morning, saying that the ride was ‘boring’ (the scenery was spellbinding!), I felt I was somewhere more foreign than I had ever been before and needed his support. We found ourselves at the top of the town, every road sloping steeply downwards towards the broad, crescent bay. We stopped at a little motor-spares shop to ask for directions to the city centre. The owner did not understand English and I flicked frantically at my Spanish phrase book as the shopkeeper logged on to a translation programme on his computer. Owen was not afraid to help out and for the first time I felt we worked well together. Friends of the shop owner soon turned up to assist and we laughed as both parties struggled to understand one another. They shook our hands as we departed and came outside with us to ensure we set off in the right direction. Beyond the city centre, we paced the broad aisles of our first South American supermarket, loading our baskets with dehydrated foods and chocolate, occasionally throwing in the odd packet of food whose contents we were not entirely sure of but could look forward to trying later. I filled my fuel bottle for my stove at a petrol station as we left the town and was cheerily waved away as I attempted to pay. The weather was wonderful considering where we were – clear skies and warming sunshine – although the headwind was rather strong at times and had a real cooling effect. The temperature nudged above freezing, making a real mess of some sections of road as they thawed, and soon mud and grit clung to our tyres and wheel rims, causing them to grate against our brake blocks. It slowed us down only a little though, and the debris from any unsurfaced stretches of road would release from our wheels, flicking high into the air and into our faces as we picked up speed again on tarmac. On we cycled, into the mountains, the view in every direction a pleasing one. At last we were making reasonable progress and I had reason for some cautious optimism.

The campsite we had hoped to find that evening proved elusive and we found we had little option, after forty-five miles of cycling, but to pitch the tents on snow, away from civilisation and hot showers. The late-afternoon sunshine illuminated the top third of the mountains close by but had vacated our camping area some time ago and the snow’s surface was becoming hard and crisp. We effortlessly pushed our tent pegs deep into the snow and placed rocks over each to keep them in place. The cold had crept in through my clothing and I began to shiver, dressing up in more layers to try and prevent too much heat from escaping. Managing to light my stove for the first time, I made us each a cup of tea and built a small fire in the absence of anywhere warm to retreat to. We each cooked a meal over our stoves, eating from pans as we stood in silence, staring into the warming flames of the fire and keeping our backs to the cold which had us completely surrounded. The end of my sleeping bag froze that night and my boots and waterproof socks, left in the porch of my tent for the night, were also solid when I ventured out the following morning. It was a truly bitter start to the day. The tents had received a further dusting of snow during the night and the sun was once again hiding behind nearby mountains. I tried lighting a fire, too desperate to have any patience and soon giving up. I warmed some porridge over my stove, stamping my feet to try and coax some warm blood to the ends of my toes, the cold chomping at them with tiny, razor-like teeth. I couldn’t remember ever being so cold before with no means of warming up and wanted to be on my way but when it was time to take down the tents, we found the rocks we’d placed above the pegs had frozen, solid, into the hardened snow, and no amount of prizing with semi-functional fingers would release them. We looked at the position of the sunshine on the nearby mountains and hoped it would slide down their sides and over our little camping area to thaw things out in the coming minutes. I dunked my bike several times in a nearby stream as we waited, to free it of yesterday’s grit, spraying my chain and derailleur with lube once I was satisfied it was reasonably clean. Still the sunshine was way off when Owen began rummaging through one of his jam-packed bags. He produced a compact square of metal, which he began to open and snap into place, transforming it into a shovel with a handle. ‘We may as well dig our way out,’ he suggested, and began to lever the rocks free from his tent pegs. It was a heavy piece of kit and one which I thought was a little over the top for a cycle tourist to be carrying, but Owen’s shovel saved us on this occasion. We were soon packed away and back on the road, which deteriorated dramatically as we began heading downhill, the tyre tracks from yesterday’s traffic having frozen solid, creating linear ridges that criss-crossed the road’s surface, making cycling at any speed extremely hazardous. For five or six miles we descended, the water in my water bottle freezing, the wind chilling me to the bone. Some hard pedalling along the flat helped my temperature to rise and a

coffee made over my stove at the side of the road in the weak sunshine warmed me further. The road now gently undulated towards the small town of Tolhuin and it appeared the mountains of Tierra del Fuego had been left in our wake. We had entered a vast area of brown, steppe grassland, punctuated in places by bare, straggly trees of no real height. To have found a bakery in the settlement of Tolhuin would have been exciting enough but to find a bakery with indoor seating had me giddy with delight. We feasted on fresh sandwiches, pasties, crisps and doughnuts, our faces burning and tingling with the change in temperature. I took the map in with us, which showed a full half of South America. Laying it over our table like a tablecloth, together we studied it to ascertain what progress we had made. A whole two centimetres of road were behind us, although we’d barely travelled north at all, the road having taken us generally east to the end of a large lake, some sixty or seventy miles long. It was such a tiny section of road but at least the road headed north from here and the temperature should gradually increase with the passing days and weeks. We didn’t speak much but we were happy to be in a heated space and it was only with a great deal of reluctance that we ventured out into the cold once again after a lengthy rest. Our road was soon surfaced for the first time that day but the wind whipped across the open plain and we had to battle for every additional mile. With hindsight, we should have filled our water carriers as well as our bottles at the bakery but we had no idea the landscape we were about to cycle through would be so void of water. Streams were plentiful in the mountains but here things were quite different. I was adept at drinking my water sparingly but Owen gulped at his and then became tetchy when it started to run low. ‘We have to find some water,’ he said to me, angrily, his hard stare making me feel uncomfortable. I felt he was holding me responsible somehow, and I searched the horizon, in hope, for signs of the merest dip in the landscape that might signal a watercourse and alleviate his bad mood. I longed to be with someone who complimented my thinking rather than someone who aimed the blame directly at me when things went wrong. There were only the two of us there and I felt I would always be in the line of fire. He was at the bakery too and I would happily have poured additional water into my water carrier and slung it over the back of my bike had Owen suggested it. We had decided to cycle just ten miles or so beyond Tolhuin but pedalled closer to fifteen in search of flowing water, which proved elusive. We pitched our tents close to the road, beneath skeleton-like trees bearing masses of hair-like moss, which waved like tattered clothes in the wind. I walked across the road to a stagnant puddle and smashed at its frozen surface with a rock until I had made a hole large enough to dip in my collapsible washbowl. I half filled it with silted water and walked back to the tents, stripping off in sub-zero conditions and wiping myself over with my face cloth.

‘I don’t know what you’re doing that for,’ Owen commented, ‘you’re only going to sweat again tomorrow.’ There was something very cutting about the way Owen spoke to me. He would never speak with a smile on his face and would barely open his mouth to talk, getting his point across with minimum wastage of breath. His comments were beginning to grate and it seemed I just couldn’t do anything right. ‘I like to keep myself clean,’ I told him. ‘Well, I’m not going to bother,’ he replied. ‘I can’t imagine Arctic explorers stripping off and washing themselves.’ What Owen had failed to recognise was that we weren’t Arctic explorers. While the temperature was by no means balmy, it was hardly a life-threatening activity to quickly wash in these conditions. Dave and I had rarely managed to camp close to fresh water during our cycle trip from Canada to LA ten years earlier and would seldom wash in the evenings unless we were on a campsite. We would sweat on our bikes each day and transfer grime from our bodies into our sleeping bags each evening. By the time we arrived in LA, our sleeping bags were black and the fibres were becoming brittle with dirt. What’s more, they smelled, and were not pleasant to sleep in. I was determined I wasn’t going to let that happen again and would endeavour to wash every evening, regardless of the weather and regardless of Owen’s comments. I washed some clothes through in the same water and then cooked an evening meal of ‘Pronta Presto’, which I think went horribly wrong as it had the consistency of near-set cement – I washed it down with a cup of tea, not wanting to waste any. I had felt terrified that day as I had cycled, about the prospect of cycling day after day, not being able to eat decent food and living at the side of the road for a full year. As the evening wore on, I felt much more content and I put it down to the fact that the temperature wasn’t as severe as previous nights and I was camping on soft grass. I was also clean, of course! Settling down in my sleeping bags, I felt protected from the elements as the breeze blew through the naked branches above. In the town of Rio Grande we found a tiny room in a hostel. There was a double bunk down the length of one wall and a small wardrobe on the opposing wall whose doors could only be opened with some careful body manoeuvres, space being at such a premium. There was definitely insufficient room to swing a cat. The window was double-glazed, standing firm against the wind which roared at it. In one corner a magnificent convector heater stood, fighting tirelessly to maintain the balmy temperature in this little haven, resting for only a minute or two at a time to catch its breath before emptying its massive lungs of wonderful, hot air again. I luxuriated for some time that evening in the steaming waters of our en-suite shower, viewing myself in a mirror as I shaved for the first time since leaving home. My nose was peeling badly and the skin on my face was appearing leathery and weathered. I already looked like somebody who had been spending a lot of time outdoors. It was 1999 and there had been a lot

of talk on news programmes about the hole in the ozone layer. This hole was somewhere not too far from Antarctica, perhaps right above us now, and I made a mental note to wear more sun cream. I was a relative newcomer to email but visited a small internet café and struggled to discover that my twin sister, now some three and a half months pregnant, had found she was expecting twins herself. I celebrated with a trip to the supermarket with Owen and afterwards had a greasy hamburger at a plastic picnic table in a five-a-side hall. We were late to bed that evening – almost midnight – and I slept soundly in the security of our warm room, only for a bad dream to wake me the following morning, well before I was ready to end my sleep. I managed yet another shower, aware that it might be my last for some time, before breakfasting in the dingy kitchen and treating my pans to a wash in warm, soapy water. It was clear money had recently been spent on sprucing up the town of Rio Grande as we passed hundreds of brightly coloured steel structures lining the road and painted sections of an arty wall on the seafront. Perhaps the local authority was trying to attract tourists here, on their way to the Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego, though to me the splashes of brilliant colour looked garish and out of place where stormy sea and barren land met massive sky. At the end of Estrada Malvinas was a war memorial, beside which stood a stone with the inscription ‘Las Malvinas son Argentina’s’. The Falkland Islands (Las Malvinas) were just a few hundred miles to the north-east of where it stood, in the southern Atlantic Ocean. The Falklands conflict, in which Britain had forcibly taken back control of the islands from Argentina, had occurred just seventeen years previously. As we rounded a headland, the road took us inland to where the wind was punishing once more. It worsened as the day progressed and Owen was blown from his bike in front of one of the few passing cars, causing the vehicle to swerve and its driver to have words. This did nothing to alleviate Owen’s poor mood and I had to be careful with my words each time he caught me up as I waited for him. Our relationship worsened as we traversed Tierra del Fuego over the next few days. The wind remained with us but was always at its worst in the afternoons and for this reason we both agreed we should wake early and make the most of the calmer conditions in the mornings. We each had an alarm but I was always the one who was up first and I would have to call to Owen to try and get him moving. I waited twenty-five minutes in bitterly cold conditions one morning for him after he’d decided to stay in his sleeping bags and have a slow start to the day. He then refused any help from me to get us on the road quicker. I stood, waiting. A sluggish sun rose to the east, its crimson dye permeating the ragged clouds until they were saturated with colour, the damp, empty road seemingly ablaze below. Owen casually packed as my hands became so cold I wanted to scream

from the pain. A freezing wind blew at me but Owen remained indifferent. Finally, we were on our way. We entered Chile that day, which caught us both a little by surprise as the border crossing was modest to say the least: two remote single-storey buildings in a desolate, moorland-type landscape where tussocky grasses and not much else abounded. The scenery didn’t change as we entered our second country, although we did see a couple of flamingos early on. Signs of human habitation were incredibly scarce – the occasional JCB or car passing by and just the odd farmhouse. The sky cleared as darkness encroached that evening, suggesting another bitter night ahead. Owen’s reluctance to leave his sleeping bag for the second consecutive morning resulted in him being left behind as I angrily got on my bike and told him I would wait for him some miles down the road once the temperature had risen a little. It was far too cold to stand around waiting as he unconcernedly made himself a cup of tea, seated in the doorway of his still-erect tent as if he had all the time in the world. I refused to mother him and set on my way, pleased that I had stuck to my guns. The wind was soon proving a problem again and after just thirteen or fourteen miles I decided I should stop and wait for Owen since it was he who really struggled in these conditions. I laid my sleeping mat at the base of a small tree which offered some protection from the wind and I sat, staring back down the dusty road along which I had just cycled, hoping Owen would soon appear. The wind seemed to worsen as I waited and the cold was soon forcing me to contemplate moving on. I wondered where and how we would meet up again, how far back along the road he was and whether he might have decided not to follow at all. I feared my wait might be a long one or it might be a wait in vain. Just as I was about to stand and reload my bike, over the brow of a low hill he appeared, much to my surprise, and I was glad I had sat as long as I had. I allowed him a breather and hoped that now the air had been cleared we might start to get along a little better. I cycled ahead, anticipating Owen to tuck in closely behind and be spared the worst of the wind. But the road snaked wildly through the landscape, left and right, and we seemed to be hit from all sides by fierce and frequent gusts as we struggled along at just 5 or 6mph. One such gust blew us right across the unpaved road and very nearly into the ditch beside. It was 1.25pm, we were feeling demoralised and decided it would be a good time to have a rest and some lunch. We sat in a hollow, the wind putting us off lighting our stoves, so it was cold oats with milk and sugar followed by a few spoons full of dulce de leche – a sweet, caramelised milk spread – for a further sugary fix. We didn’t hang about, setting off again with only a pathetic twenty-three miles behind us for the day. We more than equalled our morning’s efforts that afternoon, completing almost fifty miles in total, but the wind remained fierce and Owen threatened to walk at one point. His pace frustrated me and I watched ten minutes tick by on

my watch as I waited for him to catch me up after a spell of just two miles of cycling – a regular occurrence that afternoon. I was sure it was nothing more than petulance which was causing him to cycle so slowly, rather than a lack of fitness, and he was determined to make my life as difficult as he could. He clearly didn’t want to be there and he was blaming me for the fact that he was. We pitched our tents, barely saying a word to one another that evening, and cooked in our doorways some metres apart. I no longer expected conversation and didn’t search for things to say. Instead I got on with my own jobs, writing my diary wrapped in my sleeping bags, drinking coffee and eating chocolate and cake as the tent billowed in the wind. We had a short lie-in the following morning on the understanding that our ferry didn’t leave Porvenir – perhaps twenty miles away – for the town of Punta Arenas until 2pm. We also suspected that we’d entered another time zone on our arrival in Chile, which would give us an additional hour to play with. I left without Owen once again but this day it was on his instruction. He still had some packing to do as I attached my final pannier to my bike and he declined any offers of assistance, telling me to go on ahead and he’d catch me up. I cycled up and down short hills and through a rather heavy hail shower, arriving beside a pebbly beach where I decided I should wait. I made use of the facilities – a wooden hut containing a pit toilet between two corrugated-iron shacks, which I presumed to be temporary lodgings for fishermen – then waited and waited. Over half an hour later Owen turned up and I set off immediately along the desolate coastal road at a whopping (comparatively) 17 or 18mph in near wind-free conditions. To my right I was sure I saw something large move in the low-lying shrubs and focused on the area, hoping to see some exciting wildlife. I sat upright in my saddle, positioning my bike in the centre of the road and free-wheeling. As I focused, something caught my eye elsewhere but then was gone again. I scoured the whole area for further movements and wasn’t disappointed. Another figure moved in the distance and then blended into the scenery before I could train my eyes upon it and determine its identity. Then another, closer to me now, and finally I could see it, a sight that unnerved me. In full combats, rifle in hand, a soldier stood from behind vegetation, jogged a few metres and crouched again behind more branches, his camouflaged clothing highly effective. As I cycled on, I realised they were everywhere, on both sides of the road, and had it not been for the occasional wink and a smile in my direction, I would have felt terribly uneasy. From around a bend in the distance, a small convoy of military vehicles appeared and I must have passed well over a hundred soldiers before the vehicles were upon me. The drivers sounded their horns and the senior military men who walked alongside offered me waves as I pedalled by. Thanks to favourable conditions, we were soon in the little town of Porvenir, windswept and desolate. A further few miles out of town we found the ferry terminal. I sat in the sunshine, eating bread and jam and biscuits, talking simple

Spanish to two local boys and offering them biscuits after they’d each handed me a mint. I tried to pick up the BBC World Service for some football commentary around 11am but failed and was entertained instead by a naval ship being loaded with military vehicles and supplies and boarded by more soldiers carrying large rucksacks. After three hours of waiting, we boarded the ferry for just 3,100 Chilean pesos each (around £4) for the two-and-a-half-hour crossing of the Strait of Magellan to Punta Arenas. Owen didn’t even sit with me on the ferry, choosing to sit alone, and this just about summed up how we were getting along. I found him generally miserable, selfish, paranoid and deeply suspicious of others, and I felt I would probably be better off without him. I wondered how we might come to separate and how long I could go on like this before telling him that things were not going to work out. I had tried to befriend him, attempted to be supportive and I had longed for conversation but his unwillingness to reciprocate was now undermining my own confidence and I felt on edge – why didn’t he like me; what was wrong with me? I was a coward, not wishing to hurt his feelings, and I felt myself longing for him to admit that this trip was too much for him, thus saving me from the task. I eyed the back of his head with such intensity, trying to burn a message into his brain: ‘You will not finish this trip. You’re too weak. Quit before it gets the better of you.’ Our little car ferry was tossed about during the choppy crossing of the Strait of Magellan but I found it strangely comforting and almost fell asleep. It glided into dock and lowered its ramp onto the mainland of Chile. We wheeled our bikes off and cycled the short distance into the outskirts of Punta Arenas, an important port city with a population of around 110,000 people. Even here we couldn’t escape from the wind as it was channelled along the orderly streets which met at right angles. Colourful tinned roofs adorned quaint but basic housing on the outskirts, while grander, European-influenced architecture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries could be found closer to the centre. We found ourselves a very basic but comfortable self-catering ‘apartment’ at the Hospedaje Guisande, recommended by my guidebook, and began to make ourselves at home. Everything in here was from a different age, from the décor to the built-to-last cooker and fridge, which probably dated back to the early 1960s. Owen put on the kettle, with only enough water for his own drink, and I went for a bath, fuming. For two nights and two days we rested, ate well and slept on rickety beds, feeling wonderfully snug and secure at night beneath the weight of five thick blankets. I washed clothes in the bath, cleaned my stove, shopped for provisions of chocolate bars and dehydrated food and gave my bike a quick service. I did my best to help Owen out, not wanting to be the one responsible for our separation, should it come to it. I walked into town on numerous occasions, offering to buy food for him from the supermarket and stamps so he

could send postcards home. I cooked a couple of meals for the two of us and made sure I offered him a drink if I was putting the kettle on. While eating steak, chips, fried eggs and onions in a restaurant on our first evening in Punta Arenas, we met a group of three Americans – Steve, Kenneth and Dave – who were in Chile for a lengthy Adventure Training course, and we enjoyed our two nights in the town in their company. We even hit a nightclub on that first evening which wasn’t too dissimilar to those back home and there we enjoyed chatting to two local girls as an eclectic mix of South American music and eighties pop drowned out our voices. It was all a welcome change from the lifestyle Owen and I had endured for the past week and yet I was chomping at the bit as our time of departure drew near. Our progress had been halted for two days and I was itching to get back on the road and make further progress north. Already, I had become restless.

Chapter 4 Punta Arenas–Puerto Natáles 316 miles cycled

Drizzle fell but only a light wind was blowing as our bikes rolled northwards out of Punta Arenas. The road was busy and I wondered where all the traffic was going to from such an isolated city. We had become accustomed to dirt roads largely void of any traffic but here there were two carriageways in either direction and the surface was a decent quality of tarmac. My pace was quicker than Owen’s again but I’d make regular checks over my shoulder to make sure he was still in view and would slow down, if necessary, to allow him to catch up. As I made one such check, Owen was nowhere in sight and I stood, waiting for over ten minutes, before turning my bike around and heading back the way I had come. I found him some distance back down the road, making a rather poor attempt at repairing a puncture. Not wanting to seem patronising by stepping in to do the job for him, I let him get on with it before he reloaded his bike and we were able to continue, only for his tyre to explode with a loud ‘bang’ just minutes later. On close inspection I noticed his wheel hadn’t been put back on properly and his brakes had subsequently rubbed a hole through his tyre. This time I took charge, changing his tube and tyre in a matter of a few minutes, keen to get going again. At last we were off and soon passing the place I had first noticed him missing over an hour earlier. The wind increased, the road turned to gravel for a short stretch, and Owen was left behind once more. I waited, frustrated at our slow pace and once again wondered how long we could keep on like this. Eventually he caught me up, proclaiming he’d had a fall, though there was no real evidence of this as far as I could see. I asked if he was all right and he simply nodded, exhaling extravagantly as if composing himself. I clipped my feet back into my pedals, looked at him over my shoulder to make sure he was ready to continue, and set on my way again, the wind now so fierce it was slowing me down to an average speed of only 5mph. I bowed my head and gritted my teeth, forcing my way forwards, the roar of the wind buffeting my left ear and resounding through my head. I was soon faced with a particularly open stretch of road as buildings and traffic were largely left behind and it was a major strain just to keep my heavy

bike moving. The wind was totally relentless and the landscape empty. I was soon blown unceremoniously from the gravel road, only just managing to snap my foot out of my pedal and place it on the ground to prevent myself being hurled into a dusty roadside ditch. I fought to remain upright, placing my hand on my saddle to look over my shoulder. The wind roared at me. Back along the road there was no sign of the luminous green speck I had come to know as Owen. I waited, battling to remain vertical as the wind attempted to topple me, and finally a tiny dot came into view and gradually grew in size. He looked accusingly into my eyes as he approached, snapping out of his pedals and catching his breath. In my mind I was secretly cursing him. I cursed him for slowing me down, for selfishly not having trained, for having the occasional cigarette and for his constantly downbeat attitude. I had grown to like very little about this person. Nothing, in fact … or so I thought. Having filled his lungs with sufficient oxygen, Owen spoke. ‘I need another day’s rest,’ he insisted, panting, and giving me the hardest of stares. I gave him the best sympathetic expression my mood would allow. Almost nine days with Owen had put me behind schedule and if we slowed down further there was no way we’d make it to north Alaska before the onset of winter in the northern hemisphere. Allow him more rest here and there was no telling how many more times he’d hold me up further down the road. He simply wasn’t up to the task and I had to be brutally honest. ‘I can’t afford another day’s rest,’ I told him. ‘We’re already behind schedule.’ This was by no means unfair. We’d been going now for eight and a half days and had cycled just 330 miles, which was well below the 380 miles a week target I’d set us for arriving at the Arctic Ocean by the following August. We had no idea what problems might lay ahead and couldn’t afford to get complacent at this early stage. I half expected an argument and I braced myself, mentally preparing my defence. Owen barely paused before responding, his words sending shock waves through my whole body. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m not going on.’ He’d obviously been doing some thinking himself and raced straight into his next, well-prepared line. ‘I’m going back to Punta Arenas to catch a flight north to more clement weather. I’m not enjoying myself and I’m slowing you down.’ He showed me his fingers, which were cracked and purple and looked terribly sore. I stared blankly at his hands as he struggled to straighten them, telling me the wind and the cold had caused this. I was suddenly speechless. I looked at him with genuine sympathy this time as I gathered my thoughts. For the first time, I actually felt pity for him but selfishly my thoughts soon turned to my own, very new predicament. I found my stomach turning as visions of loneliness ran riot in my head. I knew I had to resist talking him round, as this was what I had been hoping for for some time now but, faced with the reality of the situation, I

suddenly felt terrified. I wanted to ask him to rethink, to tell him that things would soon get better, that the worst was surely over but a voice inside my head told me to be strong, to accept this opportunity and go on alone if I wanted to succeed. With only a few more words spoken, we handed back spare keys we had each exchanged nine days ago for our bike locks, briefly shook hands, wished each other luck and each promised to stay in touch. It was as simple and as unemotional as that. I remained astride my crossbar and looked on as Owen turned his heavy bike around and took his first few pedals back the way we’d come; back to a bed for the night, to where there were people and shops and restaurants, and then onto a plane that would carry him thousands of miles in a matter of hours. Ahead of me was virtually nothing: parched land, pale blue sky, a bruising wind and no sign of habitation – and thousands of miles alone before I’d have the luxury of catching a flight home if I wanted to achieve what I had set out to do. I shakily clipped back into my pedals and cycled my first few metres of this massive continent truly alone, my head absolutely swimming. This expedition had claimed its first casualty and hopefully its last but it seemed the elements wanted to finish us both off there and then as I battled northwards, against the fiercest of winds which roared like a smothering, omnipresent evil. I felt numb. In a matter of minutes my situation had completely changed. There had been no time to plan and no time to prepare myself mentally. Already I was feeling more fragile and more vulnerable than I had ever felt before. It was visions of loneliness which truly frightened me and which turned over and over in my head as I crouched at the handlebars, turning my pedals. On I struggled, into a featureless, dusty landscape, whose vegetation and wildlife had long since given in to this malevolence. I looked back occasionally, not wanting to believe that I was really on my own, but no one followed. After umpteen checks it began to sink in that I was truly the only one left. Having wished so many times in the last nine days that Owen would quit, I was now wishing he was still with me. I felt I was much stronger than him and just having him there as a comparison gave me great confidence. I had somebody else to think about other than myself; somebody to tow along. All I had to compete with now was this landscape, this rock-strewn road and this unforgiving wind – and I felt I was losing. I was thousands of miles from home, in a land I knew very little about and with a whole continent ahead in which I knew absolutely no one. I spoke very little Spanish and was no great shakes as a bike mechanic. If I got into difficulty out here I could really be in the shit. If my bike failed me, if I got ill, if I had a fall, if I ran out of food and water, if I was attacked, what would I do? What would I do?! Question after question turned in my head, hypothetical scenario after hypothetical scenario. I never saw Owen again. I never again heard from him. I have no idea what happened to him or what decisions he made after we parted company. I hope he found himself in a place where he was happy.

After just twenty miles completed that morning, and completely demoralised, I sought respite from my thoughts and from the incessant wind on the more sheltered side of a bare, excavated mound and contemplated giving up for the day, my recent speed of just around four miles per hour with the utmost exertion, totally uneconomical. Sitting here would do me no good – I had to fight my way north. I had a pâté sandwich and a handful of biscuits and tried to rest but a rain shower had me on my way again. I fought on until just before 5pm – a long, open stretch of road ahead telling me enough was enough. I had cycled just 36.6 miles in seven hours and I was absolutely exhausted. I pitched the tent on the leeward side of a mound, battling against the persistent wind before finally securing the pegs, placing rocks above each to anchor them down. I sat inside and for the first time since leaving Punta Arenas I didn’t have the constant roar of the wind directly pounding my eardrums. I felt physically sick at my predicament and sensed that a further pasta meal would only cause me to vomit. Instead I ate just a tin of tuna followed by oats and powdered, cold milk, studying my map frantically and reading a CTC (Cyclist’s Touring Club) report I had brought with me, which detailed one of its member’s journeys from Santiago to Punta Arenas. I tried to determine just how quickly I could be away from this godforsaken environment to where there were trees and rivers, warmth and no wind but instead stared blankly at the paper, shellshocked. I ventured outside at around 7pm, into total blackness on this moonless evening. I looked up at the beautiful stars – wonderful, large pricks of white light against the purest black sky – and wondered if anyone back home might be looking up at the night sky and thinking of me. I felt incredibly alone. All around me was blackness, not a hint of civilisation in any direction. In different circumstances I would have felt quite comfortable with such solitude but not right now. I could easily have cried, but I didn’t. Instead I poured a cupful of water into my collapsible bowl and stripped my top half, rapidly wiping myself down with my facecloth and drying before replacing my thermal top and fleece, then doing the same with my bottom half. The icy wind took my breath away, blasting my skin and causing it to become taut and pimpled over bones that were already becoming more prominent. I dived head first into my shelter, zipping up the tent from the outside world, which seemed alien and hostile, empty and remote. With the zips closed and all my familiar items strewn around me, I could imagine I was anywhere. I climbed inside my sleeping bags and wrote a short entry in my diary. I then continued with a letter I had begun to good friends back home, sounding out my every word in my head, imagining I was speaking to them, telling them my innermost fears. I pictured them sitting in their cosy living room with this very piece of paper in their hands. I hoped they would read it in the way I had intended. I hoped they could draw an image for themselves of me lying here so

very alone, so very cold, so very frightened. I wanted to leave them in no uncertain terms as to the way I was now feeling and at my total sense of trepidation. Owen had gone and my only team now was back home. I hoped they would respond accordingly, sending me letters of comfort and encouragement whenever they could, keeping me up to date on events back home, raising sponsorship and getting others interested in my journey. I didn’t place my letter in an envelope just yet. I didn’t know when I might stumble upon a postbox and may yet have more to write before then. Bringing out my letter would be like bringing out a friend I could confide in. I turned out my head-torch and snuggled deep inside my sleeping bags, pulling them up over my face and breathing hard into them to warm up the space, but still I shivered. I was wearing almost everything I had to warm me and once again I feared the night ahead, longing for it to speed by and to see the sun’s fiery red glow rise above the vacant horizon in the morning. I lay on my side and pulled my knees up to my stomach, tucking my chin close to my throat. I hoped I could sleep; sleep was my friend, my temporary escape from all of this. My dreams would help me to travel across the miles to friends, to loved ones, to laughter. As the wind heaved at the tent, crashing into its walls, I was forced to wrap my sleeping bags over my head, close to my ears, and I gripped them tightly under my chin. I thought of home and of all I might still have to experience before I would be there again. I thought of all the freezing nights I still had to come. I was exhausted, physically and mentally, and the wind and my fears were soon suppressed by sleep. On my first morning of lone cycling I attempted to cycle just one tenth of a mile at a time, furiously tugging my feet free of the pedals as violent gusts of wind blew me towards the roadside ditch time and time again. My mind was full of unhelpful thoughts; thoughts I just couldn’t get rid of. This academic year some friends from university had elected to take a year out to have a chance at gaining some work experience, while others had chosen to continue with the course and finish their degrees by the following summer. It was now the end of September and those continuing with the course would have returned after the summer break. Some of them would be seated there now, I thought, this very minute, in a warm lecture theatre, taking notes and then going home to a warm house for a hot meal, a little coursework and perhaps then out for a few beers afterwards. By next June they’d be finished, done. And at that time where would I be? I tormented myself with the idea that I’d still be cycling – still alone and still open to the elements. I could so easily have been one of them if only I had chosen to do things differently: if I hadn’t had this ridiculous idea of cycling the Americas. I felt angry at myself, felt sure I had made the wrong decision but felt I couldn’t quit now. I couldn’t go home after years of talking the big talk, only to be branded a failure.

After another morning of unsatisfactory progress, I arrived at a little, remote restaurant, failing to see how they could remain in business with so few passing cars. Loose guttering rattled in the wind and dust, which covered everything, was blown up in clouds before being thrown at the dilapidated building by the bullying wind. The scene was only missing a tumbleweed. I felt I needed some respite from the weather and rolled to a halt, propping my bike against its timber-clad wall. Grabbing my valuables bag from my handlebars, I opened the door and ventured in. Inside was surprisingly warm and an antique clock ticked soothingly on a wood-stained, chipboard wall – a familiar sound, thousands of miles from home. An elderly man shuffled out from behind a door to serve me, claiming I was ‘el primero, el primero’ (the first, the first) and I wouldn’t have been surprised at all if he’d meant I was their first customer ever. I felt comfortable and relaxed, the only customer in the café, and I took my time, drinking a couple of cups of instant coffee and listening to the sound of my own breathing. Only now did I realise just how exhausted I was; how thoroughly beaten the road and the wind had made me feel. I could have stayed in that restaurant all afternoon, eating, drinking and affording my body and my mind a little time off. Begrudgingly, I paid my bill and departed. As I walked through the door I was brought to a halt. I studied the parking area. I listened. Nothing. The wind had miraculously died and there was a wonderful quiet all around me. I was overcome by a real sense of urgency, rushing to my bike and hurriedly stuffing the bread cakes I had bought into a pannier, fearing that it may only be a temporary respite, giddy at the prospect of cycling in calm conditions. I had soon got up some speed and stood out of the saddle, my heavily laden steed swaying, way off the vertical as I pushed hard and fast on the pedals. I felt exuberant and invincible. In the emptiness that surrounded me I laughed hysterically, shouting and screaming like a crazed madman in the absence of the wind. ‘Think you can stop me?’ I cried. ‘Look at me now! WUHOO!’ My tyres were hungry for road and my legs were eager to feed them. My mouth was slightly open and my tongue rested to the right of my upper lip. I was totally focused, my head barely turning even a fraction of a degree for mile after mile. My view hardly changed. It was like looking out at a still photograph, the darkened underside of the peak of my helmet that annoying finger over part of the lens. I’m not even sure I blinked, my eyes fixed on the point miles in front of me where tiny road met massive, pale blue sky. For two wonderful hours I zoomed through the landscape along a generally flat road at speeds often exceeding 20mph. I looked down at the road beneath my pedals, a blur of grey. For those two wonderful hours I enjoyed myself immensely. I saw a horseman happily butchering a large animal close to the road. I saw birds of prey, rheas, flamingos and a fox, and for the first time in two

days I was able to enjoy the attention I was receiving from the few motorists who passed. Without the wind and without Owen I could almost fly. I stopped to celebrate my progress with a short break once my total was at just under seventy miles. Seated among woody shrubs, twenty metres from the road, I took out a couple of somewhat squashed bread cakes and expertly turned each into that culinary delight that is the jam sandwich. A couple of biscuits followed as the wind, as quickly as it had disappeared, returned again. I finished eating and immediately packed my things, forcing my bike back up onto the raised road and returning to the old routine of cycling hard but not getting very far. I had hoped the Americans we’d met in Punta Arenas might come by in their car as they too were heading for Puerto Natales today and had spoken of handing us food should they see us. As the afternoon progressed, thoughts of being given large chunks of sickly chocolate by well-wishing friends melted away and were replaced by the reality of another mundane pasta meal over my stove a little later. About eight dogs raced to chase me close to the end of my cycling day, sprinting as a pack from an isolated dwelling nestling in a small copse of trees. I could have done without it, my tired legs in need of a rest. I picked up my pace, the dogs dropping off one by one, but I then had to ensure there was some good distance between us before I could relax and begin to look for somewhere to camp. Heart still pounding, I pitched the tent in an area of savannah grassland with far-reaching views to snow-capped mountains to the east. I couldn’t work out if I had bought the wrong type of fuel or whether I was operating my stove incorrectly but I was unable to get it to burn with any kind of ferocity. I wasn’t even able to cook a simple pasta meal and had to make do instead with a further jam sandwich, cold oats and milk, tuna and a bar of chocolate – hardly the celebratory meal I deserved having cracked my first eighty-mile day of the trip. As I ate my meal and wrote the day’s diary entry, the temperature dropped and a single dog howled in the distance. On the shores of Seno Ultima Esperanza (Last Hope Sound), Puerto Natales was terribly vulnerable to the fierce north-westerly wind that blew in with little resistance across the water. I made my way down its linear streets and along rough, steep pathways between faded pastel-walled houses in search of the cheapest hostel my guidebook had to offer. The hostel proved elusive and I opted instead for the Swiss-run Hospedaje Cecilia, its price of around £5 per night, including breakfast, even less than my five-year old guidebook suggested. There were other English-speaking travellers sitting in front of the TV but I was too tired and not in the right frame of mind for conversation. I shopped at the small supermarket close by and ate back at the hostel, having a lie down in my tiny twin room but unable to sleep, the sound of chatter eventually drawing me into the communal area. I spoke to some Americans – taking part in the same training course Dave, Kenneth and Steve were attending – and was surprised at their interest in what I was doing, particularly as I found their

outdoor training course far more exciting. I occasionally glanced across at the TV, pictures of Manchester United taking on Marseille in the Champions League being beamed into the communal area from thousands of miles away, and I had to admit to myself that I was feeling more than a little homesick. My new friends invited me out for food and I was enjoying their company. We walked the quiet streets in search of an inexpensive eatery and didn’t struggle, opting for a simple pizza restaurant. We found other Americans there, attending the same training course, and all generally meeting for the first time. News quickly spread of my journey and handshakes from well-wishers followed. I found I was already able to tell stories of my journey so far, of freezing nights in a tent, of a wind so fierce it was difficult to stay on the road. I thought of all the stories I’d have to tell in another ten or eleven months’ time, stories even I did not yet dare to imagine. At that very moment everything I had so far endured seemed very worthwhile. After a free feed, courtesy of my new friends, we walked out into the cool evening air so that the Americans could attend a meeting about their training course. I walked there with them, meeting up with Kenneth, Dave and Steve who greeted me with hearty handshakes and naturally asked of Owen. We arranged to meet up a little later, once their meeting had finished. I ended the evening with Kenneth, Dave and Steve, drinking a beer, laughing and talking about adventures, and began to look forward to my own adventure, which would resume in the morning. In light of my own mood recently, it was good to hear others being positive about my journey and I felt thankful I had made it this far.

Chapter 5 Puerto Natáles–Puerto Montt 479 miles cycled

I was woken around 6am by my room-mate’s alarm and couldn’t get back to sleep. Lindo was from the Netherlands, perhaps in his late twenties, and struggled to smile. He had a slightly arrogant manner, telling me stories of his own travels and asking me very few questions about mine. He was travelling by bus around South America and took frequent excursions with tour companies to view local attractions. He told me not to miss the salt pans of the Bolivian Altiplano but he had viewed them from the seat of a four-wheel-drive tour vehicle. High up in the Andes, I wasn’t sure I’d make it there but told him I’d do my best and wished him luck as he made an early start. Meanwhile, I joined the Americans and other guests in the kitchen area where I prepared some breakfast. Here I was offered more advice from the hostel owner and his wife. They told me not to miss out on the Torres del Paine National Park, a relatively short excursion from here, but an excursion along a road that led no further. Other travellers insisted I should go there and spend a few days trekking and camping within the National Park. I felt frustrated at people’s insistence that I should visit places off my route – frustrated that I had a goal that I had set myself years ago. I was sorely tempted to visit the Torres del Paine but I was conscious that I had limited time to get myself to north Alaska and didn’t yet know what troubles may lay ahead. How would I feel if a three- or four-day excursion here later meant I couldn’t complete my dream trip for whatever reason? I also had no decent walking gear and no rucksack for trekking, and the bus fare and National Park fees would eat further into my budget. I decided I would instead head on my way, much to their disappointment. I had a very specific job to do, a dream to fulfil, and Torres del Paine would still be here in ten or twenty years’ time if I truly felt it was somewhere I had to visit. I was waved off from the Hospedaje Cecilia by the owner and his wife and a small group of other travellers. Matt – one of the Americans from the previous evening – handed me a copy of Charles Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle, within whose pages I later found 3,000 pesos (about £4) and a short message, which read: ‘Trevor, good luck on your incredible journey, Matt.’

It was raining as I left the small town but the wind seemed to be blowing from the south for the first time and this pleased me. The road was soon gravel and remained that way for the rest of the day. The sun later broke through the cloud and the rain ceased. As I headed north, along the largely empty road, snowcapped mountains to my left, I felt refreshed and recharged following an evening in good company and a night sleeping in a bed. I left the road that led to the Torres del Paine National Park and headed east instead, over a range of low hills and into Argentina once more, where a sign the colour of the Argentine national flag welcomed me back. The landscape stretched out for many miles in front of me and the wide, gravel road, partially vegetated to both sides, fell gently away, disappearing to nothing in the vastness beyond. I was entering an area of dry pampas, a plain of wind-blown loess where very little was growing at this time of year. I struggled to spot a single tree as I descended. Brown tufted grasses, their growth halted by the cold, were the dominant vegetation here, resulting in a near colourless landscape. A single farm building some miles away and a series of rolling hills in the far distance were all that broke the monotony. I was thankful at least that the wind wasn’t being too unkind but the road was in a poor state and worsened as I joined Ruta 40, a road my Argentine contact from the planning stages of my journey had described as ‘mystical’. I failed to see the mystic and have since read accounts from other cyclists who condoned its condition and the lack of interest along it. Perhaps from the comfort of a fourwheel-drive vehicle I would have enjoyed the emptiness and been less worried about crashing over loose rocks and gravel. I climbed for some time, onto a plateau, and felt pleased at the progress I was making over such a terrible surface. The faint outline of the southern Andes, way in the distance, gave a suggestion of more exciting scenery to come. I decided close to the end of the afternoon that I would attempt to exceed eighty miles once more, attacking the terrible road rather than treating it with caution, so whenever I came to a downhill section, regardless of the ruts and the rocks, I released my brakes and let fly, crashing along at a good speed. I stopped with 81.3 miles on the clock. I could pitch my tent just about anywhere in this vast wilderness and I picked a spot between mounds of grasses, about twenty metres from the deserted road. I felt so good that I left the tent after eating to go for a quick jog – only a few hundred metres but just enough to remind my leg muscles what it felt like to run. I promised myself that evening that I would try and have frequent jogs throughout this journey for just such a purpose. The following morning a heavy snow shower kept me in my tent a while longer than intended but a lack of water for breakfast had me on my way. I was soon chasing five rheas along the appalling road surface of rocks and unconsolidated gravel. I broke the ice from frozen pools of water a little later to

fill my bottles and was then caught with my trousers down, relieving myself when a heavy hail shower struck. I found it surprisingly invigorating! I decided on a 140-mile detour to see a glacier – the Perito Moreno – one of the few sights I had looked up prior to my departure from the UK. The road which took me there would also be my road out so I was less than pleased as I continued to crash along over rocks as I left Ruta 40. The scenery made up for the state of the road. Green vegetation was striking after many days of cycling through brown pampas grasslands and bare earth and I was captivated by sightings of birds of prey and roadside pools that offered habitat to a whole host of wildlife. Occasional wooded areas I found enchanting. The glacier itself was magnificent – an immense ice sheet standing several storeys high above the turquoise waters of the lake, its vast surface covered in a thousand meringue peaks. Towering rock summits rose like guardians from its perimeter. Every now and then, like a reptile shedding its skin, it would discard huge blocks of ice from its face, sending them crashing beneath the waters below, only for them to bob back to the surface like inflatable toys to begin their silent journeys down the lake. My front pannier racks were both badly damaged on my detour to the glacier, thrown through my front wheel on particularly bad sections of road. Miraculously, my wheel survived intact but I felt mortified. Towns I had so far passed through had generally been small and hundreds of miles apart. I reckoned my chances of getting replacements in this corner of the world were virtually nil. Without pannier racks I had no means of attaching all my luggage to my bike and two of the three I had were now damaged. I felt the cycling alone was more than enough to contend with. I rearranged my luggage, stacking more weight over the rear of my bike, making it look ungainly, and continued, initially rather tentatively. The following day I had planned to have a full day’s rest but the idea frightened the life out of me, alone and in this empty landscape. For a while, at least, I carried on. Shortly after lunch I came to a halt beside a wide, turquoise river, now heading north again on Ruta 40. I needed to wash my clothes and my body was screaming for a rest from cycling. The sun shone and the breeze blew. It was, as my Mum would have said, a good drying day. Aside from the river this was an otherwise arid environment – low-lying, prickly shrubs, brown grasses and sand. The occasional heavy rain had weathered the hillside opposite in the past, its bare sides scarred by deep channels. For just a moment I stood and looked around at my surroundings. There was not a sound but for the gentle breeze and what sounded like a fast body of water some distance away. For just that moment, the mocking breeze whispered past my ears, taunting me, as the rest of my world stood motionless. It was a moment too long. A wave of nausea welled up inside me as once again thoughts of loneliness punched me in the gut. I forced myself out of my momentary nightmare with some words of instruction, bursting back to life,

fighting off the silence with activity: ‘Come on Trev, put the tent up. Get a rock to put your pegs in with … What have you done with your water carrier?’ There are those who say that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, but to me it was a tool I used to keep myself sane. There was always somebody else there to snap me out of my moods, to move me on to the next job and to stop me from wallowing in my own self-pity. I did a lot of talking that afternoon and an awful lot of thinking. In between the many jobs I did to keep myself busy, I went a long way to getting my head sorted and in that respect the afternoon’s break proved very valuable. I still felt that all things dear to me were such a very long way away, both in terms of distance and in time. That afternoon, rather than focusing on the distance I still had to travel, I decided I should begin to congratulate myself and celebrate all I had achieved so far. I had now cycled 810 miles, largely on sand and gravel roads and against the fiercest of winds, in a cold climate and on a continent that was completely alien to me. Those 810 miles were now in the bag, done with, and I now had 810 miles fewer to cycle than when I had started this journey. Even if it all came to an end now, for whatever reason, I still had stories to tell and something to be proud of. Every single mile from here I would consider a bonus. This new perspective on my journey would serve me well over the coming months. I had a naked dip and quick wash in the river, its near-freezing temperature confirming this was the outflow from a glacial lake. As I washed clothes and cleaned my pans and stove, I continued to think of further strategies to mentally help me through this journey. I had enjoyed myself in Puerto Natáles the other night, chatting to others, having a beer or two and a meal in a simple restaurant. My budget was extremely tight but I decided that I could probably afford to do this once every five or six days and it would really give me something to look forward to. Five or six consecutive nights of camping wild and alone would be bearable if I knew there was a shower, a decent meal out and the chance to share my stories with others at the end of it. After an evening meal of ravioli and mushroom soup, chocolate and a coffee, I listened to my music, leaving the tent and shivering outside to listen to Radiohead’s Street Spirit at full volume, the only light coming from the millions of bright stars above. The rhythmic sound of the single guitar, repeating the same haunting riff over and over made me tingle with emotion. My jaw tightened and I stared up at the heavens, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply as Thom Yorke began to sing, his dark lyrics of overbearing houses and of a great strain striking a chord. I held out my arms to the world as bows were drawn across tight orchestral strings, nodding my head to the drum beat. A tiny dot on this vast planet, I suddenly felt invincible. In a landscape few on this earth would ever get to see and beneath as magnificent a night sky as you could imagine, I reminded myself that I was doing this thing because I felt I could achieve something so few could even imagine. I felt safe here and I was beginning to feel at one with nature.

A solitary bus came by early the next morning, wheels juddering over the rutted surface, its passengers gawping at me and the driver tooting the horn as it struggled by, covering me in a film of dust. I passed the bus again a little later as its occupants paused for a break and a hot drink at an extremely remote service station. It caught me up again some time later, its passengers waving like lunatics as they passed this crazy Englishman on his bike in the middle of nowhere. The road worsened further, and I struggled over large stones and deep ruts, through gravel and sand, cursing the conditions – the worst yet. As my energy was gradually sapped, my mind ran riot with thoughts of what I might buy at the supermarket in the next town, which was now just twelve or so miles away. Tres Lagos (Three Lakes) was at the junction of three roads, which all headed out into the emptiness. On close inspection, my map showed that each road did eventually pass by a lake, but these were all tens of miles away. Around Tres Lagos there was only sand and this was the first disappointment. Dust blew up the single dirt road and battered picket fences rattled, loose in the wind. Skinny dogs foraged for food, lifting their heads to yap at me as I rode in before returning to nuzzle at the litter which was strewn across front yards. It was a scene straight out of a western. As I cycled up the shabby main street, two children gawped open-mouthed at this stranger, before their mother yanked them to one side and dragged them hurriedly by, not wanting to catch my eye herself. I felt like Clint Eastwood, riding into town on his steed after days out in the desert. Weather-beaten and covered in dust, I peered out at my surroundings from beneath the peak of my cap. More interested in a store than a saloon, I ambled up the full length of the rough main street, finding first a post office which was closed until the next day and then a little bakery where I bought bread and biscuits. I thought this was all I was going to manage until I spotted a small store giving little indication from the outside that this wasn’t just another house. Here I bought apples, bananas and chocolate but had craved sausages, potatoes and vegetables for my evening meal. The residents of Tres Lagos were seemingly unable to enjoy such delights, the few shelves sparsely stacked, and on this occasion I too would have to make do without. For the next few days I struggled for food, surviving on the rations I had stored in my luggage. Rivers for topping up my water supply were also particularly scarce. There was very little of anything – no sign of habitation for over a hundred miles on some stretches of road. I occasionally saw herds of guanacos cross the road in front of me and spotted my first armadillo pattering along the side of the road, curling up in its defensive armour as I cycled by. One night I camped in the most remote place I had ever camped and was spooked by a strange wailing sound that seemed to be coming from a range of low-lying hills some miles away. On this night, unusually, there was little wind and I couldn’t work out what could be making this noise. I was even afraid to go out

for a pee, quickly diving back into my tent once I had relieved myself and burying my head deep in my sleeping bag like a child afraid of the dark. During one twenty-four-hour period just three cars came by in any direction. The first driver just gave me a friendly wave. The second stopped for a chat and tossed an orange out of the window after wishing me luck. The third – a fourwheel-drive – also stopped, the driver asking me where I was heading while his young son sat, craning his neck to listen, in the passenger seat. As I set off again the four-wheel-drive held back, slowly coming after me and then tailing me. I was just a little suspicious at what they were doing – perhaps the father was giving his son a lesson in ‘bumping off’ cycle-tourers? They could ram me from behind and make off with all my possessions and I’d be stuffed out here. But instead, the driver sounded his horn and shouted encouragement as they approached. The road was rough but ever so slightly downhill. I wanted them to see me at my best and dug deep, accelerating to over 20mph, picking my way over the rutted surface, fearful of falling off and embarrassing myself. The vehicle came alongside, the boy hanging out of the window, holding out an outstretched arm. The driver synchronised his speed with mine and drew his vehicle closer. Keeping one eye on the road and one on the boy’s hand, I reached out and took the offering from him, quickly finding my handlebars again. ‘Gracias!’ I shouted as the boy placed himself back in the vehicle and it accelerated off in a plume of dust. I eased off the pedals as the vehicle grew smaller and looked down into my hand –a small key-ring thermometer. I no longer had to shiver to know it was cold. Twenty days since Owen and I had left the end of the most southerly road in the world, I hit my first real milestone. Approaching the town of Tamil Aike, the read-out on my cycle computer finally displayed four digits in front of the decimal point: I had cycled my first thousand miles. I felt too weak and hungry to fully appreciate my achievement but it had become something of a ritual on previous cycle trips to praise myself on reaching each hundred miles cycled. On this journey the ritual had so far been forgotten. I had once considered it a lucky gesture, however, and decided I now needed all the luck I could muster. I brought my bike to a halt, kissed first my right shoulder and then my left shoulder. ‘Well done, fella,’ I whispered, before climbing from my bike and stooping to the crossbar, which I also kissed. ‘Well done bike,’ I said. Finally, I patted my panniers, so as not to leave my equipment out: ‘Well done gear.’ It was a ritual I continued as my journey unfolded: every hundred miles, almost without exception, I would come to a halt and pucker up. On busy roads, however, I would have to wait for a lull in the traffic to save any embarrassment. I had decided on this occasion – the occasion of achieving my first one thousand miles in South America – that I would celebrate further by treating myself to a cooked meal and a hot coffee in a café in Tamil Aike, which had

been signposted many miles back and was now only a few miles away. I thought, excitedly, about what I might find on the menu. I struggled on for those remaining few miles, excited at least at the prospect of warm, hearty food indoors. I pictured myself seated at a table in a cosy café, menu in hand, and I imagined the delights I might be reading about on that menu. I dreamed of thick chips doused in salt and vinegar and of a burger stuffed with meat and salad, so thick I’d struggle to get my mouth around it. I had heard many stories about the delicious beef in Argentina. I’d take my time once I arrived there, perhaps treating myself to a dessert or a coffee refill, taking time to catch up on my diary or continue writing a letter home. I had worked hard and had spent very little money recently – I had earned myself a substantial treat. But I was soon to be greatly disappointed. I cycled into the ‘town’ and felt there must have been some mistake. Surely this wasn’t it? The location for the town of Tamil Aike was occupied by a solitary farmhouse and there was nothing else in any direction but sand and stones. My hopes had been dashed, my desire to eat a hearty meal massacred. I stood astride my crossbar, despondent. The thought of a hot meal in warm surroundings had got me here and now I would just have to make do with jam butties and chocolate. Had the signs not given me hope of finding a restaurant around lunchtime, I’m not sure I’d have made it quite as far with only the promise of jam and bread on my arrival. I consoled myself in the knowledge that I had saved a few dollars – money that could buy me a meal another day. That afternoon I was cheered somewhat when two four-wheel-drive vehicles, heading in my direction, slowed and came to a halt beside me. The four occupants, all male and from Buenos Aires, were absolutely in awe at my journey and got out of their vehicles to shake my hand and to chat. They offered me a cigarette when all I wanted was food and then each had their photograph taken with me. ‘When you are famous,’ one of them cried, ‘remember us!’ And they set on their way again. With seventy-two miles behind me for the day, I was exhausted and my tired legs were reluctant to take me any further. But my food situation concerned me and the next potential shop was still a further forty-five miles away. My lunchtime experience had taught me not to become too dependent on my map, though, and I decided I’d get as far as my body would allow, the next settlement 120 miles from my present position, should the first let me down. I took out my personal stereo amid a swarm of flies, put on my sunglasses to keep them out of my eyes, and turned up the volume, earphones in. With a renewed vigour I turned the pedals for a further thirteen miles, even finding the energy to sing along. That night I struggled to sleep, sore and cracked hands causing me pain, the cold forcing me to dress up and then hunger resulting in a dream about my sister devouring burgers and hot dogs in a pub beer garden as I longingly

looked on. Despite a bad night, I was excited as I departed the following morning, with Bajo Caracoles and potential food just a few hours away. I made good progress and mentally noted my order for the restaurant once there: ‘dos hamburguesa y un café con leche’ (two hamburgers and white coffee). But when my cycle computer suggested I should be there, I could still see no town, no village, no cluster of houses as I scanned the barren landscape stretching out in front of me. Again, I felt shattered as dreams of gorging on good food in warm surroundings melted away. Then it came into view at the side of a wide, wide valley – only about a dozen buildings in all. My hopes teetered. It wasn’t difficult to find the only public building – a hotel – and I walked in, viewing shelves of food for provisions I might be able to take with me. The owner appeared and I asked if they served meals, my mood deflating at his negative response. I had to make do with a coffee instead and bought a packet of biscuits to go with it. I also bought an extortionately priced tin of tuna, three tiny chocolates and half a loaf of wonderfully doughy bread. At least I could have a reasonable lunch further along the road. I cycled for another hour or so in pleasantly warm conditions before coming to a halt beside a stretch of eutrophic water in the sunshine, its dried banks alive with birds including flamingos but also the final resting spot of a festering guanaco carcass on its shore. I moved away from the animal’s remains, eating tuna sandwiches before stripping down to just my boxer shorts and almost nodding off in unusually warm sunshine, the sound of an approaching car forcing me to quickly pull on my cycling shorts and carry on. My food supplies had all been devoured but for a tiny amount of emergency porridge oats as I caught sight of the town of Perito Moreno around lunchtime the following day and I felt ravenous following days of hard cycling on heavily rutted gravel roads. The view of the town was truly wonderful from up on the hill several miles away. I had previously been excited on approaching settlements, however, only to be utterly disappointed on arrival at finding very little there, but from my vantage point this town looked to be of a reasonable size – perhaps three or four times larger than Tres Lagos – and there just had to be a decent food store. I hit my first stretch of tarmac road in almost a week as I glided into town. Stocking up with food was my most immediate need and I found several places I could do this. I called in at a bakery and then at a small supermarket, packing the reassuringly heavy bags in the luggage above my rear wheel. I phoned home and chatted briefly with my parents, their familiar voices warm and reassuring. I had phoned ahead and booked myself into accommodation in the town of Puerto Montt, still over a week’s cycling away, and asked them to send mail there. I cycled out of town in a westerly direction, coming to a halt just a few miles later when I came across a gravelly shoulder where I could sit and have lunch. I made four large luncheon meat sandwiches, devoured an apple, a large bag of

crisps, chocolate and biscuits, eating yoghurt and cereal I had intended for that evening, and then another chocolate bar. Still I didn’t feel satisfied but it was all I felt I could spare and I set off, looking for somewhere to stop and spend the afternoon. I found a beautiful running stream, close to Lago Buenos Aires, filled up my water carrier and water bottles, and then decided I might as well camp there. I pitched the tent on lovely, soft grass, and in warm sunshine I washed clothes, drank coffee and ate biscuits. I learned a little Spanish, wrote my diary and had a very thorough strip wash, heating water in a pan to make it extra special, extravagantly splashing it over me with my facecloth in opulent fashion, without fear of being left short. I hung my clothes from a fence to dry and from the same fence I hung my water carrier and towel, the crystal-clear stream providing a constant supply of water just metres away. It felt good to have a bathroom and to afford the time to get myself organised. I even washed my bike. My mood had improved markedly following some more diary writing and a good meal and I retired to my tent as it got dark in a positive frame of mind, reading a little more of my book, The Voyage of the Beagle, and doing some calculations as to when I’d arrive at certain places based on current progress. Lightning flashed for a time and rain fell steadily on the tent for much of the night but I was dry and I was warm in my compact little home. By morning the rain had cleared and I was able to cycle in cool but fine conditions. I rode through Los Antiguos, where I had a lovely chat with an Argentinian woman on holiday with her daughter, and then on to a river for lunch where I watched youths wading through the water in their jeans looking for fish. They walked over to me to look at my bike and marvelled at the mileage computer. I once again entered Chile that afternoon as I arrived in the town of Chile Chico. I spent my remaining Argentinian money on two burnt buns and a can of Sprite before crossing the border, believing it to be the final time I’d be in Argentina on this particular journey. My next big town from here was Coihaique and a sign confirmed the town to be a further 398km (249 miles) away. My map showed a much shorter route, however, crossing the large lake – Lago Buenos Aires – and I assumed this to be via a bridge or along a strip of land that seemed to head north out of Chile Chico. On a map with a scale of 1:4,000,000 it wasn’t clear. I had estimated the shortcut to be at least 200km shorter than the road that headed west along the southern shore of the lake and on finding two policemen I cycled up to them, pulled out my map and asked how to get to this particular shortcut. It seemed there was no road crossing the lake and instead I’d have to catch a ferry, the next of which departed at 9am the following day, they advised after consulting their office by radio. Initially I considered getting a room in the town but decided on saving money, cycling a mile or so up a hill beyond and finding a lovely spot overlooking the lake and the buildings below. As the dying sun cast long shadows across my hillside, I was struck by how beautiful my surroundings

were. I stood, looking down on the twinkling lights below me, clutching at my warm mug, feeling sanguine. It felt as though I was taking a boat to better times. The mountains across the lake looked welcoming and good times would begin beyond the far shore. The next day I woke early, determined to get to the little ferry terminal in plenty of time, just in case I encountered any problems. I arrived there just a few minutes after 8am but the ferry I had spotted the evening before was no longer there. Still tantalisingly close to the shore, but heading away from the port, my little ferry chugged its way away from me. No other ferry seemed to be heading this way to replace the one which was now sailing steadily northward. My heart sank and I wondered how I had got it wrong. It wasn’t until later I found out that my watch had been set to the wrong time zone. It was now three minutes past nine and the ferry had departed bang on time. A guy working in a garage close by told me there would be no other ferry that day and so I despondently found myself a room. I had a wonderful hot shower and shaved off eleven days of beard growth. For the remainder of the day I took things easy, managing to accept that it was probably just what I needed. There was no schedule to meet, nowhere I wanted to be at any particular time and very little exertion. I felt completely wiped out but the guesthouse owner’s son thwarted any attempts at sleep, playing his piano keyboard in another room at great volume. In the evening I could take no more, venturing out for an evening pasta meal at a local café. A TV screen was showing the Spice Girls’ movie Spice World and I found it unexpectedly comforting, especially the broad, Yorkshire accent of Mel B, which made me feel nostalgic. It was a terrible film and yet I enjoyed it so much that I stayed and watched the whole of it, eating ice cream and drinking a cold beer and coffee before walking back to my room for yet more synthesised ’80s music which continued into the wee hours. At 8.15 the following morning I sat expectantly waiting at the terminal for my ferry to arrive. But the terminal was empty of ferries and I was the only person there. Across the lake I could see no sign of an approaching vessel. Half an hour of anxious waiting followed in cold, windy conditions and when a guy began lifting the shutters from his business nearby, I walked over to ask him what time the ferry left. ‘Nueve’ – nine – he told me, and with that I felt a sense of reassurance. A further ten minutes elapsed and there was still no ferry. A man called from across the street. He shouted something in Spanish, something I couldn’t understand, but then the words ‘a las doce’ – at 12 o’clock. His friend confirmed this in English – the ferry was due to leave at midday. Great, I thought, another three hours wasted! I pedalled down the high street a couple of times to warm myself up, drank coffees in heated cafés and was treated to a free pastry by the cleaner in the café I had spent time at the previous evening.

I returned to the terminal at 11.40. Still there was no sign of a ferry. By 12.10 my patience had gone. I asked a girl in a petrol station if she knew what time the ferry was due to depart but she could only direct me to an office by the plaza and there, in the window, was a timetable with dates and sailing times. I read the timetable and then read it once more, just to be sure. There was no ferry that day and I’d have to wait until the following morning before the next departure at 8am. I was totally pissed off – pissed off with my poor night’s sleep, pissed off at the fact my map clearly showed a road across this lake, pissed off that nobody knew the time the ferry left but were more than happy to guess. I had cycled seventy-five miles out of my way just to find myself stranded. Hotheadedly, I got back on my bike, clipped in and raced back out of town, back through Chilean customs, back through Argentine customs and back along the southern shore of Lago Buenos Aires, along the road I had cycled two days ago. I wasn’t going to waste another day in this town, lovely though it was, spending money I couldn’t afford to spend and getting absolutely nowhere. I paused in Perito Moreno, taking out my map and showing a shop assistant where I intended to go. I asked for his suggested route. Only two roads were shown from here to Coihaique, one slightly shorter but the shop assistant tried to talk me out of taking this one, insinuating hills and danger along this route. I asked for advice from a second person, hoping they’d give me the answer I wanted to hear. They didn’t. Still I chose to ignore their advice. I had tackled dozens of hills and mile upon mile of appalling road surface to get to this point and couldn’t imagine how this road could be any worse. I was just annoyed I hadn’t spotted this road two days ago, although it wasn’t signposted from the little roundabout where I now turned off. I continued cursing as I cycled, was offered a lift by a guy and two women in a minibus (which I was too proud to accept) and was battered by a strong headwind, blowing me from the road on one occasion, which made me curse even more. The following day the wind continued to peg me back, as did the condition of the road, and progress remained slow. It was early afternoon and I now had to make my decision – left along the road to Coihaique via Ibanez or right to Coihaique via the shortcut. With time to catch up, I opted for the shortcut but I was soon met by a fence strung right across the road. I lifted my bike and then my bags over but was unsure if this was the correct road – it had been in an appalling state for a couple of miles with streams dissecting the road and deep puddles right the way across. I spotted a gaucho on horseback to my left, only the second person I had seen that day, and he came galloping across the plain to greet me. I asked if I was on the correct road to Coihaique and, after some confusion, he told me I was but that the road was ‘mal, mal, mal’ (bad, bad, bad), pointing to my bike and suggesting I should turn around and go via Ibanez. The road was hilly, he gestured, and he spoke of snow. With every reassurance I gave – of appalling roads conquered to here and of fighting

through the fiercest of winds for days on end – he continued to try and discourage me. I smiled a naive smile, waved a cheery wave and thanked him for his advice. He smiled a knowing smile back in my direction, waved me goodbye and pulled at the reins of his horse, turning it away from me and galloping expertly off. I lumbered on, cycling just two and a half miles in the next hour, stubbornly continuing along the ‘shortcut’. I crossed several wide streams, fell into a large, muddy puddle on failing to release my feet from my pedals and attempted to push my bike around a large, deep snowdrift that completely blocked the road and hadn’t been crossed for some months judging by the lack of tyre tracks across it. Another weld broke on a pannier rack, the road remained appalling and, when I was faced with yet another snowdrift, I turned my bike around, wheels heavy with thick mud and gravel. It looked as though I’d be taking the longer route to Coihaique after all and I longed for this little episode to be over. My journey to Coihaique continued to be a very personal battle against a fierce northerly wind and a rough gravel road. I met a Russian guy heading south who aimed to be the first man to cycle around the coastline – or as near as possible – of all the continents (barring Antarctica, I assumed). He’d been cycling for eight years, which made me feel much better about my little trip, and I felt honoured that he asked for a photograph with me. On finally making it to Coihaique, almost two days later, I luxuriated in pacing the aisles of a large supermarket for over an hour, filling my basket with fresh bananas, chocolate bars, enchiladas and much more. It was the fresh foods I craved the most – meat and vegetables, pastries, cold milk and yoghurts – but I had no means of preventing these from going off and it was the dehydrated foods – pastas, rice and soup mixes – which proved to be my staple. For many hundreds of miles, I had longed to hit a tarmac road and wind-free conditions but the gravel continued after Coihaique as did the wind, whipping up leaves and twigs from adjacent fields as I cycled into the beautiful Simpson Gorge, initially void, for many miles, of suitable camping places. I was now onto the Carretera Austral, a road whose construction began in 1976 under the dictatorship of General Pinochet. Its purpose was to link the remote communities of Patagonia in southern Chile, an area characterised by glaciers, fjords and thick forests. I had set myself a target of when I’d like to be in Puerto Montt, the next town I had booked accommodation in and the place I had hoped to receive mail from home, but the terrible road conditions, further pannier-rack troubles and a wind that simply refused to stop blowing, made a mockery of this target. I decided instead to slow things down a little and to enjoy the fabulous scenery. The vista here was markedly different to that of only a couple of days earlier and the further north I cycled the more magical it became. Waterfalls tumbled down rock faces, impressive rivers crashed in bursts of white foam over dark rocks, and rich forest, lush and vibrant, abounded. Villages of timber construction nestled in the cleavages of mist-shrouded hills, and rough-sawn

picket fences separated the often-rough road from occasional luxuriant meadows. I bought food supplies in one of these villages, which I slung over the back of my bike in a double plastic bag, having lost a previous load along the road when a single bag had split. I had felt despair that day and wasn’t going to let the same thing happen again. As I began pedalling, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of childlike giddiness as my bike veered off to one side with the weight of the food I had just loaded. I pitched my tent one evening on lusciously soft grass, nestled between shrubs with generously proportioned leaves that wafted in the early evening breeze. It had rained on and off for much of the day but sunlight now radiated from a near-cloudless sky. I sat drinking coffee, my stomach full and my taste buds satisfied. I had seen very few vehicles as I had cycled the Carretera Austral and this evening the road was silent – just me and the sound of the vegetation dancing to the rhythm of the wind. For once I felt relaxed and the urgency to meet deadlines had gone. I would be in Puerto Montt when conditions allowed and I was no longer going to set myself targets when I had no idea of what might lay ahead. I would cycle each day and see where it got me. My attention was drawn to a beautiful small bird, darting past me to a large flower where it paused in mid-flight, fed, paused and then fed again, its wings making the most wonderful purring sound. It was, of course, a hummingbird, putting on a show for this appreciative traveller – glaciers, snow-capped peaks, rushing rivers, temperate rainforest and now hummingbirds all in the same day. I was on cloud nine. At this time of year, I had been told I’d be able to cycle no further than the town of Chaitén along the Carretera Austral. North of here the coastline was not dissimilar to that of western Norway, many fjords cutting inland and requiring ferries to get across. These small ferries, I was informed, only sailed in the summer months. I chatted with a group of Spanish cyclists on my arrival in the town and then a group of Argentinian and French skiers who all confirmed this to be the case. I was directed to a hostel where all I wanted to do was clean myself up and relax. I was cold and wet and was dismayed to find – having paid in for the night – there was no hot water and no heating. I made do with a cold wash and changed my clothes, walking to the ferry terminal to pay for my ticket all the way to Puerto Montt the following evening. I cooked in my room, drank coffee and watched Arsenal being given a footballing lesson by Barcelona in the Champions League – Arsenal lost 4-2. Hot water was back on tap the following morning and I enjoyed having a proper shower and a much-needed shave before venturing to the breakfast room for a woefully inadequate breakfast. I eyed the food on the next table to mine, two other guests chatting for some time having seemingly eaten all they were going to eat. As soon as they disappeared from the dining room I stepped across, grabbed all they had left and enjoyed a second breakfast.

My ferry didn’t arrive until 3 hours after it was due to depart and after much commotion, reversing several lorries with trailers onto its deck, it was a further two hours before we departed at 2am. In the tiny and rather grotty passenger area, I curled up in my sleeping bag on a reclining chair and managed a little sleep, waking to talk with an Australian couple on the adjacent seats who were visiting their daughter in Chile. Conversing in English after so long without I found ridiculously exciting. Several hours after departing Chaitén and in daylight, I finally arrived in Puerto Montt, the city I didn’t think I was ever meant to reach. I cycled to the Hospedaje Uribe where I had booked a room and was welcomed warmly by Perla and her husband, Efrain. I was handed a small bundle of letters on my arrival and settled into my room to excitedly open and read handwritten letters from those I loved. Dave – the friend I had cycled to LA with ten years earlier – told me he’d crashed his car while trying to swat a wasp which had attacked him while driving, my sister informed me that my little niece was wearing a cast for a week having broken her arm and, on a more sombre note, my Mum told me of a terrible train crash near Paddington in which over a hundred people had been killed. I stayed in Puerto Montt for three days, enjoying the company of Perla, Efrain and a young and rather attractive Brazilian doctor who came to stay. I visited an internet café on a couple of occasions to read messages from home and to report on my progress so far, cooked huge and wonderful meals in the traditional kitchen, and drank beer and wine with my hosts. I was sent out on errands – to buy conger eel or mussels for Efrain, who would cook enough for the two of us. We would sit at the table, a glass of wine each, talking about life in our respective home countries. I was also able to receive calls on the landline and I sent a quick email to friends back home, telling them when I’d be available if they wanted to call. It was all very homely and I was able to sit with Perla and study my maps. She made suggestions on where I should visit north of here and together we plotted a route to La Paz, several thousand miles away, my intended route taking me through Valparaíso where her son was studying. I had now been away for just one month. It had taken some time but I had adjusted to life on the road and to the idea that it would be some time before I’d be home again. Being able to keep up with life back home via letters, emails and phone calls was important to me and I was reminded of the little things I would otherwise miss out on. But I was also reminded of the monotony of my life back home and I was beginning to feel very pleased with the decision I had made to get out there and test myself. There was something very primal about what I was doing – journeying into the unknown with the changing seasons and stocking up on food and water when I was able in readiness for possible lean times. I was making my own migration north and I felt a real sense of freedom.

