Epilogue

Thursday July 16, 2009, 4 km (2 miles) - Total so far: 1,013 km (629 miles)

We ended up going back to Melbourne the next day on the 3pm bus. It took 17 hrs and was probably the least comfortable travel experience I've ever had! I was mightily impressed by those lucky few who managed to get to sleep.

I've already slotted back into 'normal life', getting ready for the start of university in two days. Bike touring is definitely on my mind though. Two weeks wasn't very long at all, and I've become very excited about my plan to ride up through Asia and around Europe (possibly with a few flights in there to cut out the politically unstable parts). It's still a few years off, but in the mean time I'd like to see a lot more of Australia and probably New Zealand. The other guys seem keen too, so hopefully we can make it a tradition of getting away for a few weeks every uni holidays.

I'm going to have to do something about my touring set up though. I've become very frustrated with my pannier rack breaking and ruining things for me. It's very tempting to give up on panniers completely and purchase a bike trailer. James and Jono had no problems at all with their trailers and they were able to take at least as much stuff than me while seemingly being less affected by the weight they were carrying. On the other hand, I have invested in top of the line panniers (Ortlieb), so it does make sense to continue using them. Maybe I just need to buy a really good rack. The braze ons on my mountain bike are basically destroyed though, so I'm going to need to get someone to retap the thread for me so that a rack can actually stay on without having to go through the derailleur hanger.

Day twelve: Mittagong to Sydney

Thursday July 16, 2009, 150 km (93 miles) - Total so far: 1,013 km (629 miles)

With the elevation profile showing a downhill route all the way to Sydney, there were no complaints when I woke everyone up at 5:30 AM for a 7:30 departure. For the first 70km to Campbelltown, it was everything we'd hoped for. Whoosh, we sped down the Hume, averaging something ridiculous like 28kph.

Things did level out a bit after Campbelltown, but before we rode any further, we had a delicious and very cheap lunch at a Lebonese bakery. The $1.40 oregano pizza was absolutely divine with half an avocado spread on top (I bought two).

Our maps ran out a little bit past Mittagong, and unfortunately that meant we were stuck at the mercy of the highway direction signs. This meant that we had to make a horrible detour when we encountered a 'no bikes' sign on the overpass that would have connected us to the M4 motorway leading to Sydney. I really did not understand the logic of it considering that bikes were actually allowed on the motorway itself. We ended up having to ride an extra 6km in the other direction until we could get off and ride up an exit ramp that took us to the correct side of the M4. Quite annoyed by this, we had a stop at Macdonalds before tackling the remainder of the ride into Sydney.

For twenty km, we rode down the M4, getting heart breakingly close to Sydney before another sign summarily kicked us off. Matt M was all for ignoring the signs, but after my tangles with police for doing exactly that in Spain, I wasn't keen to try our luck and followed the directions to take the bike path. The path wasn't all that great with far too many crossings at busy roads where we had to wait ages for the traffic to clear, but I still would have preferred to stay on it rather than ride down Parramatta rd as Matt M convinced us to do. It was awful. The road was barely wide enough for three lanes of busy traffic, let alone a bike lane, so we were stuck in the mix of it with cars whizzing past with just centimetres to spare. To top it off, the road was very hilly and obviously hadn't been maintained very well.

I hadn't had enough to drink and was getting quite whoozy, having to really concentrate hard to avoid making an error of judgement that could result in me getting mown down and I really just wanted it to be over. When we got to the CBD things got even more hectic as we struggled to work out exactly how to the Opera house. Sydney was far too busy for my liking with an incredible amount of traffic both in cars and on foot.

Eventually we did get there and got some nice British tourists to take this snap in front of the opera house (which I must point out is far more yellow than I expected)

Rating: (0)

I was feeling utterly drained and got separated from the guys at one stage as we tried to find a tourist information centre. Luckily I still had a bit of charge left in my mobile phone and found them again before we made our way down George street on foot (which wasn't a pleasant experience for us or for the crowds of pedestrians) and into a youth hostel.

After digging into (some would say 'stealing and eating') two tins of home brand baked beans left in the room, I felt a lot better and enjoyed our celebratory dinner (well kind of, it was fairly mediocre food) and drinks at a nearby Chinese restaurant. I nearly fell asleep at a quiet drinks session that followed, but somehow regained enough energy to go for an exploratory tour of Kings cross and Oxford street with James while the others slept (losers:P).

