Looking back as far as I can remember, I always wanted to travel. My first expedition was planned in my pram, a long crawl to and through a gap in the garden hedge. My frantic mother found me atop a neighbour’s rockery some time later. For a second try, I used a red pedal car to visit friends the other side of town, which didn’t go down too well with Father. The first was hard on the knees, the second on the backside. He had a hard hand! Father and I never did see eye to eye on my travel aspirations. Later I found two wheels were better than four and still think so when I see the present chaos in our cities.

The long growing-up business created a frustrating delay in my childhood plans to be an explorer. If I didn’t hurry, there might be nothing left to explore! To the detriment of my general education, I spent hours absorbing the discoveries of the early navigators in the polar regions as well as their routes to the cannibal-populated South Sea Islands. How I hoped there might still be the odd cannibal around. The result? At least I did well in geography.

A further setback was enforced military service, which I spent happily enough in the Royal Air Force in Arabia, India, and East Africa. Consequently, it wasn’t until 1963 that I was ready to see the world independently.

In this era of supersonic airliners and orbiting satellites, it is often said the globe is shrinking. I’d argue, “Not for those attempting to circle it on a bicycle.” My projected two-year tour did, in fact, take 10.

It has been suggested there are quicker or more comfortable ways to do it, but speed was never one of the criteria. Comfort? There are admittedly disadvantages in this respect, for in riding across the pampas or penetrating a jungle, I get in such a worn and unwashed state my own mother wouldn’t recognise me. However, this in itself acts to my advantage. Arriving in a village tired, hungry, and dirty often gains hospitality never offered to those in a better state of appearance or health. Pressed to rest a while in an Iban longhouse, to spend Christmas with an Eskimo princess, or to sit out a blizzard in a traditional Korean home, I have been introduced to the very ways of life I have come to experience.

During those tenderfoot years of wandering, I reached Asia via Canada and Alaska. It was in Japan amongst her volcanoes, shrines, and kimono-girdled girls that I finally abandoned all ideas of keeping to a time schedule. Thus began a scintillating stay in Southeast Asia followed by two years as a Youth Hostel Association warden in New Zealand. Familiar with the Middle East, I opted for new horizons on the way home.

Cape Horn to Alaska had always been on the agenda ever since reading of an attempt to travel there by amphibious vehicle, the first to try it before the PanAmerican Highway had even been completed. The knowledge that a ship would sail to South America in eight months’ time was the catalyst. I’d go! The distance was great, over 18,000 miles with the diversions I had in mind, and an additional challenge was the gap in the highway system at the joining of the continents, Panama’s Darien Gap, and the more difficult Atrato Swamp in Colombia. The Panamanian section has been driven by much winching and the use of rivers, but the swamp had remained an impregnable barrier.

I gained two companions, and the British/New Zealand Cape Horn to Alaska Cycling Expedition was born and nurtured around a cosy youth hostel fire. Although neither of my kiwi friends were cyclists, the carrot that drew them was my intention to tackle that uncrossed swamp and the jungle beyond. All other expeditions before and since have used the river system — as do the Indians — to avoid the swamp, but this involves a huge road and river detour. We ambitiously wanted to be the first to use the direct route, which the eventual road was designated to follow.

Our expedition sailed for Punta Arenas in southern Chile and we rode north from Cape Horn in early 1970. With the leg from the Horn behind us, we had reached our obstacle.

With help from the British Embassy — which, as it couldn’t legally stop us, gave up and assisted — and the Colombian Army’s issue of hammocks and snake serum, we were as prepared as we could be and entered the jungle in a nervous state of excitement tinged with apprehension. Others had failed. Why? We were about to find out. If supplies ran out before the halfway point, we could always retreat! Couldn’t we?

After nearly four weeks of effort, we did run very low on food — only damp oatmeal left. Cutting and sloshing our way through the growth on a compass bearing on the final stage to the Rio Atrato — beyond lay the border hills at Panama — our optimistic expectation of the necessary two kilometers a day was to be dashed. We measured our first cut: 400 meters! Redoubling our efforts on the second day: 700 meters. Our morale plummeted. If conditions failed to improve, should we obey our brains and get out or respond to our hearts and give it a go? The considerable effort we’d made in riding from the Horn was not easy to throw away.

We continued until retreat was no longer an option. In our passage forward and the ferrying of our gear, we’d developed a trench that was too deep to return along. Down to two tablespoons of oatmeal twice a day, we were weakening.

By our calculations, we must be quite near the river and the island village of Traversia. In desperation, we pushed John up a tree to look. He couldn’t see the river but did spot a hut. We were puzzled for we knew of nobody living in that waterlogged locality. We took a fresh bearing and changed course. That night, we lay uneasily in damp hammocks, listening to our noisily grumbling guts, thinking of nothing but food.

My hammock supports — a pair of very anaemic palm trunks — gradually bowed under my weight and gently lowered my backside into the murky water. Like the dog too lazy to roll off the thorn, I was too exhausted to fix it. Gary broke our thoughts when he said he thought he’d heard a cow bellowing. We all listened intently but concluded he had been dreaming and had been back on his New Zealand farm.

Then, unmistakenly, above the whine of the insects, we heard the staccato sound of an outboard motor banging to life. The noise of the boat’s wake and the sweet sound of that motor faded rapidly into the watery distance. It had sounded so near, but it took us two more days of struggle to reach the bank, and as a compliment to our navigation, or just plain luck, there, 400 meters away, was our hut, one of a cluster named Traversia. We eventually attracted attention by waving our bikes in the air and were canoed over to crawl up the mud steps to stand on dry land for the first time in 26 days. A scarecrow would have scorned the rotten rags we peeled off. Our physical appearance would have brought tears to a Spanish inquisitor. We were torn, bloody, and haggard, but how good it felt to be alive!

Having rested, we set off into the hills to enter Panama. In Travels with Rosinante, the French author employed guides and porters in an attempt to reach the Cuna Indian village of Paya. He gave up and boated back and out. Having crossed the swamp, we found this stage relatively easy and reached Paya independently. I took exception to a passage from his book: “They looked for unnecessary difficulties. Everybody admits (not us!) that crossing the Darien Gap overland includes the necessity of a boat trip up or down the Atrato River.” The crux of our expedition was to cross the Darien Gap using the most direct route. We didn’t have to look for difficulties; they were in the way to be overcome. At the cost of severe immersion foot, we achieved a first, the first complete overland crossing by any means, power, foot, or dolphin-assisted. I was so wet, I’ve not had to have a bath since, and you should see my webbed feet.

In 1971, we still had to negotiate over 200 miles of jungle to reach Panama City. Now, I believe, a road takes the traveller almost as far as Colombia and the Atrato River, where boatmen are more than willing to take passengers to the Caribbean port of Turbo. What a shame! That final Panamanian jungle journey was difficult, but the beauty of it will never leave my memory. Stick a road through anywhere and it contaminates the natural order of existence of both flora and fauna. The human inhabitants are supposed to gain, but I wonder how much they lose.

On reaching Panama City, both my companions quit the tour, and I continued alone to Alaska.

Then, in 1973, as it was when I reached Alaska from Newfoundland, Canada, at the beginning of my world tour, Circle City was as far north as one could get on the highway system. That was, until the pipeline support road was built to Prudoe Bay. It was inevitable that I should return to finally reach the Arctic Ocean. I was allowed, under escort, to ride down to the East Dock. There, 30 years after dipping my toes in Tierra del Fuego’s Antarctic waters, I completed the ritual on the northern coast of Alaska. The sea was just as chilly but not my welcome home.

In 1963, I’d been granted a year’s leave of absence from my job in Devon. Now, 10 years later, I hadn’t the nerve or inclination to try and reclaim it so I had to find something else to do. I chose to write to earn my crust for I was already selling my tales. For more material, Norway’s North Cape to Cape Town appealed. Crossing the Sahara Desert would give me something to get my literary teeth into and might cure my webbed feet.

The news circulated. One of Mother’s elderly friends apprehended me in the street and wagged her finger at me disapprovingly. “Your poor, poor mother. She worries about you so much.” I could see her visualizing the dangers. “What will you do if you meet a lion?” she asked. I explained that it was very much up to the lion. There was nothing much I could do if it was hungry but strip and offer it salt, I said with a deadpan face. The explanation didn’t go down too well, and her opinion of me as a “nice young man” tumbled as she tut-tutted on her way.

A few months later, my sick joke came back to haunt me. The old lady needn’t have worried for I’d not meet a lion now. I was lost in the Sahara.

Fully topped up, I could carry enough water to last me for three days. On average, I’d been resupplied by the curious passengers of passing vehicles every other day, but traffic had dried up and on Day Five I was down to two pints. I couldn’t sleep for thinking I’d not survive the morrow, so I decided to walk through the night with the help of the stars.

At dawn, I laid the bike down, and as my compass had been stolen, used the rising sun as a navigational aid, walking directly towards it. During the night I knew I’d drift off the main track — a five-mile width of criss-cross wheel marks — if I didn’t find it to the east, I’d use my shadow — westwards. There was no sign of it on either side; with a sinking feeling I knew I’d broken all the cardinal desert rules and was now lost. Compounding the situation, I couldn’t even locate the bike and those final two pints of water. Time had passed and the sun was no longer a red orange ball but shimmered with the intensity of an acetylene torch. My physical condition was not yet critical, but I had no hope of rescue. I just needed somewhere out of the sun to die in. The sand was burning through the soles of my shoes, and it was barely 10:00 AM.

There was a certain irony that during the night I’d blundered into the bushfringed edge of the desert and I was nearly through. The mirage effect made these growths tantalisingly tall, offering the shade I craved. As I approached, each “haven” shrank back to its true squat size, offering no shade at all, not even an apology.

I was done for. I couldn’t complain. I’d taken one risk too many. But “Oh, God, help me,” I whispered, more from my mind than my throat. What instinct drew me to turn around I know not. Shielding my eyes with a shaking palm, I intently squinted into the sun. I stared with incredulous disbelief at what must surely have been a hallucination. A small biblically clothed figure leading a baby camel was approaching me. Was I dead already? I checked and wasn’t. I’d stumbled into a band of nomadic Touaregs. I’d live!

Many years later, having toured the Falklands, I found myself in the right place at the right time to voyage to the “Continent of Ice.”

Ship’s Log

“We landed on the Antarctic Continent in spectacular sunshine to a reception of Gentoo and Adelie penguins. Never had they seen anything quite like it — an Englishman, on a bicycle. Ian Hibell, who had travelled on his bike on every other continent, wasn’t going to miss the chance to ride here, and the penguins were quite confused to see someone managing to get around so quickly.”

Professor Molchanov — 21 March 1998

No, I didn’t frighten the penguins. They gathered around quickly, one obviously explaining the merits of gearing to his mates.

I didn’t reach the South Pole either, but what a buzz that short tour gave me.

The post Water, Sand & Ice appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

In the moonless night, I zipped open our tent a few inches to investigate the sounds of munching and soft footfalls that surrounded us. We were the only ones in a tent on a wide expanse of green lawn at Fisherman’s Camp near Lake Naivasha, Kenya. My heart froze when I saw that the sounds came from several large hippopotami grazing around our flimsy shelter. Two of them turned to look in my direction, and their eyes glinted back at me, red in my flashlight. I quickly moved the beam, not wanting to irritate them. God knows what they would do if they felt threatened. I could make out the huge, black hulks of their bodies as they slowly moved around us. Apparently, hippos come out of the lake at night to graze. Now we understood why the campground was so well manicured and deserted, apart from us.

But I urgently had to go to the bathroom, and the night was still young. Near the equator, the sun rises at about 6:00 AM and sets at 6:00 PM, which gives an even 12 hours of daylight and 12 hours of darkness. We had a long way to go before dawn. I roused my husband, Dermot, to come with me and hold the flashlight so I would be safe — at least we would be together if the hippos attacked. Mission accomplished, we zipped up tight in our tent and nervously settled into our sleeping bags with only a millimeter of canvas sheeting separating us from curious hippopotami.

We slept fitfully that night and woke at dawn to find the lawn empty. The hippos had made their way back to the lake to submerge their massive bodies. Only their ears and noses peeked above the surface.

In the summer of 1991, Dermot and I quit our teaching jobs, packed up everything in our house, and rented our home to three students for a year so we could take an around-the-world bicycle trip. When I tell people Dermot and I are no longer married, they usually nod and say, “Yes, travel is hard on a relationship.” But they don’t understand that we traveled well together. We spent five years planning, poring over maps and guidebooks, reading all the travel adventure books we could get our hands on, and saving money. We structured a skeleton itinerary by figuring out the best time of year to travel through each area of the world on our list.

Dermot’s parents were from England and Scotland. We wanted to visit his ancestral homeland and see his relatives on our trip. Because of the Middle Passage and slavery, my African heritage was untraceable to a specific country (that has changed recently with DNA testing). I had longed to visit sub-Saharan Africa, and Kenya was the country we could work into our itinerary.

We bought round-the-world tickets: Los Angeles to London, London to Nairobi via Moscow, Nairobi to Bombay (now called Mumbai), Bombay to Goa, Trivandrum (now Thiruvananthapuram) to Madras (now Chennai), Madras to Calcutta (now Kolkata), Calcutta to Kathmandu, Kathmandu to Bangkok, Bangkok to Singapore, Singapore to Denpasar, Denpasar to Biak, Biak to Honolulu, and Honolulu to Los Angeles. That was the skeleton of our trip. The highlights and magical gems lay hidden in between those cities. Travel by bicycle gives a personal view of the villages and hamlets that might not even be on a map. You meet people at tea stands by the side of the road in little places where no one else stops except for locals and other bicyclists.

We had no personal cell phones in 1991, no cyber cafés or portable computers to send a quick email home, no ATMs we could use outside the U.S. Plus, most places we traveled to didn’t take credit cards. We plotted out our trip so we could check into an American Express office once a month. Our family knew our itinerary, and they wrote to us in care of different American Express offices. In the major cities where we touched base, we picked up our mail from home and purchased American Express Travelers Cheques, which we cashed at local banks as we traveled. Our parents and families waited for long stretches without news, and I’m sure they worried terribly about us. We tried to call home about once a month to connect with them.

As our plane took off, my anxieties melted away. The previous month had been a nightmare of organization and endless lists. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and worry. My stress dissipated as we cut ties with the earth. We carried with us everything we needed, and nothing more could be done to prepare. I sighed, relaxed, and settled into my seat.

July in Scotland was chillier than expected, so we piled on all the warm clothes we had brought with us. Because of the rain, we layered jackets and pants made out of GoreTex for warmth. The big highlights of each day’s cycling were tea breaks with scones or biscuits to warm and fuel our bodies.

The terrain was deceptive. Our bodies had the endurance to ride many miles in a day, but 40 miles in Scotland often included numerous hills and strong headwinds. When we stopped to rest, the midges — tiny bugs that swarmed and delivered a nasty bite — attacked any exposed skin, leaving big itchy welts much larger than the mouths that gave them.

We had trained as much as we could before the trip on the trails in the mountains above our house in Altadena, California, even going up to the peak of Mount Wilson and back — a climb of 4,000 feet on dirt switchbacks. But nothing can completely prepare you for the journey of bicycling every day for miles. We developed new muscles and built stamina on this first leg of our travels across the Scottish Highlands. When we asked a Scot about the terrain up ahead, he answered with “fairly flat.” We learned that this response translated to “hilly” in our language.