Chapter 6 Puerto Montt–Valparaíso 1,707 miles cycled

It

was a wrench leaving Puerto Montt, my lovely accommodation and the fabulously warm hospitality of Perla and Efrain, but my fond memories of this place would live long. I was soon cycling beside the blue waters of Lago Llanquihue, snow-capped conical volcanoes punctuating the horizon beyond the distant shore. In pleasant spring sunshine and on wonderfully smooth tarmac, I enjoyed my first day back on the road and treated myself to a delicious slice of ‘kuchen’ and a cup of coffee at a lakeside café in the pretty town of Frutillar. There, girls in bikinis sunbathed on the beach and rather flatteringly whistled at me as I continued on my way. The countryside was very different to anything I had so far experienced. I was now into farmland where fences and the presence of humans severely limited my options for a perfect night’s rest. By 6.30pm I had found nowhere I felt comfortable setting up my tent, fearful of how landowners might react to me camping without permission on private land. I was debating going and knocking on the door of one of the farms when I was joined by a local cyclist – Ivan – who was on his way home. My Spanish was poor but with a great deal of effort we enjoyed a very limited conversation as we cycled two abreast. I managed to ascertain that he lived close by and when I asked if I might be able to camp there Ivan was only too happy to have me as his guest. Ivan found me an area not too far from his family’s farmhouse and watched on as I pitched my tent. I put the stove on to make tea, Ivan running to the house to grab himself a cup and returning clutching enough eggs for the two of us. We sat around the stove, eating egg sandwiches, bread and jam, drinking tea and laughing as we fought over my English/Spanish phrasebook and dictionary in an attempt to make ourselves understood. Ivan’s older brother, Javier, joined us for a time and, a little later, his cousin came and sat with us too. It was a novelty for them, of course: a cyclist from a faraway land with a strange way of speaking, entering into their lives for a short period of time and giving them the briefest of insights into the life of a cycle-tourer. But it was a novelty for me also, having the company of these warm and friendly people, native to a

land I still knew little about. I enjoyed their smiles, their company and their appetite to want to know more about me, even though we understood little of what was spoken. Before I retired to my tent for the night, Ivan walked back to the farmhouse and returned with hot water for me to wash. Clean and well fed, I sat in my tent and opened out my map, trying to decide whether to stick with Perla’s suggestion of heading directly north towards Santiago or whether to take yet another detour and head back into Argentina. A couple of French cyclists I had met on my departure from Puerto Montt had strongly suggested I should visit the Lake District of Chile and Argentina. I was torn to leave the route Perla and I had devised just a few days earlier and it wasn’t until I arrived at the turning the following day that I made up my mind, turning right rather than opting for the more direct route north. The French couple had made the detour too appealing. For many miles the road was uninspiring, the continuation of farmland becoming monotonous, and already I longed for a wilder outlook. As my cycle computer registered 1,823 miles from my starting point south of Ushuaia, I consciously brought my bike to a halt for a moment of sentimentality. Ten years earlier, Dave and I had recorded this same distance when cycling from Chilliwack in Canada down to Huntington Beach in California, and up until this point it had been the longest journey I had ever undertaken by bike. I stood across the crossbar and afforded myself a moment to smile and reflect on that wonderful episode, a time I still considered to be perhaps the best period of my life so far: the freedom, the naivety, the adventure and the friendship. Several minutes’ pedalling later and my decade-old record had been surpassed. As I neared the end of my day’s cycling, and as I entered Parque Nacional Puychue, I was somewhat surprised to see a tarantula-type spider crossing the road ahead of me – something I hadn’t expected to see this far south. It was huge – far bigger than any spider I had previously come across on my travels – and I had fully expected to come across such hairy beasts closer to the equator, but down here in this temperate climate it was something of a shock. I felt excited but made a mental note to check my shoes before I put them on again in the morning. I had soon pitched the tent on a raised area of ground, in a clearing among the trees, and across the road a narrow path led steeply downwards through ulmo woodland (a sign informed me), the forest floor densely vegetated with quilla bamboo. After I had eaten, I zipped up my tent and headed off on foot into the forest. It was a short, brisk walk that took me to the end of the path to where a crashing, foaming wall of water tumbled over rocks, covering me in spray. Daylight was in short supply so I turned and made my way back up the slope, walking initially and then running a little, careful not to misplace my feet in the encroaching darkness for fear of doing myself an injury and not being found for days.

On leaving Chile once more, in pouring rain the next day, the customs officials seemed to be telling me of snow further along the road but I dismissed this suggestion, sure I must have misunderstood what they were trying to tell me. As the road climbed, the sun came out and I was able to take off my waterproofs, only to have to put them on again as the rain began to fall once more, followed by sleet. For almost three hours I climbed and the precipitation gradually changed to snow. It was only in showers at this stage and I viewed it as quite a novelty but as I reached the summit of the pass at over 1,300 metres, the snow really began to fall heavily and large flakes were pelted into my face by an ever-strengthening wind. Accompanying a sign welcoming me into Argentina, a further sign informed motorists of road constructions for the next 20 miles. The road changed to gravel and the snow continued to drive, freezing my feet and numbing the ends of my painful fingers, which were offered little protection against the conditions in sodden, wet, ‘waterproof’ gloves. I contemplated turning back, imagining myself at that moment on the road north to Santiago in warm sunshine and wishing I hadn’t been such a fool to have chosen to take this particular route. I consoled myself in knowing that I would soon be heading north again and would see a snapshot of the Chilean/Argentinian Lake District. I gritted my chattering teeth and continued my descent, sliding all over the place on the muddy road, grit spitting up from spinning tyres. At a bridge spanning a rushing river, I came upon an Argentinian cyclist looking thoroughly demoralised, soaked to the skin and shivering at the side of the road as he took food on board. We laughed at one another and at our respective predicaments. Leandre told me his tent leaked, poor sod. It was only a two-day excursion back into Argentina and, once the rain and snow cleared, the scenery was stunning. Powerful rivers and cascading waterfalls dissected gnarly forests and verdant slopes slipped into crystal-clear lakes. I pedalled into San Martín de los Andes, in a pretty location at the head of Lago Lacar, its ski resort status demanding ski resort prices, and I was astounded at having to pay around £1.40 for four bananas. I found one of my favourite camping places of my whole expedition the day before I left Argentina for the final time. I had hoped to make it to a hundred miles for the day but, some sixteen miles short of my target, I noticed a small wooded area between the quiet road and a strikingly blue, fast-flowing river. Red cliffs stood tall downstream, their bases being gradually chewed away by the ever-greedy waters. Between the trees was an area of clipped, lush grass, flat and large enough to pitch a generous two-man tent. Shrubs with brilliant yellow flowers lined the bank but provided easy access to the river. I came to a halt without hesitation. Outside the tent I sat drinking tea, coffee and hot chocolate and enjoyed again the relatively new taste sensation of dulce de leche with chopped bananas in a sandwich – a flavour combination not too dissimilar to banoffee pie. I was pleased my little detour was almost over and yet not at all

disappointed that I had seen some of the scenery that this particular Lake District had to offer. In the relative warmth of the early evening sunshine, the snow and rain of the previous day had largely been forgotten. Before I re-entered Chile once more, I had a further pass to contend with and more terrible road. Noises coming from the rear of my bike caused me to stop and, to my horror, I noticed one of the two uprights on the side of the pannier rack had snapped, right on the lug, and it seemed there was nothing I could do to repair it. With one of my front-right pannier racks missing and the other in a sorry state, much of my luggage was now slung over the rear of the bike and without this rack I simply had no means of carrying all my gear. I continued, hoping soon to be on smooth tarmac and on my way to finding a replacement. The road was in a shocking state and it shook me and my bike so much that I feared the rack would simply disintegrate. I came to a halt beside the desolate road, unloaded my bike and took out my tools. I did what I could, using what was left of the severely damaged front rack (which at least had a lug intact) as a splint, strapping it with insulation tape and attaching it with a cable tie to the broken upright. I was proud of the job I had done, almost to the point of taking a photo. Before I had set off again, three smartly dressed soldiers on magnificentlooking horses came to a halt beside me on the quiet road. They smiled down at me and asked – in Spanish – where I was from. Without hesitation, I replied. ‘Inglaterra,’ I told them, immediately regretting my honesty on remembering where I was and fearful of a backlash. The Falklands conflict was still less than twenty years ago and I didn’t want to stir up any bitterness. The soldiers’ smiles remained, however, without even a flicker of animosity towards me and I was asked if I had everything I needed and whether there was anything they could help me with. Television pictures I had seen some years earlier portrayed the Argentine military in a very different light but these were real gentlemen, willing to help a fellow human being regardless of his nationality. I had hoped to make it to Villarrica that day but the road conditions would not allow me to cycle the hundred miles in such a short time. Instead it took me a day and a half to arrive there, cycling through areas dominated by monkey puzzle trees where beautiful volcanic peaks littered the skyline. The road had twisted downwards in a series of hairpins and I found myself clinging tightly to the brakes, weaving between deep potholes and once more rattling over large rocks. Beyond the Chilean passport control, the leafy lane offered a sense of intimacy as beech trees branched out over the narrow road and pastures were manicured by cattle and horses. Potential camping spots were again fenced off and eventually I was forced to ask at a farmhouse, its occupants directing me to a small field across the road to pitch my tent. I ran across the field a few times in the evening as the sky turned a beautiful pink, trying to get my running legs going again, and was kept awake for long periods during the night by dogs which barked aggressively but seemingly at nothing.

I enjoyed my short stay in Villarrica. The owners of the hostel at which I stayed were Swiss and were also cyclists. They had spent over two years cycling around the world and had finally settled here, for the time being at least. As a fellow cyclist I was offered a discounted rate for my bed in a dormitory room. I worked hard in the afternoon to make sure I was ready again to hit the road the following day: shopping for nuts and bolts to repair my panniers, cleaning my bike, washing clothes and doing food shopping. I made use of the hostel kitchen, preparing two good meals which included fresh salads and vegetables, and I made sure I took the time to socialise, chatting and laughing with other guests around the dinner table, including Mario from Germany. I was ready for a drink and twisted Mario’s arm into visiting a local bar with me. We made it to ‘Traveller’s’ two minutes after the end of Happy Hour but managed to talk the barman into letting us have our two cocktails each at Happy Hour prices. Mario left but we had been joined by three Swiss girls from the hostel and they were keen for the evening to continue. I ran back to the hostel to put on a proper shirt – one of two I was carrying for such an occasion – before the four of us walked to the town’s little nightclub. We drank pisco sours, chatted as we watched dancers on stilts grooving to South American music and marvelled as capoeira dancers performed mock fights on the dance floor to the intoxicating rhythm produced by three drummers – fabulous! It was 4am before I made it to bed and my late night affected me for several days as I continued north. Short morning lie-ins and poor motivation meant my mileage targets were not met, even though I was now cycling on a good road surface. With the often wide Panamericana carriageway came more traffic and less inspiring scenery to keep me interested. On the wide plain between the southern Pacific and the Andes mountains, farmland and vineyards abounded. Nice places to camp proved elusive and I slept beside a factory one night and in a narrow field strewn with toilet paper another, awoken on three occasions as trains thundered by. Another time I pitched the tent above a dirt track. It seemed the area had been a dumping ground for household rubbish – bricks, milk cartons and tin cans – and I was watched by a curious family who were passing as I climbed up the bank and began setting up camp. It amazed me that evening just how much my tent could transform my mood. I had felt thoroughly depressed at the prospect of spending a night here, and somewhat vulnerable, but with two thin layers of nylon between me and the outside world, this dumping ground was transformed into my home for the night. This less than desirable spot, at least for a few hours, had become a little part of my history, a tiny place I had spent a night during my marathon bike ride. Finally, I cracked a hundred miles in a single day, some six weeks since I began cycling north, a feat the road and weather conditions had so far prevented me from achieving. Not satisfied with this, I cycled an even greater distance the next day. South of Santiago I left the Panamericana to head

northwest towards Valparaíso on the Pacific coast. I bumped into a German cyclist beyond the little town of Peumo and stopped to have a chat. It was quite hot now and I had been cycling in shorts, T-shirt and cycling sandals. My fellow cyclist was impeccably overdressed in the current climate. His long trousers, two fleeces, socks and wide-brimmed hat looked freshly laundered and pressed and barely a square inch of flesh was visible. He was pedalling around South America for a year and had no real timetable or idea of just how far he might get. When I told him of my destination and of my desire to arrive at the Arctic Ocean by the following summer he just laughed as if I was joking. ‘You won’t make it,’ he said, quite simply, confident in his prediction. I found a campsite at around lunchtime the day after my two hundred-plusmile days and wheeled my bike in. The office was closed and there were no other campers but the taps on the site were working and that was all I really needed. The campsite was situated on a lake and I walked there, desperate for a swim later, but the water level was low and uninviting and the shore was muddy. Instead I struggled to find the energy to cook lunch, contemplating cycling again once I had eaten, but common sense prevailed on this occasion. I had a lazy afternoon, unable to muster the energy to do anything. I laid out my sleeping mat and dozed in the sunshine, pools of sweat forming beneath me and waking me up. Turning on my radio I had hoped to hear commentary of Leeds United playing in the Champions League but all I picked up was an account of the troubles in East Timor. I listened in, regardless – it was nice to hear English being spoken. Even before it was dark, I settled down to sleep but dozens of dogs barked in the distance. I wondered if the dogs in this part of the world ever managed to sleep – they seemed to bark all night and chase me during the day. As I pedalled along quieter roads to the southwest of Santiago, past strawberry stands and alongside wildflower verges, there were times when I could see the blue Pacific to my left and the faint outline of the snow-capped Andes to my right. Crowds of people stood on the jetty in the coastal town of San Antonio, waiting for the catch of approaching fishing boats to be brought in, and boats bobbed up and down on the choppy sea. Around a headland I paused to view huge and animated sea lions barking their authority from black rocks as giant breakers crashed around them. In Valparaíso’s neighbouring city, Viña del Mar, I cycled down manicured boulevards and orderly streets in search of Perla’s sister’s house – I had stayed with Perla back in Puerto Montt. Patricia ran a small guest house and was clearly expecting me. She invited me in, telling me there was a package at the bus station for me. I dumped my bags before she drove me there, my first journey in a motorised vehicle in over seven weeks. The package included a cassette of James’ latest single, Just Like Fred Astaire, a track I had heard just before I had left the UK and something I had asked a friend to send me from home.

I felt lonely that afternoon, dropping my bike off at a bike shop to have its broken spokes replaced and wheels straightened before walking to the beach where I sat and ate empanadas. There were attractive girls everywhere but I couldn’t muster up the courage to have a conversation with them. My limited Spanish was a handy excuse. I had a lie-down in warm sunshine and then braved the cold, powerful surf, the Humboldt Current running right up this coastline, transporting nutrient-rich water right the way from Antarctica. My mood improved on returning to the house, Patricia telling me that Ricardo, Perla’s son, had phoned and I was invited to a house party that evening. I liked Ricardo immediately – he was welcoming and purposeful. I was going to a party that evening whether I liked it or not. I cooked a quick meal and then showered, pulling on my best shirt and my only pair of jeans. A bus took Ricardo and I up the hill to the home of Ricardo’s friend whose birthday it was and the tiny lounge was soon full with fifteen or sixteen of his friends. South American music emanated from the stereo, pisco with 7Up and red wine and cola flowed as gradually I slipped comfortably into the lives of those around me. We talked and we laughed. Girls with long, dark hair and wearing tight jeans and lace tops invited me up to join them dancing, taking my hands and coquettishly gyrating their hips in a way only Latin American women could do. I told Ricardo of my frustrations at my poor Spanish, explaining that at the end of each day’s cycling I was too tired to concentrate on learning a new language. ‘Come and stay with me,’ Ricardo suggested, ‘I’ll teach you some Spanish.’ I had enjoyed food and drinks with Ricardo’s father, Efrain, when I had stayed at their hostel in Puerto Montt and when Ricardo was back home he’d help out with the English lessons his father offered, he told me. With alcohol coursing through my veins and with attractive Chilean women around, the thought of staying here for a while longer had a certain draw. The longer the night went on, the greater the appeal of staying a while longer in Valparaíso became. This was my chance to experience real South American life with real South American people. I wanted Ricardo to know that I wouldn’t take his hospitality for granted – he was a student, after all – and assured him that in return for a place to stay and some Spanish tuition I would buy his food and help with the cooking while I was there. Only once he had accepted my terms did we shake on it and we laughed at our spontaneity and made loose plans for the next few days. Ricardo lived with several other students in a single-storey, pastel blue house on a steep street which led down into the centre of Valparaíso. The blue Pacific Ocean could easily be seen from outside his front door, beyond the city below. The house was relatively large but incredibly basic and sparsely furnished, with bare timber floors and high ceilings. My lessons started on my first morning at Ricardo’s. For an hour and a half, he taught me Spanish, ensuring I used the correct pronunciation and insisting I wrote everything down. Every day for the week I was there he would teach me a little more and would

test me each day to be sure I was learning the lessons of the previous day. He was a strict teacher, for which I was thankful. When Ricardo wasn’t attending classes at university and once my Spanish lessons were over, he would walk into town with me, showing me the sights. The streets in Valparaíso were a sharp contrast to those of Viña del Mar. The town had a certain edge to it, a grittiness and a real honesty which I liked. I would struggle to find my way back to Ricardo’s house, taking notes to remind myself of the route, through sinuous alleyways, up steep stairways and along a maze of streets. I quickly fell in love with the place. He talked me into attending a fitness class with him one day at his university and for over an hour I jogged, stretched, lifted weights and did press-ups and sit-ups. I ached for days afterwards. I kept my promise and bought food for Ricardo during my stay, walking down to the local store where I would ask the friendly shopkeeper for suggestions on what I might cook before returning to the house and preparing a meal for when Ricardo walked in from uni. He did not always return home on time and I’d play out the part of a frustrated housewife, tutting and shaking my head at his poor timekeeping. On my penultimate night in Valparaíso, Ricardo and I walked and then caught a bus to the docks area of the city where we met several of his friends for a night out. The nightclub we went to was packed and the music loud, catchy but unfamiliar. Two of the girls from our party, Denise and Melissa, each took me by the hand and led me on to the dance floor. They tried their best to teach me to dance to Latin American music but I was too set in my ways, dancing the only way I knew, and only frustrated their efforts. Instead, I laughed and joked with Pedro and David, taking a little time out to remind myself of just where I was. Under the influence of alcohol and in incredibly high spirits, I stood at the bar looking across the dance floor and beyond to the southern Pacific. I felt excitement well up inside as I gazed out to sea at the twinkling lights aboard ships in the bay, beyond the bobbing heads of locals who danced to the Latin American sounds, every one of them with dark hair, every one with a very unEnglish style of dancing. I had made it here because I had overcome all fears which might have kept me at home. I had left my safe lifestyle in order to fulfil a dream. I had battled against adverse conditions when I could so easily have given up – and now just look at where I was. I felt good about myself. I felt as though I was in the middle of something very special and I felt incredibly happy, rather smug and just a little drunk. The following night we did it all over again.

Chapter 7 Valparaíso–San Pedro de Atacama 2,679 miles cycled

Tiredness numbed my emotions as I prepared to leave new friends behind in Valparaíso. A final hug for Ricardo and I set my wheels rolling again – it was almost 4pm. My only wish was that I felt more refreshed after my lengthy stay and it wasn’t long before I had come to a halt for twenty minutes on the beach at Reñaca, to rest and to admire the girls, at Ricardo’s recommendation. Progress was slow and I felt very weary as I entered a vast area of sand dunes, almost sleeping in the saddle and deciding enough was enough after a paltry twenty-one miles. On bare sand, among the long grasses and shrubs, I laid out my sleeping mat, lizards scampering for cover, and for a while I just sat, eventually finding the energy to cook a meal. The sky was clear, the temperature was pleasant and I felt it was time to do away with the tent and give my mosquito net an airing. The cold and the snow of just a few weeks ago were now a distant memory and from here it was hot desert for many hundred miles northwards. I had never used a mosquito net before and wasn’t entirely sure of how to go about setting it up. I tied it to a branch of a tree above, splaying out the base, which I tucked beneath pannier bags I had placed all around the perimeter of my sleeping mat, and across this I laid my sleeping bag. I lay within its airy confines, settling down to sleep beneath a wonderful Chilean sky. For a while my journey continued close to the ocean, its inky blue waters transformed into a mass of pure foaming white on being tossed over black rocks on the shoreline. Between sea and barren desert, an abundance of wildflowers at the roadside added a wonderful array of colour. I passed through the lovely peninsula town of Quintero and other attractive little villages such as Marbella. In one such town I took my sleeping mat from my bike to access a pannier, forgetting to re-attach it and my comfortable bed was gone. In another I unloaded my bike to repair a puncture and forgot to replace a bungy, losing that also. Two very late nights were playing havoc with my mind, which remained clouded, and I felt angry with myself for losing important kit. Another early night was on the cards. I had never cycled through a named desert before and felt both terrified and excited at the prospect. For fourteen days and over a thousand miles I pedalled

north through the Atacama – home to the driest place on earth. The sun tracked me relentlessly for the duration. Early on I sought refuge for short periods in restaurants to slurp at ice-cold drinks and rinse stinging sweat from my eyes in their bathrooms. Every time I returned outside the sun was there, waiting for me, greedily extracting moisture from my body. As I put greater distance between myself and Valparaíso, the restaurants became less and less frequent until I was passing just one in every eighty- or ninety-mile day. Trees were now nonexistent and the vegetation instead comprised sparse, low-lying cacti and brown grasses offering no hiding places from the great spotlight in the sky, which closely followed my every move. From dawn ’til dusk, its burning light bore down on me, boiling my insides and frying my skin, which on occasions felt as though it had been daubed in paint stripper. From beneath the peak of my cap I scanned the landscape ahead for potential shade, somewhere to eat a little lunch, take in water or just find some respite from the enemy above. There were occasions when the Panamericana clung to the coast, cool waters teasing and playful at the burning desert’s edge. I was drawn to camp on beaches on a couple of occasions, the gentle hush of the waves caressing my tired mind. Dorsal fins arched and dipped from sight as I sat, contentedly staring out to sea. I longed for a swim but images from a recent David Attenborough documentary leapt in to my mind – a killer whale had snatched a seal from a beach. My swims were kept brief and were not without a degree of nervousness. The hills in the Atacama were much bigger than I had anticipated, particularly in the south. At the top of each long climb I would begin to descend again but the next uphill would already be in view like a wall in front of me, trucks struggling around hairpin bends way in the distance. It was difficult to enjoy the descents, knowing the road would soon be forcing me upwards again. The hills resembled a child’s drawing, all interlocked and forming near-perfect semicircles. My nights were almost all spent beneath the stars. I continued to leave my tent packed away, laying out the cheap, new sleeping mat I’d bought and sleeping beneath my mosquito net to try and keep out any unwelcome visitors. Away from habitation and light pollution, the night sky was truly magnificent. Each sighting of the Pacific Ocean over the next few days needed all of my willpower to keep pedalling. People swam from the little beach as I cycled through the fishing village of Flamenco and the road then continued along the narrow strip of land between the ocean to the west and steep hillsides to the east, sand tracks often veering off to the left to various sandy beaches where cars would be parked and locals picnicked. At 4.25 one afternoon, I decided on an early finish, ninety-three miles on the clock, and headed along one such track, a sign beside the road telling me this was the way to ‘Playa Hippie’! On a beach of coarse, golden sand between wave-sculpted volcanic rock outcrops, I

found the perfect resting spot. The beach was deserted and I took the opportunity to wade in to the clear waters of the Pacific for a divine, naked swim, washing away the grime from the day’s toil. I had been eating huge amounts of food whenever provisions allowed for many weeks now, quantities I needed to maintain my strength and to keep my spirits high but, on leaving the water and drying myself off, I felt sure on glancing at my torso that I had begun to develop a bit of a belly. I pulled on a pair of trousers, laid on my sleeping mat and proceeded to do some sit-ups. A few press-ups followed as I felt my upper body had been neglected on the workout front. I decided I’d then go for a jog along the beach and trotted off in bare feet, weaving between the rocks on soft sand. After only a few hundred metres, I pulled up sharply, my back having ‘gone’, and gingerly I walked back to my gear in some pain. For the remainder of the evening I sat watching and listening to the waves, which made a wonderful change to the sound of passing traffic. I cooked a meal and drank hot drinks, temporarily forgetting about my bad back. Listening to my music, I danced wildly about on the sand, pirouetting and jumping around, laughing at myself behaving like this, alone on the edge of the Atacama desert but wishing there was someone else with me. I slept badly that night, my back giving me big problems, forcing me to turn over in stages to find a more comfortable position, waking each time I moved. I struggled to look over my shoulder as I cycled the next day, and cycling out of the saddle wasn’t an option, my back causing too much discomfort. I didn’t want to rely on painkillers so I suffered instead, unable to relax and switch off my mind as I turned the pedals, a constant, nagging pain preventing me from drifting off into my little dreamworld for a couple of days. The prospect of another swim and some rest to try and sort my back drew me to the national park of Pan de Azúcar and away from the tarmac of the Panamericana for several miles. After a good lunch of sandwiches at a picnic table at the far end of a beach backed by a small clutch of houses at the opposite end, I spent an afternoon resting, closing my eyes as my lunch digested, the background hush of waves washing through sand and the smell of the sea air caressing my senses. I spotted yet another dorsal fin of a dolphin or small whale arching above the water later on and then a seal frolicking close to the water’s edge made me giddy and I’d make regular scans across the surface of the water for more sightings of wildlife. I longed to swim but my painful back, which limited my movements, a steeply shelving beach and crazy images running around my head of a killer whale grabbing me in its jaws as I paddled along the shoreline gave me a sense of trepidation. I entered the water but my swim was kept brief and on leaving the sea I had to awkwardly run up the beach screaming to chase off a huge vulture which was tearing at my pack of dulce de leche. Beneath a wonderful full moon, I snuggled in my sleeping bag. The air was still and the only sound was the whisper of the waves. The blackened shape of

the distant headland stood silhouetted against a night sky which held a million stars, twinkling and dancing like fireflies. But my mind was tormented. Again I thought of family and again I longed for company. Just to have someone beside me to share these moments, someone who could appreciate not only the beauty of this place but share the pride and the excitement at how we’d arrived here; someone with whom I could have a simple conversation. If, at that moment, I could have paid a thousand pounds to be transported back home for just the evening, I would happily have done so – for a beer with friends, a hug from my Mum and for some good food and conversation with my family. Instead I was heading back into the Atacama Desert, into the unknown, and I knew I wasn’t yet even a quarter of the way through this journey. For two days I seemed to cycle predominantly uphill, generally away from the coast in temperatures that exceeded even those of previous days, and I would frequently have to lather my face in sun cream to prevent it from burning, wearing my cap to protect my head. There were no shops now, only occasional posadas, and here I would fill up with water and perhaps treat myself to a bite to eat. I had met a Brazilian cyclist, Hamilton, a few days earlier, heading south on the Panamericana, and he’d given me directions for a shortcut across the Atacama Desert to the town of San Pedro de Atacama at the foot of the Andes. Hamilton had mentioned a particular posada in his directions and, when I arrived at this remote eatery, I saw it as an opportunity to get out of the sun. I sat, languishing in its cool confines, and ordered the ‘Comida de la Casa’ (meal of the house) with a cup of tea, rather disappointed at the small quantity of beef, corn, potato and vegetable stew placed in front of me, requesting more bread to fill up on. As I finished my bread and was readying myself to pay and leave, the owner appeared out of the kitchen again, this time carrying a plate of spaghetti bolognese – the main course of my two-course meal – and this left me feeling much more content. The shortcut wasn’t shown on my map but Hamilton’s directions suggested I was now less than a day away from the turn-off and this could well be my last opportunity to stock up. Loaded with around twelve litres of water, I battled throughout the afternoon against a strong headwind, suffered a puncture and witnessed two small tornadoes. Hamilton’s directions told me that the road for the shortcut left the Panamericana around forty miles north of the posada and he advised of a bus stop and a sign for ‘Proyecto Peñon’ at the junction. I cycled those forty miles and continued several miles further. No bus stop. No sign. No road junction. My lips were stinging and buzzing from the sun and wind, I was tired and I needed a cup of tea. I followed a track away from the road for a few hundred metres towards some gravel heaps and decided I’d pitch my tent as a strong wind continued to blow and it would be cooler at this altitude. My back seemed to have sorted itself out but now my knee was painful. Teas and coffees were drunk outside my tent either side of a good meal, and occasional passing cars sounded their horns on noticing this lonely traveller

enjoying his camping trip in the most unlikely of places. A four-mile descent the following morning brought me to a very welcome sight. A bus stop at a junction and a sign pointing down a wide gravel track towards a mine, which read ‘Proyecto el Peñon Minera Meridian Ltda 42Km’. Much later than Hamilton had suggested, this was it – my shortcut through the desert; a means of saving a few days. I had little idea of what might lie ahead. I had a few scribbled words from a Brazilian cyclist who spoke only broken English and who had already underestimated his first distance by around 35 per cent. This was no sneak through the bushes to get to the other side. This was a shortcut which could last several days and, while the prospect of a desert adventure excited me, I also felt daunted. As an English-speaker I had often used the wrong words when speaking Spanish. What if Hamilton had done the same when giving directions? What if he had said ‘left’ when he really meant ‘right’? I could see roughly where I was on my 1:4,000,000 scale map and I could also see where I was hoping to get to, but between my current position and my intended destination was a single road running perpendicular to the Panamericana and not much else. Hamilton’s directions suggested a more complicated route. One wrong turn and I could be in serious trouble. I set my camera timer and took a photo of myself looking particularly pleased beside the sign before leaving the relative safety of the Panamericana and setting on my way along the gravel road. The surface was heavily rutted and made for extremely hard cycling, a front pannier repeatedly jumping from its mount and needing frequent re-seating. It was also noticeably quiet and still – no trees with rustling leaves, no birdsong, no wildlife, no breeze and very little traffic – only four wagons came by on my way to the mine. It was lunchtime when I arrived, over three hours of cycling since I had left the main road. Sandcoloured, single-storey buildings surrounded a small seating area shaded by a canvas canopy of the same colour, strung between poles. Odd bits of clothing hung from lines outside windows, but there was little sign of life. I propped up my bike and went to explore, clutching my handlebar bag containing my money, hopeful that I might find somewhere to buy food. I stumbled upon the cafeteria and felt bold enough to venture in, those serving happy for me to help myself even though – in lycra shorts and garish cycling shirt – I clearly wasn’t one of their own. I tucked into a thick meat and vegetable soup followed by a large piece of beef with peas and lentils, bread, cola and an orange, all for around £2.50. I even managed to sneakily fill my handlebar bag with around eight bread rolls for later. A mine worker – a gentle giant of a man – came and sat with me as I ate, offering his hand in welcome, and told me he was trying to learn English. I took out my Spanish dictionary and enjoyed very basic, unrushed conversation with him, as he asked questions about where I was from and what I was doing there. Having laughed in disbelief at the amount of food I had eaten, he walked out with me when it was time to leave, introducing me to a gnarly-looking South

African mine worker whose creased face told a thousand tales. He found it incredible that I should be cycling through the desert and couldn’t believe I was travelling so quickly. The two men told me I should make use of the showers and I duly obliged, enjoying my first dance under hot water in a week. Again, I filled my water carrier and bottles and as I attached them to my bike, they marvelled at all I was carrying. ‘How much does that thing weigh?’ the South African asked, incredulously. I wasn’t sure, I told him, but guessed it was probably close to 50kg when fully laden with food and water. The larger miner stepped forward, took hold of the crossbar and half-heartedly attempted to lift the bike. It barely budged. His friend laughed, prompting the big miner to try again, bending his knees this time and grimacing as the bike and all its luggage left the floor. He looked at his pal, raising his eyebrows, and they shook their heads and laughed in disbelief. They wished me luck as I stepped over the crossbar, my Chilean friend asking for one final look at my dictionary and flicking the pages before pointing to a Spanish word, a word I recognised immediately from signs along the roads I had cycled. Until now I hadn’t known its meaning. ‘Cuidado’ it read – take care. Handshakes followed and I set on my way. The mining community in this part of Chile were some of the kindest people I came across. I passed a further two mines the following day and between all these mines I experienced high temperatures, punishingly steep hills of many miles and a rationing of my limited food and water. At times, my legs screamed in pain. Aside from the mines, there was little else out here. When vehicles did come by, generally they were the vehicles of mine workers and invariably they would stop. I was offered more handshakes, directions and hand-drawn maps. One guy tried to radio work colleagues to ask if they could help repair yet another break to my pannier rack. Another gave me his phone number and insisted I call him if I got into difficulty. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t carrying a phone. At one mine office, the receptionist made me coffee and then gave me part of her lunch to help me on my way. Her colleague did the same. I felt special cycling here. Everyone seemed to be concerned about my welfare and some – I’m sure – came looking for me as word spread that I was travelling through. Beyond the third mine, the road stretched out in front of me into nothingness. Colour was limited. Beneath a clear blue sky, my pale ribbon of crap road was barely distinguishable from its empty, rock-strewn surroundings, a colour palette of varying shades of fawn. In all directions, the landscape offered scant interest. A sign painted green on rusting iron stilts stood out against its colourless background. I chuckled ironically on translating the four-word message it displayed: ‘Camino En Mal Estado’ – road in bad condition. I didn’t need a sign to tell me and only hoped it wasn’t a signal that the road was about to deteriorate further.

I was now using a combination of a simple hand-drawn map from mine workers and directions from the Brazilian cyclist that I had scribbled down. Neither offered much detail and I had to fill in the gaps myself. Shortly after the third mine I had expected to find a left-hand turn heading north but I continued for a further ten, twenty, thirty miles, stopping to fill up with water from a leaking aquifer and then to have a quick dip in an excavated waterhole of the most inviting colour. Still no left-hand turn. I became more and more anxious, constantly aware that I was running low on food. What if I have missed the turn? I asked myself. What if my rack flies into my front wheel as it had done previously, injuring me or rendering my wheel useless? How much further should I cycle before calling it quits and turning around? My venturing deeper into this desert had its benefits and I pushed my doubts aside. With increasing distance from any form of civilisation, my surroundings had become more and more beautiful, the colours richer, the deep blue of the sky a wonderful contrast to the intense red hues of rocks and sand, the dropping sun and lengthening shadows accentuating any imperfections at ground level. I had to check I wasn’t wearing my sunglasses, sure I must be looking out through tinted lenses. There was a desolate beauty to this place. Thirty-three miles after the third mine, a sign came into view and it was a sign that had me dancing in my pedals. At a T-junction, the words ‘San Pedro de Atacama’ were accompanied by an arrow pointing to the left, the red sand road to the right presumably leading to Argentina. I was happy now, reassured, and could rest for the evening without the nagging worry of not knowing whether I was heading in the right direction. I chose to pitch the tent close by in a strong, cool wind as the sun crashed earthwards, clearing rocks from my camping area with my feet before cooking pasta with a mussel sauce, drinking tea and sweet coffee but yearning for biscuits and chocolate, of which there were none. My two bread rolls from the receptionist at the mine I decided would be better left until the morning. I felt totally burnt out but very pleased with myself. Away from the Panamericana, this was now about more than just putting in the miles each day. I felt I was having something of an adventure and here was another story unfolding. In the driest desert in the world I was relying on my wits and good judgement to see me through and I felt a ridiculous sense of excitement. If I could make it to San Pedro it would be another story to tell. In the months to come I longed for much more of the same. Breakfast the following morning wasn’t much to shout about – oats with powdered milk and stale bread rolls. I still found I had good strength after a thirteen-hour rest, though, and the well-compacted gravel road helped me speed along for the first hour, sixteen miles displayed on my cycle computer, but here I reached a crossroads I hadn’t been expecting. There were no signs at the junction and I tentatively cycled to the right for a few hundred metres, looking

back on a sign intended for traffic travelling in the opposite direction, in the hope it might give me some clues. The sign pointed to San Pedro de Atacama along the road that had been straight across from the road I had been cycling along and again I felt satisfied. I followed the arrow and soon came across a marker which simply read Km95, which I presumed to be the distance to the main road at San Pedro – around sixty miles. A few miles down this bumpy road, two lorries approached, the first vehicles I had seen or heard since 9pm the previous evening, when a single car passed my tent. The first vehicle stopped beside me, the driver leaning out of his cab window to speak. Conscious that I had little water left, I asked him if he had any more I could take and he cheerily poured the contents of a two-litre bottle into my carrier. I was now onto dried food and stopped to cook a pasta meal for my lunch, enjoying a sweet cup of coffee as a chocolate substitute for dessert. No more vehicles came by all day. I rationed my water very strictly, allowing myself just a small mouthful every six or seven miles, trying to breathe through my nose on the descents to prevent too much water loss. I’m not sure how I would have coped without the water from the lorry driver. My lips became very dry and cracked and they bled a little as the sun sucked moisture from me. I became weaker as the afternoon progressed and struggled up the hills. Into the middle of the afternoon, the hot wind became fiercer, drying out my mouth, generally blowing across me but occasionally against me. Food was short, water was now dangerously low, energy levels were almost on empty and the road surface did me no favours. On seventy-six miles for the day I simply had to stop and rest, just for a few minutes, but I couldn’t allow myself to come to a halt altogether. The closer I got to San Pedro that day, the less I’d have to do the following day, and anything could happen yet. I was away again after just ten minutes, managing just over eight miles further for the day at snail’s pace. The fierce wind and the hard, stony ground forced me to give up on erecting the inner tent, making do with just the flysheet. A cup of black tea revived me a little, I cooked a small amount of pasta in the minimum amount of water which I ate with tuna, and had the tiniest portion of oats and powdered milk. My legs were covered in red dust and my upper body was grimy with sweat. I couldn’t allow myself to crawl into my sleeping bag in this state so wiped myself down with my facecloth, using half a cup of water. I now had just 250ml of water left to get me to San Pedro the next day and I fantasised about cakes and lovely, cold bottles of sweet pop. Tomorrow I intended to feast. The wind eventually died but thoughts of food occupied my mind as I tried to sleep, a gritty sensation in my right eye causing me to wake a number of times. I had no food and just two mouthfuls of water at breakfast, saving one mouthful for what I believed to be the twelve-mile journey into San Pedro. Twelve miles came and went and my water was gone. Progress was slow on the rough road surface and I had to push hard on the pedals just to keep the bike moving. A short time later I hit a surfaced road but for as far as I could see the road

climbed skyward. For four miles it continued upwards and I had to try and block out all thoughts of ice cream, cake, juice and water. I was weaker now than I had been at any point during the whole trip. A number of cars drove by now that I was on a metalled road and I could have asked for help had I not been so stubborn. It would have been easy to flag one down and ask for water but I felt sure the town was within touching distance and my thirst could soon be quenched. Finally, I was no longer required to pedal. I had breached the summit and gravity began to take the strain. I glided downwards, struggling to keep my bike upright in my weakened state, concentrating hard to keep hold of my handlebars, my mind wanting to switch off. Into the beautiful little town of San Pedro de Atacama I rolled, its white adobe houses gleaming in the sun. I had little strength as I dismounted my bike outside a small shop – my head felt cloudy and my body shook. I staggered around the shop, picking up items, and then struggled to speak to the shopkeeper through bloodied lips. I made my way outside and collapsed on the ground, sitting with my back against a wall, greedily tearing at the top of a juice carton with shaking hands and dispatching its contents down my parched throat, the cool nectar chilling my insides as it tumbled down through me, sloshing into the pit of my empty stomach. I sat back, my head against the wall, a wry smile on my face at the realisation of what I had just done – I had another story to tell and had just gained another patch on my quilt of life. I feasted on empanadas, bread, jam and bananas and life again felt good. There were other travellers in town – Europeans and Americans, perhaps – but I felt let down by their coolness, many not wishing to respond to my greetings as I went in search of somewhere to change money and for some accommodation for the night. After weeks away from people, all I wanted was to feel welcomed and to talk. As I sat outside my very basic three-bedded room in the simple travellers’ accommodation, aptly named ‘Eden’ after my time in the desert, squeaky clean following a long, cool shower, a steady stream of other guests began arriving. Young backpackers from around the world, some in pairs, some in larger groups and one or two on their own, smiled in my direction as they were shown to their rooms. Unlike the visitors outside the walls of this very basic accommodation, those coming through the gate seemed warm and responsive. I found myself a little nervous around company – I’d had few opportunities to converse over the last few months and wasn’t sure what I’d talk about, but I longed to give it a go and to feel the warmth of friendship and chatter. Perhaps they were nervous too? I greeted them with a friendly ‘Hi’ as they spilled out into the shabby garden and tried to make myself as welcoming and approachable as possible. Within minutes I had others around me, smiling, nodding, chatting. I shook hands; introduced myself. More guests arrived and more guests were welcomed into our fold. All had stories to tell and questions to ask. There were more

approving nods, smiles and gasps as new friends told tales of adventure, mishaps, sightings and excursions. I very quickly felt relaxed and comfortable with my new friends. We had all given up something to be here at this moment – jobs, money, comforts, security – and were all on tight budgets, the reason we had all found ourselves at this particular low-budget accommodation. We could all relate to one another and empathise. As the chatter continued, a suggestion was made that we should all eat together that evening. Without exception, everyone seemed enthusiastic. We shopped for supplies, cooked a huge pasta meal, prepared salads and arranged the tables and chairs in the garden where we sat together, ate, drank wine and laughed until after midnight. English, Norwegians, Australians, Israelis, Swedes and Italians all joined by a common bond, enjoying one another’s company. We remained a unit for the next few days, taking a bike ride to the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) to watch the sunset on what should have been my first day of rest, my friends all on hire-bikes. I was particularly sad at saying goodbye to Klaus and TJ when it was time for them to depart, my Norwegian room-mates who had afforded me plenty of laughs during our time together. I woke early the day they left – the day before my departure – so that I could wish them well. We exchanged email addresses and joked that we may cross paths again, though I doubted that would happen considering the size of this continent and our different modes of transport. With heavy bags on shoulders, they left the friendly oasis of Eden on their round-the-world tour, their next little adventure a journey by jeep to the Bolivian town of Uyuni, high in the Andes and the next big town on my route also.

Chapter 8 San Pedro de Atacama–La Paz 3,718 miles cycled

I was up at 7.50am, still with a long list of jobs to do before I could leave San Pedro. I took my bike to Pangea Mountain Bike Hire where Javier, the owner, happily replaced a broken spoke, straightened my rear wheel, adjusted my brakes and gave me a further two spare spokes, all for free. He explained that he too had enjoyed a number of cycle tours and we shared our memories of the wind in Tierra del Fuego where he had opted to take a lift from a passing motorist. My rear wheel was badly cracked around several spokes and Javier feared it wouldn’t survive more than another six or seven hundred miles. Unfortunately for me, he had nothing to replace it with and so I would have to take my chances for now. We shook hands and I returned to Eden, sawing up what little now remained of my old, front pannier rack and using the bits as splints, which I taped to my existing racks where they were damaged or simply needed strengthening. I packed, shopped for food (enough for five days) and ate lunch in the company of Belinda and Erik who had returned from their early morning excursion to El Tatio geysers – a 4am start! Erik was soon off for his bus to Calama and we gave each other a manly hug and a handshake as he left. At about 2pm it was my turn to leave, filling my fuel bottle with petrol and spending my few remaining Chilean pesos on a couple of chocolate bars on my way out of town. I was soon halted at the Chilean passport control, which wasn’t yet open and where an ‘expedition’ group of about twenty were also waiting. They were being driven around South America for six months on a bus and were made up of all sorts of nationalities. One girl, perhaps in her early to mid-twenties, approached me on finding out where I was heading and burst out singing, ‘It’ll be a cold, cold Christmas in Bolivia’, laughing at her joke and turning away without actually speaking a word. Two other members of the same group, male and about the same age as the girl, looked on, embarrassed, and perhaps with just a slight hint of sympathy for me. They explained that they were on their way into Chile from Bolivia, having descended the road I was about to climb that afternoon. I was thankful that my mode of transport was a bike, the idea of being cooped up on a bus with the same people for several months being not my thing at all. That

said, the girl had made me nervous with her choice of lyrics and my mind was cast back to the cold nights I had spent shivering in the freezing temperatures of the far south. After a ten-minute wait, the office opened and I joined the queue, which was soon whittled away. I rejoined my bike, keen to enter the third country on my journey so far. The hill I was about to climb I had seen from Valle de la Luna a couple of nights ago but hadn’t estimated it to be nine miles out of town. The ‘hill’ – essentially an ascent of the Andes – was steep and long, its gradient made more challenging by the hot sun and an already well-laden bike made heavier by five days-worth of food and twelve litres of water. I strained on the pedals, stopping every mile or so to drink and look back at the view, feeling just a little sentimental at leaving Chile behind; it had been good to me with its friendly people and its varied and often inspiring scenery. I was only managing 4mph and decided I wouldn’t make it to my intended camping spot of Laguna Verde that evening. Instead I pitched the tent after just eighteen miles of cycling, almost nine of which were up a considerable gradient. My lack of any real progress didn’t worry me too much, particularly after all the time I had made up through the Atacama Desert. I felt very sleepy and terribly dehydrated, struggling to motivate myself into making an evening meal. I took out my personal stereo and one of only two music cassettes, fast-forwarding until I arrived at the beginning of one of my ‘top of a mountain’ tracks, a track which instantly made goosebumps stand up on my skin when played in the right setting. I stepped outside the tent and looked down from my mountain towards the distant lights of San Pedro, twinkling in an ocean of blackness. I pressed the play button and immediately my emotions were roused once more. As Radiohead’s Street Spirit again filled my head, my smile widened on reminding myself of where I was. Below me was the Atacama Desert which I had just cycled the length and breadth of. Ahead of me were the Andes and Bolivia. I felt intoxicated. You mad fool. You bloody wonderful, mad fool. The climb continued the following day, equally as steep for a further ten miles, making it one of my longest climbs so far. I crawled along, stopping frequently to rest my legs and allow my head to stop pounding, certain the altitude must be playing a part. San Pedro de Atacama lay at an altitude of 2,440 metres, while Laguna Verde, which I soon hoped to be passing, sat at 5,000 metres above sea level, according to my guidebook, and that was higher than anywhere in Europe. Bolivian passport control caught me somewhat by surprise and I would have cycled straight by were it not for the barrier across the sand road. I propped my bike up and walked into the basic, isolated building that resembled a bothy. Within its spartan confines were three officials – two men and a woman – who I struggled to take seriously. All much shorter than me, their uniforms were not perfectly pressed and crisp as I had become accustomed to at Argentine and

Chilean border crossings. Nobody else was entering or leaving Bolivia at that particular time and at that particular place. All three officials greeted me with a nod. One man sat at a desk while the other two stood directly behind him. The seated man flicked through the pages of my passport once and then flicked through again. He looked slightly baffled. Turning to me, he said something in Spanish. I paused so that I could repeat his words in my head, searching for any I understood but I could make out very little. ‘No entiendo’ (I don’t understand) I told him and he responded with an exasperated sigh. He began pointing at the stamp in my passport that I had received on leaving Chile, speaking further words of rapid Spanish as I craned my neck to concentrate on what he was saying. I continued to look blankly at the page before the female official stepped in. ‘This,’ she said, placing her finger on the same stamp and pausing as she thought of a suitable word in English. ‘Yesterday.’ ‘Si,’ I replied, still a little puzzled at what they were getting at. They continued to look at me. ‘You need,’ the woman began to explain, ‘same day.’ My brain whirred slowly at this altitude and a moment passed before I began to comprehend what it was they were getting at. Ah, I see, I told myself, as I began to understand the gist of what was at the heart of the problem. Yesterday I left Chile and today I arrived in Bolivia but where have I been overnight? This was the problem. Effectively I had slept in no man’s land the previous night, neither in Chile nor in Bolivia, and their simple system couldn’t cope with this. The senior official was all for sending me back into Chile that morning so that I could get another stamp for that day. I would then have to cycle back into Bolivia later that same afternoon. Memories of my massive climb were still all too fresh. Chilean passport control was around thirty miles back down the road, almost twenty miles of which were down a steep gradient, and lay at an altitude some two and a half thousand metres below where I now stood. To have ascended that type of altitude in a matter of hours, on a heavy bike, would not only have been an extremely tough ask, it would also have been dangerous. I hoped he was joking but as I smiled at him with desperate eyes his expression remained cold. ‘Non,’ I pleaded. ‘Por favor. El Camino …’ (No. Please. The road …). I motioned my hand in an upward movement, ‘Para trenta kilometros’, I explained, telling him of my twenty-mile climb to arrive at this point: ‘Soy en bicicletta’ (I’m travelling by bike). He rubbed his mouth with his left hand and spoke, quietly, with his cohorts. More pondering followed before the chief official finally sat forward in his seat and took a stamp in his hand. He thumped it firmly down on a page of my passport, writing a number of ineligible words over the mark, presumably to explain the missing day. He looked pleased at having made the sort of decision only a senior official could have made, a decision that

was also in my favour, and he quickly closed my passport and handed it back to me, a slight smile on his face. I felt such a sense of relief. ‘Muchas gracias,’ I said, beaming back at him. ‘Gracias,’ I said again, this time to the other officials. ‘Adios!’ I raised my hand in thanks and as a farewell as I turned to leave the office, placing my passport back into its little plastic bag and into my handlebar bag, which I clipped back onto my bike. I snapped into my pedals and rounded the barrier beyond which was a barren, lunar-like landscape of sand and rock. The massive sky was a brilliant blue and the near six-thousand-metre peaks ahead of me resembled little more than pointed pimples from my present altitude. Visibility was exceptionally good with only thin air to hinder it. I pedalled on to Laguna Verde (Green Lake) for a lunch break, noticing my rear wheel to be badly buckled as I negotiated the sand and rock road. On closer inspection, I found that the cracks around several of the spokes were becoming far more prominent and a number of spokes were now coming away from the rim. Its condition had certainly worsened since my visit to the bike-hire place the previous day. I would leave any repairs for now but would have to keep a close eye on it. I had bought a map in San Pedro to help me find my way on the Bolivian Altiplano but early on that afternoon I was soon discovering its uselessness. The road I was on soon became extremely difficult to follow as it braided into several tracks leading off into the emptiness in many different directions. I deliberated over which track to take as my map showed only one single road. There was no obvious choice, all the trails little more than two tyre tracks in the sand. My map seemed to show my required road to be the one I had left to visit Laguna Verde and initially I headed east in search of this road again but it didn’t materialise. I saw another track to the north, cycling cross-country to reach it across volcanic rock and sand, but soon I was questioning my actions. After almost an hour of searching I took out my binoculars and clambered to the top of a small, volcanic outcrop to see what I could see. Eight or ten miles to the east, the sun reflected off two stationary vehicles but there was no obvious track in that direction as far as I could tell. To the west – way in the distance, on the northern shores of Laguna Verde, I spied a small convoy of vehicles through the shimmering heat haze. I watched them, moving my binoculars ahead of the vehicles to see if I could spot a track. I noticed a line, slightly paler than its surroundings, snaking through the sand and presumed this to be a road. Refocusing on the vehicles, their path seemed to confirm my belief as they progressed along this line. I studied my map again, which showed no road within a few miles of Laguna Verde, but decided I would disregard my map for now; the road seemed to be heading north and this was roughly the direction I wanted to go. As I began cycling towards the point where I had first seen the vehicles, several miles from my current position, I caught sight of a further vehicle in a very similar position. I halted once again, took out my binoculars and lifted them

to my eyes. The vehicle stopped and from within emerged a number of people. They walked to the rear of the vehicle and opened the door, taking out what appeared to be three bikes. These bikes with their riders then began making their way south of the vehicle. I threw my binoculars into my handlebar bag and loosely fastened it, all the while maintaining visual contact with the three dots way off on the horizon through the shimmering light. I was going to try and cut them off, heading to their left in their direction of travel, hoping I could somehow get ahead of them and chat about my possible route north from here. Their progress seemed slow but mine was even slower and I waved and shouted frantically from a great distance, pushing my bike now through sand that buried my tyres. In little time I had lost sight of them, their drop-off vehicle also disappearing from view. I felt like a person stranded on a deserted island, watching on helplessly as his rescue plane disappears into the distance. A wave of panic washed over me. I imagined myself lost up here, going around in circles in the absence of a road, wandering tens of miles off course. How was I going to navigate hundreds of miles to my next big town through a landscape across which there were no real roads? I didn’t even have a decent map. I questioned my need to be up here at all. I could have stayed on the Panamericana and remained on tarmac all the way to La Paz. I cursed my predicament, at the extra time it would take me to arrive at Elina’s and letters from home. I needed to work out a plan. I composed myself, took time to regain my breath and made the decision to continue in the general direction I had spotted the cyclists. This I did and, finally, I found something resembling a road – tyre tracks through the sand and gravel – though there were no vehicles passing now for me to ask directions from. Even on this road progress was painfully slow, its loose surface in poor condition, and I struggled to cycle more than a mile at a time. My head pounded with the altitude and from the exertion, every bump sending a wave of searing pain through my skull. My legs just couldn’t propel me and I contemplated stopping on twenty-eight miles, struggling on for a further four. I collapsed onto my sleeping mat in the wind, my head throbbing, my legs weak and my stomach feeling as though it may discharge via my mouth at any moment. My situation worried me that evening – this wasn’t the place to be ill and alone. Even cooking porridge and making a drink was extremely difficult but I forced myself to do so. My headache eased slightly as the evening progressed, but it was the cold which later gave me the greatest problem. My water carrier, placed under the flysheet of my tent, was partially solid as early as 1.20am and I shivered in most of my clothing, sleeping only sporadically. I brought my water carrier into the inner tent but this didn’t stop it freezing further by morning. The tap on the carrier wouldn’t work because of an ice plug and even my petrolburning stove wasn’t operational first thing. I carried out repairs to two inner tubes to kill time, only then breakfasting once the sun had mustered enough power to begin to thaw things out a little.

The day was made up of running repairs, slow progress, pounding headaches and more sand roads. A number of four-wheel-drive tour vehicles sped by impatiently during the morning and I screamed expletives at their reckless nature as they drove dangerously close, throwing up sand and stones as they raced past. An army truck came by with soldiers seated in the back, completely open to the elements, its brake lights illuminating moments later as it came to a halt. A higher-ranking soldier disembarked from the cab and approached me, an arm outstretched in greeting. We shook hands and I was asked if I was OK. ‘Is there anything you need?’ he questioned. My only concern at this moment was that I might not have enough water and I held up a nearempty bottle to him. He climbed onto the rear of the truck and spoke to his men, returning a moment later sounding apologetic and holding a half empty bottle of fizzy drink. This was all they could give me. I smiled and thanked him but politely declined his offer. Instead he told me that I would be able to fill up with water from the laguna he pointed to in the far distance and with that he waved me goodbye, confirming at least that this was the road to Uyuni. I caught up with one of the tour groups early on that afternoon, picnicking beside the slightly sulphur-smelling hot springs I had been dreaming about, having heard about them from other travelers in San Pedro. They chatted to me and gave me water and a sandwich before departing, allowing me to strip down to my boxer shorts and soak my aching muscles for half an hour in wonderful, bath-warm water. My rest didn’t help me that afternoon as I progressed at a painfully slow speed until almost 6pm, my legs aching, my lungs straining, head pounding. I had detached my rear brakes from the cable, thinking they must be rubbing against my badly buckled wheel and having little use for them on the gradual hill I had been struggling up. This did little to help. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be on a paved road to La Paz, close to my letters from home and soon to be meeting Elina. A four-wheel-drive tour was the way to see this place – these roads and this altitude were not meant for cyclists with heavily laden bikes. Exhausted, I stopped, Laguna Salada in the distance. The Brazilian cyclist I had met a few weeks ago on the Panamericana had told me I wouldn’t manage more than fifty kilometres (thirty-one miles) a day up here and I was beginning to see why. This day I had managed only forty-two kilometres and I was now totally exhausted. All I wanted to do was to lie down and rest, to breathe more comfortably and to warm up a little, but the wind was fierce, gusts ripping pegs from beneath rocks as I wrestled for half an hour to put up the tent, a task that would normally take me just a few minutes. Eventually I managed to shelter in its confines at an altitude of around 4,500m, still with a further 250m altitude to gain to Laguna Colorada according to the tour rep with his group at the hot springs. The following morning’s cycling began with an uphill struggle for over two miles. I wanted to stop to catch my breath and relieve the pounding through my

head but I had decided I was going to overcome this altitude problem and pushed on through the discomfort – a dangerously stupid thing to do, I later found out. I managed one tenth of a mile, and then another without stopping, the constant knocking through my head gradually reducing. Onward I pedalled until finally I arrived at the climb’s summit and only here did I take a brief rest. I viewed a geyser field from a few hundred metres away and was soon relying on the sun to direct me, the road splitting in two very different directions. There were areas of deep sand to contend with and another couple of hills to conquer before I raced downwards and along a laguna, pink with thousands of feeding flamingos. The road at times allowed me to speed along at up to 25mph, but the hardpacked gravel with a fine covering of sand often gave way to much deeper sand with little or no warning. I took my first spill on these roads, my spinning tyres coming to a sudden halt as they sank on hitting one such sand ‘pit’ on a good descent. The sand at least broke my fall and I lay beneath my bike for a moment, its front wheel still spinning, as the dust settled. I picked myself up, brushed myself down and continued on my way, a little more wary this time. I was faced with long stretches of deeply rutted road, sometimes rockstrewn, but the occasional fast downhill section and my less frequent rests allowed me to cover over fifty-five miles that day – almost ninety kilometres – and the next two days were similarly productive. My hands would ache on downhill sections through applying my brakes to slow me down as I bounced from rock to rock, my rear wheel looking as if it might collapse at any moment. My back ached from the constant pounding and I could only stand the pain for so long before bringing my bike to a halt and allowing myself a stretch. Falls became more frequent with the passing days but none was serious. If it wasn’t the sand sucking at my tyres that caused me to fall off, it was the lowlying and particularly robust vegetation which my low-seated panniers would collide with on the narrow paths. I tried to make light of the conditions, telling myself there was nothing I could do to change things. With each fall I’d roll over and over in melodramatic fashion like a Premier League footballer after an innocuous foul, laughing at myself before dusting off. Occasionally I’d come across a stream or a spring, coarse green grass along its flanks where animals occasionally grazed. One was deep enough to bathe in, its clear waters sparkling in the morning sunshine, and I needed no excuse to strip off and jump in, washing the day’s sweat and sand deposits from my skin. The warm daytime temperatures were in marked contrast to the freezing nights and a cool dip was very welcome when the sun was high in the sky. If I arrived at such watering holes around lunchtime, I’d take out my stove, boil water for tea and cook a simple meal. I took out my radio on one occasion to listen to Manchester United beating Everton 5-1 on the BBC’s World Service while dozens of llamas grazed around me.

