Ko Lanta faded beyond the horizon as the last boat trip of this coastal diversion led me towards Trang.
Islands and time floated by
Showing posts with label bicycle equipment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bicycle equipment. Show all posts
Trusty Steed
One thing has remained constant during my travels.
And that most faithful friend is well deserving of an ode
A bicycle born near Bristol
Heard a silent starters pistol
Battle of the Bulge
Departure #2 was from a lovely spot called Hutan Lipur Sungai Sendat, a waterfall, just north of KL. Peter, keen to test out his new hammock, joined me. Arriving in the early hours of the afternoon we found it closed...
Fortunately Peter and I are on the same wave:
The best sort of travel always involves a degree of trespass. The risk is both the challenge and the invitation. ~ Paul Theroux
So we ducked under the police tape and were rewarded with a blissful place to camp for the evening.
False starts and faulty parts
Having arrived in Melbourne I then flew directly to Malaysia.
...
Wait that's not right.
There was a glorious intervening year spent cycling in Australia and New Zealand and staying with my sister and her family in Sydney.
Have no fear hardy handful of readers. The pictures of that leg are uploaded and copious notes have been prepared. A poorly spelt overly loquacious account of those antipodean adventures will be enumerated here.
Just not right now. My sluggardly blogging output has left me so far behind that the entries risked becoming more memoir than travelogue.
So with a waft of my cyberJedi wrist while murmuring 'those were not the posts you were looking for' I invite you to join me as we touch down in steamy Kuala Lumpur at the tail end of the rainy season.
...
Wait that's not right.
There was a glorious intervening year spent cycling in Australia and New Zealand and staying with my sister and her family in Sydney.
Have no fear hardy handful of readers. The pictures of that leg are uploaded and copious notes have been prepared. A poorly spelt overly loquacious account of those antipodean adventures will be enumerated here.
A sneaky peak of Tas, Nz and Gippsland
Just not right now. My sluggardly blogging output has left me so far behind that the entries risked becoming more memoir than travelogue.
So with a waft of my cyberJedi wrist while murmuring 'those were not the posts you were looking for' I invite you to join me as we touch down in steamy Kuala Lumpur at the tail end of the rainy season.
Back on the road again
I had said my goodbyes to Spitak on the Saturday allowing me to take my leave unobtrusively on a clear and crisp Sunday morning. Retracing my steps, taken over a month previously, to Vanadazor.
I had to reach the Iranian border by the 6th of December putting a less than welcome time-scale on my progress. Still after some initial wobbles my confidence returned and the going was fine. If I was stopping rather more than previously and feeling a touch discombobulated it wasn't sufficient to prevent me making steady progress.
South of Vanadazor I entered gentle hillsides.
I had to reach the Iranian border by the 6th of December putting a less than welcome time-scale on my progress. Still after some initial wobbles my confidence returned and the going was fine. If I was stopping rather more than previously and feeling a touch discombobulated it wasn't sufficient to prevent me making steady progress.
South of Vanadazor I entered gentle hillsides.
The last of Autumn still hanging on picturesquely in places.
Georgian river running
An already leisurely departure from Batumi was further delayed firstly by meeting a friendly South African cycle tourist who was bird watching his way from Europe to Cambodia. After sharing route tips and discussing the Georgian raptor migration the sun had drifted past the yard arm so I decided to have a hearty lunch before setting off.
Eventually I rolled out of the hostels door, went all of five feet before pausing to add some little extra air to my front tyre. This provided all the opening Georgian hospitality required. A head popped out of a shop doorway and beckoned me in. Slightly dubious I followed slowly and found a butchers where he and his coworker were sitting down to a hearty meal of sausages and chilli to which I was clearly invited. Fit to burst already I simply couldn't bring myself to look this gift pig in the eye and so forced down some excellent fare before being offered (and accepting) some rather fine cognac.
Despite his minuscule amount of English and my absolute lack of Georgian we talked freely using bits of French, German and universal hand gestures and I think discussed at some length the unfairness of Georgia letting everyone visit easily while Georgian's finding it impossible to holiday in Europe and elsewhere. I could only agree and was heartily embarrassed once again by the UK governments visa policies.
Thus It was mid afternoon by the time I wobbled out on my bicycle (more due to overeating than the cognac) and set about a pleasant roll along the sea front cycle route before, eschewing the flatter main route north east towards Tibilsi, I struck due east towards the inviting mountains on what had turned into a delightful sunny day.
Eventually I rolled out of the hostels door, went all of five feet before pausing to add some little extra air to my front tyre. This provided all the opening Georgian hospitality required. A head popped out of a shop doorway and beckoned me in. Slightly dubious I followed slowly and found a butchers where he and his coworker were sitting down to a hearty meal of sausages and chilli to which I was clearly invited. Fit to burst already I simply couldn't bring myself to look this gift pig in the eye and so forced down some excellent fare before being offered (and accepting) some rather fine cognac.
