Wheels on Fire

North to South in Europe

2010-08-25T06:00:00.003+10:00

It was fun sailing into Piazza San Marco on a boat after ditching our bikes in Punto Sabbione, drinking Prosecco supplied by Rudolph and eating fine soft cheese, bread, olives, peaches, prosciutto and tomatoes. Group photos all round, hugs and felicitations. A fine way to end a north to south bike ride on a hot Italian morning.

I was sorry to depart Slovenia with its hills, picturesque villages, cheap beers, friendly people, creamy cold ice cream and polite drivers. Well, most of them anyway. Should anyone wish to convince their city or town to adopt bicycle friendly conditions, a trip to Ljubljana would be recommended where at first hand, city officials can see how it is possible for the bike to coexist peacefully and seamlessly with cars and pedestrians. For a city of 250,000 they really have it together.

Crossing the border also meant we were reunited with the sea, so a dip in the Adriatic was called for. We left it a bit late to walk down to the beach so it had to be a paddle instead, but it was coolly refreshing. Miss Piggot, god bless her, immersed her entire body having had the good sense to don her bathers before the descent. An ice cream and a friendly bus driver who transported us back up the hill at no cost, completed a satisfying day.

Even though most of Italy is beautiful, TDA managed to select a route for our last two days that was so boring we all would have fallen asleep at the handlebars if it hadn't been for the ferocious traffic. Corn fields, soy beans, flat straight roads and green algae ridden canals. Didn't seem to accord with my recollections of Umbrian hills and gelato fragola.

Venezia proved hot, humid and crowded. I liked it very much but could understand that others found it suffocating and somewhat claustrophobic. We walked, hopped onto vaporettos and visited Murano to see lumps of molten silica transformed into horses and the like, and enjoy a 'Menu Turistica' that was so good, sitting by a breezy canal, that it should have been bottled. Allora.

Our hotel, the Villa Alberti, also did a grand farewell meal, albeit the unofficial one. The official dinner was held in a stuffy restaurant where the 50gm of fried chicken which most mistook for ...well, fish perhaps...tasted...well, like nothing...as did the tortellini. The wine was little more than dyed cat's piss but that did not stop me for a moment. Still, what more could we expect from good old TDA.

The awards however were funny, with much work having gone into them by George, Kris and Katherine. I was thrilled to receive the 'Miss Congeniality' award until someone mentioned that this award is always part of the Miss America Pageant and goes to the ugly one who raises the most money. Oh well...

I feel great after my six weeks on the bike. I have been to places I would never have otherwise travelled to and developed an interest that will linger. I have made friends whom I cherish and have plans for my next trip. I am relaxed, energised and ready for the next chapter.

And so, here is my last lot of riding data which in total amounted to 3,414kms on the bike.
Thursday 19 August to Sistiana: 106kms, 5hrs 55 mins, 17.8 average. Lots of hills, in fact we climbed four long passes through the mountains which is always better that climbing over them.
Friday 20 August to Caorle: 94km, 22.6 average, 4hrs 8 mins. Flat, straight, dull.
Saturday 21 August to Punto Sabbione: 42km, 22 average, 1hr 54mins

Breakfast in Slovakia, Morning Tea in Austria, Dinner in Hungary

2010-08-17T22:49:00.006+10:00

And so it went on the day we left Bratislava for our six day cycling tour of Slovakia, Austria, Hungary and Slovenia. Of course the best was Austria - half a kilo of apple strudel served with vanilla custard in the company of at least fifteen other riders. Oh how those plates were licked. Hungary was a bit of a let down except for being reunited with the man on the 100 HUF note, of course. It is hard to believe that by the act of crossing an imaginary line - a border - life can be be experienced in a wholly different way.

The Europeans really know how to turn on a storm as several nights in a row we have been buffeted and blown, thundered on and lit up by garish flashes chasing across the sky night after night. Waking sodden and grisly ready for another one of TDA's breakfasts of mixed cereal, dry bread and fruit has not quite hit the spot. Unfortunately I will not be able to participate in further camping as I binned my tent last night in favour of a mattress in the loft as the much mended front pole finally gave up the ghost. I was able to distribute all my high quality tent pegs though, which pleased me enormously.

A highlight was riding with Michael and Brian on the wet day when we ascended to Jerusalem, arriving in camp at 11am after a thrillingly fast ride. Kendy, Katherine and I were able to hold the pace having been fortified by an aromatherapy mud pack applied immediately prior to the storm that left our tents swimming in a sudden lake. We figured that beauty always beats speed...the little girl who witnessed our preparations is doubtless scarred for life as she reported to her mummy that there were ghosts in the bathroom.

Slovenia is chocolate box perfect - mountain peaks, meadows mowed to Wimbledon standards, quintessentially cute villages dotted on hillsides and a plethora of colour and window box treatments. It seems much the most prosperous country we have visited, with the exception of Austria of course. Although there are still the old and inform present int eh villages, raking hay and tending to chooks. And a lot of men sitting in bars drinking beer and smoking cigarettes as we ride by at 7am. Obviously the tobacco companies are still doing good business in this part of the world, as are the hops producers as we have ridden past acres and acres of hops climbing to the sky.

I am not sure where my head was yesterday as I pulled into camp and stood in awe of the ring of mountains circling us. A sensible person may have worked out that climbing would be required to get out - not me - so this mornings 23km climb came as somewhat of a surprise. The gradient proved largely benevolent so a warm beignet straight from wherever they come from enjoyed at the top with a magnificent view over the peaks and valleys made it all better instantly.

Already mosied around Ljubljana, having arrived at 10am and not being able to get into our rooms until 2pm - seems like a very pretty city with lots of action. The castle imposes on the skyline and affords a generous view of the 250,000 inhabitants, their buildings, river and roads.

Another set of hill-filled metrics if you are still tuned in.

Thursday 12 August to Balf Sopron: 96km, 18.2 average, TITS 5hrs 16mins

Friday 13 August to Szombothely: 77km, 17.8 average, TITS 4hrs 21mins - hills of course as the max I attained was 56.4kmh!

Saturday 14 August to Moravce Toplice: 95km, 19.6 average, TITS 4hrs 48mins

Sunday 15 August to Ptuj: 73kms, 21.2 average, TITS 3hrs 25mins - rained but we rode with the fast Aussies and got there almost before we left.

Monday 16 August to Prebold: 94km, 18.7 average, TITS 5hrs.

Tuesday 17 August to Lublijana: 66km, 20.2 average, 3hrs 15mins

News flash, just to hand.
Australia won bronze in the Hand Stand in Small Slovenian Swimming Pool Competition, narrowly pipped at the post by the USA - gold - and Canada - silver. The Australian team was a little disabled on account of Don and myself who floated to the surface like so much flotsam, although Brian's Campanolga branded legs stood proudly to attention and were awarded the best vertical legs of any individual competitor.

How I got to ride in the Tour de Pologna

2010-08-11T20:46:00.003+10:00

The water bottle bonanza

The day we rode out of Krakow was full of surprises. The first surprise was hills - long upwardly sloping bastards of hills that got bigger and steeper as the morning progressed. As you may know, hills are not my natural forte, nature intending me for more leisurely pursuits such as sumo wrestling or darts, perhaps.

The second surprise was coming across Gloria and Bob half way up a slope, Gloria complaining of chest and arm pains. Stewart and I waited with them until TDA was alerted and able to take appropriate action for Gloria to attend a medical facility. (Gloria spent several days in hospital undergoing tests and has now re-joined us in Bratislava.)

The third surprise was lunch where we were nearly blown away as a tremendous storm blew in bringing with it copious amounts of rain. Stewart and I sheltered in a bus stop, along with countless Poles, and while there entertained ourselves attempting to read the sign that had been recently affixed. From this we deduced that the Tour de Pologna no less would be passing through in an hour or two. Laughing like a drain we remounted and sallied forth, nodding and smiling at the ever increasing number of young - and old - men dressed in black firemen's uniforms who were lining the route. As we progressed, small crowds gathered and some even took our photos as they cheered and clapped us on. Finally the time came when two fast motorbikes whizzed past and waved us off the road. By this time George and Monique had caught up, having been lost earlier in the day, so we took up positions by the side of the road and waited.

The first eight riders zoomed through, then far back and below we could see a snaking procession of support vehicles, police and more motorbikes, followed by the peloton. Amid wild cheers I managed to keep my feet as more than a hundred fit young men rushed past, wheel to wheel, bristling at about 45kmh I suppose, a speed I only dream of.

But the fun was only just beginning. Monique spotted a water bottle being thrown, so then the hunt was on. We all managed to score water bottles discarded by various team members. Mine is a Caisse d'Epargne. Bryan advised me not to wash it, just fill it with water, as the residual EPO would help me the next day on the hills.

Eleven hours later we rolled into yet another third world camping spot, elated by a day of climbing, distance, weather and souvenir water bidons. What more could a girl want?

The next day - and the next and the next - we climbed into the Slovakian mountains having crossed the border late the day before - we were high in the low Tartras or low in the high Tartras, not sure which but I do know we were HIGH. The views were spectacular even if climbing for 6 or so kms at a time was more than I bargained for. Climbs were followed in part by swooping descents, and altogether we gained 750 metres nett during the day. Some days we followed rivers that were flowing with us, other days they flowed against us, meaning of course the inevitable climbing. Highlights included two caramel deer that sprang startled from the side of the road and afforded us a glimpse of superb animal muscle in motion.

Town names changed from four or five consonants in a row as per Polish custom to more manageable titles like Sucha Hora, apparently reminding Bryan of one of his former girlfriends. We also passed through a number of Horny villages, so the theme seemed to be set. One night we spent in a gorgeous mining village - Banska Stiavanko - even more surprising was that TDA picked up the tab for a guest house. The monument erected by the good civic folks many years ago to celebrate being spared by the Plague was commanding in both its size and materials used. A similar monument here in Bratislava is much more modest.

Our second talent show was held in perhaps the worst camping ground we have been in but the sheer talent on display raised everyone's spirits as we roared with laughter and rocked in pleasure as those with beautiful voices sang to us. Ralph 'Gorgeous' Monfort was a fine MC, the two Ronnies (George and Stewart) brought us world updates from Radio BULL and a three act drama captivated the audience with its plot twists and turns. An all round good evening that followed a quiet day of only 78km of climbing followed by rolling hills and farmlands.

Then into Bratislava. Route was fine but busy with trucks and cars, day was fine and sunny and the corn crops seemed endless. About 10km prior to the city I rode through what I thought was a puddle which turned out to be a huge break away in the road surface, so I have now scored my first fall with subsequent minor grazing and bruising. Nothing to rival Ron though, who decided to take on a car in a village and has more cuts and marks to add to those from his previous falls.

Bratislava has developed significantly since I was last here on the Orient Express trip. Lots of cafes and places under the shade to enjoy food and wine, but unfortunately the prices have progressed to match the increasing sophistication.