Day eleven: Goulburn to Mittagong

Wednesday July 15, 2009, 92 km (57 miles) - Total so far: 859 km (534 miles)

This was probably the best day of the whole tour. We decided to ride on the Hume highway to make it easier to negotiate the Dividing range and discovered that contrary to what people had warned us, the Hume is actually quite nice to ride on. The road has a massive shoulder so you never feel in danger of being hit by the passing traffic, and there are trees the whole way, which creates a bit of a wind tunnel effect. Luckily for us, the wind was blowing towards Sydney, so we got a massive boost. I had it better than anyone else with the massive extra cross sectional area from my panniers, so for once I found myself beating everyone up the climbs!

It was feeling so good that that when we went past the '160km til Sydney' marker, I started very optimistically thinking that we could make it that night. Surprisingly, almost everyone else supported the idea, even though it would have meant riding until at least 10pm. In hindsight, Jono's flat out refusal to go any further when we got to our planned stop in Mittagong was a very wise move. We finished still feeling elated without having endangered our lives or smashed up our legs going further than we needed to.

Day ten: Getting the bike fixed in Goulburn

Tuesday July 14, 2009, 5 km (3 miles) - Total so far: 767 km (477 miles)

I woke up still in quite a lot of pain having dark thoughts about getting my bike fixed but still being unable to ride on to Sydney. Before that could happen I needed to actually get my bike fixed though, so I dragged myself out of bed and scouted around for a decent bike shop. 'The Greengrocer' (which was actually a combination greengrocer-bike shop) had been recommended to me by the motel manager, so I went and spoke to the mechanic there. He had a replacement derailleur hanger, so I wheeled my bike up, quite hopeful that everything could be fixed.

It took a while, but after he put a new derailleur in and put the bike back together, things were looking rosy again. In fact the bike rode better than ever. I guess it was just a $140 lesson to take better care of my bike (he agreed that the incident was probably due to the dry chain).

For the rest of the day, I mooched around, eating junk food and using the free internet at the tourist info office, while still feeling very unwell. The guys made it into town at about 4pm and I rode up to meet them at the caravan park. I was quite relieved to find that cycling didn't give me any pain. It sounded like they'd had quite a trouble free ride despite leaving very late without my nagging to get them going:P

Day nine: Cootamundra to Harden: Disaster strikes

Monday July 13, 2009, 38 km (24 miles) - Total so far: 762 km (474 miles)

Much refreshed after the rest day, I felt ready to have a big day and was looking forward to getting all the way to Yass. I obviously wasn't fully recovered though because as usual I found it hard to keep up at the start. Things did seem to improve after we hit the hills though, and the descents which followed made for a fun ride at a decent pace.

I couldn't help noticing though that my chain was squeaking quite a lot. It had rained the previous night and the little lube that was on my chain to start off with (hadn't lubed it in about 500k) had obviously been washed off. I wasn't too concerned though, so it came as quite a surprise when I switched down a chain ring to go up a hill and my derailleur had what I will euphemistically call a 'hissy fit'..Things went crunch in a very, very unpleasing way. Close inspection revealed that my derailleur had managed to force its way into my spokes, bending a few in the process and snapping the derailleur hanger in half. In short, my bike wasn't going anywhere fast. We might possibly have been able to turn it into a single speed and fix the pannier rack on with wire (it had been attached to the derailleur hanger but I'm not 100% sure that this contributed to the problem), but I didn't really trust anyone to do this correctly; didn't think I'd be able to ride all the way to Goulburn (150k with hills) which is where the next bike shop was; and in any case didn't want to hold up the group again after the protracted delay in Benella when my pannier rack broke for the first time.

So with the help of the guys who still had working bikes, I packed my bike into a box and booked myself a seat on the train to Goulburn. An old guy by the name of Nick Rawlin (a christian name passed down for generations in his family for some reason) had come over earlier to see what had happened, and he turned out to be both very helpful and a rather interesting fellow. While he drove up to the station with my stuff; helped me drag it up to the platform and then waited with me until the train came, I learnt a bit about his rather amazing cycling career.

He'd been riding all his life (79 years old now) and was still racing until 8 years ago when he broke his collarbone in a nasty crash. He still rides about 50km every day and is incredibly fit. Over the years, he's cycled all over Australia, having crossed the Nullarbor plain five times (and he was talking about doing it again at the end of the year). I was astonished to hear that he'd often forego sleep completely in order to get home faster. On one occasion, he raced another man back from somewhere in Qld, 1030km away. He did it in three days and did not get a wink the whole time (the other guy finished 12 hours behind and he cheated! drafting off his support vehicles for a good 600km). A great many age group records are in his name, including the record for the most distance travelled in 24hr: 560km!