We landed at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi in the morning and rolled our bikes out to pump up the tires. We fortified ourselves with a sweet roll and tea with milk at the airport, clipped on our panniers, and rode 10 miles into the city. Traffic was light on the two-lane road in the early morning hours. We cycled past zebras and giraffes grazing in the plains. The view of those wild animals in their natural habitat felt like the authentic beginning of our adventure.

We had both lived in Europe before and had friends and family there. The continent was cozy and familiar. The European portion of our trip was a visit to reconnect with people and share familiar lands with each other. Dermot showed me his English and Scottish heritage and what he had experienced on previous trips in England, Scotland, and Holland. I connected him with my years of living in France and Spain and my extended family in Denmark. But from now on, we would face the new and unknown together at the same time.

Before we left on our voyage, I had purchased a bike dress designed by an enterprising American woman bicyclist. I thought the dress would be a good idea for a modest cover-up and would make me more presentable on the road and in villages. But it proved to be too short for the more conservative Kenyans, and my bike pants were too formfitting. After I overheard disapproving remarks, I covered up with a wraparound kanga (sarong) when we stopped for meals or shopped in the marketplace. In Kampala, I purchased a custom-made outfit of loose-fitting long pants and a tunic top made from a stunning African print. The light cotton breathed well. The breeze blew through the fabric and cooled me as we cycled. I also blended in much better with the modest East African attire.

Every day, we slathered sun protection on our faces. Every night, we coated ourselves with insect repellant chock-full of DEET because the best malaria prevention is to not get bitten by a mosquito. In the mornings, we each filled two bottles with water from the tap and added a water-purifying tablet. By midmorning, we were drinking warm, chlorine-laden water. It tasted like we were drinking from a swimming pool. It wasn’t great, but it was strangely comforting because we knew we wouldn’t become sick from the water.

We had applied for Ugandan visas on the suggestion of a fellow traveler we met in Nairobi. In our initial planning, we had given ourselves two months to travel within Africa. There were lots of possibilities. We could go down all the way to South Africa, but we were unwilling to visit the country until they abolished apartheid. Other travelers told us South African hospitality was wonderful, especially in the countryside. I wasn’t sure what kind of reception a mixed-race couple would have there. American Blacks were granted honorary “White” status in South Africa in those days, but off the beaten track where bicyclists like to roam, that could be a different story. Uganda beckoned. We would follow the Trans-African Highway west and see what happened.

While bicycling through Uganda, we came across numerous reminders of the recent wars. Idi Amin’s reign of terror was fresh in our memories. He was president of Uganda from 1971 to 1979; many called him the “Butcher of Uganda” and considered him one of the most brutal leaders in world history. Between 300,000 and 500,000 people were killed during his rule. He gave the South Asian population of 80,000 a short time to leave the country or be put into concentration camps, and he seized their assets. In 1990 the new president, Museveni, invited Asians who had been forced to leave during Idi Amin’s reign to return to the country. The government even returned a portion of their assets. Throughout our trip, we saw businesses owned by Asians that had reopened. A positive and hopeful spirit abounded. We learned much history as we bicycled through this stunning, verdant country.

Few tourists had visited Uganda since the early 1970s because of the political turmoil. Tourism was starting up again slowly, so we saw very few other travelers on our trip. This made for many pleasant encounters with Ugandans, who were welcoming and eager to talk to us.

At the time we entered the country, a large project was in progress to rebuild the roads. For much of our ride, we cycled on freshly paved roads built by either Chinese or Yugoslavian aid workers. We also rode on long stretches of hard-packed dirt roads. The earth was a rich red, a gorgeous contrast to the sharp blue of the sky.

The bike ride from Fort Portal to Kasese showed us the most magnificent scenery at that point of our trip — verdant and undulating. That luscious vegetation required water, though. A downpour forced us to pull over and wait about 10 miles from town. It rained for 15 to 20 minutes, once or twice a day, during the short rainy season. The cloudbursts came on without notice, and the sheets of driving rain cut off visibility. We couldn’t walk or ride a bicycle, so we sought shelter.

A lovely camaraderie existed in Uganda when it rained. An unwritten rule extended hospitality to all who passed by when the showers hit. When the sky opened up, people welcomed us onto porches, under awnings, in front of houses, or in the doorways of establishments. We stood and waited quietly under the shelter for 20 minutes to half an hour. A few times about 10 of us huddled together on a stranger’s porch. Even trucks and cars (not many drove on the roads) stopped for those short, fierce downpours. We stared out into the gray sheets of rain and watched the water run down the side of the road in muddy rivulets. We shared a brief bond in those moments, a fellowship of humans thrown into a difficult situation together. We drifted into a reverie, a quiet meditation amplified by the sound of the rainfall. When the showers eased up, we all moved on with a polite “thank you” and “goodbye.”

Uganda possesses spectacular natural beauty. Fertile, red earth abounds. Every day we delighted in the lush, green hills we rode through. The daily rainfall was a small price to pay to bicycle through such gorgeous nature.

We left Kasese late, around noon, thinking we would pedal only the 25 miles to Queen Elizabeth National Park that day. We were in Uganda’s Rift Valley, and we passed herds of antelope grazing in the lush fields. But at the turnoff for the park, we saw that we had another 15 miles ahead of us on a rough dirt road. We waffled for several minutes and then decided to skip the park and the 30-mile detour it would cause and push on to Kabale. This area was near Zaire (what is now the Democratic Republic of the Congo). We stopped for lunch at a small roadside café where truck drivers gathered. We struck up a conversation with John, one of the drivers, while we ate together.

John sipped a cup of hot milk tea. “We are waiting here to cross the border to Zaire, but we need to get a large convoy together for safety,” he said.

“Why is that, John?” Dermot asked.

“Across the border, bandits often force trucks off the road and rob them of their goods.”

My eyes grew wide. “Oh, my!”

“The road conditions are very bad — muddy roads full of potholes.”

“We thought about going to Zaire, but we didn’t get visas,” Dermot said.

John shook his head. “You would be wise not to go. It wouldn’t be safe for you on your bicycles.”

We pushed on past Lake George and Lake Edward, climbing slowly out of the Rift Valley. It grew late with no hotels in sight. We asked people on the road where we could find a place to stay, and they directed us to Father Michael’s parish in the next town. We climbed on through the vibrant hills for about two more miles and approached a church and a house overlooking the hills and the Rift Valley. In the valley, we saw deep craters filled with lush banana trees and blue lakes. White clouds dotted the azure sky. The sight was refreshing, gorgeous, and pure — a hidden Shangri-la.

We knocked on the door of the parish and met Father Michael, an affable and gracious man in his 30s. He greeted us with a smile.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

“Hello. My name is Dermot. This is my wife, Carla.”

“Hello.”

“We are sorry to bother you,” I said. “But we are bicycling, and we won’t be able to make it to the next town before dark. Would it be possible to camp at your parish?”

“We have a tent,” Dermot added.

“Of course! But please, I invite you to stay in my guest cottage.” Father Michael pointed to a nearby structure.

He walked us over to the cottage and opened the door. “Make yourself at home,” he said.

Dermot and I chatted for a while as we watched the sun set over the view of the hills and the Rift Valley before we washed up and changed.

Father Michael knocked on our door. “Aren’t you coming for dinner?” he asked.

We happily accepted and walked over for a meal of chicken with matoke served in a banana-leaf bowl with a delicious groundnut (peanut) sauce on the side. Father Michael’s generosity and hospitality touched us and helped us in a time of need.

Throughout our trip, we savored chance encounters with exceptional people who opened our eyes to new possibilities and shared their human kindness. We cherished those warm connections we made along the way.

This trip tested our determination, patience, faith, and fortitude. We learned many lessons along the way about ourselves and the world, such as to trust in serendipity; to be open to the unexpected; to welcome detours to magical, hidden places; to be adaptable. Like the massive hippos that grazed around our tent in Kenya, we faced frightening and potentially life-threatening dangers throughout the year. Yet we came through all of those events feeling even more alive, stronger, and grateful to be on our bicycle odyssey.

The post Bicycle Odyssey appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

It was Dia de Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. It had been 34 days since I left my home in Lake Tahoe, California, and nine days since my 65-pound mountain bike “the Beast” and I crossed the border into Mexico. Every day I wondered how my battered 54-year-old body could continue riding through this hostile environment. I battled doubts with every rotation of my pedals whether I was ever going to reach my final destination, the Bay of La Ventana at the bottom of Baja Peninsula.

In Nueva Odisea, I filled up on water and bought an apple, an egg, and chocolate milk. The road started climbing away from the Pacific, and it soon came to beautiful boulder-studded slopes. I liked it. I stopped for lunch at a beautiful vista point, looking back down toward the Pacific. It was definitely getting hot during the day. I was concerned whether I’d brought enough water for this part of the ride. I could survive out here, I thought. I could find water in cacti. There are fruits I know I can eat. I’m resourceful. I was returning to my optimistic, confident self, not considering that I could be fooling myself.

Arriving at the next plateau, I saw a growth of pitaya dulce (organ pipe) cacti with large golf-ball–size red fruit hanging off the many branches. I dismounted the Beast and took out my Leatherman. I opened the knife blade to cut off the fruit that looked young and soft, thinking this had to be the perfect one. The flesh of the fruit was soft pink. It looked inviting, and so I cut it open with my knife and bit into it. Suddenly my whole mouth, my tongue, and my gums were full of laser-thin needles. I couldn’t even close my mouth. I was gasping like a fish out of water. The needles were sticking in my lips as well, and they were stuck all over my bike gloves, penetrating into my fingers. Bad idea! First, I struggled to take off my gloves to retrieve my tweezers out of my first aid kit. I started the slow process of removing the hardly visible, fiberglass-like slivers. First out of my fingers, then my lips, tongue, my gums. Many of them broke off, and I was hoping they would dissolve in time and not cause an infection. I felt foolish thinking I was so full of knowledge and confidence. I couldn’t even use my gloves anymore. Humbled, I got back on my bike. My tongue kept searching inside my mouth, finding tiny bumps swelling everywhere.

I later learned that the fruit you are supposed to pick has to be dark red, and the needles have to fall off if you just touch them and the fruit has to snap off the branch without effort, only by tapping it lightly. That is how you know pitaya dulce fruit is ripe.

The temperature reached close to 100°F, and I was down to two bottles of water with 60 miles to go. I finally crested the last summit, and the rough road started to descend. I was excited to go downhill when something started making a funny noise in the back of my bike. I ignored it, planning to deal with it when I stopped. It got louder and louder. I slowed down and found the water bottle holder mounted on the back hanging on by single zip tie. Miraculously, the water bottle was still in it. I’d been saving every drop, and this was my last full bottle.

The light began to paint a magical evening rose glow on the edges of the horizon, and I found myself surrounded by cirios and cardón (Mexican giant) cacti. The silhouettes of the mountain ridges and cacti of all different sizes and shapes around me were etched into the skyline. A singular mountain was glowing bright gold still, lit up by the setting sun. It looked as if I’d entered a fairytale. From afar the cirios looked like giant smooth carrots with soft white tufts of flowers decorating the tops, like a toupee stuck on the head of an old man. When I rode closer, I noticed the trunks were covered with leaves and needles, which sprout profusely after the rains. Some cirios were thick, some thin, and some split into multiple trunks either sticking up in different directions or curling back down to the earth, as if they were bowing before me and greeting me into their solitary desert magic. No two alike, each possessed the personality of a slightly tipsy soldier standing next to the sergeant cardón, which had a uniformly straight, thick trunk, often with two arms lifted upward next to the main body.

I felt as if I had landed on a different planet. I may not have known their language, but I felt welcomed, so I greeted them back. “Hola amigos!” I yodeled. There was no echo like I used to experience when I’d yodel back in the Alps as a young girl. A vast and arid desert swallowed my voice. Suddenly the whole day’s effort had paid off. Now I just had to find the right place to camp for the night. I passed a dry arroyo, and just up the hill from it was a group of trees, a fire pit, and enough light left to set up the tent. I leaned the Beast against a tree and got tangled in the branches, which were covered with needles I hadn’t noticed before. I pried my sleeve loose, but then my hair got caught by the same branch, and as I was trying to untangle my hair, I pricked my gloveless hands and they started bleeding. “Let me go!” I screamed at the tree and pulled away from it, finally freeing myself. Looking like a madwoman possessed by evil spirits, I ran off into the desert. Realizing how stupid that was, I stopped and started picking some wood for the fire and headed back to camp. The tent wasn’t going to set itself up. The light was fading, and the desert was quickly cooling off. I built a small fire, and the process of doing something, anything, allowed me to calm down. My soup was cooking over the fire while I inflated my mattress pad. One cup was tonight’s ration. I had to save water to ride the next 60 miles. Using my headlamp and my skewed reading glasses, I began removing the fine needles from my gloves. My mouth and my lips were swollen and tender.

I let the fire die down to embers, which gave me plenty of warmth but allowed enough darkness to watch the Milky Way stretching directly above me. Bright stars flickered, unspoiled by any ambient light, and I gave in to listening to the grand finale of the bird symphony as they finished in unison before they retired for the night. It came in the form of the loudest crescendo I’d ever heard. Then in an instant, all was quiet. The sky was blood red, and I was bloody tired. My rice noodle soup was overcooked, the noodles all soggy and clumped together into a slimy consistency. I forced myself to eat it all. It was the only source of calories and liquid I had. I gulped down some tepid chocolate milk, hardly taking a breath between long, thirsty sips. I used no water brushing my teeth, retreated into my tent, and zipped it down tight.

My frustrated scream drowned the morning birdsong: ‘I am so thirsty!’

The roads I’d been riding on were lonely and very remote, and I hadn’t seen a single vehicle the whole day. I passed only a couple of remote ranches that displayed no signs of life. But wouldn’t you know it, at 1:00 AM, a car passed right by my camp. I woke up in full alert mode, watching the red lights retreat through the mesh of my tent. With my head raised, I was holding as still as a lizard. I listened to make sure the engine kept moving away. I couldn’t tell, and soon, all was dead quiet again, but I could hear my heart loudly thumping in my throat. Did the car stop and turn the lights off? Did they see me? I stopped breathing. In my mind, I kept going over my escape plan, which direction I would run, and what I could quickly grab to take with me. One hand rested on my Leatherman with the knife blade open, the other on a half-full water bottle. I was ready to bolt. My breathing was shallow now, and I felt like a trapped animal. Long after the car passed, I noticed I was still holding my breath and my knife. I put my head down and tried to relax. I could feel the adrenaline flowing through my veins. Somehow, I drifted back to sleep. In the morning, birds greeted the day. I was relieved to be alive, still holding onto the knife, its blade reflecting an early morning light.