The trip to Auschwitz wasn't as harrowing as I thought it might be, there being on display tonnes of human hair, hundreds of thousands of shoes, suitcases, toothbrushes, hairbrushes and other belongings of those who were killed there. Birkenau, or Auschwitz II, was also a huge facility with the train lines running a kilometre from the camp gates to the gas chambers and ovens. Just before the Russians arrived, the Germans bombed the chambers in an attempt to be rid of the evidence. Cruelty, organised and mechanically efficient, on a mammoth scale. It is a just reminder of the importance of thinking about the consequences of what one does, and having the courage to speak and question. It would appear that the work of millions of people, whether they thought through the consequences of their actions or not, must have contributed to the ethnic cleansing that occurred in Europe during the Second World War.

That evening a few of us went to the Jewish quarter in Krakow and enjoyed a delicious meal as well as a three piece klezmer band. It rivalled the chamber orchestra performance of the evening before which I attended in a tiny 11th century church that once stood 7 metres higher than it does now, on account of the layers of garbage and cobbles that have been added to the city over centuries.

The Amber Route continues but we have now lost the thousands of shops and street vendors selling amber products. This has not saddened me one bit. So tomorrow we saddle up for six days as we weave through Hungary and Austria into Slovenia. It is making the anticipation of today's 90 minute Thai massage that much sweeter.

Facts and Figures if you're into that sort of thing:
Friday August 6 to Oravice: 127kms, 17 average, 7hrs 25mins TITS, great day's riding with the Tour!
Saturday August 7 to Turany Truslava: 86kms, 18 average, 54 max, 4hrs 46mins TITS - lovely scenic day with crisp mountain air as we whizzed past ski slope after ski slope
Sunday August 8 to Banska Stiavanko: 112kms, 17.3 average, 6hrs 19mins TITS
Monday August 9 to Jelenec: 78kms, 17.3 average, 4hrs 29mins, 51 max, huge switchback descent
Tuesday August 10 to Bratislava: 119kms, 21.1 average, 5hrs 35mins

Cut and Polish

2010-08-04T18:23:00.002+10:00

Warsaw has been 90% rebuilt after WWII by the Russians in the main, the old city being built in the style it was before. The result is very pleasing to the eye with a mix of lovely European architecture blending with the cobbled streets, expansive squares, lush gardens and modern tourism. We cycled out of Warsaw on the morning of Sunday 1st August, just as the celebrations were getting started for the 1944 commemoration of the uprising in the Jewish ghetto which effectively sent the Nazis packing. Only trouble was, the Russians stayed.

Riding out was also exciting because the Tour de Polgna was being set up so we got to ride along the route and encourage the workers to cheer. Fortunately some milling crowds of drunken youths who had enjoyed a BIG Saturday night came to the party and yelled and chanted as if there was no tomorrow. Riding under the finish line was exhilarating - I've always wanted to fist the air a la Cancelarra and his mates, and I got to do it.

Polish youth are globally recognisable: mobile phone clutched in hand, back-to-front baseball cap on head, earphones plugged into ears, legs clad in jeans - skinny and otherwise, visible tattoos and piercings, long straight blonded or streaked hair and stupid shoes for the girls, just like everywhere. Rural youth were hard to spot, country areas mainly the province of old people scratching the hay with rakes or feeding chooks or doing the milking. All the old folks ride bikes, laden with shopping, milk crates, walking sticks - anything they need. The young people who were around passing summer holidays in languorous boredom, seemed to bear the mark of western overweight as they slumped off from the sklepas (shops) carrying plastic bags crammed with Coca Cola, slurping on the ubiquitous Magnum ice cream.

Things are a deal more prosperous south of Warsaw. No muddy villages with down at heel houses and falling down barns, instead huge modern houses as neat as a pin, imposing stone fences behind which are parked modern vehicles. Every household has at least one dog, sometimes three or four, plus cats and kittens. Pigeon fancying also seems to be popular.

We have continued to enjoy out-of-the-way camping grounds with blissfully luxurious facilities. The hotels are well up in the one and a half star category but the dinners have been bloody good. Lots of salads, fresh flavours and sound portions of protein. Brekkie and lunch can be a bit boring, but we have enjoyed some good tuna and egg mayonnaise combinations for lunch. Apart from Stewart's bullet wound, we have also had a severely scalded thigh, an infected foot, a hernia, a suspected broken collarbone and two seriously twisted ankles. Quite enough for Doctor Nini.

Krakow is original in architecture, a bit Viennese perhaps, with double trams rattling along busy boulevards. Today I am partaking in a walking tour of the city and tomorrow it's a bus to Auschwitz - dunno how far I will venture but the bus ride sounds comfortable. It is lovely to have two full days in which to rest and read, plus half a day yesterday after we arrived, especially before the onslaught of five days in hilly terrain.

I would like to leave you with my personal best to date: 290 kms in 2 days. Here's the rest of the facts:
Sunday August 1 to Smardzewice : 145km, 21.1km, 6hrs 49mins average holiday until past 2am
Monday August 2 to Bobolice: 145 km, 20.1 km average7hrs 10 mins, a two Mars Bars and two Powerades sort of a day as the sun beat down and the hills lengthened and grew in stature with the last 14 kms too much and too long for me, but I made it
Tuesday August 3 to Krakow: 94km, 18 kmh average, 5hrs, a most beautiful limestone valley with a burbling brook that we followed for 20 superb kilometres - a guided ride into the city, an all round good day despite the many slow long climbs of the morning

Miss Simpson and Miss Piggot go orienteering in the Polish countryside

2010-07-31T15:57:00.004+10:00

I want you to think of rain - huge slabs of sheeting rain. Think of it thundering onto the roof of your third world cabin which has come complete with bedbugs and mould and not much else, and getting up in the morning to stand under the drip line of the gazebo to spoon ersatzt muesli down your throat before mounting a sodden silver fox and retracing 6 kms of now muddy sandy wet puddly gravel back to the main road to make a left and head for another god forsaken camp ground.

Well, that's the scene. Head down, rain jacket on, rain teeming down, and I miss the first turn at the 14 km mark. Fortunately Katherine Piggot is with me as it is more enjoyable I find to wander aimlessly round the Polish countryside sans map, sans compass in company. Especially Miss Piggot, with whom I have been enjoying a Tour de France type commentary pretty much from day 1. As he pointed out when I forced half a Snickers bar and half a plum down her throat, I was only keeping her alive so as I could beat her mercilessly in future stages.

We stopped motorists - oh, I forgot to mention, neither of us speaks Polish either apart from 'hello' and 'thankyou' - to ask for directions and pen in paper in hand, one man with perfectly odious halitosis wrote the name of every village in Poland it seemed in my notebook, but it turned out he was on the money as some hours and villages later we were reunited with the distinctive orange flagging tape that is put out each morning as a navigational aid for us.

Not long after, we saw two bedraggled figures pedalling along. It turned out to be the older chaps - a Dutchman and a Canadian German (you can take the man out of Germany but you can't take the German out of the man, if you get my drift). Lost too, we decide to stick together and on turning a corner find a veritable oasis. A wedding reception cum banquet hall.

We parked the bikes,used the WCs and were graciously shown into a terrazzo tiled ballroom and to our table of white clothed chairs where we dined on hot hot soup, pigfat on bread with pickles - also delicious even though it sounds disgusting - Rudi said his mother used to make it when he was a kid - and baked trout with salad. The hi fi was playing 30s jazz, I couldn't resist a short waltz on the floor,then it was back on our bikes again to head for paradise in the form of a bush camp with a toilet block that had not been cleaned since it was erected some time in the early 1960s. Yellow painted plaster flaked off the walls, only one lightglobe worked, mosquitoes were so big that three pairs of my knickers that I hung out to dry were carried off in the night, dogs howled and barked and a screech owl kept screeching. Delightful, as you can imagine. I don't know which guide book TDA uses to source these perfectly horrible camping places, but when I find out I'm intending to purchase every copy and burn them so no other human has to suffer such indignity.

There was a happy ending though: at 100km we phoned and at 110km the truck loomed into sight and picked us up. We were only meant to cycle 110 anyway, and the thought of a further 40 km in the driving head wind was more than I could countenance. On arrival in camp, George and Bill helped me put my tent up - lovely chaps, and we had a jolly good laugh about TDA and its ability to advertise three star accommodation yet provide places that even financially straitened asylum seekers would never use.

We're in Warsaw today and I think I will do the bus/walking tour as I know so little about this city and its people. Dinner in the old town last night - romantic setting and it is even getting dark now at a respectable hour.

Poverty seems to be grinding in rural Poland. Little villages dot the landscape with house cows, chooks and so on. No young people around -the villages are the province of the elderly and infirm it would seem. But churches - that is something money has been spent on. In even the muddiest and poorest of community, some well-constructed edifice to god rises on the skyline. I hope the people enjoy the space when they kneel on Sundays to pay homage. Also, huge statues of the Polish pope are dotted here and there - I thought there was only meant to be one god and no idols but I could have got that wrong.

We have ridden through many woods of pine, birch,oak and mixed trees where the gloom is palpable. One could half expect to see Little Red Riding Hood trotting along. The most I have seen though is another red squirrel which darted across the road in front of me then sat up to look at such a sight - drenched pink-clad bike rider. And of course we have had the talent concert - a hugely funny evening spent in a campground restaurant as the rain fell outside. I loved Professor Rick's take on erratic boulders which some how turned into erotic racks and as I have ridden in front of him on many occasions, I am not sure what to make of such a performance.

Three more days and then a double rest day in Krakow. I am tired. We are half way though today and I seem to have cycled 1787kms so far.

The measurements if you're interested:
26 July to Seirijai: 133 km, 6hr 22 min, 20.8 average - cool day, no head winds and once out of Vilnius a great day's cycling
27 July to Augustow: 88km, 4hr 19min, 20.3average - arrived into village and sat around as our camp was another out of the way place with nothing happening. When I did arrive after a torrential down pour I had to tell some Polish holiday makers to get fucked as they wanted to argue with me about where to put my tent!
28 July to Nowagrod: 131km, 6hr 50mins, 18.3 average, rough, gravel
29 July to Puttusk: lost day 110km, 5hr 30 min, 18.9 average - very damp
30 July to Warsaw: 69 km, 3hr 28 min, 19.6 average - very industrial last 16 kms with poor roads, even poorer footpaths along which we cycled most of the time, and busy busy traffic.

News from the Baltic - Issue 2

2010-07-25T20:40:00.006+10:00

Today, Sunday, I am in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. We will cross the border into Poland on Tuesday around lunchtime for the following 11 days. Vilnius is a cobbled old city with picture postcard buildings, twenty squillion churches and shops full of amber, linen and gorgeous hand-knitted socks. Squares are abundant and full of the ubiquitous coloured umbrellas that signify comfortable chairs and perhaps a cold beer. I am pleased to say refrigeration is working more effectively in this country but it still leaves room for improvement.