Off the bike as well, he excelled at feats of endurance. He used to work at a flour mill before the days of conveyor belts, and one day managed to haul 4552 bags of wheat, each weighing 87kg. This was and still is (they don't lift the bags by hand anymore for good reason!) a record and let me tell you that Nick is not a big man by any standards - probably 1.60m.

I was deeply impressed by his achievements and ended up in a much lighter mood than I had been after the catastrophic failure of my bike. He helped me lift the stuff on to the train (I didn't feel so concerned about stressing his apparently frail body after hearing the wheat hauling story), and then I bade him goodbye, promising to write him a letter when I got home.

It was a pleasant train ride to Goulburn. The tracks passed through some really beautiful scenery that really changed my perspective of Australia as a place to visit. In the past, I hadn't really regarded the Australian landscape as a particularly aesthetically pleasing one, but on that afternoon, with the sun dipped at just the right angle to illuminate those rolling hills, brooks and gum trees in the most favourable way possible, I had to admit that it really was a gorgeous part of the world. As the other guys cycled along, they later reported to me that they were having a similar experience. It is definitely a place I'd like to visit again.

I felt a bit disconcerted when I got off in Goulburn, having no way to move my voluminous gear around and no idea where I was going to stay that night. A quick scouting trip revealed two supermarket trolleys, and thus my first problem was solved, and a quick conversation with the station master revealed that there were a number of motels just across the road. I managed to convince the manager of the closest motel to give me a $15 discount on the room (the pub next door was advertising $50 rooms and I told him I couldn't afford any more), so I was all set for the night.

[not for the squeamish]
The two Matts and I were planning on running in the Hunter Valley half marathon when we got to Sydney, so I decided to go for a long run that night. It turned out to be a very bad idea. I had obviously eaten far too much in the previous 24hrs and hadn't cleared it out of my system, because I had to make a bee line for the public toilets twice. By the end of the run, I could hardly walk from the pain in my abdomen and when I finally got back to my motel room I was in severe pain and had some kind of fever, which had me wearing all of my jumpers and jackets, sleeping with the heavy bed covers over my sleeping bag with the heater on full blast. It was a very unpleasant night.
[/not for the squeamish]

Day eight: Rest day in Cootamundra

Sunday July 12, 2009

We decided to take one of our three allotted rest days in Cootamundra so that James wouldn't end up finishing the ride in a hospital bed. It was a wise decision, and I was definitely in need of a recovery day too. I went for a few walks around town, but mostly just stayed in the cabin and watched TV and ate.

Anand and the two Matts went to a local rugby match and claim to have enjoyed the experience. I assume they're lying to make themselves feel better about having wasted $7 each:P

Day seven: Junee to Cootamundra

Saturday July 11, 2009, 73 km (45 miles) - Total so far: 724 km (450 miles)

I managed to sleep well that night, but James had a terrible experience, unable to sleep with a raging fever that had him open the windows to let in the sub zero air outside. We were all quite worried about his condition especially as he'd gotten pneumonia not too long ago when he'd pushed his body a bit too far. After another lazy breakfast and slow packing up period, I went with him to the chemist, where he bought some powerful decongestants/anti flu meds that would hopefully get him through the next few days.

As if sensing our collective vulnerability, the weather gods once again punished us with a strong head wind. To top it off, the route for today had a decidedly uphill bent to it, and I struggled to keep up with the others, especially Jono who was obviously going for King of the Mountains points (and riding in the big chain ring the whole time too!):P

We stopped at Bethungra for a lunch break at the only shop, which everyone agreed was both overpriced and annoyingly lacking in amenities such as toilets and bins. It was pleasing to hear though that we'd conquered the worst of the hills and would have a significant stretch of downhill to enjoy as we made our way to Cootamundra.

Unfortunately going down one of the descents, we had our first stack of the tour. James went over a road mounted reflector at a bad angle and went down in agonising slow motion just in front of me. Luckily I managed to avoid riding over the top of him (that would have resulted in some pretty serious injuries!), but he was in a bad way, having gashed the palms of his hands quite seriously. Our words of helpful advice were understandably pushed away as he performed the hand jerking dance of a man in shock:P A number of cars stopped to see if they could help (something I found very endearing after some very different experiences in Spain), including a doctor on her way to Queensland, who did a far better job than we would have done in bandaging him up.

