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

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

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

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

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

Don't cry for me Bulgaria

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bulgaria beckons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let sleeping dogs lie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More technicals:
July 5: Baile Herculane to Targu Jiu, 105 kms, 40 km climb through the most spectacular valleys with snow on the mountains, five and three quarter hours
July 6: Targu Jiu to Ramnicu Valcea, 55 kms of 'pitch and bitch' on the worst road yet, through lovely countryside and poor as dirt villages, 126kms in total, about seven and three quater hours
July 7: Ramnicu Valcea to Dragodana, 108 kms, five hours and fifty minutes, the worst worst day as we looked only at the road and our tyres and tried not to fall into the path of traffic beside, behind and in front of us
July 8: Dragodana to Bucharest, 80km, 39 degrees, about three hours and fifty minutes

Haystacks and horses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summertime when the cycling is easy...

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

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

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

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

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

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

My beautiful laundrette

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five days on the trot

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

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

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

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

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

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

This petty pace creeps on from day to day

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

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

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

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

Gastropods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The home of Kepler and Einstein

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Die Luft ist kuhl und es dunkelt...

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

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

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

Crossing the Rhein

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

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

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

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

We're in clover now

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're ready to roll

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

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

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

Fund Raising

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

Three weeks in my world

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

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

Feeling frisky

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

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

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

That Toad Work

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

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

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

Holidays are Over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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