As you may know, we are in the grip of a heatwave, riding in temperatures of 34 degrees plus, yesterday getting to 40. Unseasonable but better than rain. Thunderstorms have threatened, but beyond a few drops we have been dry on the outside of not on the inside of our tents which drip with condensation every morning. Not to mention the litres and litres of water that is passing through us.

Camp life is high on camaraderie and low on facilities but at least we have had lakes to jump into at the end of our day's riding. I am a little tired of the stinking drop toilet and the lack of any place to purchase a drink or snack as we usually camp miles from nowhere in particular.

Yesterday we had our first taste of hills with 120km of rolling countryside. There are lots of woods, forests and tree-lined sections of the road as well as meadows, crops and villages. Locals seem to like a beer for breakfast and the place we stopped in before 8 yesterday morning thankfully served coffee as well, and we were able to take pictures of ourselves with the stuffed fox and hedgehog as we danced around the bar in time to some Lithuanian hoe-down tunes.

We have also come to the land of the cow, a rare sighing in Russia, Estonia or Latvia. Here however cows abound and it is lovely to see them being milked first thing - in the paddock - by the woman of the house. Also goats, dogs of course although they are getting smaller as we go, geese, chooks and cats. Harvest is earlier than in the other two Baltic countries, as we ride by fields of corn, ripe crops and the onions ready to pull.

The storks are also larger and more abundant than ever. Usually there are one or two chicks in a nest. In a marshy place where frogs must be plentiful we saw four young in a nest tapping their beaks until mum or dad stuffed something in. Two nights ago at the bush camp, Michael described the stork nesting near his tent, when launching into the air as being similar to being taken by a pterodactyl. I know they are a bit behind in Perth but I was stunned to think that they still have pterodactyls. I like my fellow Aussies though, they ride like the wind and are usually at our destination before our tardy group has cleaned their teeth. Michael presented me with a product called 'Silence' when I stumbled up the stairs to my room yesterday, a sweating pulsating lump of flesh demanding shower, beer and food in that order. It is a cunning spray that is meant to suppress snoring. I was touched.

For the linguistically interested, 'achoo' means thankyou and 'labas' is a universal greeting. Despite how the ladies feel at the end of a riding day, it does not refer to certain parts of the anatomy which may or may not be lacerated from hours in the saddle under a sweltering sun.

There was a religious pilgrimage that culminated in this city last night. When our group rode in over the bridge trying not to get chain grease on the bride's dress as she and her husband locked a padlock to the ironwork and threw the keys into the river, we noted much clapping and cheering. Of course we imagined it was a welcoming party for the participants in the Tour de Lithuania, but instead it was mainly pimply faced buck-toothed youths who were beside themselves in ecstasy after having walked 260kms. As Rick from North Carolina said, try doing 1200 on a bike and at our age and see how willing you are to jump up and down and sing! I did get blessed twice on the forehead though as we pushed through a hymn singing crowd on the way to the supermarket to stock up on water.

There is a very funny local brochure for this city which describes restaurants as overpriced and under value, drivers as drunk and dangerous, and the small change in the currency as 'weightless, worthless and useless'. Obviously there is room for young spin doctors, or marketing graduates, to really try underselling the city.

Also as it is Sunday there is no laundry and no internet cafes open so I am using the terminal courtesy of the Ramada Inn. We are not staying here, the organisers instead preferring yet another bloody convent up the hill where there is no room to swing a cat between the beds which must have been constructed for mini nuns, not huge Lithuanians or for that matter, most normal-sized people. I hate to think how the chaps are faring - their legs must be hanging over the edge. And of course because we're in cheapskate accommodation, there is none of the luxuries I have been relying on to restock my toiletries. A few rumbles about the food - tasty and colourful although it is, it is devoid of solid cereal, juice and protein.

So until Poland, I will leave with lies, damned lies and statistics.

22nd July to Birzai: 105km, 5hr 40min TITS, 18.3 average. Hot but okayish
23 July to Anyksciai: 118 km, 6hr 40min TITS, 17.6 average. Hot, gravel, especially the last 5km which was a killer - this is FU gravel as opposed to B Gravel, our own system of classification, where B = benign
24 July - Catherine's 38th birthday - to Vilnius: 123km, 7hrs TITS, average 17.1 - hot, hills, gravel, dust, pollen, a sick peloton member, vicious traffic, a potentially great ride spoilt the last 20km by asinine routing

News from the Baltic - Issue 1

2010-07-21T22:26:00.001+10:00

We are now in Latvia, Estonia passing by in a flurry of pine forests, blonde hair and rosy round cheeks. Yellow is a popular colour for farm houses in Estonia - it was blue in Russia - probably to make them stand out in the snow. I have been reliably informed it is also a bear's least favourite colour, and it seems to work, as we have not as yet seen any bears. Nor have we seen moose, deer, fox, beaver or any of the other animals that are meant to be lurking in the woods.

On crossing the border I converted my Kroones to chocolate and local liqueur. The chocolate's gone but I am still to share the grog with my fellow stout hearted riders in the 'Back Nine', as we are known. A formidable bunch including Kendy and Rick from North Carolina, Catherine from Ontario, Stewart from Poole, Bill from New York, Don from Echuca and Sally and Stella from Vancouver. The expertise includes a doctor of palaeontology, a professor in IT, a social research data analysis, a community worker, a nutritionist and a welder, so it's a wonder that we can agree on anything as simple as the route but so far we are managing. We have also begun to ride in a paceline which has helped drag all the newer riders along and helped us make okay times in the awful surface conditions and weather.

Stewart's stitches are out and his arm is in good shape. We have had no further drive by shootings.

Riga, like Tallin, sports an old city with quintessentially cute buildings, some brightly coloured and others decorated in a variety of styles including Baroque, Classical, Art Deco and original medieval, which surround a market square. In Riga there are amber sellers in abundance as well as the knitted and crocheted goods and it is quaint to see the stall holders while waiting for trade, ply their craft. At noon we went to an organ recital of Handel and Bach in Riga Cathedral. Very peaceful, as well as cool. The streets are cobbled and narrow, few cars allowed into the centre. I keep seeing reference to blackamoors and have discovered that in Riga, also a Hansa city, the Blackheads - a group of young unmarried merchants and sea captains - took as their patron saint a mythical moor, St Mauritius. The Hanseatic League was an economic alliance of trading cities which established a trading monopoly from the 13th through to the 17th centuries, according to Wikipedia.

I struck up a conversation today with two young men, one of whom is a graphic designer and the other a painter of Trompe d'Oeill throughout Europe on contract to the rich and famous. Both said living in Latvia was good now but could barely recall pre-1991, and relied on their parents' stories about the hardships endured under the USSR.

Our camp grounds have been very pleasant surprises, grassy and treed, even one with a swimming pool. Showers have been adequate, although the principle of temperature always dogs the last in: cold showers and warm beer. I chose a room and a beer on one evening - only $20AUD including a beer - and was very glad I did as it poured with rain as the lightning flashed. Dinner that evening was spent huddled under a picnic shelter.

The country rolls by in grassy splendour and sometimes we ride through birch or oak or pine forests. There is an abundance of water in Latvia in the form of lakes and streams - I stood and watched a young chap fly fishing in a lily filled stream the other morning. I have seen only one small mob of sheep, a couple of herds of cows and little else in the way of animals. I have smelt pigs and that lovely scent of silage on more than one occasion. Lots of hay has been made and awaits carting. Each house has its veggies and fruit trees and all look very healthy and lush. Flowers bloom in abundance and every house has a couple of pots of marigolds or petunias or the like at its entrance. Window boxes spill more flowers and then there are the beds filled with delphiniums, liliums, zinnias, roses and ground cover. As this area is covered in thick snow come winter they must work like the devil to have such splendid gardens.

Food - lots of pickled herrings, bland cheeses, mayonnaise salads, cold beetroot soup as well as hot borscht. I guess the tourist trade makes it hard to work out what is traditional food and what isn't but the supermarkets give some indication in their smallgoods and delicatessen sections. This morning for breakfast in the hotel I ate grated beetroot salad, a cabbage salad, cheese, egg salad, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes as well as tea and toast. I could have also had tomato, cucumber, little boys, cereal and sticky jams and pastries. Along the way we have been stopping to buy water and for those who prefer, ice cream and soft drinks. Coffee shops are hard to come by although we did find a gem right on the beach yesterday although getting stung by a wasp spoilt it a little.

There have been hundreds of stork sightings in Latvia. One even flew before us for two or three kilometres the other day, stopping every now and then as if leading us. They are nesting on chimneys, electricity poles, sunning themselves on hay bales and roofs and foraging in marshy ground to pick up the odd frog I suppose.

And so tomorrow we cross the border into Lithuania. I have too many Lats to convert to chocolate this time.

Statistics for those who are interested in such detail
17 July to Luhtre Talu: 94km, 19.2 average, 4hrs 50mins - hot and humid and relieved by a dip in the pool on arrival
18 July to Metsakula: 117km, 18.5 average, 6hrs 17mins hot and 35kms of dirt, gravel and sand
19 July to Limbazi: 120 km, 18.1 average, 6hrs 35mins hot and more dirt, corrugations, gravel and sand
20 July to Riga: 85km, 18.2 average, 4hrs 40mins of not so hot, busy busy roads after a pleasant dirt and gravel beginning

Grinning Like a Shot Fox

2010-07-16T16:48:00.006+10:00

Before I begin, those with animals may know of the tendency to anthropomorphise their pet into part of their family. As far as I know there is no word to describe a further step, that is making an inanimate object such as a bicycle into an animal. Therefore I have invented a new word: 'mammaliamorphise' which describes how my Trek 7.7 got to be the Silver Fox. Which brings me to the title of this post.

Day 1 - we are riding through Russia on the way to our bush/rough camp in the lee of a centuries old crumbling stone fort. It is hot, humid and heavily trafficked. I hear a loud noise - like no other I have heard before on a bike - but put it down to a car exhaust as I have just been overtaken by a dusty beaten up old Lada. Some time up the road I wait for the remainder of the 9 strong peloton I am riding with to catch up, and am amazed when Stewart rides up and says, 'I've been shot!'. There is a bandage around his left arm. Yes, folks, shot!

He seeks medical attention from Nini a cycling psychiatrist when we get to camp and the next day after we cross the border to Estonia he goes to hospital and is operated on to remove a ball bearing from his arm where it has lodged deep between bones.

Round about the same time I discover a bullet wound in the Fox, which if the lunatics bearing arms had been a better aim, would have got me in the leg, knee or possibly lower abdomen. I consider myself very lucky. I am not sure how lucky the Silver Fox feels, now bearing a Russian dent for life.

As you can imagine we were all pretty pleased to leave Russia for one reason or another.

Estonia is more peaceful, agricultural and friendly. There is all the usual abandoned farm collectives we have come to expect from former USSR countries, but in this country the peasant farmers are not so poor or peasantry as their Russian cousins just across the border. Farm houses are neat and tidy, lots of wood stacks and pretty flower gardens and vegie plots. Chooks, ducks, Guinea fowl - you know the sort of thing. Broad acre farming in abundance with canola, barley, oats and some wheat. No animals much although we have smelt pigs, not surprising as pork is meant to be the national dish.