As I did every morning, I sent a message to my husband Jim via satellite. Packing up and ready to hit the trails. All is well! After allowing myself to heat up a cup of cocoa to complement my breakfast, I checked out the maps on my Garmin and my iPhone. I’d been carrying this egg securely wrapped in napkins and foil in my tin cup, which hangs on the back of my bike. It was a very precious egg. I heated up the tortilla on the rocks and the egg sizzled in the pan. Olive oil was used to coat the pan, my face and hands, and saddle sores as well. Some of the sores had scabbed over on my butt and my crotch, leaving the skin feeling rough, but new ones appeared daily, even though I was trying to constantly shift my sitting position on the saddle. My skin was dry, and my lips were cracked. I tightened the Velcro belt on both sides of my waist on my riding shorts. Warming up my toes on the rocks, which were hot from the fire, I managed to kick my cup of hot chocolate by mistake, and the damn thing spilled into the fire before I got a chance to catch it. Party’s over! My frustrated scream drowned the morning birdsong: “I am so thirsty!” A guttural cry escaped into the void as I rechecked my water supply and my maps yet again, perhaps hoping that by doing so, the distance would somehow shrink.  

I packed up my gear, which always took a while. I was on the road before 8:00 AM, before it got too hot. I needed to ride as far as possible using as little water as possible. I allowed myself the first sip at 10:00 AM. To prolong the satisfaction, I held the water in my mouth for a long time before swallowing it. The temperatures were rising, the brightness of the noonday sun was blinding, and I was down to less than one bottle. I was afraid to look at the temperature, and when I did, it was 101°F, and it soon crept up to 103°F. No more checking. I had 40 miles to go. Every time I wiped the sweat out of my eyes, burning with crusty salt, I’d see a picture of my body being ripped apart by turkey vultures. I needed to take my mind off the water crisis. “Oh, how big ears you have, señor!” I’d yell at yet another giant cardón I passed. “They are to hear you better, honey,” Cardón would answer. “How big eyes you have!” “To see you better.” I would hear the cirio, with its large wide spread arms reaching out to grab me. I was losing it. A laugh of desperation escaped me.

Drained of energy, dehydrated, and now feeling scared I might actually die in this heat, I sought shade under a giant cardón, which was probably over 300 years old. As soon as I stopped though, I was inundated with flies and bobos, these tiny pesky bugs that invaded my mouth, nostrils, ears, and eyes. I gobbled down my crackers and a can of sardines, hurrying as much as I possibly could without eating too many bugs. Licking the can, I made sure not a drop of oily, salty liquid was left. A piece of a cracker got lodged in my throat. Trying to wash it down with small sips, the water disappeared in my mouth before any of it even got to my parched throat. My tongue was compressed, and I could feel the indentation of my teeth in it. It was still full of tiny bumps as well, a result of the pitaya fruit adventure from the day before. I contemplated waiting for things to cool off a bit, but then I’d have to ride in the dark, which I didn’t want to do. I was scared. I was running out of my options.

Out of the blue, a pickup truck passed by and I saw a full case of delicious sweet water in the bed of the truck riding away from me! I jumped up and waved and screamed frantically like a woman chased by the devil. The truck finally skidded to a stop, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The Beast and I caught up to it.

Two guys dressed in camouflage pants jumped out of the truck.

I froze. Well, I’ll either die of thirst, or these two guys will do the job, I thought.  

I was scanning them and assessing the situation.

“Hola!” They greeted me with a friendly smile. I relaxed.

“¿Tienes un poquito agua, por favor?” I pleaded for water, full of hope. My mouth was hanging open, and I held an empty water bottle in their direction, feeling like a very desperate Oliver Twist. The guys just stared at me in bewilderment and started filling up every water bottle on my bike and then gave me an ice-cold bottle of lemon-flavored electrolyte drink, which I downed, hardly taking a breath. It turned out they were a support vehicle for the Baja 1000 race, which was starting in a few days. They were scoping out the roads and setting up resupply areas. I just stood there gulping warm but refreshing water. We chatted for a bit, and it turned out they were the ones who drove by me in the middle of the night.

“There is water in the arroyo not far away, but it’s not drinkable,” they told me. They took pictures with my bike and me. They marveled over its setup. “You are a very brave woman riding through here by yourself!” They took off wishing me good luck and safe travels.

Again, I’d been saved by total strangers. I stood there for a little longer, drinking more of the precious water and marveling at my fate.

When I got to the arroyo, the slimy green water was infested with bugs and wasn’t even clean enough to wash my hands. I was glad I didn’t need to filter that muck, but I knew I would have done it if the guys in the truck hadn’t saved me.

“We got this, Beast!” I said out loud. We both needed encouragement. My bike has become a living extension of me, and I talked to him more often than what might seem normal. “We can ride as far as we want now that we have water.”

The post Water Please appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

For the self-sufficient crossing, I had come laden with approximately 60 pounds of gear, water, and food on my trusted steed, a fully rigid Thorn Nomad equipped with 2.15in. Marathon Mondial touring tires. With the vast majority of the country composed of dirt roads and horse trails with no signage to help a traveler out, I prepared with a compass and GPS. I had never wild camped on my own before, but in Mongolia, apparently, I could pitch my tent almost anywhere for there was almost a complete lack of private land. It was in line with the nomadic way of life. 

As I pedaled farther from the city on one of the few paved roads, it was hard to comprehend that I had actually made it here, to Mongolia. I was a nonexistent speck on that glossy map. I was riding into a big emptiness and a strong headwind. Open steppe expanded endlessly away from the pavement, still dotted with patches of snow, few vehicles, and even fewer dwellings. 

Soon, nighttime approached. I could feel a tightness in my chest. I spent an hour scanning either side of the road for some kind of hill to hide behind. Eventually, I spotted a ger in the distance, a Mongolian-style yurt. I had read about other people camping near gers for added security. I worked up the courage to approach the dwelling. A few dogs ran out and barked. An older woman emerged alone. At this point, I could only say maybe five words of Mongolian, and the written language using the Russian Cyrillic alphabet posed a similar challenge. 

“Sain Banuu!” (Hello!) I called out. I made a triangle-type gesture for “tent” and leaned my head onto clasped hands for “sleep.” She looked somewhat confused and motioned for me to come inside. The woman was dressed in Western-style clothing instead of the traditional Mongolian robes I had seen in photos. She served me a traditional tea called suutei tsai: green or black tea, milk, and salt, and occasionally with butter or mutton fat. I enjoyed it immensely. After preparing the tea, she got to work on a meat stew. Her hands were dense and strong but floated between tasks with effortless grace. She stirred the large pot in a steady rhythm. I fell into a trance just watching her, the smell of the meat stew filling the ger.

We ate in silence. The mutton stew was rich, salty, and filling. I wondered how long my host had been on her own and if she had a family. Weariness was etched into her eyes, and she moved with a heavy gait that seemed to sink into the earth. She gave me a wooden platform to sleep on, with comfortable carpets for a mattress. It was a warm ger nestled under a cold blanket of stars. 

Even though I was alone, it wasn’t often that I went unseen. Sheep were everywhere. And what felt like out of nowhere, a friendly local would approach me on motorbike or horseback to chat or invite me into a ger for tea. 

On the evening of the second day of riding, the skies turned a dark grey and the temperature plunged. Snow came and I hurried to set up my tent before it grew heavy. It didn’t take long before a man on a motorbike with a small child on his lap approached me. He looked at what I was doing and shook his head and pointed to another ger in the distance. I got the hint that he wanted me to stay with his family. I hesitated at first, but he insisted. He even tried to help me pack up my tent. Soon, I was in front of a woodstove with a hot cup of milky tea in my hands. The taste of salt and fatty milk was a warm hug. With only a few words of Mongolian in my repertoire, first interactions were always awkward. I had my Lonely Planet phrasebook, which I used to point to phrases in Mongolian. In exchange, my hosts would take the book and do the same. It became sort of a fun game. Fingers would often point to the same questions: 

Are you married? 

Do you have children? 

Is your mother worried? 

Are you scared? 

I was also carrying a “magic letter,” a genius idea by the famous British bicycle traveler Alastair Humphreys. I had this letter translated into various languages and would present it to my hosts: 

Dear Friend, 

I am a Canadian cycling around the world. My route is taking me across Asia from Mongolia to Uzbekistan and then into Africa from Cairo to Capetown. The journey will take approximately 18 months and will cover around 25,000 km. I am travelling slowly by bicycle as it gives me time to enjoy your beautiful country. 

I am writing to my friends and family in Canada about my trip and will enjoy telling them about your culture and meeting local people. I am able to travel cheaply as I have everything I need on my bike including a tent and cooking equipment. 

I am excited to be riding across your country, and I apologize for not being able to speak your language. 

I hope that you can help my journey to continue safely and happily. 

Thank you. 

With warmest regards, 

Tara 

I was given a massive plate of tsuvian (“tuh-van”) by my host’s wife, a traditional dish with fresh noodles, onion, and mutton. It was cycling superfood, heavy, greasy, and calorie-rich. The setup in the ger was very similar to where I had stayed the previous night. Rich carpets decorated the walls with wooden cots for beds. There were some framed family photos of people dressed formally in front of Ulaanbaatar’s capital building, which was a common decoration. I soon slept soundly on a bed of carpets while the wintery weather continued through the night, threatening the progress of spring. 

I spent the next morning playing with the small boy in the snow just outside of the ger. Out in the chilly air, his father reached out to touch my thin Gore-tex jacket and shook his head, pointing instead to the thick traditional robe he was wearing, a deel. The deel is a loose calf-length tunic made of a single piece of material. It has long sleeves, a high collar, and buttons on the right shoulder. Each ethnic group living in Mongolia has its own individual deel, distinguished by its cut, color, and trim. It was certainly better suited to the early spring conditions but unfortunately not very packable for a touring cyclist. 

I took some photos with the family, wishing I had some sort of Polaroid setup so I could give them some in return. I offered a small amount of money as I left, which I was told was good practice. The weather was cold and blustery outside, but the lure of the open road was ever present. The path ahead stretched on toward turbulent skies and an indefinite goal lost in the steppe. 

In small settlements, I would resupply for the next remote stretch or get a heaping plate of tsuvian from a restaurant. I seldom desired to linger. With the desertification of the grasslands occurring due to climate change, sheep populations and the Mongolian traditional way of life are being threatened. As a result, more and more of the population are migrating to these towns, which often lack opportunity or the chance to utilize the skills developed for a life of living off the land. In town, alcoholism was a noticeable issue, and there were moments when I didn’t feel the most comfortable. 

The wind continued with brute force, and I sometimes only covered 25 miles in a day. Just outside of Jargalant, the sun cast golden rays on a rich carpet of stunted green grass. Smooth stretches of dirt tracks lay tangled among themselves, chaotically swerving in unknown directions. Without road signs, I could understand why GPS was so advised here. When I felt truly lost in this wilderness, a friendly nomad would ride over the hills on horseback to greet me. One time, a man helped me carry my bike across a rushing stream. Another sat down with me for lunch, taking my offering of bread but not peanut butter. The hospitality in Mongolia became difficult to escape. Some nights I would even try to hide from others to get some more alone time but more offers of a warm ger continued to come my way. 

The sounds of sheep herds passing became my alarm clock each morning and my main company, along with some lazy-eyed, dreadlocked yaks. I fell into a beautiful rhythm of waking to the voices and whispers of the steppe and riding out into its endless horizon. 

Green grass morphed into dry desert as I made tracks towards Khyargas Nuur (nuur is Mongolian for lake), where I was greeted by nosy camels at its shore. The sand coated my skin and panniers in a semi-permanent layer. I loaded my bike with 10 liters of water to get me across to Ulaangom in the Uvs province.

The track from Ulaangom had me crossing the Ulaan Davaa (Red Pass), which turned out to be one of the toughest stretches of my Mongolia adventure. I spent hours pushing and dragging my bike up a steep and rocky track. I knew the summit was near when I spotted the ovoo — a type of rock cairn and traditional Mongolian shamanistic offering to the gods, usually made of nearby rocks, wood, and strips of colourful silk. It brought back the feelings of reaching high summits in Tibet and Nepal, with prayer flags flapping in the wind. The hills around the pass were awash in a reddish hue, thus the name “Red Pass.” I pushed out a smile through laboured breaths and began the descent into a land of lush green and mountains. 

The dirt tracks carved a wavering path through snow-capped peaks. With my head lost in the magnificence of it all, I was a bit shocked by a German motorcyclist coming my way, wearing a blindingly white Red Bull riding suit, GoPro-equipped helmet, and rainbow iridescent goggles that I could see my own reflection in. It was like running into an astronaut. 

“Where are you going?” he asked. 

“Across Mongolia and other parts of Asia,” I replied. 

“On that?” he said, with a strong hint of doubt. 

“Yes.” 

“Why? It’s too slow.” 

And that was the extent of the conversation. We wished each other good luck, and I continued onward, the slow way.

The ovoo at the Bairam Davaa pass signaled the high point of the Mongolia crossing at 2,570 meters. The scenery changed from a lush, green steppe to a barren, volcanic landscape. I passed the mining community of Khotgor. Another rocky, blackened track took me through a surreal landscape of hilly desert and ash. 

Not long after I pitched my tent, a hauntingly beautiful woman appeared on horseback, gliding across the sandy bank as if in a dream. She was regally dressed in bright orange robes with a traditional pointed red hat. She had long black hair. She stopped and stared at me piercingly. Then she turned forward and her horse continued with a slow walk farther and farther down the shore of the lake. I felt as if I had seen a ghost from the past. From the shore of the lake, I could see the landscapes of desert, water, and mountain coexisting, stacked in layers. The faded light brought out their strongest hues. I crawled into my tent, lulled to sleep by the gentle rippling of waves along the shore. 

A few days later I reached the larger town of Ölgii. The Bayan-Ölgii province is largely Kazakh with a decent percentage of the population practicing Islam instead of Buddhism or Shamanism. I was also now in the realm of eagle hunters, a 4,000-year-old tradition in western Mongolia. 

Near the tiny town of Tolbo, I was stopped again by a family as I tried to pitch my tent. Just outside of their small dwelling, I spotted a golden eagle tethered to a pole. I had found real eagle hunters! There was a young boy, probably not much older than 10, who motioned for me to come over to where the eagle was perched. He put a decorated leather sleeve on his arm, grabbed the rope tied to the bird’s leg, and held her down firmly on his arm. He then put her back onto the fence where she was perched and handed me the sleeve to try. I put the sleeve on my arm, lowering it toward the bird. He handed me the tether, and I gripped it firmly. I couldn’t believe how heavy the bird was. When she stretched out into her full wingspan, it was both frightening and exhilarating. The boy found my camera and took many photos. At the end, he reached his hand out, asking for a tip for his work. I guess I wasn’t the first tourist to pass through and I happily rewarded the young man. 

Soon, I was invited into the family’s home for some welcoming snacks, tea, and vodka shots. I had a late-night feast of my beloved noodle dish, tsuivan, Kazakh-style, and slept well on the floor that night, sheltered from the wind howling outside. 

The following morning, still excited by my encounter with the eagle-hunting family and leaving the town of Khovd, I was soon approached by a man waving on a motorbike. I had this happen many times before — a friendly local waving for me to stop and have a chat. But right after the man pulled up beside me, something didn’t feel right. I could see that he was drunk, and he kept saying one word over and over in Mongolian that I didn’t understand. I said “goodbye” and started to pedal away. The man reached out and stuck his hand between my legs and tried to pull me off of my bike. I pedalled hard, yelling and swearing, making a scene as much as I could. He trailed me briefly but eventually gave up and turned back toward Khovd. The feeling that arose in me was more anger than fear — how dare he. In my many years of travelling solo, it’s the only really bad encounter I’ve had, and I couldn’t let it ruin my opinion of Mongolia. I had already experienced so much kindness. I still camped alone that night but maybe not as comfortably as before. 