I hadn’t expected to come across any real habitation up here until I arrived in Uyuni and in San Pedro de Atacama I had tried to load my bike with enough food to get me there. I was therefore surprised at passing through two villages on the same day. The first, the tiny village of Villa Mar, with its single sand street and tiny church, sat beneath a large rock outcrop and was surrounded by gently sloping hills boasting sporadic tufts of coarse grass. The village was basic but immaculate, no trace of litter and all the buildings in good order. I had to concentrate hard as I departed the village, cycling through a stream and immediately up a steep and sandy incline, conscious that half the village was watching me. That afternoon, a larger, walled village came into view, some ten miles in the distance. As I approached, a tour vehicle sped by – the only vehicle that drove by that day – one idiot leaning out of the window and yee-haaing loudly as soon as the vehicle drew alongside, an action which startled me and almost caused me to fall off again. As I neared the village, I noticed the road bypassed it, as if it was a no-go zone for tourists. I decided I was going to venture in. I took off my shoes and socks to cross a small river and then followed a cycle track through the sand, stopping to have a brief discussion with a local cyclist who was on his way out of the village. He confirmed that I was still on the correct road to Uyuni and that I was about to enter the village of Alota. I cycled through a small opening in the perimeter wall and into a village of uniform, parallel streets, terraces of single-storey adobe houses to either side, largely windowless and with thatched roofs. There were probably around a hundred such houses in the village and as I pedalled the dirt streets in search of a shop, I looked around in wonderment. Women in traditional Andean dress – brightly ruffled skirts and bowler-style hats – walked the streets, dark, weathered faces turning to look at me as I passed by. I smiled at them and they smiled back at me and it felt wonderful. It was like seeing a lion or a polar bear in its natural habitat for the first time, or seeing a major celebrity in the flesh. These were the type of people I had only ever seen in books and on television and now here I was, cycling among them, seeing them doing the things they did in their everyday lives. This wasn’t a show for me; it wasn’t staged and while it was such a simple sight, I couldn’t believe I was witnessing it. Again I reminded myself of how I had arrived here – months of cycling through deserts and up mountains and not courtesy of some all-inclusive tour – and things felt even more special. I was directed to a shop, which didn’t look much different to all the other buildings in the village but for a small, hand-painted ‘Coca-Cola’ sign above its door. I leaned my bike on its outer wall as children who had been playing football with a badly deflated ball halted their game to come and take a closer look at this oddity. The shop assistant was not at all cautious of this stranger who had just rolled into town. She greeted me with a big smile and as I asked and paid for bread and something to drink she was keen to know about my

journey. I gave her a cheery ‘Adios’ as I left the darkened shop, walking out into bright sunlight to find a small crowd of children around my bike, pulling at the brake levers and flicking at my gear shifters, one or two men standing a little further back. I smiled at them as I gently pushed past, loading bread into bags and then opening the bottle of Coke, keen to relax for a few minutes but struggling g to do so as children pestered me into giving them the last of my drink. I left the village absolutely beaming at the interest these traditional locals had shown in me. My excitement remained with me for the rest of the day and I settled into my tent that evening very much looking forward to the following day. It was the nights I no longer enjoyed and I tried to ascertain why so that I could attempt to do something about it. After some thinking, I failed to arrive at a definite conclusion. The claustrophobia at being cooped up in a tent and the cold, which I only had limited defence against, certainly played their parts in making the nights my least enjoyable part of the day. But the highs of this day were still fresh so why didn’t those feelings remain with me for longer? I wrestled to find an answer. I tried to imagine having a travel companion there to share those highs with. My active mind seemed to concoct the idea of a happier existence by placing a travel buddy alongside me. We could reflect on the day’s events together. The stillness played its part in making me feel so alone and focusing on the hum of silence for even a few seconds would cause me to feel nauseous. I would feel the sensation coming, the silence quickly intensifying, and urgently begin talking to myself or busying myself to prevent it from becoming deafening. I was somewhere now which seemed so far removed from my home environment and so different from anything I had ever experienced during my entire life. I couldn’t possibly even begin to understand the lives of the people here and they had no sense of who I was or of the very foreign land I was from, many thousands of miles away. This was a very different loneliness to any I could ever experience at home. I was an alien in another world and no spaceship was about to land and take me away from here. I had to cycle my way out. The days were hard work as I neared Uyuni but finally it seemed I was within striking distance. The state of my rear wheel worsened and I considered every additional mile it carried me as a bonus – the closer it made it towards the town, the better chance I had of pushing there or of hitching a lift should it give in on me altogether. The occupants of a camper van and a Land Rover, from France and Switzerland respectively, stopped to chat and to offer me an apple, Coke and some water. When I believed I only had around twenty miles to travel to Uyuni, they told me they believed the town was still a further forty or fifty miles away. Later on, I came across an elderly man. He stood, resting his behind on the crossbar of his bike, on a bend in the road. Here there was little else but bare red earth and sky, not a single building in sight and the bases of the distant hills not visible, swallowed up by the heat haze giving the impression they were

floating above the desert floor. It seemed a strange place for this man to be but I greeted him with a friendly, ‘Ola!’ The man responded with an indifferent nod of the head. ‘Quanto kilometros a Uyuni?’ (How many kilometres to Uyuni?) I asked, keen to hear a low number. I wasn’t disappointed. ‘Tres,’ the old man said. Nothing more. Looking around, I questioned his wisdom. There was no sign of Uyuni in the direction I was about to cycle and I could surely see much further than the three kilometres this local was suggesting. I questioned him again. ‘Tres?’ I asked. ‘Tres,’ he simply replied. I thanked him, incredibly dubious but nevertheless hopeful and I set on my way again, the town of Uyuni perhaps just ten minutes away, hidden from view by a dip in the landscape – time would surely tell. Those three kilometres, it turned out, were closer to twenty-four (fifteen miles) and I had to stop for a roadside lunch to help get me there. The town of Uyuni, though a welcome sight, was not pretty at first. Railway rolling stock stood rusting in the desert sands a few hundred metres from the road, litter was strewn about the outskirts and single-storey dwellings stood windowless and crumbling. Things did improve a little in the town itself and I immediately went in search of a bike shop to buy a replacement wheel, but the stall I found had a tarpaulin stretched across the front of it suggesting it was closed. Instead I booked myself into the Hotel Avenida for less than £2.50 a night and had soon decided that I would make repairs to the wheel myself, rather than risk buying a sub-standard wheel when I was only a matter of a few hundred miles from La Paz where I would surely find a better standard of bike shop. I fitted emergency spokes and set about truing the wheel with a spoke spanner, chatting with Ruud from the Netherlands as I did so. I ventured out with Ruud and Ola, a Swedish traveller, that evening, keen to try the local cuisine. Ruud was less keen and so as he ate his spaghetti bolognese in one restaurant, Ola and I found a very basic eatery and ordered charque kan, which consisted of mashed hominy with strips of dried llama meat, potato and a boiled egg. We met up with Ruud again for some ice cream before venturing back to the hotel. My rest in Uyuni lasted less than twenty-four hours and at 12.45pm on Wednesday 8 December I headed north on one of the many sand roads that left the town. After an evening with other travellers my mood was positive and I now had La Paz, a meeting with Elina and – hopefully – mail from home to look forward to. My head was occupied with such thoughts as I left the safety of the town behind. After just over an hour, I stopped for lunch beside the remains of a house, its roof missing and its dusty floor littered with dung. A local bus passed me as I ate in the sunshine, the Bolivian occupants waving, smiling at me and knocking on

the windows as their transport rolled and swayed over the bumps. I felt I knew what it might be like to be famous. The road worsened as I continued that afternoon and became almost impossible to cycle, its surface deep, loose gravel and sand. I crossed over a railway track and decided to take a look at my map. The railway, which headed north from Uyuni, ran all the way to Oruro, the next town of any size on my journey, and followed a similar route to the road I was presently on. To either side of the railway sleepers was an extremely narrow strip of land that was free of shrubs and composed of much firmer sand than many sections of road I had cycled along so far that day. There was just about enough width for a bike laden with panniers to travel along. I decided it couldn’t be any worse than the road, so began to follow it. For the next few miles I was able to pick and choose between the road and the route of the railway, leaving the railway each time it crossed the road but generally returning to it on reminding myself of just how appalling the road surface was. Progress north was particularly slow. I arrived in Colchani, a small town of little prosperity. Bleached, stone buildings stood in crumbling rows to either side of the railway track and there was little sign of life. The sun hung in the pale blue sky like a gleaming medallion but, to the east, angry storm clouds were gathering. I marvelled at a mini-tornado as it danced across the barren landscape towards the town, and as I continued north I was approached and then swallowed up by a huge wall of sand, perhaps a few miles wide, which seemed to have a small tornado at each extremity. I curled up in a ball in a ditch and closed my eyes as it passed over, blasting me, half expecting to levitate above the ground for a time and a little disappointed when this didn’t happen – I had obviously watched too many Hollywood films. I met just one other person that afternoon, another cyclist on what looked like an ancient bike, brake levers connected to brake pads via a series of rods. His smile never left his face as we came to a halt beside the railway line and I held out a hand in greeting. He told me he was heading to Uyuni, which was where he lived, but he was twenty-five miles from home here and I had no idea of where he’d been or why. He seemed happy and pleased to meet me. We said our cheery goodbyes and headed off in opposite directions along the railway line, which we had each adopted as our preferred cycling surface. While such an empty landscape proved lonely and presented certain dangers, there were no problems in finding places to pitch a tent. Providing I filled up with water when opportunities presented themselves, I could cycle until I’d had enough and then pitch the tent almost anywhere. Often I’d cycle until I was exhausted and then try and push my body to carry me just a little further. It was those additional miles which, when added together, would get me to Alaska days sooner or would allow me a guilt-free rest day later on. Initially I enjoyed sitting outside my tent one evening in unusually wind-free conditions. My stove roared at the pan of peas that sat above it. It was a sound that filled my little

world and kept me sane. Like a lonely old man with only his television for company, my stove offered a sound that I found deeply comforting. It not only provided a little background ‘chatter’ but whenever I heard its tones and saw its blue glow, I could also be sure that hot food and drink was on its way. My peas began to dance in the water in which they cooked and I turned the dial of the stove clockwise to cut off the fuel supply. The chattering gradually stopped as the fierce blue flame turned to flickering orange and then disappeared with a soft ‘pop’. I spent the next few minutes eating. My spoon chinked against the aluminium pan as I cut at corned beef, scooped peas and chewed bread. My moving jaw sounded through my head until I had finished my last spoonful. I put down my pan beside me and sat and listened to my own, gentle breathing. My little world was suddenly silent. Nothing stirred. The sun was vacating the sky in a blaze of purples and pinks as darkness began to spread its twisted fingers over me. Lightning exploded in hazy flashes over the horizon to the north-east but it was dozens of miles away and even the thunder was totally silent that evening. I felt I was in a vacuum. I felt tiny. I couldn’t remember having ever seen a lightning storm before and not being able to hear its cracks and crashes. It must have been such a great distance away. Perhaps it was right now wreaking havoc over La Paz? I had to make my way there over ruts and bumps and rocks and through sand on a bike which was now ready to give up the fight. The tornados earlier in the day, the silent storm and the punishing road conditions all made me feel very vulnerable. But it was the emptiness that really struck me. There was something very formidable about the place and I suddenly felt lonelier than I had felt for months. My mind was swimming. I longed for a hug, for reassuring words and suddenly everything just seemed too much for this lone traveller. As my head spun, I felt myself needing to cry and, with very little effort, tears began to roll down my cheeks. I wanted those back home to see that I was crying; to recognise just what a struggle this whole damned journey had become. I needed some love, some tenderness, some sympathy, but there was nobody here to give it. This was how it was going to be for many more months yet and I couldn’t help reminding myself of this. My little cry brought some relief. I felt that at that very moment and in those exact circumstances it was exactly the right thing to do. I wiped my face, sniffed and composed myself, got to my feet and began tidying my things away; I’d had my first cry and I was ready to get on with things again. I was exhausted and tried for an early sleep around 8pm, leaving the tent just fifteen minutes later to empty my bladder. It was pitch black, but a strange sort of darkness, the stars appearing fuzzy in the night sky. As I returned to the tent and tried to sleep, I found myself contemplating the distant lightning flashes that continued to penetrate my closed eyelids, worrying that the storm may head my way and turn the dry riverbed I suspected I was camping on into a muddy torrent of water. Subsequent unhelpful thoughts and worries over my ailing bike

kept me awake for well over an hour before I finally fell into my best sleep in some time. I woke with my alarm at 6.30am and spent ten minutes just reminding myself of where I was, compiling in my head an initial plan of attack. I was soon struggling to find my way once more and was thankful that the sun was in the sky again so I could use it as a compass. I knew to keep heading north and that the railway track at this point was somewhere to the east of me. If the road split at any point (which it often did) I would simply head along the route that was in the best condition, providing it headed in roughly a northerly or north-easterly direction. The road split into three early on, and the only track leading vaguely my way was partly vegetated, suggesting infrequent use. I spotted a single cycle trail and one set of tracks from a motorised vehicle heading along it and decided I would add a further set of tracks through the sand. On I pedalled, both the cycle tracks and the vehicle tracks disappearing after several hundred metres, which worried me somewhat, but I continued, hopeful that it would reunite me with a road. I scanned the track as I cycled, travelling further and further from the junction and I was then so excited at spotting cycle tracks once more that I got out my camera and took a photograph of myself pointing down at them with a stupid grin on my face. I soon found myself in a tiny village of just a handful of buildings, falling off in deep sand a couple of times on the approach. A woman trod repeatedly on a large bowl of cereal outside a windowless house as her husband looked on. I cycled over and the man greeted me with a half-smile, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his over-sized padded anorak. ‘Ola!’ I said, bringing my bike to a standstill and taking a couple of water bottles from the frame. I held them up to him. ‘Tiene agua para mis botellas?’ (Do you have water for my bottles?). The man flicked his head backwards and took his hands from his pockets. He reached for my empty bottles, taking them into the house and returning with them full. I placed them back on my bike. ‘Donde esta el ferrocarril?’ I asked, eager to get back on the railway. The man waved an arm in a general direction across the empty landscape. I was keen to know how far away it was. ‘Cuanto kilometros?’ I questioned. ‘Uno,’ he replied. I took the couple’s photo before leaving, paying around 35 pence for the privilege, and cycled off in the direction the man had suggested, arriving at the railway line some four kilometres (two and a half miles) later. After twenty-nine miles on the railway line, my rear wheel buckled so badly that it would barely go round and was now rubbing the paint from my bike frame. Storm clouds were approaching and it soon began to rain. I hadn’t seen a vehicle all day to hitch a lift from and it was virtually impossible to push the bike. I decided on urgent repairs and put up my outer tent to act as a workshop, taking out my stove once in my shelter and making a cup of tea to help me

along. I removed the wheel from my bike, took off my tyre and tube and worked for the next hour. Holes were developing around many of the wheel spokes where they attached to the rim, causing the spokes to fall out of the rim while remaining attached at the central hub. Since tight- fitting spokes were all that kept the rim true, the loss or breakage of even a single spoke would result in a buckle, even if the rim itself was undamaged. Three of my spokes were now completely detached from the rim and several others looked as though they could go at any time. On each of the spokes was a small ring which sat around the spoke where it fitted to the rim of the wheel. Since these three spokes were no longer attached, I removed these rings from them and placed them on the reverse side of the damaged rim to act as washers and spread the weight of each spoke I reattached. With the three spokes back in place, I began carefully to tighten one spoke at a time to pull the buckle out of the wheel, careful not to cause further damage to the rim and pleased that I had taken my time as I cast a critical eye over a satisfying end result. I set off tentatively, alongside the railway, downhill into the insalubrious town of Río Mulatos, buying bread and bananas and then being asked for seventy pence for a bottle of water. I decided this was too much, pedalling on a further two hundred metres to where a young girl shouted ‘Ola!’ and waved from the doorway of a tiny shop. I asked if she had water and she happily skipped into the building with my ten-litre water carrier, soon struggling back with it, full to bursting. I bought a bottle of pop from her parents’ shop as a thank you, offered the last third of it to a grovelling, snotty-nosed kid, and was on my way, waved off by the shopkeeper and his family. I soon re-joined the railway and my cycling surface varied from poor to very occasionally quite good. I passed through a couple of villages and was chased by two incredibly fit and vicious-looking dogs with lungs the size of St Paul’s Cathedral. Strong and muscular, they were soon up to racing speed and I had to turn my pedals with real strength to gain further momentum. I bounced over rocks and ruts with a complete disregard for my rear wheel, looking over my shoulder for some sign that they had given up their game, but for three or four hundred metres at least they continued their chase. I had to sprint as hard as my legs would carry me, my lungs screaming, before finally they were beaten. Shaking from fear and from exhaustion, I wheeled a few hundred metres more to get well out of their way before rolling to a standstill and collapsing over my handlebars, sucking desperately at the thin air to filter out as much available oxygen as I could. I felt better as I pitched the tent that evening. The wheel had held out and I had made good progress. People had waved at me as I cycled and, just as light was beginning to fade that evening, a train came by, close to the tent. I took a break from my jobs and stood to watch as it rumbled by, the driver sounding the almighty horn as he spotted me, waving from his cab as if making sure I knew

the stirring blast was meant for me. I felt ten feet tall. There was another storm to the east as I cooked pasta and soup but I was less bothered by it this evening. Fifty-seven miles on these roads and with lengthy bike repairs was a pleasing total for the day. A shopkeeper in the town of Sevaruyo the next day came outside his shop with me to watch me pack my newly acquired provisions and to wave me off. His stock was covered in dust and was so disorganised that he’d had to call down his wife to help him find things, which made me laugh. She wiped the dust from each item I had bought before handing it over to me. I later discovered the bottle of fizzy pop I bought there had well and truly lost its fizz after spending so long on the shelf. I left the railway line to collapse in the warm sun and to eat at the end of another difficult morning full of essential repairs. The landscape was flat, empty and vast. Way in the distance I noticed a tiny shape, too regular to be natural. Steadily, the shape grew in size. I continued to eat, looking up occasionally to see that the shape had grown further, soon making it out to be a train, marching its way across the flattened roof of Bolivia. I stood to watch its approach, its largely foreign-looking passengers standing at the windows to wave at me, the only sight of any interest for miles around. One guy punched the air in an act of admiration as I chewed on my jam sandwich. I straightened up, holding my head high and raised my fist, loving the attention. Sometimes I could be so vain. The rear wheel again buckled badly that afternoon and refused to turn in defiance at the pounding it had been forced to take over the past weeks. Serious action was once more required and bags were again unloaded, wheel removed and tools taken out. I had found a holed metal plate on the road and had picked it up for just such a repair. I removed it from my bag and cut it in two using a hacksaw blade I had brought from home. Some of the holes in my wheel were now so large the washers I had fitted the previous day had simply slipped through. I threaded the jangling spokes through the holed rim and then through the metal plates, which I positioned on the reverse of the rim where the cracks were biggest. It was the best job I could do with the equipment I had available to me, tensioning the spokes once again to straighten the wheel and giving it a quick spin once re-attached to make sure it wasn’t rubbing anywhere. The shopkeeper from earlier had mentioned a paved road from the town of Challapata and it wasn’t long before I spotted cars travelling at a reasonable speed in the far distance, suggesting a highway of some quality. The road did improve beyond the town of Huari and I sang to myself as I motored along at a good speed, though the surface as yet was not of tarmac but of a smoother gravel. Beyond Challapata I was waved past a toll booth and here I hit lovely, smooth tarmac, enjoying the sound of whirring tyres again after the absence of such music for many days. There was the unwelcome accompaniment of my rear tyre knocking on my mudguard stays as my speed increased further but for now, at least, my wheel was turning. It was the type of road surface I had

dreamed of for weeks but with it came people, buildings and fewer places to camp. I whizzed by dozens of little farmhouses as I entered an area of field systems, a particularly large, vicious dog racing onto the road to chase me as I searched for somewhere away from the houses to spend the night. On a barren plot of land and within sight of distant houses, I tentatively pitched my tent, hopeful that no dogs would find me as darkness fell. With just under two hundred miles to go to La Paz, the rear wheel went again. It was looking as though it wasn’t going to make it all the way to Bolivia’s capital city but another hour-long repair job at the side of the road meant I could at least continue for now. If it was going to break again, I had hoped it would go just before the next big town of Oruro where I might be able to buy a new one, and that’s just what it did. A further two spokes snapped and others looked as though they were about to go the same way, just as I entered the outskirts of the town. I limped in towards the centre and there I found a relatively smart shop selling bikes and sewing machines. Leaving my bike outside for the moment, I walked inside, the owner greeting me with a smile. ‘I need a new wheel,’ I explained, and led the man outside, removing a rear pannier to allow him a good look at my very poorly rear wheel. He stooped to study it for a moment and indicated that I should follow him back inside, taking my pannier from me and helping me up the step with my bike. He walked me to the counter of the shop where a woman sat doing some needlework. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked in Spanish, as I found a space to stand my bike. ‘Inglaterra,’ I replied, expecting the conversation to end there. His eyebrows raised and a broad grin filled his face. ‘I speak English,’ he told me, excitedly, ‘but I have nobody to speak with. My name is Richard,’ he said, placing his hand on his chest. He opened his hand in the direction of the young woman. ‘And this is my brother.’ Taking down a rim from a hook on the wall, the owner placed it next to my existing wheel and decided this would do. He then took off my damaged wheel and gesticulated that I should follow him as he walked towards the exit of his shop. I looked puzzled, glanced down at what was left of my bike and all my luggage and looked back at the shop owner with questioning eyes. He recognised my concern but gave me a little nod of reassurance and again waved for me to follow him. His pace was purposeful as we walked through the nearby streets of Oruro, into an area where people plied their trade from squalid wooden shacks. Stray dogs weaved through the legs of shoppers and nuzzled at rubbish strewn across the ground, searching for scraps of food. Faces stared out at me from blackened spaces behind plastic sweet containers, stacks of tinned foods and tables piled high with colourful fabrics, wondering where it was that my guide might be leading me – as was I. He brought me to a halt at another wooden shack, a stack of used bike parts piled high on a rickety table beside which sat a

man in overalls, tinkering with a rusting bike which sat on the dusty earth in front of him. He handed the man my wheel and spoke in Spanish, the seated man saying nothing until he had studied the wheel. He looked up over the rim of his spectacles and exchanged a few words. ‘He says he can do it,’ Richard translated. I nodded my approval and the man immediately began dismantling my wheel, starting with the skewer and the cassette, placing all the parts into a plastic tub, bit by bit. He fitted new spokes to replace those that had broken and then began to re-assemble the hub, taking worrying pauses, removing bits he’d just put together, turning other bits through 180 degrees and then turning them back again, clearly having never worked on a hub like this before and struggling to remember how it went back together. The old rim was removed but the new one wasn’t yet fitted and, after what seemed like an age, Richard and I headed back to his shop where I left him to attach the new rim as I headed off for chicken, chips and rice at a café. I was still hopeful that I might manage another ten or fifteen miles of cycling that evening. On my return to the shop, Richard looked flustered. Things were not going well and he looked perplexed as he tried to build my wheel. It was 4.15pm when I had first arrived at his shop but by 8pm I was no closer to leaving. It was dark outside as Richard continued to struggle and his wife (brother!) brought me a plate of sausages, mashed potato and tomatoes to try and pacify me. By 9.30pm I felt there was no point in staying any longer. I told Richard we both needed sleep and asked if I could call back in the morning. He assured me it would be ready for 10am and phoned a hotel to let them know I was on my way, stepping outside the shop and pointing me in the general direction of the Hotel Bernal, patting me on the shoulder as I left, as if to say sorry. I walked along a darkened street, head and shoulders above local youths who laughed and sneered in my direction, a couple of heavy panniers in either of my hands. I tried to look confident, not wanting any trouble. The man behind the desk of the hotel advised me that the water was off that evening but, at close to 10pm and at around £1.70 for the night, I had little inclination in finding anywhere else. I went to bed feeling filthy in one of the nicest rooms I had so far stayed in. My elation at picking up my bike the following morning with a seemingly fully functional rear wheel only lasted half a day. I was only averaging around ten miles per hour and I found the going tough. On giving my wheel a little wiggle when I came to a halt for an early lunch, exhausted, I found it to be extremely loose and the wheel didn’t turn freely. There was only one high spot to the day when six young girls selling bread at a remote roadside stall came running to greet me, chattering excitedly. I bought bread and a drink from them, took out my newspaper cuttings from home as well as my maps, tracing my route so they could see where I had travelled from. Phaddy – the tallest girl – had a little go on

my bike, barely able to touch the pedals, let alone the ground, the frame and saddle far too high for her. I woke early on the day I hoped to make it into La Paz, keen to get there, to meet Elina and – hopefully – to receive lots of mail. Local cyclists joined me throughout the day, sometimes en masse, and I’d cycle with my peloton for several miles before they’d drop off. I pushed hard at the pedals, eager to demonstrate my cycling prowess, but on a knackered bike this led to painful knees and exhaustion. The scenery did not inspire and the road climbed for miles, through a suburb of La Paz, through roadworks and through heavy, erratic traffic. I cursed at drivers and they cursed back as the road began to drop steeply, offering views of La Paz in a huge, natural amphitheatre. The road descended for four or five miles, taking me on to La Paz’s main street, rammed with cars, buses and motor scooters. I battled with the traffic, the horns and the belligerent drivers, coming to a halt on a pavement outside a McDonald’s restaurant where a row of public telephones stood. I spent a nervous half an hour trying to get hold of Elina, handing the phone receiver to a man close by on receiving a recorded message in Spanish when I dialled her number. He told me Elina’s phone wasn’t switched on and that I should try later. I was feeling tense, worried that I wouldn’t be afforded the luxury of some company for a few days and worried that I wouldn’t get to receive my mail from home. I bought a Coke at a café, writing my diary to kill a little time, returning to the phone and trying again. This time she answered, much to my relief, and agreed to walk and meet me. There were few blonde people in La Paz and Elina was easy to spot. I gave her a relieved hug on her arrival and we walked to her apartment, chatting about our time in South America. Once there it became obvious that her landlord was not happy about my bike being in the flat and, more worryingly, was not happy for me to be there either. Elina remained stubbornly defiant. After a heated discussion, she led me and my bike up the stairs to where I was told to make myself at home. A fistful of mail from home was handed to me once I had showered and taken Elina out for pizza and I enjoyed reading at least a few of these letters before going to sleep, comfortable enough on two sleeping mats on the floor. One letter in particular I struggled with; it was from a close friend of mine, Jason, who wrote excitedly to tell me he had set a date to get married to his fiancée, Marie-Ann. That date was 4 August 2000. I didn’t need to do the maths. I had intended on finishing my journey around the end of August and had hoped to be home very early in September. On 4 August I would most probably be alone in northern Canada or Alaska. I was gutted. We shared many of the same friends and on a day when they would all be getting together to eat, drink, dance and laugh I would most probably be sleeping on the Arctic tundra. He had included an invitation but had jovially acknowledged that I probably wouldn’t be able to make it. I felt thoroughly deflated and over the coming days and weeks

decided that I might just have to pick up the pace a little. It seemed my schedule had just been squeezed by almost a month. On my second day in La Paz I was asked if I’d be happy to do a radio interview, with Elina as translator, and we walked to Radio Liberta, munching on roasted bananas having had lunch at a vegetarian restaurant with Elina’s Bolivian boyfriend beforehand. Elina admitted to being nervous but by the end of our first interview for the more ‘newsy’ Radio Libertad, she was buzzing and was only too happy to translate again when we were asked to do a second interview for Radio Latinisima, a station based in the same building but aimed at a younger audience. On our way back to the flat we stopped off for a congratulatory drink before visiting the market where we bought food for an evening meal. Here, things began to go downhill. I began to feel light-headed and was sure it wasn’t the single beer I had just had. My balance rapidly deteriorated and it took a great deal of concentration to weave in and out of the other shoppers. I said nothing until we were back at the flat, by which time my temperature was up and I was losing strength in my legs. I was straight to the loo and found I also had diarrhoea. Whatever I had picked up took over me with such aggression and in an alarmingly short period of time. I lay on the floor, first in one and then two sleeping bags but still I shivered uncontrollably. Elina covered me in a further two blankets and fetched me a portable heater which she turned up to full next to where I lay. Still I shivered. I had to venture out from my covers again to use the toilet and also to vomit, the three stairs on the way to the bathroom causing all sorts of problems as my legs weakened further. My head spun and my vision became blurred. Elina gave me charcoal tablets to try and settle my stomach but these only caused me to vomit more violently as I staggered out onto the balcony. Every time I left my covers I found it difficult to stand and would feel terribly cold. The night that followed was one of the scariest of my life and at times I truly thought that what I had might be fatal. Fever burned as I wrestled against sand roads on a heavy bike in fits of restless sleep. Sweat soaked my bedding and would then chill me to the bone as my temperature seemed to soar and then plummet time and time again. I was forced to stagger to the bathroom on many occasions, clinging to the wall on legs that seemed almost as though they were learning to walk for the first time. I felt exhausted just walking the five or six metres there and I’d almost fall onto the toilet seat, slump my head forwards and inexplicably rid what must have been an already near-empty stomach of yet more foul-smelling waste. As light broke, my condition had not improved and Elina was concerned, forcing me to eat and drink when I was far from in the mood. I did as I was told but was able to eat very little and would then have to spend time in the toilet. My fever continued and thoughts of going back out there haunted me. By lunchtime I was feeling that the worst was perhaps over but Elina called the doctor from

the Dutch Embassy where a friend of hers worked, to put my mind at rest and to prescribe some medication. He arrived around 5pm and was great. He explained things well, took my blood pressure (very healthy), my temperature (38.5°C) and my pulse, sitting back to study me for a moment before speaking again, a look of incredulity on his face. He shook his head, making me nervous. ‘You are an athlete,’ he told me, pausing once more to ponder the results of the tests he had just performed. ‘Even when you are this sick you are very fit.’ Laying there, a sack of skin and bone in soiled thermals, I felt very proud at hearing those words and just hoped Elina had taken note too. I had only known her for two days and for one of those days I had been a pathetic, helpless wreck – I didn’t want her to think that’s all I was. The doctor told me I was suffering from one of three things but two of the three were unfamiliar to me and I soon forgot their names. The third I remembered – salmonella poisoning – and I latched onto that. He left me with medication and instructed me to eat a diet of boiled chicken and potatoes, crackers and jam with no fatty butters or margarine. All drinking water I took from rivers I should boil for a minimum of a few minutes, particularly at altitude. Elina cooked me a meal as per the doctor’s orders, which to my surprise I really enjoyed, and she offered me her bed for the night while she slept on the floor. Her Dutch friend, Remco, fed me pills, gave me water and took my laundry to the launderette for some much-needed cleaning. In the evening of the following day I walked to the supermarket with Elina, just three hundred metres away, but found it hard work, feeling dizzy and weak and suffering slight chest pains. I had lost weight over the preceding weeks and months and it had been my aim in La Paz to eat well, to put on weight and to regain some strength. My condition gradually improved over the coming days but resting for long periods was not an option. I had a bike that needed repairing and I spent almost one entire day transporting it in taxis and on foot to bike shop after bike shop. The shops were largely of a similar standard to the one in Oruro until a biketrekking firm directed us to a shop in the posh part of town. I felt optimistic on our arrival there, noticing Trek mountain bikes in the window as I dragged my bike through the door because the wheel would now no longer turn. They knew of nowhere I might buy a suitable new wheel but were prepared to have a go at repairing this one. Once it was ready, the mechanic handed it back with a smile. He had done the best he could, he told me, but didn’t rate the wheel’s chances – 2,000km (1,200 miles) on tarmac at best! I had opted to try and find ‘safe’ food after my bout of illness and continued with my meals of boiled chicken and potato, adding further vegetables and supplementing my diet with mountains of peanuts, cheese puffs, lime jelly, toast and even the odd mint imperial. I longed to eat out and at the end of a morning trailing the streets to buy and send Christmas presents and post camera films home, Elina and I walked to a Burger King where we thought the food should at

least be safe to eat. A brush on the head as I ate was the first I knew that we’d been joined by friends. TJ, Klaus and Jan Inge – the Norwegian guys from San Pedro – plus two of their Finnish friends, Sampo and Pasi, stood above me, wide grins on their faces. In a city the size of La Paz and in an eatery I would normally steer well clear of, this seemed such an amazing coincidence. I stood to hug them and shake their hands, excited that we should be together again after all I had been through. Seated together, we shared stories and I was pleased to hear I was part of their New Year plans – it seemed we’d be spending the turn of the millennium together in Cuzco, Peru. During a night out with Elina’s friends and my new friends, TJ decided he’d like to give the cycle touring thing a go and we chatted about how we might make this happen. We trailed the shops the following day, trying to find a place where TJ could hire a bike for eight days in order to cycle to Cuzco with me. Finally it seemed we’d been successful and it looked as though I had a new cycling companion to keep me company on my departure from La Paz.

Chapter 9 La Paz–Cuzco 4,365 miles cycled

After a week in La Paz it was time to leave. I felt less willing to cycle away from my home comforts on this occasion than at any time I had briefly put my roots down earlier. Previously I had been chomping at the bit, eager to turn another page and excited at what stories were about to unfold, but my bout of illness had altered my thinking and now I was fearful at going back ‘out there’. Having TJ with me was a blessing. Elina had treated me as a true friend and had gone over and above what I had expected of her. I gave her a big hug before departing and cycled to TJ’s hotel before the two of us made our way to the shop where we were to pick up his bike. What should have been an easy handover of cash in exchange for a bike did not turn out that way, even though everything had been agreed the previous day – or so we thought. TJ had requested a mountain bike without suspension but the bike he was presented with was of the full-suspension variety and not ideal for cycling long distances on roads. He was asked to pay an additional $20 to have the bike sent back from Cuzco by bus plus an additional deposit – not at all what we had agreed. The bike was also lacking panniers and a pannier rack. TJ asked for his money back and our search began all over again. We walked from tour agency to tour agency and searched for a shop selling second-hand bikes but, in the end, TJ opted for a new one – of questionable quality – for just £75. He paid an additional £5 for a pannier rack onto which we strapped my holdall in which TJ would store his sleeping bag and a few items of clothing. We had intended an early start but it was 2.40pm before our team of two began making its way through heavy traffic and up the eight-mile-long hill out of La Paz. TJ enjoyed the attention we received as we cycled and it pleased me to have been given the opportunity of cycling in this part of the world with him. I was seeing my journey through somebody else’s eyes and I felt excited at introducing my new friend into my way of journeying. TJ was around my age and was on a round-the-world trip with several other friends from Norway. They would separate on occasions and meet up again at agreed points further along their route. Up until now, TJ had been ‘holidaying’,

seeing the sights via organised tours and not really challenging himself. My trip had captured his imagination and he wanted to share in just a little bit of it. He had cycled at home and by all accounts was a very decent cyclist – he told me of a twenty-four-hour endurance ride he had recently completed during which he had covered several hundred miles. Perhaps most importantly though, we got on well and enjoyed one another’s company. We averaged over seventy miles a day for the next two days, up and down some big, Andean hills and at altitudes of well over 3,500 metres. The road took us alongside Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world, out of Bolivia and into Peru. We pitched the flysheet of the tent on the shore of the lake one evening and each stripped off, running into the icy water to splash around and clean off after hours in the saddle. A bus came by as we left the lake and I waved at the passengers in all my glory, a mischievous grin on my face, as they stared back, open mouthed. After our third day of cycling together we booked ourselves into a twin room for the night in the town of Puno. The manager took an interest in our journey and chatted with us, informing us that the world-famous Inca Trail to Machu Picchu would be closed from 28 December for the turn of the millennium. The following morning over breakfast it became apparent that TJ was more eager to walk the Inca Trail than he was to cycle to Cuzco. He would look into the possibility of catching a bus from Puno to Cuzco where he could at least begin organising this next part of his trip. To pay for his bus ticket, he hoped he would be able to sell his Santosa bike. As we discussed how we might next meet, TJ admitted that he had found the cycling difficult but I would never have guessed this. Each of us was a very proud individual and it seemed we had both pushed ourselves over the previous two and a half days. I had been very ill just a week ago and had lost weight and strength over that time. TJ hadn’t cycled a bike particularly in the last few months and here he was cycling up and down the Andes at ridiculous altitudes. Neither of us wanted to let the other down. Neither of us wanted to let ourselves down. We each wanted the other to recognise that we were more than capable of cycling at their pace without really knowing what that pace was. We didn’t have the courage to let on to each other that the pace was too fast for fear of looking inferior and yet here we were, now that our time cycling together was over, admitting that we had half-killed one another. We were both exhausted after a punishing couple of days and laughed at how stupid we had been. Happy with our arrangements, we agreed to meet up at a hostel in Cuzco on Christmas Day. After a quick shop for food I was away, uphill for a time out of Puno but then downhill and along generally flat-ish roads for much of the day. The rain came and went several times and occasionally fell heavily. The temperature was also noticeably cooler, forcing me into cycle leggings and a waterproof jacket. For the first time, and only for a short while, I felt like it was actually Christmas. I saw a few, basic Christmas decorations but it was the

smell of rain – typical Christmas weather in England – that had me feeling this way. After over a hundred miles, I pitched the tent beside a railway track on hummocky ground as rain began to fall again. I got out of my wet clothes and into something dry, enjoying the pitter-patter of rain on the outer tent. I cooked in one of the porches, taking my eye off the stove for half a minute to grab something from the other porch. On returning to the cooking I was horrified to see the area around the stove alight, petrol leaking from the seal on the fuel bottle and spilling onto the floor. I jumped to my knees in terror, flames licking at the underside of the flysheet from the pool of burning fuel. My home was about to be destroyed in a matter of seconds and I imagined my burning tent collapsing in on me, remnants of molten nylon sticking to my skin. I grabbed my water carrier, tearing off the lid and throwing its contents over the fire. The flames resisted, shrinking before fighting back. I poured on more water, a final flame lifting its head to catch breath before finally being overcome and sinking. I watched for evidence of a further fightback but the fire was out. I fell to my haunches, relieved, heart pounding, trying to comprehend what had just happened and how serious it could have been – the flysheet dampened by the rain had perhaps saved me on this occasion. Another few seconds facing the other way and the end result could have been very different. After replacing a damaged O-ring I began to cook again, the door of my flysheet now open, the stove just pushed a little further out into the rain. I woke to the sound of my alarm on Christmas Eve at 5.45am, after a fantastic night’s sleep, and immediately decided I wasn’t feeling too well. My stomach gurgled and I was suffering from a slight feeling of nausea. I lay there for a short while, contemplating my situation. I knew I couldn’t stay where I was. After the fire of the previous evening, I had very little water left and was quite sure I didn’t want to wake up here, in the middle of nowhere and all alone, on Christmas Day. I rallied myself, boiling water for eight or nine minutes for a cup of tea and using bottled water to make milk for my cereal – precautions I should clearly have taken much earlier in the trip. The rain that had pattered down on the tent during the early night had fallen as snow on the nearby hills and the mountains in the distance were whiter than I had remembered them the previous day. I packed my gear and my damp tent and hoped that my condition would improve as the day progressed. I managed thirteen miles in my first hour, largely due to the relatively flat terrain, but as I stopped for a breather I suddenly began to feel hot, dizzy and sickly. My stomach continued to turn. I could barely remain upright as I straddled my bike and I felt there was absolutely no way I could go on. When I was ill in La Paz it was a thoroughly unpleasant feeling but at that moment, all alone and at the side of a cold and empty road in the mountains of Peru, I couldn’t imagine being in a worse place feeling the way I did.

The sight of the small town of Santa Rosa, just two or three miles away, signalled a possible hotel and I knew that I’d have to make it there, try and find a bed for the night and simply accept that I’d be spending Christmas Day alone and quite probably ill. I struggled to arrive in the town and I struggled again to push my bike up the grotty, gravel street to where I was told there were a couple of hotels. Locals in close groups walked past me and seemed to be laughing and whispering as I wrestled through the mud. Workmen stood in large holes in the street, doing very little. Large severed pipes suggested the town was without water. I got a bad feeling about the place and took out my map to look for alternatives. Sicuani, the little distance markers stated, was around a further thirty miles away and I knew I’d have to try and drag myself there to have any real chance of making it to Cuzco and friends for Christmas. I remounted my bike and limped out of Santa Rosa. My back and ribs were soon giving me pain. I struggled to breathe and wanted to sleep. I gave in to my desire to rest, knowing full well that unless my condition improved I wasn’t going to make it to Sicuani that day. I laid out my sleeping mat twenty metres from the road and collapsed onto it, resting for an hour or so, drifting in and out of consciousness as the occasional bus and truck passed by. I could easily have stayed there, my body only ten days ago weakened by serious food poisoning and now having to endure all that I was putting it through. Progress was then terribly slow and I struggled, just slightly uphill, my legs so weak every turn of the pedals took maximum effort and concentration. I was joined for a few miles by a young Peruvian cyclist who wanted to talk with me but talking back only depleted my energy even further and I just wanted to be left alone. I told him I was sick again and again and that I had to make it to Sicuani that day. Eventually he left me, just before the start of a four-and-a-halfmile-long climb through the mountains that he’d warned me about, snow to either side. I thought I had reached the summit once but the road then climbed painfully upwards again to a height of 4,338 metres. The final couple of hundred metres were just too much for me and I found myself pushing on a paved road for the first time this journey, into damp cloud. I had no lunch, fearing it would only make me sick, and began my gradual descent, inflating my tyre every hour or so as it had developed a slow puncture. I clipped into my pedals, slumped over the handlebars and allowed gravity to carry me. I had cycled through a desolate landscape that morning, a landscape absent of any real interest, but some distance beyond the summit of the pass I glided down into a wide valley with steep sides whose colours built with every passing mile. The valley floor became lush with healthy, green crops, occasional trees swayed beside simple but colourful buildings and the cloud broke to offer long periods of sunshine in a wonderful blue sky. With the change in scenery my mood improved and I sailed along at a reasonable pace, every corner I turned offering new and pleasing views.

I had cycled thirty miles from Santa Rosa and – according to my map – should now be in Sicuani, but when I asked a man outside a house if this indeed was Sicuani he told me the town was still another hour’s cycle. Disbelieving, and utterly frustrated, I continued, thankful that the gradient was slightly downhill. In time the houses became more frequent and there were people almost everywhere I looked. My mood was soon buoyed and I felt like Postman Pat as workers in the fields downed tools and rushed to the road to wave at me and builders did the same. People out walking and cycling shouted cheery greetings and girls in their underwear in a thermal pool raised their arms and called to attract my attention. The driver of a train, struggling up the gradient with its heavy cargo, waved through an open window of his cab and pulled on his air horn, which resounded through the mountains causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. Everyone wanted to see me and wanted me to see them and I acknowledged them with a cheery ‘Ola!’ and a raised hand. I had been given the strength to sit tall in my saddle. Needing a rest, I stopped as I passed a local football match, a few hundred spectators enjoying the game from dug-out terraced seating which surrounded the pitch below. I pushed my bike from the road and decided I should find a seat but every one of the spectators’ heads turned to view me as I approached. The game continued but no one seemed interested in the football anymore. Instead they watched me as my wobbly legs carried me down four or five of the terraces in search of somewhere to sit, terrified that my legs would let me down and I’d become a laughing stock, tumbling down the slope as they gave way. I gratefully took a seat and was soon joined by a substitute from one of the teams who jogged up the terracing to join me. He shook my hand and sat beside me as the football match became the focus of hundreds of eyes once more. My new friend smiled at me and chatted confidently, asking me if I liked football and if I wanted to play. Again I was deeply moved by the friendliness of these people and only wished that I was up to running around a football pitch. Even without the sickness these legs were currently not conditioned to such activity and had barely broken into a jog over the past three months. I apologised, told my friend I was sick and thanked him. He shook my hand, still smiling, and returned to his place on the substitutes’ bench. I pedalled along an avenue of delicious-smelling eucalyptus trees and was joined by a local cyclist as I approached Sicuani. There I found a room in a lessthan-pleasant Hospedaje, but at least it provided me with a bed for the night, which I so desperately needed. The shifty-looking owner joined me in my room for a time. He asked questions about my bike and wanted to know how much I would sell it to him for. I didn’t trust him and noticed as he left that there wasn’t even a lock on the door. I locked my bike to the bed, had a shower, which began and ended with an electric shock and a flash of the lights, and walked

downstairs where I had to bray on the external door for several minutes just to be let out into the street. The day’s cycling had caused me to feel hungry and yet my stomach was telling me that to eat anything would surely be a mistake. I found a small, basic restaurant and sat down at a table, the owner greeting me and handing me a simple menu. I looked up at him with pathetic eyes and told him – in Spanish – that I was ill. ‘Would it be possible to have boiled chicken, carrot and potatoes?’ I asked, in Spanish. ‘Nothing else.’ He thought momentarily. ‘Nada mas?’ (Nothing else?) he questioned, perhaps a little disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to demonstrate the true delights of South American cuisine to this particular gringo. ‘Nada mas,’ I replied. I drank black tea and wrote my diary as I waited, a toddler in a high chair screaming her head off at a nearby table the whole time. When my meal arrived it was absolutely huge and included pasta and herbs which I wasn’t sure I should be eating. The restaurant owner would keep visiting my table, clearly concerned about me and would keep telling me to eat up. I managed most of my food and felt grateful that I had been forced to eat all I had. I thanked the man, paid my bill and walked back to the hostel, still not feeling too well and wondering if I was simply exhausted. I woke up on Christmas Day at 6.30am, aware that I had a hard day ahead of me. Firecrackers had gone off in the street during the night and I had also suffered back pain that had kept me awake for some time before I took a couple of painkillers. I opened my eyes but didn’t move. I laid there for a moment, trying to work out how I was feeling. I first concentrated on my stomach. Hmm, seems to be feeling OK. And then on my head. No headache. Was I feeling anything else? It didn’t seem so. I tentatively shuffled out of bed and stood up. Not too bad, I thought, although a little weak, perhaps. I just may be OK. I had to remind myself what day it was and opened my only two Christmas cards from home, which I had been carrying in my panniers since La Paz. I had told everyone at home not to bother sending me anything for Christmas as I didn’t have a forwarding address for Christmas Day itself and didn’t want to be carrying additional weight all the way from La Paz. I now wished I hadn’t said such a thing – I didn’t even have a card to open from my parents and felt thoroughly depressed, alone in my grotty room with not so much as a bauble decorating it. Millions of people back home and many millions more around the world were waking up to gifts and a day of extravagant food and drinks in the company of family and friends. There were no such delights for me. I was on my way at 8am, having repaired the slow puncture to my front tyre. Christmas seemed far away as I cruised along on flat roads, people seemingly going about their business as usual, ploughing the fields, riding their bicycles, playing football and driving lorries. Rarely was I reminded that this was a special

day. I travelled through steep-sided valleys and beside sediment-laden rivers, enjoying the first eighty miles of this Christmas Day cycle. Christmas lunch consisted of jam sandwiches and a banana and then I really began to feel tired. I imagined TJ, Klaus and other friends sitting at a street-side café, cheering me into Cuzco, and others around them on hearing where I had cycled from cheering too. They’d invite me into the café and treat me to a huge meal and we’d share stories of our adventures. There’d be laughter and banter and hugs. This thought kept me going for the afternoon. I arrived in Cuzco in the middle of a dramatic storm, lightning flashing and thunder clapping. Streets were turned into rivers and the town appeared virtually dead. No greeting awaited me. No cheers. No applause. I saw no one I knew, although there were more gringos around than I had been used to. They would eye me suspiciously as I nodded and smiled in greeting. The rain abated and I cycled up lovely, cobbled streets and into the beautiful main square. I asked for directions to the Hostel Resbalosa and was soon struggling up steep steps behind the square, two girls helping me up with my bags. At the hostel I was greeted by the owner who took my details as I chatted with his friend from Lima. On hearing what I was doing, he opened out his arms and held me in a long embrace. I was somewhat taken aback, unsure of how to react to this stranger, patting him on the back and laughing. ‘You are a very interesting person,’ he told me. The wonder of email allowed me to meet up with Rachel and Nicola (who were two of our social group in San Pedro) late that afternoon and I was also reunited with TJ who came and knocked on my hostel door. ‘Good to see you,’ I told him, putting my arm around him. ‘Good to see you too,’ he replied, ‘I was worried about you.’ I tilted my head to question his reason for being concerned. TJ explained. ‘My bus drove past you on the way here. I saw you, collapsed at the roadside in the middle of nowhere. You didn’t look good. I wanted the bus to stop so I could help you but I was at the back of the bus and there was nothing I could do. Are you OK?’ I told him of my illness, of my struggle to get here but explained I was now feeling much better. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who had been suffering. Nicola had been ill and was ill again that evening, so there were just three of us out on Christmas night – me, TJ and Rachel, all exhausted from our travels and only having the energy to enjoy a single pint of Guinness and a disappointingly small burger and chips at an Irish bar. I had to order a second helping. The next day was a rest day for me, although I had been talked into joining TJ and Klaus on the Inca Trail so spent a portion of the day enquiring about when the trail was closing and trying to organise bits of kit for us. I hired a rucksack. TJ hired a tent. We bought bus tickets for early the following morning to take us to the start of the trail. We didn’t need a guide, we’d decided – we would find our own way.

On our return to the hostel, I sat in just my shorts on the terrace, writing my diary. TJ came to join me, looking rather sheepish, informing me he’d locked our only key in the room. I didn’t see this as a problem as the hostel would surely have a spare key. But this was South America. The key was one of only two the hostel had, we were told, and the other key was in the possession of two girls who shared our room. The girls were currently out and we had no idea what time they might be back. I didn’t even have any shoes on and had no money as everything was in our room. We pondered our situation for some time, walking around the building and noticing a small, open window high up. This was a possible way in. TJ crouched on the floor and I tentatively stepped onto his shoulders, placing both my hands against the wall for balance. Slowly he stood up, holding onto my ankles, as I walked my hands up the wall. With TJ now fully standing, I was able to force my head and shoulders through the gap but the window was too small for me to get right the way through. I peered through the glass and on the bedside table next to TJ’s bed, on the far side of the room, I spied our key. I explained our situation to the owner, highlighting the fact that the key could be retrieved if we could just get someone through that window. We needed a small person – a child, perhaps – and I asked if there were any around that we might borrow. The hostel owner walked to the side of the building with me and looked up at the window. He considered my suggestion, swayed his head from side to side and shrugged his shoulders. I could tell he thought my plan just might work but no small child was forthcoming. Tired of waiting, I spoke with a Dutch guy, also staying at the hostel. I noticed he owned a tent and asked whether it would be possible to borrow a tent pole. Snapping the pole together, I estimated it to be around three metres long and felt sure it was long enough to reach the key. I climbed on TJ’s shoulders again, and we wobbled around like some crap circus act. Feeding the pole through the window, I directed TJ to move me as close to the external wall as possible. I fed the entire pole into the room, placing my head and shoulders through the window to gain a little extra distance. Keeping my breathing down to a minimum, I focused on the key, its circular keyring slightly raised off the top of the bedside cabinet. I aimed the end of the pole at the ring, the pole seemingly having a mind of its own and swinging further than I wanted it to swing at my first couple of attempts. Several other guests had gathered on the ground beside TJ and they pressed their faces against the lower window to watch my attempts, ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ at each failed attempt. I finally managed to get the end of the pole level with the ring and stabbed at the centre of it, threading the pole straight through. The crowd gasped and held their breath. Immediately lifting the pole towards the ceiling, the key danced its way partly towards me, leaving me to pass my end back through the window, while keeping the other end high. The key fell towards my hand and then onto the ground where TJ stood. The crowd went wild and we at last had access to our room. TJ and I celebrated with a 60p lunch at a café

frequented by locals and then sat on the kerb in the main square enjoying an ice cream. Our room-mates didn’t arrive back until late into the evening. Our bus picked us up early the next morning. We stopped for a terrible breakfast of brittle toast and sour coffee in Urubamba, bounced along a gravel road and were dispatched at ‘Km 82’ where we each handed over the equivalent of around £8 for our walking permits. We slung on our rucksacks and set off at breakneck speed, attempting to get ahead of the masses. We walked past little villages, through cloud forest, along rushing rivers in deep-sided valleys and through periods of steady rain, which helped to cool us down. I struggled to keep up with TJ and Klaus initially, my walking legs taking time to get into their stride, but found my strength later on as we climbed a steep path for some time, motoring past many guided groups and through organised camping areas. It wasn’t my idea to walk at speed but TJ and Klaus were on a mission. For a fraction over two days we raced up and down mountain paths, past Inca ruins and over paving stones trodden by the Incas hundreds of years earlier. We traversed mountain passes, dropped into rainforest where parrots flew and marvelled at waterfalls and glacial lakes. It was a scenic walk and there was something in it for the historians too, but for me it was just far too busy. I was also dismayed at the infrastructure; I had never expected to come across a hostel with restaurant at any point on the Inca Trail, but close to the end of the second day this was what we stumbled upon. We decided to take advantage of the place, just as hundreds of others had, ordering a meal before trekking for a further twenty minutes uphill to nearby ruins that had been turned into a small tented city. Camping spots were at a premium but we managed to squeeze our two little tents between other nylon shelters in garish colours and there we settled down for the night. The following day we arrived at Machu Picchu and, while it was a stunning view from the Sun Gate when the clouds finally parted, the road up to it, the restaurant beside it and the hordes of tourists walking all over it left this traveller wishing for a slice of wilderness. When in countryside, I wanted to be away from people. Cities were places for hustle and bustle. My journey was as much about learning about myself as it was about anything else and I had learned that travelling with the masses was just not my bag. I could tick off Machu Picchu and the Inca Trail but it was a badge I would wear low down my sleeve – controversial, I know! Cuzco was a great place to mix with other travellers, though. Good food was available in restaurants costing a fraction of European prices and there were plenty of bars serving decent beer. The three of us managed to find a room at the same hostel TJ and I had stayed at prior to doing the Inca Trail and we eagerly anticipated New Year’s Eve and the turn of the millennium. Tourists from Lima were arriving by the busload and there was an exciting feel to the place. It was a shame then that I found myself violently ill just thirty hours or so before

the celebrations were due to start. I wanted to be at home. TJ said he’d never seen anyone this sick before and again my reserves were rapidly being depleted. I stayed in bed for much of New Year’s Eve, daring to venture out for something to eat in the early afternoon. TJ and Klaus left to partake in the hostel’s festivities in the early evening and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to sleep as renditions of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ belted out from the rooftop above. At 8pm they informed me they were heading to the main square and I felt I wanted to at least try and walk down there and witness the party, even if I couldn’t involve myself particularly. We were joined by a Finnish friend of theirs, Pasi, who I had briefly met in La Paz and whose friend, Sampo, was sick in bed and would miss out on the celebrations altogether. South Africans and others from England also joined us. It was an amazing evening of revelry and one which will always stay with me, not least because my memories of it were barely clouded by alcohol. I had managed a couple of beers and a little pizza prior to midnight and ventured into the main square with the boys to mingle with the many hundreds if not thousands already there, dancing and celebrating. Firecrackers were set off in huge numbers and Peruvians danced wildly, many without shirts and some without trousers – the men at least. On the stroke of midnight things got even wilder and the atmosphere was fantastic, with no sign of trouble whatsoever. Peruvian girls offered us New Year kisses and the boys would hug us, slapping us on the back in acts of friendship and welcome. Firecrackers continued to explode at our feet and the wild dancing continued. There were attempts at starting a huge conga around the square, while some revellers took to jumping in the fountains, only to be hauled out by the police. Our evening ended with a visit to a nightclub where a combination of techno music and a glass of champagne caused my stomach to complain. We left, stopping for a cup of tea on the way back to our accommodation, viewing pictures on the TV screen of New Year fireworks in Sydney, New York and London. We knew we had just experienced something very special and were happy we had seen in the new millennium in this little part of the world.

Chapter 10 Cuzco–Nazca 4,798 miles cycled

I wasn’t sorry when the time came to leave Cuzco, although my time there had been infinitely enjoyable and memorable, aside from the illness. I bade farewell to TJ and Klaus. The Finnish guys, Pasi and Sampo, then helped me to load my bike on the steep steps outside the hostel as others looked on. It was almost 11am as I cycled up the long hill out of the town, stopping at a welder’s workshop to buy steel for reinforcing my pannier racks but was given it for nothing, the welder telling me it was ‘a present from Cuzco’. There was plenty going on around me to keep me occupied as my legs once again got used to cycling after eight days away from my bike. I descended into a lush, well-worked valley where people toiled in the patchwork of fields beneath the distant mountains, whose white snow-cloaks looked somewhat threadbare. I sat beside the road for a simple lunch and was joined by a lovely Peruvian girl – Sandra – who had walked past once before returning to sit with me. I offered her chocolate and fruit as we sat together, struggling to make conversation with our limited knowledge of each other’s language. She told me I had missed the turn-off for Abancay, some one-and-a-half miles back down the road, and that’s where I headed once my lunch was over. Sandra wished me well as we parted company. A twenty-five-mile descent towards the end of the afternoon helped me achieve a respectable distance for the day and I pitched my tent beside a fastflowing, sediment-laden river in a sultry canyon where sugar cane grew. It was a river I later found out made its way into the Amazon. I had been bitten by dozens of tiny flies even before I had managed to get the tent up and was quickly into long trousers and insect repellent before beginning to boil water for tea. I pieced my stove together and attempted to prime it but the fuel was struggling to get from the bottle to the stove, suggesting there was a blockage somewhere. I sat, taking it to bits, removing the sooty deposits from each piece and resting any cleaned parts in my lap. My peripheral vision picked up something moving close by as I worked. I exclaimed loudly as I realised it was a huge, brightly coloured spider scuttling across the rocky shoreline just below

where I sat – a tarantula, I was sure. It came to a halt, sheltering beneath a rock just two metres from where I sat, making me feel very uncomfortable. I hastened the cleaning of my stove but lost hold of one small piece, which fell onto the rocks, pinging from one onto another before disappearing into a crevice. I had seen roughly where it had gone and maintained visual contact as I stood and stepped forwards. The part was crucial and I had to retrieve it but my spider friend had disappeared from sight and was no doubt hiding somewhere very close to where I was now crouching. I felt very vulnerable in sandals, cautiously peering into crevices, very tentatively lifting stones before finally finding the piece and hastily extracting it. That night I slept in the tent, zips very securely fastened, the air thick and moist with humidity. Rocks beneath my sleeping mat made for an uncomfortable sleep but thankfully it was a spider-free one. I had expected to follow the river through the valley the following day but the road was soon climbing above it. Tiny sandflies again nibbled at me as I crawled along, sweat pouring from me as large, colourful butterflies glided by. Many times I looked ahead in disbelief at the sight of vehicles winding their way yet further upwards, hundreds of metres above me. I was heading roughly west, towards the coast. I had imagined an easy passage, slipping downwards all the way to the sea. The Andes, I was discovering, went on for much longer than the Pennines back home. After around twenty-five miles of continuous climbing, traffic had been brought to a halt by a temporary roadblock and a guy driving a four-wheel-drive left his vehicle to come and join me. We chatted for a short time and he showed a real interest in what I was attempting. ‘I really appreciate what you are doing,’ he told me, and I thanked him for his comments, telling him there were many people back home who considered me ‘mad’. ‘You’re not mad,’ he replied. ‘It’s people like you who give me hope for this world.’ On sloping ground, I pitched my tent that evening, the few flat areas truly sodden. I fixed steel supports to my pannier racks with cable ties and insulation tape before washing. Wrapped in a fleece, waterproofs and a balaclava, I sat taking in my surroundings and eating chocolate, a mug of hot coffee clasped in my hands. Visibility was a little hazy but was still better than it had been all day. I could now see that the grassy mountainside on which I perched fell away in front of me, allowing the most generous of views and the spectacle of a storm developing way in the distance. Mountains whose summits were below my vantage point wore slipped halos of fluffy, white cloud around their necks, while those higher up bore the remnants of earlier snowfall. Frogs around the stream just metres from where I sat gave the occasional croak and birds sang their final, sweet songs of the day. It was so peaceful, so perfect as I sat crosslegged, darkness gradually eating away at the view. I felt incredibly content and

not at all worried that I hadn’t achieved a great distance that day but pleased instead at having conquered the longest continual ascent I had so far ever cycled. Tomorrow would begin with a downhill. I was up before 6am and the view from my tent was truly magnificent – much clearer and sharper than the previous evening after a lightning storm overnight and there was fresh snow on the two nearby mountains. The long, winding descent was often deep with mud, the road weaving through areas of rough grazing and occasional pine forest. I’d had a large helping of porridge and muesli first thing but was ready for a second breakfast when I arrived at a very basic roadside café. The young boy serving told me they had no ‘mermelada’ (marmalade) but they did have eggs. I expectantly placed my order, asking for a cup of tea with my meal. Breakfast arrived swiftly but it wasn’t quite what I thought I had ordered. Placed in front of me was a type of vegetable stew and a mug of what looked like dirty dishwater containing floating lumps, which could never have made it through the perforations in a tea bag. I ate the food, left the drink and paid about 45p plus a tip of around 10p for trying. I bought chocolate and sardines after a climb into the town of Chalhuanca, 2,850 metres above sea level. Here I asked the shopkeeper where I could put a carrier bag full of rubbish I had accumulated and had been carrying on the back of my bike for many miles, having not spotted a single bin as I had cycled through the town. Willingly he took the bag from me, smiling knowingly, and walked across the dirt road, tossing the bag and all its contents into the fastflowing river beyond. He returned with a smug grin on his face – I felt dismayed. Beyond the town of Chalhuanca, the road surface was paved but continued to climb up through a gorge. When I stopped in a little village, some time later, a crowd gathered around me as I climbed back onto my bike and asked me where it was I was going. I told them I was heading for Alaska at least three times but when another person arrived and asked the same question to members of the crowd, it was clear they’d misheard or misunderstood. ‘À Nazca’ (To Nazca, some 280 miles away), replied the spokesperson. I corrected him, pronouncing each syllable very deliberately and clearly, and his mouth opened and eyebrows rose in recognition that this time he understood. He repeated the word to other members of the crowd who ‘oohed and aahed’, smiling at me in adoration as I told them I must go. I clipped back into my pedals and pushed forwards, receiving pats on the back. The climbing continued the following day but more severely than previously and around hairpin after hairpin. I felt like punching the air once the road levelled, convinced that the worst was over. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago I had been in the bottom of a humid canyon where tropical plants and animals abounded. Here the scenery was markedly different. Cold drizzle fell on stunted heathland grasses in a landscape not dissimilar in its appearance to the Scottish Highlands. Fresh snow was once again visible on distant mountains and I was soon longing to be lower down and in warm sunshine. I was wrong to

be optimistic about the road as it undulated initially and then dropped for over five miles, climbing again for a similar distance shortly afterwards. I cycled past tiny dwellings constructed from piles of rock and with thatched roofs, hardly adequate at these temperatures, and I found it difficult to believe that people were still living in such conditions. Lakes where flamingos fed were among the last scenery I witnessed that afternoon as a thick fog descended, depriving me of a view and chilling me to the bone. Visibility was down to just eight or ten metres and I struggled to determine whether the road was taking me up or down. I took a real chance that evening: not able to view the land adjacent to the road, I opted to pitch the tent on the gravelly shoulder. I had almost mown down two locals earlier as they stood on the same shoulder in the fog, presumably waiting for a bus. I only hoped that any passing motorists would stick to the road and avoid doing the same to me. The fact that we were in the mountains was perhaps a blessing – they knew the possible consequences should they deviate too far from the road. I shivered as I put up the tent, burning my stove at one end once I had eaten, partly to warm me up but also to try and burn off the fuel that I believed to be dirty as it kept causing the fuel line to block. On shaking the bottle there sounded to be very little petrol left but on and on it went. I heated water for a luxuriously warm strip wash in the tent, boiled water to purify it for morning and even had warm milk on my cereal for supper. Still it went on and I left it burning in my porch with the zip partially open, hanging up some wet clothes above it to dry out a little. I had decided to try and make it to Nazca the following day, still over a hundred miles away, but the road was brutal, climbing and falling through a freezing mist with great frequency. When the cloud occasionally lifted, the temperature difference was quite marked, the boulder-strewn landscape and patchwork of field systems rather pretty when I was afforded the luxury of a view. The road fell again before I began climbing another long hill and I began to wonder if I had the strength to make it to Nazca that day. I regularly dipped into my handlebar bag for chocolate to fuel me up the gradient. At 12.20pm I arrived at a series of stone-built roadside cottages and a simple restaurant in an empty, weather-beaten, mountain landscape. I walked into the restaurant, a large, high-ceilinged room with the most basic of furnishings, cold in appearance but with a noticeably warmer temperature than outside. A man walked towards me from behind a Formica counter at the rear of the room, offering a handshake in welcome. There were no other customers and the man was happy to talk. He seemed to have complete empathy towards me, as if he had completed the same journey recently, and he sat me down and looked after me, serving me a good plateful of spaghetti with some kind of simple chicken sauce. Even when I asked him how far it was from here to Nazca, his response was with the understanding of a fellow cyclist. Instead of telling me it was fifty or a hundred kilometres, he told me of a five-kilometre

(three-mile) climb from here, and that the road then descended all the way into Nazca. He drew his hand in a downward motion as he spoke and smiled all the time in a way that suggested the descent was something special. He gave no indication of the total distance from this point and I was given no foresight as to the length of the downhill. Even if he had told me I wouldn’t have believed him. I left him a small tip and ventured back outside, setting off in better spirits but at a steadier pace as Inca Kola and spaghetti sloshed about in my bloated stomach. I climbed for a further five miles or so before the road finally levelled out, a little further than the man in the restaurant had suggested. The mist shrouded me once again and I was unable to see more than about twenty metres, believing each tiny downhill to be the start of the massive descent from the Andes, only for the road to gently climb again. I began to slip down yet another hill, my bike quickly picking up momentum. Constantly looking at the distance on my computer readout, I saw the tenths turn into a mile, two miles, five miles. This was surely the one. I sped through dense, wet cloud which soaked me, impaired my vision and caused me to shiver at my handlebars. Icy rain began to fall, peppering my face, making it sting and become taut. My thin, windproof top was soon sodden and clung to my naked arms like oversized skin. I could have dressed up but knew that the temperature just had to increase as I lost altitude. In spite of my discomfort, I burst into song as tired legs became largely redundant, turning the pedals only occasionally to avoid them scraping on the road surface as I banked steeply at speed around the many sharp corners. A cluster of dilapidated, single-storey dwellings materialised through the mist on the outside of one bend, a couple of dogs looking startled as I burst into view. Their reaction was almost immediate and now very familiar to me as powerful legs tensed, claws scratched over loose gravel and ears folded inwards as they quickly got up to speed. Only then did they bark their warning at me. I looked down at my computer, which read 30mph. I had clocked dogs running at no more than 25mph on the Bolivian Altiplano and felt reasonably confident they weren’t going to catch me. Just to make sure, I gave half a dozen or so hard turns on the pedals, looking behind as aerodynamic biting machines raced in vain after me, and taunted them with cries of ‘Come on then!’ I let out a mocking, invincible laugh as I turned to face my direction of travel, leaving them in my wake and bursting into song once again. I was in a great mood. I was heading to a bed for the night. I was heading to a warm desert. I was heading for Alaska and I felt fantastic. I continued to sing at the top of my voice as finally I sped out of the cloud to where large saguaro cacti stood high above brown grasses. Crucifixes littered the roadside, marking the spots where unfortunate motorists had left the road, and I concentrated hard to maintain control of my bike, braking steadily as I approached bends and feeding my pedals to accelerate out of them. My clothes began to dry, my body to warm up.

I passed a number of trucks struggling in the opposite direction, their drivers leaning forwards and offering bewildered smiles, waves and cries from their cabs as I approached them at speed and slipped by. The miles were being plundered – fifteen, twenty, twenty-five … and still the downhill continued. Another truck laboured up the gradient towards me on one of the few long, straight sections. Sitting high on my saddle, my right hand on handlebar and left hand by my side, I flew towards it, searching out the silhouette of the driver in his blackened cab. Detail collected rapidly – his white smile, his dark skin, his happy eyes. We raised our arms together and I saluted him – saluted myself. My fist touching the sky, I smiled broadly back at him. The little South American truck driver pulled hard on a chord on the ceiling of his cab, releasing short, powerful blasts from his air horn, which echoed through the mountains and which I received with childlike excitement. I maintained eye contact with the driver, gradually twisting my upper body as our vehicles approached one another so that my raised arm did not hamper my view of him or his of me. Suddenly, a powerful thud and a bang, the violent upward motion of my handlebars and searing shockwaves through my right hand, which gripped my handlebar tightly. My eyes had been averted from the road and I hadn’t seen the large rock on its surface. My front wheel smashed into it with all the force of a thirty miles per hour and a hundred-and-twentykilogram bike, causing my head to recoil, before being thrown back into position. Somehow, I held on. My left arm was jolted violently upwards, my shoulder dislocating in a wave of burning pain. Ligaments screamed as they stretched, and muscle ripped as the balljoint forced its way free. I screamed in agony, catching a split-second glimpse of the lorry driver through creased eyes, who laughed, embarrassed, at my outlandish greeting. He struggled upwards, oblivious to my predicament, as I fought desperately to control my bike as it plummeted earthwards. Painfully I lowered the arm, drawing in my limp, halfclenched fist level with my right shoulder, as my right hand was left to do the work. I raced downwards. My front tyre and tube had exploded in the impact of the crash and the front wheel shook uncontrollably, the steel rim attacking the deflated tyre as it flapped and reeled from side to side against the tarmac like a trapped animal. Images of me crashing to the ground onto my left hand and smashing the separated bone back through into the damaged muscle and vacant socket had me clinging on in absolute desperation. I couldn’t release my right hand from the handlebars to reposition it, as this would cause my front wheel to flip around, crashing into the frame, and I would be propelled over the handlebars. Braking too hard could result in the same fate. All these things I knew instinctively as I gently squeezed at the front cantilever brake lever from the thumb-hold above, my face distorted with the effort and pain. I felt my body rise forwards as my bike began to slow and I stiffened my right arm between body and handlebars to try and maintain my position and control the violent side-to-side motion of the

front wheel. I kept my eyes on the road, my right arm straining to maintain a course parallel with the white line to one side. I kept the handlebars as straight and as true as I could, tucking the elbow of my damaged arm into the hollow of my stomach in case I took a tumble. My brakes groaned a warbling groan as bike and body shook, the rhythm becoming less violent but more pronounced as my speed decreased. Gently I eased the handlebars to the right, adjusting my body to maintain my balance and struggled into a lay-by, unclipping my feet from my pedals as I slowed down. Like a parachutist coming in for a landing, my right heel touched the floor first, immediately followed by my left, and I jogged a few paces as my bike lost momentum. I stood astride the crossbar and tilted my head heavenwards, closing my eyes. I caught my breath, thankful I had been able to keep my bike upright but despairing at the damage I had caused to my shoulder. A hot flush washed over me. It wasn’t my first shoulder dislocation. I’d had several previously and an operation a few years earlier to try and prevent this from happening again. Below me I could see hairpin bend after hairpin bend winding downwards into the desert dunes with no sign of human habitation in any direction. I pondered my options and came up with only two. I could try and flag down one of the few drivers on the road and ask them to take me to a hospital or I could attempt to make it into Nazca and seek help there. I almost felt too pig-headed to ask for assistance from others, as if it wasn’t in the true spirit of an adventurer. Even if I did manage to flag a vehicle down, I’d then have to try and explain in Spanish that I had dislocated my shoulder and would then need to try and explain what I wanted them to do about it. And what if they drove me back to Cuzco for treatment? The thought of finding myself in a Peruvian hospital was far from appealing anyway. I stood, shaking, gently taking my left elbow in my right hand and feeling sorry for myself. I decided I would try and re-locate my shoulder myself. I took a deep breath, paused, deliberated and made a pathetic attempt at pushing it back into its socket. Ridiculously squeamish, I just wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. A major bone inside my body was not where it should be and I had to get it back. Oh my God, what was I going to do?! I felt pitiful. Exhausted, I lifted my left elbow onto my left handlebar and placed my right elbow on the right handlebar to rest and to try and regain some composure. Leaning forwards slightly, the weight of my upper body naturally fell onto my elbows. In an instant, my dire predicament became a great deal less serious. With an ugly, deep sucking sound the balljoint pushed its way back through muscle as stretched ligaments contracted to pull at it. With a sort of instant, damp ‘pop’ the bone once again nestled in its socket. What a wonderful reunion it was. I felt such a great sense of relief and cried out my thanks. It was as if the shoulder had dislocated just for a bit of a laugh, to see how I would cope. On witnessing my woeful attempts to mend it and my despair at failing, it had seen that the joke was a particularly bad one and had turned soft, going back into its socket of its

own accord. I felt a strange sensation as it went back in, causing my body to shiver. Now that it was in its right place again, I was back up to one and a half arms. It was still loose, very sore and very weak and I would have to be careful, but at least, in time, it should begin to heal. I took a moment to gather myself, laid down my bike and began removing my front tyre and repairing the damaged tube, which took some time with only one fully operational arm. Levering the tyre back on and re-attaching the wheel proved difficult, but I managed. I was conscious that the joint was now incredibly loose and needed very little encouragement to dislocate again. The full length of the arm had been weakened and I was thankful for being right-handed. Thirty miles of downhill was behind me and from my vantage point it appeared there was still much more to come. At any other time I would have been ecstatic but not in my present state. Gingerly I set off again, my left hand on my handlebars, but it was so weak it could only help to steer and to balance my body. If I braked too hard, the weight of my body would push onto my shoulders, causing huge discomfort. At each of the many hairpin bends I was required to slow right down in order to corner and I would let go of my grip with my left hand, using only my front brake, before taking hold again as I pulled away. A little lower down, the road narrowed. The bends were now less severe, but I occasionally had to brake to steer out of the way of the odd oncoming vehicle. I found myself breathing through my nose, jaws gripped to try and conceal the pain. Finally I rolled into Nazca – another town on my trip with another story to tell. My day’s total read 132.2 miles, which included an eventful fifty-five-mile descent. I felt completely drained and when a teenage boy approached me offering accommodation in a hostel, my guidebook stayed in my pannier and I cycled there with him. I paid for two nights in a small, single room after the briefest of inspections. Quite by chance, two Norwegian girls I had first met back in San Pedro de Atacama and who were friends of TJ were there but none of the guys. I had a good chat with them before venturing into the little town for food. Two other familiar faces had arrived at the hostel on my return from eating – Pasi and Sampo (from Finland), who I had last seen waving me off from Cuzco. I had walked past a nightclub earlier, lots of smiling locals queuing to get in, and I had only wished I’d had friends to go along there with. It now appeared I had, and I asked if they’d like to join me for a single beer – I felt I needed a drink to take my mind off my shoulder and the events of the day. Our single beer soon became multiple beers as we chatted and shared stories of the past few days. I was in a terrific mood, my shoulder a little sore but not really troubling me, and an early night was suddenly the last thing on my mind. From our table in the busy little club, I noticed three Peruvian girls looking in our direction and smiling as they seemingly talked about us. With alcohol in my system and several thousand miles of South American cycling under my belt, I was feeling unusually confident. I mentioned to the Finnish guys that we

were being watched and announced that I was going over to introduce myself. Sampo and Pasi turned their heads as I stood to walk over to the girls and were pleased at what they saw, tagging along as I held out my hand in greeting. Sherly, Cyntia and Grace were all from Nazca and seemed pleased at meeting us. I danced with Sherly, we laughed and we attempted conversation although it was largely left to the other girls to translate and help us overcome our language barrier. The following day we all met up again, swimming in the pool of a local hotel where we also ate lunch. Sherly wasn’t sure how her father would react to her seeing a European so that evening we all met just a few doors away from her house at a telephone centre, exchanging addresses before parting company. Sherly was due to travel back to the town of Ica the following day to continue her studies and I was keen to see her again, particularly as Ica was on my route north. I promised to get in touch when I arrived there.