Despite his minuscule amount of English and my absolute lack of Georgian we talked freely using bits of French, German and universal hand gestures and I think discussed at some length the unfairness of Georgia letting everyone visit easily while Georgian's finding it impossible to holiday in Europe and elsewhere. I could only agree and was heartily embarrassed once again by the UK governments visa policies.
Thus It was mid afternoon by the time I wobbled out on my bicycle (more due to overeating than the cognac) and set about a pleasant roll along the sea front cycle route before, eschewing the flatter main route north east towards Tibilsi, I struck due east towards the inviting mountains on what had turned into a delightful sunny day.
Looking up the Chorokhi valley's broad and verdant lower course
Sılk Road or Safarı? Cold or hot?
When I set off from London the plan was to head east wıth the ıdle ambıtıon of makıng ıt to Sydney.
In and amongst thıs were romantıc notıons of cyclıng the extent of the Roman empıre, followıng ın Alexander's footsteps and of treadıng the sılk road to Chına.
Now as I am setting off for Georgian mountains and Armenia with Iranian visa in hand what I will do after Persia is very much on my mind
In and amongst thıs were romantıc notıons of cyclıng the extent of the Roman empıre, followıng ın Alexander's footsteps and of treadıng the sılk road to Chına.
Now as I am setting off for Georgian mountains and Armenia with Iranian visa in hand what I will do after Persia is very much on my mind
Turkish travails
This border felt rather different to the cozy, porous European crossings. I drifted out of Greece onto a bridge with marksmen posted periodically along its span. However receiving my visa quickly and hassle free combined with the border guards easy manner put me at ease.
That ease wouldn't last. It soon became plain that the Turkish highway from border to coast (D110) had zero regard for geography. Long, straight, busy and unpredictable. Turkish roads west of Istanbul were a trial.
It is seen as something of an accomplishment that the Romans built such marvelously straight roads. I say pah! Building a straight road reveals nothing more than a lack of on the ground knowledge and or care for the most suitable route. It's the same kind of detached arrogance that led British and French empire builders to draw the dead straight borders which still plague Africa and the Middle East. Great road building seeks to link valleys and surmount rises in the easiest manner possible perhaps, appreciation the gradient a traveler will encounter. Perhaps providing a switchback or two!
Such human design was entirely lacking from the D110.
This, combined with the unrelenting folds of the earth that characterise much of Turkey, ensured a relentless series of stiff rises and unnecessary descents. Up and down, up and down; straight and straight some more.
For the most part a wide shoulder ensured I was well out of the traffic, but without warning, this space would disappear for kilometers at a time throwing me into the inside line to fight for space and breath with large trucks and coaches.
That ease wouldn't last. It soon became plain that the Turkish highway from border to coast (D110) had zero regard for geography. Long, straight, busy and unpredictable. Turkish roads west of Istanbul were a trial.
It is seen as something of an accomplishment that the Romans built such marvelously straight roads. I say pah! Building a straight road reveals nothing more than a lack of on the ground knowledge and or care for the most suitable route. It's the same kind of detached arrogance that led British and French empire builders to draw the dead straight borders which still plague Africa and the Middle East. Great road building seeks to link valleys and surmount rises in the easiest manner possible perhaps, appreciation the gradient a traveler will encounter. Perhaps providing a switchback or two!
Such human design was entirely lacking from the D110.
This, combined with the unrelenting folds of the earth that characterise much of Turkey, ensured a relentless series of stiff rises and unnecessary descents. Up and down, up and down; straight and straight some more.
A miraculously traffic free moment
For the most part a wide shoulder ensured I was well out of the traffic, but without warning, this space would disappear for kilometers at a time throwing me into the inside line to fight for space and breath with large trucks and coaches.
Macedonia
A hop skip and a road side watermelon from the border we entered the Macedonian capital Skopje. An infectiously ludicrous city which has seen literally hundreds of statues erected over the last three years by the right wing government. When added to the ample number of soviet monuments already extant and the result is more Madame Tussaud's than Roman grandeur.
Part ideological desire to create and celebrate Macedonian nationalist heroes (leading to fun discoveries like a 15 foot statue of an obscure lexicographer) and part attempt to woo tourists to a capital formally described as frumpy - the result is a schizophrenic collision of styles with modernist concrete swoops vying with fake baroque pretense all against an Ottoman backdrop.
While the execution may be lacking, and the renovation of the central square has left it feeling like Disneyland meets Las Vegas as the governing classes seek to manufacture a picture postcard view, it is hard not to be charmed by the city.