Our camp grounds have been pleasant enough, all being beside water, so I can now say that I have swum in the Gulf of Finland, the Baltic and a lake somewhere in Estonia. My fellow riders are good fun in the main - lots of Canadians, a few Amercans and four Australians.The March flies, or horse flies, are vicious and most of us are covered in red welts from where they have feasted on us. Not attractive and very itchy.

Tallin sports a beautiful old city, colourful, cobbled and full of opportunities to spend up big on Baltic amber and the like. I am about to go on a bike tour of the city to find out more, apart from knowing that it is a Hansa city - refer to history for this one.

Another rest day, another laundry. This time we are right on the money doing bulk delivery and pick up and next rest stop someone else will do it for me. My room mate complains that I snore, but what can I do? Beers are good, especially the local beer the colour of a red squirrel, one of which ran in front of me yesterday.

So here's the technicals:

11 July: 110km, 16.5 average, hot, shot and slow
12 July at Laagna: 100 km, 18.7 average, hot - not shot, and a lovely lake to swim in
13 July at Saka: 57 km, 18 average and the Gulf of Finland to swim
14 July at Kasmu Bay: 110 km, 19 average, hot, rolling and fun
15 July at Tallin: 99 km, 18.7 average, hot with an almighty thunderstorm just after reaching our hotel but not quick enough to avoid a drenching which was pleasant relief against the heat.

From Russia with Love

2010-07-11T02:46:00.001+10:00

...well, did you really expect any other title for this post?

St Petersburg is the most diverse European city I've ever visited. The plazas are grand, the facades grander and the people fiercely dour. That is until you try and say something haltingly in Russian, which for me is pretty easy as I only picked up four words, then their faces break into a smile that puts the heart at ease.

We rode today around some of the main sights taking in the grandeur and the colour. The city mimics Paris, London, Vienna, Munich, Prague and so on with decorative attention to architectural detail. The prospekts, or boulevards, are wide and tree-lined. There are grassy squares everywhere and blocks and blocks of apartments all cunningly designed around central courtyards. There seems to be a striking similarity between Tsars, Communists and oligarchs if building huge edifices is anything to go by.

Hot. The weather we have had has broken a 40 year record. I have almost expected to see bananas growing especially after seeing the performing monkeys. But the love affair with animals does not stop there: there are dogs of all shapes and sizes, but the best I have seen so far is the cat who came to the restaurant in its own carry basket a la Paris Hilton's dog, its cool young owners cooing over it endlessly.

Lots of Russian babes; lots of Baboushkas; lots of cigarettes and skinny malnourished people; heaps of money; why settle for a Merc when you can have a roll-top Rolls?

Tomorrow we pedal off for five days of camping before our rest day in Tallin. Apparently we will quickly pass from the cosmopolitan city to the rustic country side which Henry Gold (Tour d'Afrique owner) described as one of the poorest parts of modern Europe.

Take Two

2010-06-25T14:49:00.009+10:00

Anyone want to buy a beautiful white cro moly touring bike? I tried everything I could think of to make the white horse work except personal surgery, to me that is to add about 7cm to my frame, which is what it would have taken to make the bike fit me. So now I am the proud owner of a silver fox that is so new it squeaks.

But it could be worse. That lovely man John Ross fell off his bike and broke his collarbone so he's not coming at all. I almost fell off the silver fox in Sunday's rain as it slid and slipped into the city with me on top. I have now replaced the slicks with tyres more befitting a rider such as myself.

Only a few more sleeps to go and so much to do. Pack, for one thing. I imagine I've left it too late to drop 10kg before I take off, but if I concentrate on not eating and riding 23 hours out of every 24 I might make it.

P.S. added July 2: Or alternatively the wait for the Russian consulate to return my passport - I was past caring if it had a visa or not - could well have seen me lose massive amounts if it had gone on any longer. Seven days, the website states, but when you add the day it arrives and the day after the seven days is up between when they finish the visa and wait to post it and the fact they don't collect or send mail on Fridays, it is more likely to take triple the amount of days - that was my experience anyway. So be warned, should you wish to go to Russia, allow time. The feeling of panic was akin to that when you're dumped by someone you love, or at least think you love. Every conscious moment is filled with thoughts of 'what if'; appetite falls away to nothing; you want to ring friends and have them console you but know they will only say, 'I told you so'. So in the end I resorted to wine. At least I got to sleep. The handy Australia Post registered letter tracking service became my new best friend as I typed and re-typed the number hoping each time that the result would be different. And at 6am this morning, the result was different, hence proving wrong those amateur philosophers who claim that repetition with the expectation of a different result is the province of the mad.

Seems like I'm leaving just when things are getting interesting, like having our very first woman prime minister who's not afraid to take on Mr Rabbit. I would, however, be more inclined to be excited if I thought there was a chance of Australia adopting humane policy to deal with asylum seekers, a practical approach to reducing carbon emissions, spending up on building alternate technologies, installing water tanks everywhere there is a roof, re-instating our suspended anti-discrimination legislation, suspended to allow for the Northern Territory Emergency Response, and adopting a human rights charter. That should be enough on the list until I get home.

So farewell Australia. See you at the Grand Final.

Getting ready

2010-02-08T11:24:00.004+11:00

Another wheel-time adventure is unfolding for me, this time a ride from St Petersburg in Russia, through Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Slovenia and finishing in Venice in Italy.

I leave on July 6th, the ride begins on July 11th and I am due to arrive in Venice on August 21st.

Same tour group - umm, but at least the devil you know is better than a new one, or so popular wisdom has it.

And some of the same folks from the 2008 ride will be on this one too: Monique and George from Canada, who fell in love on the last ride; the lovely and inimitable John Ross, also from Canada; Stewart who pedals from Poole, UK; and Garis from Melbourne, who together with his special friend Bojana, will actually be living in Italy at the time the ride begins.

So far I have:
- bought a new bike - a white touring cro-molly number that I am learning to ride what with its drop bars and the prospect of cleats looming again;
- re-read Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky to set the scene for St Petersburg, but I have to say that it seemed much more interesting in first year uni than it did over January this year;
- purchased a bike bag on eBay that I am hoping will get under the radar of Qantas' new restrictive baggage allowances;
- booked my flights as a Qantas Frequent Flyer which is really damn exciting as it only cost $259.60 in taxes, but then again they should be paying me as it is a flight with a 34 hour duration;
- supported Maureen while she booked hers and Des' tickets, also on QFF, to Rome where I will meet them or in Split (Croatia) or somewhere, as they arrive the day before I reach Italian soil;
- thought about a training regime; and
- started to work again at RMIT to earn money to fund it all.

Welcome to my blog and reading about life on the road as it unfolds.

Amidst all the cheers, the hand waving and tears...

2008-07-21T23:37:00.007+10:00

...we sailed down the Bosphorous after boarding a boat at Sariyer after our last 50km pedal and arrived in Ortokay. Busy busy road coming out of Tayakadin, onto a quiet hilly road littered with household rubbish, building detritus and roadkill, under Roman aqueducts, up another hill or two through leafy cool trees, and then down, down, down. First a glimpse of water, a change in the air then onto the paved dock waterside. We were jubilant. Beer and chips all round as we basked in the sun and snapped our very last photos of each other. Into the hotel, out for a bite to eat, back for a nap prior to our celebratory dinner and slide show attended by forty-five happy tired folks, dressed in the best seven weeks camping and stuff bags can muster. But our farewells had already been made as we hugged and congratulated each other on the wharf.

The last three riding days have been full of challenge. The knowledge that the end was nearing and the need to be focused and vigilant was still all important, never left me as I counted off the kms, thanking my lucky stars that this or that vehicle did not run me down. To give the Turkish drivers their due, most were extremely courteous and certainly encouraging, if loud horn tooting and vigorous waving are any indication, but it only takes one, as it always does, to change something forever. Fortunately we all arrived without further incident, and were also pleased to hear updates about our colleagues who were injured, especially Neil who is still in hospital in Germany but expected to return to the US next week.

So here I am at the end of my rest day reports. Eight of us are continuing onto Beijing along the Silk Route. I am full of admiration. As for my next adventure, well now, I've heard there are some fantastic rides in North America...

The last stats...
July18: Kirklarelli to Saray, 76 kms, almost four hours
July 19: Saray to Tayakadin, 90 kms, hot and hill after hill after hill all day long, about five and a quarter hours and then a bush camp! Whose crazy idea was this as we sat in a grassy place with no showers or toilets, waiting for the 'end'.
July 20: Tayakadin to Sariyer, 52 kms, about three hours

Don't cry for me Bulgaria

2008-07-17T18:26:00.009+10:00

We crossed the border yesterday into Turkey enjoying the coolish conditions after a fierce nocturnal thunderstorm, this time so violent that it actually woke me from my sleep of the dead. This was a relief after the day before when it was 40 and breathless as we climbed hill after hill, along a quiet country road far from the mad mad traffic of highway 9. Our oasis on an otherwise struggle of a day was the accordion player who entertained us in Zevedc: tangos, waltzes, Edith Piaf songs and the Marseillaise. He leant forward for us to drop money into his pocket, as he played on and his strains followed us down the road and out of the village.

Another car accident, caused by careless and reckless behaviour, where riders from our group were first on the scene, assisted the injured and directed traffic. Seems the locals don't care much for helping out others in trouble on the road. Bulgarian roads are generally two lane, of variable surface quality, no shoulder, and packed with vehicles travelling at 130kmh. I've had my fill of Eastern European roads and will never ride a bike along them again. The Bulgarian system of traffic control is unique: cardboard cutout police cars beneath billboards exhorting drivers to obey the rules and drive safely.

The various occupations suffered by Romania and Bulgaria are going to be felt for decades still, before either country achieves the vibrancy of the Turkish villages through which we have ridden. Here there are well-fed children with smiles on their faces and shops brimming with goods, unlike the ghost villages we have ridden through in the two former countries which in the main are populated by the hard workers and old folks whose youthful relatives have fled to the cities to find a fortune.

Crossing the border brought stark differences: the terrain is dry and rocky, similar to that of the country around Rockbank, but with high rolling hills; the villagers are out and about going about their business; the dogs are mangier and skinnier than in Bulgaria although some seemed to be owned; the people I have spoken to know about Australia and smile broadly, doubtless because they have relatives who have migrated.

Last night we were feted by the Kirklarelli mayor, who hosted a bus tour, tea in a rich man's house, followed by a delicious meal in a restaurant. A picture from a tour two year's ago is in the tourist information booklet about Kirklarelli, and last year the mayor, on his bicycle, accompanied the group to the outskirts of town. We felt special indeed.