Chapter 11 Nazca–Huaráz 5,241 miles cycled

The friendly cleaner and handyman shook my hand as I wheeled my bike out of the courtyard area of my Nazca hostel. I felt rested and my damaged shoulder was feeling a little less sore, although certain movements reminded me of just how loose it was. The scenery was pretty uninspiring for much of the day, the occasional green of an oasis breaking the monotony of a barren desert. My Finnish friends had taken to the air a couple of days earlier to view the Nazca Lines – a series of giant, ancient biomorphs and geoglyphs etched into the desert floor just to the north of Nazca – but I decided my finances wouldn’t stretch to a tourist plane ride. I always had to ask myself the simple question ‘Will I regret not doing this particular activity later in my life if I miss out on it now?’ when deliberating over such things. This time I decided I probably wouldn’t. Instead I came to a halt fifteen miles from Nazca and climbed the stairs of a viewing tower for free. From here I was able to marvel at three of the patterns – the hands, the tree and the lizard. I was joined on the platform by a tour group who asked questions about my journey and posed for photographs with me. I passed restaurants early on but when I was ready to eat, some time later, there was nothing, only uninhabited desert for a period of over three hours’ cycling. During this time I had to rely on a single mango and a few grapes that I had in a pannier, later stopping to cook porridge beside the road. Close to the end of the day, heavy drizzle fell as I approached the town of Ica. I was soon soaked but my spirits were buoyed as girls through the little town of Santiago and beyond whistled and waved as I cut through the surface water. Property owners dug shallow trenches and spread sand over the puddles that collected in an attempt to stop the water getting into their homes. I arrived in Ica late in the afternoon and immediately went in search of Sherly. She seemed pleased to see me and had even been learning English but was eating and had to go to university that evening. We arranged to meet later. I found a cheap hostel and booked myself in for two nights. Between Sherly’s studies we spent time together, eating cake and drinking coffee, visiting the university’s outdoor swimming pool, playing cards and watching a popular

soap opera with her host family. I was invited to eat with the family on two occasions and felt very welcomed by them. I again felt frustrated when struggling to communicate, particularly when it was just the two of us together and there was so much I wanted to tell her – about my journey, about my life in the UK. All too soon it was time to leave. Outside her home we had a few photographs taken together, arms around one another’s waists. We hugged and briefly kissed and then I was off, knowing it was unlikely I’d ever see her again. For much of that afternoon I thought of Sherly as I continued north. I found myself venturing deeper into the desert, sand snaking across the road in the strong wind, which was once more against me and slowing my progress. I was heading now through real Lawrence of Arabia country: beautiful, wind-sculpted dunes of golden sand slowly on the move. At 6pm I halted to cook a meal and again I longed to have Sherly beside me, cooking for her, looking after her, showing her how I lived at present and having her company, her humour and her hugs in return. I had mastered the challenge of looking after myself and wanted to show her how adept I had become. I continued at 7pm, my first real night riding since my first evening on this continent. My dynamo light whistled as I powered along, illuminating the tarmac immediately ahead of me, the many trucks spoiling the atmosphere and unnerving me. I left the busy road to head back towards the coast and a possible wildlife boat trip the following day. Among the tussocks of grass I found a sandy camping spot, about a hundred metres from the road. The lighting from a fishmeal factory stood out in the blackness to the north, while lights from what I believed to be the town of Paracas could be seen to the west in my direction of travel. I left the tent packed away, making tea and eating chocolate beneath the most beautiful of night skies, still thinking of Sherly as I climbed into my sleeping bag. As I lay on my back, gazing towards the heavens, a shooting star sped across the sky and then silently seemed to explode in a flash of bright white. I woke several times during the night to find myself looking at that magical night canvas and the sky was equally as beautiful as I woke with my alarm at 6am, the sun just creeping above the desert horizon. I cycled into Paracas, booking myself onto a boat trip to the Ballestas Islands, which was pleasant but I found it strangely unrewarding being driven out to sea on a boat with tens of other tourists, having nothing to do but turn my head to view the sea lions, the Humboldt penguins, the boobies and terns. It was all very tame, very touristy, very safe. The road now headed along the coast, past row upon row of buildings housing battery chickens, each one emanating a stench which hung in the hot, still air causing my stomach to turn. I motored on as the road roller-coastered, determined to make up some lost ground after three and a half days of rest this week. I dropped into another green valley where the beautiful, bright colours

and sweet smells of many roadside fruit stalls had my mouth watering. I packed my bags with a mango, a small melon, avocado and grapes, which I stopped to eat just a mile further down the road as I too was made a meal of by tiny sandflies. Into the evening I cycled once again, my dynamo picking out the odd rock and bits of vehicle detritus on the often rough shoulder of the busy road. Even in the absence of the sun my shirt was soaked in sweat and moisture dripped from my brow, stinging my eyes. Damp shorts rubbed like sandpaper at raw sores to the tops of my inner thighs, the agony intensifying with every additional mile. Vicious dogs and lights from nearby housing put me off otherwise promising camping areas. I found three basic pensiones down a darkened dirt street, just a block away from the main highway. I asked two boys, cycling on rusty old bikes, to point me in the direction of the best pensione and went and knocked on its door. Some shrewd negotiations ensued before a deal was struck and I wheeled my bike in, collapsing on my bed before unloading and lighting my stove on a rickety chair to make some porridge and coffee. The pain I had endured during my evening’s cycling was largely forgotten as I rested, 112 miles of pedalling and a two-hour wildlife excursion by boat under my belt for the day. My distance that week was 384 miles, even after a full half week’s rest, and I was understandably pleased. I had estimated at the start of my journey that I’d need to cycle an average of around 380 miles per week for every week I was away in order to be at the Arctic Ocean by early September at the very latest. I still believed this to be the case and at that moment my average was a little over 320 miles – 60 miles down for every week I had been away. I was around a thousand miles short of where I should now be. I felt sure the worst of the roads should be behind me but if I was going to make it to the Arctic Ocean I couldn’t afford many more sub-380-mile weeks. I knew I’d be disappointed if I came to a halt on 379 miles for any week and yet would feel as pleased as punch if I managed even one mile more than those 380, such was my mindset. I had not allowed myself to slip behind further this week and had actually managed a psychological gain of a few miles above my required weekly average. I was sure I could manage much greater weekly distances and may yet make it home in time for my friend’s wedding. My spending for the week pleased me less, just under £100 in total, almost double the £50 per week budget I had set myself for the whole journey, and this pushed my weekly average spend up to over £59 for the journey so far. I gave myself a ticking off and made a mental note for the following weeks – must try harder! Peru’s capital city of Lima stood between me and a safe camping area for the following night and I prepared myself for an assault on its crowded roads with two breakfasts and some careful map-studying. As I left my accommodation in bright sunshine, I realised I had slept just a hundred metres or so from the beautiful blue Pacific and caught sight of the ocean frequently

during my morning’s travel. There were two lanes of traffic in either direction and this spoiled my cycling. I soon turned on my radio to listen to English football coverage from the BBC’s World Service to try and occupy my mind. Numerous beaches caught my eye and four or five dolphins arced out of the water close to one of them. I was sorely tempted to take a break and have a dip myself. ‘If I stop here,’ I had to tell myself, ‘I may not make it beyond Lima before darkness sets in,’ and I reluctantly resisted the cool waters in favour of more hard pedalling beneath a burning sun. I would stop for a swim beyond Lima if time allowed that afternoon. I bought lunch in a basic roadside restaurant, having worked out that such a lunch was both cheaper and more economical with my time than making my own sandwiches at the side of the road. I also found great luxury in eating in these restaurants, regardless of how basic they were. It’s absolutely true that my primitive existence over those past few months had helped me to appreciate the little luxuries in life but I had never expected to find such pleasure in the simple act of sitting on a chair at a table, however rickety they were. I was also out of the sun, beneath a shelter of some sort. Occasionally there would be an electric fan wafting cool air over me or – luxury of all luxuries – air conditioning. I would be waited upon and there’d be a choice of foods on offer and someone else to cook it. I took great pleasure in the opportunity of limited conversation and of people-watching. A meal in a restaurant helped to humanise me again. The traffic got heavier and heavier as Lima neared, four lanes of traffic becoming six. I battled for some time against the choking fumes from cars, buses, lorries and motorbikes, telling myself that the harder I pedalled, the sooner I would be away from all this. I then spotted a taxi up ahead, parked on the shoulder along which I was cycling, blocking my route, and I cursed under my breath at the driver’s stupidity. I looked over my shoulder for a break in the traffic that would allow me to pull out and pass when out of the taxi stepped two passengers who signalled for me to slow down. A man in his twenties and a woman perhaps around my age smiled at me like old friends and I couldn’t help but smile back, though I had no idea of who they might be or of why they were smiling in my direction. ‘Hello!’ the woman cried excitedly and with a soft, Spanish accent. ‘How are you?’ Was she talking to me? ‘Erm, fine thanks’, I replied, bringing my bike to a standstill, unsure why this woman was treating me with such familiarity. ‘I can’t believe you’ve made it this far,’ she told me. ‘You were in Argentina – I saw you in San Martín de los Andes.’ I quickly sifted through my memory, desperately trying to recollect my journey through southern Argentina, but many miles of road had been travelled since then and I could find no recollection of this person or of that place in my

mind. The woman, still smiling, was keen to be on her way, her taxi still parked on the shoulder of this very busy road, and she was quick to offer an invitation. ‘You must come and stay with us. I have a house on the beach here and you’d be made very welcome. You can put your bike in the back of the taxi and we’ll drive you there.’ I had little time to think, little time to make my excuses and continue on my way, which was really what I felt I should be doing. This was all very sudden and unexpected but the thought of a comfortable bed for the night, a swim in the sea in the morning and good company tonight was a real draw. We were blocking a lane of the Panamericana and cars piled up behind us. In the rush to be out of their way I accepted and in no time at all my bike and gear had been placed in the boot of the car and I was being driven through the streets of Lima with complete strangers. As we drove through the backstreets to pick up some ‘grass’ for my hosts, the woman introduced herself and her friend to me. Patricia was an artist from Lima while Javier was an Argentine photographer. We made our way to Patricia’s home, part of a Beverly Hills-style private estate where the two of them smoked as we chatted. They were in awe at the distance I had cycled, Javier having recently caught a bus to Lima from Buenos Aires, a journey which had taken days to complete. I was curious to know just where Patricia had seen me previously and put the question to her. I took out my diary and my map and it soon became apparent that I couldn’t possibly have been the cyclist she had briefly chatted to back in the Lake District region of Argentina, the town in which she thought she’d spoken to me not quite on the route I had taken. She was fascinated to hear my stories nevertheless and adamant that I should stay and enjoy a night out with them. She sent her maid to buy beers which we all chipped in for and asked her to prepare a simple meal of beef, tomatoes, rice and chips just for me, the others happy just to drink. We caught a taxi to the fashionable suburb of Barranco, visiting several bars and a nightclub there. I was somehow manipulated into buying most of the drinks while we were out, Patricia explaining that both she and Javier had very little money. I felt completely trapped, my bike and gear all back at Patricia’s house, knowing that the only way I was going to retrieve them was to stick with these two. As the night wore on, the sense that I was involved in some sort of scam grew ever stronger, as did my anger. As our taxi dropped us back at the house at 4.30am, I made the sarcastic comment, ‘Am I paying again?’, which drew little response and nothing in the way of a contribution from Patricia and Javier. Patricia took me to one side to speak to me as we walked to the house. ‘Thank you for your invitation,’ she said, ‘for buying us beers.’ I was feeling less than charitable and explained again that night that I had very little money myself, feeling angry at Patricia’s choice of words – the ‘invitation’ had been from her. I didn’t like these two for their deviousness and went straight to bed in the upstairs room, the ‘hole in the wall’ window an easy entry point for hungry

mosquitoes, and I was soon running downstairs for my insect repellent as they whistled around my ears. My mind was preoccupied with thoughts of escape as soon as I woke on the Sunday morning. I felt a real sense of regret at having allowed Patricia and Javier to talk me into coming here the previous afternoon. It had cost me financially but it had also cost me time and I had been left with a real sour taste in my mouth and a feeling of having been used. I showered and wrote my diary, debating over whether I should wake the others to say goodbye but Javier was soon awake anyway and together we asked the maid for breakfast, Patricia soon joining us also. Patricia once again thanked me for my ‘invitation’ and insisted I stay for lunch as her way of paying me back a little. She seemed a little embarrassed, perhaps having had time to reflect on how I had been treated, and because of this I accepted her offer. I spent the morning wandering along the nearby beach with Javier and then managing a swim in Patricia’s tiny pool on our return to the house, the litter and surface scum putting me off having a quick dip in the ocean. My departure was much later than I had hoped for – around 2.30pm – and I knew I’d have a lot of cycling to do to get away from this big city. Lunch was good but I hankered for more and when it didn’t arrive, I once again wished I had set on my way sooner. I was still south of the city centre and some distance from the Panamericana, which I had been cycling along the previous day before my unexpected diversion. Patricia suggested I follow the coast road, saying it was more beautiful and safer than the Panamericana and this I did, struggling to find it initially and then failing to see the beauty of it. Sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean and the sprawling city, the road took me right along the beach where thousands of bodies crammed onto the sand beneath the cliffs. They jostled for position at the frayed ocean edge, beneath a turgid cloud of pollution that blotted out the sun. Locals, beach towels under their arms, made mazy runs across the road, dodging four and sometimes six lanes of unforgiving traffic. It was every man for himself. I was soon climbing away from the coast, still very much within the city limits. It was difficult now to know which road to follow, my route taking me through particularly rough-looking areas. Along wide, dirty streets I cycled, rows of fouror five-storey slums to either side. The homes did not have gardens and I weaved in and out of residents’ laundry which hung, drying, across the street. Bare-chested and wearing grubby shorts, dark-haired, muscular youths played football and volleyball between the washing, while others just ‘hung out’, looking hard. I was greeted with cries of derision as I raced past mob after mob, although one group of about eight guys sang and clapped at me as I pedalled nervously by. This made me smile but it was an isolated case on an afternoon during which I struggled to raise any kind of support. I waited until I felt I was out of the worst areas before asking for directions and was soon back on my road again. A policeman directed traffic from the

main highway and onto a short section of rough, gravel road around an area of roadworks. I bumped and crashed along, weaving with a single, steady stream of traffic to avoid the worst of the rocks and ruts. I heard the sound of padding feet racing after me but could not divert my eyes from the appalling road to find the source. I felt something being ripped from my bike and hit my brakes. Placing my feet on the ground, I turned to see a stocky local walking confidently away with my cycle helmet in his hand. He looked over his shoulder in my direction, the sight of his face chilling me. On one side was a terrible scar where his eye should have been. The skin was knotted and raw, gathered together in some ham-fisted attempt at surgery. It was a scar that was almost too grotesque to be real, one which would have been laughable had it been on the set of a low-budget 1950s horror film. His smile was perverse and sinister, as if he knew that his disfigurement would shock me and he gave me ample viewing time. Turning away, he continued to swagger back towards his group of cohorts who sat on wooden railings beside derelict shops, looking on indifferently. He held up the helmet to them like some pathetic trophy and spoke a few words. They looked thoroughly unimpressed. I should have counted my losses and cycled off but my heart raced and I couldn’t bring myself to leave my helmet behind after it had travelled so many thousands of miles with me, looking after me when I needed it to. I glanced towards the policeman who had been directing traffic and who had seen everything. On catching my gaze, he returned to his traffic duties, not wanting to get involved with such a bunch of unsavoury characters over the theft of a battered cycle helmet. I looked pitifully towards the group of helmet thieves, eyes creased in the bright sunshine as beat-up, dust-covered cars continued to roll by. A moment or two passed and I was preparing to cycle away from my beloved helmet when one of the group stood and took it from the thief. He began walking across the dust towards me, looking into my eyes the whole time, a confident half-smile on his face. As he neared me, I wondered what was coming and was relieved as he offered the helmet forwards. I gratefully accepted it back from him. He raised his other hand in a peaceful gesture and I reached out to shake it, nodding slightly and managing a forgiving smile. I thanked him, clipping the helmet back onto my luggage before continuing on my way, the thief’s scarred face burned into my mind’s eye. That image stayed with me for the rest of the day and much longer still. My memories of Lima would not be favourable and I felt I just had to get away from it. Time was pressing on and I wanted to put as much distance as possible between myself and the city before nightfall. I shook as I cycled, desperate to get away from the people, their traffic, the fumes, the maze of streets and buildings but the onset of darkness was very much against me. I stopped for an evening meal of chicken, chips and salad in a burger joint close to the road to save time. As I sat down and began to eat, I noticed a local

guy outside, leaning assuredly against a railing, looking straight at me with a wicked smile on his face. When he knew he’d got my attention, he pointed at my bike, nodding in its direction and then pointing two fingers at his eyes, suggesting he’d run off with my belongings if I didn’t keep a very close watch of them. It was only metres away from me, beyond the restaurant window, and already had one lock securing it, but this had been a bad day and I could take no chances. I walked outside and rummaged through a pannier for a second lock, running it through a couple of my baggage straps and then through the railings, returning inside to hurriedly finish my meal as the guy outside continued to torment me. I cycled on, up a long hill, past a huge town in the desert, shanty housing on its outskirts and ‘Peru 2000’ painted on many of the surrounding, barren hills in giant, white letters. I was soon beyond the town of Ancón and relieved to see darkness beside the road in the distance – no buildings and no adjacent streets. All the while the road hugged the coast. I passed the twinkling lights of a military base and then began looking for somewhere to settle for the night. Immediately to the left, cliffs fell away into the sea, while to the right were high and steep dunes, offering nowhere level to sleep. Complete darkness was soon upon me and I began to feel incredibly vulnerable as heavy lorries thundered by, dangerously close. My front dynamo light now refused to work and my rear light was no longer operational either. I took out my head-torch and strapped it to my head, its pathetic, failing beam soon giving in altogether. Through the darkness, my eyes desperately scanned the landscape for somewhere to rest but the cliffs and the steep dunes continued for mile after mile. Through the beams of traffic headlights, I noticed a police vehicle up ahead, parked on a gravel shoulder beside a bend in the road. My stomach turned and, as I approached, a large searchlight was turned on and directed straight at me. I gently pulled at my brakes and feared I may be in trouble as the policemen called me over. They spent a moment surveying my bike, saying nothing and looking as if they meant business. One of them then spoke. ‘A donde va?’ (Where are you going?) he asked. I gave them my usual spiel. ‘Voy en bicicletta desde Argentina a Alaska’ (I’m cycling from Argentina to Alaska). They looked down at my bike once more before giving me a lecture on how dangerous this particular stretch of road was, with no mention, as far as I could tell, of the fact that my bike was completely void of lights. I nodded in agreement, trying my best to show that I understood the dangers of cycling along this road at night, and offered to call it quits for the day. ‘Donde puedo acampar cerca de aqui?’ (Where can I camp close by?) I asked, hoping they would know of an out- of-the-way spot around the next corner where I could rest for the night.

For ten or fifteen minutes they explained that there were no camping spots along this stretch of road and that the road was no place to be for a cyclist at this time. All this time they tried to get me to put my bike in the back of their police truck but I didn’t want to be driven anywhere. I was trying to cycle from Argentina to Alaska and wasn’t sure just how those back home would react when they found out I had been driven for a very small part of it. I tried to convince the police that I would be fine but eventually had to concede that there was no way they were going to give in; they weren’t going to let me pedal any further that night. My bike and gear were lifted into the back of their truck and the four of us climbed into the cab. The town of Chancay was some twenty-two miles away but the journey was good-natured and the policemen good fun. The man in the back with me pointed at each of his comrades in turn. ‘Mi amigo, mi amigo,’ (My friend, my friend) he said, before pointing at me – ‘mi amigo,’ he said once more. This he did a number of times, leaving me in no doubt as we rolled into Chancay that I now had some new friends. We pulled up outside a very modest-looking hotel and the driver gesticulated that this was where I would be sleeping that night. I was worried that it might be expensive and articulated my concerns. One of the policemen walked across the street and into the hotel, returning moments later to tell me a room for the night would cost me only 20 soles – about £2. We unloaded my gear together and the policemen helped me carry it all upstairs to where I was shown a very basic room. I shook hands and thanked each of them in turn as they returned to work and I began to unpack a few of my things, only to be disturbed moments later by a knock at the door. The guy from reception stood in the corridor and spoke to me in hurried Spanish, but with a smile on his face he signalled for me to follow him. Across the corridor he turned a handle and swung open another door. Looking very pleased with himself, he seemed to be signalling that he was offering me this room in place of my current one. ‘Para mi?’ (For me?) I asked, wanting to make sure I understood. ‘Si,’ the man replied. I stepped in and noted that the room was larger than my current room. It also boasted an en-suite bathroom. ‘Muchas gracias,’ I said, smiling but somewhat baffled. He helped me across the corridor with my bags before handing me toilet paper, soap and a clean towel. Very unusual, I thought, and most unlike many of the budget hotels and hostels I had stayed in so far. My evening improved even further when I opened the door a little later to a further knock. This time a rather smart, tall, middleaged Peruvian man stood in the corridor with his young wife (or was it his daughter?). He was beaming from ear to ear and held a bottle in his hand. From this bottle he poured a glass of wine and handed it to me. I must have looked a little puzzled but thanked him and accepted the glass, sipping at the wine as we talked. He spoke only in Spanish but I was able, I think, to understand most of

what he said and each time he asked a question I managed some sort of answer. He was keen to hear about my trip but it seemed the real reason he came knocking at my door was because he’d heard how I had arrived at the hotel. ‘A friend of the police is a friend of mine,’ he told me, before shaking my hand and leaving me to go out in search of yet more food. A cacophony of noise woke me the following morning and it seemed the whole of Chancay was up before me. Traders shouted at passers-by, car horns sounded, loud music filled the street from all sorts of sources. I tried to sleep again but gave in and was soon heading out into the desert once more, finding the Panamericana, which soon went inland slightly, up and down yet more long hills and through the dunes. Towards the end of the afternoon I came across a sign for Huaráz, somewhere I had decided a week and a half ago I was definitely not going to visit after battling with long, steep mountain roads previously. Huaráz was at an altitude in excess of three thousand metres and here I was close to sea level. It would have been a far easier option to continue north along the Panamericana but the road to Huaráz, which set off and continued for some miles in an easterly direction, would take me to the trekking capital of Peru, a place I had heard numerous travellers talk about with fondness. It would be a nice change from the desert and I turned my handlebars to head east. The negativity surrounding my time in Lima stayed with me for some time and I began to view Peruvians with suspicion, which I found a real shame. I wanted to find somewhere away from prying eyes for the night, where there would be little chance of being found, and decided I would camp at the first suitable spot along this road. Over an hour later I found an area which at least was reasonably out of the way and had water on tap in the form of a concrete irrigation channel. My meal was very poor that night – an instant potato ‘slop’ with bony sardines. My sleep was equally bad, the humidity causing me to kick at my sleeping bag in a sweaty tussle and many mosquitoes forcing me to put up my mosquito net. This was hardly the preparation I needed for what was to be the longest climb of my life and I woke feeling exhausted and with a gurgling stomach in partial daylight at 5.30am. The road climbed very gradually for the first twelve miles or so, too gradually for me to see it but I felt it in my legs. It steepened beyond and the weather became increasingly hot and more humid. Tiny flies chomped at my flesh each time I stopped for breath, forcing me to race to escape them before settling into a more steady rhythm again. The road climbed ever more steeply after I’d had a break for a Coke and an ice cream from a street vendor on his way by bike between villages, and my speed was soon down a further notch as I began to negotiate the first of many hairpin bends. I didn’t want to leave the little restaurant I had chosen to stop at for my lunch as leg muscles twitched and my eyes wanted to close. I wrote my diary for a

while as a woman with a snotty-nosed child constantly ventured into the restaurant in search of leftovers, snatching at any morsels left on plates without checking first with customers that the food wasn’t wanted. I would have happily stayed where I was for the remainder of the afternoon, drinking ‘Kola Real’ and ‘Inca Cola’, eating ‘Sublime’ chocolate and just watching the world go by, but I wanted to be in Huaráz in reasonable time the following day and there I’d allow myself a little rest time perhaps. The road continued to hairpin upwards but as I left the village of Cajacay I was offered words of encouragement and applause by people in the street – encouragement I needed after the helmet incident yesterday. My stomach continued to feel bad and I was forced into making two emergency roadside stops that afternoon. There was still no sign of the uphill ending by late afternoon, after around fifty miles of constant ascent, and rain began to fall. I’d had enough for the day. On coming across a good camping spot, I decided to pitch the tent beside a little stream on grass which had been grazed. I was bothered not by people that night but by a crazed dog that barked incessantly at me from the road. I stood, confrontationally, several times during the evening and each time the dog would run up the road a short distance and out of view, only to return a few moments later to begin its barking once more. Eventually I could take no more and ran at the dog, screaming at it as I did so. The dog looked terrified, turned and fled, never to return. The road climbed relentlessly for another fourteen miles the following morning and it was with great relief that I reached the top. Huaráz was still over fifty miles and two meal stops away and the road I had hoped would fall away constantly into the town instead undulated steeply. There was the occasional pretty village to cycle through, beautiful churches and village squares with the wonderful backdrop of magnificent, snow-capped mountains. Cries of ‘Gringo’ rang out from many doorways and hillsides as I really piled on the speed, arriving in Huaráz in the mid-afternoon. The cycling had been tough but I was thankful I had suffered the climb to make it here after having spent too much time in the desert recently. My stay in Huaráz was brief but worthwhile. I enjoyed a few drinks with other travellers from the hostel that evening, sharing tales of our adventures and offering tips on where to go and what to see. The following morning I wandered around a vibrant market with Mike and Jeanie from the USA and Canada. We marvelled at the foods on offer, from guinea pig to dozens of varieties of potatoes, peanuts and many unrecognisable fruits and vegetables. We had fun with the traders who would tempt us over and do their best to sell us foods we didn’t really want, their infectious personalities and smiles cajoling us into making small purchases and adding to the atmosphere in this colourful, busy and bustling place.

First morning in South America, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina

Thawing road, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina

A favourite camping spot, Argentine Lake District

Around 5000m up, Bolivian Altiplano

Railway line cycling, Bolivia

Christmas Eve 1999. The driver sounded his horn as the train came by, Peru

Press interviews, Trujillo, Peru

Beach camping, Panama

Shanty town living, Costa Rica

Hiding out from bandits, Mexico

Time for reflection, Grand Canyon, USA

The blizzard has passed, Tioga Pass, USA

Over the Arctic Circle, Alaska, USA

Chapter 12 Huaráz–Cuenca 5,815 miles cycled

A trail I had been recommended to take from Huaráz I deemed far too steep and rocky for a man on a heavy touring bike and so it was on a surfaced road that I left the town. The climb here over the previous two days had sapped my strength, every little hill such hard work, and yet I was desperate to camp somewhere beautiful and away from the road. Nine or ten miles out of town, I came upon another track which led steeply to the right, towards the magnificent snow-covered peaks, a sign at the bottom signalling camping, climbing and lakes in that direction. The track initially was steep and rough and almost immediately I was struggling even to push, able to cycle for a mile or two only once the track levelled somewhat. I soon settled for a wonderful camping spot beside a rushing mountain river, among sapling eucalyptus trees and beside a three-metre-high granite rock, which would hide me to a degree from the track. I struggled with my Spanish Dictionary to write a short letter to Sherly by torchlight and then enjoyed relaxing, listening to the tape a friend from home had sent to me in La Paz, unable to resist a dance outside in the darkness. Sounds coming from the opposite bank of the river soon brought my dancing to a halt. I stopped my music and listened, again hearing rustling and what sounded like the occasional rock being thrown, close to where I was. I peered through the darkness, grabbing my torch to scan the bushes, but saw nothing unusual. Spooked, I sought the sanctuary of my tent, where I sat listening for further sounds, my torch now off so as not to draw further attention to myself, more rustling and the occasional ‘thud’ of a rock audible later. Was it just someone trying to scare me? Or was there somebody out there intent on doing me harm? A nylon tent was difficult to defend and offered me virtually no protection against sizeable rocks and not being able to see where it was they were coming from made me nervous and vulnerable. I tried to sleep as the noises stopped, the only sound now the rushing of the river, and I felt safe and snug wrapped in my three sleeping bags, but a spell of sweating and a terrifying dream about being beaten up in Manchester spoiled an otherwise wonderful sleep.

The following morning I weaved carefully back down the bumpy and often muddy track to the road, which soon offered views of Peru’s highest mountain, the magnificent snow-capped Huascarán at 6,798 metres. My favourite scenery for months followed. Occasionally I glided through shady woodland areas, spilling out into bright sunshine where masses of wildflowers crowded the roadside verges. Cattle grazed in lush, green meadows and many more giant mountains came into view, bathed in glorious sunshine, snow defiantly clinging to their summits. I was soon into the magnificent Cañon del Pato, cycling along the narrow ledge of a road that had been blasted out of a sheer rock face which fell away vertiginously into a seemingly bottomless gorge below. My map showed that I was cycling next to a river but it had eroded so far below me that the river was rarely visible. The gravel road clung to the rock face, winding with every millionyear-old meander, taking me through a series of dark, narrow tunnels in which I had to be extremely cautious to avoid banging my head on jagged rock that protruded from the damp walls. My eyes strained to see through the blackness and I took to wearing my head-torch, my dynamo light no longer functional. But my torch was unusually dim and I cursed at the new set of batteries I had bought in Huaráz. Tunnel after tunnel came and went, the occasional car forcing me into the side, and I must have navigated my way through twenty or so before I arrived at the source of my problem. On raising my hand to adjust the strap on my helmet, I brushed across something solid on the side of my face. I removed my sunglasses, feeling a bit daft, and continued with a new-found confidence. My stomach was misbehaving badly. It complained, performed somersaults and gurgled as I cycled. I felt a terrible urge to relieve myself but there was simply nowhere to go. The rock face climbed vertically to my left and fell away just as steeply to my right. As leg muscles turned the pedals in a desperate attempt to get to a toilet, other muscles worked hard to prevent me from embarrassing myself. I came to the point where I could hold off no longer, braking decisively into the narrowest of lay-bys. Around the edge of the lay-by were several large mounds of gravel but on inspection I found the ground behind these mounds to be several hundred metres below. There was no way of being discreet but absolutely no way I could wait any longer. The road down which I had cycled was visible for some fifty metres or so, before it wound out of sight behind a rock face. The road in the direction I was about to travel I could see much further along and I checked in that direction to make sure there were no vehicles approaching. Just to be sure, I cocked my head and listened. Silence. The coast was clear. Quickly, I took down my Lycra shorts, squatted, and effortlessly did what I had to do. The first I knew of the approaching vehicle was the instantaneous sound of its engine and the sudden appearance of its front end from around the rock face above, just fifty metres from where I still squatted. Horrified, I frantically tugged

at my shorts, but my shorts refused to budge, stuck beneath my sandals. The situation rapidly worsened for me with the stark realisation that the vehicle was a bus. The driver took no time in spotting me and alerted his busload of Peruvian passengers with numerous, short blasts on his horn. Sitting forward, his face up to the windscreen, he mocked me as his human cargo stood at their windows in fits of hysteria, my tan only highlighting the dazzling white of my naked nether regions. I desperately stretched at Lycra as the bus passed by but my sandals refused to let go and every single ounce of dignity sailed up into the air with the cloud of dust and diesel fumes from the passing vehicle. As quickly as it had arrived, the bus was gone and I stood in silent contemplation, feeling absolutely mortified. Once in Huallanca, I had to speed past the same busload of Peruvians who had caught me with my trousers down earlier. I looked the other way to avoid making eye contact. I sought a small store to buy crackers, a jar of jam and some bottled water in an attempt to sort out my stomach, horrified at having to pay the same amount as it would have cost me to buy two three-course meals. The road continued close to the Rio Santa, climbing up through dusty little villages, the outskirts of one harbouring a large rubbish tip over which a few children scavenged. Two of them – a young girl and a boy – raced towards me and asked me for ‘un regalo, un regalo’ – a gift, a gift. I initially told them I had nothing to give but then came to a halt, realising I had a very poor pair of cheap sunglasses and an awful cap that I had been handed as a gift earlier on my journey. I produced them from my luggage and called to the children, who came running up the road towards me with expectant wide smiles on their faces. I wasn’t sure what they’d make of my rather naff gifts but the girl immediately donned her hat and the boy stood in the road, feet wide apart and with raised thumbs on outstretched arms in his new sunglasses – adorable! Camping places were non-existent as the road began to drop, and my frustration grew as my descent from these mountains was proving to be almost as slow as the climb had been. Rough and rocky for mile after mile, the road allowed me to travel only slowly and carefully, my pannier racks already in a sorry state. Small houses among terraced fields of little more than rocks and sparse vegetation lined the road. Only the occasional mango plantation offered any sort of cover from prying eyes but the plantations were alongside the road and were undoubtedly owned by somebody who lived nearby and wouldn’t want me camping there. Time was moving on and my far-reaching view down into the valley ahead suggested my predicament was not about to improve. The houses continued. The barren, rocky and steeply sloping valley walls continued too. I finally felt I had little choice but to settle for the best the area had to offer and began to pitch my tent in a terraced mango plantation, just above the road, pegging out the inner tent first on very uneven, stony ground. I stopped, dead, on hearing voices and paused to listen. The voices were some distance away but were coming

from within the plantation. I left my tent-pitching for a moment to search for the source. Creeping over a tumbling wall, I peered through the trees to where two men were standing, talking outside what was either a small house or store. I decided I was sufficient distance away to perhaps go unnoticed but tried to put in pegs with my hands rather than braying them with a rock so that I wouldn’t draw them in my direction with unnecessary banging. Tent up, I unclipped panniers from my dusty bike and began carrying them to my open doors. Angry voices then had me spinning around in trepidation. A ranting old man and a man about half his age confronted me, the elder of the two waving a stick in the air, complaining at me in hurried Spanish. I understood nothing of what he said but could see he really was unhappy with me and decided I should leave. ‘Yo voy,’ I said – I’m going – as the old man continued to voice his anger. ‘Yo voy’, I said again. I began to take my bags from my tent as he persisted with his barrage of abuse, finally catching his breath and allowing the younger man to speak more calmly to me. The younger man seemed friendly, more diplomatic, and appeared to be telling me that I could stay but should have asked their permission first. He led the older man away, allowing me to continue unpacking, the younger man returning minutes later with a peace offering of five mangoes – I only wished my stomach would allow me to eat them. It was soon raining, though not much, and I ate crackers and jam with black tea in the tent, soon running outside to find a suitable place to act as a toilet. My condition was now so bad that I spent close to an hour outside, returning to the tent weak and exhausted. I was into a deep sleep relatively quickly but the sleep was not to last right through the night. I woke with a start to shouts of ‘Gringo!’ from outside my tent. Still half asleep, I struggled to remember where I was and fumbled at my tent zip, only to be blinded by a torch light shining straight into my face as I poked my head beyond the flysheet. A voice rattled on from beyond the light in Spanish, which gave me a first clue as to my whereabouts. The bright light prevented me from seeing the person confronting me or from seeing my surroundings and frantically I trawled through my memory for the previous evening’s events so that I could try and piece together what was happening to me and why. As I searched for some recollection, I half listened to the man who kept repeating the word ‘agua’ (water) in his monologue. I felt embarrassed at not knowing what I was being told and at still having no memory of where I was. I tried to speak to the man to buy a little time while I thought. ‘Tengo agua’ (I have water), I replied, clueless as to what the man was so keen to tell me and just wishing he’d leave me alone and let me sleep. Still the man carried on, banging a stick on the ground and tracing it along shallow channels in the dry earth, again and again. ‘Agua,’ he kept repeating but still I felt puzzled. Slowly my memory returned – the old man and his son; a mango plantation. Yes, this sounded like the old man from the previous evening and as he continued to point his stick at the channels through the dirt, I took it the old man was concerned that the channels would carry any rainwater through my

tent. I looked up at the sky for any sign of an imminent downpour but the stars twinkled above and there were no clouds in sight. I tried to sound concerned, assuming by now that the man had been unable to sleep and wanted to talk to the stranger in his mango plantation. In a final bid to determine if I was in any way likely to get washed away that night, I asked the man, in pigeon Spanish, if I needed to move. He seemed to say no. With that I smiled at the man – or at least at his torch – thanked him, and wished him good night. He wandered off and I was happy to try and sleep again, my watch on the groundsheet of my tent telling me it was only 2.50am. I must have only nodded for a few minutes before I woke, conscious of the sound of flowing water close to the tent – something I had not remembered hearing earlier in the night. On unzipping the tent once more, I noticed water pouring through the adjacent dry-stone wall, which held back the earth from an upper terrace. The water at this point seemed to be flowing around the tent and not into it and so once again I tried to sleep, not wanting to leave my sleeping bag. Still the sound of running water troubled me. I buried my head in my sleeping bag and tried to ignore it but the sound would not go away. I needed to see what was happening beyond the confines of the inner tent and propped myself up on my elbows to open the zip once again. To my dismay, water was now well and truly within the confines of the flysheet and it would surely only be a matter of minutes before it was into the inner tent also. The old man, it seemed, had had the final say, releasing his irrigation water from the confines of its channel to spill out over his orchard and flood my campsite. The bastard had won and I set about quickly packing in the darkness, the old man appearing once more with his torch, exclaiming ‘Mucho agua!’ and laughing like a mad scientist. As I loaded my bike, with the old man smiling triumphantly beside me, I unashamedly abused him in English. The area where my tent had been was a quagmire when I left to tentatively head down the rutted road in the pitch black at 4.17am. I only made it a further mile before deciding it was too dangerous to continue, deep potholes in the twisting gravel road and precipitous drops difficult to see with only my failing head-torch. I rolled out my sleeping mat on an area of sand within a hairpin bend and managed a further hour of shut-eye, waking to a flat tyre which needed to be repaired before I could be on my way again. The gorge widened a little around mid-morning and became a little greener but the wind blew straight up it and it was like cycling through a wind tunnel. I felt sleepy, which helped me to relax in the saddle, and my mind drifted off to my living room at home in the afternoon where I found myself drinking tea with friends. I also visited my sister’s house in my daydreams, picturing myself holding my nephews for the first time. It was only when a truck came bumping by, crammed with dark Peruvian faces, that I was thrown from my dreamworld and back into reality, reminded of where I was.

I had hoped to make it to the town of Santa that evening and to a hostel for the night, but the headwind and the bumpy road slowed my progress. I arrived in the town of Vinzos on the banks of a wide, braided river, exhausted and dehydrated. As I searched for somewhere to buy a drink, I was called over by a shopkeeper, Victor, keen to find out about my cycle ride. He told me I still had twenty miles to cycle to Santa and I knew I wouldn’t make it there that evening. I explained I needed a room for the night and asked if he knew of anywhere. Without hesitation, he offered me a place to stay there. His friend, Jhon, helped me in with my bike and I was shown a space on the dusty garage floor where I could lay my sleeping mat. I showered and changed my clothes, then joined Victor and Jhon in the living room, which also doubled as a shop and waiting area for the public phone. Many customers came and went but I was always the centre of attention, particularly when two girls arrived, telling me they loved my blue eyes. Victor would speak incredibly fast, Jhon more sympathetically. I enjoyed a beer I bought from the fridge and the chat we shared over a meal cooked by Victor but I was soon too exhausted to keep my eyes open and had to excuse myself to sleep. A queue of spectators arrived at the shop the following morning as I phoned my Mum and Dad for a welcome chat for the first time in over three weeks. I said goodbye to Victor and his wife and to the customers waiting for the phone, who watched me depart up the bumpy road away from town. Way back in Punta Arenas in Chile, I had been given an address in the coastal town of Trujillo by a couple of French cyclists, Vivienne and Michel. The address was that of a local cyclist who welcomed long-distance cyclists into his home for free. I struggled to find the address but once there I was warmly greeted by Lucho and his nephew, Victor. To the front of the house was a very small workshop and counter, Lucho’s home doubling up as a cycle-repair business. Upstairs, on the flat roof, was more living space in the form of concrete-walled rooms with open doorways. I was shown one of these empty rooms, where I was able to lay my sleeping mat. Returning downstairs, I sat with Lucho and was shown photographs of previous guests before being introduced to another, Darwin, a Quechuan cyclist aiming to be the first Peruvian to cycle the length of the Americas. Because of Darwin’s claim, and because of my own quest of cycling to Alaska, it was decided the press might be interested in talking to us. Lucho and Darwin wrote a press release and we spent some time over the next couple of days distributing copies of this around the local television, radio and newspaper companies. Together we made repairs to my bike and Lucho helped me find a steel fabricator where I could get two new pannier racks made. We ate well and I enjoyed my early-morning forays to the local market, where I would buy bread and lots of fruit for our breakfasts, and ingredients so that I could cook evening meals for everyone in return for my free accommodation. On my first venture to the market I returned to the house with ten large bread cakes, a kilo of

strawberries, ten large bananas and two plump, ripe avocados, all for under 80p. Breakfasting in Trujillo was a real treat. I ventured into the town one evening with Lucho, Victor and Lucho’s friend, to play football but we were soon joined by around ten others, all good at football and all keen to show off. We split into teams and I struggled to run on a slippery concrete surface. The four of us were the worst players on the pitch by far. Two days later we returned to the steel fabricators and I was left perplexed at being handed two brand-new steel pannier racks, one of which exactly matched the badly damaged original one. The fabricator had gone to the trouble of cutting and bending the new rack in exactly the same places as the old rack had been bent, snapped and mangled by my many crashes. It was left to Lucho to explain once more what was required. I had created a further job for myself. On my third day in Trujillo I couldn’t find my debit and credit card. I searched every piece of luggage and in every pocket of every item of clothing. Nothing. I spent much of the morning searching, wracking my brain to try and determine where I had last seen them. I decided I must have left them at my accommodation in Huaráz but I was unable to remember the name of the hostel to give them a call and there was little chance they’d still be there anyway. I then struggled to contact my bank to cancel the cards and emailed my Mum to advise her that new ones would be sent to my UK address, telling her I’d be in touch with a forwarding address once I had one to give her. I cashed a few traveller’s cheques to see me through. I didn’t know it yet, but losing these cards would shape the next few months of my journey. On my penultimate night in Trujillo, it was suggested we visit a nightclub. Darwin was particularly keen as he’d never visited a nightclub before. I looked forward to having a dance and chatting with some local girls but as we walked down the street where the nightclubs were located, I began to feel the evening was not perhaps going to pan out as I had pictured. Neon lights flashed beside doorways and girls in skimpy clothing stood beside solemn-faced doormen, waving their fingers suggestively in our direction in an attempt to coax us in. It was left to Darwin and Lucho to choose which of these doorways we would walk through, several nightclubs all vying for our business, and once inside my disappointment was only heightened. Three girls dressed coquettishly immediately came to join us, sitting with us and playfully placing their hands on our thighs and taking our hands in theirs. They repeatedly asked us to buy them expensive drinks and in turn would take to the tiny dance floor where they slowly undressed, gyrating to the music. The only girls in the entire place were employed by the nightclub to extract money from the men and repeatedly I had to tell them I didn’t have any money to spare. While Darwin, in particular, revelled at the attention he was receiving, I just longed for the company of Sherly. I was glad when it was decided it was time for us to leave.

Our press release had worked and on the day of our departure from Trujillo the press turned up in numbers to interview, film and photograph us. We had already appeared on TV the previous evening and, here in the main square, reporters took it in turn to once more ask questions. Speaking only Spanish, my interviews were always short and frustrating, both for myself and the interviewer, but it was Darwin and his hand-built bike that were the star attractions. Cameramen pored over the sleek red frame of his seemingly brand-new mountain bike and Darwin beamed at the cameras as he told his story in Spanish. With Lucho, Victor and Lucho’s brother, Lobsan, we lined up one final time for the cameras, wheels rolling as camera lenses pointed in our direction and followed us from the main square. With the cameras now gone, we were soon into the burning desert, racing along at high speed, Lucho and Victor leading the way as Lobsan turned back to attend university. My bike was by far the heaviest, Darwin somehow only travelling with a small rucksack on his back, but I was determined to try and keep up with the two light racing bikes, never losing sight of them as we hammered out the first sixty-three miles at an average speed of just under 18mph. Sweat poured from my brow, stinging my eyes. We spent the night at the house of a friend of Lucho’s, eating in a basic restaurant where I was happy to foot the bill in recognition of the hospitality I had received over the last five days. The following day we cycled back to the Panamericana as a group of four before we hugged Lucho and Victor as they began their journey back home. For Darwin and I it was a chance to cycle together as a team of two for the first time. If we were going to achieve our goal, we still had many thousands of miles of road ahead of us. Our pace wasn’t as frenetic as the previous day but the smooth road surface allowed us to cruise at 16 or 17mph. Through the scorching desert we cycled, soon passing through a China-like landscape of paddy fields and lush vegetation and along a road where other cyclists on heavy work bikes pottered along. Lucho had handed the press a time schedule which we were expected to follow for the next few days. We were back into desert as we cycled into the darkness that evening, finding a place to roll out our sleeping bags on hard, dry ground away from the road. Mosquitoes bothered us and a local who looked on as we packed the following morning warned us that a tiny scorpion which had just danced across my sleeping mat was dangerous. Darwin jumped across and trampled it to death. He had seemed very nervous at sleeping out in the open the previous evening. Our third day together saw us cycling over 126 miles. The temperature nudged 40 degrees Celsius and services were limited through the baking, featureless and largely flat Desíerto de Sechura. I had a ‘Dead Sea experience’ mid-morning, stopping to bathe in an excavated saline pool beside the road, the high salt content making me particularly buoyant. Lorry drivers flashed their

lights and waved at us in greeting, and a police patrol car slowed down to tell us we’d been on TV the night before. It was difficult to tell if other drivers who waved had also seen us on the television as right the way through this continent I had often been encouraged in similar fashion. In the early afternoon we came to a halt at a timber restaurant in the middle of nowhere. Dehydrated and tired of drinking bath-warm water, we bought a large, chilled, sugary bottle of pop between us, which we consumed at a table on the rickety veranda outside. A swarm of bees happily joined us for our break, teeming over my arms, legs and head and crawling into the gap between the arch of my feet and my sandals, which I found excruciatingly uncomfortable. I’d frequently tense up, sure that at any moment I would be stung. The restaurant owner joined us outside and chatted with Darwin, the two of them completely unperturbed as the huge squadron of insects landed and taxied over our bodies, their constant drone menacing and unnerving. I was pleased when we were finally on our way again, weak at first but finding renewed strength a little later, only to double over my handlebars, frail and shaking, as we approached 120 miles once more. Desperate for food, we stopped for a hamburger before making our way to the home of yet more friends of Lucho’s in the town of Piura, where we were given more food and offered space on the garage floor to sleep. When I had questioned Darwin on where he’d slept in Patagonia, in the far south of this continent, he told me he’d found sports halls or police stations. The little bag he was carrying was all he’d ever carried, he told me, but for me his story just didn’t weigh up. The landscape in Patagonia was often void of buildings. He couldn’t have found a police station or sports hall every night because they simply didn’t exist for hundreds or even thousands of miles, certainly along the route I had taken. Sleeping under the stars would have been the only option for Darwin, who was travelling without a tent and without any warm clothing as far as I could tell, and yet sleeping in the desert during our time together had truly unnerved him and he seemed very uncomfortable there. On our arrival in the town of Talara at 6.30pm the next day, Darwin decided we should find the police station and sweet-talk them into letting us sleep there. For me, I was happiest away from the towns but I decided a night in a police station would make a good story. After following directions there, things initially looked promising, the commissioner telling us he’d phone around to find us a free bed for the night. Time passed, the wooden bench I was sitting on became less and less comfortable and I was soon as up to date with my diary as I could be. I became restless. We had been joined on our bench by a guy from Talara – Walter – who chatted with us, suggesting we should all head out for something to eat. The food was good and relatively filling but Walter decided he would let the ‘rich’ Gringo pay for the meals, which annoyed me hugely. I barely spoke to him on the way back to the police station where we continued to wait for something – anything – to happen. Darwin phoned his friend and soon passed the phone over to the policeman at the front desk so they could share a joke

and a laugh, and he then called me up to the desk, inviting me to speak a few words before he continued his conversation with his friend in Spanish. At 10.30 we were finally handed a couple of camp beds and shown an office where we could spend the night. I strip-washed in the bathroom – no running water for a shower – and then tied up my mosquito net from an electrical cable above my bed, a TV beyond the hatch close by blaring but not preventing me from soon falling asleep. I had liked the idea of cycling with Darwin when it was first suggested but after months of being largely alone I was struggling to share my journey with another person. Darwin was beginning to annoy me a little. He had perhaps around a fifth of what I was carrying and yet every morning I’d find myself waiting for him to pack. What little gear he carried had to be packed in a very particular way, rolled perfectly, everything tied on in a certain way, and even the patterns on his water bottles had to all face the same direction. On a few occasions when we cycled through towns, we were invited to drink chicha – a rather nasty-tasting liquor – by locals and in another town we were invited for coconuts in a local’s garden. Darwin would revel in the attention, chatting in Spanish and laughing and joking as I was largely ignored. Darwin used his lack of equipment as an excuse for not sleeping in the desert and instead we’d hunt for free accommodation which began to prove unsuccessful, forcing us to spend money neither of us really had. We’d also eat in restaurants when staying in towns and Darwin had begun to take me for granted, expecting me to pay the bill each time. My patience was beginning to wear thin. Beyond the town of Máncora, where Darwin had his first-ever swim in the sea, the ocean was never far from us for several hours. The sand beaches were close to white in colour, the sea a shimmering turquoise, and when one of four punctures in a day occurred beside one such beach, I was allowed to go for a quick swim. Dozens of red crabs fled in different directions as I walked across the sand, falling into the cool, clear waters and gliding beneath the surface just for a couple of wonderful minutes. We pedalled through several rickety towns along the coast, fishing boats bobbing close to the shore, arriving at the border town of Tumbes late one afternoon. After a swim in the public pool, we viewed several hostels, eventually returning to the first one we’d visited which had been the cheapest of the lot. We were led up a dark stairway and onto a landing where the owner fiddled at a lock with a jumble of keys. He swung open the door and reached in for a light switch without entering the room himself. Inside, a single, dim bulb hung from a high, heavily watermarked polystyrene-tiled ceiling which looked ready to give up the fight, barely clinging on. In the centre of the room were two single beds with little room between them and just enough space to walk around the outside. There were no windows to the room and a door led to a squalid bathroom housing a shower, toilet and sink. Again, there were no windows. It was not

pretty but at less than £2 each what could we expect? It was only for one night and we would make do. I lit my stove to cook spaghetti and boil water for tea and coffee, wearing just my shorts. The humidity was already high and the boiling of water caused the room temperature and humidity to rise even further. Sweat poured from me as I cooked and continued to do so as I ate hot food and drank hot drinks. We had to leave the room once we’d finished, walking to the main square for some fresh air and to phone Lucho, before returning to our tiny sweat box where I wrote some of my diary, laying on my bed and staring up at the depressing watermarked ceiling. The night that followed was one of the worst I had so far experienced on the trip. I suffered the mosquitoes for a few hours before finally rummaging for my mosquito net, which I tied above my bed. This reduced the already non-existent airflow even further and I lay on top of the bed, soaking my silk-liner with sweat as the heat seemed to become more and more oppressive. I showered in darkness the following morning, the bathroom light not working, and we then cooked porridge in our room, glad to be leaving soon after 8am. Darwin had arranged with his family for more money to be sent to an office in Tumbes to enable him to continue his journey and this is where we spent yet more precious time as first he was told that no money had arrived for him and then spent time speaking with his family. When Darwin came off the phone, it was clear he was going no further. For some reason, the money he needed to continue was no longer available to him. He told me of his plans to return home by bus and to catch a flight to Panama, where he seemed desperate to meet up with me again. We cycled the short distance to the border, through Aguas Verde and into Ecuador together, experiencing no problems at Immigration. Just half a mile or so into Ecuador, we said goodbye at the side of the road, Darwin shedding a tear. I watched, briefly, as my companion turned tail. Alone once more, I pedalled north. I felt grateful for having met Darwin and hoped we could at least cycle together again for a day or two at some point in the near future. He was a lovely, gentle and well-meaning guy. For now, though, I was happy to be alone and cycled at my own pace, soon stopping for a bag of tortillas and an orange juice without having to worry about what anybody else wanted to do or whether I might have to foot their bill. I was now in my final country before Colombia and still hadn’t made my mind up as to whether I would be cycling through that country or not. In 1999, Colombia was a dangerous place. I’d have felt more comfortable having a Spanish speaker with me, able – perhaps – to talk our way out of any difficult situations. That little luxury was now gone. The scenery was so enjoyable for a time and I found it difficult to comprehend the difference in vegetation and topography almost in the space of a border crossing. Tropical birdsong rang out from the lush foliage and a snake slithered rapidly across the smooth road to escape my tyres. Spirits high, I made good progress, enjoying my surroundings and that freedom-feeling once again.

Even my tyres sounded happy, humming sweetly at the passing of the miles. But all good things come to an end, and the Panamericana deteriorated as I entered a huge area of Dole banana plantations. The difference in my surroundings, in the condition of the road and in my mood was almost immediate. For mile upon mile of potholed road, the monoculture continued. Thousands of rows of the same type of tree ran perpendicular to the road on both sides, blue plastic bags protecting millions of fists of bananas as they hung, ripening, in the sunshine. The air fell silent, the birdsong ceased and I was left to find my own entertainment as the miles laboriously clicked by. Eventually I was able to turn right, towards Cuenca, along a gravel road and into the small town of Pasaje, home no doubt to many of Dole’s workforce. A group of hombres eyed me as I searched out what was available to buy from a food stall. They continued to eye me as I returned to my bike. In vests and Tshirts, they passively looked on, occasionally murmuring to one another but never removing their stare from me. Unsure of their intentions, I felt just a little nervous but stood beside my bike, munching at chocolate and greedily gulping at my drink. I wanted to appear confident. One of them said no more than a few words to the shopkeeper and reached over from where he sat to grab a bunch of bananas. He stood up and walked over to me, handing me the bananas. I had been half expecting trouble but instead appeared to have been given a gift. ‘Para mi?’ (For me?), I asked. ‘Si,’ replied the hombre, with a slight nod of his head, refusing or just too laid-back to crack a smile. ‘Gracias,’ I said, breaking a banana from the bunch and packing the others in a front pannier. I peeled the banana and began to eat it to demonstrate my gratitude as the hombre silently gave my bike a phlegmatic once-over. ‘A donde va?’ (Where are you going?), he asked, flicking his head in the direction of the road. ‘Voy a Alaska’ (I’m going to Alaska), I replied, obtaining no response and no reaction from the hombre. ‘Pero ahora voy a Cuenca’ (But now I’m going to Cuenca). He raised his head again in silent acknowledgement and continued to study my bike. ‘A donde va?’ (Where is he going?), questioned his friends, still sitting in the shade. ‘A Cuenca,’ replied the hombre, with no reference to my final destination. The real hills now started and the air here was so thick and moist I almost had to chew on it to breathe. It was hot and I sweated buckets, moisture not able to evaporate from my skin in the near hundred per cent humidity. After months in dry deserts and up at altitude, there was a real contrast in my surroundings here. Away now from the banana plantations, the vegetation was again dense, the scenery much more to my liking than of late, the road passing over several rivers where women, in close proximity to one another, washed brightly coloured clothes and laid them out to dry on dark rocks. I constantly

looked for signs that the vegetation might be thinning out as I climbed, in the hope that I’d be able to camp tonight, but I saw few places where I might lay my sleeping bag. Plant life abounded, hundreds of species competing for nutrients and for light, any vacated spaces quickly inhabited by the opportunists. At almost 6pm, I approached a tiny house on the roadside. It would be dark soon and my chances of sighting a camping spot then would be even more remote. Outside his little home, separated from the road by a small, flat area of ground, sat a man. I gave him a smile and did my best to look exhausted, unsure as yet of the possibilities. A friendly ‘Ola’ from him prompted me to ask where the nearest hostel was as I came to a halt. The man thought momentarily before replying. ‘Tres horas’ (Three hours), he said, pointing up the road. ‘Tres horas?’ I repeated, just to make sure I had heard him correctly. The man nodded. ‘Si.’ I must have looked concerned. ‘Puedo acampar cerca de aqui?’ (Can I camp close to here?), I asked. I had hoped he might let me camp on the area of ground in front of his house. It was only small and right on the roadside but had been the only area of vacant flat ground I had seen in hours. The man barely paused for thought, extending his arm in the direction of his front door. He said something in Spanish and I managed to pick out the word ‘sleep’ in there somewhere. He seemed to be offering me a bed for the night in his home but I wasn’t entirely sure. The conversation continued in very simple Spanish and I had to repeat parts of each of his sentences just to make sure I was on the right tracks. ‘I can camp here?’ I asked, not wanting to push my luck. ‘You can sleep here, in my house,’ the man told me, or words to that effect. ‘I can sleep in your house?’ I questioned, rather taken aback at this man’s hospitality. ‘Yes.’ ‘It’s OK?’ ‘Yes. Yes.’ A young boy came to the door and greeted me with an excited smile as the man led me into his house. I was shown a corner of the single-roomed dwelling where I was able to prop my bike against one of the four external walls. The man showed me an area of floor where I would be able to lay out my sleeping mat. The floor was of dirt and the walls just bare brick and crude mortar. The roof was a sheet of the ubiquitous corrugated steel. In one corner was a platform of wooden planks raised above the dirt floor on two piles of bricks and upon the planks was some bedding. In another corner was the kitchen comprising a single, beaten cupboard unit on which stood a one-ring burner stove fed by a gas canister. On a rickety shelf above the cooker were a couple of cooking pots, two or three cups, odd dishes, some cutlery, vegetables and a few food containers. There were no other doors to the building apart from the

one I had used to enter the room. Some simple farming tools stood in one corner and a few items of clothing hung from nails driven into a plank on the wall. There had once been a window in the front wall of the house but this had been filled with breeze blocks and mortar. The man seemed neither excited nor nervous at having invited me into his home for the night. In Spanish, I introduced myself and explained that I was cycling from Argentina to Alaska for charity. The man offered an understanding nod but no smile. He told me his name was Felix and the boy was Gabriel. I felt incredibly dirty, my clothes soaked in sweat after miles of undulating and then climbing road in extremely hot and humid conditions. I asked if I could wash. ‘Si,’ Felix replied, turning to Gabriel and giving him instructions. Felix, I’m sure, specifically used the words ‘el baño’ (the bathroom) when speaking to Gabriel and I felt optimistic at my prospect of having a shower. I gathered my wash things and a change of clothes and followed Gabriel who had waited for me by the door. Everything was such a mystery in South America. My limited Spanish did not allow me to ask where I was going and exactly why we were going there as we walked back down the road and I had to put my trust in Gabriel as I had in many others during the last four and a half months. Gabriel was a lovely kid. He chatted with me with the same kind of trust his father had shown but with rather more excitement. I understood little of what he said but warmed to his enthusiasm and did my best to make conversation – ‘it’s very beautiful here’, ‘it’s very hot’, ‘how old are you?’ and so on. We crossed the road about a hundred metres from the house and Gabriel led me along a short path through brilliant green vegetation a little over head height, still chattering away. We came to a halt where a small waterfall tumbled down over a slab of moss-carpeted rock and into a sparkling plunge pool. A short length of plastic guttering, supported on wooden stilts, carried water out from the face of this waterfall and spilled it into shallow water on the fringe of the splash pool. ‘El baño!’ Gabriel declared, very proudly, looking for my reaction. It seemed I would be bathing al fresco once again this evening. Gabriel sat on a rock close by as I took off my shirt. I wasn’t used to such scrutiny as I showered and I left on my cycling shorts initially, hoping Gabriel would leave me in peace for a few minutes to give myself a thorough clean. It soon became apparent that the young boy was there for the duration and he continued to talk as I got lathered up. He seemed very comfortable with the situation and I told myself to stop being such a prude. This was not a place with bathrooms and locking doors and I felt sure he was used to showering here with his father. I took off my shorts, quickly washed, dried and put on clean jeans and a T-shirt, allowing Gabriel to lead me back to the house. Felix was preparing potatoes outside and asked me if I’d like to eat. I felt a little embarrassed at taking their food but decided I would pay them a little in

return. I sat with Felix and helped peel potatoes as Gabriel continued to speak with me. The dining table, inside the house, was a large, circular offcut of tree trunk which had been placed directly onto the dirt floor. Three smaller offcuts acted as dining chairs. We all sat together for a very modest and yet extremely filling meal of potato, pasta and coriander soup and I then shared a packet of biscuits and some tea I had with me – I handed Felix the equivalent of about 70p, which he accepted with a gentle nod. Before I wrote my diary that evening, I took out my little radio and turned it on. Gabriel came and sat right beside me, his face beaming at the sound emanating from this tiny box. I turned at the dial until I had found a station playing Latin American music and Gabriel could barely contain himself. He turned from the radio and looked excitedly up to his father who had stepped a little closer. Felix, I had found, was a man who showed little emotion, but who was clearly a proud man and a wonderful father. I was very aware that I was introducing his child to something new and exciting and suddenly felt a little ashamed. I knew of the pressures parents faced in my own country from children wanting the latest toys, games and electronic gadgets and I didn’t want to introduce any such pressures here. I opted to let Felix decide whether his son should listen to the radio and held it out to him. Felix stepped forward to take it from me. I showed him the simple controls and took out my diary, which I wrote as Felix sat with my radio playing in both his hands, staring at it very contentedly, Gabriel beside him. I dreamt someone was stealing my bike during the night and tore at my mosquito net, waking myself. The uneven, stony ground woke me several times as I struggled to get comfortable and I heard rain on the tin roof each time I woke. The sound of the cockerel woke us all around 7:15 and we breakfasted on rice and vegetables and some sort of sweet corn tea. I offered a little money once again. I shook hands with my lovely hosts and set off upwards on what was to be one of my most torturous days so far, my aim to arrive in Cuenca that afternoon, some 2,000 metres above my present position. It had rained overnight and the regular gravel sections had turned to mud. The occupants of a broken-down bus spilled out onto the road, applauding me as I cycled by and they then hung out of their windows to applaud once more as they came past me on a particularly steep section of road, their bus now repaired. I hated that afternoon. It rained as the road climbed and climbed into dense, swirling cloud. Visibility was extremely poor. My front brake cable snapped and my rear brake pads were meant for a ceramic rim and not the rim I now had on, which meant that I couldn’t allow myself to speed even when I did hit a very occasional downhill for fear of not being able to stop quickly. The road was busy and often composed of bad, bumpy gravel. For a couple of hours I had no idea of the landscape around me and no idea of when the climb might end, but on and on it went. I watched the disappearing

tail lights of passing cars through the thick mist as the miles clicked agonisingly by in the hope that I’d see them begin to drop downwards before being swallowed up by the murk. The lights just kept on climbing. Eventually, late in the afternoon, and just as I was contemplating packing it in and pitching the tent, the road evened out. I was soon out of the mist and into wide-pastured farmland. The scenery was soon resembling the English Lake District – enclosed valleys with rough grazing, copses of pine and eucalyptus trees and a lovely river in no real rush to get anywhere. The houses which dotted the hillsides resembled Swiss chalets and were far bigger than those in Peru. The road descended, ever so slightly, and conditions were just perfect for cycling. I had soon forgotten about the hideous climb that had brought me here and as the sun began to set, bathing everything in its wonderful, golden light, things couldn’t have been much better. It was dark when I arrived in Cuenca at 7.15pm and I was in the reception area of the Hotel Paris ten minutes later. As was now customary, particularly since losing my bank cards, I feared the worst when asking the price of a single room for the night but hoped for the best. I was told there were only double rooms available and I held my breath as I was told the price. The exchange rate in Ecuador was mind-boggling (I changed US$65 for the local currency the following day and was handed over 1.5 million sucres in 10,000 sucre notes) and the receptionist had to help me a little as I struggled with my maths. ‘It’s just over two dollars,’ he told me – around £1.35. I made my way to my room and was delirious with excitement on finding a large double bed and colour TV in the carpeted bedroom, which boasted an ensuite bathroom with hot water, soap and toilet paper. The room charge also included a complimentary breakfast in the morning. I quickly showered, put on damp, smelly clothes and walked out into the night in search of a restaurant. I walked by a young local guy shouting to demand money from me in an unlit area. I hastened my pace as he continued to shout after me, ‘F*ck you, son of a bitch,’ in a very poor English accent. I ran off when I noticed his hand in his Tshirt as though he was holding some kind of weapon. Apart from this isolated incident, I enjoyed my short stay in this beautiful colonial city. I was once again ill but it didn’t stop me eating what I fancied and, on the way back to my hotel from restaurants, I would buy ice creams and chocolates. I was just missing some company.

Chapter 13 Cuenca–Quito 6,697 miles cycled

I

bounced along the cobbled streets and out of the beautiful small city of Cuenca, gently descending through the valley beside a rushing river for an hour or so before the road climbed into cold, damp fog for many miles. I didn’t feel well rested and considered finding a hostel early on. Lucho’s friends had told me of robberies in Ecuador and had warned me of camping here. I was advised to cycle in daylight hours only and to find myself accommodation each evening. Lucho told me of a couple who had stayed at his house, robbed at gunpoint when camping in the Ecuadorian countryside at night. Everything was taken from them apart from the underwear they were wearing. It would be foolish to camp in a country where accommodation was so ridiculously cheap and where the dangers were so great. Inflation was preposterously high in Ecuador at the time of my visit and people were desperate. In the town of El Tamba, I’d had enough for the day and asked at a market stall if they knew of anywhere I might find a room for the night. Stallholders and customers were all keen to help and all seemed to be in agreement that my best chance of finding accommodation was at an hosteria further along the road. I wasn’t told how much further I’d have to cycle so asked another woman just five hundred metres further along. Around three miles, she told me. Two miles later, I passed more people and asked again, just to be sure, but here I was told there was nothing further down the road and that I’d have to cycle back to El Tamba. I wasn’t happy but refused to go back. I continued, not feeling optimistic, and I found nothing. It was getting late, I was back into wet fog and I was tired and fearful of cycling in the dark. With little choice, I began looking for safe places to camp. Out of the mist, figures would appear at the roadside, some appearing friendly, some more menacing. Their long, tied hair and pudding-bowl hats were different to anything I had so far seen in South America. I spotted a track leading off to the right and quickly raced down it, pitching the tent just twenty metres from the road and beside a row of bushes, the vegetation and the thick mist concealing me from prying eyes. I locked my bike well and covered it in branches. With very little water and no stream nearby, cooking was not an option but such an

activity might have signalled my presence here anyway. Instead,I ate porridge oats with cold milk, got my head down and hoped for an uneventful night and an early start in the morning. I slept well, woke early and then managed a further half an hour’s sleep, packing quickly but never feeling threatened, even though one or two people were now in my vicinity, herding cattle. The low cloud, which had enveloped my tent the previous evening, had now cleared and the sun was beginning to shine on the magnificent bowl-like valley below me. It was cold – something I hadn’t expected this close to the equator – and a chilly wind whipped around me as I began a three-and-a-half-mile descent into the small town of Zhud, where I ordered a ‘large’ breakfast in a basic restaurant but was left unsatisfied. The mountainous terrain meant another day of slow progress, of steep ascents followed by steep descents and little in between. Ailing brakes and a threadbare tyre meant once again I couldn’t catch up even on the downhills and it was another day of slow and frustrating cycling. In the town of Chunchi I stopped for another disappointing meal of chicken, rice and red cabbage but found nowhere I could buy a replacement tyre. A car stopped as I left the town, its occupants telling me in Spanish that the road further along was not passable. I questioned them and they told me of chest-deep water. When I pointed to my bike and asked if it might be possible to carry this through the water, they thought for a moment and suggested it just might be, but with no real conviction. Again and again, over the next hour or so, motorists stopped and advised me to turn around, others telling me of water above my head and of landslides. They were clearly well meaning but my map suggested a massive detour were I to go back. Stubbornly, I continued. I couldn’t comprehend just how a landslide was going to stop me – surely there’d be some way across a landslide or around the deep water? As I arrived in a village on the opposite side of the valley to the little town of Guasuntos, the problem became apparent. A landslide of huge proportions had taken away part of the mountainside and – tragically, I was told – also taken with it part of a street, surely killing some of the residents. Houses balanced precariously on the edge as tiny yellow diggers, way below, worked frantically to clear thousands of tonnes of debris which had dammed the river in the valley bottom. On the upstream side of the dam a lake had formed. The Panamericana – my road out of here – was somewhere beneath the landslide or the lake. A crowd stood staring across the valley at the activity in the distance and I asked several of them if there was any other way around for me and my bike. Repeatedly I was pointed back in the direction of Chunchi along the Panamericana. Unwilling to suffer the hills of the previous hour for a second time, I persisted with my questioning until I was finally directed out of the village and up the valley to where I was told I would find a ‘playa’ or beach. I made my way along a track and then down a steep and rocky path, loose and eroded, along which there was often not enough width for both me and my

bike. I walked along the muddy banking, bending down to hold the handlebars, steering as best as I could through the narrow channel, panniers rubbing on the sides. Struggling to maintain my grip, I slipped, crashing down the banking and onto the ground, my thigh striking the sharp steel mudguard support, which didn’t buckle under my weight, plunging through clothing and into my flesh as if fending off an attack. Still on the floor, I unhooked my ripped shorts from my bike, not in too much discomfort until I lifted the flap of material and caught sight of the gaping hole in my leg, which would certainly have normally needed stitches. I quickly unpacked a pannier and grabbed my first-aid kit from the bottom, cleaning and drying the wound. I tried to knit it together with steri-strips but they refused to hold and in the end I stuck a large plaster over the top, pulled my shorts back over my repair work and tried to forget about it. It would take many weeks to heal. I passed through a farmyard, crossed a couple of streams and arrived at the main river, its turgid waters passing beneath a wide, fallen tree, which stretched from one bank to the other. I wasn’t the only one here, locals balancing on the tree trunk, some carrying bikes, moving slowly from one side of the fast-flowing river to the other. I unloaded my panniers and, bit by bit, I nervously transferred my gear and my bike across, piecing all the bits back together again after my third and final crossing. I passed through more fields before I arrived at the road, which climbed steeply through grey, damp cloud towards Guasuntos. I met two local boys as I struggled up from the valley floor – Edgar and William – eager to cycle alongside and chat. William was the more confident of the two, speaking in simple Spanish. When he asked me if I carried a gun I laughed, the mere idea seeming ludicrous to me. ‘Is it dangerous in Ecuador?’ I questioned. ‘Si,’ he replied. The next day the road climbed steeply for much of the first three hours, falling gently then offering far-reaching views towards a mass of ash spilling skywards from a distant volcano, its plume reaching high into the blueness above scattered clouds. The road now rolled through wonderful-smelling pine plantations between which tufted grasses grew from otherwise bare areas of volcanic ash. My wobbling bottom bracket – where my pedal cranks were joined through my frame – worried me as I climbed a final few hills into the pretty village of Guamote and I wondered if it was going to get me all the way to Quito. I relaxed in a small restaurant, enjoying my best meal for some time and all for less than 40p: first a soup followed by potato cakes, wonderful beetroot, onion, rice and delicious meat chunks with fat that just melted in the mouth. Even the atmosphere was pleasing and very calming. It had a real feel of an old French restaurant with its large, shuttered doors, peeling paintwork, high ceilings and old, quaint bar. The lady of the house was very efficient and dressed immaculately.