Not long after, I ended up having one of the best moments of the trip. I was days away from the Chinese border in the town of Uyench, looking for somewhere to pitch my tent. I saw a woman playing with a very young girl in a fenced yard with a tiny house. We waved to one another. Once we started interacting, there was an instant connection, even without a common language. She invited me into her home and poured me some suutei tsai. She refilled the cup so many times that I lost count and she was thrilled to see that I enjoyed the drink so much. I showed her my “magic letter,” and we enthusiastically passed my phrasebook back and forth, trying to build our own stories for one another. 

She told me that a typical salary for a Mongolian is only $250–$350 USD per month. In the country, Mongolians are largely self-sufficient, raising their own animals and fueling the gers with dung. With a move into a town, it becomes much harder to make a living. When I asked if she was married, it was devastating to hear that she had lost her husband in a car accident only the year before, from drinking and driving. With all that this woman had been through, it seemed that she had so much to give, even to a total stranger like me. 

I camped in her yard that night, and she and her daughter slept in her small car. I imagined she didn’t want to sleep in her own bed because of the memory of her husband. As I rode on toward China the next morning, I couldn’t get her out of my head. 

My last night in Mongolia was of course spent in another ger, after a kind family thwarted my attempts to set up my tent for the millionth time. I dined inside with multiple generations — grandparents, parents, and children, surrounded by the usual photos of the family dressed up at the capitol building in Ulaanbaatar. This time we were having buuz, dumplings filled with mutton. I watched them fold and crimp together dozens with fresh dough. They were boiled in a pot on the woodstove and were delicious, accompanied by the usual endless amounts of salty milk tea. 

Life inside of a ger is vibrant. With only one communal space, it is important to live together in harmony. There was no “my property versus your property;” this land was shared. For me, my experience with the people of Mongolia was just that: shared. The next morning, I waved goodbye to my final hosts, and in the tradition of a nomadic country, I hit the road. 

The post Traversing the Steppe appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

I was taking a long weekend during my year abroad, cycling around the historic Chinese town of Dunhuang, in the west of China. A coursemate Charley and I had decided to spend several days cycling inland, desperate for a taste of outdoor life after being cooped up for months in our respective university cities on China’s crowded urban coast.

Charley hated the cycling, though she was far too polite to say so. The dust made her cough uncontrollably, the hills were more challenging than we had expected, and, being inexperienced, we hadn’t brought enough water to fend off the aggressive sun. 

I spent the long hours of our first 80-kilometer day feeling guilty at my complete lack of preparation and trying my best to encourage her. At the same time, the dust and climbing didn’t bother me at all. When we rode, I would stare transfixed at our surroundings, enamored by the dusty, empty roads, desolate mountain landscape, and revolving rural scenes of this country that, until now, I had only really seen the urban face of. There was so much of it. I wanted to see more.

The next day, I left Charley in a museum and headed out alone, flying along smooth tarmac — flat this time — with my speaker blaring, feeling so indescribably happy that something in that moment seemed to click. This was happiness. I had found it.

That was when a voice in my head whispered, “Why not do more of it, then?” And after a pause to think about what “more” meant, “What about cycling across the whole of China?”

When I graduated from university, I saw my friends dive one after another headlong into city jobs working long hours in shiny glass buildings. I felt like I was standing at the bottom of a yawning cavern, looking up at a long escalator of professional development that I didn’t want to get onto just yet. 

After a year and a half of saving funds, I found myself dragging 40 kilos of luggage through an enormous Chinese train station, waiting to be taken thousands of miles west to start my journey. I was exhilarated, exhausted, and mildly terrified.

There was no one I knew to immediately save me if things went wrong. And I found the idea intoxicating. 

Nobody went with me. This was due in part to the roadblock of the global pandemic, which scuppered my parents’ and one best friend’s plans to fly from the UK to join me for a stretch, and forced me to push back my planned departure date by half a year. I was grateful I was able to do it at all: by August, China’s uncompromising lockdowns had largely controlled the virus, and people were back at work as normal, though single-digit “imported cases” were still front-page news every other day, and racism against foreigners was commonplace. I worried slightly about the possibility of being denied entry into hotels, or possibly even whole cities, but judged this risk to be minimal and reasoned I could always go around.

I was also secretly pleased to be doing this alone. Growing up in a large and loving family is one of the greatest gifts I could possibly have been given, but it had one side effect: I felt that I had never really achieved anything in my life on my own. Whenever I faced challenges, I was spoiled in my choice of people to turn to for help or encouragement. I had done well in school because I always had help with my homework. Even my Mandarin skills had come from the fantastic international school my parents sent me to.

Traveling solo — especially on a bicycle — and staying in a tent meant doing pretty much everything myself. Choosing routes, measuring risks, budgeting, solving problems, giving encouragement and comfort. There was no one I knew to immediately save me if things went wrong. And I found the idea intoxicating. 

An Unbelievable Journey

My journey started in Gansu Province in the corner of the Gobi desert in late August in exactly the same town I had first conceived of the idea: Dunhuang. I had initially planned to start closer to the Russian border, but a COVID outbreak in Ürümqi made it impossible to travel to the entire province of Xinjiang. It was surreal to be back in Dunhuang; the streets, the smells, the air, and the sheer feeling of joy were exactly the same. 

I set off with glee into the late summer morning, hardly able to believe what I was doing. The first night that I camped in a field under the stars was warm, breezy, and quiet, a world away from the busy city, and I stared at the sky in enraptured contentment. For dinner, I ate a melon a girl had given me from her farm nearby. Everything I needed for the next three months — a few changes of clothes, tent, sleeping bag, camp stove, pan, camera, and bike tools — was all packed into two panniers. Every night, I slept for long hours, rising with the sun to continue riding south, eating whenever I passed a rural convenience store or mom-and-pop noodle stand, talking little, drinking in the vast scenes of red mountains and shrub-dotted deserts around me.

West Gansu sees only 1.5 inches of rainfall per year, and the skies remained bright blue and cloudless. I sped along the 1,000-kilometer length of Gansu, the long corridor of the ancient Silk Road, mostly alone and at peace. I camped by still reservoirs populated by birds and wild grasses and passed crumbling towers of the Great Wall left abandoned to the elements in places where few tourists would stray. 

I rode anywhere between 30 and 130 kilometers per day depending on terrain and weather, resting every few days when I reached a town or wanted to explore. Amazingly, almost everything logistical went to plan. There was one day in which terrible road quality in a particularly remote desert stretch — the road practically disappeared and turned into sand — meant the distance took several times longer than expected, and I ran out of water. The area was uninhabited for 40 kilometers in any direction, and I was scared that I would pass out from dehydration if I couldn’t get to a road before dark. With nobody around for miles and no signal on my phone, if I fainted or was bitten by something venomous, there was a real risk of dying. After four or five hours of bumping the bike over the sand, I made it to a village. Water never tasted so good. 

Once I reached the mountains of central Sichuan Province and to a lesser extent Guizhou and Chongqing provinces below it, I started to worry that I would freeze in the tent overnight. The blanket of evening clouds on the mountainside was icy, and on several nights temperatures dropped below zero so that I woke every other hour with my numb feet and fingers demanding attention. 

Some of my happiest moments on the trip came from finding somewhere small and strange to shelter, sipping cheap Chinese rice liquor by my fire, safe in the company of spiders.

I passed through cities every few hundred kilometers, and these were my oases of comfort and technology, though I felt bizarrely out of place in them with my single set of dirty casual clothes and generally unkempt appearance. I would book a cheap hotel and revel in the clean sheets, hang up my tent and sleeping bag to dry (making the room smell like a garden shed), and wash my filthy clothes in the sink. I would wander around town to take photographs and talk to curious locals before setting out again. Most people I met had never spoken to or even seen a foreigner before, and everywhere I went, eyes and whispers followed me. I spoke to many people who were shocked that I spoke Mandarin, and instantly full of questions: “Where are you from? Why do you speak such good Chinese? The pandemic is really bad in your country, right? What do you think of China? What age do people get married in your country?”

By far the most amazing parts of my journey were the views. On mountain roads that most cars avoided in favor of the speedier highways, I was treated to breathtaking landscapes of the China of hundreds of years ago: bamboo-covered mountains with pagodas perched on their peaks, twisting agricultural terraces and the isolated wooden-beamed villages that tilled them, oxen pulling plows, tiny old ladies wrapped in purple cloth carrying babies in woven baskets along roads that traced huge rocky ravines. 

Abandoned buildings were everywhere, either villas that spoke of someone’s overenthusiastic investment in tourism, or the overgrown remains of family pig farms crowded out of the market by larger industries. Any removable roof tiles and metal gates had usually been stripped away for use elsewhere. I sheltered in many of these building shells that still had roofs, always preferring to camp somewhere I would be protected from wind and rain and where I could build a fire. Some of my happiest moments on the trip came from finding somewhere small and strange to shelter, sipping cheap Chinese rice liquor by my fire, safe in the company of spiders. I felt pleasantly reduced to a primitive, animalistic existence, in which rain and cold were the enemies, warmth and safety reigned supreme, and I preferred to stay out of sight.

“Aren’t You Scared?”

Both before I left and while I was on the bike trip, people constantly asked me with incredulity whether I wasn’t scared about cycling alone, female, in a foreign country for three months.

My stock answer was a question in return: “Scared of what?” Which I thought at the time was a clever way of forcing my inquisitor to examine their own fears and assumptions. Chinese people would usually shake their head in disbelief and say, in bizarrely uniform phrasing, “You’re right. China is a very safe country.” Western people were less veiled. “Camping on your own? What if you get attacked?”

Now, having completed my journey, I look back and realize that yes, in fact, I was scared. As a female traveler in a country that is very much still developing, despite how Shanghai’s towering skyscrapers may make things look, the thought of being robbed, attacked, or worse was always there. I slept with a knife in my hand most nights and measured everyone I met in terms of the possible danger they posed. I reported my location to my family every 24 hours. I locked my bike or kept it on the porch of my tent or in my hotel room. I kept my valuables close and well protected. I had accident insurance, emergency contacts, and a hefty emergency fund. 

But I knew the country well and trusted in its general safety as well as my ability to change my behavior according to my instincts. In the rare instance that anyone made me uncomfortable, I moved on swiftly. If a lone man saw me set up camp, I packed up and changed location. I never went to bars alone and told anyone suspect that I was traveling with my husband. He was just behind me — he carried all the water, so he was slow. 

I was training my will to be stronger than my fears.

Besides, a vast majority of positive experiences balanced out my fear. As always happens when traveling, the general kindness of strangers blew me away. Whenever I had a puncture, several people stopped to ask if I needed help. Once when I was struggling up a mountain in the dark in Guizhou, someone stopped to give me a lift and then a hot dinner and found me a place to stay. In Qinghai province, the police who informed me I was traveling through a restricted military zone where foreigners were not able to camp and apologized profusely before driving me for nearly two hours to a hotel of my choice and plying me with food and soft drinks the whole way there. Far more than I was made uncomfortable, I was shown kindness and showered with praise. “You’re so brave. You’re so li hai.” (A word that literally means fierce, but translates better as impressive or amazing). “I could never do what you’re doing.”

Always, I kept this mantra in my head: If your dreams don’t scare you, they aren’t big enough. Overcoming doubt on my own was exactly what I had wanted; I was training my will to be stronger than my fears.

The Lesson

Over three months — my total time was 106 days before I reached Guangzhou on the coast — I got to know myself inside and out: my weaknesses, my strengths, what was essential to my happiness, and what wasn’t. I realized, for example, that coffee in the morning made my day, and that I cycled better if I waited a while before I had breakfast. Face wash and eyebrow tweezers were essential; lip balm wasn’t. My left knee was weaker than my right. My average sleep lasted 11 hours. I slept better with a hat on. I preferred flat roads to mountains, no matter how nice the view.

I got to see so much more of this enormous country that I love: temples carved into mountainsides, entire villages all drying curtains of noodles outside their single-story homes, and the vast variety of cultures and places that fall under the umbrella of China. 

The absolute freedom of bike touring was also unbelievable. If I liked someplace, I stayed a day or two. If I didn’t, I left without ceremony. I ate whatever and whenever I wanted, and if I wasn’t in the mood to socialize, I didn’t. I could randomly decide to splurge on a five-star hotel with a swimming pool, or I could camp in a rubbish-strewn car park. Those three months felt like the grounding I needed, reminding me that no matter which city I live in, or where I find myself in my life or work, there will always be a wilder world out there that is only a few months of planning away.
 

The post Training One’s Will appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

In August 2018, Adam and I were camping and rock climbing in Squamish, a climber’s paradise just north of Vancouver, British Columbia, having flown into Canada from South Korea over a month prior. We were sharpening up our skills for multiday big-wall climbing in Yosemite. All that was left to do was to ride our bikes there. Heading south, Adam wanted to ride along the coast, but I’d already “done” it.

From the Coast to the Sierra Cascade: The Initial Plan

In 2014, I cycled from Vancouver to San Francisco with my dad, then carried on to Cancun, Mexico, on my own. Back then, my schedule was tight. There was no time for detours or rest days. To leave Canada, my dad and I had taken the ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles. We rode the western coastline of the Olympic Peninsula before following the official Pacific Coast Route.

There’s so much to see in the U.S. that, this time, I preferred to take another route. To compromise, we agreed to follow the coast from Vancouver to Tacoma, Washington, before cutting inland to the Sierra Cascades Route. This itinerary would be unknown for both Adam and me for the entire way. With 50 days to reach Yosemite, we planned our favorite rhythm of three days on, one day off. 

Back then, my mind was tormented. So much was going on in my personal life that I often found myself lost in thought rather than fully taking in the beauty of my surroundings. I wished I could have buried the worries I had. In retrospect, I just want to remember the fun times, the intense conversations, and the deep emotions that the road provides. Laughing about getting soaked in the tent. Watching whales at sunset. Finding new friends on the road. Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge together with my dad.

Looking at the map, Adam and I didn’t know what to expect. The coastline from Vancouver to Seattle seemed very densely populated. We were pleasantly surprised, then, to find the narrow backcountry roads peaceful and the few drivers we met very considerate. The small towns on the way were charming, the locals welcoming. Thanks to an offline app and the Adventure Cycling maps, we found quiet gravel paths winding through green and fragrant mossy rainforest, peaceful farmland, and a strikingly beautiful coastline. The gorgeous Larrabee State Park delivered our first evening swim in the Pacific Ocean and a classic West Coast sunset. What a place to eat dinner! 

On Whidbey Island, we found a beach for a perfect wild bivy. The rising tide was soothing as its sound washed over us. Beach nights are the most relaxing ones. Leaving Adam sleeping, I tiptoed out of the tent before sunrise. The seagulls were putting on a show. The flock danced above the waves, celebrating the coming of a new day together. As soon as the sun poked out from behind the hills, they settled on the sand and stood in silence enjoying the warmth of the sun’s first rays. What a spectacle for breakfast!