So I have washed my last lot of biking clothes and suspended them from a rope in my room. I have cleaned my bike and oiled it for the last time before packing it into a box. I am wondering how did I get within 202 km of Istanbul on a bike. I am looking forward to our next three days of riding.

Some more stats....
July 14: Varna to Aheloi, 107 kms, about six and a half hours, along the dreaded highway 9 for almost all of the 107 kms
July 15: Aheloi to Malko Tarnovo, 107 kms, about five and a half hours, but I had to resort to the bus for the last 10kms on account of feeling ill and it being more than 40 degrees
July 16: Malko Tarnovo to Kirklarelli, 51 kms and three hours

Bulgaria beckons

2008-07-13T16:58:00.013+10:00

Our lovely Danube was below us again as we crossed the bridge from Romania into Bulgaria, only this time there were no naked frolickers on its banks or its waters, which instead were sullied by a huge drain emitting something black and unsavoury. The bridge was once grand, now just long, high and in poor repair. I was heartened to see that the light fittings on the Bulgarian side were intact unlike their Romanian counterparts, so had high hopes of a country that takes pride in its appearance. These were soon dashed as we dodged the potholes and rubble, took in the ugly ugly jerry built apartment blocks, a legacy of the Communist years, and noted with interest the 'girls' waiting patiently for customers on the side of the road.

However, on penetrating the ring of apartment blocks to reach the centre of our first Bulgarian town, Russe, we discovered a gigantic traffic-free open square, shaded by lush trees under which fattish dogs, neither snarling nor skanky, lay sprawled to escape the midday sun. Most responded positively to a pat and a friendly word and I noted that some wore eartags indicating an ownership and civic schedule not encountered in Romania.

We took refreshments and slowly got on our bikes again to make our camp for the night situated on a lake with a scenic ride in past overflowing ripe apricot trees, but no toilets to speak of and certainly no showers, so we were all a bit jaded by the time dinner was served. But the show must go on, so the second talent quest took place with recitations of poetry, ballads, songs and a demonstration of Garis' array of interesting and useful gadgets without which no bike rider should leave home. The words to the song Stewart and I sang can be located here to enliven your very next Karaoke evening. http://www.paristoistanbul.com/orientexpress/blog/

Bulgarian farmers use a lot of machinery and practice broad-acre farming. The fields of sunflowers stretch out over rolling hills, meeting oats, barley and wheat, some of which is being threshed as we ride along. There are few farmhouses and none of the tiny farming villages we saw in Romania all with their own haystacks, chooks, geese, a goat, a cow and a horse. Labour seems to be organised and certainly not as manual, as hay is baled in either square bales or the familiar super-size round bales and carted in on tractors and trailers.

I love the way we are greeted as we ride along. Everyone looks up, smiles, waves, and blesses us. Drivers toot and wave, children escort us through towns on their bikes and point out the best ice-cream shops, and even organise for them to be opened especially for us. It's not unusual to receive small change in the form of a chewy or boiled lolly.

Varna is a seaside resort where people come to spend and play. There are footballers' wives everywhere, some with small designer children in tow. Planes fly in from all over Europe depositing package tourists, and the beach is a small horseshoe bay where it is necessary to rent space to lay on a chair on the grubby sand. The water is warm, there are bars and carnival attractions and fireworks at night.

Smoking. Everywhere people smoke, indoors and out. It is suffocating most of us, unaccustomed as we are to sharing our spaces, especially dining spaces, with chain smokers.

A note on Bucharest:
This town is a Western mecca with shopping malls, cars galore and busy gruff people going about the business of making a living. The peasant women with their head scarves and wooden-handled farm implements gave way within 30kms of the city to all manner of designer-clad sylphs, strutting around on stilettos with mannered pouts and 'natural' hair to match. But God knows where they do their laundry as three hours and three taxi rides later, we were not able to locate a 'spalatorie' for clothes, although we were directed to both car washes and dry cleaners. Three of us took off in a taxi with a boot load of washing you see, as an efficient and systematic approach to doing the washing, but were forced to retreat to our hotel, mission unaccomplished. It was a good way to conduct a sight-seeing tour though and a whole lot cheaper than anything much else in expensive Bucharest.

Statistics, damned lies and other facts...
July 10: Bucharest to Russe, 104 kms, five and three quarter hours
July 11: Russe to Sumen, the most physically challenging day yet, although one of the most scenic, 136 kms, climbed 1,450 metres, hot, hills, hills, and hills, eight hours and nine minutes
July 12: Sumen to Varna, about 105 kms and five and three quarter hours in heat, headwinds and hills

Let sleeping dogs lie

2008-07-09T19:32:00.012+10:00

So there I was rounding a corner after our 40km climb, just about to begin the downhill. Road surface good, scenery fabulous, temperature ambient. I spied four big dogs basking in the morning sun to my side of the road (remember, we ride on the right on this trip). Anxious to see if my electronic dog tamer was effective, I aimed it at the pack and pressed the button. Within milliseconds all four were on their feet, emitting throaty barks, probably displaying large teeth, as they pulsed towards me at 40kms an hour. The reason I knew this was because my speedo showed 45kph as I sped ahead, shouting "Go home!" as loudly and as gutturally as I could muster. Three dropped off, but the wolfish looking one was still hot on my heels. Another kick of adrenaline, I reached 50kph, maybe more, and the dog gave up. I continued, heart racing, down hill to the lunch stop, which could not have come at a better time.

After giving this some thought, I have now adopted another method of dealing with the dogs. Whenever practicable, I ride slowly by as if I am a Romanian. I am pleased to report that this method is showing superior results, having only been chased by a single dog since. We see about 10 dogs every km and at least one of those is dead. Seeing squashed pups on the highway, along with the odd kitten, is not pretty. There is also a huge number of birds that are also killed on the roads, probably because the Romanian driver's best friend is the accelerator closely followed by the horn.

We had our worst day's riding recently. It began innocently enough but soon turned into living hell. Many of us narrowly escaped injury as we were thundered upon kilometre after endless kilometre by huge BFTs, cars, vans, trailers, buses and all manner of transport whose drivers seemed frustrated by incipient roadworks. This lasted for 60kms and then was replaced with a road that had a broken and potholed surface for the remaining 50kms. And at the end of it all was a truckers' stop where we camped in the lobby of a once gracious hotel. I was lucky, being one of the so-called "chronologically challenged", so got to share a room upstairs with Monique, where at least the all-night barking dogs and trucks growling past was ameliorated by a comfortable enough bed.

As a result, our trip to Bucharest yesterday was anticipated with fear, but in 39 degrees, clear sunshine and a divided highway for the last 20kms, we felt positively buoyant. Many people found disused electrical conduit in the dump beside our hotel and rigged it onto their bikes with bright pink streamer ribbons, as a visible warning to drivers. This made for a colourful parade when we met up with our personal policeman on a BMW motorbike who escorted us into the city and on to the hotel. We ran red lights, rode two abreast and had the lunch truck following close behind. People laughed and clapped us through. All we needed was a brass band to complete the parade.

Just 40 kms from this extremely urban, western and apparently wealthy city there are people driving home-made wooden carts loaded with potatoes to sell on cross-roads; old women bent double, herding geese and raking hay; men hand-scything grass and belting dents out of metal tines; women hand watering market gardens; covered gypsy carts loaded with wild herbs and belongings; children with scant clothing and poor teeth; beggars, the poor, the maimed and the disabled eking out a living on the streets. The shops in Bucharest are ritzy and so are the people as they schmooze around, displaying an insouciance for those not similarly kitted out, me among them, I am pleased to say. I think a country where the people prefer to kick pups rather than hit them on the head at birth, stalk around in stupid designer shoes on disheveled footpaths and allow small children to grow up malnourished must do a lot of work to become a truly humane society.

Some have been asking about how I am faring, so here's the corpus report.
* Wrists - have been severely shaken with the road surfaces, some intermittent pins and needles as a result
* Feet- one sole a bit swollen, one ankle has been troublesome but both have mostly self-healed
* Skin - odd rashes, probably as a result of poor-quality laundry detergent; infected spider bites on my stomach that are irritated with sweat and riding nicks
* Bum - some early soreness, but generally okay. It gets a bit numb on the long climbs and after about 80kms riding
* Shoulders - a bit of tingling on the left side so am looking forward to being ironed out by the Turkish masseurs
* Weight - I doubt I have lost a single gram, so go figure! Some say it is because we have not eaten enough protein and vegetables, and instead have far too much starch on the menu. Whatever, 3000kms later I did expect to be sylph-like.

There are about 40 people in the group which is a great number. There are about 18 Canadians, the rest of us being from South Africa, Australia, America, New Zealand, England, Switzerland and France. There are five 'Young Ones' aged in their late twenties or early thirties and the rest of us are from almost 50 to 72, I believe. Among our number is a dentist, a gynaecologist, several engineers, a social researcher, a librarian, a geologist, about three IT industry professionals, a horticulturalist, a pigment chemist/consultant, a medical goods salesman, a dental hygienist, a couple of accountants, a notary, a banker, a teacher. There is about two men for every woman, and yes, there are a couple of romances!

More technicals:

July 5: Baile Herculane to Targu Jiu, 105 kms, 40 km climb through the most spectacular valleys with snow on the mountains, five and three quarter hours

July 6: Targu Jiu to Ramnicu Valcea, 55 kms of 'pitch and bitch' on the worst road yet, through lovely country and poor as dirt villages, 126kms in total, about seven and three quater hours

July 7: Ramnicu Valcea to Dragodana, 108 kms, five hours and fifty minutes, the worst worst day as we looked only at the road and our tyres and tried not to fall into the path of traffic beside, behind and in front of us

July 8: Dragodana to Bucharest, 80km, 39 degrees, about three hours and fifty minutes

Haystacks and horses

2008-07-04T18:51:00.007+10:00

Seven chestnut horses, hobbled by their front hooves, walked slowly up the road as we cycled past them. I wondered why these farmers, who sow, harvest, cut, transport hay and other produce on bullock or horse-driven drays, would risk these magnificent animals on Romanian roads where anything goes. We also rode past gaggles and gaggles of geese, sheep, chooks, goats, the odd pig, many dogs, lethargic in the 35 degree heat, but the hay makers continued to fascinate me. After forking the mown grass, someone, usually an older woman, picks though it to separate out any weeds then it is stacked on a dray and carted to a home paddock where intricate hand-stacked mounds grow, as the grass is draped over a variety of usually triangular wooden supports. This is medieval farming at its best. Everything is manual and requires much labour to perform.

Some have asked why I am doing this trip. One reason is that I can see daily life in detail as I cycle past at about 20 kms an hour. We go on the roads less travelled and into villages where I would never venture if I was in Europe as a visitor. Often there is no public transport and to drive would be madness.

Baile Herculane where we are at the moment is a spa town built along a fast-flowing stream. The Romans bathed here and I can recommend the waters, which I took this morning. One side of this narrow valley is edged with mountainous limestone rising to craggy needles, pine trees clutching the crevices. I am half expecting a tribe of Sioux to emerge on one of the peaks, so similar is the landscape to those cowboy and indian movies I saw as a kid. There are many Victorian hotels, dilapidated and empty, just waiting for the right entrepreneur to restore them to their former glory.