The road was soon climbing again and my bottom bracket was now seizing frequently, forcing me to quickly back-pedal and start pedalling again before I lost my momentum altogether. It whined and complained before finally it would turn no more. For now, my bike was going to take me no further. It was still a further thirty miles or so to the town of Riobamba and, as much as I hated the idea, I knew I’d have to catch a bus there. I pushed for a short while, still slightly uphill, repeatedly looking over my shoulder for an oncoming bus, soon flagging one down and having my bike lifted onto the roof where it was lashed down with other passengers’ luggage. I sat at the front, absolutely gutted that the road to Riobamba now appeared to be almost flat. Getting my bike repaired was not an easy job. I spent two nights in Riobamba and much of the daylight hours I spent touring bike shops and eateries. The eating continued into the evenings. The lovely handyman-cumporter-cum-cleaner at my hostel directed me to a series of bike shops but none stocked a compatible bottom bracket. I walked streets I hadn’t previously walked, finding further bike-repair shops, but again none could help me. I was then pointed in the direction of a mountain bike hire place and here the friendly owner stripped my bottom bracket and phoned suppliers in Quito in the hope of getting a replacement bussed down to Riobamba in the morning. Again he had no luck, but he gave me contact details in Quito and didn’t charge me for his efforts. I found the time to check my emails and was overwhelmed at the response to my trip from Bradford University where I was part-way through doing my degree. There were many emails from staff and several from students. I read that the staff there had created a display charting my progress on the noticeboard in the main building with a collection box for Marie Curie and a present for my imminent birthday had been sent to Quito from the staff in my department. I had received emails from Rachel and Nicola, two of the girls I had met in San Pedro de Atacama and later in Cuzco. They were in Latacunga, between Riobamba and Quito, and had agreed to meet me the following day – the day before my birthday – to take me out for a meal. I didn’t look forward to my journey to Latacunga and to Quito. I had hoped my bike would have been repaired and I could continue on my way. Instead I’d have to catch buses and would then have to start the whole process of trying to get my bike repaired all over again. I had decided I would catch a bus back to Riobamba once my bike was fixed to complete this part of the journey as I had originally intended – by cycling it. I enjoyed a huge pizza meal with Rachel and Nicola in Riobamba, eating breakfast with the two of them on the morning of my birthday, before leaving to catch a bus to Quito. Familiar faces were important to me. Welcoming smiles, big hugs and the opportunity to talk about my adventures, my illnesses and even my home and family with fellow, empathetic travellers was the best form of counselling I had available to me. We were able to laugh and compare notes on

our mishaps and misfortunes and excitedly share stories of all the amazing experiences we’d so far enjoyed. I spent much more time in Quito than I had planned, email helping me to meet up with yet more friends from earlier in my trip. Sampo and Pasi – the Finnish friends I had last seen in Nazca – joined me on my birthday for a meal out, while a South African, Andrew, who I had also met in Cuzco, was good company for a few days in the city. I made several journeys on foot to the post office in the old town to collect mail, having made a request by email several weeks earlier for friends and family to direct their post there. I received cards and small presents from family and friends, a package from the staff at Bradford University and a card from a girl I didn’t even know, telling me what a great thing I was doing. Birthday cards continued to arrive at the post office but my bank cards did not and I was left to start the process of contacting my bank again. Once more they told me they could not post bank cards to an address in South America, but would instead post them to my home address in England. It would be up to my Mum to go and collect them from there and to post them to me on the other side of the Atlantic. In the meantime, they arranged for emergency cash to be sent to me in Quito, which involved hanging around at my hotel to wait for a phone call from my bank to tell me the details of where the money had been sent to. The process proved less straightforward than my bank had suggested. My bike repair was also far from straightforward. I had been given the contact details of a bike repairer in Quito by the name of Santiago. During a telephone conversation with him, he told me he would meet me at my accommodation later that day. He arrived in his car and I presumed he was coming to collect my bike. We met in reception and he asked me for my bottom bracket. He barely looked at it before waving his hand in the direction of the door. ‘Vamos,’ he instructed – let’s go – and I was ushered to his car. Inside were his wife and his two young daughters. I thought for the entire evening that at some stage we’d be calling at a supplier of bike parts but this never happened. Instead we drove into the countryside and pulled up outside a farmhouse, having stopped for a slice of pizza on the way. I was led inside with Santiago’s family and there I was introduced to Santiago’s brother-in-law and sister. I enjoyed a very pleasant evening with them and was dropped off back at my hotel shortly before 9pm, a little mystified at the evening’s events and not at all sure as to how and when I might get my bike repaired. Quito felt a little like a city under siege while I was there. I heard stories of hotel guests being robbed at gunpoint, of hotels being ram-raided and of other, more petty crimes. I ventured into the New Town for a meal the evening I had first been dropped off by Santiago, a rather tasteless Indian curry. As I neared my basic hotel, three stocky locals ‘jumped’ me, grabbing me from behind. They closed in quickly, giving me no chance of escape.

‘Money no problem, money no problem,’ the leader told me, holding his arm behind his back as if concealing a weapon. It was all so sudden and I had no time to think. They grabbed my arms and raised them, roughly and systematically frisking me, taking money from my pocket before turning and running back down the street the way they had come. I took a breath, fear dissipating and anger replacing it. I looked to the ground for a rock to throw in their direction but saw none and my adversaries were gone, into the night. Shocked, I composed myself and turned to see an armed guard in a sentry box across the street. I raised my arms and gave him a look of disappointment. Why had he done nothing to help me? He caught my eye and turned away in shame. I called in to see Sampo and Pasi before returning to my room and here I calmed down. The thieves had only managed to take £11 from my pocket, my passport and other valuables in the relative safety of my hotel. I trusted the thieves needed the money more than I and hoped they would spend it wisely. Sampo and Pasi were leaving in the morning and items they couldn’t fit into their suitcases sat on a bed. I was given a tin of pears, some coffee, chocolate biscuits and an old T-shirt to compensate for my loss that evening. The following day, Santiago arrived to pick me up again and once more I was unsure of where we might be going but tried to keep an open mind following the previous day’s outing. On this occasion we drove to a smart bike shop which he owned, situated on the ground floor of his mother’s house, and I gave the mechanic a list of repairs which needed to be carried out. Later that day I opened an email from Vivienne and Michel, the French cyclists I had met months ago in southern Chile. Included in their email was a warning advising me not to use a guy named Santiago to repair my bike when in Quito – ‘he drives you everywhere looking for parts and puts high commission on his prices’. It was too late now! Getting my bike repaired was a long and drawn-out affair, taking around five days in all. I saw Santiago almost every one of these days. He picked me up to drive me to restaurants for food or back to his family’s flat where we played on his PlayStation. He even drove Andrew and I into the countryside to pick up his daughters and then on to a trout restaurant where we enjoyed another fabulous meal. The purpose of each outing would begin as a complete mystery but I was getting to know Quito and its surrounding area, enjoying my time there. Most importantly, and after a final day of many fruitless phone calls and further drives to suppliers around the city, we found a compatible bottom bracket and my bike was able to be repaired. I didn’t find Santi’s prices too extortionate and managed a tip for the mechanic of just a few pounds. I kept my promise to myself and took the bus back to Riobamba, a journey of around four hours. We passed through a terrific thunderstorm on the way and were stopped at an army checkpoint where all the men on the bus were instructed to disembark with our belongings. We were organised into a line as

soldiers bearing weapons searched us, which I found extremely unnerving. What they were searching for was unclear. In Riobamba I made my way to the hostel I had stayed at previously and was welcomed back there by the friendly caretaker. My accommodation, meal, bar of chocolate and Coke on the walk back had only cost me around £1.60 in total and this put into perspective the value of the £11 stolen from me several nights earlier. Santi had told me the town of Baños had been evacuated while I was in Quito, because of an erupting volcano – Tungurahua. My life in England had been distinctly void of erupting volcanoes and I decided this was something I’d like to experience. On studying my map, I was pleased to see that the town was not a huge distance from Riobamba and was in my general direction of travel. Baños was accessible via the Panamericana but my most direct route was via a more minor road to the east. I was told the road had been blocked by lava flows and mudslides by my new friends in Riobamba but all seemed confident that it should be passable by bike. After a week off the bike, I felt excited at the prospect of continuing my cycle ride north once more, and – with the possibility of witnessing recent lava flows and perhaps even an erupting volcano – I clipped into my pedals and began cycling with a renewed vigour. The road was hilly – I was in the Andes, after all – and for an hour or so I climbed and dropped repeatedly before arriving at a line of cones and a chain spanning the now empty road. Hanging from the chain was a notice, ‘Por su seguridad’ (For your security), and a young soldier sat in his posting adjacent to it. I smiled and the soldier reluctantly raised himself from his chair, a resigned expression on his face. He didn’t speak, questioning my intentions with a raise of his eyebrows instead. I pointed at my vehicle and then at the road which lay beyond the cordon and asked if it was possible for me to pass. The soldier shook his head. I pleaded, once more pointing out that I was travelling by bike, but again the soldier declined to grant me passage and I was left to cycle to a nearby village, from where I was once again transported by bus back to Riobamba. I was still determined to make it to Baños that day and left Riobamba for a third time to head there via the Panamericana, the road climbing for most of the first couple of hours, passing the 6,310 metre peak of Volcan Chimborazo, black cloud soon consuming its snow-covered conical slopes as thunder cracked, lightning flashed and freezing rain began to fall. It was a miserable few hours’ ride in heavy traffic, my legs stinging with the cold rain, and I was thankful of a long descent, which allowed me to weave past trucks and lorries at speeds of around 40mph, out of the cloud and into glorious sunshine. The people of Baños had begun to return to their town following their evacuation but the place still had a very eerie, post-apocalyptic feel to it as I arrived just after sunset. The streets seemed dark and deserted by South

American standards, many businesses were closed and shuttered up and colour seemed to have been sucked from the place. A young boy led me to a ridiculously cheap yet comfortable hotel where I had a cold shower before venturing out for a meal at one of the few restaurants that were open. Loud and disturbing rumblings sounded through my deep sleep that night and I woke with a start. I lay, rigid with fear, eyes wide open, ears straining for further sounds. Had it been a dream? For a moment, nothing. But then the rumblings again of a discontented volcano. The sound rolled on through the pitch black, deep and angry, taunting. Motionless, I continued to listen, trying to convince myself it could just be a storm but trying to assemble a plan of action should the volcano blow. Weariness clouded my thinking. I was tired and told myself there was little I could do. For now, all I wanted was to sleep and I was soon, once more, in the land of nod. In daylight the following morning, I stood on the balcony of the hotel with the beaming hotel owner. He pointed, proudly, towards Volcan Tungurahua, which he told me had erupted once more during the night. As I waited for a bus to take me back up to the Panamericana a short time later, I felt what I thought was light rain beginning to fall. It occurred to me that the rain didn’t feel wet. I brushed my head and looked at the sleeves of my waterproof where grey flakes of volcanic ash had begun to settle. As my bus drew steadily up the hill and away from Baños, I constantly looked out of the rear window and marvelled at the volcano which spewed huge quantities of ash skyward. The traffic along the Panamericana was among the worst I had so far experienced. I choked on black diesel fumes which belched from poorly maintained vehicles of all sizes, causing my eyes to sting and the area beneath my nose and around my eyes to blacken as the day progressed. I had already decided to bypass Quito, having spent enough time there already, and enjoyed the quieter roads through the mountains to the east of the city instead. I crossed into the northern hemisphere but was disappointed at passing no sign, no monument and no cheering crowds to mark my achievement. All the while I was getting closer to the Colombian border and still I hadn’t made my mind up over whether I should enter the country or not. In the town of Ibarra I found an internet café and here I searched the British Embassy website for some clue as to what I should do. I found no new security advice on Colombia and still I was undecided. A Colombian relative, now living in LA, had strongly advised me not to visit the country at this time, friends of his having been killed in the recent troubles. Friends of friends, working in the country and living in a secure compound in Bogota, had also advised me against it. Again and again, South Americans had told me I should take a plane for this part of my journey but I felt pained to do so. I was about to begin tackling another climb when I was gradually overtaken by around a dozen racing cyclists in matching Lycra. Dowlett, their coach and originally from Russia, cycled alongside me, allowing his charges to cycle

ahead. Living so close to the border with Colombia, Dowlett spoke with some authority on the events there in recent months and years. I asked him what he thought of my chances of making it safely through Colombia on a bike and his answer was simple: ‘Don’t do it,’ he told me. ‘Colombia is extremely dangerous right now. Is it really worth risking your life to cycle through one more country?’ The road seemed to climb more than it descended on my final day of cycling through Ecuador. The sun shone, my shirt was off and the scenery was pleasing, occasional pretty villages nestling above steep-sided valleys, farmworkers labouring in fields with simple hand-held tools. Dowlett’s ‘live or die’ outlook had convinced me that cycling through Colombia was perhaps not a good idea. I later heard from a travel agent and from a fellow backpacker that even Colombians were no longer taking to the roads for longer journeys, instead taking to the air to travel from city to city. I cycled towards the Ecuadorian town of Tulcán, the final town before the border. Up and down, up and down, up and down. My legs were killing me, I was terribly saddle-sore and my rear wheel was making the most dreadful noise. On the final, gradual descent into Tulcán, I came to a halt to look north into Colombia. Dark storm clouds hung like depression over a country I was told was stunningly beautiful but where chaos presently ruled. About 3,700 kidnappings were recorded in the country during 2000. Thanks to my meeting with Dowlett, I would not add myself to that number. After a night in a hotel in Tulcán, I spent almost five hours on a bus back to Quito, where I spent several days staying with Santi and his family. I was driven to the airport, said farewell to Santi and boarded my flight to Panama City, the three-dimensional nature of the landscape I had been cycling across for the last couple of weeks strikingly evident as I looked down on it from the air. Whatever happened now, I had cycled from the most southerly tip of Argentina to the Colombian border. My decision to fly over Colombia was the right one, I told myself, and I didn’t feel an ounce of regret. Panama and the whole of Central America now beckoned and I felt excited at what adventures might lie in store for me.

Chapter 14 Panama City–Guatemala City 7,176 miles cycled

My plane touched down in Panama at around 6.10pm on 24 February 2000 and it then took time getting through Customs and putting my bike together. It was now dark outside and I didn’t fancy cycling the streets of the city looking for accommodation. Leaflets at an information stand suggested prices starting at around £10 or £11 anyway and this came as something of a shock after the ridiculously low prices in Ecuador. Instead I settled in the downstairs lounge of the airport, a taxi driver coming over to chat and suggesting it might be quieter upstairs if I wanted to sleep. I took his advice, resting on my mat which I had laid on the floor, my bike and all my gear beside me. I woke in a sweat on several occasions, the repetitive music from the nearby ‘Avengers’ arcade game hampering a quick return to sleep each time. It was the heat that really struck me as I left the airport building the following morning, as well as the chatter of hundreds of black birds perched in nearby trees. It was a fifteen-mile ride into the centre of Panama City and here I had a breakfast of beef, onions and tortillas, but struggled to understand why everyone else in the restaurant seemed to have much more on their plates than me – I could see nothing on the menu that would constitute such portions. I was soon crossing the Panama Canal, dozens of large ships anchored off the coast, presumably queuing to sail through to the Caribbean, and the road from here undulated pleasantly through lush farmland. I think I suffered my first cramps just before lunchtime and further bouts of cramp became more frequent and more painful as the day progressed. The heat and humidity were greater now and I found myself struggling with the conditions. My cramps continued through Central America, particularly during the first few weeks, and they were debilitating and extremely painful. They affected my calves in particular, attacking suddenly and forcing me to hit my brakes and pull back my foot to stretch out my screaming calf muscles. But it wasn’t just my calves; cramp would attack my whole legs, my feet and my hands. The attacks were so debilitating I would seriously struggle to pay for items in shops, my hands unable to function. I would find it difficult to walk and did not dare go for swims in the sea on occasion for fear of cramp striking when I was in the water.

When wearing a shirt, it was often sodden with sweat during the day, particularly if any climbing was involved, and would dry to a stiff, white and salty crust when I was able to cool down. When I wasn’t wearing a shirt to mop up any moisture, sweat would pool in the centre of my chest, forming rivulets along my chest hairs, which channelled it southwards to the waistband of my shorts. Here it formed a wet patch which grew with long periods of exertion, giving the impression I had seriously peed myself and causing embarrassment whenever I came to a halt to buy a cool drink or eat in a restaurant. I longed for lengthy descents and for the breeze to dry me off a little and knock my temperature down by a few degrees. With the increase in temperature came an increase in wildlife. I was back to sleeping rough but generally did away with the tent, opting instead to tie up my mosquito net to benefit from what little breeze there might be. Insect noises rang out from the vegetation in the early evenings and I’d occasionally be woken by the rustle of foraging nocturnal animals during the hours of darkness. I spotted various mammals silhouetted against the night sky in the foliage above my camping areas. I didn’t feel nervous as my neighbours searched for food, instead feeling at one with nature, excited that these animals – whose identity I couldn’t be sure of – should come so close to where I rested. Ants were less welcome and they, in particular, were more prevalent through Central America and were often highlighted by trails of cut leaves moving like flotillas of tiny sailing boats across the ground. There were red ants and black ants and ants which appeared to have two heads. Some were tiny and some were huge and I came across one type that was particularly vicious and less easy to see. I was making a visit to the loo while camping one evening when I brushed past some thorny vegetation. I felt a searing pain on my neck, so painful I was sure I had been bitten by a snake or stung by a scorpion. I turned but could see nothing, only then to be ‘stung’ again, this time on my shoulder, and this time with the culprit – a large, black ant with vicious pincers – still clinging on. The bites developed quickly into a rash, a little like a nettle sting, but quickly diminished in pain and soon disappeared. Another day I was freewheeling down a long and gentle descent, enjoying the cooling breeze, when I was struck hard in the centre of my forehead by a flying insect. Again the pain was intense but this time it stayed with me for many hours, waking me on numerous occasions as I tried to sleep that night. I had a dream about my sister pulling the sting from the centre of my forehead. As well as the air temperature, the rivers were warmer here than in the mountains of South America and I would always try and find some form of flowing water to camp beside at the end of each day’s cycling so I could wash myself and rid my clothes of salt from the day’s exertions. Locals swam in the many rivers my road passed over and I was occasionally drawn to swim too and soak my tired muscles between long stints in the saddle. I was very wary of crocodiles in the larger rivers, counting over twenty of the beasts basking on a

mud bank beneath a bridge I crossed, opting instead to swim only where locals swam and to camp beside smaller, shallower and faster-flowing rivers. These watercourses teemed with small fish, which would nibble uncomfortably at my feet. I’d sometimes leave my dirty pan in the stream to soak after cooking my meal and would return to find it full of tiny, hungry fish nibbling at the sides like a natural dishwasher. During my final days in Quito I had spent more time trying to sort out new bank cards through several frustrating reverse-charge telephone conversations with my bank. I had been able to get more emergency cash sent to me but my bank refused to send my cards unless I could give an address in Central America. I found it incredible that a huge international bank such as theirs didn’t have the addresses of any such places in the part of the world I was now travelling. Throughout Central America I continued to speak with my bank. In return, my bank continued to frustrate me and I calculated that I must have spent around twenty hours on the phone with them in total, every call a reversecharge call costing them, no doubt, hundreds of pounds and costing me valuable time and a great deal of worry. I was passed from department to department, from disinterested person to disinterested person and with every new voice I’d have to begin the process again of telling them what the problem was and going through the same series of security questions. I would give them an address to send cards to and would be told the cards would be sent to this address, only to find out days later via email that the cards had not been sent because the address I had given was not deemed secure. Time and time again the goalposts were moved and my bank’s requirements were changed out of my favour. I could no longer have my cards forwarded to a Central American address unless I informed my bank in writing. My bank had forwarded emergency cash to me on two occasions and had advised me that this would be taken directly out of my account. However, instead of directly debiting my account they had sent two bills straight to my home address in the UK. Obviously these bills had not been paid – I wasn’t at home to receive such mail – and, although I had sufficient money in my account, I was now told I had exceeded my credit limit and would not be able to access further money. I was even told by one particularly unsympathetic employee that had I not lost my cards, there wouldn’t have been a problem. My patience grew thin and I found myself shouting in frustration down the phone at the incompetence and lack of urgency of the staff – ‘You’ll have to call back on Monday,’ they’d tell me. I didn’t have a mobile phone and relied on public phones. Queues would often develop behind me at these phones as I explained myself to bank staff for the millionth time; staff who had no comprehension of my situation and of just how desperate I was becoming. I would try and find phones mounted on brick walls so that I had something to bang my head against.

I no longer had a guidebook for this part of the world and sent an email to my mailing list, asking for help in finding a secure address further along my route. Emailing again took time and, more pressing, emailing cost money. My funds were seriously beginning to dwindle. Finally I received an email from my Mum’s cousin in the USA. She had the addresses of several British embassies in Central America. I studied my map and decided the embassy in Guatemala City was both on my route and a sufficient distance away to allow time for my cards to arrive there before I did. I made a note of the address and informed my bank. Again it seemed my bank was happy with the address I had given and I felt relieved that at last we seemed to have found a resolution to my money problem. My poor Mum was left to sort out the mess at home. Central American countries came and went with great frequency. I was only in each for a few hundred miles. With each border crossing came a great sense of progress but also – generally – much bureaucracy. I rolled through the sultry countryside of Panama for just three days, crossing into Costa Rica with relative ease, the border officials making a half-hearted search of my bags before stamping my passport and allowing me on my way. I glided gently downhill, into the first country on this journey that I had visited previously, having been here just over three years earlier on a three-week, self-guided cycling holiday with a friend from the UK. Immediately I felt quite at home and I decided to call on some old haunts from my previous visit. The landscape was largely wooded, the road surface lovely and smooth. Sunlight flashed through the brilliant leaf canopy like rapid fire as I powered along, passing many rivers but few villages. Costa Rica drew me into making my first visit here because of its abundance of national parks, its wildlife, beaches and active volcanoes all in a space around two-thirds the size of Scotland. I had seen it featured on a travel programme on TV and the place captivated me. It seemed its government had recognised the value of its natural resource and was doing everything within its powers to protect its habitats and market itself as a destination for eco-tourism. It was lush, varied and beautiful. I arrived in the town of San Isidro, a town in which I had spent a little time three years earlier. The town seemed much smaller than I had remembered it, the main square right beside the Panamericana. I stood my bike outside the Hotel Chirripo, the hotel I had stayed at with Paul on my last visit, and in the bar I recognised the faces of two old guys, originally from the USA, we’d had a few drinks with back then. I introduced myself but wasn’t surprised when they couldn’t remember me. I asked if they’d watch my bike as I set off looking for cheaper accommodation, the £8 per night here a little above my budget in my current financial predicament. At a little over a quarter of the price of the Hotel Chirripo, the Hotel Jardin was within budget but was hardly palatial. My windowless room resembled a prison cell, opening out onto a wide, open corridor across which were several communal bathrooms. I left my solitary

confinement after a quick clean-up to visit an internet café and learned that my Colombian relative’s cousin had sadly been killed the previous month in Colombia. I felt my decision to fly over the country had been justified. I was not feeling hopeful of a good night’s sleep on my return to my room as a guy beyond my closed door kept coughing up phlegm while rattling on a window grille to provoke a barking dog in one of the unkempt yards below. There was shouting outside my room as I tried to sleep that night and I then thought I spotted someone spying through a hole in the wall as I lay on my bed, naked. I plugged the hole with screwed up paper and listened to whispers from the other side of the wall, unable to get to sleep again for a couple of hours, ant bites causing me to scratch furiously at sweaty skin. The residents of the Hotel Jardin seemed to rise with the sun, chattering voices and stamping feet waking me as early as 5.30am. I was unable to enjoy any more sleep, although I tried, and was out of bed myself at 6.20am. I chose to deviate from the Panamericana to visit a lovely beach on the Pacific coast I had spent time at on my previous visit and followed a vaguely familiar route out of town that morning. On passing a wide bend in a beautiful river, I decided a cooling swim was in order around lunchtime. I enjoyed the deep, clear water for a time but shade was lacking and I wanted to get out of the sun. As I made my way back to my bike, I fell hard on the base of my back when I lost my footing on slippery rocks. I found a room in one of the only places offering inexpensive accommodation in a little resort within the Parque Nacional Manuel Antonio. I limped to the beach, my damaged back causing me to wince in pain, and rued the missed opportunity to swim in the tempting waters – my back was simply too painful. There was some confusion over my second night’s stay at my accommodation and I was asked to leave because of a prior booking. In the absence of any other available accommodation matching my budget, I prematurely hit the road again. I spent the night sleeping rough in a palm plantation where a scampering lizard kept me awake with its antics while brittle, dark-brown millipedes coiled themselves on my face. Out-of-the-way camping areas proved elusive late the following day. Houses dotted the roadside for mile after mile and I was becoming desperate as the sun slipped lower towards the Pacific Ocean’s horizon. Beyond the town of Caldera, I stopped beside a bridge in view of the sea where an iced drinks vendor stood beside his large cool box. I smiled, almost apologetically, as I was sure he’d have been hoping he was about to make a final sale for the day. Instead, I asked if he knew of anywhere I might find cheap accommodation. His wife was with him and she didn’t need time to think, nor did she need to consult her husband. Without hesitation, I was offered a place to sleep at their house. ‘But there is no light,’ she explained. Their son turned up on his bike, keen, no doubt, to find out when mum and dad would be home. The mother instructed him to lead me back to their house,

explaining that they would follow on foot. We cycled through the little town nearby, soon arriving at an area of waste ground where twenty-five or thirty makeshift homes stood. I was led along sand streets to one of these houses, constructed of corrugated iron, cardboard and wood, and here the boy dismounted his bike and stood it against the wall. He insinuated that our journey was over. It seemed I was about to have my first ever night in a shanty town. I was salty, having enjoyed a brief body-surf in the ocean earlier that afternoon, and now I needed to clean myself. I asked if there was anywhere I could wash and was directed to the outside ‘shower’ room, similar in construction to the house, with ragged sacking as a door. Standing on an old, upturned crate, I poured cold water over myself from a bucket and washed, drying myself and dressing in reasonably clean clothes. The mother and father arrived home and seemed embarrassed; contrite. I tried to reassure them – they had everything I needed and I was happy to have received their invitation of somewhere to sleep. The house stood on a concrete base and on the walls hung several pictures. There were two rooms – one for living and cooking and the other for sleeping. Outside was a woodshed and this is where I was to spend the night, in my sleeping bag and on a wooden platform. The family fed me before I attempted to sleep – a tiny piece of chicken with a good amount of pasta and rice; ‘poor people’s food,’ the mother told me. Before I settled down to sleep, I took out my money and counted it, dismayed at how little I had left but desperate to show my thanks with some kind of payment before I left in the morning. Dogs barked outside and TVs seemed to blare from both sides as sleep initially eluded me. Eventually I nodded off, only to be woken by pathetic crying from a neighbouring house, a woman shouting for some time until the crying stopped. The family were up and about by 5.15am and I soon emerged from the woodshed to join them, repairing a couple of broken spokes before making porridge for me and the father who chatted to me too quickly for me to understand much. I managed to decipher that he hadn’t had a single day off for around fifteen years. I handed him a measly £2.70 for my evening meal and bed for the night. He whooped in delight. Later that same day I rested at a park bench in the town of Cañas to eat a good-sized lunch and was soon crowded out by dozens of locals who had raced across the park to watch a procession of papier mâché characters chasing youths down the street as a band played – part of the town’s birthday celebrations, I understood. One of the locals joined me at my bench and we chatted, in Spanish initially and then in English, which he spoke well. I told him of my night at the beach a few days ago and mentioned that prices seemed to have increased since my last visit here. He blamed the government for allowing development aimed at tourists from North America and explained that many Costa Ricans could no longer afford a beach holiday in their own country.

My exit from Costa Rica was not straightforward. I slept beneath my mosquito net just a few metres from the road and around three miles south of the border with Nicaragua. I arrived at the border crossing early the next day, cycling by dozens of stationary lorries waiting to be allowed passage north. I patiently joined the queue. When my turn came, the official flicked through my passport and then flicked through again. He looked perplexed. ‘Where is your entry stamp for Costa Rica?’ he asked, angrily. Confidently I took my passport from him and turned the pages, pointing to a red stamp, which was difficult to read but was clearly dated 29 February, the day I had entered the country. The official took my passport back, gave it a phlegmatic glance and informed me that this was a Panamanian stamp. He handed it to a fellow official and as he studied the pages a fellow traveller approached me to ask if I was having trouble. The second official handed back my passport, directed a few angry words in my direction and marched off. Ben, a volunteer worker for a Christian organisation in Costa Rica, explained that I hadn’t picked up an entry stamp on my arrival in Costa Rica and that I’d have to travel to San José and visit the immigration office there. The bad news was confirmed by the man in uniform. It was a five-hour journey back to San José by bus and once there I cycled off in search of the immigration office. The staff were refreshingly helpful, disbelieving that I had managed to cycle the full length of Costa Rica with no entry stamp and no trouble from the police. I was given a friendly ticking off from a senior member of staff, who told me border crossings were a little more complex in this part of the world. ‘You’re not in Europe now!’ she kindly pointed out. I raced back into the city centre to catch a return bus to the border and had great problems finding the right one. A guy outside the bus lifted my bike onto the roof and asked for $5. I handed him the money, assuming this to be payment for my ticket, but the driver then asked me to pay again. I explained I had already paid, only to be told the guy was just an opportunist, charging to carry people’s bags. Others on the bus agreed that I had paid too much and together we complained at the man who shouted back, saying he’d take the bike down. The cost of the return bus ticket and now this fee for placing my bike on the roof was an expense I could ill afford. I had around £80 to last me until I arrived in Guatemala City. I still had to leave Costa Rica and then had the length of Nicaragua and Honduras to cycle through before a further day or two of cycling in Guatemala. I knew I was in for a struggle. I passed through Costa Rican customs the following morning without further incident, spending my final few colones at the restaurant there before passing to Nicaraguan immigration where the real fun started. I received my stamp and took my first few pedals into the country, only to be sent back to collect a ticket for my bike. I was passed from window to window and from person to person, the staff lacking any real interest in taking down my bike details. Finally, details

were entered onto their system and the girl who’d typed the required information plodded slowly over to me, not once smiling, and handed me my paperwork. She pointed me to another building and I wheeled my bike across, opening the door to a room housing reams of paper and seven or eight miserable staff. Almost half an hour of waiting followed and I sat, shaking my head and looking at my watch. Eventually my paperwork was signed but even now I wasn’t clear to go. I was told to return across the car park to the original hut, where I waited again for a final signature. I left, joking with two young Mexicans in a VW Golf who were also struggling to comprehend the time it had taken them to pass through. They stopped a short while later beside the road to invite me to stay with them should I find myself in Mexico City. My first night in Nicaragua was at the home of a friendly, openly gay Catholic priest who had stopped his car as I paused for a breather beside the road. Over a beer to celebrate the birth of my twin nephews (news I had received the previous day when I phoned my parents) and a disappointingly small meal of fish and boiled plantain, José told me of his religion and of his sexuality but at no point did I feel intimidated. We were up very early the following morning so that he could drive two boys he’d put through college into Managua to look for work. I had grown up seeing images on the BBC News of fighting in Nicaragua during my childhood and I felt just a little daunted at spending a few days travelling through. A night in the home of José helped ease me in to this new country. Contrary to my fears, I found the people among the happiest and the friendliest I had so far met. Their smiles were wide and their eyes sparkled with optimism. They had been through some trying times but all that was now behind them. They were lacking in wealth but, having experienced the horrors of war, their hopes, their dreams and their expectations were perhaps far simpler than the people of countries I had so far visited. They now had peace and for that they were thankful. I was greeted with handshakes and with smiles. People wanted to know about my journey and were curious about my lifestyle. I was handed cold milk one day as I tried to repair a puncture by the roadside. A guy at a market stall handed me a chair another day so that I could sit out of the sun as I had my bike repaired by three young guys at a neighbouring bike repairers. I received waves from passing motorists who would sometimes stop to talk to me. People went out of their way to make sure I felt welcome – I loved the people in Nicaragua. It was after a chat with a lorry driver late on the day I had left José’s house that I found myself struggling to find somewhere to sleep. The lorry driver told me of houses further up the hill I was cycling and I wanted to be out of sight of these to set up my camp. I had hoped to hit a hundred miles that day but a safe camping spot was now a higher priority. Everywhere seemed to be ‘out of bounds’, fenced off and private. I had been warned against camping on private

land in Nicaragua, and that there was a real threat I may be shot at if I was discovered. In the hills, I found an area which was unfenced and almost out of sight of the road. I pushed my bike through the bush and cleared a spot of scrub vegetation, dozens of moths taking flight as I did so. The entrance to my tiny clearing was open to the road and so I hung up my green mosquito net in an attempt to try and conceal me a little from any unwanted passers-by. Peeling potatoes, another unidentifiable root vegetable and a vegetable with the texture of a cucumber but having the shape and centre stone of an avocado, I occasionally had to stand to stamp off leg cramps, though the low, thorny vegetation hindered me. I boiled my vegetables and added lots of pasta. While listening to my radio, I ate, hearing that Leeds had held Roma to a goalless draw in the quarter-final of the UEFA Cup. Hurricane Mitch had hit Central America hard just over a year earlier, killing around 11,000 people, and evidence of its power still lingered. I cycled past temporary housing and camped above rivers that were little more than a trickle but whose riverbeds and floodplains were strewn with boulders the size of cars, almost certainly carried by the floodwaters of seventeen months earlier. I climbed to the border with Honduras, paying around £1.40 to enter the country and £2.70 to leave Nicaragua. The male official also wanted me to pay for my bike but the girl at the desk disagreed with him and I paid no more. I was now cycling along the spine of Central America, up torturous climbs in high heat and humidity. Cramps would torment me at night, dehydration and a need to drink in the days. I camped in pine forests, staring up at the night sky beyond the converging masts of towering timber, discarded toilet paper and drinks bottles spoiling the setting. I skirted the sprawl of the capital city, Tegucigalpa, passing through poorer areas where street vendors plied their trade and supermarket shelves were almost bare, reminiscent of the bad old days of communist Eastern Europe. Beyond the traffic and the concrete, pretty villages nestled in the folds of the hills and small crowds would gather as I filled up with water. Drivers of articulated lorries chatted to me one lunchtime at a basic café, passing me a little later and each one giving a stirring blast of their horn as the convoy of four or five trundled past on a long incline through exquisitely cool and shady forest. On I climbed, descending for shorter durations, lungs straining, muscles complaining. I had decided I’d be happy with no less than eighty miles for the day and, exactly as I hit my target, I sighted a potential camping spot. I scrutinised it as I banked around a corner at speed and didn’t see the rock in the road ahead of me. My front wheel hit it and hit it hard, making a sickening noise as my tube exploded and dislodged from my wheel along with the tyre. I hit my brakes, coming to a halt and surveying the damage – a severely smashed wheel rim, which had a wide tear across half its width. I was going no further that night.

I unpacked my gear, carrying it across the road and cursing at myself. ‘Why didn’t I keep my eyes on the road? Why didn’t I watch where I was going?’ I continued to beat myself up for the first part of the evening, calming myself sufficiently to put together some kind of a plan for the next day. I decided I would wake early in the morning to get to the roadside in good time and attempt to hitch a lift back to a town I had passed a few miles back. I didn’t rate my chances on such a quiet road. If plan ‘A’ failed, I could perhaps catch a bus back to Tegucigalpa and try to find a bike repairers there. I had been so careful with my money and this was an expense I could ill afford. I tried to straighten my wheel a little, just so that it would turn, standing on it, braying it with my bike lock and rocks, trying to bend it using the fork in a tree and my adjustable spanner to give it some leverage, but my wheel was having none of it. I settled for tightening the spokes on one side, which had become incredibly loose with the impact, replacing the tube and the tyre. This at least allowed the wheel to go round. I could now load up my bike and push it short distances, even if it couldn’t be cycled. I consoled myself that at least I hadn’t been hurt and had sorted an action plan for the following day. I could have been down about the whole incident but problems were there to be overcome and that’s just what I’d do. I settled down to sleep, one of many forest fires burning fiercely just a-mileand-a-half or so to the north of me, but it was a grass fire just half a mile to the east which concerned me more when I woke later, flashing blue lights bouncing off the hillside suggesting the fire brigade were attending to it. I had witnessed many fires and areas of scorched earth through Central America, some of the fires precariously close to houses but nobody out dousing the flames. I assumed these fires were normal at this time of year – this was the end of the dry season after all and the land was parched. A carelessly discarded cigarette or the fierce sun concentrated through a bottle tossed from a car window and the long, dry grass was like a tinderbox – whoosh. A few days earlier I had approached a grass fire which lapped my road, driven by a strong, hot wind. I had weighed up my options and arrived at only two – I could stop well back and wait for the fire to die or I could go for it. I hadn’t wanted to hang around, so cycled on. I pedalled, furiously, on the opposite side of the road to the fire, but soon wished I’d had the sense to wait. Writhing tongues of flame leapt across the road at me in a bid to devour the vegetation beyond the tarmac strip. Spitting and crackling, they threatened to consume me, licking at my handlebars and causing my brake levers to become hot to the touch. Glowing remnants of roadside scrub danced in a swirl of black, choking smoke as I raced into the centre of the fire, which went on for far further than I had anticipated. My legs spun as fast as I could turn them until, with wonderful relief, I shot out from my hell and into the relative cool of the Central American sun.

I woke early on the morning following my little collision and was at the roadside before 6.30. Thumb outstretched, I was amazed when the first vehicle that came along the quiet road stopped and offered me a lift. I was taken into the little town of La Paz, nine miles back down the road, and wandered from closed hardware store to closed hardware store, returning eventually to the first once it had opened. I sat, writing my diary and beginning another letter home, as the mechanic dismantled my old wheel and refitted a new rim, charging me around £5 for his efforts. It was not yet 10am and I was on my way again, much earlier than I had anticipated, back along the road I had cycled late the previous afternoon and past the rock that had cost me time and money. I pulled on my brakes and came to a halt, reaching down to grab the rock and throwing it into the roadside vegetation to save the next cyclist from the same fate. The countryside was lovely, the hills were not. I struggled up them in granny gear for several hours before my rear gear cable snapped and the cable retaining piece in my gear lever shattered. I couldn’t believe my bad luck. Even with a full complement of gears I had been struggling and now my chain had defaulted to the hardest gear on the rear cassette. I stood no chance of tackling these hills unless I did something. I studied the rear gear mechanism, gently prised the sprung device open and jammed a stick into it to stop it from springing back into its default position. This allowed the chain to sit on the second-easiest sprocket on the cassette. The chain would have to stay in this gear at the rear but I would still be able to alter the speed of the pedals with the front derailleur and the three front chainrings. For now I had three gears, rather than my full complement of twenty-four, but I was soon down to two, chain-suck occurring whenever I tried to get the chain to sit in the easiest gear. Progress was slow and I hated that afternoon. At lunchtime I was told by a local that the town of Marcala – and a possible bike repair shop – was ten minutes away by car. That car would have had to travel extremely fast as it was still a further twenty miles, I discovered. I arrived there, broken, in the late afternoon and again tried to weigh up my options. My remaining budget was disappearing fast and it was looking likely that I’d have to get a cheap hotel room while I waited for my bike to be repaired. I asked at a little sweet shop if they knew of anywhere I might find a mechanic. As we chatted, a guy and a girl approached and the man asked if he could be of any help. He explained that he and his girlfriend had passed me earlier on the road and I remembered his girlfriend had smiled and waved from the open window of their car. Poli spoke excellent English. He told me that the father of Danea, his girlfriend, owned a hardware shop in the town and they sold a few bike parts. Together we walked there and a gear lever and cable were given to me as a gift. Poli invited me to stay at his house and Danea invited me to her family’s home for a meal later that evening. I felt elated. I was left to repair my bike outside the shop as Poli departed to direct a political radio programme for the town’s radio station. My cable was a little too short but it was all they had and at least I was now able to

obtain five gears on my rear cassette rather than just the one. Lots of locals stopped to talk as I worked on my bike and for the first time that day I was able to smile. I was the centre of attention at Danea’s house that evening as we ate, her father (of fifteen kids) and two of her sisters and a brother, all keen to ask questions. Poli insisted that I had a few beers as he was sure I was now halfway to North Alaska and felt that I should celebrate. I did as I was told. I had now cycled 8,384 miles. I had my own room and en-suite bathroom back at Poli’s and was treated to breakfast and lunch the following day. The radio station Poli worked for was keen to interview me and Poli was happy to translate. As the interview ended, I was asked if I had a message for the people of Marcala. I simply thanked them for their warmth and requested that they continued with their waves, smiles and handshakes, which helped put strength in my legs. I was given a packet of fresh coffee by Poli, a product of his small plantation, and gave him a heartfelt hug as I left. On I cycled, through a terrific storm, which left me feeling refreshed, thunder tearing through deep purple clouds which bruised the sky above, along mountainous gravel roads, sand clinging to my wheels and grating at the mudguards. Lovely scenery and a distinct lack of traffic helped numb the pain, while memories of Marcala filled my head and lifted my spirits. I had managed some time in an internet café in Marcala and there I had opened an email from my Mum. She explained she’d received a communication from my bank, telling her they were no longer prepared to send my bank cards to the British Embassy in Guatemala. Instead, and to my great annoyance, they would send them to my home address. She asked what I’d like her to do. Exasperated, I spent a day thinking and decided she should collect them from my house and post them on herself, recorded delivery if possible. When I came across a public phone, I joined the queue and called her, even though it was close to midnight back in the UK. I read her the address of the Embassy I had received from her cousin in Florida and she wrote it down. It meant I now had a less pressing schedule as I’d have to allow time for the cards to arrive in Guatemala City, which was around three hundred miles away. It was lovely to hear her voice and I continued to play it in my head as I sat in the saddle and cycled a little further that afternoon. The heat seemed to intensify as I steadily made my way through the mountains of Honduras. At times it was almost unbearable. Even the breeze seemed to cook me. I’d seek any shade I could find when breaking for snacks or for lunch, being invited into one shopkeeper’s lounge to eat my bananas and bread one day. I sat waist-deep in rivers, dined in the shade of a bus shelter and rested beneath road bridges. I found a shady park in the town of Gracias on another occasion and sat at a bench on which I spread out my simple lunch, mashing several bananas which I sprinkled with sugar and ate with sweet bread

– my staple lunch over the last few days as I had cashed my final US$50 traveller’s cheque and had nothing more to see me through until I had my bank cards in my hand. Both bread and bananas were ridiculously cheap in this part of the world. As I ate, a small crowd gathered. Some stood back and studied my every move from a distance. Others were braver and sat with me or stood over me, asking questions, but I was feeling irritable. ‘Where are you from? Where are you going? Where do you sleep at night? Why are you doing this?’ I was exhausted, my leg muscles twitched and ached and my head felt fuggy from sleeping rough and from exerting myself day after day. Lunchtime was a time to relax and to recuperate just a little. One woman breast-fed her baby on the bench opposite as she also fired questions at me. I felt I had celebrity status here and there’d been many times when this kind of attention would have buoyed my ego. But in my exhausted state I just wanted to be left alone. I tried to wash late one afternoon in a river which flowed beneath the road. When a small gathering once again assembled on the bridge to spectate, I felt I was almost at breaking point. I managed to break my stove one evening as I tried to cook a meal, bending the copper fuel line and compromising the flow of petrol from bottle to burner. I struggled to cook a meal over an erratic orange flame. The following evening, I came to a halt early to try and carry out repairs, spending two hours trying to straighten the fuel line but I only made things worse. Petrol spewed from the seal where the fuel line connected to the bottle and none reached the burner itself. My stove was now knackered and I would have to resort to cooking over fires until I could find – and afford – spare parts. My list of requirements for camping areas each evening had just been added to. I wasn’t just after level ground, out of sight of the road and close to flowing water if possible – I now also had to have a source for firewood. I was having a bad week. I entered Guatemala and paid £1 to leave Honduras. The process was so easy I had to question whether I had completed all the necessary steps. I was waved on my way. While Honduras had been incredibly pretty, its hills and its heat had taken their toll on my body. As soon as I started up my first true climb in Guatemala, I was ready to pack it all in. Orange juice sloshed around in my stomach as the burning sun attempted to bring it to the boil and it made me feel physically sick. The miles on my computer clicked by ever so slowly and I felt miserable. I wanted my money so I could afford a room for the night, a decent meal out and a night in a lovely bed. Instead I continued to rough it, to eat simple food and to cook over fires, the smoke getting into my clothes and choking my skin. Guatemala City was only two nights’ sleep away. Two nights of roughing it and I would then be able to spoil myself, just a little. Finding areas to sleep once again proved difficult, a severe lack of safe camping areas causing me much anxiety. The sun was not sympathetic to my situation. At shortly after 6pm it fell from the sky like a rock. Darkness ensued. I

needed to find somewhere I could safely lie low for almost twelve hours while there was still some available light. I arrived at a little farm at the end of my first day’s cycling in Guatemala and decided to knock on the farm door and ask to camp there. Two women came to the door, perhaps a mother and daughter. I asked if there was anywhere I could pitch my tent but the older of the two spoke incessantly and incomprehensibly back at me. I shook my head, clueless of what I had just been told. ‘No entiendo’ (I don’t understand), I told her. I asked the question again, hopeful of a more simple response. ‘Puedo acampar aqui?’ (Can I camp here?). This time, the younger woman spoke. ‘Si,’ she yielded, stepping outside to point to an area in a rough field and close to the river where I would be able to pitch my tent. I was soon joined by two boys from the farm, an eight-year-old and a five-year-old, who watched me pitch the flysheet. They stood and observed as I went for a soak in the river. As I built and lit a fire they continued to survey. They sat with me on my sleeping mat as I took out my diary and they observed as my pen scratched at the pages, crowding over my shoulder to see the words being formed. As I ate my evening meal, they continued to scrutinise from close range and soon I could take no more. I had given them each a biscuit earlier and the young one unremittingly asked for more treats and for money. I told the boys I could afford neither and finally asked them to leave, raising my voice. I felt rotten as they were lovely kids. The following day was hot and sultry. Locals wafted themselves at street stalls as I passed by. A guy I chatted to at a filling station told me he had lived in Boston, USA, for a number of years. The climate there, he said, was much more to his liking. Sweat ran in rivulets down the creases of my body; arms that had darkened from six months of exposure to the sun seemed to redden further, even beneath a thick dousing of sun cream. I stopped for a cheap meal in a restaurant late in the afternoon to escape from the sun and to avoid lighting a fire to cook over that evening. Soon afterwards, I was carrying my bike up a steep banking away from the road, lifting it over a burnt area of broken glass and through a thicket of thorny trees to an area of more trees and brown scrub. It was hardly pretty but was out of sight of the road and all I needed was to get my head down for the night. At least my water carrier contained a good amount of water and I poured some of this into my bowl. Breaking open a soap sachet the secretaries from Bradford Uni had sent me for my birthday, I undressed, soaked my facecloth and enjoyed a fantastic strip wash. For the next few hours at least, I felt clean and refreshed and smelled better than I had smelled in days. I felt tired and my eyes were heavy as I neared Guatemala City, the road becoming extremely busy as the morning progressed. I cycled on to the new, characterless business district of the city, desperately in need of another cleanup before my visit to the embassy, but not before I had eaten. After three cheap hot dogs from a street vendor, I called in at a Holiday Inn where I paid £2 to check my emails and then made use of the bathrooms. The internet was

incredibly slow and I got frustrated, particularly after I discovered that my Mum had decided to double-check the embassy address I had given her. She’d asked at her local library back in Leeds if they’d look on the internet for her, and she had been given a different address back in the old town – my cards had been sent there. I pedalled to the address in the new town anyway, only to find that the staff were at lunch, so returned outside and ate a delicious chocolate doughnut with orange juice, sitting in the shade of a tree that smelled of urine. I just wanted to get this whole business sorted. At least I’d be able to speak to somebody English at the embassy and they may have some suggestions for me if my cards hadn’t arrived. They’d have come across this type of problem before, I told myself, and they’d do all they could to help a British national, surely, particularly one cycling thousands of miles for a good cause. On my return to the embassy, I sat waiting for some time, eventually managing to see the vice consul, David. My cards had not arrived. The address my Mum had been given was an old address and David was very pessimistic about my cards being forwarded from there. I was now down to my last £25, which was surely only enough to last another day or two in a capital city. Not wishing to admit the exact amount I had remaining, I told the vice consul that I had very little money left. I asked if he could recommend a budget hotel close by and whether he knew of any bike shops where I could get my bike repaired. ‘I’m not sure about a bike shop,’ he replied, ‘but we should be able to help you out with accommodation.’ He stood up. ‘Just give me a moment.’ David purposefully left the reception area and was gone for several minutes. My mind refused to switch off. Alone, I sat thinking of how I was going to support myself with no bank cards and virtually no money. I felt battered and bruised from weeks of living rough and the hopes I’d had for all that time, of arriving here and having access to lovely banknotes, had been dashed. Time and again I had imagined placing my card into an ATM that would dispense cash. Time and again I had imagined what I could do with that cash – the food I would buy, that glass of beer I would treat myself to, the room I could afford to book myself into. David re-entered the reception area, his expression giving away very little. He handed me a piece of letter-headed paper. Written on it was an address. ‘We have a room at a nearby hotel but there’s nobody staying in it at the moment so we’ve booked you in for three nights. I hope that’s alright with you. There’s the address of a nearby bike shop on the back.’ This was more than I could have expected. A surge of excitement rattled through me; a tidal wave of relief. The corners of my mouth rose by an inch and my tired eyes widened in delight. I could have danced. ‘Thank you so much,’ I grovelled. David offered me a call home, to let family know I was OK. He strongly recommended I cancel my cards, yet again, and have new ones sent by DHL, which would only take two or three days. I phoned my Mum who was relieved

that I was at the British embassy but despairing and a little embarrassed that the cards had been sent to the wrong address. I didn’t want to push my luck but asked if I could phone my bank, reassuring the female staff member that I would reverse the charges and it wouldn’t cost them a penny. She agreed and I was able, once again, to cancel my cards. I asked for new ones to be sent to this address by DHL but my bank would not do this for me. They said they would have to get new cards issued, which would take another two days, and the cards would then be sent by their standard carrier which would take a further five days. The bank employee waffled on about standard procedure and was not willing to bend the rules for a desperate account holder on the other side of the world. Exasperated, I put the phone down and slated my bank to the friendly staff member. I was given directions to the Suites Reforma hotel and left the embassy to cycle the few blocks there. I pushed my dusty bike along the pavement, scrap of paper in hand. My first impression of the hotel was a good one. Home for the next three nights was considerably plusher than the bush I had slept in the previous night and I was suitably impressed. A man stood outside in a crisp, white shirt and dark suit with a gold trim. Hands behind his back, he offered a smile and stepped backwards to allow me on my way. Instead, I came to a halt beside him. ‘Ola,’ I greeted him. ‘Tengo una reservación’ (I have a reservation). The man looked bemused and smiled uncomfortably. He clearly didn’t know what to do. In dirty, ripped shorts and a T-shirt which could have stood up on its own, I was hardly the usual standard of guest they would have staying there. He was obviously embarrassed and I found myself enjoying his discomfort in a twisted sort of way. Inside I was laughing because I knew how this must look. I also knew that the British Embassy in Guatemala City had paid for me – a filthy British cyclist – to stay in this rather plush-looking hotel for three nights and I actually felt incredibly confident and important. I handed the man my piece of paper, just to put him out of his misery. He nodded, happy now, and began to lead me to the front entrance. I had to remind him of my bike. ‘Donde puedo poner mi bicicletta?’ (Where can I put my bike?) I asked him. He stopped in his tracks and pondered. This was surely the first cycle-tourist he’d had to assist at this hotel. We changed direction, walking back to where a driveway led beneath the hotel. He gesticulated that I should take my bike down there and seemed to say that I should then make my way to reception. He gave me a wave and returned to his duties, having washed his hands of the matter, leaving me to find a suitable parking space. Three security guards sat on chairs and desks in their little office at the entrance to the underground car park, chatting and joking with one another. In front of them a number of black-and-white television monitors flashed pictures of various parts of the hotel, but the guards’ demeanour suggested all was quiet today. I attempted to wheel my bike straight past but was shouted back. The

guards remained seated and exceptionally relaxed, as once again I had to explain my reason for being there. ‘Tengo una reservación’, I said. Even had I been able to elaborate in Spanish, I feel I would have left it at that. For entertainment value alone, I wanted to give away as little as possible. The guards managed a laugh and exchanged a few comments with one another, looking at me in anticipation of the real reason for my being there. I simply smiled back at them. Handing them my piece of paper, they begrudgingly scanned its contents but remained unconvinced and made no move to assist me. They asked to see my passport, flicking through the pages for the photograph page. One of the guards asked me to point out my name, which I did, pronouncing it for him, and with that he picked up the phone. A short conversation followed, the guard replaced the handset, handed back my passport, nodded, and pointed across the car park to where I should leave my bike. Beside shiny BMWs and Mercedes motor cars, I propped my Dawes pushbike against a concrete wall, rather ashamed that I hadn’t given it a polish on my way here. I unclipped my valuables bag from the handlebars, deciding I should first see where I was staying before removing the rest of my luggage, and took the lift to reception. The doors opened on a small but plush area of marble, fountains and an abundance of waxy-leaved, cascading plants. I almost felt hysterical at my stroke of fortune. I walked to the desk, behind which another man in a suit was standing. ‘Buenos dias,’ he said, his expression again suggesting surprise at seeing somebody in such attire gracing his hotel. ‘Buenos dias,’ I replied. ‘Tengo una reservación.’ ‘Una reservación?’ the receptionist questioned. ‘Si,’ I replied, handing him my piece of paper. ‘Ah, Señor Lund,’ he said, smiling now. ‘Do you have any bags?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘they’re in the car park, on my bike.’ ‘I’ll get somebody to help you with them.’ He immediately rang a small bell on the counter. ‘It’s OK,’ I hurriedly interrupted, ‘I can manage.’ It was my turn to feel embarrassed. I had seen too many films in which American hotel guests tipped porters huge amounts for carrying their bags up to their rooms. I simply could not afford to tip and wanted to be spared the embarrassment. ‘It’s no problem,’ the receptionist tried to assure me, as a porter appeared from a stairway. ‘We will need to take a deposit from you before you go up to your room,’ he continued. Horrified, I asked how much. ‘One hundred dollars,’ he told me, as if money should be no obstacle. ‘I don’t have a hundred dollars,’ I explained. ‘The British Embassy has paid for me to stay here because I have very little money left. I’m waiting for money to arrive from England.’

‘I see,’ the receptionist replied. ‘This shouldn’t be a problem but we normally ask for a deposit to cover any telephone calls made from your room. You won’t be able to use your telephone to make any calls.’ ‘That’s fine,’ I told him. ‘I won’t be making any calls.’ The porter followed me downstairs and placed the bags from my bike on a small trolley. We took the lift up to the second floor and made our way along a smart corridor. Coming to a halt at the final door on the right-hand side, the porter took out his keys and inserted one from the bunch into the keyhole. He turned the key and swung open the door to my home for the next three nights, extending his arm to invite me in. My eyes widened as I took in all that was in front of me. I had expected a double bedroom, perhaps, and a bathroom, with maybe a kettle and cups beside the bed, a little basket containing a few small packets of biscuits, some coffee sachets and teabags – posh accommodation for me back home. But my home for the next three nights exceeded even these very high expectations. To my left was a large dining table with six dining chairs tucked neatly beneath. Above the dining table hung what I could only describe as a chandelier. In front of me were two large, plump and very comfortable-looking sofas, at right angles to one another, with a small coffee table filling the space in front. The sofas had been positioned to optimise the viewing of a large television. A generous sideboard, further lighting and pictures adorned the walls while the floor was fully carpeted. A further three doors led out of this area. The porter, I’m sure, could sense that I was pleased and I now turned to him. ‘Gracias,’ I said, smiling excitedly and delving into my pocket for a few coins. I held them out to him, ashamed to reveal the pitiful amount, ‘pero no tengo mucho dinero’ (but I don’t have much money). It didn’t seem to be a problem and the porter thanked me for my small offering, the Guatemalan equivalent of about 15p. I was left to explore the remainder of my accommodation – a plush bathroom with large bath, basin, flush toilet and pleated toilet paper and a bedroom with huge wardrobes, a bed as large as my garden at home and another large TV. Through a door leading from the dining area was a fully equipped kitchen complete with oven, hobs and microwave. I couldn’t believe my luck. I wanted to pick up the phone and call someone – anyone – to tell them how fortunate, how ridiculously lucky I had been, but communication was not that easy in my current predicament. Instead, I turned on a tap, poured some clean water into the kettle and flicked a switch. Within a couple of minutes I was slurping at a fresh, Guatemalan coffee as I slouched on the sofa watching an English Premiership football match from the previous weekend – Bradford City against Coventry – a game that had taken place just three miles from my home back in England. An exquisite shower and a much-needed shave followed, after which I enjoyed a shop in the local supermarket, not having to worry about whether

foods could be cooked above a single-burner stove or were easy to carry on an already heavily laden bike. I returned to my suite (!) to cook a huge evening meal of spaghetti bolognese with fresh minced beef followed by half a melon and biscuits. From my sofa I could view the TV in the lounge area and the TV in my bedroom and I extravagantly turned both on at the same time, just for a minute or two, laughing at my huge stroke of fortune and languishing in this opulence. Breakfast was also included with the room and I ventured down to the restaurant the following morning, enjoying my three pancakes with fruit, fruit juice and coffee, the menu confirming that there was indeed no extra charge for this particular breakfast but that tips were not included. I decided I would wait until Thursday – my final morning here – to leave a small tip. I hung around until the little restaurant area was free of staff before hastily departing and returning to my room for a further six slices of toast with coffee as I hand-wrote my email report which I would type and send later. A small matter of my finances continued to bother me and I ventured down to reception to ask how I might go about making a reverse-charge call to my bank. I spoke with the telephone operator through whom all telephone calls would be directed – I could use the phone in my room, he advised, as long as I made clear each time that my call needed to be reverse charge. I spent perhaps a couple of frustrating hours on the phone to my bank over the next couple of days but finally managed to get them to agree to wire £350 ($525 US) to an agency in Guatemala City for me to collect. I sent the hotel’s phone number to my email list back home and I was in high spirits as calls arrived from friends, enjoying the opportunity to talk about my trip and find out about life back in Leeds. I ate well for the remainder of my stay at my hotel, buying food in the supermarkets using my remaining few pounds rather than eating out. I enjoyed getting creative in the kitchen again. I paced the streets looking for cycle shops and camping shops, only finding the former and leaving my bike with the mechanic to have spokes replaced, a new gear lever fitted, handlebar tape fitted and to have it serviced. With each passing day, I became more and more relaxed, lounging on the sofa and flicking at TV stations, watching several Champions League football matches and one or two episodes of The Simpsons. I could walk around on soft, clean carpet with nothing on my feet; with the door closed I felt safe and relaxed, not in the least bit fearful of somebody stumbling upon me in the darkness, as had been the case on many nights recently. Turning on the television brought the English language into my world. Meals could be cooked with such ease, the flick of a switch or the rotation of a dial turning on the heat. I had a sink, hot water, and washing-up liquid to clean my pots. Life was extremely comfortable and I felt no guilt at where I had found myself or at doing very little. On my penultimate day in the hotel, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’ I answered. It was the man at Reception. ‘We have a phone bill here for over 700 quetzales which needs sorting before your departure tomorrow.’ My head immediately began to thump; my heart raced. I tried to explain that I hadn’t made any calls apart from several to my bank, which had all been reverse charge. The receptionist suggested I should go to Reception to sort the matter face-to-face. I raced downstairs, adamant that I had requested to make reverse-charge calls only, tearing into the operator and refusing to relent on finding out he was standing there. The fiasco continued for some time before the operator finally admitted fault – all the calls I had made I had requested be reverse charge. He was almost in tears once my onslaught was over and I felt just a little ashamed. The man told me he would certainly lose his job and would be asked to pay back the money himself unless I helped him. He explained he simply didn’t have the money (around US$93 or just over £60) and asked if there was anything I could do. I was furious but sympathetic. I asked to see the manager and together we explained the situation to her. After much thought and soulsearching, I agreed to phone my bank. I told them the whole sorry tale, asking if they would be good enough to reimburse my account with the $93 if I paid the phone bill to the hotel. After all, I told them, this money was for phone calls they should have been paying for anyway. My bank agreed, somewhat reluctantly, but this now meant I would have to pay the phone bill out of the £350 my bank was forwarding to Guatemala for me. I had hoped this would last me until I arrived in the USA. Even before this bombshell, I knew it was going to be a financial struggle to get to the USA on this amount of money. My finances for the next stage of my journey had in an instant been depleted by almost a fifth. I marched out in search of an agency where I could pick up my money but it was a cheque I was given and I’d have to visit a bank the following day to have it cashed. I had felt so relieved earlier that afternoon at sorting my money problem and now this. Thoughts ran riot in my mind as I marched around the new town. I still had to pay for my bike repairs.

Chapter 15 Guatemala City–Tucson 8,722 miles cycled

The return to my old lifestyle was immediate. A short day’s cycling took me from Guatemala City and into Antigua Guatemala, a pretty town surrounded by conical volcanoes. I was shown to a room in a budget hostel and felt utterly deflated at its water-stained ceiling and at the cigarette burns in bobbly blankets on each of the two beds. I bought a map of Mexico and sat on my bed, studying it for some time, making notes and doing calculations. Distances were marked along main roads only and I extrapolated these distances onto the quieter route I planned to take. I reckoned Tucson to be a minimum of 2,700 miles away. I estimated that if I was able to really push myself, I could be there in five weeks and would need to be if I was going to make my money last. I now had around £240 remaining to get me there but, even then, there was no guarantee my bank would get replacement cards to me. Five weeks of punishing myself physically did not appeal. Five weeks of punishing myself without the money to afford decent accommodation at least once a week made me feel physically sick. The English-speaking world, the possibility of drinking a few beers and the hope that my money problems might then be resolved was the carrot I had dangling in front of me but it was currently so far out of my reach that I could neither see it nor smell it – I just had a vague idea it was there. My remaining two days in Guatemala proved enjoyable on the cycling front. The road climbed out of Antigua Guatemala for some time, the air cooling a little as my elevation increased and the hills bothered me less in the fresher temperatures. I cycled through areas that reminded me of home, a tiny mill beside a muddy stream reminiscent of parts of Hebden Bridge in Yorkshire, even the surrounding woodland not too dissimilar to English woodlands until closer inspection revealed a number of palm trees. I stopped to eat a sandwich and took out my radio to listen to the Oxford/Cambridge boat race mid-morning – Oxford won after seven years of Cambridge domination. The counter on my cycle computer gradually increased as I pedalled through beautiful woodland, the colours of the trees giving a false impression that it was early autumn here. Cyclists tried racing me, often nudging past on the ascents

on much lighter bikes, only for me to take them again as the road levelled out. One remained with me for four or five miles through a lovely valley, partly forested, partly farmed, and I enjoyed our attempts at a conversation. I left Guatemala and entered Mexico. Safe sleeping areas proved difficult to find and I’d felt frightened as I’d laid low to get some rest on my first couple of nights in the country. On my third day in Mexico I was stopped, early on, by a fat, moustachioed policeman who sat on the veranda of his police station. He called to me and waved me over, clearly too comfortable to leave his seat. Swinging like a primary school kid on the back legs of his chair, he asked to see my passport. He flicked at the pages which were filling up nicely with the stamps of countries I had passed through and asked me the question I had heard a thousand times before. ‘A donde va?’ ‘Alaska,’ I replied, for the thousand and first time. As though he hadn’t heard me, he moved straight on to his next question, asking me – I think – where I slept. I thought, momentarily, for a suitable line in Spanish. ‘Cerca de la carretera’ (Close to the road), I said. He looked at me, puzzled. ‘Tengo una carpa’ (I have a tent), I continued. He placed all the legs of his chair on the floor and leaned forward, as if he were addressing a young child. ‘Blah, blah, blah, peligrosa’ (blah, blah, blah, dangerous), he went on, ‘blah, peligrosa, blah, blah.’ For good measure, and to ensure the message hadn’t been lost in translation, he proceeded to simulate an attack, pointing two fingers at his head in the shape of a gun and wiggling his thumb to mimic the trigger being pulled. He shook his head, handed me back my passport, and gave me a nonchalant wave to send me on my way again, returning to swinging on his chair in his fight against crime. His warning worried me but I was thankful that at least there were policemen around like him making this country a safer place for the likes of me. The Mexican bad guys must surely be quaking in their boots and it would only be a matter of time before they found themselves behind bars. Nevertheless, his words had made me more determined still to get to the US quickly and I just hoped I could get there safely. Speed was very much the theme through Mexico. I had little money to get me through this great country and no prospect of getting more money until I arrived in the USA. The less time I spent in Mexico, the better my chances of making my money last and the less frugal I would have to be on a daily basis. My stove remained dysfunctional and replacement parts would not be available until I arrived in the USA. Until then, any cooking and boiling of water to make it safe for drinking would require the building of a fire. The quicker I made it to the USA, the less time I would consume with this particular chore. My longing to converse in English with people I met was stronger than ever and an Englishspeaking nation was now only one country away. There was now also the issue of safety.

Soon after arriving in Mexico, the enormity of my challenge struck home. It was like standing on the start line of a massive ultra-marathon and thinking of all the hurt that was to follow. But this hurt was to last weeks and it was difficult to see the distant light at the end of this particularly long tunnel. Mexico was a huge country and I decided I would avoid the more mountainous central region and try instead to stick to the Pacific coast, to speed my passage. I had some serious catching up to do and I did it well. I absolutely tore through Mexico. I had the ridiculous idea of attempting to average a hundred miles every day for the first week of cycling through Mexico but hadn’t accounted for punctures, broken spokes and many other issues which would bring me to a halt, stopping my wheels from turning. Nor had I taken into consideration the heat and the humidity, the steep coastal hills and the need to carry huge quantities of water whenever I came across a safe supply, weighing me down like an anchor on the many climbs I encountered. I perhaps had around ten spoke breakages and close to thirty punctures between the towns of Antigua Guatemala and Tucson, each one slowing me down and taking time to repair – time which should have been spent cycling. I had to try and camp well back from the road in an attempt to hide myself, but this would often mean pushing my bike through brittle vegetation which seemed to become increasingly thorny as I progressed north. It was these early evening and early morning forays to and from safe sleeping areas when most of my punctures would occur. The broken spokes, on the other hand, were a direct result of the amount of water I often found myself carrying. Habitation was sometimes sparse along my route and the temperatures had me sweating and longing for cool drinks. I’d fill my water carrier and bottles if I was ever in any doubt as to where I would find my next water, particularly close to the end of a day in the saddle when I knew I would soon be in need of it, not only for drinking but for cooking and washing also. I would buy food wherever I could but for long periods the only stores were roadside stalls selling biscuits, bread, pasta, tinned tuna and little else and I became bored of the monotony, stopping to buy tortillas, meat-filled tacos, fajitas, refried beans and the like in cheap restaurants or from street traders instead. I would perhaps spend a fraction more eating this way but it meant I didn’t have to search for food in shops and take time preparing it, which meant I’d have more time cycling. My days in the saddle became as much a mental struggle as a physical one. I knew what I had to do to get myself to the USA before my money ran out and would constantly look down at my cycle computer to see how fast I was going or how far I had cycled in the last five minutes, the last hour, that day. I’d hit my first ten miles for the day, twenty miles, fifty and would calculate in my head when I would be in Tucson were I to just cycle that distance every day. It was just one of many strategies I used to keep my mind occupied. Perhaps my current financial predicament was the proverbial kick in the pants I needed to help catch up time. I battled against a strong headwind one day but refused to

allow myself an excuse for not achieving my required distance. All I could think about was my speed. Tired legs and a mind that was unable to rest weren’t the only side effects. My backside became particularly saddle-sore, especially later in the day after many continuous hours on the bike. I’d try and stand on my pedals to reduce contact with my saddle and, while this relieved pain in this area, the tops of my inner legs now suffered. Damp, salty shorts tore at raw flesh like sandpaper. After a very punishing morning, my knees and my calves were painful on day five of my ‘700 miles in a week’ attempt. I was unable to keep up the same pace in the afternoon and by 3.55pm I couldn’t take any more. I pushed my bike along a rough, thorny pathway and found a suitable camping area. Tiny flies bit me as I relaxed that evening, the sound of the traffic more distant than previous nights. There were no people around – just a heron – and the wind, which occasionally howled softly through the overhead power lines, made the temperature more agreeable. A large pan of pasta bubbled over my fire as I clutched a mug of hot, black tea and pondered. I decided seven hundred miles for the week was almost certainly out of the question and lowered my target to 630 – still an average of ninety miles a day. I tended to wake as the sun nudged the horizon and was motivated enough to immediately get up and on with preparing myself for departure, tending to the fire first of all and then beginning to pack while water boiled for porridge and drinks. Occasionally I’d discover a tyre to have deflated and would repair this before pouring water over my fire and scattering the ashes. I would treat myself to a second breakfast in a restaurant an hour or two down the road should I come across such a place, just to break up the morning and to serve as a reward. It was an exhausting schedule and it was only the evenings I found I could enjoy, providing I had somewhere safe to camp. I hit my revised target of 630 miles in that first week and told myself the hardest week was now over – I had caught up a little and would now aim for a target of around five hundred miles every week until my arrival in Tucson; anything more I would consider a bonus. In Puerto Escondido I afforded myself just over half a day’s rest, arriving in the coastal town in the late morning and passing signs advertising rooms at just over £7 a night, which I decided I could just about afford. On exploring further, I found a room with a bathroom and central ceiling fan for around half this price, dumping my gear to go supermarket shopping, eating lunch and washing clothes before collapsing on the bed and dozing for half an hour. I forced myself up and out of the room after more food, taking a gentle stroll to the beach and along a pathway, desperate for some company, smiling inanely at anyone I passed, hoping for a few friendly words in my direction. I had a swim from some rocks but found the sea to be cold and the current strong so quickly climbed back out. I managed a brief chat with a Red Cross worker on his way home to the USA as I strolled back to my room.