Following the “official” Pacific Coast Route, we’d rejoined the Olympic Peninsula in Port Townsend. Soon we would head inland. Having been so pleasantly surprised by this first section along the coast, I started to doubt our plan. I knew how beautiful the rest of the coast was, so why not carry on this way? Sometimes there are things you can’t explain. 

After a month on the road with my dad, he flew home to France. Alone, I allowed myself the first detour of the trip. Following advice from some climbing friends, I spent a week in Yosemite National Park. What a place! In Camp 4, I met Adam, a British climber on a mission to fulfill his childhood dream to climb El Capitan. There was something in the air, but the road was calling. I returned to the coast well rested and well confused. Detours can change your life.

The Pacific Coast Highway means so much to me. Still, I refused to entertain the idea of returning. What if it brought back bad memories? Could it alter the good memories I had? What if I became bored because I already knew everything? It might have been silly, but I couldn’t help it. Although the latest news broadcasts were reporting an unstable fire situation in southern Oregon’s interior, I was too stubborn to change my mind. Inland we went.

Two days after leaving the coast, we rejoined the Sierra Cascades Route in Gifford Pinchot National Forest. When we set off on our first mountain pass in a while, we quickly realized we wouldn’t see the landscape, never mind enjoy the view. The blue skies had disappeared behind a white curtain of smoke. Ascending slowly, we started to feel uncomfortable — painful throats, itchy noses, watery eyes. Doubt and worry began to grow in our minds. For the smoke to come here from southern Oregon, there must be some pretty serious fires. With no cell service to receive updates, it was hard to make an informed decision. We carried on.

Upon reaching a lookout over Mount St. Helens, all we could see was a ball of pink light muted by ashen clouds. We tried to remain hopeful. Who knows, it might clear out soon. Sleeping was difficult. The air was too thick. Sunrise came slowly and still no mountain in sight. What’s the point of climbing passes without the reward of the view? Boxed in by enormous pines, the air became thicker and thicker. Freewheeling down to the Columbia River Gorge, we caught up with a couple of cyclists revisiting a loop around Portland they’d cycled some 10 years ago. As locals, they were used to the fire season. Clear summers were a memory of the past. In their opinion, the Sierra Cascades Route had become an early season endeavor. August is not a good time; these fires were only going to get worse. They were convinced we’d be better on the coast. As they headed off in another direction, we stopped and looked at each other. Once again, Adam knew what I was about to say before I started speaking.

Soon after I came back from Mexico, Adam and I moved into a tiny camper van in Chamonix-Mont-Blanc in the French Alps. We worked seasonal jobs and spent most of our free time adventuring in the mountains. Between seasons, we’d organize cyclo-climbing trips in the European Alps. Cycle touring between climbing destinations while carrying all of our equipment was a perfect combination for us. So much so that we came up with the idea of returning to Yosemite on bikes to climb there together. We’d take the long way around, heading east from Europe.

The resignation in my eyes had given me away. “I know, I’m sorry,” I said. “The best option is the coast.” Once we passed Portland, we headed to Lincoln City. I know the 101 is beautiful, but I couldn’t help it; every pedal stroke made my heart feel heavier. The past I wanted to forget haunted me. What was I going to discover about myself?

The Pacific Coast Route: The Greatest Forgotten Ride

Here it was again, the Pacific Ocean. As I started to recognize sights along the road, I felt a spark of excitement. My anxiety was still present but fading, slowly but surely. We’d left the smoke clouds behind and become reunited with their rainy brethren. At least breathing wasn’t painful anymore. After a rather humid rest day in the tent, we were ready to hit the road again.

As soon as we left the campsite, I felt relief. My fears had dissipated. I shouldn’t have been so afraid. The past remains the past. If anything, being back here was the best thing to do. I was happy, the worries in the back of my mind evaporated. I was here with the best adventure partner I could have dreamed of, cycling on the road that brought us together, heading toward one of the most magical places on earth. It was a chance to enjoy this epic route in a new way. Suddenly, I remembered crossing this bridge. I remembered my dad getting his bungie cord stuck in his rear wheel. I remembered laughing uncontrollably as he tried frantically to keep up with his pedals on descents, the bike no longer able to coast. 

The sky was low and gray. It was much colder than I had expected for mid-August. Somehow it made me even happier. It felt wilder. Capricious weather and gigantic waves breaking against the coast reminded us of nature’s raw power. As we entered the town of Depoe Bay, Oregon, I had another flashback. I recalled spotting a gray whale from the sidewalk. I waved at Adam to stop. Just a few meters off the shore, we saw not one but two whales. I had forgotten how massive they are, how impressive. As the day went by, the list of animals we saw kept getting longer: dozens of seals reclining on isolated rocky outcrops, spectacular brown pelicans diving headfirst into the waves, curious squirrels checking us out as we passed, eagles and vultures circling in the sky, and herons standing perfectly still in wait of prey despite the brutal wind. There can’t be many roads like this in the world. Never on our two-year cycle trip had we seen so much concentrated wildlife. 

In October 2016, we started to cycle “toward” Yosemite. Riding through Amsterdam, curious cyclists asked us where we were going. When we said “America,” people looked at us funny. 

During my first ride down the coast, my dad and I had enjoyed a perfect highway all the way. I used to dislike uneven surfaces and saw them as uncomfortable and inefficient. Riding through Central Asia had changed me. 

Yes, getting to America by cycling across Europe and Asia is a long way. A big detour — 19 months. We suffered a cold and wet winter in Germany, Austria, and Slovenia. We slowed down for a couple of months meandering along the Adriatic Coast, exploring Croatia, Montenegro, and Albania. We enjoyed the spring season climbing in Greece. Discovered the marvels of the Turkish countryside. Stepped back in time in Georgia and Azerbaijan. Crossed the Caspian Sea on an older-than-ideal ex-Soviet ferry. Survived the heat of the Kazakh and Uzbek deserts. We rode on the mythical high-altitude Pamir Highway in Tajikistan. Cycled past herds of yak and drank fermented mare’s milk in Kyrgyzstan. Turned away from China due to our suspicious passport stamps. Landed in Thailand for a warm winter of climbing. Blown away by people’s generosity in Laos and Vietnam. Fell in love with South Korea’s kimchi, climbing, and country roads.

I’d learned to love bone-rattling roads for their sense of adventure in addition to the wilderness and challenge they provide. Tarmac had become something we’d avoid if there was an alternative. As much as we were established on the renowned Pacific Highway, looking for any small gravel detours or shortcuts was exhilarating. Revisiting this popular route and turning it into our own off-the-cuff, tailored adventure felt very exciting. We found a few hidden gems well worth mentioning. In Redwoods National Park, we spotted a little trail coming off Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway. Instead of going to Elk Prairie Campground, we headed down to the coast on the Ossagon Loop. It added elevation to the regular itinerary and was rough in places but so worth it. Coasting downhill on singletrack among giant trees was a unique experience. The feeling of the tires smoothly and silently rolling over the forest floor surrounded by these ginormous guardians really quiets the mind. The presence of these ancient organisms fills you with a peaceful joy, and the cherry on top? The beach campsite. It was the first coastal campground we’d been to that provided a view of the sea from our tent. We were quite literally sleeping on the beach, in front of the amazing Golden Bluffs. There was running water and even hot showers. What a treat! 

Flying from South Korea to Canada, we realized how close we were to Yosemite and how this trip had changed us. We’d encountered kindness and mind-blowing landscapes everywhere we rode. An old cliché, but it was no longer about the destination. All that mattered was the here and now, this slow journey that was teaching us about the world day in, day out. Detours can change your life.

Our last day on the coast before turning east to Yosemite was full of surprises. Near Point Reyes, California, we took the Olema Valley Trail that runs parallel to the highway — well-suited for a quiet morning warmup. Farther on, I began to feel nostalgic. A nostalgia devoid of sadness, brimming with gratitude. I remembered that day with my dad. It had never crossed his mind that he might one day return to San Francisco, where he’d lived 30 years prior. Yet here he was arriving on a bicycle, with his daughter, after an unforgettable 30-day ride. The memory of the emotions we shared that day filled me up with even more excitement.

To maintain the enthusiasm that Adam and I felt, we wanted to avoid the narrow and busy winding highway leading to Sausalito. From Muir Beach, there was a service road climbing behind the Golden Gate Park. We weren’t sure it would be rideable, but we took a chance. What we found was better than we could have ever imagined: a steep, uneven mountain bike trail baking in the afternoon sun with 360-degree views over the ocean and the Bay Area. Slow progress, hard work, and the satisfaction of entering the city via a hidden and most unexpected back door. 

It didn’t take me long to realize the advantages of revisiting a route. Bike touring makes me feel so involved in the scenery, I was convinced that I would remember everything. I thought I would get bored. It never happened, even for a second. I had the memories, but I was a different person. The smells, the noises, the sights — everything was so familiar yet still different. The weather was different. The light was different. Places that seemed perhaps dull on a rainy day were a wonder for the eye on a sunny afternoon. A boring avenue I wasn’t looking forward to became an otherworldly experience in thick fog. Our pace being much slower than the one I had with my dad meant we camped mostly in places I hadn’t stopped. Cooking dinner at sunset next to Coquille River Lighthouse was well worth the three-mile detour. Spending a rest day in Redwoods National Park gave us the opportunity to explore this magical forest on foot. If I hadn’t gone back, Salt Point State Park would have remained this roadside campground where a gaze of racoons stole my granola and ruined my breakfast. I wouldn’t have known that down by the coast lay some of the weirdest and most intriguing rock features I’ve ever seen. I would have missed the pod of humpback whales jumping in the waves and the jaw-dropping coastal trail. 

It blew my mind to remember thinking that there was no point in repeating a route. So many secrets were left to be discovered. It seems like the more you explore a place, the more you realize you’ve only just scraped the surface. All you need is an open mind and endless curiosity. It might be time to rethink my relationship to travelling. My tick list won’t get any longer, but so what? I love this special sort of excitement that comes from the deeper exploration of a known area. Perhaps familiarity breeds a particular form of interest, one where we see new details and perspectives. It just so happens that cycle touring is a wonderful way to do it. Surprises do indeed lie where you want to find them.

The post Revisiting the Pacific Coast Route appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

Sudan straddles the blurry boundary between northern and sub-Saharan Africa. It’s a vast country, home to a complex blend of hundreds of tribes and at least a hundred languages, in addition to the official language of Arabic. Religion is one thing nearly all Sudanese have in common, with 97 percent practicing some form of Islam. And these days, since the revolution in April 2019, there’s a cautious hope for change in the hot desert wind.

Anyone who’s been there will tell you it’s one of the friendliest and safest countries on the planet. Those who haven’t will raise their eyebrows and ask obliquely about crime and terrorism. Sudan seems to be a place that must be experienced to be believed. Thanks to the popularity of the famous Cairo to Cape Town route, one of the most common ways of experiencing Sudan (relatively speaking, for such a rarely visited country) is on a bicycle.

The story of Sudan is not mine to tell, and I could never do it justice. I can only describe how it reflected off of me in confusing glimmers as I rode my bicycle along the open highways, through peaceful villages, and down dusty city streets. It’s a story that surely has more depth than I managed to find, but my own story of Sudan revolves around the country’s relationship to my femaleness.

Though tiny cracks are beginning to show since the revolution, Sudan remains an ultraconservative Islamic country with some of the most restrictive gender roles and rules in the world. Until late 2019, Sharia-inspired laws were in place threatening women with flogging or arrest for wearing pants or showing their hair, and requiring permission from a male guardian for work or travel. The legal age of marriage for girls is 10. Riding a bicycle within sight of men is unthinkably scandalous for most Sudanese women, though this is probably the least of their daily concerns.

So what happens when a foreign woman shows up in Sudan alone, wearing pants, and riding a bicycle? As I learned, it’s complicated.

My pedal-powered journey took me from southern Egypt — a different and interesting story in its own right — into northern Sudan and the land of ancient Nubia. I followed the life-giving Nile and its relaxed villages south to Dongola before crossing the inhospitable desert eastward to the industrial city of Atbara. From there the pulse of Khartoum, Sudan’s capital city, seemed to grow stronger, sending ripples of its relatively progressive culture out along increasingly busy highways. Throughout it all there were ancient archaeological wonders, wandering camels, plentiful sweet tea, and — one of the first ways in which Sudan’s gender norms revealed themselves — lots and lots of men.

A traditional Sudanese woman’s role is emphatically confined to her home. People who travel in Sudan’s public spaces, visiting cyclists for example, will meet dozens of men for every one woman who ventures outside. For a country with so much open space, there seem to be men everywhere: drinking tea under thatched awnings at makeshift highway rest stops, waving from the tops of overloaded trucks, sometimes walking inexplicably in the middle of the sweltering desert miles from any settlement.

Sudanese men were almost always friendly, respectful, and kind to me. They stared with unabashed curiosity and chatted very eagerly in our halting combination of English and Arabic. I struggled to decode their enthusiasm in this place where certain assumptions are often made about foreign women and those who travel without male guardians.

After navigating a particularly friendly group of men sipping tea at a truck stop on a hot and tiring day, I finally realized what was wearing me down: I missed other women! I drank up the rare spark of friendly feminine energy — a shy smile or nod, or even just eye contact as I pedaled by — like a gulp of cool water after days in the scorching Sahara. Not usually one to dwell on my own femininity, I discovered a new appreciation for feminine energy in the deserts of Sudan.

The ubiquitous men, combined with conservative Islam’s strict dress code for women, presented another challenge. In a country where local women can be flogged or arrested for the scandalousness of wearing pants, what’s a female cyclist to do? I wore pants, of course, but loose ones, and a long-sleeve shirt perpetually crusted with salty sweat stains. But what about that often misunderstood and controversial symbol of Muslim femininity, the headscarf?

In my best effort to respect the local culture, I dabbled with headscarves in Sudan. Hoping to signal politeness and lack of interest in romance, I would awkwardly throw one over my hair when removing my bike helmet before a group of staring men. It felt like playing dress-up. Honest feedback was hard to come by in such a polite culture, and I never did figure out whether anyone cared. I was treated well without my headscarf, and I was twice propositioned for sex while wearing it. I suspect that compared to everything else about me — my pants, my bicycle, my brazen soloness — the visibility of my hair hardly mattered.

In motion on the road, things were often simpler. Sometimes it felt like Sudan had literally sent out the welcoming committee. Where the highway drew close to the Nile and the peaceful town of Abri, a boy stopped abruptly and climbed down from his donkey cart. My guard rose slightly as he quickly walked toward me. Then he shook my hand, said “welcome” in the clearest English he could muster, returned to his donkey cart, and rattled off down the highway. He was the first of many Sudanese to approach me on the road — pedestrians, truck drivers, camel riders — to welcome me to their country and wish me a good journey.

The friendliness of Sudan’s people is matched only by the hostility of its landscape. Between Dongola and Karima, I cycled the most inhospitable stretch of land I’ve ever experienced — nothing but sandy desert for two days. I set off with 25 pounds of water that grew hot in the midday sun, providing little relief. I wrapped my scarf around my face against the hot wind that dried my mouth with every breath. Every half hour or so a car or truck would pass quickly, eager to be done with this nothingness and reach the next town. I spent most of the day counting the minutes until night, when I could pitch my tent in the sand and enjoy the falling temperature under a starry desert sky.