The roads we ride on vary from well-paved busy highways to mediocre paved secondary roads to almost non-existent roads, often not much better than a stony riverbed. Traffic is sudden, fast and unpredictable. Men take both hands off the wheel as they go by and thrust their fists into the air in an international sign of encouragement.

Yesterday our sweep, Randy, was told that the four of us had taken a wrong turn by some supposedly well-meaning local. We think it was the father or relative of a wiry gypsy boy who followed us for three or four kms, on his rusty squeaky bike, begging us for money. As we did not take a wrong turn, we can only think that Randy was being lured up a deserted lane for the purposes of robbery. A random act of unkindness, the like of which we have not encountered before. In fact, we have so many examples of kindly regard, that it makes us smile from ear to ear.

We are spending more and more nights in hotels as the state of camping grounds deteriorates. I never thought I would miss my tent, but it is cosy snuggled up with forty others under canvas as we breathe and talk and snore in our sleep. I am sharing with Monique from Quebec or Karen from Nova Scotia, both fine room-mates.

There are six staff who are with us: Randy and Duncan, who organise the day's itinerary and route and ride sweep, Olivier, our mechanic extraordinaire, who also rides sweep on occasion, Amandine, a nurse, Jon our cook and Theresa who is lunch lady, photographer and general all-rounder. Each evening we have a rider meeting where the notes we are given are explicated more fully. Also, at this time, we award the lame duck, a somewhat dishevelled rubber duck liberated from the Moevenpick Hotel in Ulm. I am the present Ober Duck Fuhrerin, awarded becasue of a really dumb question I asked on the eve of Canada day. I have many stories of equal if not better stupidity, so am looking forward to presenting it tonight to a worthy recipient.

More stats...
July 2: Timisoara to Resista, 100 kms, hot, four and a quarter hours
July 3: Resista to Baile Herculane, 126 kms, hot, head wind, hilly, seven and three quarter hours, but the mulberries sure tasted good from the tree on the side of the road!

Summertime when the cycling is easy...

2008-07-02T05:02:00.008+10:00

Yes, we're here in 35 - 38 degree temperatures, enjoying a rest day in beautiful Timisoara, just south of the Romanian border which we crossed yesterday. It was a bit of a gruelling day - 120+ kms, heavy traffic for the last 60 or 70 kms and a head wind. Still, a good excuse to stop and eat icecream. Another couple of folks have fallen off, fortunately not suffering serious injuries, so I am keeping my fingers crossed.

The difference between Hungary and Romania is evident in the housing, the farm practices, the friendliness of the people, the roads and the drivers. Many houses are dated and bear the names of the original owners in relief plaster just below the eaves on the front. Most farm labour seems to be manual or else employs primitive machinery and old tractors, or, more commonly, horses and carts. It does seem to be a family affair, extending from the youngest to the oldest members of the community.

People are very helpful and friendly - today I got lost on the way to the laundromat, yes, it's that time again, and after enquiring with an elderly gent he summoned a younger man who led me through the streets to the laundry door. Another of our group dropped a considerable wad of money and a chap followed him and returned it. And George, a fellow cyclist who is a dentist in real life, was escorted to a dental surgery by a helpful pharmacist where he was able to obtain a small portion of filling material, which he and his able dental assistant, Monique, whose father was a dentist, used to plug the small hole in my recently chipped tooth, all with tweezers, a dessertspoon and a nail file as tools and the isopropyl alcohol that John Ross uses to clean his bike. I was able to provide the gloves and the tissues.

In Kecskemet we held a talent concert in our camping spot which was most amusing. Another is planned for the 10 July. There were nine or ten acts - songs, skits, comedy and more. It does feel a bit like a school at times, and this was one of the better aspects of camp life. However, unlike boarding school, we are allowed to drink beer.

We're about to start climbing again, with some considerable daily distances, no more bike paths, rutted roads, traffic and high temperatures. The wild dogs are much feared by us so we are armed with capsicum spray, water pistols, electronic dog scarers and waddies of various thickness and length. The wild dogs are a result of the Ceausescu era when people were forced to leave their dogs and move into the awful apartment blocks and state-run farm communes. As a result there are some 30,000 street dogs in Bucharest alone, so maybe more out in the countryside. Brigitte Bardot has financed a sterilisation program but it would seem that this is only a small step towards solving the problem. We have seen, and smelt, dead dogs along the roadside, as well as ferrets, foxes and a huge number of birds. This could be because Romanians seem to drive with total faith in higher beings.

Some more stats... and you can check out our route on the Google map - link on top left side of blog...
June 28: Budapest to Kecskemet, 105 kms, about four and three quarter hours
June 29: Kecskemet to Szeged, 106 Kms, four and a quarter hours
June 30: Szeged to Timisoara, 121 kms, six and a quarter hours

My beautiful laundrette

2008-06-28T04:40:00.009+10:00

Often a European tour involves churches, galleries, landmarks and other points of interest. This year I decided to concentrate on laundries and their development in Europe. After all, I have been to Igors in New Orleans where the beer was cold, the band was hot, you could shoot some pool and wash and dry your smalls all at the same time. I have to report that Europe has not in any way approached this American dream. There is room for some entrepreneurial action on the clothes washing front.

Tomorrow we leave for another three day ride, ending up in Romania on June 30. Since leaving Austria we have spent a day in Slovakia, and four in Hungary. Beers are a lot cheaper as is food, provided we steer clear of the main tourist areas. There are several stark differences. One is with the people, women in particular. All the young women seem to have legs that just go on and on, hair that is blonde and long and bodies to suit. The youth is edgy, lots of tattoos and piercings and wild clothing combinations. Another is with the houses - mainly unadorned, grey and utlitarian. Not a flower box in sight, although vegies still abound along with fruit orchards. There also seems to be more household dogs and the woodheaps are neither as big nor as neatly stacked. A third is the roads - pretty bloody awful, with drivers to match. We have officially entered Skoda territory, just waiting for my first Trabant sighting.

We have experienced sudden and violent storms in Slovakia and Hungary - winds, thunder and lightning, rain - each night. There seems to be little or no warning for these weather events. During the day we are riding in 35 to 37 degree heat, so a few of the folks are finding conditions hard.

We have not seen many animals at all, unless you count any number of white horses, and caged chooks panting in their corrugated iron shed. It did have windows though, which is how we got to see them. I read today that horse meat is on the menu more and more often and that most of the flesh comes from Eastern Europe.

As for wildlife, I have seen two snakes, only one of which was dead, several pairs of white swans with cygnets, an eagle and chick, more storks, a dead fox and several dead moles. We have also seen a number of other wild life specimens, all shapes and sizes, all ages, and I guess it is fair to say all sexes. There was the man fishing but we could not readily tell which rod he was holding; the Reubenesque woman sitting on the picnic table; the man laying full length on top of his boat, legs splayed, facing the bank; but my favourite was the woman zipping along in her dinghy, the small outboard puttering and a large grey Schnauzer snuggled up beside her.

Bratislava is a pretty place with cobbled streets and grand buildings, but on a small scale. Budapest is a city where very grand buildings of all styles vie for space between the statuary, roads, tram and train lines. It bustles and hustles, sirens scream all day long and traffic is wild. I was told today that Hungarians like animal husbandry and raiding other countries, but it seems that Hungary has been raided more than it has raided, at least in recent times. There is evidence of the bullets and shrapnel from WWII on some of the buildings although many were completely destroyed along with all the bridges during that period.

We are now officially halfway. I believe I have cycled 2003 kms, and time-wise, we have 23 days to go.

Please send me an email with your news: dogsdelight@hotmail.com will reach me. There is also a changing slide show of pics of our trip at http://www.paristoistanbul.com/ - not many though.

Technical information...
June 23: Vienna to Bratislava, 90 kms, about four and a half hours, hot
June 24: Bratislava to Gyor, 110 kms, about four and a half hours, hot, really our last glimpse of the Danube although we officially leave it at Budapest
June 25: Gyor to Estergon, 100 kms, about four hours, hot with a 5 km climb
June 26 & 27: Estergon to Budapest, 57 kms, about three and a half hours, hot with a 15 km climb to start up a heavily wooded road and then a 20 km downhill - fantastic, although the trip into the city was not quite as scenic, peaceful or enjoyable.

Five days on the trot

2008-06-22T18:32:00.006+10:00

The days are flashing by in a spin of wheels, tent erections and laughter. Even if we complain about the food and its paucity of sustaining components, the noisy camp grounds, the lack of a good washing machine, the inability to find an internet cafe, the rain, the heat, the flies, the diversions along the path, the stinging nettles when you fall off, the price of an apple juice in Austria, the opening hours of supermarkets, the price of iced coffee in a cafe, the price of a beer that´s cold...we still laugh, often, ridiculously and spontaneously.

One thing that took the smiles off our faces was a side-trip to Mauthausen, a concentration camp where the prisoners of war were literally worked to death in the granite quarry. A photo of a young Italian man, dressed in his best suit, perched atop a hillside in his home town, his little white dog by his side, was my poignant moment. What did this man, and the other 120,000 plus thousand men who perished in the camp´s confines as a result of starvation, overwork and cruelty, ever do to deserve such a fate.

The villages we ride through are snapshots of daily life, a panoply of concerted industry: gardening, tending the animals in the barns, mowing and harvesting the fields, tying back the vines, picking the cherries and walnuts, shopping prior to midday for the two-hour close-down lunch break.

We have ridden the Danube valley in all its changing states: narrow high-wooded and rocky cliffs sprawling rich valley land dotted with villages and farms; terraced hillsides; barges pushing loads of crushed metal and cars and all manner of goods; then yesterday, pleasure boats, naked frolickers and fishermen. Tomorrow we leave Austria for a brief sojourn in Slovakia, then onto Hungary for a few days. New currency, new languages, new riding conditions.

I cannot always upload pics to the blog but there´s a great collection at http://www.tourdafrique.com/orientexpress/multimedia.html Check them out. You need to click on each country to see the progress.

More bloody gondolas, or technicals...
June 16: rest day in Regensberg
June 17: Regensberg to Straubing, 60 kms and about three hours
June 18: Straubing to Passau, 100 kms, four and three quarter hours
June 19: Passau to Linz, 105 kms, five and a quarter hours
June 20: Linz to Emmersdorf, 109 kms, five hours
June 21: Emmersdorf to Vienna, 120 kms, six hours, hot and sunny

This petty pace creeps on from day to day

2008-06-22T01:52:00.008+10:00

The birds in Europe are early risers, so, naturally, are bike riders. I usually wake about 5:30 and stumble out of my tent round six-thirty dressed for a day in the saddle. It´s over to the ablution block, then back for packing. Packing is always challenging, as we all know, so innovations are always welcome. After the bag is packed it is thrown out of the tent, the bedroll is deflated and rolled and the tent zipped. Then it´s tent de-erection time. The tent is always wet so it gets rolled, stuffed in a plastic bag and wedged into the bag. Then it´s breakfast at 7:30: sometimes porridge, mostly cereal, bread and jam, sometimes yoghurt and fruit. Occasionally we have scrambled or boiled eggs and bacon. Clean the teeth, wait for the team, then pedal off around eight.