In light of the injury and his fragile health, we decided to call it a very early day and stop at Cootamundra. I urged the group to go ahead while I rode the 10km into town very slowly and in significant discomfort, wishing that I'd stopped at the rest area just past the crash site. Obviously I hadn't learned much from my previous attempt to lighten my 1kg load of prunes! (They were $2 for a bag and I couldn't bear to throw them out:P)

After liberating myself (what a relief!), I met up with the others at the information centre. We were trying to find out about accommodation options in the nearby vicinity, but the man behind the counter was incredibly unhelpful. After some time, a much friendlier woman emerged and helped us confirm that Cootamundra would be the best place to stay for the next two nights while James and I recovered.

Somewhat embarrassed by the low daily total, I went out for an afternoon ride with Matt Z back up to the hill where James had crashed. It turned out to be a bad decision because the urge to go hard on the unloaded bike was too great, and I was almost in a coughing fit after 10km.

Day six: Grong Grong to Junee

Friday July 10, 2009, 83 km (51 miles) - Total so far: 651 km (405 miles)

With the fire in the courtyard pouring smoke down my throat all night, I woke up with a nasty cough, feeling shocking. I made a bit of an effort to have breakfast and get my stuff packed, but ended up slinking back into bed to stay warm. This ended up lasting for longer than was ideal because it turned out that my attempts to wake up the others had not been as successful as I thought:P James and Anand were sound asleep while everyone else had had breakfast and gotten themselves ready. A more vigorous wake up call was performed by Matt M and at 10.30, we finally got out of the hotel.

I knew I'd slow the group down if I rode my bike, so I did a swap with Matt Z, and James, who wasn't feeling great either, did the same with Anand. Even with the lighter load, it was still a bit of a struggle against a headwind. This was commented on by a passing train driver, who yelled a warning to watch out for police who might be tempted to book us for speeding:P

After slogging it out for a few hours, we got to Junee. I kind of wanted to keep on riding to keep on schedule, but after calling the only hotel at Bethungra to discover that they were full, we decided to make it an easy day and just stay at the Junee caravan park even though it was only 3pm. The managers were very friendly and offered us the use of their garage to ensure that our bikes weren't pinched by the local kids, who sound like they go in for that kind of thing judging by the fact that the caravan park's golf cart had already been stolen four times!

Day five: Urana to Grong Grong

Thursday July 9, 2009, 107 km (66 miles) - Total so far: 569 km (353 miles)

Perhaps I should have slept in the toilet block after all. I felt allright when I woke up, but after breakfast I began to get a rather nasty sore throat, which got so bad I couldn't talk at all when we started riding. To make matters worse, we were stuck with a massive headwind the whole day. The terrain was pretty flat, but with the headwind, it was like riding uphill the whole day. We were averaging 16kph but working as hard as the day before when we rode at 22kph.

By the time we reached our lunch stop at Comundurah at 12pm, we'd only gone about 35km. I got the maps out and soon realised there was no way we were going to make it to our planned destination of Coolamon, which would've involved a 130km day. Indeed we'd be lucky to make it to Narranderah (90k) before dark.

The riding did get a bit better after lunch, when the monotonous wheat fields were replaced with wind sheltering bushland and a rolling hill or two. Everyone was struggling, me especially, and the group fragmented at a time when it would really have been best for us to stick together and fight the wind as a team. That said, the small shoulder meant that it was unsafe to ride two abreast. The trucks roaring past seemed incredibly unsafe. At one point when we'd pulled over to fix Jono's trailer, two trucks powered up the hill, taking up both lanes as one attempted to overtake the other. He just avoided hitting us, and if there had been any other traffic on the road, there would have been lives lost for sure (there was no way he could have seen the road ahead before he'd already pulled level with the other truck, leaving no room to manoeuvre).

It was quite a relief when we got to Narrenderah and off the awful Newell Highway. There was a caravan park in town, but I was keen to keep going if there was anywhere we could get to before darkness. The lady at the tourism office suggested Grong Grong, which was 22k up the road and which had a hotel we could stay at. Everyone agreed to keep going, so we did a quick supermarket shop and then gunned it for an hour, enjoying the lack of the headwind which had finally died off.

The hotel was a bit of a dump, but it was fairly cheap and felt like an authentic bush pub with a clientele of farmers and labourers who gave us tips on which route to take. Unfortunately for my lungs, there was a fire in the courtyard, which sent smoke into my room all night, with the result that I developed a nasty cough.