The next morning, smack in the middle of this empty desert, three boys sprinted across the sand to meet me at the road. Chattering excitedly, they pointed to a house in the distance and made the “drink tea” gesture. They led me to a compound overflowing with people. Dozens of young kids ran alongside the road, waving and shouting. I let their energy pull me off the pavement and into their sandy compound.

Having made their catch, the kids handed me off to an older man. He seemed important, the head of the whole family perhaps. He ushered me into a mud brick house and sat me down on a rope bed. First the usual Sudanese tea appeared and then a hearty breakfast. His eyes were bright and curious, and though he spoke no English, he was surprisingly adept with my Google Translate app.

We “talked” for hours this way, the boys and men crowding around eagerly. They seemed to be refugees of sorts, living away from their home due to some kind of tribal conflict. Every detail of my life that could be successfully translated was fascinating to them. Of course they wanted to know if I was married, and how many kids I have. My answer of “zero” got a hearty laugh when juxtaposed with the patriarch’s 24 children by four different wives.

When it came time to leave, a group of women beckoned me over. They’d been outside the entire time I’d been sitting with the men and boys. We struggled through Google Translate to ask and answer one question — where are you from? — before the men came out and shooed them away. The women waved goodbye cheerfully, with no sign of frustration, as the men and boys swept me back to the road and helped pull my bike through the deep sand. I wondered later whether I should have protested and stayed to talk with the women, but it was too late.

The first time I really connected with a Sudanese woman was in Atbara, close enough to feel the beginnings of cultural ripples from Khartoum. I had just emerged from three days of rough desert crossing powered by a severely miscalculated food supply and rationed sips of sun-warmed water. I took a rest day at a budget motel to regain strength and passed the afternoon chatting with a young woman and her uncle who worked there.

The young woman didn’t speak English, but she was direct and outgoing, and she put me on the phone with her sister in Khartoum who did. It was the first time I’d heard a Sudanese woman speak English. We yelled and giggled back and forth over a horrible connection, barely understanding anything but thrilled just to hear each other. Then her uncle took my bike for a spin around the block. Though the young woman looked interested and fiddled with it curiously, she declined my offer to ride it.

Never before have I so strongly felt the privilege of my home country and culture, which somehow earned me a warm welcome while pedaling alone through a place where local women could be arrested for doing the same.

The next day I met another Sudanese woman at the bus station as I sought to skip a dangerous section of busy road. She wore a flowing black hijab and carried a black roller suitcase, and she smiled instantly when our eyes met. Through Google Translate, I learned she was 20 years old, married to a man living in another town, and returning to university in Shendi where she studies Arabic.

Her demeanor, while polite and proper, was a world away from the reserved women I’d seen in rural villages. She boarded the bus first, saved me the seat next to her, and told the driver where to drop me off. She showed me pictures on her smartphone of herself and friends dressed up with their hair uncovered. We posed for selfies together as the bus rattled along, a first after meeting plenty of Sudanese women who preferred not to be photographed. I marveled at the contrast between young and old, urban and rural, educated and unable to afford education. So this is the new generation of urban Sudanese women!

The pulse of Khartoum continued to push its progressive culture outward as I pedaled toward it. At an archaeological compound near the Meroe pyramids, I met three Sudanese women from Khartoum who were wearing … I could barely believe it … pants! One of them was drawn to my bike and bold enough to climb on in the safety of the walled compound. The bike was fully loaded, stuck in sand, and shifted into the wrong gear; it wobbled hopelessly and refused to budge. I felt badly that I hadn’t managed to give her a wildly successful experience in exchange for her boldness, but I was so glad she’d been willing to try.

In Shendi, a university town just three hours’ drive from Khartoum, I saw a woman driving a car! What surprised me wasn’t the sight itself but the realization that I hadn’t seen a female driver in weeks. The town’s sidewalks were filled with university students, both female and male, walking and chatting comfortably. I felt the burden of culture shock ease just a bit as I pedaled through and crossed the bridge to the west bank of the Nile.

South of Shendi, a man on a motorbike pulled alongside me on a quiet road, and I finally got the answer to a question I’d been wondering about. Standing face to face, he puzzled over my incomprehensible mix of feminine form with manly clothing and a man’s freedom. Still unsure, he asked in broken English, “woman or boy?” Surprised but not displeased with my answer, he handed me a good luck charm from his front pocket and zoomed away with a wave.

Throughout Sudan I enjoyed some gorgeous, quiet nights under the stars. I camped alone in the desert on several occasions, surrounded only by endless sand, and felt comfortable. But here, on the edge of the Khartoum suburbs, it no longer felt right. Unable to find a stealthy campsite, I stopped at a small restaurant in town. A friendly group of men welcomed me and invited me to camp. The owner swept the dirt floor, brought a bowl of soup, and steadfastly refused my money.

That night, despite the lack of any warning signs during our earlier interactions, I woke to a hopeful man reaching for my tent zipper. His assumptions about a solo woman were uncomfortably clear as I shined my headlamp in his face, hoping my pronunciation of the Arabic word for “no” was clear enough. Apparently it was; he went back to his bed in the corner and soon I could hear him snoring. No such luck for me. I sat awake with my adrenaline pumping in the hot sticky air of my tent, letting the strain and confusion of the last few weeks wash over me.

The next morning I couldn’t get away from his staring eyes fast enough. I packed as fast as possible, confused by the lack of acknowledgment from my host about what had transpired. He was as friendly as ever and still refused payment for the food I’d eaten the night before. Sudanese hospitality is truly unflappable. I pedaled away hungry and saved breakfast — my last remaining piece of bread and Laughing Cow cheese wedges — for the solitary shade of a drainage ditch 10 miles down the road.

That day, my last day of cycling in Sudan, delivered 100 kilometers of chaotic traffic and a scorching headwind. In the middle of a particularly busy, dusty, hot stretch of road, my back tire went flat. I retreated behind some bushes to fix it, but immediately three men appeared out of nowhere. This is the female cyclist’s curse: anywhere in the world, we seem to be no more than a few hundred feet from a man who thinks we need help fixing a flat. These men defied my expectations though, lending a hand where needed and otherwise simply watching encouragingly, ready to cheer when the new tube held air.

As I fought my way into the gridlocked city block by dusty block, I felt as if I’d just entered a different country. Fast food restaurants appeared, and air conditioned buildings, traffic lights, even a high-rise or two. The streets were flowing with people but, for once, they mostly ignored me, which was a gift in my overwhelmed state. When traveling by bike in such an exposed way, sometimes the thing I crave most is to not be seen.

8 Tips for Bicycle Touring Abroad

What caught my attention most in Khartoum, when I had any attention left to catch, were the women. They were everywhere! There were women walking out of shops, women in groups, women alone, young female students waiting for the bus, a woman driving a car. One confident young woman, only her eyes visible beneath an elegant black niqab, reached out and shook my hand as I waited near the sidewalk in a chaotic mob of traffic.

A few blocks from my lodging, I finally stopped and treated myself to my deepest craving: a cheeseburger. The power was out and they had no drinks, so I found an ice cream shop with a generator and ordered a chocolate milkshake. Covered in dust and salty sweat stains, I folded my tired body onto a low ledge and devoured my feast in a daze. I had done it: I had ridden from Luxor to Khartoum. I had cycled through northern Sudan.

The next couple of days in Khartoum were a whirlwind of serendipitous connections and rapidly changing travel plans. I scrambled to pack my bike and fly home as the world started shutting down in mid-March of 2020. My timing was incredibly lucky — I managed to fly out of Khartoum on the last day before they suddenly closed the airport in response to the pandemic. When not packing, I spent my time talking with expats I’d connected with on the road. Finally able to converse in English with people who know Sudan well, I was eager to learn about the country’s political situation in more detail.

In April 2019, after several months of peaceful protests, Sudan’s oppressive ruler of 30 years was overthrown in a demand for civilian democracy. The path since then has been rocky, with limited success. Two days before I rode into Khartoum, there was an assassination attempt on the prime minister of the transitional government, yet everything had mostly blown over by the time I arrived. Some say the revolution is losing steam, mired in the mess of a failing economy. The challenges were unmistakable even to a foreigner just passing through: lines for days at empty gas stations, crowds at the bakeries, power cuts every afternoon.

The women of Sudan, especially in Khartoum, have seized the moment and are not ready to give up hope. Women were prominent figures in the protests that catalyzed the revolution, though they have since been largely excluded from key roles in the resulting transitional government. In late 2019, the transitional government repealed the Sharia-inspired “family law” that oppressed women in many ways, from making it illegal to wear pants to limiting public activities like dancing and selling goods on the street.

Cycling alone through vast swathes of public space as a woman is never simple, but in Sudan it’s a defining feature of the experience, as being female is a defining feature of a Sudanese woman’s daily life. Never before have I so strongly felt the privilege of my home country and culture, which somehow earned me a warm welcome while pedaling alone through a place where local women could be arrested for doing the same.

In Sudan, as in many places I’ve visited, a solo female traveler is granted “honorary man” status and the license to do many things local women cannot. I’m thankful to the men of Sudan (most of them at least) for putting aside their assumptions, surprise, and whatever other thoughts I evoked to welcome me to their country. And I’m grateful to the women of Sudan who reached out warmly with recognition of something important shared between us, despite the painfully obvious unfairness of our differing circumstances.

The story of women and bicycles in Sudan is nascent but growing against all odds. Since 2016, a group of brave women in Khartoum have been using cycling to further women’s rights. They wear pants and ride donated bicycles through chaotic city streets to both cheers and harassment because they understand that riding a bicycle is a form of freedom. Though my own relationship to cycling is far simpler than theirs, I couldn’t agree more, and I’m cheering for their success from half a world away.
 

The post Sudan, in the Company of Men appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

Despite the oppressive heat earlier in the day, I had stopped, not once but twice, to add layers to fend off the chilly desert night air. “Just a few more miles. Keep eating. Keep drinking,” I told myself. Approaching a small incline, I decided to push my bike, slow things down and try to shake the weary cloudiness from my mind. At the top I stopped, put on another pair of gloves, zipped up my jacket, and looked around. A near-full moon illuminated the arid, undulating terrain. I sucked in a couple breaths of cold air and reminded myself, “Only 2,400 miles to go. Better get on with it.”

While Mac McCoy and his team created the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route with touring in mind, it didn’t take long for swift-minded mountain bikers to start racing it for bragging rights. In 1999, Mountain Bike Hall of Famer John Stamstad was the first to establish a time for the route, then starting in Roosville, Montana, at the Canadian border and finishing at its current southern terminus in Antelope Wells, New Mexico. In just 18 days and five hours, Stamstad blitzed the course, enduring a blown-out suspension fork, frequent punctures, navigational errors, and swarms of mosquitos. 
Since then other ultra-racing legends like Mike Curiak, Matthew Lee, Jill Homer, Jay Petervary, Kurt Refsnider, Lael Wilcox (pictured above), Chris Plesko, and Mike Hall have carried on the competitive spirit embodied each year by hundreds of tough women and men who race the route without any outside assistance. 

Thanks to Mike Dion’s Ride the Divide documentary about the 2008 Tour Divide, interest and participation in the race has boomed. That year 16 racers gathered in Banff for the Grand Départ, and eight of them finished. In 2009, participation more than doubled with 42 starters and 16 finishers. After the movie’s 2010 release, those figures continued to climb steadily. In 2017, a whopping 197 racers toed the start line. 

Many would argue that racing the route keeps a rider from taking in the splendor on offer and meeting the wonderful people along it. But as the late Mike Hall said in Inspired to Ride, a documentary about another ultra-endurance race on an Adventure Cycling route, the TransAm Race, “If you enjoy racing, then that’s what you enjoy. Going slowly isn’t necessarily more enjoyable.

Building Bonds

I’ve been lucky enough to attempt, and unfortunate enough to fail, the Tour Divide on three occasions. In 2013 I found myself in Banff, Alberta, at the Grand Départ on the second Friday in June. Alongside were 142 other racers eager to reach Mexico but braced for the rigors of getting there. The Canadian section of the route throws an unsuspecting bikepacker into the proverbial deep end with arduous climbs, rugged roads, and remote stretches. Cold nights and wet days are routine, but most racers enter the U.S. in two to four days. 

I rolled into Eureka, Montana, late on my second day of racing and parked my bike at the first restaurant I saw. Outside were other loaded bikes and inside was a smelly, hungry pack of fellow racers. Copious amounts of hamburgers, french fries, chicken sandwiches, and mozzarella sticks were ordered. Gallons of water and soda were consumed. Phones were charged. Hands and faces were washed. Tales were told. Then we headed out for more. 

I managed to do this for 11 days before a knee injury forced me to stop. I did my best to enjoy the scenery, to soak up the wonder of the mountains, the plains, and the river valleys. I would rise early, pack up, and roll south. Stopping for breaks when necessary, I rode steadily, sometimes with others, often alone. At each resupply, a regrouping would occur. There we would discuss our exploits and plot out the rest of the day. We often stuck together, especially as afternoon turned into evening and thoughts turned to sleep. It was these shared meals, shared camp spots, and shared miles that solidified my love not only for the GDMBR but also for my fellow bikepackers. The foundations for lifelong friendships were laid along those dusty roads. 

Dot Stalking

Also in the back of any Tour Divide racer’s mind is the fact that they’re all being stalked. Not by bears or mountain lions — though those stories are out there — but instead by friends and family on a website called trackleaders.com. Beginning in 2008, racers carried SPOT GPS devices that tracked their location via satellite at regular intervals. This enhances safety and ensures that racers complete the entire course. But perhaps more significantly, it has made the Tour Divide into a spectator sport. In 2009, Scott Morris programmed his Trackleaders site and made tracking racers more interesting with progress plots and checkpoints. “Dot stalking” as it’s called, because racers are simply a colored dot on the screen, can consume hours of a loved one’s time. In 2008, past racers, future hopefuls, family members, and trail angels could post to a race discussion thread on then-new bikepacking.net. 

Starting in 2006, before the online discussion, Joe Polk’s MTB Cast call-in service added audio to the spectator experience. Racers could call a toll-free number and record a message recounting tales from the trail, encouraging each other, or simply venting the mania that creeps into a Tour Divide racer’s brain. Social media, Facebook in particular, now supplements MTB Cast and Trackleaders with many racers choosing to livestream video of themselves while riding or during breaks.

Why Fly?

The reasons to race the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route are as varied as the roads and trails that make it up. The devotion is such that multiple facebook groups exist to discuss their love of the route, the gear used to travel along it, and to share route beta. I contacted one such group and put the question to them. “Why race the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route instead of touring it?” The replies speak for themselves:

“The simple, but hard, day-after-day focus on a single task: getting to Mexico as fast as your own human self can. Done right, it is a long meditation.” 
–A. Jeffrey Tomassetti, 2011 Tour Divide racer, 23 day

“One thing I love about TD is that it is a world-class event that is very accessible to a committed athlete. Other sports have significant barriers to compete at the top. Love your football? You can only imagine a shot at the Super Bowl. Baseball? You can only buy a ticket to the World Series. Everest? Too pricey! Tour Divide, though, is right there for you to grab. Can you pedal a bike and carve out a month’s time?” 
–JP Evans, 2011 Tour Divide racer, 24 days

“We choose to race because we learn things about ourselves in the crucible of this race. Touring would be fun, but racing allows us to explore our physical, mental, and spiritual limits.” 
–Jim Goodyear, 2016 Tour Divide racer, 23 days 

I’ve raced sections of the route, both southbound and northbound, three different times, but I’ve also toured a 530-mile chunk. My wife and I timed our weeklong trip so that we arrived in Ovando, Montana, in time for the 40th anniversary of the Adventure Cycling Association. While I certainly enjoyed the slower pace of touring, taking time to linger in camp, not rushing meals, and photographing ourselves frequently, that trip did nothing to extinguish my desire to once again race Tour Divide.  