As my journey continued, I found I was able to shut my mind down from unhelpful thoughts, my head nodding on my shoulders in a state of weary semiconsciousness, and I’d make fewer checks of my cycle computer. My leg muscles had felt tight and often painful for several days now and calf muscles continued to hurt but never did I feel the desperation of the previous week – ‘Got to go faster; got to go faster.’ I continued to wake early and set off in the cool of the mornings, often making good progress for the first hour or two before the heat and fatigue would begin to peg me back. Clear-flowing streams were an absolute godsend at the end of a day’s cycling and if I was lucky enough to find one I would splash about in its bountiful supply, wash clothes, drink copious amounts of tea and coffee and my mood would be sky-high. I found such streams on two consecutive evenings after my stay in Puerto Escondido, scaling fences each evening and then wading through warm, clear water to suitable sleeping areas. I felt like something of a fugitive as I set up my little camp with fireplace and all my gear strewn around me, away from the road and the bandits I had been told robbed and sometimes killed any motorist foolish enough to be travelling at night. Clean drinking water was often difficult to come by and I was thankful for the many ‘Migracion’ posts, manned by soldiers, where I would be brought to a halt to show my passport and occasionally have my bags searched, each stop an opportunity to fill up my bottles and carrier with safe drinking water at their station. Some commercial businesses would allow me to fill up with deliciously cool water from water coolers and others would let me take water from a tap, but even when told it was potable, I’d occasionally find it to be nasty-tasting and often warm. At other shops and eateries I would be told a flat ‘non’ when I asked if I could use their tap, the owners reluctant to give me any reason. In one garage, as I raced to get through the outskirts of Acapulco before dark, I pointed to a sink behind a counter and asked for water from there, water carrier in hand. The miserable assistants turned down my request, pointing outside instead to a long, black hosepipe strewn over the crumbling concrete forecourt in the baking sun. Despondently I slunk outside, allowing the water to run for a few seconds to flush out the contents of the pipe and then filling my carrier and bottles. As I greedily slurped at one of the bottles, cycling along the road away from the garage, I noticed it to have a green tinge to it and winced at the nasty taste – a sort of fishy/broad bean flavour – and went thirsty instead, taking a sip only very occasionally. It was the only water I had that evening and my water situation depressed me even more than my camping spot, not too far from houses among dead vegetation in the brown hills just to the north-east of Acapulco. The following morning the algal content had multiplied and it resembled a poor-quality, weak spinach soup. In the absence of anything to replace it with, I had no option but to continue and when I next came to a halt at a garage with an outdoor sink some fifty-six miles later, I washed all my bottles and carrier with

washing powder before rinsing them and re-filling. For the rest of the day I belched soapy burps. I spent the following night on a beautiful beach after cycling over a hundred miles in a day once more. Locals armed with beach towels heading in the opposite direction at the end of a day of relaxing, gawped and I gave them a friendly ‘ola’ as I pushed my heavy bike from the little road to a sandy area among rocks where I wouldn’t be noticed by anyone unless they walked close by. I found driftwood to build my fire and made a delicious pasta salad with tomatoes, tuna, mayonnaise and lemon juice. A beautiful slither of a moon smiled down on me later that evening as I washed my hands in a rock pool, a phosphorescent glow dancing through its waters each time I dipped my hands in. I plunged them into its waters again and again with great excitement, microscopic organisms lighting up the pool each time in a magical show. I arrived in Zihuatanejo after several hours of cycling the next day. The town, famed perhaps for being the place the main characters of the film The Shawshank Redemption dreamed of escaping to, had been recommended as a possible resting place by several people I had earlier spoken with. I was around a third of the way through this country now and this was where I intended to have my only full day’s ‘rest’ in Mexico. Single days off were rarely restful, I had discovered, and my full day off here was to be no different. I woke, still exhausted, to the tinny sound of trumpets and snare drums coming from the nearby naval base just across the road from my accommodation, a sound which grew more and more tiresome over the next couple of hours as I showered, shaved, breakfasted and headed out to begin the dozens of jobs I needed to do. I afforded myself a little time in the afternoon to visit the beach, huge private cruise ships in the bay. The sea was rather too murky for swimming and I was unable to sleep in the hot sun and so, instead, I sat and marvelled at the dozens of diving birds plummeting from great heights into the sea for what must have been a plentiful supply of fish. I paced the streets for a time in the evening, peeking into open-fronted bars, eyeing up the clientele and studying their mannerisms, working out who might best appreciate my company for a time. There was no obvious front-runner and I opted in the end for a sports bar where loud, middle-aged Americans teetered on bar stools, talking American football and baseball and drinking American beer. I found my own bar stool and sat down, largely unnoticed, ordering myself a beer. In silence I sat for some minutes, just observing at this point, desperate to talk but distinctly feeling that these people and I had very little in common. I had spent a great deal of time on my own during the last half-year and my confidence around others was low. I plucked up the courage in the end to introduce myself to those sitting next to me but the guy soon staggered away for more raucous antics with other male drinkers. I was left with Marlene, a Canadian woman in her forties, in Mexico for a holiday and the centre of attention for this group of half a dozen or so ageing American surfers. She

seemed very interested in my journey and bought me a beer as we chatted, but our conversation was interrupted as we were joined by one of the surfers who was loud, drunk and obnoxious. ‘This is Trevor,’ Marlene said, proudly, introducing me to the American. ‘He’s from England and he’s cycling all the way from Argentina to Alaska.’ The American studied me for a moment, collecting his thoughts. ‘You realise,’ he began, ‘that you’re not very well liked all around the world.’ He stared into my eyes awaiting my response, looking very pleased with himself for having dared to speak his mind. ‘I didn’t realise I was that well known,’ I replied, keeping a straight face but knowing full-well that this man – with the manners of a steak and kidney pie – was referring to my countrymen as a whole and not to me personally. He was lost for words and the conversation subsequently moved in a much more agreeable direction. My new acquaintance even bought me a drink before slavering all over Marlene, which had me feeling embarrassed for him. Marlene told me of her own dislike for this group of Americans during one of our friend’s many visits to the toilet but she seemed to be enjoying his attentions nevertheless. I stood and announced my imminent departure after a couple of hours and was taken a little by surprise as Marlene stood to hug me. She reached into her purse and offered me money to help me on my way (had I sounded that destitute?!) but I told her there were many others in greater need than myself. I shook the hand of the American, whose name I couldn’t remember, and made my way back to my room, buying cookies at a bakery on the way back, feeling very pleased that I had been brave enough to venture out by myself. I had met Kenneth months ago in Punta Arenas and again in Puerto Natáles. We had kept in touch via email and he told me he was now studying in Tucson, Arizona. I read an email from him while in Zihuatanejo which told me I’d be welcome to stay with him, should I be passing through. My map showed that Tucson was just over the Mexican border and could easily be on my route. Excitedly, I accepted his invitation. A reverse-charge call to my bank before I left Zihuatanejo gave massive reason for optimism. They agreed they could send my replacement cards to Kenneth’s address. I had heard it all before, I thought, but this time the address they’d been given was in the good ol’ US of A. Surely they wouldn’t let me down this time? I left the town in high spirits, panniers loaded with goodies from a bakery and bananas from a fruit stand for lunch. Towards the end of the afternoon, signs told me my next big town – Playa Azul – was only twelve miles away. I couldn’t afford another night in paid accommodation and didn’t want to be sucked further into an urbanised area, where sleeping rough might prove difficult and dangerous. I began looking for somewhere to sleep before I got too close to the town. A few miles later, a river flowed beneath the road with dense, woody vegetation to either side. I quickly

checked it out on foot, returning to my bike and hurriedly pushing it through the vegetation, not wanting to be seen by any passing motorists, steamrollering through the thick undergrowth. A pile of potential firewood lay on the ground, heavily overgrown by opportunist plants. I tore at the weeds to get at the wood beneath but dozens of black ants took exception, biting my arms and scurrying over the back of my T-shirt. I dropped my pile of firewood, pushed through prickly vegetation in a panic as I shook at my clothing, waded straight into a pool in the stream, then dunked my whole body beneath the water’s surface to rid it of my adversaries. I lay on my back, took a deep breath and allowed the gentle current to carry me just a few metres downstream before wading back upstream and starting again. Beautiful orange flowers adorned the bank and it was really rather pretty. I would have stayed and soaked for longer but it was getting late and I had a fire to build and food to prepare. Beyond Playa Azul, I was onto a beautiful, sparsely populated stretch of rugged coastline. Seed cases ‘popped’ in the hot morning sun, little sandy coves appeared between rocky headlands and a deep-blue sea foamed over protruding rocks. Another cyclist – a local – wearing a neck brace, squatted beside the road, struggling with his pump to blow up a deflated tyre. I offered to help, taking out my pump and, with tyres fully inflated, we cycled off together into Caleta. Alone again, I continued for a further twenty miles until I came across a little store on a sandy footprint where I bought bread, tuna and mayonnaise. I sat, making sandwiches outside a closed beer store in the shade of a palm tree as a group of boys joined me, watching me eat and studying my bike, handing me two mangoes for dessert. Up and down the road went, first inland and then over high cliffs, dropping me down to the next inlet before climbing again. My insect bites bothered me, particularly in the absence of a cooling breeze afforded only on the downhills. I was desperate for water later that afternoon but a miserable girl at a shop I bought snacks and a drink from told me she had none she could give me, leaving me to plot my next move. I pedalled onwards and was soon being shouted at incessantly by a confident boy with a wide grin who raced behind me. To stop his shouting, I asked if there was a river nearby – ‘with water’ (most had been dry). He told me there was, less than a mile away, and he continued to cycle alongside, insistent on asking questions in rapid Spanish. Sure enough, we soon came to a generally dry riverbed but with a steady stream of water flowing to one side – enough to wash but not to swim. I contemplated stopping here, but had only cycled 77.5 miles and still had some distance left in my legs. I asked if there was another river ‘mas adalante’ (further on). Again he nodded, gave me the name of the river, indicated there was flowing water and suggested it was another five miles away. The road climbed steeply from here, perhaps for two or three miles, lush vegetation to either side, but then began to drop, bringing me to another river. It was absolutely dry. A group of boys were nearby and I asked them the question

I had asked the boy in the previous valley – where would I find the next river with water? I was told it was a couple of hours away but was directed to a simple house nearby when I explained I needed to fill my bottles. Another boy raced me up the steep hill on his horse – and won – the house owner stepping out of his hammock in his stained vest and shorts, happily waving me to where water freely flowed from a hose, assuring me it was fine for drinking. The boys had stayed on the road to watch my bike and I thanked them, continuing the climb while looking for somewhere to spend the night, but the ground was too steep and too heavily vegetated for camping. I had hoped for a beach to camp on but the road continued to wind upwards and on passing a partial clearing I knew this was the spot for me. I turned my bike around, wheeled it through a lightly wooded area and found an area practically out of view from the road and with a slightly hampered view of the Pacific and cliffs in the other direction. The evening was perfect; there was a ready-made pile of wood for my fire, no biting insects to bother me and a cooling sea breeze brushed my skin. I ate well, drank plenty, washed decadently and settled down to read my book before turning out my torch to sleep around 10pm – a late night! The heat woke me the following morning but it was idyllic as I lay for a moment, listening to a number of bees flitting between the flowers on the blossoming trees above. A grey squirrel scampered through the branches, birdsong surrounded me and I could hear the sound of the ocean in the distance. The road undulated relentlessly during the morning but the rugged coastline was beautiful, bleached cliffs standing proud at the ocean’s edge, the smell of the salty air filling my nostrils. I hit ten thousand miles of cycling that morning, six months and twenty-three days since my departure from Ushuaia, and this gave me quite a buzz. My computer, on the other hand, simply reset itself to ‘0’, one mile beyond ‘9999’, and the process of building the numbers began again. On rounding one headland, I sighted a long beach with wonderful, white surf and tourist accommodation situated beside it. When I arrived there I had nowhere near covered the distance I had set myself for the day but my legs were tired, I was saddle-sore and I craved a good night’s sleep beneath clean sheets. I toyed with the idea of getting a room, but fought it off, instead buying a little food and half-filling my carrier with drinking water at a restaurant. I felt pleased at having made the decision to continue, but soon I was struggling up yet another hill. A white truck crawled by ever so slowly, its driver studying me as he went by. I noticed its Utah registration plates and gave him a wave. The driver waved back but the truck continued when I could have really done with a chat. On went the hills as my legs became weaker. Still the sun bore down. A white truck headed towards me in the opposite direction and stopped some twenty metres ahead. It took me a moment to realise it was the

same truck that had passed me a short time ago. The driver opened his door and I cycled over to introduce myself. ‘I noticed your shirt,’ the driver said, pointing at the large blue and white motif on the back. ‘Marie Curie Cancer Care?’ ‘Er, yeah, I’m raising money for charity,’ I began explaining. ‘Where are you heading?’ he asked. ‘Alaska,’ I replied, looking into his eyes for some reaction. ‘Alaska?’ he repeated, raising his eyebrows, incredulously. ‘And where did you begin?’ As brief details of my story unfolded, the man’s appetite to learn more increased. He introduced himself – Paul – and invited me back to stay at his hotel for the night, free of charge. I hesitated, still conscious that there weren’t enough miles on the clock for the day, but the thought of a bed for the night, a shower and good conversation in my native tongue was enough to sway me. Paul even offered to drop me off at the same place in the morning as his hotel was back down on the beach I had passed some twenty minutes earlier. I threw my gear into the back of the truck and climbed in. As we drove the short distance back into San Juan de Lima, Paul told me he had only bought the hotel some months earlier and was in the process of renovating it, ready to take in North American holidaymakers the following holiday season. He explained that his wife had been diagnosed with breast cancer a number of years ago and the family had suffered a very traumatic period during her treatment. His wife, thankfully, had now made a full recovery and he was eternally grateful to all those who had made her well again. It was my Marie Curie Logo which had prompted him to stop. I showered and washed clothes in my own room – one of only a few rooms currently habitable – and then joined Paul in the large hotel kitchen where he fed and watered me on fresh chips and beer. He apologised for having very little food in stock and I, in turn, apologised for my huge appetite, cycling to the nearby shop for more food and returning to make a cheese omelette with lots of bread as our conversation continued. Paul was amazed at what I was attempting. He was hooked on my every word. It was not so much the cycling that captivated him – the huge distances I was presently attempting to travel each day – but my overall lifestyle: the sleeping beside the road, the loneliness. To a hotel owner, albeit a relative newcomer to the business, I was conscious that I might have appeared a bit odd, an outcast, but Paul didn’t view me this way. I was living a lifestyle that Paul just could not comprehend and he had nothing but admiration for me. He fired question after question at me, incredulously trying to ascertain what drove me to keep going. I had to tell him that I had dreamed of making this trip for years now and my fear of failure was a great motivator.

‘If I ever get to the point of wanting to pack it all in,’ I explained, ‘and on many occasions I have, I just think of all those suffering with cancer back home. My discomfort is nothing compared with theirs.’ Paul looked at me with thoughtful eyes and offered me the kind of smile that suggested either admiration or sympathy – perhaps a bit of both. I was so grateful at having the opportunity at last to try and put into words my reasons for fighting to finish this journey – so many times I had been asked in Spanish what it was that motivated me and I had never been able to give a full answer. Even in English I struggled, going over the same lines again and again, delving deep inside my head for the true reasons. My sentences were muddled and lacked cohesion but I wanted to tell Paul all of my thoughts, regardless of the order in which they came out. ‘It’s just been a dream of mine for so many years now. When you’ve had a dream for all that time, it’s a very hard thing to give up. I just wanted to prove that I could do it. I was bored at home. I needed a challenge, something to get my teeth into; to look forward to. I wanted to experience all these different cultures and climates, to see how things gradually change from the bottom of the earth to the top. We’re all so intent on getting to places quickly these days and we miss out on everything that’s on the way. There are so many cars on the roads, often making the shortest of journeys, that I wanted to show what’s possible by bike if we allow ourselves more time. I wanted to have a story to tell. I wanted to stand out from the crowd.’ Paul nodded in agreement again and again. He was on my wavelength and offered a story of his own. ‘Have you ever heard of Terry Fox?’ he asked. I thought for a moment before shaking my head. ‘You remind me a little of him. He had cancer and had to have a leg amputated,’ Paul explained. ‘He attempted to run across Canada to raise money to fight cancer but he died as he approached the finish.’ Paul fell silent for a moment, wiping a tear from his eye as he reflected. He knew what it meant to have a loved one battle cancer. Terry Fox was an incredible person, I found out much later. At the age of eighteen he lost a leg to cancer and had an artificial fibreglass and steel limb fitted to the stump. He joined a wheelchair basketball team and trained hard, forcing his wheelchair up rough logging tracks until his hands bled. He began running, initially in the dark so that no one would see him, and had the dream of running across Canada. He believed he had won his fight against cancer and saw this as a way of raising one million dollars to fight the disease and give hope to others. He also, perhaps, wanted to show that there were no limits to what an amputee could do. At the age of twenty-two he began his Marathon of Hope in St John’s, Newfoundland, Canada’s most easterly city. His run captured people’s imagination as news spread and thousands turned out to cheer him on.

Businesses pledged large amounts of money and occasionally strangers would hand him hundred-dollar bills as he ran by. Terry was two-thirds of the way home, had run over 5,300 miles through six provinces and had run close to a marathon every day for an incredible 143 days when he started coughing and felt a pain in his chest. He had felt pain many times on his run but had previously kept running until the pain went away. This day was different. Throughout his run, Terry had neglected his medical appointments, convinced the cancer would not come back. Close to Thunder Bay, Ontario, at the head of Lake Superior, people lined the hill in front of him. The coughing stopped but the dull pain remained. Once past the crowds of people, he climbed into the support van driven by his friend, and asked to be taken to hospital. The doctors in Thunder Bay confirmed that cancer had spread from his legs to his lungs. His parents caught the first plane there. Terry believed he would have to have an operation to open up his chest. He told reporters, ‘I’ll fight. I promise I won’t give up.’ About his endeavour he was reported to say, ‘How many people do something they really believe in? I just wish people would realise that anything’s possible, if you try; dreams are made, if people try.’ In less than forty-eight hours, the CTV television network had arranged a special telethon and by the end had raised more than $10 million. For ten months Terry battled the disease. Terry Fox died with his family beside him on 28 June 1981, one month short of his twenty-third birthday. There was nationwide mourning. The Terry Fox Run became an annual event to commemorate his Marathon of Hope. Hundreds of millions of dollars have since been raised worldwide for cancer research in Terry’s name. Paul dropped me off the next morning, four miles beyond the place he’d picked me up in spite of my remonstrations, at a point where he could pull over more easily in his truck. I sped along the flat road to Tecoman and was then onto a less scenic, four-lane toll road. A serious blowout caused me to spend valuable time at a local bike shop, having a spoke replaced and buying new tyres and an inner tube. The mechanics were all eager to get their hands on a bike that had endured so much, charged me very little and gave me a few repaired tubes for free to act as spares. It wasn’t until late afternoon that I hit the streets of Manzanillo. I cycled along a coastal road, past a railway yard and dock area and along a busy highway in need of repair. My route took me through areas of shops, restaurants and hotels – plenty of accommodation available for people with money but for this traveller it was not a welcome sight. There was too much traffic and too few signs of potential camping spots for my liking. A group of sinister-looking men in the back of a pick-up truck gave me the creeps as they drove slowly by, staring menacingly at me, and I feared they might wait for me further on where the road quietened.

Leaving the city in my wake, I soon found an area of grass beside a fence and partially screened from the road by a three-metre-wide strip of trees and bushes. It was almost 7pm and would soon be dark. I immediately made a small fire, boiled water for tea and cooked my evening meal. Writing my diary by torchlight a little later, a white pick-up truck came to a halt on the road straight across from my camping area. I immediately thought of the truck that had passed me earlier and feared an imminent robbery. I began to panic. Turning out my torch, I threw panniers beside the fire to try and block out the glow from the embers. I laid flat, my chest pressed against the ground as I peered through the vegetation. Doors slammed and my heart knocked hard and fast at my ribcage. I heard voices, one of them female, but could only see two or three figures through the darkness. There was nothing else on the road and no other reason, as far as I could tell, for the vehicle to have stopped where it had. For ten minutes I felt terrified as I laid there, anticipating the worst. Why here? There’s nothing of any interest here – apart from me! They spoke to one another, angry voices raised, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. What would I do if they attempted to rob me? Should I run and save myself or would I be best trying to pacify them? Perhaps I could gather my valuables together now and lose them in the dark? Maybe I could hide, away from my belongings, and attack them under cover of darkness as they rummaged through my things? There were plenty of hefty branches around. I continued to watch them closely but they made no move to cross the road. Doors slammed again, an engine started up and the truck rolled forwards, gathering speed and disappearing into the darkness. Remaining where I was, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. As I turned to tend to my fire again, gradually I calmed down. I prodded at glowing embers with a stick, piled a little more wood on top and my fire came back to life. I began thinking about Paul’s reaction to my present lifestyle. It was a lifestyle I now took very much for granted but one – I began to think – which most people couldn’t hack, even without the cycling. It wasn’t as if I was cycling through the day and then staying on campsites with showers and toilets every night, though even that would be a feat of endurance. I looked around and acknowledged for the first time in months what a crazy thing this was that I was doing. Here I was, hiding out once again in a country where police carried guns and where soldiers regularly stopped me to ask questions about my reasons for being there. I still knew little about this country’s customs and its people but I had heard plenty of stories that seemed to suggest it was a dangerous place for the lone traveller, particularly at night, and it was because of those warnings that I found myself here this night. I was practically sitting in a hedge, which offered little protection from the bad guys using the road. An hour ago I had been blowing at my little pile of sticks, having faith in them catching fire in order that I might eat and drink safe water. My mosquito net already hung from a branch and beneath it was where I would soon be sleeping. Around me were my

meagre possessions, and yet I had everything I needed to keep me fed and protected from the elements as I traversed different landscapes and climates. It occurred to me that I had become pretty good at this travelling by bike thing. I read my book by the bright moon above, the sound of insects once again pulsing from the surrounding vegetation, and again I had to remind myself of where I was and what I was doing. If others at home could see me right now, see exactly where I was laying, could hear the sounds I was hearing, what would they be thinking? Morning arrived too soon – it always did – and I was soon in the saddle again, earning every mile northwards. Sleep would only occasionally be easy to find and often it was fitful. I had reached the point where I truly feared daylight. My alarm would be set for early each morning but typically I would wake just minutes before it sounded and just before the sun nudged the horizon. The instant I woke, my very first thought was of the tough day ahead. I began mentally ticking off the days. Approaching Puerto Vallarta I enjoyed a beautiful ride down to the coast. Smoke from small bonfires lingered in the valleys. There was a wonderful chill in the air. The smell of freshly sawn pine filled my nostrils and the sun cast a magical, hazy light through the trees. I was taken back in time to my cycle ride down the West Coast of North America with Dave and was soothed by an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. The road descended, gradually at first, and then more steeply, through a steep-sided gorge and into the pretty little coastal town of Boca Mismaloya. Tiny fishing boats bobbed in the sheltered bay. As I turned north along the coastal road, the white, multi-storey, concrete hotel complexes became more frequent but the bay itself was generally picturesque, fishermen steering their fishing boats towards a white surface foam I presumed to have been created by a large shoal of fish. Occupying my mind with pleasant thoughts could help the miles and the hours to speed by and there were many occasions when I found myself waking from a near-trance to find the time had magically leapt forward and good distance had been added to my cycle computer. The heat would often have me thinking of water and I’d dream about being in the sea. I had my final year of an Ecology Degree to complete on my return home but beyond that I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do with my life. I imagined myself opening up a little guest house on the beautiful West Coast of Ireland, taking visitors to local dive spots and spending my days in the sea or walking in the lush, green hills close by. I’d often find myself drifting off to Ireland to immerse myself in the Atlantic Ocean, working alongside a lovely wife and looking after guests who had smiles on their faces and appreciated their time with us. A large, country kitchen table would feature in my thoughts, around which we’d congregate with our guests in the evening, eating copious amounts of food and

drinking cool beer. It was a lovely, convivial place to transport myself to and I’d visit often. Drifting off through the pain of screaming hamstrings and exceptionally tight calf muscles was much more difficult to do, and the traffic on the most dangerous road I had so far cycled needed my full concentration. I was now on Highway 15, the main route between Guadalajara and Mazatlán, beyond the beautiful mangroves of San Blas and several miles inland. There was a single lane of traffic in either direction. Buses and trucks in particular fought for space, speeding by dangerously close and impatiently overtaking any slower-moving vehicles, using accelerators and horns in place of brakes. The road was generally raised, with steep bankings sloping down to either side, and I kept as close to the side as I possibly could. In the distance, vehicles approaching from the north would overtake slower traffic, their top speeds not fast enough for them to do so quickly or convincingly. I’d grip tightly at my handlebars, eyes fixed on the approaching masses of metal that loomed larger and larger, engines screaming, before they tilted and swerved back into their respective lane before hitting me, leaving me shaken. On three occasions during my day and a half on this particular stretch of highway, vehicles did not have the speed to overtake fully before reaching me, and nor did their drivers seem to care. Hitting my brakes would not save me. With seconds to spare, I would veer from the road to avoid being hit, careering down the embankment, heart thumping and longing more than anything to be away from here. It was like I was in some sort of computer game, notching up my score in the form of miles completed before it was Game Over. I had another defence. I’m not a religious person but here I found myself clenching my hands tightly around my handlebars and praying, again and again. My request was simple: ‘Please don’t let me die. Please help me to get to a road where there is less traffic and more considerate drivers.’ I would wave wildly at traffic heading towards me in my lane, sure they wouldn’t continue their manoeuvre if they knew I was there. But still they’d come, and if they hit this foolish cyclist, too stubborn to move out of their way, it would merely mean another dent on an already battered fender and the inconvenience of cleaning my entrails from their radiator grille. I would race for perhaps an hour at a time and then pull off the road, legs shaking, just to allow myself a little time to gain my composure before setting off again. I experienced further fear when sleeping close to this road. Towards the end of a long but productive day of cycling, I overtook another cyclist, struggling along on the gravel at a lower level to the road. He joined me on the tarmac, pedalling hard to catch me up, and chatted with me, offering local knowledge and soon showing me a track that led down to an area where I could lay out my gear and cook, close to a river. It was as I began to cook that I was joined by three boys who sat beside my fire, just watching me initially as I went about preparing my meal. At first I just wanted to be alone, and wished they’d leave,

not engaging them in conversation in the hope that they’d soon get bored. But I was soon enjoying their company as they began to ask questions, and their innocence and their curiosity had me smiling. As I ate my pasta with a packet sauce, the boys recognised that the fire was beginning to die and went in search of firewood, returning a short time later to add fuel to the embers and continuing to chat. We were now joined by another guy, perhaps about my age, attracted by the welcoming flames. He asked if he could share the fire and then he sat down, music playing from his radio. It was now I noticed the boys’ mood change; their smiles disappeared and the laughter stopped. They fell silent, our new friend now doing most of the talking in broken English between spells of silence. He seemed very confident and I couldn’t help wondering if the boys’ manner had changed because they knew something I didn’t. I had heard too many stories of violent robberies in this part of the world and again I felt sure I was about to become another victim. The boys soon stood up to leave, saying goodbye only to me as they turned to walk away, and I tried to read their expressions, wishing I could just have a minute alone with them to ask what they knew of the man they were leaving me with. I wanted to walk to the river for a wash but didn’t dare leave this man with my things, afraid he’d rifle through my bags as soon as I turned my back. Instead I stayed beside the fire, trying my best to put on a cold, hard front and communicate as infrequently and in as few words as possible. I wanted him to know he was unwelcome and that this was my fire; my bed for the night. I tied up my mosquito net and began to write my diary within its confines. I made sure all my things were tucked within my net, my bike on the sand just a metre or so from my head. Turning out my torch, I pulled my sleeping bag up over my shoulders, wondering how he might try to finish me off. His radio continued to emanate the sounds of Mexico for just a short while longer and then … silence. Eyes closed but wide awake, I listened for movement, for some suggestion of what he was about to do next. The fire cracked, a car passed over the bridge. The sound of the man prodding the fire. And then he spoke. ‘I am going to get food,’ he said, getting to his feet and picking up the bucket of belongings he had brought with him. He placed it down next to my sleeping place. ‘Will you take care this?’ Immediately I felt more relaxed. He trusted me to look after his things and I should, therefore, be more trusting of him. He walked away from our camping area and I was able to drift off. After a good night’s sleep, waking only occasionally to the sound of heavy traffic on the nearby highway and to a damp sleeping bag caused by the heavy dew, I left the river, my friend helping me push my bike back up the sandy path to the dangerous road. I felt bad for having been so distrustful. Others were drawn to my fires in the evenings, one man with a machete spotting my flames and inviting me to his house, while another three teenagers armed with machetes and catapults joined me on another occasion, curious to

watch my routine. They collected firewood for me, enough to build a fire the size of a family saloon car, and I had to politely decline the larger bits, explaining I wanted to keep my fire small. It was noticeable that in many poorer communities many of the men carried bladed tools. These were tools they required for their work, and in one little restaurant four men chatted with me as they sharpened their billhooks and machetes at the next table. If the owners of these weapons greeted me with smiles, I’d be very trusting. Otherwise I’d be wary of their intent. After a particularly monotonous spell of cycling through endless cornfields, sunflowers gaily dancing in the breeze on the fringes, I was thirsty and running desperately low on water. I hadn’t seen a single building for many miles – no shops, no restaurants and not a single house. The little water I had left was warm and tasted of smoke, having boiled it over the fire the previous night. I longed for something cold and sugary. On I cycled, becoming increasingly thirsty. As I had just about given up on the idea of a cold drink, I noticed a car come to a stop on the shoulder a few hundred metres ahead of me. Two of its occupants stepped out, flagging me down as I approached, grinning from ear to ear. I came to a halt, a little mystified, the older man taking my hand in both of his, shaking it enthusiastically, introducing me to his son and going off at a great rate of knots into a Spanish monologue. I explained I didn’t understand. ‘We saw your picture in the newspapers in Guadalajara,’ he explained, excitedly. ‘We saw you further south but were unable to stop because of the traffic.’ I was a little perplexed as to how I had made it into the newspapers in Guadalajara – I had never even been there. I twice asked the man if he was sure it was me he had seen but he was absolutely convinced. A further young man stepped out of the car and was ushered towards me to shake my hand. I was led to the vehicle, doors wide open, and introduced to the mass of smiling faces peering out at me. The man opened his boot, also crammed with stuff, and took the lid from a cool box. From it he took a one-litre carton of chilled orange juice and handed it to me. He shook my hand once more, the family rearranged themselves back into the car, and they were off, horn sounding and arms waving from open windows. I opened the carton and enjoyed my drink, a little bemused at what had just happened but with a sense that somebody upstairs was looking after me. Whenever I needed it most, help would always appear, sometimes from the most unexpected of places. Well into my Mexican adventure, it looked as though my dwindling funds were just about going to see me through, but there was little contingency should anything go wrong. When I began to feel ill early one morning, I immediately thought of the potential financial cost of being unwell. My illness weakened me and energy was further depleted when a third spoke broke on my rear wheel, causing it to rub on my brakes on every revolution. I unclipped the brakes to help the wheel turn but in the burning sun I began to feel very poorly. I was lacking strength, my head became fuzzy and I struggled to maintain a straight

line when cycling. I simply couldn’t continue. The road soon took me into Culiacán. I found a cycle shop, had my wheel repaired and paid about £8 for the night in a hotel. For twenty hours I rested. Back on the road the following morning, my body and my mind remained exhausted, my reserves depleted. My legs twitched and I was soon feeling at my painful hamstrings. I wondered how I was going to cope, cycling big distances for a further eight or nine consecutive days in the heat of northern Mexico with very little to look forward to in that time. Almost every day followed the same sort of pattern and my only full day off in Mexico now seemed like an age ago. I had no weekends and no Easter break to look forward to, just the same drudgery of waking at first light, feeding myself and cycling from dawn ’til dusk. I suffered a further spell of illness during this final push but wouldn’t allow myself to stop, tired legs and weakened body still forcing their way up many hills, through uninspiring scenery and along ugly, four-lane highways, against occasionally strong headwinds which would blow hot directly at me. Flies and mosquitoes bothered me in the evenings, around a hundred bluebottles taking an annoying interest in my water bottles as I cooked beside a small brown pond on one occasion, mosquitoes finding their way into my mosquito net as I struggled to hang it to escape them on another. I was soon in murderous mood! I could barely walk when I dismounted my bike and ventured into a supermarket in the town of Ciudad Obregón after just two hours in the saddle that morning and I sat, drinking Coke and eating an apple, in the agreeable temperatures of the shopping centre, not wanting to think about going back outside into the burning sun to do a further sixty miles or so. I found a phone to call my four-year-old niece to wish her a happy birthday for that day, but she was a little lost for words and instead I spent a short time speaking with my sister and then with my Mum, who just happened to be visiting. My head lolled on aching shoulders but my legs, detached from my mind, just kept on turning and turning. I let them know what I thought of them, patting my thighs with my free hand. ‘Well done legs. Keep going.’ An email I received, just days away from crossing the border into the US, suggested I may no longer have a place to stay in Tucson. Kenneth was still keen to see me but he was living with his sister and her husband. His sister, he told me, had just had a baby and she was reluctant to have a stranger staying in the house. I fully understood. I now worried about where I was going to stay on my arrival there. The dangling carrot I had been chasing for so long had cruelly had a huge chunk taken out of it. I hoped some form of hospitality would still come my way and suggested – via email – that Kenneth contact the press to tell them of my imminent arrival in the hope that some kind soul might read my story and take pity on me. I continued throwing my gear and my bike over barbed-wire fences at night, many displaying ‘Privado’ (Private) signs at regular intervals along their length. I

was now well into cattle country and for tens of miles the fences continued, ranch houses adding further obstacles to my camping dilemma. It wasn’t the lush, grass-grazing we associate with our own cattle farming back in the UK. Instead the vegetation was dry, brittle and thorny, desert plants dominating, growing in sand and offering little nourishment. On my penultimate day in Mexico, I came to a halt at a petrol station, filling up with potable water. Boys as young as ten or eleven years old washed the windscreens of cars and my arrival helped to break the monotony of their day. ‘A donde va?’ they asked as they continued to wash. ‘Alaska,’ I smiled back, holding my water carrier to the tap. ‘Alaska?!’ they questioned, sponges coming to a halt. I nodded back, smiling – I wasn’t yet tired of hearing such a surprised reaction. I bought a can of Tang, enjoyed the shade for a few minutes and, as cars pulled up, the boys would point in my direction, telling the drivers I was cycling to Alaska, excited grins on their faces. The female assistant from the shop heard their commotion and came out to have my story confirmed. I nodded again. ‘Por que?’ she asked – why? When I told her I was raising money for charity she disappeared, returning a minute later with a cheese and ham sandwich. ‘Para tu’ (For you). On the day I was due to enter the USA, I woke with a real sense of it being Christmas, even though it was late April. There was a distinct chill in the air as I emerged from my sleeping bag at 5.30am and I felt a tinge of excitement at the prospect of opening lots of cards and letters. I hoped Father Christmas had visited Tucson. I hoped I might also have a place to stay. In the sprawling border town of Nogales, I needed to find a bank where I could pay for an exit stamp to leave Mexico. Because it was early, banks were still closed, so I made good use of my time by going in search of food, joining others in a queue for the bank at just before 8.30am. The buildings went on for miles and I felt intimidated by the relative chaos of such a big town after so much time in the sticks. There seemed to be little order to this place. Airconditioned banks with smart frontages were hemmed in between dress shops, simple restaurants and candy shops with their garish signs. Men in groups sat on brightly painted, raised kerbs, reading newspapers and watching the world go by, roadworks progressing at snail’s pace in front of them. Stern officials, more bureaucracy and yet more fees greeted me at Immigration. I cycled my first few metres in the USA – another milestone on this journey. The difference was marked and instantly noticeable. The road allowed me to travel at a good pace, wider and smoother than most I had travelled on in Mexico. The houses and shopping complexes were plush to say the least, and there was a distinct absence of little roadside stalls and kiosks. Tucson was still sixty-five miles away and the road was initially relatively quiet. Traffic increased as I approached my destination and motorists were not

afraid to let me know that I shouldn’t be on the freeway, one guy screaming at me from his car and others sounding their horns. My map showed no alternative route. It wasn’t the welcome to the USA I had been dreaming about for so long. I followed signs into the centre of the small city and then began asking people in the street for directions. Incrementally, I made my way northwards towards Kenneth’s sister’s house, a place I had been striving to arrive at for well over a month now. Around mid-afternoon on Thursday 27 April I arrived there with just US$17 (about £12) in my pocket. I had cycled just under 2,700 miles over the preceding thirty-four days at an average distance of 555 miles per week. In the final seven days of my ride into Tucson, I had cycled 627 miles. To put this into perspective, Lance Armstrong is documented to have cycled an average of 450 miles a week during his eight months of training leading up to the Tour de France. Lance Armstrong trained on an ultra-light racing bike with no panniers and will have had a team around him for much of the time. He would not have had to expend additional energy searching for firewood every night, trailing supermarkets and stores on an almost daily basis, taking pauses to read maps and fill up water bottles, and would have been fed a diet specific to the work he was doing. Had he fallen ill, he would have been advised to rest at the expense of his weekly total. I’ll say nothing more of the additional benefits his body received. I took on the roles of cyclist, doctor, nutritionist, cook, mentor, mechanic and coach. My challenge had not just been about the bike. I pedalled around the block twice, unable to find the house, but then spotted a face I vaguely recognised, peering out from behind a camera lens as he took photos of my arrival. Kenneth was pleased to see me but not nearly as pleased as I was to see him. He led me to the house, explaining that I had been invited to camp in the garden of Alisha and Jason (Kenneth’s sister and her partner). The whole family made me feel very welcome, although were understandably rather tentative at first. I tried not to be a nuisance, particularly with a baby around, and would help out with the cooking and the shopping whenever I could, contributing to the cost, particularly as my appetite was so huge. Lots of mail had arrived and I tried to open just a few each day of my four-day stay. All of my letters were read more than once and some – particularly those from my Mum – were taken with me, to be read again and again on lonely nights in the desert. I received one particularly welcome package from the UK containing two shiny, new bank cards. On placing the debit card into the ATM and receiving a bunch of banknotes, I almost had tears of joy rolling down my face. It was as if I had just been told I’d never have to worry about money again. The four days I spent in Tucson were busy, Kenneth acting as my local guide as we paced the streets looking for repairs and supplies for the next leg of my journey. It wasn’t all work and I enjoyed being allowed to feel human again, watching the occasional DVD and TV programme, cooking meals together, walking into town for breakfast, and socialising at a party one of Jason’s friends invited us to, to celebrate the completion of his PhD. Kenneth painted a large

‘Argentina to Alaska’ sign on the panel of the bag on the back of my bike to let others know what I was doing and went in search of panniers for his own bike, having decided he’d like to join me for a few days. My adventure up through the USA would continue in good company.

Chapter 16 Tucson–Death Valley 11,445 miles cycled

I felt ill as Kenneth and I left Tucson, through roadworks and heavy traffic, my stomach not one hundred per cent and the occasional hot flush coming over me. The road was flat but the weather didn’t help – it was already baking hot by mid-morning and Jason had said it was forecast to top 100°F that day – around 38°C. It was, he said, unusually hot for early May. Close to midday we stopped in the shade of a tree and beside a water channel which I waded into, soaking my T-shirt and our caps to cool off a little. It was only once I was back on the bank that I noticed a sign informing us the water was polluted and warned that it was an offence to enter it. I decided I had probably been in worse in South America and had probably even drunk worse. The heat remained a problem over the coming days and the people we met would always make a point of telling us it was not normal to be experiencing such temperatures at this time of year. Kenneth suffered headaches and I struggled with hand and foot cramps but, in spite of this, progress was good. Kenneth did magnificently well, in fact, considering his inexperience – around seventy miles a day for each of the two full days he was with me and without uttering a single word of complaint. It was the evenings I really enjoyed with Kenneth, though. We laid out our sleeping mats beneath the stars and away from the road and would sit beside our stoves, cooking and eating unlikely combinations of food and chatting until the day’s cycling got the better of us and it was time to sleep. His excitement and enthusiasm at his mini-adventure was infectious and I would have been more than happy for him to join me for longer. After two full days of cycling together, Kenneth turned left as we exited our out-of-the-way camping area and I turned to the right. An immediate feeling of loneliness hit me as I looked back and saw his figure growing smaller, disappearing as I rounded a bend in the road. After six days in the company of others, it was just me again and whatever might lie ahead I would have to tackle alone. Over twenty miles later, a truck driver – originally from Costa Rica – stopped, handing me a can of Mountain Dew. He was happy to have stumbled upon me, he said, and explained that he had been speaking with Kenneth about me back down the road.

I stuck to the quieter roads, which perhaps weren’t quite so direct, but the quality of my days was improved away from the traffic, my evenings becoming much more pleasurable. My stove was again working, thanks to some borrowed parts from Jason, and I could now turn it on and off as I wished, boiling water for hot drinks and cooking some wonderful meals. I was thoroughly enjoying my evenings in the Wild West, noticing just how peaceful it was, settling down among flowering desert shrubs at the end of one day in the saddle. I felt it had been such a long time since I had experienced such solitude, absolute silence but for the occasional calming calls of a couple of birds – no dogs barking and no traffic passing by on the nearby road. I felt a sense of calmness over those first few days cycling through the USA, no longer on edge and no longer did I feel lonely – it was beautiful. As I brushed my teeth one evening, the silhouetted forms of huge saguaro cacti stood out like sentinels around me against the purest night sky. In the town of Kingman I visited a large supermarket where I enjoyed buying food for a foray to the Grand Canyon. I decided that at least a portion of my food should be fresh, rather than being of the dehydrated type I had become so accustomed to and, once outside, I began packing it into my luggage, wrapping anything that might spoil in plenty of clothing to try and insulate it from the ambient temperature. A number of locals spoke with me as I readied myself to leave and I asked their advice on the best viewing places for the canyon but nobody seemed able to help, unable even to offer directions to get me there. One woman, rather large, chatty and wearing a loud, flowery dress, disappeared into the store, returning a few minutes later with a map she had bought for me, a little embarrassed at not being able to offer any local knowledge. A Colombian guy in his sixties, now living in the States with his much younger wife, couldn’t do enough for me, introducing me to his wife and sister, helping me carry my water carrier from a tap, emptying his car of wrapped sweets for me to take, inviting me back to his house, and insisting I kept in touch when I declined his offer. He kept hugging me, his wife and sister soon joining in, and I was genuinely saddened at not being able to spend more time with them but his house was back the way I had cycled and I was pushed for time. Kingman was a little oasis when it came to hospitality, as I found the inhabitants in this part of the world to be generally very cold and insular. Cars came by occasionally as I crashed and bumped along a sand road towards the Grand Canyon but even on this lonely stretch of road their drivers were stony faced and reluctant to even make eye contact. That was until a truck pulled up beside me, the driver waving on its approach. Inside were two guys and a woman, all perhaps around forty and all seemingly having had a drink or two. ‘How ya doing?’ the driver yelled, leaning forward in his seat to see beyond his passengers. The guy in the passenger seat grinned at me, an opened can of Budweiser in his hand. ‘Good, thanks. You?’

‘We’re all doin’ mardy fine,’ he replied, and I’m sure they were. I asked if they knew of the best places to view the Canyon, but again they had little idea. ‘That thing looks heavy,’ the driver remarked, nodding at my bike. His passengers leaned in to take a look. ‘I knew a guy once who cycled twenty-five hundred miles way down into Mexico,’ he reminisced. I nodded in acknowledgement but wanted to let them know of my own feat. ‘I’ve cycled almost twelve thousand miles so far,’ I told them, ‘and I’m heading to North Alaska.’ The three of them whooped and hollered, looking at one another, openmouthed. ‘Are you goin’ to the Olympics this year?!’ the driver joked. The guy in the passenger seat sat up, leaning further towards me. ‘Ar reckon you deserve a beer!’ he exclaimed, and I reckoned he was right. He struggled to kneel on his seat, turning himself around and fumbling in a cool box behind. But this was a tease too far. ‘Ah, she-it,’ he grumbled, ‘we’re all out!’ He settled back down in his seat, took a huge swig from his can and continued to grin. As the vehicle left, the driver stuck his head out of the window. ‘I lerve you maern!’ he cried, and accelerated away, leaving me longing for a beer. The wide, flat valley bottom reminded me very much of the area of the Atacama Desert I had cycled through the day before my arrival in San Pedro de Atacama, months ago in Chile. The desert then seemed sinister and hostile but here I enjoyed its beauty, feeling much more relaxed. Over ten litres of water on my bike, a two-litre bottle of pop and a bag containing food for several days made all the difference. If my bike packed in and refused to go any further, I had everything I needed here to maintain a good level of comfort, even if I had just seen my last vehicle of the day. A 0.8lb steak sizzled in my frying pan a short time later and a tin of baked beans was then heated to accompany it. A mug of tea in my hand, the breeze sang through the Joshua trees around me and life felt good. Freshly washed clothes wafted from a line I had strung up and the sun slipped steadily earthwards, stealing the colours from my beautiful surroundings with the promise of their return the next day. Gone was the fear of being caught on private land; the feeling that I might be found by thieves who placed no value on a human life. And gone was the urgency to cycle massive distances every day to meet a crazy deadline I had set myself. I felt at one with my surroundings, at peace with myself and I dared to look ahead again with a real sense of excitement. I felt ridiculously happy. I woke early the following morning, hoping to arrive at the Canyon by around 7.30am, but the road had other ideas, its sandy surface rolling steeply up and down the contours, often rutted and rocky. I passed through more Joshua trees and then into an area with leafier vegetation, up through a valley flanked by striking, red sandstone cliffs. Not a single car came by and when I arrived at a

track leading down to Quartermaster View Point there was no sign of another soul. I descended two and a half miles, the rocks seemingly becoming redder as I went. I then caught sight of what I had cycled here for – this treasure of the geological world. A spectacular, gaping fissure in the earth’s crust gradually revealed itself in all its early morning splendour. This grand statement of the power of Mother Nature, silent and solemn. I arrived at the edge, put down my bike and stepped down just a few metres, sitting cross-legged at its mighty rim, taking in the beauty and the grandeur of this place. A mile below me and out of view, the Colorado River continued its work, the unsung artist of this masterpiece. For two hours I remained, taking in its majesty, writing my diary and pausing periodically to look around, breathe in the air and to reflect. Even if my journey ended now, I’d be a happy man, I told myself. There was a magic in the silence and I felt a certain spirituality as I looked out across this beautiful abyss, the shadows from its turreted walls shortening as the sun’s intensity grew. When the helicopters began to fizz below me, whizzing tourists between the Canyon walls, I felt saddened and decided it was time to leave. Throughout the states of Arizona and much of Nevada, I struggled to get used to the dry heat, which I found debilitating, often waking before 6am, hitting the road early to get in as much distance as I could before the real heat of the day hit. Around lunchtime I’d try and find some shade where I’d eat, drink and perhaps manage a snooze for an hour or so, but sparse trees only offered partial shade and I soon learnt that the best place to seek refuge from the sun was beneath the road. I’d look for culverts as midday closed in, wheeling down my bike and laying out my mat in the coolness offered by the half a metre of concrete above me. Falling asleep was easy after a good lunch and I found my days very nicely split into two, only concerning my mind with half a day’s cycling at a time, a good rest to look forward to at the end of each morning and at the end of each afternoon. The road snaked down to the Hoover Dam with regular parking and viewing areas, the place alive with visitors and their cars in addition to the many lorries negotiating the hairpin bends. As I filled up with drinking water at a drinks fountain just over the other side of the dam wall, an elderly woman – originally from England and on holiday with her daughter – stopped to talk to me, soon followed by a group of Mexicans. I enjoyed talking but the Americans themselves seemed unwilling to enter into any conversation. There were more Americans here than any other nationality and yet not one of them spoke directly to me. One young mother, walking within a few feet of me, her young daughter in tow, noticed the sign on the back of my bike. ‘Oh, look,’ she said, ‘he’s cycling all the way to Alaska.’ She walked on by without uttering a single word to me or offering a smile of recognition. In the town of Dolan Springs earlier that morning, I’d shopped for food at a tiny store that offered little choice and little hospitality; the female assistant responded to my greetings and questions in single syllables, if at all. I was also

in need of fuel for my stove but struggled to operate the pump at the little filling station in the town. The assistant stormed out, impatiently, and snatched the nozzle from me. I left with an eye full of unleaded petrol and a real dislike for the people here. My first view of Las Vegas was a long-range one, a turgid smog hanging over it, the snow-capped summit of Charleston Peak in the far distance. As I descended into the man-made jungle, a safe route through the urban area was difficult to find and I zigzagged widely through the suburb of Henderson, trying to stay off the highway and on the quieter roads. The size of the city surprised me, having seen pictures of the Las Vegas Strip on TV and expecting Las Vegas to be little more than this single street. How wrong I was. It was like one big, living organism in a sea of desolation. Surrounded on all sides by baking desert, the suburbs clung to the city centre for dear life, the roads serving as lifelines to the beating heart within. I followed signs towards the university, hoping that here they’d allow a fellow student to use a computer for free. I felt I couldn’t be far away but took out my map to make one final check. A policeman on a mountain bike rolled alongside and came to a halt. I thought I was in trouble. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’ I explained I was looking for the university in the hope that I might be able to gain some free internet use there. It seemed I was asking the right man. Kevin instructed me to follow him and we set off, up and down kerbs, across lanes of traffic and through pedestrianised areas, coming to a halt outside the university buildings where I locked my bike. Kevin assured me he’d keep an eye on it as this was his patch. I unclipped my handlebar bag containing my valuables and took this inside with me. A few words to the university staff from my policeman friend before he departed and I was logged on to a computer and reading emails. Kevin returned with a fellow officer, James, over two hours later and both stood above me looking sombre. ‘I’ve got some bad news,’ Kevin told me, a pained expression causing my mind to race. ‘Your bike’s been stolen.’ My heart sank. I felt wretched, as if I had just been told a loved one had died. He must have got this wrong, I thought. How could it possibly have been stolen? A policeman was looking after it. In an instant I thought of all that I had gone through with my bike and thought of all the time and the hassle everything would take to replace – the clothes, my stove, tools, sleeping bag and … my diaries! My diaries, containing detail of every step of my journey; every emotion, all the names and addresses of the people I had met. I saw visions of my dear bike in my head and I felt heartbroken. Kevin recognised my despair, read the dejection in my body language and spoke. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’m only joking – it’s still there.’ He laughed, embarrassed at his bad joke but with little idea of how devastating such news

would have been for me. I was overcome with an immense sense of relief. Kevin’s little joke brought home to me just how attached I had become to my bike and to all that it carried. This wasn’t just any old bike, after all – we had been through so much together. It took me a few moments to compose myself. James asked if I’d be happy being on TV as they felt my journey would make a good story – they reckoned few trans-continental cyclists travelled through their city. I told him I’d be more than happy, thinking that locals may be more sympathetic if they had seen me on the telly, and James phoned one of the TV stations to let them know. He chatted briefly, before handing the phone to me. I was asked for my intended route out of the city and I was assured that they’d try and send somebody out to film me unless a big story occurred requiring crew there instead. Kevin offered to buy me lunch, taking me to a nearby pizza place which – it soon transpired – he owned. He told me to eat and drink all I could and I didn’t need a second invitation. I ordered a large pizza and went back to the drinks dispenser several times. It was late when I finally got on my way again but I had made contact with home and now had a full belly. I found myself weaving left and then right again and again as I cycled through the sprawl. I attempted to stay on the cycle route but with very intermittent signage it was impossible and the chances of any television crew finding me had surely now gone. Interstate 95 – my road north – was closed to cyclists and signs for the cycle route petered out altogether. New housing estates seemed to go on forever. A driving, hot wind and bright sun combined to trouble my eyes and I realised I had become tired of the desert. There was soon no other option available to me but to join Interstate 95, which still displayed signs forbidding cycles. I raced along, trying to avoid eye contact with passing motorists until I was able to haul my bike and all my gear over a fence and down a steep embankment, onto a more minor road that now ran parallel to ‘95’. For now I simply crossed the road and continued perpendicular to it, across desert scrub for a few hundred metres, laying my sleeping mat on coarse stones for the night, still in view of the highway. I failed to see the beauty in this place and yet there was so much development going on here – huge housing estates being thrown up everywhere –homes for those wishing to retire to a place in the sun. I viewed the bright lights of Las Vegas through my binoculars as darkness fell, having crossed The Strip earlier that afternoon. I couldn’t believe the number of casinos there were in this city – hundreds of them – and couldn’t help thinking how obscene it all was. I had seen none of this in South and Central America and had rarely witnessed these levels of wealth and yet, here in North America, greed was driving its population to seek yet more. Everywhere there was greed – from the casino owners to those feeding coin after coin into those fruit machines, which were even in the supermarket I had been in that day. People didn’t seem interested in community and had little time for socialising.

Here it was all about money; it was every man for himself and every man’s perceptions in this part of the world seemed to be that little money meant little happiness. I had seen so many smiles on the faces of poorer people further south and feared now that materialism and consumerism were gradually eating away at all other values. The wind pummelled me beyond Las Vegas, whistling through my spokes, blowing at me from the west and forcing me to lean into it. I sought respite in a culvert where I had an extended lunch in the hope that the worst of it might be over when I was ready to go again. I struggled back up onto the road and was almost blown over, a couple of tumbleweeds blowing across the road in front of me. When the road took a detour around a range of hills, I was met with the full force of the wind in my face, which brought me to a complete standstill on a couple of occasions. I was averaging just six miles an hour and it was exhausting, bringing back painful memories of the fierce winds of Patagonia. In the tiny truck stop of Amargosa I filled up with water at a tap in a store, the wind howling across the plain outside and sending clouds of dust way into the air. I was pelted with grit as I forced open the door to leave, noticing a rest area with restrooms across the road. I decided anywhere out of this wind had to be worth a look and I was in need of a good clean-up anyway. I gathered my toiletries and some dirty clothes and walked in, closing the door and locking it behind me. As the wind did its best to rattle the door from its hinges, I had a wonderful, warm strip wash, washed clothes and enjoyed a shave, releasing the lock and strolling back out into the car park a new man. I arranged my camp that evening in a handy hollow that would offer some shelter. The wind eased that night but then picked up again, forcing me to build a windbreak of panniers to protect my face from the dust that was being whipped into it. There was now a distinctly chilly feel to the night. I dug out my balaclava and, a little later, my thermals, curling up to try and keep warm as the icy wind ripped through my sleeping bags. I wished I had put up my tent. I had got into the habit of rising early in the relative cool of the mornings but when my alarm woke me at 5.10am, the bitter wind still blew and I stayed where I was for a further fifty minutes. I set off, looking particularly dapper in sandals, shorts, waterproof jacket and balaclava. Cold air, blowing hard at me from the north, pegged back my pace all the way into the sparse town of Beatty, some twenty-two miles away. A peace protestor chatted with me outside a store there, followed by an old guy who wanted to tell me about his time as a chief engineer working on roads in Scotland, on hearing I was from just south of the border. I asked for his restaurant recommendation and he pointed me in the direction of the Burro Inn where I feasted on a large omelette with chilli, hash browns and all sorts of toppings and toast. As I ate, I was joined by Michael, a guy from Santa Cruz who had walked 1,600 miles from his home in the San Francisco area into New Mexico to raise cash and awareness for the local Indians whose sacred land was being used as a nuclear dumping ground and was a former nuclear

testing site. He was there to take part in a protest walk with the Shoshone Indians. We shared tales of our exploits and he suggested I ask for free meals in restaurants. It had worked for him but was perhaps a little late for me for this particular meal. I paid my bill and headed across the main street to the store, enjoying talking to a Dutch couple but having to excuse myself as the Shoshone Indian walkers came by. I chased after them, introducing myself to their chief, Johnnie Bobb, dressed in jeans and a denim gilet, a large, decorated talking stick in one hand (used by native Indians when a council is called and is passed from speaker to speaker) and dried flowers, bound by a long, red ribbon, in the other. I spoke briefly with Johnnie and wished him luck. Michael strode over to say goodbye, hugging me and handing me a Christian book to read. I had been told by many over the preceding days that Death Valley was no place for a cyclist. The world’s highest recorded surface temperature of 56.7°C was measured there, way back in 1913. With unusually high temperatures for the whole of my journey through the USA so far, I had thought it irresponsible to attempt crossing the hottest, lowest and driest part of North America by bike. And yet it still held a certain appeal. A short distance out of town and it was crunch time, but the change in the weather had already helped make up my mind. A sign for Death Valley pointed to the left and that’s the way I turned. The road took me through dry hills and across a wide, upland valley before a sign told me of a thirteen-mile descent ahead. I paused among the shattered sandstone rocks, looking out across the plain, which shimmered silently in the heat. The cold wind had died but it was still cooler than the preceding days. At speeds of up to 46mph I descended, the road void of traffic, into the bowl that was Death Valley. The land levelled out and I cruised across the floor of the bowl, my thermometer reading just 32°C – my coolest daytime temperature for some weeks. My surroundings had a harsh, subtle beauty to them: creosote bushes clinging onto bleached, parched earth, rock outcrops carved into staggeringly beautiful shapes. Less than an hour after beginning my traverse of the Valley, the road began a subtle climb out of the basin. A car was parked a few metres from the road and, close by, a man crouched, looking at me through his huge camera lens. The lens followed me, unnervingly, as I cycled by, the shutter clicking again and again until I was beyond him. I was curious to know why he had wanted so many pictures of me, so stopped to ask. ‘I work for a German guidebook,’ he told me. ‘I am trying to get some action shots in the valley, to show people what different activities they can do while they’re here.’ He overtook me twice as I climbed the hill, stopping his car each time and stepping out to take more photos. It was only a matter of a few more minutes before I was being photographed again, this time by an American couple in their sixties, as I approached a café and store in the holiday resort of Stovepipe Wells. The woman waved her hand in a request for me to stop, looking as

though she was about to burst with excitement. I ceased pedalling and applied my brakes, coming to a halt. I was greeted with warm smiles and handshakes, the two of them looking star-struck as I unclipped from my pedals. ‘It’s so nice to meet you,’ the woman said, stepping towards me. ‘We saw you on TV.’ I must have looked dubious. ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure it was me?’ I had heard such claims before. ‘Oh yes, definitely,’ she assured me. ‘You were doing an interview somewhere in South America,’ she said. The man nodded in agreement. The programme, they told me, had been shown in the US but they couldn’t remember which channel – ‘possibly the Discovery Channel,’ they thought. ‘It’s so nice to have met you,’ the woman continued, ‘we found the interview very interesting, didn’t we?’ she said, turning to her husband who nodded once more. Now I really doubted whether it could have been me. My only TV interviews were in Trujillo in Peru, where I was interviewed in Spanish and my replies were always short and perhaps not relevant to the questions asked. Surely she had me mixed up with somebody else? More warm handshakes followed as they departed and I wandered over to a tap beside the café to fill up with water. Sitting at a table by the entrance to the café terrace was another couple – a guy of around forty and an attractive girl, perhaps fifteen or twenty years his junior. They smiled in my direction and I nodded back, giving them a cheery, ‘Hi!’ The two of them continued to watch me as I stooped to fill my water carrier. I re-attached the lid and turned to walk back towards my bike as the man spoke. ‘Are you really cycling to Alaska?’ he asked. He had been listening with interest to my conversation with the older couple. ‘I am,’ I replied, rather bashfully, as I knew how this must sound. He nodded in thoughtful acknowledgement. ‘Would you like to join us?’ He pulled out a seat and gestured for me to take it. I placed my water carrier beside the seat and sat down. ‘Please, help yourself to some food,’ he insisted, waving his hand over the plates in front of them. ‘Would you like some tea to drink?’ He didn’t wait for my reply, instead catching the attention of a waitress who was passing and asking her to bring a third cup to the table. Simon was originally from France but now resided in New York, working as a photographer. He was in Death Valley to ‘do some shoots’, and Lune – a Slovakian, now living in LA – was modelling for him. They were wonderful, warm people and we clicked immediately. I felt very relaxed in their company, answering questions about my journey while enjoying the bread, cheese and salad that had been slid across the table towards me. ‘Are you staying here tonight?’ Simon asked me, once the food was finished and the final drops of tea had been poured from the teapot. I laughed, wistfully. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’m on a tight budget. I tend to sleep in the desert.’

Simon nodded ruefully before excusing himself, leaving me chatting with the lovely Lune for several minutes. He returned and stood over me, placing a set of keys on the table where I sat. I looked up at him, a little perplexed. ‘I’ve booked you into a room for the night,’ he said. ‘I think you deserve it.’ He sat down again, looking pleased with himself, but I was completely taken aback and initially didn’t know how to react. Simon was unsure how to read this. ‘If you have to go, don’t worry. I can take the keys back. I appreciate you’re on a tight schedule.’ It was true. I had hoped to cycle further than the fifty-nine miles currently showing on my cycle computer. But a room for the night? In a North American Hotel? And with the company of these two lovely people? I just had to stay. ‘No, no,’ I replied, again showing my embarrassment, ‘I’d love to stay.’ I struggled to hide the grin from my face. ‘Thank you so much.’ Lune recognised what this meant to me and laughed. ‘Aww,’ she said. ‘I think it’s so nice that you are helping Trevor out.’ Simon and Lune left by car to find a spot for another photo shoot while I checked in to my room and spent the remainder of the afternoon enjoying a refreshing swim, tired muscles lazily propelling me up and down the length of the hotel pool, ducking my head and pushing myself off the sides on each turn, gliding beneath the surface of the water in aquatic bliss. I returned to my room and heated a tin of beans over my stove on the veranda, feeling sure I must have been the first of the hotel’s guests to have ever done this. I couldn’t help thinking how comical I must look and chuckled at myself, smugly. I ran a bath, my first in over seven months, languishing in its warm water and almost nodding off. I couldn’t believe my luck. I didn’t feel in the least bit guilty at lazing around in the evening, switching on the TV and flicking channels, finally opting to watch several episodes of Friends as I wrote my diary. I had wondered if I should go in search of Simon and Lune but had no idea where in the hotel they might be and didn’t want to encroach on their evening. At 9pm there was a knock on the door – it was Simon. ‘We were wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner?’ he asked. ‘You’d be very welcome.’ I explained that I had already eaten but was easily talked into joining them in the restaurant anyway, intent on only having a drink but having my arm twisted into having soup, salad and cheesecake, all washed down with a lovely, cool beer. Simon noticed the sty on my eye which had worsened over the last few days – a result of the bright sun and the wind, I thought. On hearing I no longer had any sunglasses, he reached into his bag and pushed a pair of Polaroids across the table. ‘I can’t take these,’ I argued. ‘I’ll buy a cheap pair the next time I’m in a town.’ ‘I don’t wear them anymore,’ he insisted. ‘Take them.’ Again Lune smiled across the table at my reaction.

The two of them asked if there was anything else I needed, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. ‘What about food? What food are you carrying? We’ve brought far too much – you must take some.’ Simon insisted on paying the restaurant bill, and walked me to his room where he and Lune emptied food from bags, handing it to me – granola bars, dried fruit, nuts, etcetera, in some quantity. Arms full of goodies, I made my way back to my room with a skip in my step. The simplest thing could cause great giddiness on a journey lacking the luxuries we take for granted in everyday life. I experienced many spells of giddiness during my journey – new toothbrushes, hot showers, cold water to drink, and so on – but few things had me as giddy as a comfy bed with sweetsmelling, crisp sheets. I lay on it, face down, opening my arms and my legs wide to appreciate the sheer expanse of it. I shuffled over to the edge and took the greatest pleasure in simply allowing the weight of my arm to flop over the side, hanging vertically towards the floor – something I couldn’t do from my sleeping mat. I chuckled to myself and sighed a thankful sigh that strangers such as Simon should want to spoil a simple traveller like me.

Chapter 17 Death Valley–Chilliwack 12,189 miles cycled

I made the most of my hotel room in Stovepipe Wells on the edge of Death Valley, waking early but languishing on the bed and flicking through TV channels as I gorged on cereal, bread and a whole host of snacks that Simon and Lune had given me. It was late morning before I began climbing away from the valley floor, gaining height at snail’s pace before I arrived at a summit sign telling me I had reached an altitude of 4,856 feet (1,480 metres) – I had been more or less at sea level only a few hours earlier. When I came to a halt at rest areas along the route of the climb, I was always approached by well-wishers, one couple handing me $5 towards my entrance fee into Yosemite, another young guy taking a photo of me with my bike. ‘My Mum and Dad will love this,’ he beamed. ‘They’re cycling across the USA in stages.’ The landscape was stark but beautiful as I climbed another steep gradient the following morning, dark igneous rocks peppered across the ground’s surface. Two racing cyclists gradually overtook me and I pushed hard and fast at my pedals to stick with them for as long as I could before they gradually pulled away and I allowed myself to ease off. Yet more cyclists came by on lightweight machines, catching sight of the sign on the back of my bike as they approached and shouting words of encouragement – ‘You’re a dude, man!’, ‘You’re awesome!’. I was clearly part of a race, cyclists with race numbers coming by for several hours, and I took advantage of their faster pace, hanging on to the back of each wheel for as long as I could before letting them go and waiting for the next rider to come by when I’d do the same again. I also took advantage of their refreshment stations, where I was offered water, juice and a bagel, one guy asking whether it was me he had seen on TV. Cheers and applause greeted me as I crossed the finishing line of the event, but as the racers stopped to celebrate the end of their ride, my legs continued to turn. The upland valley I found myself in was often strikingly green, fed by snowmelt streams which ran from the impressive mountains of the Sierra Nevada to the west, while desert hills, more rounded in appearance, rose to the east. A tailwind – something of a rarity on this trip – pushed me northwards through the beautiful town of Independence, and I was later joined by another cyclist,

perhaps in his early fifties. He cycled alongside, looking pristine in his garish Lycra which contrasted with my clothing, tired and faded from over-use and over-washing. ‘Are you really cycling to Alaska?’ he asked, somewhat sceptically. He offered no smile and seemed brash and cold. ‘I am,’ I replied, not caring that this man should doubt me. I had cycled over twelve thousand miles up to this point and yet he had made no reference to the journey that had got me this far. My sign clearly read ‘Argentina to Alaska’ but no mention was made of my starting point; of the fact that I had cycled pretty much from the bottom of the world to get here. I felt sure he had no concept of where Argentina was. ‘How far are you cycling each day?’ he asked. ‘It varies,’ I told him, truthfully. ‘Depends on the terrain. I’ll probably do eighty or ninety miles today.’ The man, on his lightweight bike, looked at me, scornfully. ‘I thought you’d be making it to Mammoth Lake today,’ he mocked. ‘I’ve already skied twenty thousand feet this morning and I’m cycling fifty miles now.’ Had I cycled to Mammoth Lake that day, I later calculated, it would have resulted in a day of around 150 miles with some substantial climbs. Finally the man left me in peace. ‘Tosser,’ I muttered. With an increase in altitude and with continued progress north, daytime temperatures were more agreeable but the nights became distinctly cold. Streams brought meltwaters directly down from the snow-covered Sierra Nevada and taking a ‘bath’ in one one evening took my breath away. The following night I pitched my complete tent – including the inner – for the first time in months and felt cosy in its confines. I arrived at a rest area early the next day and decided to stop and wash some clothes in the washrooms. The friendly attendant chatted with me, telling me of an impending storm that was forecast that afternoon, and warned me of 60mph winds and snow above 7,000 feet (2,100 metres). I had enjoyed my cycling recently but felt it had been lacking real excitement. The thought of blizzard-like conditions had me studying my map, searching for roads close to my route that would take me above 7,000 feet. I was close to Yosemite Park now and I spied a pass that would take me there, its summit reaching 10,000 feet. Excitedly, I decided to head for it. As I approached the small settlement of Lee Vining, a sign for Tioga Pass pointed to the left. A notice informed me that the pass was currently closed. A small gas station stood at the junction and I went inside to ask if I would be able to cross over the Pass by bike. The friendly assistant told me there should be no problem – the road was passable but hadn’t yet officially re-opened, although I would easily be able to push my bike around any barriers. In confident mood, I began cycling west.