At the hostel Fred and I stayed in a local girl, Mariana, raged against the mess that was being made of her city claiming she could hardly recognize it. Following the earthquake here in 1963 an international effort was made to assist with reconstruction; overseen by the great Japenese architect Kenzo Tange. There can be little doubt that his vision has been sullied by the current spate of reckless revisionism but the vigour and vitality of the city shines through with bustling bazaars and a cool riverside bar scene. We amused ourselves playing spot the statue and trying to keep tally. (Impossible)
Part ideological desire to create and celebrate Macedonian nationalist heroes (leading to fun discoveries like a 15 foot statue of an obscure lexicographer) and part attempt to woo tourists to a capital formally described as frumpy - the result is a schizophrenic collision of styles with modernist concrete swoops vying with fake baroque pretense all against an Ottoman backdrop.
While the execution may be lacking, and the renovation of the central square has left it feeling like Disneyland meets Las Vegas as the governing classes seek to manufacture a picture postcard view, it is hard not to be charmed by the city.
At the hostel Fred and I stayed in a local girl, Mariana, raged against the mess that was being made of her city claiming she could hardly recognize it. Following the earthquake here in 1963 an international effort was made to assist with reconstruction; overseen by the great Japenese architect Kenzo Tange. There can be little doubt that his vision has been sullied by the current spate of reckless revisionism but the vigour and vitality of the city shines through with bustling bazaars and a cool riverside bar scene. We amused ourselves playing spot the statue and trying to keep tally. (Impossible)
A snapshot of Skopje and it's many littered statues.
Bandit
Imagine the scene if you will:
A 28 year old man in his underpants is running down a dark beech before dawn shouting garbled phrases from a smattering of European languages.
"Mi passporto por favore!"
"Perdu mon sack!"
"Achtung Dieb!"
Suffice to say it was not a great way to start the day.
A 28 year old man in his underpants is running down a dark beech before dawn shouting garbled phrases from a smattering of European languages.
"Mi passporto por favore!"
"Perdu mon sack!"
"Achtung Dieb!"
Suffice to say it was not a great way to start the day.
A pheonix with a new frame.
The moment I had been waiting for had arrived.
With frame and forks safely arrived that morning my new favourite Swiss bike mechanics set to work and had her ready to roll the very same day
They were perhaps a little less excited than I was.
With slighly more trepedation than I had anticipated and slightly more twitchy about errant traffic pulling out on me I was reunited with my valient steed.
With frame and forks safely arrived that morning my new favourite Swiss bike mechanics set to work and had her ready to roll the very same day
They were perhaps a little less excited than I was.
With slighly more trepedation than I had anticipated and slightly more twitchy about errant traffic pulling out on me I was reunited with my valient steed.
Il Postino 2: The Postwoman's revenge
I pulled over just outside St Gallen on an overcast morning on the 24th of June to give the bike some much needed post rain TLC. Rubbing down the rims to ensure good breaking and cleaning and oiling the chain to reduce wear.
With just 80k to ride that day I anticipated being in Zurich by late afternoon and was looking forward to a couple of days rest.
The cold weather continued and the occasional bout of drizzle ensured i didn't linger. Before long I had passed through Bruggen and Gossau. The spray from cars as I followed the main road was becoming a little tiresome and so it was with some relief that I followed a bike route sign which would take me through back streets into Uzwil.
The little village of Bürewald exited into a wonderfully long descent along a quite roads towards the town of Oberbüren. Exalting in the perfect cycling conditions as the sun peeped out for the first time that day I was relishing the feeling of air rushing past me. Going at nearly top speed, perhaps 25-30 mph, when in a split second a moped pulled out in front of me.
I can't recall much apart from thinking "oh shii" and then finding myself on the floor; knee uncomfortably positioned under the bike; adrenaline pumping.
With just 80k to ride that day I anticipated being in Zurich by late afternoon and was looking forward to a couple of days rest.
The cold weather continued and the occasional bout of drizzle ensured i didn't linger. Before long I had passed through Bruggen and Gossau. The spray from cars as I followed the main road was becoming a little tiresome and so it was with some relief that I followed a bike route sign which would take me through back streets into Uzwil.
The little village of Bürewald exited into a wonderfully long descent along a quite roads towards the town of Oberbüren. Exalting in the perfect cycling conditions as the sun peeped out for the first time that day I was relishing the feeling of air rushing past me. Going at nearly top speed, perhaps 25-30 mph, when in a split second a moped pulled out in front of me.
I can't recall much apart from thinking "oh shii" and then finding myself on the floor; knee uncomfortably positioned under the bike; adrenaline pumping.
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