This story originally appeared in the May 2018 issue of Adventure Cyclist.

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I chose the route less cycled: U.S. 83, a single highway between the Mexico and Canada borders. At 1,700 miles, it’s the flattest and shortest cross-country route — a virtual straight line up the nation’s gut through Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, and, if you wish to be politically correct, or simply correct, the Rosebud Sovereign Nation.

I had this trip on my bucket list long before bucket lists even existed. I’d cast about for a route with the most “throwback” America and the least amount of interstate. 

U.S. 83 appeared to be just that — an endless string of paved ribbon that’s arguably the bluest of U.S. highways. A chance to take an intimate look at a part of my country that most cycling tourists just speed through. Along the way there would be plenty of time and space to think — or not think. 

“The route navigates some of the … most aesthetically challenged landscapes in the country, from the yawn-inducing rolling grasslands of the northern Great Plains to … where the hell-am-I agricultural expanses,” wrote Jamie Jensen in Road Trip USA. He called 83 the “Road to Nowhere.” 

“For endless miles in every direction, telephone and power poles provide some of the few signs of life between the highway and the distant horizon,” he wrote. 

That sealed it. I ditched my 1980s Panasonic for a shiny new Kona Sutra and booked a flight to Laredo, Texas. 

I’d be relying on muscle memory from 64 years and 15,000 miles of riding. But my muscles were no longer remembering as clearly. I’m a “trepid” traveler — mechanically disinclined, socially awkward, terrified of insects. 

There’s also the matter of the weather. Posters on bike boards warned of 20–25 mph winds, tornadoes, and biblical hail. The Great Plains, particularly in late spring, is the windiest region in the country, a climatologist confirmed.

I originally figured to ride from Canada to Mexico. Instead I charted a reverse course to take advantage of prevailing winds from the south. I figured I’d need every advantage. It also made sense to begin, not end, in early May in southern Texas where the thermometer by June climbs to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. 

The whole country, it seems, is laid out — and thinks — east to west. It’s something about the gold rush and the frontier. I’d be out for an entirely different logic. 

It was 100 degrees Fahrenheit when I arrived in Laredo. I hadn’t even begun riding, and I was already a sizzling fajita.

Laredo may be the least diverse city in America. It’s 98 percent Hispanic, according to the docent at the Republic of the Rio Grande Museum, where I was the only visitor. Seven — not six — flags have flown over Laredo. The Republic of the Rio Grande’s flag lasted all of 283 days.

The tacos down here have strange names: deshebrada, picadillo, lengua, tripas. I was seduced, however, by the tacky-sounding corn-in-a-cup, a staple topped with varying combinations of lime juice, crème fraîche, shaved parmeson, chile powder, and lots of mayonnaise. 

My departure was unceremonious. A guard at the Mexico border reluctantly obliged my request to snap my photo. “Demasiado” (too much), his colleague admonished. 

I cycled north along a stretch of import shops selling brightly colored lawn ornaments fabricated from sheet metal. I stopped at a shop specializing in devotional candles and Frida Kahlo ephemera. Jerry, the store’s manager, asked where I was headed. “The border with Canada,” I told him. “At least, that’s the concept.”

The towns in western Texas look like something out of the set of The Walking Dead, with their abandoned storefronts glass and brick shells of their former selves. “Please come again” read a sign in a store in Childress that had been closed for years. 

Menard has the state’s third-highest rate of unemployment. That actually lures the work averse, said Christy Eggleston, executive director of the local chamber, who said eligibility for unemployment is based on a town’s opportunities, and Menard has none. 

I called ahead for a room at the White Wing Motel in Asherton, a man camp for oil and gas workers. “Please note that the WW is the only place between Carrizo Springs and Laredo, and that’s a long haul,” its website warned, and I listened. 

I got a hero’s welcome from Martika Hernandez, who proclaimed me the motel’s first bicycle lodger. Martika confided that she had been diagnosed three years ago with a brain tumor. She said she was in a “dark place” and worried about losing her vision but was focusing on the moment. She had a big beautiful smile, even when telling her story. Martika told me of things to see and touch along my way. 

The next morning I met her dad, George, who told me the story of the Devil’s Spine, a nearby place where big storms are said to originate. The storms somehow always skip Asherton and nearby Uvalde. The devil apparently can’t reach his spine when scratching. 

Cycling through Texas is all about shoulders and semis. The former came and went without warning whereas the latter had no patience for small rigs like me. Some 18-wheelers blared their horns from 100 yards away while others delighted in waiting until they were about to overtake me. I was pulled over by a trooper on the grounds that I was riding on the roadway instead of the broken-up shoulder. The traffic calmed farther north, although I continued to get lectures on cyclists’ proper place in the universe. 

Southwest Texas, with its bountiful thickets of prickly pear cactus, seemed subtropical. Farther north I passed dry riverbeds and rich red and gold canyonlands. Mexican hats, flowers with mahogany red petals edged in yellow, resembled sombreros. 

I got my first workout north of Uvalde on the edge of the Texas Hill Country, where I followed the Frio River through groves of cypress, pecan, piñion, and mountain laurel. 

Texas is chock-full of curiosities. In Aspermont I visited one of only three Cold War–era underground high schools that are still in use. It’s a bunker with windowless corridors and huge fans for ventilation. Near Wellington I navigated the bridge where, in June 1933, Bonnie and Clyde had missed a detour sign, plunging into the dry riverbed below.

I came upon an impossibly large cross outside of Ballinger. There was a guestbook for the faithful. I contemplated asking for a ride free of flats, but, because I am a heathen, I thought better of it. I got my first of two flats the next day. 

I made a rare detour off 83 in Canadian, Texas, to visit a group of bulb-headed aliens, a bearded centaur, Jesus, and a mostly naked cheerleader — outsider art all in concrete. 

I was now in ranch and farm country. Texas is famous for its brisket, and there’s none better than the Shed BBQ in Abilene, where owner Stacie Stephenson saw to it that I was properly fed and gave me an inspirational Christian tract for spiritual sustenance. 

A week on the road and there was already a sameness to the cuisine: I could only take so many throwback salad bars with sneeze guards. I swore off chicken-fried steak forever. 

Forget getting your kicks on Route 66. The Mother Road may have the brand, but 83 is the “Last American Highway,” opined Stew Magnuson, author of a book with that title. He sees 83 as a largely unchanged journey through time. 

Any road trip worth its salt — in my case, sweat — has at least one Elvis sighting. Teresa Caldwell, a guide at the iconic U Drop Inn café and visitor center in Shamrock, where 66 and 83 meet up, claims that Elvis once occupied the very corner booth where we sat chatting. One of her friends, Kim, at age three accidentally ran over Elvis’s foot on her bicycle. So she said. I believed her. 

Two weeks on the road and I was still in Texas. Not to worry, I reassured friends and family, Texas accounts for 40 percent of the trip’s total miles.

Then, at last, Oklahoma! The Panhandle was dry and dusty, and there was little to distract me. Turpin and Bryan’s Corner came and went quickly. In 37 miles, I was in Kansas. 

Kansas, with its windblown plains and limestone hills, was at times mesmerizing, at times stultifyingly tedious. 

Kansas has 10 million acres of wheat, and it seemed as if I rode past every last bushel. I played mental games to combat the monotony of Groundhog Day landscapes. I cycled bird by bird — writer Anne Lamott’s way of saying one step at a time. For me, each bird was a dotted white line. 

Long-legged spider-like contraptions stalked the fields, dispensing water pumped from an underground aquifer, and devices that resembled nodding heads dipped into the ground for oil. 

It was in the high 90s, and folks cooled off in huge municipal swimming pools. 

I stopped at a rare tourist attraction along the Road to Nowhere. The Land of Oz, in Liberal, is a trippy walk down the Yellow Brick Road with life-size versions of the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion. There’s even a tornado simulator. I snapped a photo with tour guide Jessica, who was Oz’s first Hispanic “Dorothy.” 

Today was a layover day so I visited the International Pancake Day Hall of Fame. Every Fat Tuesday, 20 ladies don skirts and scarves, grab skillets, and race down Liberal’s Pancake Boulevard, flipping flapjacks. There’s no end to the cheesy artifacts. 

I had a tailwind six days out of seven. I felt as if I were riding an eBike. It was all too easy until I noticed a persistent noise from my bike’s drivetrain.

I limped my way to a reputed full-service bike store — the Tinker Shop in Garden City, where two 70-somethings tinker with everything from vacuum cleaners to outboard motors. Tinker #1 didn’t think I had a problem, but then again, he said, he is hard of hearing. Tinker #2 booked me an appointment with a local chiropractor who turned out to know about more than just backs. I was okay, but my chain was fatigued. Dr. Rupt performed triage to get me to the next bike shop 240 miles up the road. 

Besides being mechanically disinclined, I am camping averse. No mosquito netting after a hard day’s ride for this fella. 

The motels I stayed in shared a certain sameness. That is, until I happened upon the Free Breakfast Inn (its actual name) in Oakley. Owner Jeffrey Harsh told me his place is on an energy grid with healing properties. Out front, nymphs sat atop gigantic columns by a broken-down Mexican tour bus. Think Sanford and Son on acid. “I’m a naturopath,” Harsh said. “God created me. I do what He says.” 

Three weeks on the road and it was getting warmer, if that was possible — 102, 104, 106 degrees Fahrenheit. I went from fajita to fireball. I was in a zone, and hydrated, so I managed. The nightly weather forecasts routinely threatened 50 mph winds, pounding rain, and hail endangering man, beast, and structure. Fortunately, the monsoon-like rains all occurred at night or during layovers. I avoided any and all precipitation for my entire 52 days of travel. It was uncanny, really. The devil must have a particularly long spine here in the High Plains and prairies. 

Hail in the plains varies in size, I’m told, from a quarter or ping pong ball to a softball. I mercifully got no direct evidence save for golf ball–sized hail someone kept in a freezer. It had fallen only a few nights earlier. 

It became hillier as I approached Nebraska. But I had my sea legs, and my muscles were beginning to remember. I stopped referring to my goal of reaching Canada as a concept.

“There’s nothing out there … I mean nothing. It gives me anxiety just driving through it,” warned Shayla of the upcoming Cornhusker State, from the last big town in Kansas.

Nebraska has more cattle than people. I rode by feedlots — way stations where cattle are fattened en route to the slaughterhouse. “Eat beef, keep slim,” read a gigantic sign on the side of the National Beef Processing Center. Trucks with caged livestock arrived from as far as Colorado. 

In North Platte, I sampled runza, Nebraska’s signature sandwich of chopped meat and ground onions in a pocket with cabbage. It seemed like a steamed White Castle hamburger. Still, it was a welcome novelty. 

Nebraska 83 skirts the Sandhills, huge dunes formed eons ago by strong winds and carpeted in more recent years with a mélange of grasses. Stark and beautiful, the Sandhills are one of the nation’s most endangered ecosystems. They appear in every direction for miles. 

Valentine, in the northern part of the state, capitalizes on its name. Just put your V-day card in a larger envelope and local postal workers will return it with a Valentine inscription and a rubber stamp. People write in from as far as China. It’s clearly a labor of love. “We’re part of rural America,” said postmaster Arlene Paulson. Arlene invites art students to design the cachets, affording them recognition.

A clerk at a motel unexpectedly appeared with egg salad, fruit, and assorted pastries. She grabbed my bag of dirty laundry — one of many acts of kindness. 

But it wasn’t all roses. A shop owner made assumptions about my politics. “I’m Deplorable Number 1 and this is Deplorable Number 2,” he said, pointing to a friend and referring to Hillary Clinton’s infamous epithet. Refusing to be baited, I changed the channel. 

Four states down, two to go. I entered the unsigned Rosebud Sioux Reservation just over the state line in South Dakota. I asked directions from Red Dawn Foster, who, it turned out, is introducing a bike-share program as part of a larger plan for sustainability. Back home after college, she’s throwing her lot in with her people.

The wind changed its mind and remained in a contrary mood clear to the finish line: I regularly sliced through winds from the north at 17–20 mph. Headers are worse than hills — they can sap your spirit if you let them. I avoided looking ahead at the unchanging sightline. I counted my blessings: I was dry, and nothing hurt.

The sky grew menacing as I left Pierre, the state capital. “It’s a code red,” some guy told me. Tornado? Fireball? Meteor? He wasn’t sure. I never found out. 

I cycled past umpteen water towers, farmers’ co-ops, and impossibly large grain elevators. 

Gettysburg, South Dakota, bills itself as “where the battle wasn’t.” But the guest directory at my motel warned against cleaning guns in the rooms. So I didn’t.

In Selby, blond-haired, blue-eyed families — the region is decidedly Germanic — enjoy cones at Mr. Bob’s Drive-in. Agar, a billboard announced, is "Home of the 1977 State B Track Champions."

No-see-ums, black dots whose sole purpose is to bite and annoy, were virulent. I counted 47 bites, both real and imagined. 

Road Trip USA’s Jensen described the 265 miles on U.S. 83 through North Dakota as epic plains too green or too golden-hued to process rationally. I didn’t quibble. 

I rode through an area populated descendants of Bavarian-born Catholic farmers who fled the Russian Empire in the 1800s. I sampled the Fleischküchle — gravy-laden ground beef fried in dough. 

I came upon only a handful of other long-distance cyclists the entire length of the Road to Nowhere. All were riding east to west or along the Lewis & Clark Trail. “Welcome to” and “leaving” signs at times appeared only hundreds of yards apart or, as The Last American Highway’s Magnuson put it, “Town is created in the middle of nowhere. Railroad passes it. Town dies.”

Sometimes I was lost in my thoughts, other times I found myself in the stillness. Colby became Sublette became Friend became Shallow Water, each important in its moment, only to fade to memory. I discovered the spaces between the places.

North of Bismarck I passed the Coal Creek Station, the largest power plant in the state. I saw the ravages of coal and strip mines. 

Then Minot — the final city of any size before Canada. I continued due north past a military base that controls hundreds of nuclear missiles hidden underground all over the High Plains. 

Twenty-one more miles and I was in Westhope, the last of the wide spots on the road that had entered and exited my world in the past seven weeks. Only one car passed me the final six miles.

At 8:13 pm on June 19, 2018, I reached Nowhere — a single-building border station so small it closes at 9:00 pm. I solicited a photo. The lone guard obliged. 

I wondered if this is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with a whimper. I couldn’t find even a puddle in which to dip the wheels of my bicycle. So I just turned them in the direction of my next bike ride.  