The wind gusted at me as the road gradually climbed, the gradient steepening further after just a few miles. A few flakes of snow began to fall as I ate my lunch beside the road. As the climb continued, my knees began to hurt, the sun was gradually enveloped by a veil and then a thick blanket of grey cloud and the snow became heavier. A car passed me on its way up the pass and then again on its way back down. The lone woman driver waved enthusiastically, taking my photo as she drove, one hand on the wheel and her eyes fixed on me rather than on the winding road, a precipitous drop to one side. A couple out walking their dog asked where I was going and the woman seemed extremely concerned, considering the weather, when I told her I was heading into Yosemite. The man was more nonchalant, saying the snow probably wouldn’t amount to much. They advised that there were timber shelters ahead and suggested I might sleep in one of those but when I arrived, the snow now covering the road, I found them to be open-sided and well and truly snowed in. I continued over the summit and through two sets of ‘Road Closed’ gates, the second displaying a notice prohibiting even the passage of cyclists and warning of an avalanche danger. But my descent had just begun, the snow was worsening, my fingers were becoming painful with the cold and I knew that the further I dropped, the warmer the temperature should become. I sped downhill for some minutes, noticing a few bare patches of ground beneath pine trees where the snow hadn’t yet settled and far enough from the road not to be easily seen. Across the road was a small river where I’d be able to fill up with water. It looked too good to pass by. My tent was up in a matter of minutes but the snow was now falling so heavily that my panniers, my bike and the recently bare ground were covered in a thin layer. I dusted off my bags and threw them into the tent before jogging across an area of flat, hard-packed snow, over the road to dip my water carrier into the icy river and fill it up. As I stood to return to the tent, I heard the sound of an engine, looked around and – to my horror – saw a ranger’s vehicle, which came to a halt and reversed back down the road until it was level with me. The driver wound down the window to speak but I wanted to be the one to talk first. I tried to look pathetic and, still wearing my balaclava, my cycle helmet and my sunglasses, it wasn’t difficult. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I explained. ‘I know I shouldn’t really be here but a guy back down at the gas station told me I would be OK coming over the pass on a bike. When I got to the barriers the weather was so bad I just wanted to get to lower ground.’ The young ranger listened to my tale, smiling back at me. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked, having picked up on my accent. ‘England,’ I replied. ‘I’m cycling from Argentina to Alaska for charity,’ I added, just for good measure. He nodded at me from the comfort of his truck. ‘I don’t mind you staying here,’ he said, cheerily, ‘but I’ll have to pass it by my boss.’ He glanced in the direction of my tent, now barely visible beneath a covering of snow that

continued to fall in lumps. ‘You know there are bears around here?’ he questioned, looking back at me. ‘Would you like me to bring you a bear barrel to store your food?’ This sounded like a sensible idea, particularly coming from a National Park Ranger. ‘That would be great, thanks,’ I grovelled. He turned his vehicle around and I walked back to my tent, sitting inside and writing my diary but unpacking very little until permission had been granted for me to stay. A gusty breeze blew through the tall stands of pine trees beside my tent. Snow wafted in under the flysheet and into the porch, where it momentarily settled and then melted. Outside, the road was silent until the sound of a vehicle’s engine hummed in the distance. I listened as the noise grew steadily louder and then it stopped. A vehicle door opened and then slammed shut. I crouched on all fours, unzipped the outer tent and stuck my head out. The ranger strode towards my tent through the falling snow, his long stride and his smiling face suggesting I had reason to be optimistic, until he spoke. ‘Bummer news, I’m afraid,’ he said, still smiling inanely. ‘My boss isn’t happy that you ignored the “No cycles” signs and has asked that you leave the Park.’ The ranger continued to smile and for a moment I thought he must be joking. ‘If you can pack your things quickly, you can throw your gear in the back of the truck and I’ll drive you.’ His grin remained, but he didn’t backtrack on his instructions. It seemed he was being deadly serious. My heart sank. I was comfortable in my little shelter from the storm and I didn’t want to leave. For a moment I didn’t move, willing him to change his mind, but he turned and walked away, back towards his vehicle. Reluctantly I put on my shoes and waterproofs and began dismantling my tent as the ranger sat in his heated truck. As we drove back up the long hill I had only recently descended, the windscreen wipers fought hard to maintain a clear view through blinding snow. Paul – the ranger – was very apologetic as we came to a halt at a desolate, snow-bound campground at the summit of Tioga Pass and here he scribbled my name on a ‘warning’ ticket which he tore from his book and handed to me. ‘A little souvenir,’ he told me, a little awkwardly, saying he may yet see me again should the park re-open in the next couple of days, although he thought that unlikely in light of the forecast. I folded the ticket and stuffed it into my pocket, unloaded my gear from the rear of the truck and waved Paul farewell as he turned his vehicle around and headed back down into the valley. I felt a little dumbstruck. I stood, forlornly, struggling to comprehend that I had been dumped at 10,000 feet to fend for myself in a blizzard because I had ignored a safety notice. The punishment seemed severe and, from my perspective at least, reckless. Having scraped the snow from an area large enough to house my tent, I began setting up my soggy home again. The toilet block was closed, there was nobody around and in the picnic area below me the snow was already close to picnic table depth. I made the inside of my tent as comfortable as I could, lit my

stove and began to cook my evening meal, the snow softly pattering on the outer skin. It continued to fall throughout the night, my little thermometer suggesting a temperature within the tent of around 2 degrees Celsius. Cold came at me from all sides, but particularly from the snow layer below, through my cheap foam sleeping mat that had become thin and limp from months of near-continuous use. I placed waterproof clothing beneath me to help insulate and dressed up for what turned out to be a cold and fitful sleep. The space within my tent was diminished by the weight of the snow on the outside and I woke a number of times feeling claustrophobic, pushing the palms of my hands hard at the ceiling of the inner tent to rid the snow from the outside, the tent springing back to a size I recognised, freed from the weight on its shoulders. In the morning I peeked outside at a heavy sky, millions of polka-dot snowflakes being driven across a beautiful winter landscape of frozen lakes, pine forest and granite-grey slopes. Settling down again, I wrote postcards and tried to console myself – a day’s rest would do me good, I told myself. But soon I was bored – I couldn’t tune my radio to receive anything like a coherent station and I dozed for an hour or so. When I woke, the snow was still falling but only lightly, with just a hint that the sun might be trying to break through the clouds. It seemed my hibernation was almost over and I pulled on my shoes, throwing the heavy door of the tent back and standing to stretch and to marvel at my pristine world. I felt I had been released from my solitary confinement. I grabbed my personal stereo and trudged over deep, compacted snow with its soft, fresh topping to where the top of a picnic table was just about visible amid a flood of white. I stepped onto its surface and kicked off the snow. Placing my headphones over my ears, I pressed the play button and danced. Above me the sun was also breaking free. This particular winter had lasted just over a day. I danced in excitement at the adventure I was having, opening out my arms to welcome the arrival of spring and belting out the lyrics of Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones at the top of my voice. My route into Yosemite was still not passable the following day and so, reluctantly, I swung my bike around and cycled back down the pass I had climbed two days earlier. There was no hint of snow in the town of Lee Vining when I arrived back there. Cycling up through the Sierra Nevada was often hard-going but it had its rewards. The scenery was magnificent and the days warm. I’d often cycle with my shirt off during the days, dressing up to combat near-freezing conditions at night. I cleared desolate mountain passes, skirted the pristine waters of Lake Tahoe and pedalled through rich green pine forests, alongside clearings where wildflowers radiated magnificent colour. I rode beside delicious wetlands where strikingly green rushes and sedges grew in profusion alongside rushing, clear creeks that tumbled over rocks and then slowed to offer the clearest of windows to the riverbed below. Chipmunks and ground squirrels would sit on their haunches, running for cover as I approached, only poking their heads out of

their holes to take a look at me once they felt safe. Beyond the tiny town of Sierraville, its tin roofs in varying stages of corrosion, I entered a wide, almost treeless valley where large, old wooden barns dotted the agricultural landscape. Birds sang from fence posts and the occasional startled duck took flight from the waterlogged ditch that ran alongside the road. As I enjoyed a lunch stop in warm sunshine, I laid back in the long grass, staring up beyond the swaying pines at the blue sky beyond, and allowed a wistful mood to envelop me. A gentle breeze blew over my face. Flies and bees buzzed around but rarely did they trouble me and I couldn’t imagine a feeling of greater contentment. Few cars had driven by during my break and I decided on a quick dip in a deep pool of the stream to freshen up, taking off my shorts and giving them a good scrub in the cool waters. As I approached Susanville, a car’s brake lights illuminated the forested road ahead of me. It came to a standstill and the driver stepped out, offering a friendly wave as I approached. We chatted for a short while before he offered me a place to stay at his house; his wife, he told me, was also a cyclist and was out on her bike that afternoon. Norman had to finish working in his hardware store first and directed me there, allowing me time on the internet to reply to an email from Melissa, telling me of her and Edge’s imminent visit in just three weeks’ time. I had been friends with Edge and Melissa for several years and both had supported me with emails, letters and gifts on my journey to this point. They had hinted at the possibility of paying me a visit but up until now I hadn’t dared to think it might happen. They had decided on a Canadian holiday and I was very much a part of their plans. I was invited to holiday with them in Whistler, just north of Vancouver, and bang on my route. Norman drove me to his home, a beautiful timber house amid a sea of pines, where I was fed toast and tea and informed that we’d be eating out that evening – his treat, he told me. We drove back the way I had cycled earlier, to a point fifty-five miles down the road where Kristie, Norman’s wife, was waiting for us with her bike. From there the three of us drove a little further to a restaurant, enjoying a great steak meal and cheesecake, the noise from a raucous wedding celebration just spoiling the ambience a little. Kristie was eager to cycle part way with me the following morning, helping to load our bikes into her truck so we could drive the short distance to Norman’s hardware store once I had thanked him and said goodbye. Norman’s dad was at the store and was keen to meet me and see me off with a handshake. We cycled along backroads into Susanville, eating a good lunch on the pavement outside a store before tackling an eight-mile-long climb together. I said goodbye to Kristie at the summit and as she turned to head for home, I ventured into empty American countryside. There was so much space around me as I cycled and few signs of any real habitation. Rolling hills, partly forested, partly grazed, flanked the road on which travelled very little traffic to bother me. I made it to a campground in good time

that afternoon and found it to be closed but with water pumps operational, which was perfect. I felt incredibly content and serene, the strip of tarmac below practically deserted and only a few mosquitoes to bother me. Nothing worried me at that moment. I had arrived in a place where I felt very comfortable, the climate now more conducive to eating lots rather than just drinking lots, and I had lost that sickly feeling in my stomach that had tormented me for so many months. I continued to eat well into the evening, munching on nuts and toffees as I wrote my diary and the start of a letter by torchlight, the magical sounds of an occasional coyote howl echoing through the hills as I settled to sleep – it was difficult to imagine how the evening could be more complete. My contentment continued for some days, cycling along largely traffic-free roads, through farmland where cattle grazed, over the occasional pass, weaving through sweet-smelling pines and gliding alongside beautiful lakes. I didn’t feel rushed and yet progress was good. Although towns were well spread out and were of no real size, I would invariably find a store in the afternoons where I could buy fresh meat and vegetables, and most evenings I cooked veritable feasts – far more enjoyable than the dried pastas and soups I had endured earlier on my journey. I looked forward to my evenings and was rarely disappointed. The forest again grew sparser, finally giving way to a wide plain of agricultural land, and the logging trucks were replaced by wagons carrying potatoes. Only the dominant form of snow-covered Mount Shasta, at over 4,200 metres in altitude, was of real interest as I cycled towards Klamath Falls, the shouts from a guy in a truck in a queue putting a big smile on my face: ‘Whoa! Keep goin’ man!’ he cried, leaning out of the window and punching the air. I spent a night in my tent beside a car park beyond Klamath Lake, Oregon. The nearby sprinklers kept me awake for a time and I felt sure the water jets were getting closer to where I was trying to sleep. A school bus slowed down to a crawl on a neighbouring road as I left my tent the following morning, the driver and the schoolchildren almost pressing their faces at the windows to have a good nosey at my camp. As I made breakfast at a picnic table I was joined by Bruce, a giant of a man from Astoria, keen to know where I was going. As our conversation developed it became apparent that Bruce – with hands as big as steaks – was something of a gun enthusiast and I found his words drifting in through one ear and straight out of the other. He was perplexed at my admission that I wasn’t carrying a gun. ‘You serious?’ he asked me. ‘You should at least be carryin’ pepper spray if not a hand gern,’ he advised. ‘A few miles up the road there’s an Indian reservation. You cycle through there and they’ll rob ya blind.’ While Bruce showed nothing but good intentions towards me, I was happy when he returned to his car and left. Unperturbed, I later cycled through that same Indian reservation and the road was particularly busy for this part of the world, that day being the start of a national holiday. Most motorists ignored me,

keen to get to their holiday destinations and perhaps a little frustrated at being slowed down by a guy on a bike. Three motorists did manage waves and smiles in my direction though, and all were Native Americans, I noted – funny, that! Later, on a particularly straight stretch of road, flanked by a pine forest that did little to break the wind which blew at me, I noticed a heavily laden truck with a bike on the roof come to a halt a few hundred metres ahead. As I approached, the driver got out and greeted me. Cassie was from Eugene, Oregon, and had been visiting a friend in the countryside. She said something had just told her to stop when she saw me and she followed her instinct. She was lovely, a real breath of fresh air with a love for the outdoors and a real zest for life. We chatted just for a short while and she then handed me some money – US$9 (around £6) – ‘to help you on your way’. I told her I couldn’t accept her money but she insisted. Reluctantly I stuffed it into my pocket but told her I’d give some of it to my charity. This was something that played on my conscience as my journey continued. It was not the first and wouldn’t be the last time I would be handed money and almost without exception I was told that the money was for me, to buy a meal with or ‘to treat myself’. I felt dishonest taking this money as I could now manage to support myself without it and yet I could rarely afford to treat myself on my strict budget. I came to a compromise as I pondered in the saddle – any money specifically donated to my charity, I decided, would be paid wholly to my charity, but if money was given specifically for me to bolster my meagre budget, I would try and treat myself with half of it and would keep a running total in my diary so that the other half could be donated to Marie Curie Cancer Care on my return home. I felt very happy with my decision and immediately began searching for somewhere to spend a portion of my money on a suitable treat, my stomach ready for a top-up. A few miles down the road, at Diamond Lake Turn-Off, a logging settlement surrounded by pine forest, a café beckoned and in I went, still feeling hungry but not entirely sure what I wanted. It was 2.40pm and I’d earlier had a lunch comprising ten slices of bread with peanut butter, an apple, three granola bars, chocolate, biscuits and crisps. It only took a quick scan of the menu before I had decided on a banana cream pie with coffee to put me on until that evening, the main meals – including simple burgers – a little too pricey for my pocket. I ate my delicious dessert and wrote my diary, drinking several cups of coffee as I scribbled, the young waitress’ expression suggesting she’d rather be anywhere but here and yet she always recognised when my cup was close to empty and would offer to refill it. High on caffeine and sugared up with sweet pie, it was time for me to make a move and I gathered my belongings and walked to the counter, the same young waitress now standing behind the till. I smiled at the girl and offered to pay. ‘You don’t owe anything,’ she told me, looking at me as though I was being totally unreasonable. I paused, waiting for her to laugh at her own joke and tell

me exactly how much my pie and coffee had cost. But her demeanour didn’t change. Instead, she continued to look at me as though I was mad. I smiled at her again, in some discomfort, wanting her to let me in on the joke and allow me to be on my way. ‘Are you serious?’ I finally asked, still trying to read her expression. ‘It was only a piece o’ pie,’ she replied, terribly nonchalantly and without any hint that this was a goodwill gesture. She seemed to be suggesting this was a perfectly normal thing to do, as if I was the crazy one to have thought my food would have to be paid for. A little embarrassed, I thanked her. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said – again without real feeling – and I legged it before she changed her mind. She hadn’t even asked about my trip. I continued to cycle along roads that were largely traffic-free and through small communities where the people were friendly. I had little trouble finding places to camp close to the road and often managed to sleep beneath the stars, although the nights remained cold. I had been cheered on by a young couple at the side of the road the previous week. They had handed me a doughnut and shook their heads in awe as I told them about my journey. Callie was from Oregon and was working with her boyfriend on ski patrols in Mammoth Lakes, California. Callie was adamant I should call her parents if I passed through her home town of Bend and insisted they would be delighted to offer me a bed for the night. I had deliberated over what to do regarding her invitation. As it happened, Bend was right on my route but, as I neared the town, I was still far from making my mind up. Had the invitation been directly from her parents, my decision would have been made much more easily and I would gladly have accepted. The fact that Callie wasn’t even going to be at the house made it much more difficult. Perhaps Callie made a habit of inviting strangers to stay at her parents’ house, much to her parents’ annoyance? I finally decided that I would cycle into town and then phone Callie’s parents, as much out of courtesy as anything else. As it happened, Wendy (Callie’s Mum) had been told all about me and I was persuaded to stay for the night. Wendy drove me around town to show me the local sights, nervously made tea for me (she’d heard Brits were very particular about their tea-making and didn’t want to get it wrong) and she and her husband took me out to the local Chinese restaurant for a good feed. The town was lovely, the opportunity to enjoy it in good company very special. I had generally been lucky with the weather for months now. I had come to take the sunshine for granted. There had been many days when I felt the burning sun was my enemy, but the clear skies had afforded me the luxury of sitting outside my tent in the evenings, of sleeping beneath the stars, of lunching beside the road and of cycling in clean clothes. Fine weather meant that I didn’t need to worry over whether I’d be able to dry my clothes and I could therefore wash them frequently, providing I had sufficient water. I would hang my clothes from fences or guy ropes or drape them over my tent at the end of the day and

would often have dry clothes to pack away the following morning. If clothes weren’t dry, the back of my bike acted as a washing line and I would snap damp clothing beneath the bungees which held on my luggage, boxer shorts and socks wafting in the sunshine as I motored on. My luck didn’t last. In north Oregon at the end of May, the weather turned on me for a brief time. As I approached Mount Hood National Forest, the morning after I had left Bend, struggling up a long hill for the best part of an hour and a half, I began to feel the cold and stopped to put on warmer clothes – long cycling leggings to protect my legs, waterproof socks inside my sandals and my waterproof jacket to keep out the cold wind. It soon began to rain to add to the misery, the cold and damp not feeling nearly as good as I had imagined it would back in the scorching heat of Mexico. The road descended for just a mile or two, the rain now falling heavily and lashing my face like icy needles. I spotted buildings in the distance and hoped to find a restaurant where I could shelter and warm up with hot coffee and toast but found instead only a gas station and small store. I ventured on, still hopeful of finding an eatery but passing only through many miles of damp forest, climbing again, more steeply than that morning, and winding around the lower slopes of Mount Hood, the highest point in Oregon at 3,426 metres. Shivering at the side of the road to eat a chocolate bar and take salt tablets to keep the cramp at bay, I tormented myself with thoughts of a warm café before setting off again, crossing over two or three passes, past areas of snow within the pine forest, before I began descending. I saw no buildings whatsoever, let alone a restaurant. Any other day, I thought, and I’d have had no trouble in finding somewhere to escape from this weather. I arrived at the entrance to the Robin Hood campground, beside a rushing creek, around midday and cycled in, hoping to find toilets with dryers where I could warm my hands but instead I found only very basic pit toilets and no other facilities. All around the forested campground hardy campers sat, huddled beneath tarpaulins and around fires like refugees after some terrible natural disaster. The sign on my bike told them I was no weekend camper and from beneath the peak of my battered cap I tried to wear an expression that suggested I had been through much worse, when in truth I shivered and felt completely demoralised. I wheeled along the muddy track as faces stared out at me from their shelters, to where I found a vacant fire pit and immediately set to work building a fire with damp wood, hoping to god that it would take, conscious that many eyes were on me. My fire was soon burning and I warmed myself beside its orange flames, damp clothes steaming as noodles cooked, burger buns toasted and water boiled for coffee. As I ate I was joined briefly by Brian, a student from Oregon, who left the shelter of his own tarpaulin to shake my hand and wish me a good journey as we chatted. My fire was not the greatest, the damp wood not burning with the ferocity required to heat me to my core, but nevertheless I was reluctant to leave its side at the end of my lunch break and venture out into the murk again. On leaving the trees and re-joining the road, I

was relieved not only to discover the rain had stopped but also to hit a good descent, my best for some time, and I rolled generally downwards for some miles, the temperature picking up in increments. The northerly wind continued to blow for three days, bringing with it squally showers of icy rain. I camped on the sodden forest floor, water seeping up through my groundsheet giving the sensation that my sleeping mat was a life raft. I pulled on damp, stinking clothes each morning, unable to dry them in the absence of any sun. The road wound around Mount St Helens, now in Washington state, a vast area of toppled pine trees evidence of the massive volcanic eruption in 1980 which killed fifty-seven people and countless wildlife. I cycled between snowdrifts at times three metres high to either side of the road. Two young guys in a truck stopped to talk and laughed in amazement when I told them where I had cycled from. ‘On that thing?’ one of them asked, pointing to my bike, and I nodded, also laughing, but could easily have felt quite hurt. The road undulated viciously through the drizzle and the fog, a sign finally informing me of a steep descent ahead. I raced downwards for a few miles and freewheeled into deciduous forest, moss-draped branches stagnant in the still air. My tyre was looking threadbare and I decided on a stop to change it, cooking some lunch to help warm me. The sun began to show itself from behind diminishing clouds and my mood was instantly lifted in the warmer conditions. As I began to pack away, a red sports car pulled in to the lay-by beside me. The owner of the same car had stopped to talk with me some hours earlier and had asked for my photo. Neil, from Seattle, approached me purposefully, and handed me a business card. ‘I should have given you this earlier,’ he said. ‘You’d be welcome to stay if you find yourself in Seattle.’ I thanked him, but assured him I’d be staying away from the city. ‘Bikes and cities aren’t a good mix,’ I told him, smiling. We chatted for a short while and Neil looked down at my bike contemplatively. ‘Amazing,’ he said, shaking his head. I did all I could to avoid Seattle but it drew me in with its invisible pull. My map wasn’t in nearly enough detail and I spent a torrid day asking directions from motorists and business owners who were all clueless as to which routes north might be permissive for cyclists. I tried to remain well to the east but it seemed all roads headed to Seattle. Traffic worsened as I neared the city and the two-laned road I cycled along soon became six lanes with no obvious alternatives. Car horns sounded at me in disapproval and I began to feel stressed, speeding along the shoulder of the road which resembled a motorway, motoring detritus from broken glass to shredded tyres littering my lane. I hit a large piece of metal as I tried to switch onto an equally busy stretch of road and my rear tyre deflated rapidly. I was hit by a surge of panic, just momentarily, but spotted a grassy island on which to repair it, eventually setting off again and

soon arriving at an exit road but unable to cross it because of the sheer volume of speeding traffic. I left the freeway and asked for directions, heading south and then west before finally turning north again and approaching the Seattle skyline, a sign now prohibiting cycles from my chosen road. I saw little option, racing along, the shoulder soon disappearing completely and three lanes of speeding traffic feeling dangerously close as I crossed a concrete flyover. I was a nervous wreck and, on spotting a railway yard to my right, I hit my brakes and threw my bike and all my gear over the concrete barrier, knowing full well I was trespassing. I reloaded and began crossing railway tracks, pushing between rows of goods carriages, nervously looking around to make sure I hadn’t been spotted. After a final sprint I was relieved to emerge in downtown Seattle. A sports stadium stood across the street from me, crowds of baseball fans filing into it, many more waiting to cross the road. I looked both ways, wishing to be on the other side, and could see no reason not to cross. I stepped from the pavement, dropping the wheels of my bike onto the road and began jogging across, pushing my heavy bike towards the centre of the road. A siren pierced the air, a flashing blue light bounced off surrounding buildings and a police motorbike roared towards me. I picked up my speed, racing across the road to get out of the way of this bike, which was clearly heading to some emergency. The motorbike headed straight towards me, slamming to a halt as I reached the safety of the opposite pavement. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ the overweight officer screamed at me from behind his Ray-Ban sunglasses. ‘I’m sorry?’ I replied, ignorantly. ‘You realise you were jaywalking?’ he asked, officiously. I looked at him, unenlightened. A small crowd of baseball fans looked on, eager to see some action even before their game had started. I continued to look a little perplexed as the officer bellowed at me like an actor throwing his voice so that even those in the cheap seats could enjoy his performance. His face was just a couple of metres from mine but his neatly pressed American policeman uniform gave him the right to give me a full-volume dressing-down. Alright, I thought, keep your voice down. I felt suitably embarrassed and hung my head in shame. He demanded to see my passport and was almost threatening, explaining the ‘American way’ of crossing the road. It wasn’t until I heard the words ‘thirty-eight dollar fine’ that I felt an urgent need to speak again. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I grovelled. ‘I didn’t realise I shouldn’t have crossed the road when I did. I’m from England and we have different laws there.’ It struck me just how pathetic I sounded. The policeman’s demeanour didn’t change. ‘Well, you’re not in England now,’ he pointed out, ‘and you’ve just broken the law.’ He took a notepad from his pocket and I felt completely deflated. I knew I had to speak quickly and had one more weapon in my arsenal. ‘I’m cycling all

the way from Argentina to Alaska and I’m raising money for charity. I’m so sorry.’ The policeman pondered without even a flicker of emotion in his face. The volume in his voice suddenly diminished the next time he spoke. ‘OK,’ he said, leaning in just a fraction closer to speak. ‘I’m going to let you off this time but make sure you only cross the road when the signal tells you to cross. Is that understood?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied, nodding at the same time as a sort of double reassurance. The policeman put his notebook back into his breast pocket, turned the wheel of his motorbike and pulled on the throttle, speeding back across the junction with his blue light again flashing and his siren wailing. I composed myself and quickly compiled a plan. It was getting late, would be dark soon and I felt my chances of escaping the city and finding a safe camping spot were virtually nil. I pulled out the business card Neil had handed me, found a call box, and dialled the number. No answer. I cycled a short distance through lovely downtown Seattle, found another phone box and tried again. This time I was relieved when the phone was picked up and Neil answered. I was given directions to a point on the ship canal where he would come and collect me. My stay at Neil’s lasted perhaps a day longer than I had initially intended but my damp, stinking bag of dirty clothes was washed, I bought and fitted two new tyres and Neil was able to drive and show me the way to the cycle path I’d be taking out of Seattle and explain the first part of my route into Canada from there. We also found time to relax, watch the odd DVD and eat fish and chips. I had a long day ahead of me when I left but hoped to make it to the Canadian town of Chilliwack, around seventy miles east of Vancouver, where friends I had met over ten years earlier were expecting me and had offered me a place to stay for several days. I felt excited at the prospect of seeing them again after such a long time. Just a couple of day’s cycling beyond Chilliwack and I’d be in Whistler, north of Vancouver, and here was where I’d be meeting up with Edge and Melissa to enjoy a week’s holiday in a timeshare apartment. I had a big smile on my face as I hit the cycle path north shortly after 7.30am, weaving along it for several miles, a number of other cyclists exclaiming at my ‘Argentina to Alaska’ sign. One reassured me that I ‘must be about halfway there now’! The countryside was lush – vast swathes of what was now deciduous forest occasionally broken by pasture which afforded far-reaching views to snowcapped mountains to the east. A little store drew me in on around forty-two miles, my watch showing 11.15am. I bought a chocolate bar and chatted with a few locals who came outside to view my bike after asking where I was going. ‘How far do you hope to get today?’ one of them asked me. ‘Chilliwack,’ I replied.

They seemed a little surprised. ‘I don’t think you’ll make it that far today,’ one of the men said, and others chorused their agreement. ‘Oh, I think I will,’ I replied, not entirely sure myself. The men thought for a brief moment before they spoke again. ‘No, you won’t,’ they all agreed, chuckling in admiration at my optimism. Just the fuel I needed! I listened to my radio as I cycled, singing as I turned at the pedals, even putting a little artistic rhythm into my hand signals as I made the occasional turn and almost dancing out of the saddle as I pushed on. In the town of SedroWoolley, in need of a quick food fix, I entered a Burger King, feeling brazen enough to present my newspaper clippings from home to the manager there and ask for a discount on my lunch. Once I had placed my order, I asked how much I owed. ‘This one’s on us,’ the manager said, rather proudly. I kicked myself for not having ordered more. I kept wondering when exhaustion would hit me that afternoon but hour after hour my legs kept on turning and I continued to feel strong, eating fruit sticks and bananas to keep up my energy levels. Through farmland and vineyards I cycled to the border crossing into Canada, beyond the town of Sumas. I propped my bike up outside the immigration building and walked into the quiet office, fearing yet more stern officials, but the staff here were quite the opposite. I walked over to a desk, passport in one hand, cycle helmet in the other. ‘We’ve been expecting you,’ one of the officials smiled, reaching for my passport, leaving me just a little puzzled. ‘Really?’ I questioned, wondering how they could possibly have known I was on my way. Other staff smiled knowingly in my direction. They toyed with me for a minute, as I looked from one official to the next for some clue as to what they might have meant. ‘I drove past you a few miles back down the road,’ one of them finally admitted, a little mischievously. I was handed back my passport, given directions and waved off by the wellwishing staff. I cycled on a road running parallel with the freeway and then onto the freeway itself before cycles were directed away, towards Cultus Lake. I wasn’t sure I was heading in the right direction, asking a local cyclist who pointed me along a rough track on top of a dyke, along a long, straight road and finally into Sardis, which had certainly grown since I had last visited, restaurants and stores lining the street. I tried to phone my friends from here but the phone wouldn’t accept the number and so I continued onto another freeway, my excitement growing at the thought of seeing the friendly faces I had last seen in this place over ten years earlier. Into Chilliwack I pedalled, feeling strangely comfortable at entering the town in which I had lived for over two months and at the first phone I came to I tried the number again. A very excited Melanie answered and insisted I stayed right where I was while they came and picked me up – they were all very hungry, she

told me, and had been waiting for my arrival so that we could all go out and eat. My cycle computer read 138 miles – my biggest day so far. A car pulled up ten minutes later and Melanie skipped from the passenger side, racing around the vehicle with a huge grin on her face. I hugged her and hugged her dad, Dave, and could have stood there chatting for hours but I was instructed to throw my gear and myself into the car – there was food to be had. Janet and Derek were waiting for me at the house, where I quickly cleaned up and changed before the five of us drove to a nearby restaurant. It felt so good to be surrounded by familiar faces as we sat talking at the restaurant table, faces now that little bit older, Melanie and Derek having progressed from childhood into adulthood in the years since I had last been in Chilliwack. Back then I had arrived almost penniless, but had been offered work picking corn by Dave, who also had a construction business. My travel companion – also Dave – and I had soon been welcomed by the whole family and found ourselves camping on their lawn for a few weeks before we found other work on a farm. The waitress arrived, armed with notepad and paper but I had barely had the time to look at the menu. I already knew what I was going to ask for – a long day in the saddle had helped make up my mind. The waitress took the orders of Melanie and Derek first, and then she looked at me. ‘Can you recommend something really filling?’ I asked, somewhat hopefully. My friends laughed. The waitress had little hesitation in making her recommendation – the Absolute Rowdy Rosedale Burger. I decisively placed my order and we continued to reminisce about our time here back then – my smile was about as wide as it had been the whole trip. The waitress arrived back at our table with a tiered trolley full of plates of food. She offloaded them one by one. Four large plates piled with tasty-looking food were placed on the table in front of each of my Canadian friends. I looked on with just a slight pang of envy. I needn’t have. The waitress disappeared, returning a minute later with the same trolley, one huge plate sitting on the top tier. She bent her knees, straightened her back and lifted, turning and lowering the plate in front of me. Thump! Dave whooped in disbelief as the others chuckled. ‘Whoa!’ he exclaimed, turning to the waitress. ‘Has anybody ever eaten all of that?’ ‘We had two truckers in here last week,’ she replied, ‘and they ate it all.’ She looked at me, rather pessimistically. ‘But they were big guys,’ she finished, clearly writing off my chances. Nothing spurred me on like the doubt of others. The plate was as long as my forearm and outstretched hand and about half as wide and was crammed with food, including a foot-long bun stuffed with three very large burgers and masses of artificially coloured melted cheese. There was bacon, fat chips, onion rings, melon slices and – to be fair – a decent-sized portion of healthy salad too. I was salivating. I tucked in, eating far too fast for my own good and battling my way through two bouts of hiccups, demolishing

my plate of food and then helping Melanie out with the final few chips on her plate, as if to make a statement. Whenever we met any of Janet’s friends during my stay in Chilliwack, it would then be a toss-up as to how I would be introduced. It would either be ‘This is Trevor and he’s cycled all the way from Argentina’ or ‘This is Trevor and he ate a full Rowdy Rosedale burger’. I visited old haunts during my week’s stay, visiting the library where I was able to read an English newspaper, calling to see the location of the old cornfield I had worked at (which was now a small housing estate), visiting local tourist areas with the family at the weekend, meeting the local press who wanted to write a piece on me and even doing a talk to Melanie’s class of children at the school where she taught. I called in to see some of the people we had met in the late 1980s such as Nigel and Joan who owned the farm Dave and I had worked at for several weeks. Joan recognised me after just a few seconds and Nigel greeted me like a long-lost son. He invited me in, introducing me to two guests from England, telling them I was the best worker he had ever had and that I was an amazing guy for doing what I was doing. He noticed my holey socks, running upstairs to get me a new pair, returning also with $100 which he pressed into my hand. ‘I want you to treat yourself,’ he instructed. They were all leaving for a flight to Vegas but before they departed Nigel wanted to quickly show me his farm and proudly led me from the door of the house. The same little tractor and trucks we had driven almost eleven years ago were still parked in a little copse of trees. As he walked me to the potting sheds and greenhouses where thousands of small conifers now grew in place of the melons and tomatoes he had once farmed, Nigel told me of his current battle with colon cancer. I almost had tears in my eyes as he hugged me to say goodbye. Every day in Chilliwack felt a little like my birthday. Parcels and letters had arrived at the house and one or two continued to arrive during my stay – a book from friends for some bedtime reading, a new silk sleeping bag liner, sweets, bike parts from my bike shop in the UK and replacement parts for my stove from MSR. It took me three hours to get through my post on my first full day there and several more hours to get through all my emails. Friends and family members phoned the house and in return I sent emails and postcards back across the water. I’d had a brief outline of what I had been missing out on back home and Edge and Melissa would soon be filling in any blanks, first hand.

Chapter 18 Chilliwack–Vanderhoof 13,557 miles cycled

It was almost midday before I had said all my goodbyes and readied myself to take to the road again. Chilliwack and my friends here were about to leave my life for a second time. I cycled over the freeway and began heading west. Dave and Janet’s niece, Pauline, who I had met briefly during my stay in Chilliwack, had offered me a bed for the night at her house in Vancouver, some seventy miles away. I was on the final leg, I told myself. It seemed I had been trying to convince myself of that ever since I had arrived in Panama, seven thousand miles back down the road. I had lots of encouragement that afternoon, most notably from a people carrier full of twelve-year-old girls driven by their childminder who pulled alongside and asked if I had really cycled all the way from Argentina. They wanted the address for my website which I scribbled onto a piece of paper, one girl handing me 75 cents for my charity because I was ‘working so hard’. At Pauline’s, I sat and watched as she prepared our evening meal, chatting about my journey and about her life in Vancouver. We visited her friend’s apartment that evening and were joined there by others – Nadia, John, Lisa and Brad, all lovely people – and I enjoyed talking for hours as we drank from Nadia’s limited stock of bottles, listening to music and later visiting a bar, which was just about to close but we managed to sweet-talk the staff into serving us a further drink each. More drinking and dancing followed back at Nadia’s but it wasn’t long before Nadia and then Pauline were the victims of rather too much alcohol consumption, each briefly leaving us to be sick. It wasn’t the best preparation for a big day of cycling the following day and, as I hit my bed at 3.30am, I was all too aware that within hours I would be back in the saddle. I woke with cramp during the night, dehydrated and with a dry mouth, unable to get back to sleep for almost an hour. Pauline was already up when my alarm woke me again at 9.30am and she made me a good breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. I still had the horrible taste of stale alcohol in my mouth as I hugged Pauline and began to make my way through the damp streets of Downtown Vancouver at 10.55am. My head was thick with the after-effects of the night before and I couldn’t help wishing I’d had just one or two less drinks as

part of my preparation for today. I cycled through Stanley Park towards Lion’s Gate Bridge, a mistake in itself, a notice telling me on my arrival at the bridge that cycles were not allowed to cross. Instead I returned some distance to the bus terminal where I had to wait twenty minutes for a special bus and trailer to drive me over. I was given directions to Highway 99 and was soon heading into a rainstorm along a six-laned highway which had a narrow shoulder for cycles. I felt pretty dreadful, my stomach turning, my whole body and mind tired from little sleep. The scenery, at least, was fantastic and the mixture of dark, threatening clouds and sunny periods made the setting even more dramatic, a BC ferry cutting a white plume through the midnight-blue waters of the Strait of Georgia below me as I began my climb into the mountains. Today was the day I was to meet up with Melissa and Edge, but just where and when I wasn’t sure. The steep ups and downs, sunshine followed by dark clouds and occasional rain forced me in and out of my waterproof again and again. My legs were hurting and my stomach continued to feel bad, and I just needed something to take my mind off things. I turned on my radio, intent on sitting it in the top of my handlebar bag, but I found nothing worth listening to and continued in silence. I met a female cyclist a little later and stopped for a brief chat. She told me of continuing undulations all the way to Squamish and of a long uphill from there to Whistler. I began to think I wasn’t going to make it to Whistler that day and contemplated getting a lift there with Melissa and Edge when they came by – I could then return with them to the same spot in a week’s time and continue from there. Once in Squamish I treated every mile of flattish road beyond as a bonus, pedalling hard to improve my average speed before the climb began. On around fifty miles and at 4.30pm, a car came by, a familiar face smiling excitedly at me from the passenger seat. I felt giddy as Melissa waved in my direction as the car overtook but it then grew gradually smaller as it steadily climbed the hill away from me. Its brake lights finally illuminated, way in the distance, and I stood out of my saddle and cycled like a madman towards where it had come to a halt beside the forested road. Melissa and Edge stood waiting as I approached and I wheeled towards them, leapt from my bike and opened my arms to hug them both. Melissa stepped towards me, beaming, and greeted me with a huge embrace. Edge, meanwhile, not one for hugging, stood with his arm outstretched to shake my hand, but I was having none of that. ‘For Christ’s sake, give me a hug!’ I instructed, and pulled him in towards us. I held them for a moment before they stepped back to look at me. ‘You haven’t changed!’ Edge remarked, sounding rather disappointed. ‘I half expected you to have a long beard and look like some kind of hobo.’ I laughed at his suggestion and felt pleased that I’d had the discipline to look after my appearance during this journey. I couldn’t stop smiling. Here I was on the biggest adventure of my life, still thousands of miles from home, and I was

standing beside an unfamiliar road with two very familiar faces beaming back at me. I felt so grateful that they had made the effort to come all this way and cheer me up and I was so excited about the week ahead. Edge and Melissa had been friends with one another since before I knew either of them and they became part of a much larger group of my friends who frequently socialised together. Secretly I had something of a soft spot for Melissa. ‘Do you want to put your bags in the car?’ Melissa asked, nodding towards my heavily laden bike. I told her I’d be fine. ‘Oh come on,’ Edge retorted. ‘You may as well – what’s the point in carrying them when we’re going that way anyway?’ I smiled back at him, at his lack of understanding of what this man, this bike and all this luggage had been through together over the last eight months. Their arrival had buoyed my spirits and would surely help to fuel me on to Whistler. ‘I’ve brought it this far,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure I can manage to carry it to Whistler.’ Edge continued to try and separate me from my luggage but I remained defiant and arranged to meet the two of them at our accommodation. They rejoined their hire car and went effortlessly on their way as I continued to struggle against the gradient. The road got steeper and my upper legs were now hurting. I watched every mile tick by for the next three hours, longing to be in the apartment with my friends, telling them of my adventures and catching up with all that had gone on back home while I had been away. The scenery was beautiful but my enjoyment of it was minimal. I rolled into Whistler at about 7.45pm. I had cycled eighty-four miles with a stinking hangover and was now at an altitude 650 metres above my starting point for the day. After some difficulty finding our accommodation, I came to a halt outside Twin Peaks Resort and, as Edge made his way down the stairs to show me where I should leave my bike, Melissa appeared on the balcony above. ‘Come up to my boudoir!’ she called, smiling down at me as I stood on the pavement below, relieved to have made it this far today. My bike was left in the underground garage and I allowed Edge to help me up with my bags on this occasion. For a full week I lived in the lap of relative luxury. Our timeshare apartment even had a pool and a hot tub on the complex and this is where I’d spend at least half an hour most days. We went for walks together, watched DVDs from the comfort of plump sofas and cooked some great meals. We ate out several times too and Melissa and Edge would insist on paying. My appetite remained huge, even though I was currently resting, and Edge would laugh as I’d always ask the restaurant staff for the most filling main course on offer, regardless of what might be on the menu. If either of the other two couldn’t complete their meals, I was there to help out. On one of our walks I spotted a headless fish on a lake shore and explained that the head had probably been eaten by a bear. I walked at the back of our

little group, mischievously throwing sticks into the trees to the side of the path and enjoying the nervous reactions of the others as their heads swung to see what was making the noise. The following day, while returning to the car from another of our walks along a forested path, a black bear stood, motionless, just fifteen or twenty metres away, only its head visible in the thick vegetation, its eyes very firmly fixed on the three of us. We stopped dead, Edge and I very slowly and instinctively reaching for our cameras, saying nothing and then creeping gently along the path, raising our cameras towards our eyes, extending the zooms. We were now getting very close to the bear, which had watched our every move, and each decided another step forward would result in a better picture. The bear took exception, suddenly raising its front paws and stamping them hard on the ground, grunting angrily. ‘Fuck!’ Edge screamed, spinning through 180 degrees, brushing me aside and running straight into Melissa who had remained motionless. The bear stood its ground, leaving us to retreat and take a diversion through the woods and back to the car. Edge laughed at his reaction, and his ‘bear attack’ story became more and more exaggerated with each telling. The resort put on a wine and cheese evening early during our stay – a chance for them to sell their guests various excursions but we weren’t particularly interested in paying for these. Instead we tucked into the free cheese and wine and I was able to partially satisfy my appetite. We then ventured to a couple of our favourite bars where we chatted and drank ale that had been brewed locally. Edge excused himself to visit the loo, leaving Melissa and I alone. No sooner had he disappeared than Melissa confessed, ‘I’ve really missed you,’ confidently planting the biggest kiss on my lips. She smiled at me and I sat, looking at her, excited but a little bewildered at what had just occurred. Edge returned and the conversation continued as though nothing had happened – as far as Edge was concerned, nothing had. Inside, I was doing cartwheels. We walked out into the rain, searching for a nightclub, and tagged on to two fellow revellers, one of whom was originally from Kettering – Melissa’s home town – and found a club together. We drank too many beers and several shots, chatting with all sorts of people, but I wasn’t in the mood for chatting to strangers. I wanted to be with Melissa. As we returned to our apartment that evening, Edge and I raced the final hundred metres. I took a corner too sharply on wooden flooring and slammed to the floor, not putting my hand out to help break the fall because I had learnt from past accidents that this could easily result in a further dislocation of my shoulder. Instead I landed hard on my ribs, remaining on the deck as Melissa caught us up, and I was helped back to my feet by my two giggling friends. The alcohol in my body had anaesthetised me well and I was in little discomfort at this time, but for the next four weeks I’d struggle with sharp pains from the left side of my ribcage, deep breathing and coughing causing great discomfort – almost certainly a broken rib.

I became close to Melissa during the remainder of the week. We spent one day strolling along forest tracks, hand in hand, contentedly chatting as Edge spent the day mountain-biking on a bike he had hired from a local bike shop. On my final morning in Whistler I was reluctant to get out of bed, made the most of what would almost certainly be my final hot shower for some time and enjoyed chilled milk on my cereal and hot, buttered toast with marmalade. We spent the morning in front of the TV, watching Portugal beat Romania in the European Championships, before heading to the Brewhouse for burgers and fries while watching England beat Germany for the first time in fifteen years. On our return to the Twin Peaks Resort, I finished loading my bike before wheeling it outside the apartment block, shaking hands and thanking Edge before my final kiss and hug with Melissa for some weeks. They both seemed calm as we said our goodbyes and I felt I wanted some more emotion from them, some verbal recognition of what lay ahead for me. It was they who had spoiled me rotten for the last week, had allowed me to eat like a king, to sleep beneath wonderful, clean sheets, to remember what it was like to socialise, to laugh with friends, to watch movies, to dance, to shower or bath every day. It was Melissa who had kissed me that night and had reminded me what it felt like to hold someone dear. But the emotion never came and while they were heading back for a further week’s holidaying in Vancouver, I was returning to a lifestyle I wasn’t ready to re-acquaint myself with. It had been well over two weeks since I had last slept in a tent and since then I had become a very different person. My life as a traveller seemed an age ago but memories of that lifestyle were still very vivid. I felt such a huge sense of trepidation as I took my first few pedals away from them. I’d had over two weeks in fabulous company, living in comfort, but here was where it had to come to an end. Here was where the hard work, the loneliness and the ‘roughing it’ started again. I looked over my shoulder for one final glimpse of Melissa, one final look at her smile, but she and Edge were walking away from me, their backs turned. Disappointed and dejected, I cycled onto the main road and out of view. Once again I was on my own and already I was hurting. The road to Pemberton was great: generally downhill and with a wide cycle lane, cyclists heading in the opposite direction often waving, motorists smiling. At the tourist information centre, I asked of any campsites in the locality but there were none that would serve as a base for that evening – too far away or in the wrong direction. ‘Are you cycling over the Duffy?’ the woman assistant asked, telling me of a hill some way ahead and pointing it out on a photocopied map she handed me, showing where the campsites further along my route were. There were few roads in the area and no obvious alternatives for a cyclist heading north. It seemed I would, indeed, be cycling over the Duffy. ‘It’s very steep,’ the woman told me. ‘It takes experienced cyclists two days to get over.’ She smiled as she spoke to me, as if detached from the fact that

she was speaking to a weary cyclist. What did she mean by an ‘experienced cyclist’, I wondered, as I left the tourist information centre, and could I now consider myself to be ‘experienced’? And from which point would it take two days to get over the Duffy? Was it from that point, there – the actual tourist information centre – or did she mean two days from the start of the climb? Furthermore, would those two days include the descent over the other side of the Duffy or would I only reach the summit of the climb in that time? In the mood for an easy ride, I began to worry about the Duffy. The sun shone as I set on my way again, the road, for now, wonderfully flat or undulating just gently. I passed a few Native Indians fishing from a lake shore and smiled and said hello to a friendly Indian boy who cycled by, his little fishing rod sticking out from his rucksack as he pedalled along without a care, looking around and whistling, just one hand on his handlebars as his legs rapidly rotated. The sights eased my worried mind. As I glided along through this magnificent valley, through which rivers rushed and lake surfaces sparkled, I took time to look around and I smiled. But with every corner turned I would look down the road ahead and wonder just where ‘the Duffy’ was going to rear its ugly head. Soon a sign informed me of what was to follow: ‘Extreme Grades for 31km’ it read, and I was hardly feeling up to such a climb. My rib troubled me, particularly when I stood out of the saddle, swaying the bike. I was also shattered, three nights of poor sleep beginning to take their toll. I was already missing Melissa and hadn’t stopped thinking of her all afternoon but now, as sweat soaked my T-shirt and the sun continued to burn down, all I could think about was the task immediately ahead. I stopped after just a mile of extremely steep road – among the steepest of the whole trip – and sat on a rock, catching up with my diary just a little, hoping the sun’s intensity might just decrease and allow me to cycle in more comfortable conditions. My wish was soon granted, increasing cloud smothering the sun, but I only had the will to cycle for a further fifteen minutes up that hill, wishing only to sleep. I pushed my bike up a steep, rather overgrown track that led into dense forest and there I pitched my tent on a damp, grassy area to the side. The bear sightings of the previous week had unnerved me and information leaflets back in Whistler on how to avoid bear attacks had been a real must-read before my departure from there. I could remember much of the advice Dave and I had picked up during our trek through the Rockies ten years previously but the information contained in the leaflets reinforced and supplemented that previous learning. I gathered my cooking things and ventured a further three hundred metres up the track, and here I did my cooking. Bears have an amazing sense of smell, I had read, and if there were any within a mile or two, they may well come to find the source of my fresh tomato, mushroom and pasta aroma. It was therefore advised that any cooking be done away from the tent. It was also suggested that

any ‘smellies’, including toothpaste, deodorant, soap, foodstuffs and even any clothes worn during food preparation, should be hung high in a tree, well away from the tent. I chose to ignore this particular rule on my return to the tent as rain began to fall, fatigue and the need to get in my shelter clouding my judgment. The rain tumbled down that night and I woke, soaking wet, in the early morning, fearing the tent had sprung a leak. Instead I discovered I’d had another spell of severe sweating – my third in five nights – and my silk sleeping bag liner was wet through. I was going to dry myself down with my towel but it seemed I was asleep again before I had the chance and I didn’t wake until 9am, catching up on sleep more important than an early start. My mood was very low that morning; a further fifty minutes of climbing, further rain and the sense that I was well and truly heading away from civilisation were all factors contributing to my state of mind. I was thankful for a shorter climb than I had anticipated and assumed the sign of yesterday, warning of extreme gradients for 31km, must have referred to the downhill also. I had hoped somewhere to find a shop but I didn’t see a single building all morning and struggled to concoct a meal with food from my bags when lunchtime finally arrived. I sat at a picnic table at the head of Duffy Lake and took out my stove to cook baked beans followed by porridge, biscuits, a muesli bar and coffee. I sat, staring at the water, wishing Melissa was there with me. I had wanted so much for her to experience how I had been living for the past months and I wanted to look after her out here. Knowing she was just a two-hour drive or so back down the road was difficult to swallow as my journey continued that afternoon alongside the beautiful, rushing Joffre Creek but, as my legs turned and the distance between us grew ever greater, I turned my thinking on its head – from now on I would view every mile I cycled as being a mile closer to my ultimate goal, a mile closer to flying home, and a mile closer to Melissa. I had barely seen a building for twenty-four hours when I arrived in the town of Lillooet and here I made sure I stocked up on food for the next few days. Heading north out of the town, I spotted a jogger with a small rucksack on his back, heading towards me. He waved and shouted something at me and I crossed the road to join him. ‘Have you seen a girl on a bike?’ he asked in a French accent, barely out of breath. I thought for a moment before telling him I hadn’t, certainly not in the last couple of days. I asked where he was heading and was more than a little surprised at his response. ‘A long way,’ was all he told me initially. Only when I pressed him did he fill in a little more detail. He had already spent three months jogging south from Anchorage, Alaska, and planned to run all the way to Tierra del Fuego. When I asked how long he intended to take, I was rather pessimistic at his timescale of a further ten months. I shook his hand and wished him luck, thankful that most of my journey was now behind me.*

The following day the road climbed almost immediately alongside the Fraser River before climbing steeply again and leaving the barren, steep-sided valley behind. The climbs were to get more severe that day. An Indian in a truck waved at me as I passed the town of Pavilion and I followed him as he drew up to an Indian Community Centre, asking if I could have some water. He was fascinated to hear of my journey and introduced me to the Lillooet Indian Chief. I was given water and ice and directed to a shortcut to the town of Clinton, which would save me around twenty-five miles but would elevate me by more than a thousand metres above my current position – had I known how tough it was going to be, I would have perhaps opted for the longer route. I stuck to the task, taking off my shirt as sweat poured from me and the road hairpinned up the gradient again and again. As the gradient lessened, I was into picturesque farmland, flanked by dense forest, a richness of wildflowers in bloom at the roadside. The mountains were left in my wake as I descended steeply towards Clinton, the view ahead of gently rolling, forested hills pleasing me. The climbs had been far tougher in this part of the world than I had imagined, the gradients generally steeper than those in the Andes, even though the summits were much lower here. Towns were now more frequent than I had anticipated and I’d generally pass through a settlement of some sort at least once a day, allowing me to stock up with food and enjoy the occasional meal in an eatery of some description. I was heading along a route dating back to the gold rush times of the 1800s but logging was the most evident industry now. Large timber-processing plants dominated many towns and logging trucks stacked high with freshly cut pine raced by causing a draft that would either momentarily pull me along or attempt to push me back, depending on the direction in which they were heading. It seemed the scenery had now well and truly ‘set in’. Near-continuous forest was broken only occasionally by pretty wetland areas where dragonflies would whizz alongside to work me out and then dart off in another direction. Mosquitoes became more abundant and more of a problem as I edged up through British Columbia and my mosquito repellent was always close to hand. Still I managed to avoid paying for campsites (or for any other form of accommodation), instead camping in lay-bys or in the forest close to the road, beside rivers and lakes where possible so that I could have water on tap, so to speak. But with the landscape becoming less inhabited and seemingly wilder, the very real threat from bears was always on my mind. One day I passed two cyclists heading in the opposite direction, within a few hours of each other, and each time I wheeled over to their side of the road to offer a greeting and ask their advice on camping wild. Both were North American but neither could offer much advice – the first staying only in motels, the second on established campsites. I wondered if I was wise to continue camping wild and, during my first couple of weeks in these surroundings, would hear every sound from my tent in the evenings, holding my breath and straining to hear further sounds,

trying to work out what was making them. With each incident-free night my confidence grew and my sleeps became less broken. Only my rib troubled me now – sharp, stabbing pains causing great discomfort each time I tried to change position in the night, and I’d struggle to find a position I was happy with. Gaining centimetres on my map was a slow job. With a scale of 1:6 million it showed the whole of Canada – the second-largest country in the world. It took forty miles of cycling just to register one centimetre of progress on my map. British Columbia alone represents four times the area of the United Kingdom and I had to cycle its full length before entering the Yukon Territory and then Alaska. I was quickly realising my journey was still far from over and yet I felt no real urgency. I cycled only for as long as I felt comfortable each day and turning my pedals had become a very natural way to spend daylight hours. I had the luxury of cycling into the evenings if I pleased and was no longer in a race against the setting sun as had so often been the case closer to the equator. It was summer in Canada – the days were long and the hours of darkness short. Picnic tables at rest areas offered me a form of relative luxury and if I came across one around lunchtime or close to the end of the day, I would enjoy sitting off the floor, spreading my food and my cooking equipment over the table in front of me and creating simple meals. As I was now into grizzly territory, I decided – for a week or two at least – that my main meal of the day would be at lunchtime and I would stick to sandwiches in the evenings. This meant that if the weather was poor any evening and I was forced to create a meal within the tent, I wouldn’t be emanating smells of cooking food for the local bears to latch on to. I sat at a picnic table one evening, writing my diary, deliberating over whether to continue cycling or to call it a day. A sign informed me that this was a no-camping area but, when a clap of thunder signalled an approaching storm, I scampered to find an out-of-the-way area to quickly pitch my tent. I walked to a nearby lake and here I crouched to fill my water carrier for a wash. Another huge crack of thunder, directly above me, jolted me to my feet and I ran to the tent as the thunderclap rolled through midnight-black clouds and into the distance. As the rain began to fall, I enjoyed the sense of protection offered by my nylon walls, pouring water into my bowl and stripping off to wash, dressing up in my evening clothes and settling down for some more diary writing before trying to sleep, my damaged rib seemingly no better. I enjoyed my cycling: the open space, the relative ease of finding places to pitch my tent and my encounters with the Canadian wildlife. I sighted my first black bear since Whistler four days after leaving my friends behind, ambling across the road just a hundred metres or so ahead of me. I felt a sense of excitement as I was the only one around to see it, making it my very own bear sighting, but it was also a reminder that I couldn’t get complacent when camping at night. As it happened, it wasn’t bears that came to take my food as I slept but animals of a rather smaller size. Bear-proof rubbish bins were often positioned

at rest areas and in lay-bys and I’d make use of them in the evenings. I’d place food and toiletries in my kit bag and would then lift the heavy lids of the metal bins and drop my bag alongside the waste containers within, hoping nobody would arrive to empty the bins and take my food away too. Still my food was occasionally taken, small animals gnawing through my bag on more than one occasion to get at the goodies within. I saw many ground squirrels, tree squirrels, raccoons and foxes but could never be sure just who the culprits were. Camping down a track one evening, beside a large stack of harvested pines, the mosquitoes were in such numbers that I decided I’d take a wash within my tent. Afterwards, feeling clean and refreshed, I dressed again, searching behind myself with my left hand for a chocolate bar I had placed in my handlebar bag. As I reached back, my shoulder slipped from its socket, dislocating. I winced at the pain, immediately feeling a sense of nausea as a hot flush swept up my upper body and came to rest over my face and head. Had I been outside, I would have paced around in a desperate bid to take my mind off what had just happened and to try and think of a solution to my situation, but trapped in the confines of my tiny tent with two zipped doors between me and the outside world, my discomfort was somehow multiplied. I took some deep breaths, trying to get oxygen to my brain, before raising my right hand and tentatively feeling at where my shoulder should have been. Instead my hand pressed at a hollow beneath my skin – my shoulder wasn’t there. I continued to hyperventilate, panicking a little before grabbing my upper left arm in my right hand and giving it a gentle twist and a push, feeling a huge sense of relief as it sucked back into place. As I loaded my bike with groceries outside a small supermarket in the town of Vanderhoof the following day, a big, red-headed man with a bushy beard and a friendly smile approached me. ‘That’s quite a trip you’re on,’ he said to me, in reference to the sign on the back of my luggage. ‘Would you allow me to buy you lunch?’ I felt a little uncomfortable, not for the first time on this trip, at receiving such a kind offer from a stranger, and I um-ed and ah-ed just a little before politely accepting. John was a local man and was studying and working in Forestry but it was me he wanted to know about. He had worked in Africa for a number of years and had met a few cycle-tourers during his time there. He wanted to know what it was that made us tick. With a genuine interest and with wonder in his eyes, he asked question after question about my journey as I tucked into my chicken sandwich and drank root beer at our table in the sunshine. Another man approached as we chatted, glancing at my bike which was propped just a few metres from where we sat, before coming to a halt to study it further. ‘Is this your bike?’ he asked, looking in my direction. ‘Yes, it is,’ I replied, smiling sympathetically to try and let him know I recognised that the sign on the back might seem a little improbable.

‘Wow,’ the man said, nodding in contemplation as he further studied my bike. He looked again at me, then across at John and then back at me once more. ‘Would you mind at all if I joined the two of you?’ We cheerily made room, each of us shaking hands as Richie, a junior priest working in the Vanderhoof area, introduced himself. I was the centre of attention for these two but made sure I asked questions about their lives in this part of the world, vastly different from the world I had grown up in – this small town amid a sea of trees, relatively remote and isolated. Richie turned to my bike again. ‘Do you carry a gun in there?’ he asked, referring to my luggage. I smiled back at him. I had heard this question many times before. It wasn’t a question I had expected to hear from a man of God. ‘No,’ I told him. ‘I’m not carrying a gun.’ ‘No gun?’ he exclaimed. ‘How do you protect yourself from bears?’ I had wondered the same thing many times but hadn’t yet had the need to protect myself. I felt embarrassed as I confessed my lack of preparedness. ‘I’ve been told to make noise as I cycle,’ I explained, although I had not felt the need particularly up to here as I had hardly seen any bears. ‘And I make sure I cook away from my tent and hang any food well away from it.’ John smiled, seemingly satisfied at my answer but saying nothing, leaving it to Richie to speak instead. ‘Do you have any bear spray?’ he asked. I looked at him blankly. ‘Erm, no,’ I replied. I had never heard of bear spray. ‘I think I’ve got some at home you can have. Would you be happy for me to get it for you?’ I considered any deterrent to be better than nothing at all but again I felt uncomfortable at inconveniencing anyone. Richie was adamant and stood from his seat to dash home, returning a short while later with a can which he handed me. My gift was a form of pepper spray, designed specifically to ward off aggressive bears, and Richie at least seemed to think I’d be safer now. John was keen to find out more about me and my journey but had work to go to, inviting me instead to a riverside barbecue he was attending that evening, held by the Nechako Watershed Council, and offering me a bed for the night at his family house. It was still only early afternoon and I could have happily cycled another forty or fifty miles that day, but I had enjoyed being in good company and the additional draw of a potential shower and a sleep in a comfortable bed was irresistible. I gladly accepted. As I bought envelopes in a small store that afternoon, I was greeted by another cyclist on a bike not dissimilar to mine, bulging panniers hanging from racks over both wheels. Andrew was from Coventry, around 130 miles from my house in the UK, and he was cycling around Alberta, British Columbia and southern Alaska for three months. He was keen to have a travel companion for a short while. When he asked how far I was hoping to cycle that day, I felt awful at ‘standing up’ not only

a fellow countryman but a fellow cycle-tourer to boot. As I uncomfortably told him I had been offered a bed for the night in Vanderhoof and a barbecue meal that I was in danger of being late for, I could see the disappointment on his face. I put myself in his position and it didn’t feel great. Awkwardly, I suggested he came along to the barbecue with me, fully aware that the perception of my hosts might be that I was flaunting their kind invitation by inviting along any Tom, Dick or Harry. As it happened, the two of us were warmly welcomed by the forty or fifty people present at the barbecue, all congregated beneath a canvas shelter to keep out the rain that was now falling. We tucked into burgers, sausages and ice cream and were warmly applauded by the congregation when introduced by the speaker. A number of other speakers took to the floor, including the Mayor of Vanderhoof, and local poets took to the microphone to recite their works, one of the local ‘celebrities’ approaching me for my website address and to have his photograph taken with me. John was very relaxed that I had asked Andrew along and enquired if he would also like to spend the night at his house. We drove out of the town and down a long track through tall stands of pine to a lone timber house in a beautiful setting. The family – John’s wife and four children – were lighting the stove in a small cabin some metres from the main house. We were greeted with warm smiles as we carried our bags into the little cabin which would be our home for the night; a lovely, back-country idyll with two rickety beds running along the outer walls. We were instructed to gather our dirty clothes, which would be laundered and hung to dry overnight, and invited to the main house where the family gathered to listen to our tales as we were treated to tea and biscuits followed by homemade yogurt and raspberry sauce. It was a wonderfully convivial evening in the company of others and, with a bed and the security of four walls, came a decent night’s sleep. * Two years after returning home from this journey, I spent a week cycling from my home in Leeds to Land’s End in south-west England. I spent each night on campsites. On one campsite, close to Taunton in Somerset, were a couple of English cycle-tourers, close to the start of their intended cycle journey to Australia. Naturally I wanted to find out more and was keen to share with them my own experiences of cycle-touring. As we sat outside our tents early that evening, drinking beer together and chatting, a further couple of cyclists arrived on the site – an English girl and her French boyfriend. They cycled over to us to say hello and came to join us once their tent was up. The girl was fascinated to hear about the English couple’s plans to cycle to Australia and initially didn’t seem interested in my journey. But the English couple then mentioned to her my feat of two years previously. The girl turned to me and asked (and I remember our conversation so vividly) ‘Did you meet any interesting people?’.

I thought for a moment. ‘I met a Russian guy aiming to be the first in the world to cycle the coastline of each continent,’ I began. ‘And I met a Shoshone Indian Chief, walking in protest at the nuclear testing the US military were doing on sacred Shoshone land.’ I continued with my list but the girl wasn’t satisfied. She continued to press. ‘Anyone else?’ she asked. Again, I paused to think. ‘I chatted with a French guy in Canada,’ I remembered. ‘He was aiming to run from Anchorage to Tierra del Fuego.’ ‘Can you remember what he said to you?’ she asked. This seemed like a strange question. ‘He asked where I’d cycled from.’ ‘Anything else?’ she queried. ‘Erm, he asked if I’d seen a girl on a bike.’ Satisfied now, she nodded knowingly before she spoke again. Her words blew me away. ‘That was me,’ she said. As we continued to talk, she told me the man I had met at the side of that lonely road in Canada two years earlier had been her ex-boyfriend. He came up with this crazy idea, she told me, to run from Alaska to Chile and she decided she wasn’t willing to wait around for him for all that time. Instead she had bought a bike and headed to the north-west of the USA to do some cycle-touring. She had kept in touch with him during his mammoth run, which he completed in around two years, she explained. The French chap she was now cycling with was her new boyfriend. This little meeting remains the most remarkable coincidence I have ever come across. I had never met this girl previously, had no idea what she looked like and had no idea of her name. She had been mentioned to me only once previously in a fleeting conversation and was referred to as ‘a girl on a bike’. To have crossed paths with her on the other side of the world is remarkable in itself. But to be drawn to one another, to speak, to converse about my cycle-tour of the Americas and then for me to mention that a guy out jogging asked if I had seen a girl? There are billions of ‘girls’ in the world, but here I was, telling this story to the one girl in the world this story was about – initially without knowing it. Incredible!