It´s morning tea about 10:30 - purchased in a cafe of course, a good chance to sit down and enjoy the camaraderie of the group. Them more peddling until we locate the lunch truck, prominently placed on the roadside, usually marked by the aluminum ladder tied with red flagging tape . More bread and spread, maybe a whiff of protein, occasionally some fruit, and a refill of the water bottles. The roll is marked to make sure no-one is lost or strayed. Then it´s off again, until we reach our final destination. On rare occasions we stop again for an afternoon hot chocolate, or iced coffee, depending on the weather and the availability of tantalising offerings.

In camp, we collect our day bag, set up our tents, head for the showers, wash out nicks and stuff, and maybe have time for a quick beer prior to dinner. Also before dinner we have a rider meeting when we are given our directions for the following day´s ride. Then it´s into the tent about nine, a bit of map reading and clothes sorting for the morning, then off to sleep, usually like the dead notwithstanding bladder demands and working out how to get it done without getting saturated from the rain or the mist or the heavy dew, until the cycle begins again in a few short hours.

News
We have had two more accidents since I last updated the blog. Neil is in hospital in a serious condition with a broken pelvis and Don is leaving tomorrow after breaking his collar bone today.

Gastropods

2008-06-17T01:38:00.009+10:00

It´s amazing how every day around 10:30 the need for some German apple cake takes hold and one must find a Konditorei and satisfy the hunger. So far, I have sampled four distinct apple cakes: a sweet cakey style with chunks of apple; a sour layered concoction of apple slices in a crumble shell; a sweet apple pie with icing on top; and a cake akin to zucchini cake made with loads of cinnamon and grated apple. All have been very welcome at the time, along with a large cup of hot chocolate or milk coffee and a restroom to die for when it comes to amenities and cleanliness.

Which gets me onto gastropods. In France there are red-ochre slugs as large as, if not bigger than, my index finger. One cyclist ran over one which caused him to fall off his bike, that´s how big they are. In Germany the slugs are browner and smaller, just like the snails, which are brown and modest in size, unlike their French counterparts which are huge and pale nougat in colour. I am sure there would only be a need for four or five if you wanted to prepare a meal with them.

And I suppose I should mention dogs. I don´t think the French dogs are happy as all those I came across were either on short leads or caged in small dog runs, snarly and barking. German dogs on the other hand, are more waggy and pesky, and some even snuggle up for a damned good ear rub, like Sally we met along the way when getting directions, or the Eggelstetten dogs arriving at the bar for a pre-soccer match drink. However, I have ordered a dog scarer to be delivered in Vienna, to cope with those Romanian dogs.

As we move further east, the cars are getting bigger. Ninety-nine per cent of cars in France are small - lots of Smart cars, for example, whereas on entering Bavaria, we are coming across more 4x4s, but still not nearly in the number we see in Australian suburbia. In France it is possible to purchase bio-fuel at regular service stations, as well, and just to make the comparison, unleaded is approximately €1.60.

We have travelled for three days along river valleys, surrounded by bucolic German endeavour. I am still gob-smacked by the firewood that each householder collects and stacks. On average, I would think there are 20 tonnes per household. The gardens are overflowing with all manner of vegetables, fruit orchards, large shady walnut trees and full-blooming roses in reds, crimsons, pinks, gold and creams. Each fills the air with perfume, a heady dose when mixed with the piles of silage in the farmyards and the sprayed-on liquid manure in the fields.

More technicals:
About 1,1790 kms, give or take a few, so we´re a quarter of the way there.

June 13: Ulm to Eggelstetten, 100 kms, about 5 and a half hours of zipping cycling
June 14: Eggelstetten to Kipfenberg, 95 kms, about 5 and a half hours of pleasant green fields ripping by and only a little rain
June 15: Kipfenberg to Regensburg, 105 kms along white gravel paths, again, 5 and a half hours or thereabouts, but tiring...course, we made up for that with a hearty meal and some wine at the Augustiner, a Biergarten not to be missed should you be by this way.

The home of Kepler and Einstein

2008-06-12T20:30:00.007+10:00

Another rest day, this time in a swish hotel in Ulm. We need it as the protein to carbs ratio in the menu has declined, so all the rest we can get is good. And because the Germans seem to run on bread, it´s hard to find a good sausage when you need it.

For those of you interested in wildlife sightings I have seen: a red squirrel with not much life left in it, a hedgehog in similar condition, a field of storks, a nest of storks complete with baby on a chimney, many hawks, kestrels, herons, ducks, white swans and geese, a pair of small deer-like creatures, some feral cats as well as cows with bells, goats and the odd sheep, all with tails.

We've had a couple of accidents: Marilyn from Canada broke an ankle yesterday so she and her husband are flying home tomorrow; and Neil, our four-score and more year-old American, tumbled the day before and required x-rays and a day´s rest, but he´s fine and in good form, as usual.

We've been on the Donau now for two days and the topography is constantly changing. Yesterday it was fields of barley, corn, spinach and canola, which interestingly, the Germans, like their French neighbours, do not keep behind fences. The first day it was towering limestone cliffs, some fields and lots of up and downs as we crossed the river, re-crossed it and climbed up and down its banks. The constant is lots of trees, lots of water and a plethora of villages, all with their Bäckerie and Kaffee vendors. It rained again overnight, much Donner and Blitzen, and a few spots en route.

I ride in a small group most days: John Ross from Edmonton, Stewart from Poole, sometimes Bernice and Mike from Edmonton as well, Dan from Boston, Phillip from Ottawa, and maybe for a little while with others. I am definitely wining the red jersey with the white spots for being the last up the mountain, and our group seems always to be last in to the coffee shops, to lunch, to camp, to everything pretty much. But hey, it´s not a race, is it, and we´re seeing everything in just that much more detail than the speedsters.

More technicals:
June 9: Freiburg to Phoren, bloody big hill, 80 kms, 6 hours, sunshine and blue skies
June 10: Phoren to Sigmaringen, 95 kms, 5 and a half hours and about 500 metres of sneaky climbing
June 11: Sigmaringen to Ulm, 110 kms, 6 and a bit hours, flattish and even a tail-wind for awhile

Other highlights:
Every rest day I don the surgical gloves and get out the Chux wipes, borrow degreaser from Stewart and clean the back cassette, the front cassette, the chain, re-grease it all and wash down the bike frame. It is the rest day highlight, after the laundry, that is, which last night proved more entertainment than I could manage, but I´ll tell you about it another time.

Die Luft ist kuhl und es dunkelt...

2008-06-08T02:42:00.012+10:00

...und ruhig fließt der Rhein, the wide fast river we crossed today which marked the border between France and Germany. We left Munster this morning, a very Germanic town in Alsace, where the cobbles rattle your brain matter and the rain just keeps coming, like it has pretty much all the time we have been in France. It is fine today and I even saw the sun´s crepuscular rays pierce the clouds, ever so fleetingly, but it does prove that the sun is still there above us somewhere.

Remember when you woke on a Saturday morning and it was grey and raining and after you did the messages and so on, you settled in for a day in front of the fire with the papers, the footy on 774, the osso bucco simmering away and the teapot close by? Well, that is the type of weather we have had - mist, sleet, thunderstorms, misty rain, wet rain, heavy rain, continuous rain. As you can imagine, this is something very new for a lass from Melbourne. Sure I have ridden in the rain, for half and hour or so, but never ever for eight hours, and then some, and following that ordeal set up a tent in a dripping campground and huddled under a picnic gazebo to eat dinner. The food is good, though. Not a pumpkin sandwich in sight.

The perfection of the paint-by-numbers French countryside with its rolling hills and narrow-streeted villages, where the stone houses nest in valleys and spill geraniums and roses onto the street, has given way to the three-storey pitched-roof farmhouses with stacks of precision-laid firewood and regulated vegetable patches where men in overalls clip trees and pull weeds.

Today we got lost. How fortuitous. A small village with one place to eat. We were treated to creamy white asparagus soup, a 50cl tall glass of non-alcoholic beer that is worth giving up the real stuff for, and potatoes, any way we wanted them. Frau even brought an extra bowl of the soup over and invited us to eat more.

The kindness of strangers is infectious. Yesterday prior to the ascent of the Col de la Schluct (in about 10 degrees, rain, mist and fog) a woman who lives on the route came out of her house with hot coffee and chocolate and insisted on having her photo taken with us because she was very proud to know that we were doing a bike ride from Paris to Istanbul.

It´s a rest in a classy hotel in Freiburg tomorrow - more laundry, more bike maintenance and brake pad checking, more tent setting up, this time in the basement garage to dry it out. On Monday we are off on another day´s climbing to Donaueschingen where the Danube begins. Then it´s onto the Donau Radweg until Budapest.

For the technically minded, here are some stats ( please note that they are all approximate as my computer has not worked once, unlike me):
June 1: Paris to a farmyard near Provins, 105 km, fine, sunny, 5 hrs TITS (time in the saddle)
June 2: farmyard to Troyes, 90km, wet, 7 hrs
June 3: Troyes to Chaumont, 110 km, partly fine, 5 hrs
June 4: rest in Chaumont, wet
June 5: Chaumont to Xertigny, 136 km, seriously wet, 8.5
June 6: Xertigny to Munster, 88 km, wet, 5.5 hrs
June 7: Munster to Freiburg, 70 km, grey, mainly fine, 3.5 hrs

We're in clover now

2008-06-05T01:06:00.007+10:00

Riding along the Champs Elysees and around the Arc de Triomphe was a buzz. Then it was out on the N19, hottish, flattish and longish to a farmyard camping ground. Next day, probably fab sights but couldn't see a thing through the mist and the rain. Day three fab scenery that I could see, including those hills that seemed to never end, and we're not even climbing yet. Grenouille merde!

In Chaumont, so called because it's a town called Chau on top of the equivalent of the north face of the Himalayas, the Mont bit, to which we must ascend to wash our stinky biking gear, eat, look around and enjoy our day of rest. Just getting up is like five trips up the La Trobe St hill. Hope it's improving my leg tone: something has to soon.

The highlights are the company and the scenery. Lots of "Oh yahs" otherwise known as Canadians for all those who have enjoyed Fargo, who know a thing or two about bikes and biking along with all manner of other stuff. I was with two of them plus a Brit and an American when we pulled into a town, sopping wet, and ordered chocolate chaudes to warm us up. Monsieur, a fellow patron, shouted us our drinks as a bon voyage gesture. I love the French. They are so polite to cyclists on the road, yes even FBTs (****ing big trucks) and smile and laugh good humouredly at my pathetic Francaise.