Nuts and Bolts: U.S. Highway 83

To avoid brief dual-signed interstate sections, take:   

• Laredo, Texas: 83/I-35 frontage road north of the city 
• Junction, Texas: State 481 south of town (avoids all but three miles of 83/I-10) 
• Murdo, South Dakota: Old 83 (State 248) via Draper, parallel to I-90/83    
• Bismarck, North Dakota: Old 83 (County 10) to/from Sterling, east of the city 

Two worthwhile scenic bypasses:       

• Abilene, Texas: 131/151/Buffalo Gap Rd south of the city, looping back to 83 
• Selby, South Dakota, to Bismarck, North Dakota: State 1806 along the Missouri River (100-plus miles with few services) 

Extend your trip 450 miles by riding 83 in its entirety from Brownsville, Texas, to Swan River, Manitoba (Canada 83). The first 70 miles in Texas dovetails with interstates. 

How to get there

Start in Laredo, Texas, and end at the border with Canada, 70 miles north of Minot, North Dakota. Both Laredo and Minot are served by major airlines. You might find cheaper flights by taking a train to or from Minot to hubs in Chicago or Minneapolis.

When to go

April–June, if going north, October–November if going south, to take advantage of prevailing winds. You’ll be cycling through Tornado Alley in the spring. I did this trip in seven weeks, but it can easily be done in as few as five. 

Terrain

Mind-numbingly flat to gently rolling with some large hills in a few places. All paved. 

Water

Long distances (50–85 miles) between water sources, so plan accordingly. 

Where to stay

Clean, inexpensive indie motels. The Leakey Inn in Leakey, Texas (leakeyinn.com), hosts lots of cyclists doing the Southern Tier. Iversen’s Inn in Murdo, South Dakota, (iverseninn.com) has a great collection of classic lunchboxes. There are occasional campsites and a few Warmshowers hosts in the larger cities. 

Bike repairs

Best to be self-reliant. The only full-service shops are in Laredo and Abilene, Texas; North Platte, Nebraska; Pierre, South Dakota; and Bismarck and Minot, North Dakota.  

Attractions/Souvenirs

Pioneer Auto Museum, Murdo, South Dakota; Golden Spike Tower, North Platte, Nebraska; and Ludwig Welk Farmstead outside of Strasburg, North Dakota. Starved for kitsch? Visit the Fort Cody Trading Post in North Platte for Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show in 20,000 miniaturized pieces.

Recommended reading

• The Last American Highway (three volumes) by Stew Magnuson
• Slow Road to Brownsville by David Reynolds
• Empire of the Summer Moon, a compelling account of the struggle for control of the American West, by S.C. Gwynne. 

Online

The Highway 83 Chronicles

This story originally appeared in the April 2019 issue of Adventure Cyclist magazine. 

The post Road to Nowhere appeared first on Adventure Cycling Association.

I awoke with an abrupt start. My heart jumped up to my throat, and I tried to rise gently, resisting the urge to jump straight out of the sleeping bag. I excitedly shook Sam and whispered, “The first team!” The soft glow of predawn allowed us to clearly see the sleepy landscape and forest. The trail ran directly in front of the cabin about 40 feet away. 

The musher was balancing on the back of the sled, only a portion of his face showing. I imagined him to be tired, or perhaps simply consumed with the task at hand, as he didn’t notice us on the porch. The dogs did, however, and excitedly leaned hard toward the cabin. I merely wanted to watch, not disrupt, and as the dogs veered toward us, I felt myself holding my breath and sliding deeper into our sleeping bag. The musher called them back on course.

We were nearly two weeks into an exploration and tour of the Iditarod National Historic Trail, a winter trail that travels 1,000 miles through Alaska’s wilderness and crosses vast expanses of marshes, lakes, rivers, and sea ice, much of it impassable when not frozen. This wilderness is peppered with small communities that, in all other seasons, are only accessible by boat or plane. Until the advent of snowmobiles, mushing was the most efficient way to travel through Alaska’s winter landscape, and some still argue it’s the safest way. While the dog sled race that began in 1973 still runs each year, the local culture around mushing has shifted, and snow machines (a.k.a. snowmobiles) are replacing dog teams. The trail now hosts the Iron Dog, a yearly snow machine race, as well. 

Because we were touring and not racing (the Iditarod Trail Invitational is a 1,000-mile fat bike race along the route), we could pause to indulge in lengthy conversations with locals. We traveled big days, but we pedaled without agenda, allowing the ever-changing landscape to pull us forward. We wound our way along massive riverbeds, sometimes atop blue, undulating waves of ice and other times on a wide, snowy highway. We pushed through vast, snow-encased valleys with peaks rising miles away that appeared close enough to touch. We turned back to see Denali and Mount Foraker ablaze in perfect pink light while everything else dissolved into darkness. We raced on dry trail through old burns until we hit a small marsh or lake — skittering, fishtailing, and giggling until we regained some semblance of control. There were warm days when even a light wind layer was unnecessary — and then there were days so cold that exposed skin would freeze within a minute. Stopping for long was not an option — everything froze around our faces, making it challenging to eat. We often pedaled into the night, the sunset light extending for hours and the darkness giving way to a sky of dancing green. There were days when Sam and I pedaled for stretches without being able to see each other. These were my favorite moments — a teeny, tiny speck amid something much larger.

In this wild winter land, harshness and beauty are pressed up against one another, inseparable. The communities we passed through seem to mirror the landscape in which they are embedded. As technology and materialism follow the speed of the snow machine, these villages — still remote and confronted in each instance by the reality of that remoteness, along with thousands of years of tradition — are in the midst of redefining themselves. 

The winds, gusting up to 50 mph, were too much for us as we approached Shaktoolik, pushing our bicycles down the icy street, shoulders bracing. However, the small children, moving blobs bundled in insulated clothing, seemed unfazed. A gust of wind blew them across the street, and they continued on as if nothing had happened. Shaktoolik is positioned on a spit of land that divides Norton Sound from the open ocean. It’s notorious for big winds and harsh weather. 

We sat in the hallway of the school, our shelter for the night, and crossed paths with a woman named Amy. Her lightness seemed incompatible with the ferocious winds shaking the building. She had returned to grab something from her classroom and paused to chat.

“My husband and I have lived here for five years,” she said. “We love it. It’s cold. Not easy living. But the community is wonderful. Kids are kids. My students are silly, easily distracted, curious, and creative.”

The basketball team would leave the next morning for a tournament in Anchorage, and Amy pointed to the handmade signs pasted onto various lockers throughout the hallway. 

Amy’s blond curls disappeared under her hat and her face hid behind her parka as she left to retrieve some gas for our stove.

Norm, a local who helps manage the school, showed up to check in with us. His energy was kind and straightforward.

“This is the first year, ever, that the sea ice hasn’t frozen,” he said. “Typically it freezes from the land out several miles. Without the sea ice, we are unable to seal hunt. Seal meat and blubber is a staple for us. Also, without the ice our strip of land continues to erode while the waves pummel us through the winter.”

The warm temperatures are not only affecting Shaktoolik and the sea ice, they’re also affecting the rivers’ ice. We learned of four different deaths caused by locals falling through the ice — huge tragedies and losses for small communities to bear.

Layover Day

We stayed at Tripod Flats cabin, and it was crystal clear, calm, and warm. The surrounding landscape was open. There were some spruce nearby, but our eyes could follow the uninterrupted, undulating white expanse off to hills and mountains in the distance.

We were savoring a lazy, cozy morning with a wood stove, and fewer layers of clothing, when we heard motors approaching. We stepped outside to greet two gentlemen on snow machines. They came from the west and had stayed last night in another Bureau of Land Management (BLM) cabin not too far from us. Peter and Ryan both work for the BLM out of Anchorage. Sam talked to Ryan and heard about his vision for the management and future of the Iditarod Trail, hoping in 10 years for local ownership, the inclusion of more native names and language onto signs, and to find ways for local school groups to come out and use the cabins. Ryan and Peter had just put up some new signs and mentioned that they believe the signage and cabins help save lives.

I talked to Peter — gentle, unassuming — born and raised in Nome. His father was originally from France, worked in Dutch Harbor (a small village in the Aleutian Islands), and, along with French, spoke English, the Aleutian Island native language, and the Coastal (Athabaskan) native language. Peter’s mom was from a smaller village north of Nome. 

“Nope, I know none of my native language,” he said. “My mother refused to speak it to us because when she was little the missionaries would beat and punish her for speaking her native language. And she didn’t want that to happen to us.

“People ask me about my culture, and I say it’s dying,” Peter continued. “We should have started five or six decades ago to save the languages. Now it’s too late.

“Some kids interviewed my mom a few years back. They asked about her past, her culture. She said she wouldn’t go back to the old ways. She likes her TV, her car, her toaster,” he added. 

There was a long pause, and I looked out at the scraggly spruce trees, heard the voices of Sam and Ryan and the drip of snow melting off the cabin roof.

Peter shifted his weight. “And the young people these days have no respect,” he said. “No values. Nome has lots of drugs — heroin and oxycotin — lots of busts the last several years.”

He paused, looking thoughtful. “I almost dropped out of school before getting my degree. But my dad was dying at the time, and I knew if there was one thing I could do to make him proud, it was to finish school.” 

Ryan and Sam came over and our conversation ended. We offered coffee, tea, and snacks, but they needed to get going, and before too long the drone of their engines faded away completely.

Making Sense — Generosity, Beauty, and Hardship

Over our three weeks on the Iditarod Trail, we heard plenty about the challenges faced by these small communities — drinking, addiction, fetal alcohol syndrome, high suicide rates, and the aforementioned environmental challenges. However, we also experienced beauty, lightness, and growth. 

One late night, under a dancing sky of northern lights and after a rugged day of constant moving — crossing the sea ice in -10 degrees Fahrenheit temperatures with 30–40 mph winds — we were met in the street by four young boys. They stood tall. Their eyes shone bright, vibrant, as they looked us in the eye and introduced themselves. One asked to ride Sam’s bike and proceeded to successfully wheelie it (despite 40 pounds of weight in the front panniers) for most of our walk across town. When we arrived at our destination, he handed Sam back his bicycle, shook his hand, and said, “Thanks.”

At the end of our journey in Nome, we met Anna. She swept us off the street and invited us into her home. We were enveloped (like the plethora of cyclists she’d helped out before us) in her generosity, sourdough pancakes, caribou stew, and other yummy treats, while also sharing heartful, honest conversation. She spoke to the struggle kids face coming from smaller, tight-knit villages and attempting to thrive in college. For most, the culture shock is too great, and they drop out before the end of the first year. However, Anna, who grew up in Unalakleet, went on from college to become a physician. She and her husband are redefining village life and culture.

Blending

We traveled the wide, frozen river highways. It was early afternoon, and the light had already begun to hint at the impending sunset. We made the decision to leave the trail and pedal through Koyukuk. Our history notes indicated Koyukuk was more primitive than some of the other villages: there is no running water, honey buckets are used for disposing of human waste, wood is burned for heat, and when the river floods, sewage is said to go everywhere. It’s not officially on the trail so the traffic and racers usually remain down on the main river, a distant blur. 

The village is a network of flat-roofed houses interrupted by the crisscrossing of snow-covered roads. As we slowly wandered the streets, we met a number of locals, each kind and welcoming in his or her own way. Three young boys appeared out of nowhere. They wore skinny jeans and sweatshirts — no jackets. The crinkle of plastic grabbed my attention as one of the boys snacked on M&Ms. They shyly asked us some questions before dropping back into houses and shadows.

As we stared at the flyers on a local bulletin board, three snowmobiles pulled up. The young men hopped off, introduced themselves and offered a hearty welcome to their village. We chatted for a long while. Eventually we were invited to Jared’s home. We leaned our bikes outside and wandered up the steps. The kitchen blended into the living room, which was also the bedroom. We sat on a cooler. Jared stood next to the stove, and the other two young men sat on the bed across from us. 

They told us about life in Koyukuk and offered us beer and weed. They had just returned from gathering a cord of firewood, which they planned to sell. The day before they had salvaged an old snowmobile from the dump, and with a little more work it would be up and running. Two days ago, they had explored the nearby mountain on their snowmobiles, and two of them had just returned from Las Vegas. They showed us some photos on an iPhone and then insisted we take a selfie. They told us they needed to build a new smokehouse before fishing season. 

We had wandered to Jared’s house in the first place because he had offered us canned salmon. When we pedaled away, we had shared some venison jerky and a few stories of our own, but we carried with us the energy and gifts of true generosity. The young men had upheld that deep cultural thread. The object of value is changing, but the principle of offering one’s best remains.  

Katie Newbury pedals, at home and all over the world, to connect. She prefers sleeping outside and is curious to know “Will we ever be able to wheelie the tandem?”

Nuts & Bolts: Iditarod National Historic Trail

Trail/Terrain

This winter trail travels approximately 950 miles through the interior of Alaska to the coast, then parallels the coast north. The trail passes through two small towns, settled during early mining days, and over a dozen native villages.

Hazards

• Exposure, subzero temperatures, windchill
• Changing trail conditions can slow travel to as little as 0.5 mph
• “Overflow” on creeks, rivers, and lakes. Water accumulates on top of the true layer of ice on the river or lake. Subsequently, a thinner layer of ice forms on top of that. It can appear solid, until it’s not. It is possible to punch through and sink into overflow that is waist deep or higher.
• Moose. Share the trail!

Logistics

The best time to travel the trail is late February, early March. Know the schedule of different races. Note that the races alternate between a northern and southern route. 

We carried five to six days of food per ration. We mailed resupplies to villages and also bought some supplies in villages. Many communities offer cyclists paid lodging at personal homes or the school. There are seven Bureau of Land Management cabins on the route and at least three safety cabins. 

Longest mileage between shelters: approximately 50 miles.

Longest mileage between store/resupply: 180 miles.

Timeline

Riders must be flexible! Trail conditions can change at the drop of a hat. We moved at a leisurely pace for 10 to 12 hours a day, with some layover days, as well as some shorter days and lots of conversation, taking three weeks total. 

Setup 

• Luggage: except for a few handlebar bags, and some old framebags, we used panniers and stuff sacks.
• Feet: extra-large bike shoes and Neos overshoes (overshoesneos.com) with backup insulated booties. 
• Pedals: you could ride flat or clipless. 
• Tires: studded tires are useful as there can be long sections of glare ice on rivers and lakes.

Winter Expedition Riding

You must have solid winter camping skills before attempting an expedition like this. There is a significant difference between camping and staying indoors, be it in a cabin, house, school, etc. Although there are indoor options on this route, the unpredictable nature of winter riding and the inescapable dependence on adequate trail conditions can suddenly leave you exposed to the elements for days at a time. 

Tips

Know how to manage your temperature with multiple layers and systems for hands and feet. These are often the trickiest body parts to keep warm in really cold temps. Don’t sweat!

Winter is a magical environment to live in and travel through. No one likes to be cold, including me. With proper layers and experience, you don’t have to be cold, even when it’s -35°F. Everything takes longer and requires more attention in the winter. A wet shirt means you have to use your body heat to dry it. Instead of arriving in camp and relaxing, all hands are on deck — melting snow, making food, and preparing the shelter. Shoes, gloves, socks, anything with any moisture needs to be protected from freezing. 

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