Chapter 19 Vanderhoof–Fairbanks 14,174 miles cycled

A fresh wind blew into our faces and caressed the dancing pines as we headed west out of Vanderhoof. A pleasing blue sky allowed the sun to warm us as we cycled, bare-chested and in shorts, along the wide tarmac strip that rose and dipped through thousands of square miles of dark forest. We often cycled alongside each other, one or two cars getting a little too close for comfort, chatting and playing ‘guess the celebrity’, although it always seemed to be me doing the guessing. The pace was a little more leisurely than I had become accustomed to but that didn’t bother me at all. We even managed a few drinks – a bottle of wine as we cooked a meal one evening and, after our first day together, Andrew’s desire for alcohol brought us to a premature halt at the only pub in the tiny settlement of Endako. I presumed we were stopping for a single beer and would then be on our way again, but reckon we had drunk around six pints each while chatting with the owners and the few locals. We were invited to a party by a couple who had already had far too much to drink and Andrew happily headed there. I decided I’d had enough, and struggled to pitch my tent in the rather run-down camping area behind the pub before falling into a drunken slumber. The sun sat in an almost cloudless sky for several days, spilling its light over a landscape which was becoming ever-more interesting. Wonderful rivers playfully danced by, mountains grew out from forested slopes and lakes sparkled beneath a burning sun. It was swimming weather and we brought our bikes to a halt on a couple of occasions to jump into pristine waters and cool off, drying off again before climbing back on the saddle to add to our daily mileage. In Moricetown we cycled down a side road to a bridge over a canyon, a guy towing a holiday trailer walking over from his truck to chat with me. He shook my hand twice after first asking me to confirm that it was the Argentina ‘way down south’ that I had cycled from. I woke Andrew as I walked by his tent on the morning of our fifth day together but he told me he was going to stay where he was for another hour and would then continue to head west as I turned north. After I had devoured a good breakfast and my belongings were once again neatly packed onto my bike,

Andrew and I said our goodbyes and wished each other well for the remainder of our journeys. I returned a mile up the road we had travelled down the previous day before turning off in the direction of Kispiox, arriving in the predominantly Indian town eight or nine miles later. A couple of forest firefighters stopped to chat and offer directions, telling me my map was incorrect and nowhere near detailed enough to get me through the maze of forest roads that led through here. At 12.20pm I came across a sign for Elizabeth Lake Recreation Area and decided I may as well have a break for lunch. Just under a mile from the main track I found the picnic and camping areas deserted, the lake and the mountains beyond absolutely magnificent. The lake’s waters were still but for ripples from the occasional jumping fish and the surface appeared almost black in sharp contrast to the bright greens of the marginal plants which surrounded it. I sat on the end of a little jetty and marvelled, deciding I just had to go for a swim, taking off my shirt and cycle shoes and jumping into the water, which was of a surprisingly pleasant temperature and clear enough to view the many fish which gathered by. I struggled to find my way that afternoon, sitting at one junction in the hope that a vehicle would come by and I could ask directions but the clouds of flies that settled and nibbled at me had me on my way again. I got lucky and chose the correct road. Not a single vehicle came by during the three-and-threequarter hours between lunch and my finally hitting Highway 37 and I had to rely on my instincts. While the road was quiet, there were others about. As I neared the top of one of many steep ascents, I noticed a large pile of dark animal droppings in the middle of the road. I studied them as I cycled by and noticed the ground around them to be still wet, even on a hot day, and I knew they must be fresh. As I turned a corner, I came face to face with its probable depositor. A black bear galloped a few strides across the road on seeing me appear, just fifteen metres in front of me as I came to a halt. It then stopped, still on the road, and stared at me, working me out. Shit. I froze, fearing an imminent attack, looking straight into its eyes (something I had read I shouldn’t do!), trying to read what its next move might be. As it continued to look straight at me and me at it, I spoke softly to it. ‘Off you go then,’ I whispered, in hope. ‘Off you go.’ Swiftly, it headed into the vegetation, leaving me relieved but shaking and reaching for my bear spray as I cycled by. There were bear droppings littering the road for many miles now and even the downhills I took slowly for fear of turning a corner too rapidly and bumping straight into another bear. I tried to sing loudly as I went along but, during a rendition of Van Morrison’s Moondance, bear number two came into view, just to the side of the road, nonchalantly grazing among the long vegetation. With both feet on the ground, I turned up the volume of my singing but the bear continued to graze. Now shouting loudly, this time I caught its attention, and it turned to

stare. Remembering the rule about not looking directly at a bear, I turned away for a few seconds and was relieved, on looking again, that the bear had disappeared. Highway 37 – the Cassiar Highway – was much hillier than previous roads, a rollercoaster ride through wonderland. It took me through a wild and relatively untamed wilderness where everything was somehow clean and nothing was left to pollute, to litter or to disfigure. Mountains were shedding their winter coats of snow to appreciate the short summer, while crystal-clear rivers like molten glass transported meltwaters on their magical journey to the ocean. Eagles glided parallel with the road and caribou and giant moose, startled by my appearance, took to the water, carving impressive wakes across dark nearby lakes fringed by brilliant green vegetation. Beavers worked tirelessly on their dams and squirrels scampered around my camping areas, often penetrating my food bags during the few hours of darkness as I slept. I was astounded by the scale of this place, transfixed by its beauty and yet constantly aware of its dangers. I had been warned by a number of people that I should be wary of bears along this particular highway and I would be cycling along it for almost another five hundred miles. The advice was well-founded as I saw many bears as I cycled, often having to pass by just metres away from where they grazed at the roadside, and my sightings made me extremely nervous. Traffic became scarcer as I steadily progressed north but this wasn’t remote by some South American standards and, even on the more northerly end of the Cassiar Highway, I was being passed by at least two or three vehicles every hour. Hours of darkness were by now diminishing and cycling well into the evenings was always an option with increased daylight hours. My spells of sweating during the nights continued on occasions and my damaged rib was still giving me problems, suggesting it was indeed broken. I would also wake scratching furiously at mosquito and gnat bites, all of which resulted in many poor nights of sleep. There was another type of curious creature up here, one I’d had few encounters with back home and one which fascinated me almost more than any of the others. It was something of a recluse, venturing into the open only very occasionally, and it was a creature for which I do not know the correct term. My diary entries refer to it as the ‘RVer’. The acronym RV is short for recreational vehicle – essentially a motor home – and the term RVer shall, from here on, refer to those who choose to travel by such a mode of transport. RVs come in all sizes and in all price ranges – from tens of thousands to many hundreds of thousands of dollars. The RVers driving the more expensive vehicles I found the most interesting, for they were the ones I would find the hardest to understand. Their vehicles would often be almost the size of buses, quite literally, invariably having an occupancy of just two people. To enable them to make excursions along more minor routes, they would tow a saloon car behind their RV. On

pressing a button from within their stationary vehicle, wings would slowly unfurl from the sides to create even more space within – bedrooms or additional dining space perhaps – although I was never invited into one of these monstrosities to find out for myself. It seemed many RVers shared very similar traits and I was often fascinated at the type of crap these people were stopping to film on their video cameras: road signs, trucks, picnic tables, public toilets. Their experience of the outside world was clearly very limited and a brief excursion into the great outdoors to film such rubbish was rare. Who’d want to venture outdoors when every conceivable home comfort was inside? They also had air conditioning and would leave their engines running as they sat on their fat arses, staring out at this magnificent landscape from behind closed windows, not wishing to feel the rain or the sun on their skin and having no idea what the cry of an eagle sounded like or the scent of the breeze through the pine trees. This behaviour in particular infuriated me, the rumbling of their engines spoiling the peace and the tranquillity of many of my rest breaks. I can’t remember ever being approached by the occupants of one of the bigger RVs, was never waved at or congratulated by them but on occasions I needed their help. Towards the end of my second day on the Cassiar Highway, and after cooking a meal in yet another lay-by, I noticed I was desperately short of water. Streams had been surprisingly scarce that day. A couple had brought their huge RV to a halt close by, a full one and a half hours earlier, and had not once stepped out of their vehicle during this time. We were the only three people for miles, were all here to enjoy the magnificence of what northern Canada had to offer and yet no contact had been made between us. I took two water bottles from my bike and walked across the lay-by to the driver’s door. I looked up at the window to the male driver who sat blankly looking out at a view only spoiled by the rumbling of his engine. Perhaps if I made the first move, maybe if they heard I spoke English, some kind of conversation would be possible? ‘Hello,’ I shouted, making sure to pronounce my ‘h’. I smiled up at the glass that separated us. The man looked around to identify where the sound was coming from. ‘I wondered if I could have some water?’ I shouted, politely, his windows firmly shut. He fumbled at the door, finding the button that operated his window, and gently it slid down, leaving only a mesh insect screen in its place. He clearly hadn’t heard what I had said. I spoke to the man again as his ruddy face peered down on me. ‘Hello,’ I repeated. ‘I’m almost out of water and I wondered if you could spare a little?’ I held up my bottles to demonstrate that I was, indeed, out of water, and expected the man to take the bottles from me. The man reacted as if he had been caught totally off guard, agitatedly looked around his person and then began to stand. He looked flustered. ‘Just a moment,’ he instructed from behind his insect screen, disappearing into the rear of the vehicle, leaving his wife in the passenger seat, way over the

other side and looking distinctly uncomfortable. She said nothing. The man returned and slid down the insect screen, just enough so that he could pass to me a tiny but chilled bottle of water, snapping the insect screen shut again as soon as I had the bottle in my hand. He continued to look at me, anticipating my next move. ‘Thank you!’ I said, and smiled. The man nervously smiled back at me but refused to say anything else, willing me to go away. Such was the behaviour of the top-of-the-market RVer. I turned and walked back to my bike. It began raining later that evening as I pitched my tent in a sparsely vegetated, gravelly clearing. I gave up on the inner tent as mosquitoes swarmed, washing quickly under the flysheet before hastily tying up my mosquito net from the single ridge pole. Even inside my net, tiny, flying insects somehow found their way in and chomped at any bare flesh. I lit a repellent coil and placed it on the floor beneath the flysheet but away from where I was sleeping, the toxic smoke taking some time to take effect. It rained for most of the night and was still raining at 7.30am when I woke, a peg having broken free and the flysheet sagging, wetting the end of my sleeping bag. My throat felt incredibly tight. The smoke from the mosquito coil that had burned out several hours earlier still lingered and caused me to cough like a chain-smoker as I dressed. I ventured out to breathe clean air and to fetch my food bag, which hung from a tree and appeared to be intact, although it was nowhere near the recommended three metres off the ground. Once packed away, I set off in my leggings, waterproof socks and waterproof jacket, feeling snug and happy in spite of the low cloud, poor visibility and rain. After twelve miles I hit gravel that was potholed and muddy, making cycling less pleasurable, my bike and panniers gradually becoming caked in the slurry, my chain complaining, grating as the pedals turned. A few miles further along this stretch I came across a ‘flagger’, somebody employed to stand in the road and wave a flag at approaching motorists to bring them to a halt because of roadworks. A chain of RVs was already waiting to pass but I cycled to the front of the queue, the flagger advising me that I wouldn’t be able to cycle through the roadworks but would instead have to wait for the work’s truck to take me and my bike through; company policy, I was informed. I appreciated the opportunity to chat as I waited. The truck arrived with orange lights flashing on its roof and a stream of around a dozen cars and RVs followed it from the north. My new friend helped me to lift my bike into the back and then swapped jobs with the driver, spinning the truck around and steadily heading the seven miles back through the roadworks (though there was little evidence of any work being done), the stream of northbound RVs following. I managed to warm up a little and dry out ever so slightly in the heated cab of the truck but, as I was handed back my bike, I noticed my front tyre was absolutely flat and couldn’t bear the thought of repairing it in this appalling weather. I hastily

inflated the tyre, knowing there was a settlement a few miles ahead and there I may be able to repair the tube out of the rain. The settlement of Bell II comprised little more than a filling station and a restaurant. I sheltered just outside the restaurant, took off my front wheel and repaired the tube, using a bucket of windscreen wash to locate the hole. I ventured into the busy restaurant, immediately negotiating a 25 per cent discount with the manageress, who was interested in hearing about my journey. I made light work of the ‘mammoth burger’ and fries, recommended as filling cyclist food, and filled up some more on toast and jam and endless cups of coffee as I began to dry off a little and write my diary. As I ventured outside after an enjoyable respite from the rain, I discovered my front tyre to be absolutely flat again. I couldn’t repair it there – that would be too embarrassing in view of all those diners, many of whom had witnessed me repairing it the first time. Instead I quickly inflated it and cycled off, stopping some distance up the road beneath a shelter which housed a map board, and began working again. This time the repair held. My mood deteriorated as my clothing became more sodden that afternoon and I pedalled hard to keep myself warm as the rain turned even heavier. A guy in a car stopped to warn me of a bear cub he’d seen crossing the road and, later still, the occupants of a minibus came to a halt to ask if I needed anything, handing me a bottle of spring water and an energy bar which I devoured on the spot. I also made numerous stops to delve into my chocolate and peanut supply to try and keep the shakes at bay but no amount of food could have prevented my shakes a little later. A female grizzly bear lumbered in a clearing to my left, only twenty metres or so from the road. She was with her two cubs and if she felt I was a threat to her young she would almost certainly attack. I had been singing for some time that day for the sole purpose of letting bears know I was approaching and I continued to sing as I drew level with these grizzlies. The adult female raised her head and turned in my direction as I drew close. Eyes fixed on her I shook, the pit of my stomach churning as an area of trees came between us, offering some cover. I pedalled hard up a hill, gradually diminishing my singing volume to try and suggest to the bears that I was further away than I actually was, repeatedly looking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being chased. The cold rain fell vertically in icy spears. Filthy clouds swallowed the mountains. The hills continued. Wet through, utterly demoralised and exhausted, I stopped in a desolate gravel lay-by to make myself a cup of tea and some hot food. As my meal cooked, I jogged across the rest area a number of times to try and stop the shivering and added a dry, long-sleeved top to my wet clothing, setting off again after a good wash-up, feeling a little happier. Just a mile or two down this empty road I set my eyes upon yet another bear, a large black this time, right on the edge of the road, and nervously I called twice to let it know of my approach as I eased at my brakes and came to a

standstill. The bear stopped munching and turned towards me. I could not take my eyes off it, waiting to see what its reaction might be. It stared in my direction, motionless, just for a couple of seconds, and then in no real hurry ambled just a couple of steps further into the vegetation. Three-quarters of the bear’s mass was still on the road, with only four or five metres available for me to squeeze by. If I tried to pass, it could be on me in an instant. These bears were faster than South American dogs. They had, I had read, been recorded running at speeds of up to 41mph – faster even than a racehorse over a short distance. I continued to shout, more loudly now, urging it to disappear into the vegetation. It remained where it was, staring at me. I heard a faint hum in the distance behind me. The hum became progressively louder – the unmistakable sound of a vehicle and it was heading in my direction. Now I had every chance. If I could cycle past with the vehicle between me and the bear I’d be in the clear. I wheeled my bike as far across to the right-hand side of the road as it would go and clipped my right foot into my pedal in preparation. With the vehicle almost upon me, I lifted my left foot from the ground and pushed gently on my other pedal. My heavy bike rolled slowly forwards as I expectantly applied power. The truck’s engine suddenly became more audible as it breached the hill behind me and I pedalled hard to gain some momentum, staring straight ahead. The truck raced alongside, grit from beneath its tyres kicking up and pinging from the frame of my bike. It flew past me in no time, swerved around the bear and was gone. I hit my brakes hard, cursing. The bear had still not budged. Again, I stood over my bike, now just twelve metres or so away from it. My cries of ‘Hey!’ turned into a chant that I repeated again and again. ‘Hey ah, oh ah, hey ah; hey ah, oh ah, hey ah,’ I sang, not entirely sure that this was the right thing to do. The bear seemed to be working me out through eyes that offered limited vision. It reared up onto its hind legs, standing seven feet tall, displaying its mighty frame, and I feared that its next move might be for me. Oh my God, I thought, what a way to go. What a terrible waste. So close to finishing; so close to going home; to seeing Melissa and my Mum and Dad. This was all too real and the chance of a very bad outcome all too possible. I pictured the bear racing at me and pouncing, ripping me to bits – a ridiculously unhelpful thing to do. I sang loudly, my voice booming, the notes shaking, relaying my fear. The rain pattered on my shoulders and dripped from every extremity of clothing. There was no other sound but for the echoes of my chanting through the mountains as I stood astride my crossbar, terrified but defiant. The bear remained upright, resolute, watching for movement from me, for an excuse to pounce. I could see its warm breath in the cold air, saliva on its gums, its wet nose. It sniffed the air. Its indecisiveness continued to taunt me and I longed to be on the section of road that lay beyond, alive and on my way again. It seemed an eternity but finally the bear fell onto its huge front paws, still sniffing and still looking in my direction. With an air of resignation, it ambled into

the vegetation, halting just once to turn and look back at me in another attempt to suss me out. With trembling hands, I fumbled at my handlebar bag, not once taking my eyes off the bear, and took out the large can of bear spray. I cycled by, one hand on my handlebars, the other clutching my can, ready to knock down dead with a single squirt any quarter-tonne mass of black fur that might dare to leap out of the undergrowth at me. My eyes nervously scoured the way ahead and still I chanted, wondering just how much more of this I could take. As I cycled down a hill that wound gently through the trees, yet another bear came into view at the road’s edge and again I hit my brakes hard, immediately releasing them on realising I wasn’t going to come to a halt until I was practically level with the beast. I sped by, swerving into the middle of the road, singing loudly and looking straight at the bear, which stopped chewing the grass it had hanging from its mouth to stare back, a rather surprised, curious expression on its face. I arrived at a rest area as late as 9.05pm and felt I’d be as safe there as anywhere, two RVs also having pulled up for the night. I pitched my tent on an uneven grassy mound – the only area of grass that wasn’t under water – and took water from a nearby creek for a strip wash inside the tent. I saw more bears as I made steady progress north up the Cassiar Highway, but it seemed food was sufficiently plentiful for them at this time of year that they weren’t interested in devouring a skinny cyclist. I became more relaxed at each incident-free bear sighting, sufficiently confident to marvel at another black bear as I whizzed by in the centre of the road, just metres from the specimen which sat on its behind and chewed innocently at a mouthful of roadside grass. At an empty rest area beside a wide river I scribbled in my diary as a pan of water came to the boil beside me one evening. A large pickup truck pulled in and rolled to a halt beside another picnic table. The engine was killed and out stepped a young woman and an older, bearded man, followed by two young children who jumped from the cab and began chasing one another, giggling. The adults stretched, spoke a few muffled words to one another and looked around. I stopped writing and just watched. The woman waved her hand and smiled in greeting and I raised my hand back. She walked towards me and the man followed. ‘Howdy,’ she yelled, still smiling. ‘Hi,’ I replied. ‘Where yer headin’?’ I told them my story and they then told me theirs. They were self-professed hillbillies, married and with an age difference of thirty-four years. They seemed very happy and very free. He was the owner of a Scottish island, he told me, and they weren’t short of a few bucks, although this was perhaps not reflected in their appearance. The husband left to tend to the kids, but the young wife stayed, her southern US drawl quite different to the west coast American and

Canadian accents I had become accustomed to. She brought me dried vegetables from their vehicle, fruits and nuts. ‘How’re yer findin’ the mosquidoes in these parts?’ she asked. ‘Priddy friendly, huh?’ I nodded knowingly. She handed me two bulbs of fresh garlic. ‘You eat a clove of this each day,’ she explained, ‘and the buggers’ll leave you alone.’ She continued to chat, mentioning something about being in a Christian nudist group –something I struggled to respond to – and she revelled in my discomfort. She bode me farewell, wished me luck and returned to her family. Shortly afterwards, on their way out of the rest area, their truck pulled alongside my picnic bench. The young woman wound down her window from the passenger seat, a wide, mischievous grin on her face. ‘Good luck to ya!’ she cried. From where I sat, she did indeed appear to be naked. I chuckled back, shaking my head as her husband shrugged his shoulders and accelerated away. For the remainder of my journey I made sure I ate a clove of raw garlic every day. From a deep sleep I woke at 6am to the sound of my alarm on the morning of 4 July and had to fight off the idea of staying where I was to stand any chance of making it to a phone and speaking with Melissa that day. Hundreds of mosquitoes hung from the inside of my flysheet, my movements disturbing them as I left the tent to retrieve my food bag. The road was slightly flatter that morning than previous days and I was soon rolling into the little Indian settlement of Good Hope Lake, where I bumped into a 27-year-old Japanese cyclist. Yassie was from Yokohama and was just finishing his breakfast of flavoured rice. We spoke long enough for me to determine that he too was heading for Fairbanks but I had to excuse myself, explaining that I was in a real rush to get to the next major road junction, where I hoped I’d find a phone, and I said I may see him later. I filled my fuel bottle and bought bread at the little store and then set off north in something of a rush. The scenery was a little less inspiring now as the hills just gently rolled and the vegetation was almost entirely pine trees. The temperature at least was warm enough for T-shirt and shorts, although the sun was often behind clouds as I raced along for a few hours. Just under an hour after stopping for a roadside lunch, I wheeled my bike back onto the carriageway and was surprised to see Yassie pedalling up the hill towards me – I thought he’d be further back. He had snacked as he had cycled, he told me, and had no need for a lunch so pedalled with me just for a few miles, telling me then to go on without him on recognising I was in a hurry, and soon he had disappeared from sight. I arrived at the junction where Highway 37 (the Cassiar Highway) met Highway 1 (the Alaska Highway) and I immediately found a public phone box but a trucker beat me to it and chatted for a good fifteen minutes. As I waited, I

was joined by a Canadian couple on a driving holiday who gave me a handshake in recognition at what I had already achieved. They offered to buy me a coffee in the restaurant and I told them I would see them in there once I had managed to make my phone call. When the trucker finally finished, I had a wonderful chat with Melissa for over ten minutes but again I wanted her there with me. I found it difficult to get across to her all I had been through and all I had seen since we were last together, my present way of life hard for me to put into words over the phone. As we chatted I had to shout and thank the Canadian couple, who were on their way again, but they gesticulated that they had paid for my coffee in the restaurant. I put the phone down, happy at least to have heard Melissa’s voice, and felt set-up to embark on the next stage of my journey. Two waitresses were keen to talk with me as I enjoyed my hot coffee, having heard of my adventure from the Canadian couple. Yassie also arrived and came to join me, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite. We chatted and I was thankful at his honesty as he explained he preferred to cycle alone but was keen to meet up in the evenings. I felt exactly the same way but wouldn’t have dared to tell him this for fear of hurting his feelings. We agreed to meet just a few miles along the road to set up camp and so off I cycled, bumping into two other cyclists heading in the other direction and stopping for a brief chat, which gave Yassie the chance to catch up with me. We set up our tents just into the forest, a short distance further along the road, and spent an enjoyable evening together, cooking and eating, telling tales of our adventures and sharing our enthusiasm for the freedom cycle-touring offered. The mosquitoes tried hard to spoil our evening. The following morning, we set off cycling some minutes apart as had been agreed, Yassie leaving as I finished packing away. It was another day for wearing shorts, much to the delight of the mosquitoes that tried to suck blood from my repellent-free legs, and they were soon joined by huge horseflies that would attempt to feed on me even as I began cycling, weaving from side to side, matching my speed, the odd one landing on my naked flesh, unbeknown to me until I’d feel the sharp prick of a proboscis piercing my skin. I slapped at the point where I had felt the pain, rubbing my hands up and down my legs to rid them of any other hangers-on as I frantically pedalled to outrun them. Yassie and I caught sight of one another on numerous occasions during the morning and would stop for brief chats but each time one would set off ahead of the other. It was a system that suited us both, allowing each of us to go at our own speed, alone with our thoughts, able to stop and rest when we chose or to get out of the saddle and really motor to afford a little more rest time later on. We’d study our maps together and agree on a rough target for a lunch stop or to meet up and camp in the evenings. During our first full day of cycling together, we had agreed to meet up in the afternoon at the little settlement of Rancheira, where we had been told there was an RV park, a motel and a café. The RV park

had showers and normally charged $2 for non-residents to use them. We, however, had been told the combination for the door to the shower block by another cyclist heading in the opposite direction. Yassie’s bike was already propped up outside the building when I arrived there. I keyed in the combination we had been given and felt far more excitement than I should have felt when the door opened. It didn’t matter that it was only a measly $2 we were each saving – we felt we had been given a secret password into some magical, hot-water wonderland. We were gaining entry to a building containing clean showers with tiled floors and walls and ceramic wash basins above which hung mirrors. We could soak our aching muscles, shave off days of beard growth, scrub every nook and cranny of our tired bodies and wash the build-up of grime from our cycling clothes. We knew we were going to come out of there squeaky clean and beaming, transformed and revitalised. Yassie was still showering as I left in soaking wet but clean cycling gear that I had simply put back on after showering and which would soon dry in the pleasing sunshine. We met up again at the Continental Divide Bakery for some much-needed sustenance before heading off at intervals again, meeting up for the final time that day on a grassy verge beside a stream, which I had elected to be our camping spot for the night. I was in a lovely deep sleep that night – my best for some time – when I was awoken by the urgent cries of female voices outside. ‘Wake up!’ they screamed. ‘There’s a fire! Wake up!’ I struggled to rouse myself and wearily I opened the tent door, having forgotten where I was, but on spotting Yassie’s tent beside mine I pieced together my location. One girl, perhaps a few years younger than myself, stood between our tents. She spoke quickly, sounding agitated. ‘Do you have anything we can use to carry water?’ she asked. I thought for a moment, still half asleep and not quite knowing what was going on. The girl ran off, leaving me to rummage in my tent for my collapsible bowl. I quickly dressed, sensing the urgency in her voice. Quickly, I filled my bowl with water as a second girl joined me at the stream’s edge. ‘This way,’ she instructed, as she turned and ran up the slope. I was hurriedly led into the forest where an area of pine-needle litter, around five square metres in area, glowed and spat and flames licked at the base of trees. I realised with horror that this was the spot I had been to the loo earlier and suddenly I felt wide awake. As had become customary on this journey, I had buried my waste in a small hole, which I had scoured out of the ground with my foot. I had placed my used toilet paper in a separate pile and set my lighter to it. I had followed that routine just a matter of hours earlier, waited until the flames had died and dragged my foot over the embers to fully extinguish them. I had obviously not done my job well enough and here I was witnessing the outcome.

I had passed vast areas of broken, charred forest throughout my journey through North America, seen signs warning of the consequences of being found guilty of deliberately (or carelessly) starting fires, and read about huge forest fires threatening military installations and the like. This was my fire. It was two in the morning and these girls had been awoken from their sleep in the lodge where they worked, a further mile down the road, by a passing bus driver who had seen the glow from the flames and alerted them. I had already done enough damage and was hit by an immense sense of guilt and of urgency, racing to the stream to fill my bowl and running back up the hill to douse the flames. Yassie soon joined us and the four of us raced backwards and forwards for some time until we felt we had the fire under control. The girls left us, but not before I had admitted that the fire was my doing, and I offered my sincere but embarrassed thanks as they drove off to catch up on their sleep. Yassie and I continued our firefighting efforts for a full fifty minutes, adrenaline coursing through our veins, slipping at the stream’s edge as it became sodden, and muddying our clothes. Constantly, thoughts of the damage the fire could do and the consequences I would be faced with were the fire not to be fully extinguished kept me going, heart thumping as I raced backwards and forwards again and again. Yassie never complained but laughed at me instead, which was good medicine. When, finally, I felt happy that we had done enough to retire to our tents, adrenaline kept me awake and all I could think about was just how seriously things could have turned out had there been a wind to whip up the flames. I had been extremely fortunate. I made two further visits to the scene of the fire in the morning, the first before breakfast when I discovered it had flared up a little again and I needed to run between stream and forest carrying water several times once more. On my final visit before my departure, the fire appeared to be well and truly out, the whole area sodden, but I poured on a further ten litres of water just to make sure. The wind did pick up that day and it blew straight in our faces. Again we cycled separately and I came to a halt on sighting three moose grazing not far from the road. I took out my binoculars for a closer look and hoped Yassie, now some distance behind me, might spot them too. When he caught up with me later that morning I told him about my moose sighting but it seemed Yassie had missed out on this occasion. He regretted not seeing the moose for himself and as the days passed by his missed sightings became something of a joke. As I cycled I would look around but even with my eyes on the road I would spot things moving to the sides and would react to that movement. Yassie seemed to be wearing blinkers. I saw further moose and elk and numerous bears, including another mother with her three cubs basking in the sunshine close to the road. I came to a halt not far from this family, peering from behind a mound of excavated earth as the bear cubs playfully wrestled one another. I looked back along the road in the hope that Yassie might be close by and I’d be able to point

them out to him. My nerves got the better of me before he had arrived and I continued to cycle slowly to allow him to catch up, but we were soon laughing in disbelief when he told me he had missed them again. He hadn’t seen a single bear yet. According to Yassie’s map, a gas station was just twelve or thirteen miles away and I was in need of chocolate after a lunch which was devoid of the stuff. I raced there, out of my saddle for much of the time, making up the fifteenminute head start Yassie had had over me, pulling onto the gravel forecourt at practically the same time. We ventured into the café where I bought myself just some chocolate and a can of pop. A trucker sat alone at one of only three or four tables in there, his arm hanging over the back of his chair. We sat at one of the other vacant tables and I proceeded to open my chocolate bar. The trucker’s eyes never left us as I began to eat. ‘Where are you heading?’ he asked, eventually. I finished chewing. ‘He’s doing a tour of this area,’ I said, pointing at Yassie, ‘and I’m heading to Prudhoe Bay.’ The trucker cocked his head backwards and laughed, which took me a little by surprise. Any other curious parties asking of my intentions had greeted my reply with gasps and admiring comments but this narrow-minded, uncharitable trucker was unlike most of the people I had spoken to so far on my journey. He told me he had driven to Prudhoe Bay many times, making deliveries to the oilfield there. I shrugged off his laughter, asking instead if I’d be able to get a lift back down to Fairbanks once I had arrived there. I wasn’t yet sure how I was going to get home from North Alaska and wanted to take advantage of his local knowledge. ‘I don’t think you’ll make it to Prudhoe Bay,’ he replied, puffing on his cigarette and screwing up his face as he exhaled, not even looking at me. ‘It’s the hill that finishes most cyclists off,’ he claimed, confident in his prediction. I wasn’t deterred. He mocked my intentions with the garage attendant there, sharing horror stories of sharp gravel, large rocks, huge mosquitoes and a fifteen-mile-long hill with gradients of up to fourteen per cent. Even when I told him my own stories of sixty-four-mile-long climbs up the mighty Andes and fifteen thousand miles of road behind me, he refused to reconsider. He stepped outside for a minute and returned with a framed photograph he’d grabbed from the cab of his truck, an aerial shot of an industrial area – the oil workings at Deadhorse, Prudhoe Bay. ‘This is where you’re aiming to get to,’ he told me, very proudly standing above me and holding the photograph in front of my face. He then began telling me about the bears I’d encounter, the miles of open tundra, relentlessly trying to convince me that the only view I’d ever have of this place was in the form of the framed photograph he was now showing me. I wasn’t going to let this macho North American truck driver get to me and continued to smile. I think he could see his efforts were wasted on me and he

returned to his seat to continue his conversation with the petrol-pump attendant, occasionally throwing a question or some other piece of information in our direction. Yassie and I finished our snacks and stood up to leave. I patted the truck driver on the shoulder and smiled at him as I walked out of the café – he had entertained us at least during our twenty-minute break. ‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, smiling. ‘Maybe I’ll see you in Prudhoe Bay.’ We arrived at Mukluk Annie’s campground late that afternoon and pitched our tents. Camping here was free and so we decided to treat ourselves to a burger in the simple restaurant. It was a wet night, rain pattering on the flysheet each time I woke, but it was excited thoughts of food that prevented me from further sleep shortly after 7am. I needed a massive amount of fuel to keep my legs turning for seven or eight hours each day and I was eating more than I had ever eaten before in my life. My metabolic rate had never been so great. Here I had the opportunity to take on as much fuel as I wanted for the princely sum of just $8 Canadian – the price of their ‘All You Can Eat Breakfast’. Yassie and I splashed ourselves with hot water in the washrooms before striding into the restaurant. For almost an hour we just ate, laughing across the table at one another and at the ease with which we devoured such quantities of food despite our very modest frames. I kept a mental note of all I consumed: five sausages, five eggs, masses of bacon, three scones, hash browns, two large blueberry pancakes and four cups of coffee – and wrapped some extras in a serviette, which I placed in my handlebar bag for a few miles down the road. I felt content as we took to the road again, a cold and heavy shower of rain early on unable to dampen my spirits, thoughts of a homecoming party Edge and Melissa had offered to organise keeping my mind happily occupied. It had been two days since I had last seen a bear but less than an hour into my cycling my tally went up by another one and this one frightened me. As I approached a clearing on my right at speed, I saw something moving close to the road. A hulk of orange-brown fur on a massive frame swaggered, powerfully and with great authority, its head swaying to the beat of its giant paws, its lower jaw hanging close to the ground. This was a grizzly, almost certainly an adult male, and it was by far the biggest bear I had seen so far. It walked with its back to me in the direction I was travelling and I was afraid I’d startle it. Immediately I veered to the left-hand side of the road, putting a further four or five metres between us, and belted out the first song that came into my head – Bring me Sunshine. It raised its head as I drew alongside, nervously watching for threatening signs, but it seemed less than impressed with my singing. I continued to look behind as I passed, standing out of my saddle, feeling excited now and wanting to catch up with Yassie and tell him of my sighting. Unsurprisingly, Yassie had not seen the grizzly and his tally of bear sightings remained at zero. Yassie’s English, by his own admission, was not yet perfect but he was keen to learn and he picked up new words on an almost daily basis. He knew enough

for us to enjoy some conversation whenever we were together. He had a great sense of humour and had the amazing ability to see the positive in almost any situation. There were days when I wasn’t sure if he was behind me or was somewhere ahead, little stops each of us made to take photos or buy food giving the other the opportunity to get in front. I had almost given up on him turning up one lunchtime as I contemplated packing up and setting on my way again when a figure came into view back down the empty road. He wheeled towards me, a huge grin on his face. ‘Solly I’m late,’ he apologised, laughing. ‘Tlaffic jam.’ I had barely seen any traffic all morning! One night I was awoken from a deep sleep by laughter. It wasn’t the first time Yassie’s laughter had woken me in the small hours. I listened for a few seconds before calling across to his tent. ‘Are you alright?’ I asked. He continued to chuckle before composing himself sufficiently to reply. ‘Yes,’ he assured me, laughing some more, before telling me the reason for his hysterics. ‘I have mosq bite on my pennis!’ The city of Whitehorse, on the banks of the Yukon River, was, by some distance, the largest settlement I had passed through in a couple of weeks. With a population of around twenty thousand, it had everything we needed for a short break and we found an area in the forest, reasonably well hidden from the road, which we called home for two nights. Within a short walk of a campground – where we naughtily sneaked into the showers – this was a camping spot with all the convenience of a proper campsite but without the noise and the cost. Our time here was busy and productive. We hand-washed clothes and were able to dry them in the sunshine, bought fresh food and gorged on fresh fruit. We spent time in the local library and I visited the local post office, where I found a small bundle of post waiting for me, including a long letter from Melissa. Yassie found a bike shop where he was able to get a few minor repairs carried out. We met another couple of cyclists, Trace and Diane, cycling from Florida to Anchorage and staying on the campsite. In the evenings we teamed up with them and, around the warming glow of their campfire, we pooled our food, shared our passion for cycle-touring and even managed the odd glass of brandy – wonderful! The mosquitoes became even more of a problem as northerly progress was made. For long periods I’d cycle with just one hand on my handlebars and the other would be kept busy vigorously rubbing at my legs, my arms and my head to clear my skin before I was bitten. I would outrun them going downhill but as soon as my pace slowed again they would find me. Yassie’s tent was freestanding if he needed it to be but mine required pegs to pitch it. A couple of days from the Alaskan border, the hard, stony ground on which we had decided to camp proved difficult to pierce with my alloy tent pegs and clouds of mosquitoes took advantage of my struggles, fizzing around my ears, flying into my eyes and nipping at any visible skin. My heart raced as my stress levels

soared and I gave in, opting instead to hang my mosquito net from a tree. Hurriedly I threw my gear under before diving in myself, stretching out the base and tucking it beneath my bags. I snuggled into my sleeping bags as the temperature dropped and initially felt content as I entered the day’s events into my diary. It was soon raining, just very steadily at first, and I hoped it was just a passing shower, but as the minutes passed and the rain continued, I felt the need to take action. I took the flysheet of my tent out of its bag and lifted the base of my mosquito net to venture out, disturbing the dozens of mosquitoes that hung on its outer surface. I hurriedly draped my flysheet over the whole of my net as mosquitoes tried to get a welcome meal, conscious that I was making a rather slapdash effort but not wanting to spend any more time outside than absolutely necessary. Confident the rain would soon stop and my rushed shelter would keep me dry until then, I settled back into my sleeping bags and waited for the pitter-patter of raindrops to ease. But the rain never did ease. It remained steady for a time and then became progressively heavier. My flysheet began to sag in the absence of any poles to support it, coming into contact with the base of my sleeping bags and letting water in. I tried to sleep but it was fitful. Each time I woke I found water had travelled further up my sleeping bag and I’d curl up to try and fit the limited dry space within. Raindrops drummed on the outer skin of my shelter. At 6am I had been awake for some time. My sleeping bag was saturated from my thighs down and yet I had remained warm. I was tired after little sleep, hoping optimistically that the sun might come up and help dry things out. Water dripped from several points and I tried to contort my body between the falling droplets to avoid becoming any wetter. I decided to make a move, my flysheet clinging to everything as I began the depressing job of packing my sodden kit. The rain was still hammering down as I wheeled my bike past Yassie’s tent and I called out to him to let him know I was heading in search of shelter. He had been awake for some time also, he told me, but – rather enviously – he had remained dry. I felt in better spirits once I was on my way and, when I came across a sign for a campground nine miles down the road, I wheeled in, asking a passing motorist to tell Yassie where I was should they see him. I found an open shelter containing three picnic benches and a wood- burning stove in the near-deserted camping area. I wrung out my sleeping bags and hung them over a beam and then struggled to get a fire going. I was frozen, the wind racing through the shelter, carrying icy rain which soaked two of the three tables. I was pleased to see Yassie when he turned up and soon his wet cycle clothing hung alongside my sleeping bags as we fought for space around the big wood stove, singing songs and laughing in defiance at the weather. For two and a half hours we drank hot tea, ate sandwiches and dried our gear just a little. Beyond our shelter the rain continued to fall and progress wasn’t going to be made unless we

ventured back out into it. We pedalled on, through Destruction Bay (the name is derived from the wind blowing down structures erected by the military during highway construction in 1942–43) and Burwash Landing, unable to find another shelter to cook under, and ate snacks as we cycled instead. A local chatted with us, telling us of snow on the road that morning and of part of the highway being washed away just south of where we had camped the previous night. The rain did not relent and worked its way through my waterproofs, my fleece and my base-layer top. In the early afternoon I quickly erected my spacious outer tent and the two of us lit our stoves, seated on the ground, and cooked noodles, the heat from our burners warming up the space in no time, forcing us to unzip a door as the two of us steamed. As the rain finally ceased, I tore along for the final twenty-five miles to the Alaskan border. I stopped at the large sign that welcomed me to Alaska, feeling an overwhelming sense of achievement. A young boy chatted with me and soon nine or ten people were crowded around me, one woman dashing to her car to get me a packet of biscuits, another fetching a couple of bananas and others photographing me and even doing a video interview with me. I was absolutely beaming – whatever happened now in my life, I could say I had pretty much cycled all the way from Argentina to Alaska, barring a short plane hop over Colombia, of course. Yassie caught me up at passport control and we were asked to sit down and wait as the stern official dealt with a number of motorists. Apart from the few in the queue ahead of us, the office seemed very quiet and the mood relaxed. Yassie and I quietly chatted until finally it was my turn and I was summoned to the desk, the official only speaking when absolutely necessary and unreceptive to my small talk. He took my passport and studied the pages, asking how long I intended on being in Alaska and suggesting I extended my visa for a small fee. At no point did he mention the pages of stamps in my passport and nor did he wish to seem remotely interested in my journey. As he filled out a form I looked around, a little uncomfortable at his silence. A vehicle came to a halt beyond the office window. It was an old Land Rover and one I felt sure I recognised. A number of stickers adorned the side, including one of the Danish flag and another which read ‘One life, Live it’. The doors opened and out stepped a couple whose faces were also vaguely familiar to me. I knew them. We had spoken months ago and here we were, crossing paths again. Excitedly, I raced from the desk towards the door, swinging it open and zealously greeting the occupants I had last seen somewhere in South America. ‘Get baerk here!’ bellowed the official, not in the least bit willing to share in any sentimentality. I grimaced at my two friends, like a naughty schoolboy, and returned to the desk, tail between my legs, returning to briefly hug them and to chat once I had finished with the entry process. Søren and Liselotte had set off driving from southern Argentina around the same time I had begun my cycle journey. They had driven roughly twice the

number of miles I’d cycled, zigzagging across the Americas in a general northerly direction. We had briefly met somewhere in South America, though I couldn’t remember exactly where, possibly somewhere around San Pedro de Atacama, but had achieved our common goal of making it to Alaska at almost exactly the same time. ‘We were talking about you just yesterday,’ Liselotte informed me. ‘We wondered if you were still cycling or if you’d quit. I can’t believe we’ve seen you again and you’ve made it this far.’ She held my shoulders, looking into my eyes in admiration and obviously as pleased to see me as I was to see them. As we talked, it soon became apparent that their aim was also to make it to Prudhoe Bay. I had deliberated for a number of weeks about how I might make it back down from the Arctic Ocean and to somewhere I may be able to catch a flight home from. Up until now, the only real option I could see was to hitch a lift with a truck driver heading south from the oilfield there but there were no guarantees anyone would be willing to drive me. Søren and Liselotte told me that if we timed it right, they would be happy to drive me back down to Fairbanks. I quickly did some calculations, and suggested I should be there in around ten days’ time. Yassie stepped away from the desk and put his passport back into a bag. As Søren and Liselotte were summoned, we hugged a final time and Yassie and I set off into the evening in search of somewhere to camp, my mood positively upbeat. In the small town of Tok, Yassie and I sat outside the laundry, Yassie in just a pair of shorts and me in nothing more than a pair of waterproof trousers. The remainder of our clothes enjoyed a good run around in a washing machine with some detergent. Thankfully it was relatively warm. Almost eleven days since we had first met, our time together was almost up. I had enjoyed our time together immensely and I knew I was going to miss him. Gentle and loyal, times spent with Yassie around our stoves in the evenings were among my favourite of the whole journey. He would sing and tell jokes but he also spoke of a world he had felt the need to escape from; one I felt he feared having to return to. Japan, he told me, was a nation with an ingrained culture of overwork, where companies would milk every last drop of productivity out of their workforce and where people struggled to make time to appreciate the beauty of the natural world, to enjoy friendships and develop a sense of community. It was, Yassie explained, a country where annual holidays were limited to just three weeks and the working week was six days. Yassie had very little to tell me in favour of Japan. Escape for both of us was almost certainly one of the main reasons for being where we were and in one another we had found a kindred spirit. We had found another soul who understood us and shared our courage in making a break from what had been drummed into us from a very early age as being the correct path through life – school, work, retire and die.

After loading our bags with sweet-smelling clothes, we embraced at the side of the road. Yassie mounted his bike and turned to the south-west in the direction of Anchorage. In a north-westerly direction, I followed the sign to Fairbanks. It was just after lunch and I aimed to cycle a further seventy miles before the end of the day. The final few miles into the town of Delta Junction the following day were something of a toil and I couldn’t work out if I was cycling up a slight gradient or if it was just that my legs were tired. I stopped at the tourist information centre for a breather, propping my bike against a sign as a group of elderly tourists from a coach tour walked by. One of them noticed the ‘Argentina to Alaska’ sign on the back of my bike and quickly spread the word around his party. Eight or ten of them gathered around me and I was inundated with questions. Cameras were produced and I smiled in all directions – a little uncomfortably – as shutters clicked one after another. They then dug deep into their pockets and purses for American dollars, which were handed to me for Marie Curie Cancer Care, US$25 in all. Waves, smiles and good wishes followed as they made their way back to their coach but one woman hung back. There was a moment’s silence as the two of us looked at one another. She seemed to be hanging back for a reason and looked at me with pitiful eyes. I smiled at her reassuringly. ‘Do you mind if I take your photo?’ she asked, stepping forwards and taking my arm. She spoke again before I had time to reply. ‘I had cancer and had to have my left breast removed.’ I offered her another warm smile and told her I didn’t mind at all if she took my photo. Her gentle demeanour was that of a woman clearly thankful to be alive and emotional eyes fought to hold onto her tears. I smiled as she took my photograph beside my bike and she then approached me again. ‘I’m going to give you a hug,’ she said. ‘You’re so special.’ ‘I need all the hugs I can get on this trip,’ I told her, and just for a few seconds we held one another. As we each took a step back, she kept hold of my forearms. With tight lips she smiled at me, eyes damp with emotion. She gave my arms a gentle squeeze. ‘Good luck,’ she said, looking deep into my eyes. I looked at her with all the care of a loving son. ‘Thank you,’ I replied, and she gently nodded before turning and walking away from me. I clipped back into my pedals and set my bike rolling again with a new-found vigour and a renewed sense that what I was doing was the right thing. I was now around a day’s cycling from Fairbanks.

Chapter 20 Fairbanks–Deadhorse 15,782 miles cycled

This was it, then – the final push. My destination was now around five hundred miles away and along the way I was set to cross the Arctic Circle. I still had no idea of how I might get home but had asked Melissa to search the internet for flights from Fairbanks and I’d try and find a means of getting in touch with her somewhere between here and Deadhorse, Prudhoe Bay. Prior to leaving home, I had booked a flight back to England from Toronto, on the other side of Canada, and maybe I could catch a connecting flight there? I also hadn’t worked out how I was going to get back south from Prudhoe Bay but hoped I might bump into my Danish friends along the way. With no mobile phone and no means of contacting them, I was relying on good fortune. At least there was only one route to Prudhoe Bay from here and we’d be unlucky not to see each other providing our timing was right. My bike was reassuringly heavy, laden with enough water to get me through the remainder of that first day and food to last me a full week if necessary. But as early as the morning of my first full day of cycling from Fairbanks, I was regretting the additional weight of all the supplies I was transporting. The hills were the toughest I had cycled for some time and I’d sit on my saddle, plodding away in a low gear, feeling pain in both legs just above my upper knees and hoping each summit would be the last. Occasionally I’d change up the gears, stand out of my saddle and push some power through the pedals to gain some ground, keeping my bike straight and true, before sitting down and ‘spinning’ in an easier gear again. The hills continued for days and they were torturous, relentless. A group of motorbikers rode by in the opposite direction late that afternoon, most waving but one pointing to his over-trousers, which were absolutely caked in mud. It wasn’t long before I hit the cause of this and my pace instantly slowed as the steep undulations continued. Sandy mud sucked at my tyres, clogging my brakes and mudguards so that my wheels would barely turn. On it went, mosquitoes taking full advantage as I strained to keep the bike moving up the hills, blood coursing close to my skin’s surface and giving the blood-suckers easy access. I cursed before finally plummeting downwards, almost blinded by a

storm of grit which freed itself from my front wheel as it spun like a Catherine wheel. I sat cross-legged that evening on an area of gravel beside a creek. A pan of pasta stroganoff bubbled on my stove beside me and I laughed at how miserable I must look as a couple of heavy showers wetted me. I thought of Melissa, and how she had mocked my ‘pasta surprise’ camp meals, as she’d called them. My food no longer filled me and nor did my additional Snickers bar and cups of tea. I washed my pots, packed them away and continued cycling, still yearning for more food but not daring to dig further into my reserves for fear of leaving nothing for later in my journey. I cycled well into the evenings, making use of twenty-four hours of daylight each day, and would generally try and sleep close to midnight. Even at this hour, the sun hung above the horizon to the north, refusing to play by convention, casting its light across every fold of this massive landscape as day after day it completely circled me. My body was exhausted. My legs would twitch and if I thought too much my brain would focus on nagging pains in various parts of my lower limbs. Only sleep would anaesthetise the discomfort but I found this difficult to achieve in the complete absence of darkness. Entombed in my tent in full sunlight, beads of sweat formed on my skin, slipping down my exposed sides and wetting my sleeping bag, which remained unzipped and open. Alaska’s population of mosquitoes beyond my nylon walls made it impossible for me to fling the tent doors open to introduce some airflow and the still air outside barely drifted in through the large, mesh vents of my inner doors. I decided to spend a night at the Finger Mountain rest area as it had basic facilities in the form of a single pit toilet and a bin. Approaching midnight, I briefly chatted with a young couple from Tennessee and their friend from Portland in broad daylight before excusing myself to put up my tent among the cotton grass away from the car park. Very soon I was the only person left; the only person for miles. A warden had earlier stopped his truck to warn me of a grizzly bear sighting at this rest area earlier today but my Portland friends made no mention of any such sighting and I hoped the bear was now several miles away. I enjoyed my best sleep for some time, waking during the night, but falling fast asleep again and enjoying a lie-in until 8.30am. I left the tent in just my halfmast long johns and base-layer top, strolling to the car park and entering the toilet, locking the door behind me. I was in no rush and took my time in there but, as I was about to leave, I was horrified at hearing the crunching of gravel beneath car tyres as a vehicle entered the car park and came to a halt. I remained where I was for a short time, worried that I wasn’t suitably dressed to be seen out in public, and hoped the car would leave. I couldn’t stay in there indefinitely. I stood, waiting, ears straining, hoping to hear the sound of the car’s engine starting up again but all I heard was silence. The occupants of the car were going nowhere and I could wait no longer. I flung open the door and strode out into the sunlit car park in my ‘pyjamas’. Walking to the bear bin, I lifted the lid before reaching in and pulling out my food bag. With no sign of any

transportation and my tent out of view, I was very conscious of how this must look in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness. I walked past the car and, not wanting to seem rude, greeted its occupants with a cheery ‘Morning!’ The driver looked on, dumbfounded, and I jogged down the slope and out of view. A guy stopped his car to chat to me as I approached the Arctic Circle and a short time later another car pulled over and its driver handed me a loaf of sourdough bread – a gift the first driver had asked him to drop off for me. Two young Americans on leave from their jobs in Denali were keen to know about my journey at the sign and car park marking the point where the Dalton Highway crossed the Arctic Circle and they handed me yet more food, enabling me to gorge on cream cheese sandwiches with fresh celery and carrots before setting on my way again. I cycled on my first decent length of flat road along the Dalton Highway that afternoon and I was able to breathe in my surroundings. Beneath a big sky, a beautiful landscape of pines and grasslands, rivers and streams sailed by. I was brought to a halt by a woman bearing a ‘stop’ sign ahead of some roadworks and I was told I’d have to wait to be transported through by the pilot vehicle. Drivers chatted to me as I waited and I then lifted my bike into the back of the truck, throwing my panniers in before jumping into the cab with my driver. Months ago, I would have considered the idea of hitching a ride as definitely being against the rules. But after a ferry ride in Chile, a flight over Colombia and previous short rides through roadworks, the idea of taking a quick hop in a vehicle didn’t worry me, particularly when no real alternative was on offer. Cheryl was from North Pole, near Fairbanks, a very aptly named home town for someone who doubled up as Mrs Claus in the winter months, receiving and replying to emails and letters from children from all over the world. She handed me a lollipop as if to verify her claim and I sucked on it happily as we chatted. Coldfoot was little more than a cluster of buildings, primarily serving as a truck stop but with a tourist information centre and a basic hotel. These were the last services before Deadhorse, now some 240 miles away. I decided I’d try my luck and ask if I could use a computer to check for news on flights but when Gary, the manager, attempted to access the internet, the connection was ridiculously slow and he suggested I should try again in the morning. He was keen to know about my journey and walked me outside, listening to my tales, pointing along a short track and telling me I could camp there for free. I thanked him and shook his hand, wheeling my bike to the camping area but not at all impressed at the unkempt gravel and the lack of any facilities whatsoever. As black rain clouds gathered and I deliberated over the best spot to pitch my tent, Gary purposefully strode towards me, a key in his hand. ‘I can’t let you sleep out here,’ he had decided. ‘It sounds as though you’re probably in need of a bed for the night.’ He handed me the key. ‘There’s a free room in the workers’ quarters tonight – make yourself at home. It’s the least I can do.’

I felt ecstatic – my first bed in almost a month. I carried my bike and gear up the few steps into the Ice Station Zebra-type building, raised from the ground on stilts to lift it above the heaving of the permafrost. I opened the door to a basic and dated twin-bedded room but I didn’t care about the décor. It was warm, mosquito-free and felt rather homely. I showered, cooked a pan full of food, which I struggled to lift, but which didn’t fill me and so I cooked popcorn over my stove, setting off the smoke alarm with an ear-splitting scream. Pulling clean sheets and blankets up beneath my chin, I felt secure and relaxed as I tried to sleep later. The words of the truck driver a couple of weeks earlier had continued to nag at me: ‘I don’t think you’ll make it to Prudhoe Bay,’ he had said. ‘It’s the hill that finishes most cyclists off.’ Today was the day I’d be tackling that hill, but the first thirty-six miles up until my lunch stop were particularly kind, through a beautiful valley and climbing only ever so gently, following the gradient of the adjacent river. According to a free guide I had picked up about the Dalton Highway, Atigun Pass was now only thirty-three miles away and as I set off again I’d look down at my cycle computer frequently, almost celebrating at every mile I was adding to the clock on the relative flat. For a further twenty-eight miles or so, the road only climbed with the gradient of the river, which sparkled and splashed happily through stunted pine forest as it headed south towards the Bering Sea. I so enjoyed my ride, the thought of an imminent climb just spoiling it a little. As it turned out, Atigun Pass was nothing to really worry about. It involved just three and a half miles of true, steep climbing, gradients often between twelve and fifteen per cent, and was something of an anticlimax. I sang as I ate my evening meal at its summit, in celebration at having conquered the final real climb of my journey, dressed in balaclava and full waterproofs as mosquitoes clamoured to feed on me. I tackled the steep descent with great caution, not wishing to spoil things now by taking a tumble. The small matter of transport home from here nagged at me as I cycled. The Dalton Highway was built to support the Alaska pipeline, conveying oil from the Alaska oilfields around Deadhorse to Valdez in south Alaska. Along its length were a number of pumping stations, often manned by just one person. As I approached one of these, I summoned up the cheek to ask to make a telephone call to speak with Melissa, hoping she might have news on a flight home. I ventured in, cautiously, ‘No Trespassing’ signs everywhere making me a little nervous. The security guard was happy to help but asked that I kept my calls brief as this was both the emergency line and the fax line. Melissa told me she had not been able to source a cheap flight and had almost been in tears as avenue after avenue proved unfruitful. I decided to take a mammoth bus journey instead – from Whitehorse in Yukon Territory to Toronto, Ontario – a journey of around eighty-six hours. Negotiating the best price with the bus company took time and when I was put on hold for the umpteenth time, the guard began to look uneasy and I hung up, not wishing to get him into trouble. Time was

running out for me to book my seat on the bus as the best deals were for advance bookings only. It wasn’t as simple as just cycling to the next phone and calling from there. Habitation was limited up here, as were telephones. The offices of Greyhound buses in Canada were based in Calgary, some two thousand miles east of here and in a different time zone, two hours ahead of my present location. I raced into the afternoon of my penultimate day, the next pumping station another forty-four miles away, knowing that I had little chance of making it there before the Calgary offices closed. There was, however, a university science camp along the way, according to one pumping station official, and I just might be allowed to make a call from there. Around an hour’s cycle ride down the road, I came across the camp beside a lake just under a mile from the road. I opened the door to the building where two university staff members sat at untidy desks, tapping away at computer keyboards. They turned to look at me and I smiled, pleadingly, back at them. ‘Hello,’ I began, worried I might be disturbing them from some earthshatteringly important work. ‘I’m hoping you might be able to help me.’ I quickly told them about my journey and about my urgent need to use a phone. One of the scientists stood up, smiled reassuringly, and chatted with me as he walked me to another building, complaining about the mosquitoes which he said were the worst he had seen during his several years of coming to work up here. I was instructed to use their phone to do whatever I needed to do and sat at a desk where I dialled the number of Greyhound buses. I was transferred to the supervisor and successfully grovelled for their best offer, booking a seat to take me from Whitehorse to Toronto, departing on Friday 28 July – just six days away – for a little over £100. I felt a great sense of relief but still had work to do to get back from the Arctic Ocean all the way to Whitehorse - over a thousand miles back down the road from Deadhorse. And first I had to get to the Arctic Ocean. I motored on, stopping at a little creek around lunchtime and taking advantage of the washing facilities, jumping into the brackish water wearing my T-shirt and shorts, before quickly exiting and hastily drying off and putting on dry clothes and full waterproofs. Lathering bare skin with mosquito repellent, I then set up my stove for a hot meal of noodles and bread. The profusion of mosquitoes would never allow me to relax for long during my days this far north and mealtimes on my final full day of cycling were no different – I was on my way again before I felt I was ready. The truck drivers who drove by that afternoon seemed more respectful than they had on previous days, several offering waves as they thundered by. The road conditions frustratingly slowed my progress through the tundra. A family in a VW Beetle stopped to ask if there was anything I needed, filling my stove bottle with petrol and then passing again once they had carried out their own vehicle repairs to hand me a can of Coke. In this part of the world road users looked out for one another and a lone-cyclist was perhaps the most vulnerable of all road users.

I came to a halt at the bottom of a dip, over a hundred miles behind me for the day. After pulling on my waterproof jacket and trousers, I sprayed my hands, face, feet and ankles with insect repellent. Quickly I took my tent from my bike, emptied it from its bag and hurriedly began snapping my single pole together. Mosquitoes were already swarming. I clipped my pole into two housings on either end of the outer tent, frantically stabbing pegs into the ground as it began to take shape. Mosquitoes flew at my face, into my nose, mouth and eyes and I slapped at them, brushed them off and tried to snatch them from the air, reaching for another peg before slapping again, blowing hard through my nose to stop them from flying up it. I entered the outer tent to hang the inner, the midnight sun having already warmed the space within. Mosquitoes followed me into the confined space and I sweated in my layers of clothing. My stress levels rose, causing my temperature to rise further, and I began to suffer chest pains. I pegged out the inner tent, not caring that it wasn’t a perfect job, threw a couple of my bags inside and jumped in after them, desperately tearing the zips closed but not before a couple of dozen antagonists had stormed the open doors. A battle ensued as I fought to liberate my space. I thrashed my hands as mosquitoes landed on the underside of my ceiling, pressing hard once I had trapped them to ensure they had been killed. I fought on until the smeared carcasses of every one of my enemies marked the spot they had lost their battles on the off-white nylon of the ceiling and walls. Hundreds of tiny bodies constantly pattered on the fabric directly above my head, trapped between the inner and outer tent, a constant fizzing like a mass swarm of angry bees on helium. I felt safest within my inner tent, even with the discomfort of the heat. My chest pains continued in the knowledge that I was trapped. Only my desperation to have a pee forced me out that evening, pushing hard at my bladder to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. The mosquitoes had been waiting for me and again they swarmed, biting me on the only part of my anatomy neither clothed nor treated with insect repellent as I wafted my free hand to try and shoo them. I felt exhausted the following morning as I readied myself for my final day of cycling. It certainly wasn’t that I hadn’t felt tired that I had found sleep difficult to achieve, but excitement could have played a part. In just another few hours the cycling could stop and my punishing routine would end. Rain during the night had kept me awake, fearing the wet gravel wouldn’t be able to hold on to tent pegs that were supporting a soggy tent and I’d be forced outside to face the mosquitoes, which continued to taunt me as I tried to sleep. I breakfasted on cold oats within the tent, covered myself in insect repellent once more and again pulled on my waterproofs and balaclava to protect me from the little monsters. I could never have imagined mosquitoes in such profusion. I struggled to brush my teeth, running around to try and lose them. Picture a printed photograph of a tundra scene – a relatively flat landscape of sedges, grasses, pools and lakes of brackish water unable to drain away because of the

impermeable frost layer just a few metres below the surface – perfect conditions for the mosquitoes’ life cycle. Throw a few hundred caribou into the scene. Envisage taking a fine-tipped pen and manically dotting the whole of that photograph ten thousand times. Imagine now, waving a hand over that photograph and every one of those dots magically coming to life, spinning furiously, crashing into anything and everything that might enter that scene and screaming in high-pitched delight as they did so. That’s what it was like – and that’s not to mention their thirst for blood. After a few short climbs, the road finally levelled and the landscape remained flat as I neared the end of my journey. The mosquitoes were left in my wake and I could have cried with relief. Further sharp chest pains still continued to trouble me, though, and I tried to control my breathing. I didn’t know why I was feeling this way, drinking plenty and taking salt tablets in case it was dehydration, but this did nothing to help. I was worrying already about how I might make it back to Whitehorse in five days’ time and contemplated a plan for hitching. I didn’t know what I was going to find in Deadhorse but hoped the trucks would be empty for their return journey south and I would be able to talk a friendly driver, with ample space for a passenger and his bike, into giving me a lift. I stopped to eat my third chocolate bar of the morning at the side of the road just fourteen miles from Deadhorse. A distant hum, accompanied by the muffled crunching of gravel beneath tyres, sounded behind me, signalling the approach of another vehicle. I maintained my vision straight ahead, munching on my chocolate, as the vehicle closed in. I expected it to sail straight by, kicking up loose stones in my direction as the limited traffic had done previously. Instead I heard a sound I had learned to feel optimistic about. The vehicle seemed to hang back, the tone of the engine changing as the driver changed down through the gears. Similar engine tones over the past ten months had resulted in handshakes and good wishes, offerings of orange juice and chilled water or of meals or beds for the night. I dared to think that something good was about to happen. The vehicle gradually pulled alongside me and drew to a halt. Only now did I glance to my left. Two familiar faces peered out of their Land Rover, smiling broadly, the passenger leaning forward in the passenger seat, awaiting my reaction. They had been toying with me. I screamed at them in delight and they laughed back. I jumped from my bike, laying it flat, and skipped to the wounddown passenger window. Liselotte and I hugged once more and I leaned over to shake the hand of Søren. They knew how important this was to me, to see them here and to have the assurance of a lift back to Fairbanks. They were my saviours and I now had someone to cheer me into Deadhorse, where they promised they would be waiting for me. After more hugging we continued on our way, their Land Rover effortlessly pulling away from me with a simple push on the accelerator. The wind picked up from the north and my final fourteen miles were anything but pleasurable. My speed dropped to eight miles per hour initially and then to

just six or seven. The road weaved across the open tundra between hundreds of small lakes, the surfaces of which were whipped into a frenzy of foaming breakers by the angry Arctic wind. Severe chest pains had me fearing I might not make it and I breathed deeply through my nose as I tried to calm myself. I imagined being in a building, out of the wind, holding a phone to my ear and telling my Mum I had made it. I wanted this battle to be over. ‘Just relax,’ I whispered, but the more I tried to calm myself, the worse the pain seemed to be – stabbing, almost constant and straight into my heart. I had read a year or two earlier about a cyclist dying of a heart attack, just metres away from completing a thousand-mile cycle journey in the UK. Unhelpfully, I reminded myself of this. This was not how I had imagined the final few miles of my journey. I had pictured the scene from above, from the perspective of a television news crew, a wide-angled lens required to show the long plume of dust kicked up by my tyres tearing at the road at great speed, thousands of miles of pedalling having turned me into a super-athlete. The camera would then zoom out to show the vastness of this place and me, a tiny, vulnerable speck on a giant drum. As stirring music played, viewers would wipe tears of emotion from their eyes as their lone hero – battered but still going strong – neared the end of his journey. The family who given me petrol and a can of pop the previous day drove by in their VW Beetle again, flagging for me to stop. The mother and father stepped out of the car to offer a few words of congratulation. I felt thankful for the opportunity to pause just for a few minutes and was handed a can of Dr Pepper. The father extended his arm in the direction of a huge, ugly area of prefabricated buildings and oil works in the distance. ‘That’s where you’re heading for,’ he proudly told me. ‘Deadhorse.’ I had already guessed. That my destination wasn’t more spectacular didn’t bother me. This journey had never been about the finishing point. It had been about challenging myself; seeing what I was capable of. It was about exploring myself and something of the planet I lived on. My journey had not disappointed in any way. I had achieved all I had hoped I would and experienced so much more. My resilience and resourcefulness had seen me through many difficult times. I did not regret any of those difficult times. I had run out of water crossing the driest desert in the world, dislocated my shoulder descending the Andes, been ‘rained’ on by an erupting volcano, been robbed by three desperate men in Quito and sung to bears to keep them at bay. And, oh my word, how wonderful that all those things had happened to me. I had seen an abundance of wildlife, witnessed spectacular night skies, walked the Inca Trail and sat on the rim of the Grand Canyon. I had met some of the warmest, kindest people who had been willing to help me even though they had next to nothing themselves. I now understood a little more about different cultures and had seen first-hand how landscapes changed from the bottom of the world to the top. As a person I had changed. I would never be the

same again. I would now always view a map of the Earth differently. Just a few miles from my destination, I was thankful for every moment of my journey. Even the tough times I was grateful for. I now had stories to tell – so many more patches on my patchwork quilt of life. Those final four or five miles seemed to take an eternity. The road continued to wind ridiculously, teasing me when I had seemed within touching distance, and the last few hundred metres were directly against the fiercest of winds. How fitting that the wind should join me again for those concluding stages. A Land Rover awaited my arrival at 2.30pm and beside it stood Søren and Liselotte, applauding as I turned my pedals for the final few times. I squeezed at my brake levers and, as my bike slowed, I unclipped from the pedals and placed both feet on the ground. Still astride the crossbar of my wonderful, journeybeaten bike, I embraced the two of them, smiles on all our faces. Liselotte handed out three mugs and poured a generous shot of tequila into each. We raised our arms, brought our cups together and toasted our success. Tipping back our heads, we downed the contents. I smacked my lips and ran the back of my hand across my mouth. Ten months and five days since leaving the end of the most southerly road in the world, I had arrived in Deadhorse, Prudhoe Bay, North Alaska. I was just a few miles from the Arctic Ocean and I thought I would feel elated, but at this moment I felt very little at all. I took out some warm clothes and dressed up to combat the biting wind, pedalling off in search of somewhere to phone home from. A tour group stood beside their bus outside a motel and restaurant, sandwiched between industriallooking buildings. I excused myself to pass by but word quickly spread that I had made it here by bike from southern Argentina. I was suddenly mobbed, tour members encircling me, asking questions and asking if I’d mind if they had their photographs taken with me. I was tired and felt numb. Many times I had tried to imagine how I might feel on finally crossing the finishing line but never did I think I’d feel nothing. Though my arrival at the end of the road had failed to rouse any real emotion in me, I was thankful that Liselotte and Søren had been there to welcome me. It was a relatively low-key welcome but how would I have felt had there been nobody to cheer me home? The tourists now played their part. They showed great excitement, patting me on my back, exclaiming at what I had just done: ‘I can’t believe you’ve cycled all that way’, ‘That’s one hell of a journey’, ‘You must have some amazing stories to tell.’ I beamed as camera shutters clicked and arms were draped around me. Indeed, I had many stories to tell but few people on this planet could begin to comprehend what I had been through. This had been my journey and I was the only one who truly understood because I was the only one who had lived it – every minute. I had felt fear and loneliness and exhaustion and pain. I had been elated and humbled and grateful. I had lived. Unless these people had

undertaken similar journeys, they would find it difficult to understand. And I would find it difficult to put them in my shoes. I smiled and made my apologies before entering the relative calm of the building in search of somewhere I might be able to phone home. I was directed along a corridor to where I found a payphone and here I dialled the number for my Mum and Dad. The phone rang and rang. No answer. They had told me they were at some stage going to Scotland on holiday and I decided that’s where they must still be. I needed to tell someone that I had made it; that my dream had been realised. I keyed in Melissa’s number. There was a moment’s silence as the connection was made and then the ringtone began. It rang once … twice … three times. The receiver was picked up and a voice answered. ‘Hello?’ It was Melissa. ‘I’ve made it,’ I told her. ‘I’ve made it to Deadhorse.’ Only on speaking those few words did I feel just a tinge of emotion. I had made it. I had done what I had set out to do. My journey was over – I could finally put that dream firmly to bed. At thirty-two years old I had seen and experienced more than most people experience in a lifetime. My final email report was sent from Fairbanks, two days after my arrival in Deadhorse. This is a small part of what was sent: Dear All/Mis Amigos, 16276miles in 10 months and 5 days – I made it!! 26022Km en 10 mesas y 5 dias!! I have little time but just wanted to inform you all that at last I have realised a dream, which has been with me for almost 11 years. On Sunday, July 23rd 2000 at around 2.30pm, against a fierce and biting northerly wind, I fought my way into Deadhorse, Alaska, 299 miles above the Arctic Circle, having cycled the length of the South and North American Continents (excluding Colombia). I’ve had it extremely tough at times but I always had faith in myself that I would make it. There were those who were ready to write me off without knowing a thing about my character but just look at what I’ve done. The desire to fulfil a 10 year dream was a very powerful motivator for me but I also wanted to succeed for Marie Curie Cancer Care. When I felt totally down and out on many occasions, when I felt so lonely, so isolated, so sick, so in need of a hug, of good food, of a warm fire or a cold drink, I always thought of my charity and of those in greater need than myself. I hope you’ll give generously and know many already have. Can I thank all of you for your donations, for your support, your emails, your phone calls, your letters and presents, for your friendship and hospitality along the way and for helping me to make it through? I now feel great and extremely excited at having achieved this goal. Now it’s back to Bradford to

try and earn a little money before returning to Bradford Uni for the final year of my degree course. For now though, this is … THE END

Chapter 21 The Final Chapter? 16,276 miles cycled

I felt no guilt at all in sitting in the passenger seat of the heated cab of Søren and Liselotte’s Land Rover as we motored south, back along the road I had only recently toiled to get to its northernmost limit. We had been to the security office in Deadhorse to ask if we could venture to the shores of the Arctic Ocean, just a few miles away, but we were told we’d need a permit to go any further and would have to send off a letter to apply for such. The fact we had all travelled many thousands of miles to arrive at that point stood for nothing. It rained heavily as we travelled that first evening but I didn’t care one bit. I was dry and I was warm. My journey required no effort, no thought, and I felt no pain. My legs stretched out into the footwell in front of me, idle, unused. I wasn’t yet sure of just how I was feeling but suspected I sensed relief. It took us two days to arrive back in Fairbanks and, after a further half a day of journeying east with Søren and Liselotte, we said our goodbyes and I was left to plot my next move. I was still almost four hundred miles from Whitehorse, from where my bus to Toronto was departing in less than forty-eight hours. I cycled initially and then tried my luck at hitching a lift but the few drivers who came by were no longer interested in this trans-continental cyclist. On my second day of cycling and luckless hitching, I was desperate. I knocked on the door of a private bus, parked in a remote lay-by, and asked the driver if he could take me to Whitehorse. He seemed uncomfortable at being put on the spot and he made his excuses, leaving me to continue cycling. If I didn’t make it to Whitehorse I would miss my bus, miss my flight and miss my friend’s wedding. A few miles down the road, the same bus caught me up and came to a halt. The driver had had a change of heart – ‘but you can’t come on wearing those,’ he said, pointing at my Lycra shorts. ‘We have young girls on board.’ I was fed spaghetti bolognese as we travelled for several hours. He would take no money from me in return. In Whitehorse I felt a tap on my shoulder as I pedalled in search of somewhere to sleep. I turned and was greeted by a familiar face – Andrew, the English guy I had cycled with over a month ago. We spent the evening in a bar, being bought drinks by the locals. Andrew told them I had cycled all the way

from South Argentina and they all made a big deal of this. I began to take in what it was I had just been and done, although my emotions were heightened by the alcohol. We spent what was left of the night in a drunken sleep beneath the stars, beside picnic tables in the park. After an eighty-five-hour bus journey across Canada, I arrived in Toronto but my bike didn’t – it had been misplaced by the bus company. My airline then lost my bags and I arrived at Manchester airport with just my handlebar bag. I was greeted with hugs by my parents, who were grateful to have me home, safe and well. It was lovely to see their smiling faces again. My bags turned up at my house a day later but it took a three-month battle with the bus company before my bike was finally returned to me – it was an emotional reunion! My welcome-home party, organised be Edge and Melissa a week after I had arrived back in Leeds, was attended by around a hundred friends and family members. TJ and Klaus flew over from Norway to attend and Sampo and Pasi flew in from Finland. Some of the South Africans I had met in South America journeyed up from London where they were spending time and Nicola and Rachel also travelled up from London. On the afternoon of the party I took part in a football match which had also been organised for me. My running legs hadn’t been tested for almost a year and – even with sixteen thousand miles of cycling in them – I could barely run after the first ten minutes. Everyone had a great day and my smile never left my face. Jason and Marie-Ann were married almost two weeks after my arrival home. It was one of the best weddings I had been to, perhaps, in part, because I had worked so hard to make sure I was there. I was rewarded with the company of great friends, food, drink, laughter and dancing. My first year home was difficult as I struggled to fit in with ‘normality’ again. Surrounded by four walls and sitting at a computer screen as I completed my final year at uni, I felt trapped and there were times when I felt very low. I did many talks for church groups, cycling clubs and schools but missed the handshakes, the smiles and the welcomes I had received in the Americas, particularly in the south. I missed the open spaces, the everyday challenges, the cries of eagles, the smell of pine forest. Melissa and I saw each other for a time but then split up. We’re still friends. I successfully completed my degree but didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life, opting to go into primary school teaching. A year after returning from Alaska, I spent five weeks cycling from Calais, in northern France, to Sicily, Italy with three friends from university who had never undertaken such a journey before. They were five of the best weeks of my life. While we were all on limited budgets, we afforded ourselves the occasional night out, the odd stay in a hotel and even one or two meals out. We laughed and got up to mischief, cycled with shirts off in glorious sunshine, swam in rivers and in the Mediterranean Sea and shared banter around our stoves each

evening. It was an adventure of the highest quality. We have been on several cycling adventures across Europe since and they remain some of my best friends, thanks to our shared adventures. Whenever we are together, we always reminisce about those good times. I cycled alone across the USA in the winter of 2014/15. It was a punishing ride, temperatures 15 to 30 degrees Fahrenheit below where they should have been. I didn’t enjoy it and I missed the camaraderie of my European trips. Future cycle journeys, I told myself, would be at a more leisurely pace and would involve less hardship. Almost twenty years after returning from Alaska, as I finish writing this book, I am still learning about myself. I know I need to be busy. I can still feel trapped. I need adventure and I love being out in nature. There are times when I need my own space but I also need time around people, especially close friends and those who share my passions. I gave up teaching in the classroom and found a place in the outdoor industry, working freelance and mainly with young people. I share stories of my adventures with them but, most importantly, I try and help them to create their own stories. It’s work which satisfies many of my needs. I still cycle, and hope I always will – being on my bike gives me a sense of freedom; a sense of peace. When the weather’s bad, or when my mood is low, it’s sometimes difficult to motivate myself to go out and cycle. But I never return from a cycle ride feeling worse than I did before. Slinging some bags on my bike and heading off for a multi-day adventure still excites me. I get almost as excited cycling from home to stay in a B&B or on a campsite in the Yorkshire Dales for a night as I do heading off for several months. If my journey to Alaska has taught me anything, it is probably that even the hard times can be appreciated once they have passed. We should all take a similar pride in finding the strength to overcome difficulties in our own lives and bask in the satisfaction at having conquered them. The hardships tend not to last forever – relish the challenge, fight the adversity and become stronger for it. We can then tell our stories to others who struggle and let them see what’s possible.

A Few Statistics

Total distance cycled: 16,276 miles Distance cycled on unsurfaced roads: approximately 3000 miles Greatest distance cycled in 1 day: 138 miles Greatest distance cycled in 1 week: 630 miles Average weekly distance: 367.5 miles Longest climb: Approximately 64 miles Longest descent: Approximately 55 miles Number of punctures: Around 120 (estimate) Number of tyres: 14 Number of bear sightings: 23 Average weekly spend : £62.91