Riding all day in the rain on day two was instructive - it taught me how to hurtle downhill in a downpour, vision afforded only by a fluoro clad cyclist hurtling down before me. It also taught me that tying the tent fly securely is important and that newspaper can dry shoes. I say 'can' advisedly. I slept soundly through the donkey's repeated braying, the five hour thunderstorm and the rooster's crowing on the first night and pretty much repeated the performance on day two. But the FBTs roaring past last night seemed to keep me awake. Pity really as donkeys make better noises.

For the parents reading this I have a new phrase for you: "as clean as Singapore" which you can use in relation to requests about how you want rooms to be left, for example.

As Bill, a kindly American said on day one, we're in clover now. Only 3700 kms to go!

We're ready to roll

2008-06-01T05:32:00.004+10:00

How did it get to be May 31 already? I bet if I was a kid and it was my birthday it would still be six months away. But I'm not. Pity I acted like one when all those marvellous opportunities for riding presented themselves since I first had this 'good' idea to join a European bike tour. So, there's no longer any hiding to be had, the truth will out in about ten hours.

I thought this was a clean-living tour so I was a tad surprised when I overheard the hotel staff explaining to a couple of chaps in our goup who had only just met that yes, they would have to share the double bed as there were no more rooms with single beds. I don't think they thought the staff were serious as they took the key and went unprotesting to their room, but they were down soon enough and sat waiting for another allocation. I finally got my key (I mean who's ever hung around all day in a hotel lobby anywhere, let alone Paris, for an hour and a half waiting for a room?) so I grabbed the bags, the spare tyres - the bike's that is - and pounded up to the eight floor and slotted the key in, pushed open the door and there saw what seemed like a very naked male bottom, atttached to legs and torso of course, lying across the only bed in the room. The bottom's owner didn't seem all that happy to have me as a roommate, and I wasn't so keen myself as there didn't seem to be an awful lot of room left on the bed. However, the hotel staff were very understanding and didn't charge me for the extra and indeed found me another room in barely forty minutes. I didn't like to say anything to them, but it does have two single beds in it so I'm thinking that there is a hotel fairy who just changes the bedding arrangements in rooms willy nilly as part of a delightful but little heard of Parisian tradition.

I'm hoping the fairy will materialise in my tent tomorrow night complete with bed, doona and pillow but I suspect the only thing to materialsie will be me, and I will snuggle into the Swedish Princess and will not stir again until hearing the melodic morning songs of French sheeeeeeps.

Fund Raising

2008-05-19T14:57:00.004+10:00

It is fantastic that so many people have sponsored the National Breast Cancer Foundation of Australia. I want to thank: Louise Millar-Hoffman, Rick Barry, Catherine Hedley and friends, Dale Hobsbawn, Tricia Fidler, Susan Moro, Bruce and Heather Boucher, Diana Young, Marilyn and Ray Kollmorgan, Maureen Welch and friends, Pauline White, Maree White, Clare Mugavin, Greg Young, Peter Stone, Elzette Bester, Barb Ashworth, Anna-Marie and David Xuereb, Kevin O'Neill, Loretta Sheehy, Sherry Sullivan, Margaret (Midge) Bell, Joanne Camilleri, Maggie Gundert, colleagues at RMIT, Pamela and Allen Bowles, Paula Lienert, Jan H, Greg McMillan, Peter Loder, Kaye Lovett, Skilltech Consulting.

Three weeks in my world

2008-05-06T15:33:00.003+10:00

It's down to 21 sleeps. That's all. Then onto the plane, a sleepover in Singapore and a few days in Paris before I take to road with my as yet un-met friends. I bought a bed mat today. I wanted the lux crimson one with rolls on the sides and a raised pillow but settled instead for the plain, easy to re-roll, drab black and grey non-flannelette covered one. Not much panache but it will fit into the duffle bag. Along with the other gear that seems to be growing in bulk and increasing in diversity all the time, like the chain linker, the spokes for both sides and spoke nipples, the brake pads, the derailleur hanger, the booties...I mean how am I possibly going to look elegant and sophisticated as well as carry all this gear! Oh well, maybe I have to settle for 'interesting' as opposed to 'chic'.

The fundraising is going pretty well. I think there's close to $2,000 in the kitty and more promised. At last week's afternoon tea, guests were generous, just as they were a few weeks ago at a soiree at Docklands.

Feeling frisky

2008-03-25T11:40:00.004+11:00

One of the highlights of riding around Victoria is the infinite opportunities afforded to the inveterate dog spotter. Up at Murrabit on the Murray River just east of Swan Hill, where the population probably struggles to reach 150, there's no shortage of Jack Russells. Not city dogs on leads with brushed fresh coats, but amiable little country chaps who trot along behind their owners, sniffing the dusty grass and on the lookout for a tasty morsel. When 4,500 of us arrived in town on that first night of the Great Vic Bike Ride in November 2005, the first night of my first bike tour, there was no shortage of morsel donors due to the array of barbeques set up by the locals to tempt our tastebuds and I like to think the dogs were as happy as were we to enjoy the town's hospitality.

So it's a bit bewildering to consider that soon I will be riding through countryside where the sight of a dog is more likely to fill me with fear rather than pleasure. I have a vision of riding along in bumpy chaotic Romania pursued by a pack of dogs yapping at my heels, one of which manages to sink his sharp little teeth into my ankle. Or worse, a Romanian bear wrestles me in my tent and scores a hit. I've seen 'Old Yella' so I know what's going to happen. Think I'd best seek that rabies vaccination post haste!

In the meantime I thought I'd share the start and end of the '06 GVBR - Lucy, Dale, Pedro, Pauline, Gonzalo, Catherine, Anna and me. I enjoyed lots of great dog sightings en route.

That Toad Work

2008-02-22T14:56:00.004+11:00

As Philip Larkin asked in his poem 'Toads', "Why should I let the toad work Squat on my life?" Right now, a big fat toad of work is squatting on my shoulders. And if there's one thing I know, work toads can be a bugger to shift. Just ask anyone these days and they'll tell you how busy they are, how they need a break, and how they can't believe it's the end of February already.

And why has the toad come to squat? Money. That's the simple answer. It always is. Oh I know that sociologists and psychologists and doctors and even career counsellors, of whom I am one, are all too ready to tell us that work is good for us. It keeps us healthy - that is if we don't work in a country with poor workplace regulations or in industry where death and disease are all too prevalent; it keeps us sane - well, that's debatable as I'm sure you'll agree if you've ever watched 'Yes Minister' or 'The Office'; it keeps us optimistic - I guess it does, as there are worse things in the world than working, like riding a bike, for example...

Or not riding it, as is the case right now. You see I've got so many things to do, like training and shopping and going to the gym and swimming and experiments and none of them are getting done on account of the toad. I'm placing full blame on the toad. That's fair isn't it? Should I look elsewhere, I hear you ask. Perhaps at the end of Larkin's poem? "For something sufficiently toad-like Squats in me, too;" Surely not!

Holidays are Over

2008-01-18T11:11:00.000+11:00

It's January 17 already, and in John Lennon's words, what have I done since Christmas?

What's a Melbourne summer without tennis? One of the things I've done is gone to, and watched on the idiot box, LOTS of tennis. Don't you just love the commentary? I know some might prefer Jim Courier for his wit and knowledge, or the consummately technical Roger Rasheed, but my favourite so far is John Alexander. His comment that Li'l Leyton's opponent's mum liked tennis, but as she couldn't call her son Tennis, she chose Dennis instead, is amazing, don't you agree? It leads one into all type of profound philosophical speculation, such as what Rex's and Honey's mums liked, for instance. Thank you, John. Keep up the good work.

I've written a bit more of the novel and thought about how it has to change, again; made jam to cheat the birds from the pleasure of eating all our fantastic stone fruits straight from the trees; sent out the first round of fund raising request letters; thought about what I can do to add my voice to the anti-bay-dredging majority; and done a bit of light training. I suspect my training will always be just 'light'...swimming, riding a bit, doing some stretching and the weekly personal torture routine at the gym. And lived through the university offers period with Junior. Now, that takes fortitude. Riding 4,000 kms seems like it will be a breeze in comparison, right now. Ask me in mid-June if I'm still sticking to this opinion.

I'm now trying to work out how to get back from Istanbul to London after Desy joins me. We're planning on a month to wander on home via London and goodness knows where else. Maybe a train with stopovers along the way through Europe? Maybe fly to Spain and book an apartment for a couple of weeks? Maybe just spend a couple of weeks in Turkey? I guess we'll work it out.

And then there's the tent challenge. I need a tent. I hate being in small tents, so it's off to see what the world of tents is all about in the modern era. It's got to be light, compact and really easy to put up. And cheap, as I'm pretty unlikely to use it on a regular basis. I've got the bed roll. Probably need a new sleeping bag, although I am very fond of the Swedish Princess that has accompanied me faithfully on three Great Vic Bike Rides, now. I've got the new super duper shower set and micro fibre towel, thanks to the tradition of giving gifts at Christmas.

I've also got to decide on my bike seat. The cruel expensive one I rode on the last Great Vic with the help of Nurofen to quell the absolute pain, although ergonomically sound, is not going to be for me. Then there's bike shoes with cleats. Time to grow up in this department. I've decided to take the Vivente rather than lash out on a new machine. I figure that by the time I get to Istanbul, the bike's not going to owe me anything so I can sell it, post it or give it away with impunity, and wander through Europe unencumbered.

Ah, so many decisions and so much planning. Delicious, indeed!

Almost Christmas

2007-12-18T15:38:00.000+11:00

A few less sleeps to go and a few more kms under my belt on account of the enjoyable Great Victorian Bike Ride, November 25 - December 2, which went through some of the most glorious countryside Victoria has to offer. And I must say that the scones this year were plentiful and of excellent quality. Well done, ladies en route!

But back to the Orient Express, as the 2008 European ride is called. I'm hoping there is a fine tradition of home-made scones to be had as the only reason I ride really, is to eat. Well, that and the scenery, the company and the challenge. And for 2008, I have another incentive. The National Breast Cancer Foundation has accepted my offer to raise funds for them so that's exciting. All my friends, acquaintances and associated accomplices will help me I'm sure. Perhaps if I'd been quick enough, I could have organised donations in lieu of Christmas gifts.

If you want to check out the other riders on this adventure then go to http://www.tourdafrique.com/orientexpress/profiles.php

Starting out

2007-11-08T17:38:00.000+11:00

There's about 204 sleeps to go before my bike and I take to the road. I'm leaving Paris on June 1st 2008 and expect to arrive in Istanbul 50 days later. It's about 4,000 kms in all.

I'm not sure if I'm right, but this seems like the best plan I've had for some time.

You see, this is no longer something I'm just talking about. This is commitment. Money has changed hands. Forms will be completed.

Who would have thought that picking up a postcard in Borsari's Bike Shop in Lygon St Carlton would lead to such an adventure.