Day four: Wangaratta to Urana

Wednesday July 8, 2009, 128 km (79 miles) - Total so far: 462 km (287 miles)

I was up early for a pre-arranged interval training session with Justin and Matt Z around the local athletics track in sub-zero temperatures. The aim was to leave early, so by the time we got back, the others were up and porridge and coffee were being served: a perfect start to the day. Sharon and Justin just kept up the generosity, Justin arranging to post my useless tent and a pair of shoes (both left-footed, doh!) that I'd brought for Matt Z, back home for me and Sharon offering to lead us to the NSW border where there was apparently a tricky turn.

We left at 8:30 - a record for us, but Justin still thought we'd lagged around a bit:P Sharon paced us along perfectly, getting us to Corowa in excellent time. We had an early lunch break there that ended up stretching out for quite a while and I felt bad for making her wait so long, but she didn't seem to mind. After the turnoff to Urana, Sharon turned back with our sincerest thanks and we were on our own. The road was very flat, and it was quite a nice ride, but the sheer monotony of the wheat fields, which were all we could see in every direction, began to get to us, and we struggled to stay focused.

At one point, the lane markers vanished and seeing as we hadn't seen a car in hours, we decided to have some fun and ride six-abreast. Heehee.

Rating: (0)

Finally, after just under 6hrs, we made it to Urana, which was actually a bigger town than I was expecting. Google maps hadn't shown any real accommodation there, but it turned out to have a caravan park there. Score!

We set up camp, and then first went to the supermarket for expensive provisions and then for expensive beers at the only pub, which had a rather depressing interior and clientele. As we cooked dinner at the barbecue area of the 'aquatic centre' (consisting of a lake with no water), the slightly inebriated proprietoress of the caravan park, Marion ('Robin's girlfriend') approached with a CD player and a CD produced to commemorate Urana's recent 150th year anniversary. For a good 45 minutes we were regaled with stories about Urana's past and given an insight into the town Marion wanted Urana to become (a haven for disabled children who would come to see the somehow-replenished lake and vivid shearing/droving demonstrations). She charged us with the responsibility of spreading the word about Urana in all of our future university assignments ('Don't you dare forget Urana when you become academics!').

Before she left, she offered to set up the toilet block with a heater for us to sleep in. Only James was game enough to brave the (very well disguised but still present) toilet aroma despite the -2C night.

Day three: Shepparton to Wangaratta

Tuesday July 7, 2009, 107 km (67 miles) - Total so far: 334 km (208 miles)

I slept quite poorly in the small Woolworths tent but managed to drag myself and the others up at a reasonable hour. James and I ate breakfast together at the caravan park while the others went to Maccers for coffee, and in hindsight, we both made errors of judgement. James burnt his tongue on some hot porridge and I, eager to use up all of my bananas, cooked myself a mash of bananas, dates and prunes, that would come back to haunt me.

Braving the chilly air, we packed up our tents and hit the road. It was very pleasant with the sun shining benevolently down on us and the little traffic there was sharing the road very amicably. As we rode past a farm, this cute little pony came sprinting towards us, seemingly intent on jumping the fence and bowling us over in its excitement. Luckily for all of us, it stopped just shy of the fence, and while we gave its neck a pat, the owner came out and had a friendly chat. This incident epitomised country life for me. People were actually interested in what we were doing (though they were all disappointed to hear we weren't raising money for a charity or anything like that), and were eager to talk about it and offer us help.

Sadly, the enjoyable atmosphere was shattered when the bolt connecting my pannier rack to the frame sheared off for about the seventh time. I was very annoyed and concerned, because the fix up job I did with wire really didn't look that stable. We rode on to Benella, hoping there would be a bike shop there. It was difficult to find, but there was one. The grumpy, old guy behind the counter didn't seem very confident at all that he could fix it, but eventually managed to get a new pannier rack to attach to the bike, complaining all the time about these men invading his bike shop and scaring the customers away (yeah right). By the time it was all fixed, it was 4.30pm and we still had 40km to go.

There was a tail wind behind us, but we were still a good 20k away from Wangaratta when it became necessary to turn our lights on. I further delayed us with a rush for the rest rooms from what I shall politely call a 'fibre overload' incident. Needless to say, the others were a little bit miffed and talk of beer-reparations was rife (I bought a six pack and a round of icypoles the next day:P). Still, it wasn't all bad, because about 20 minutes later, we met up with Justin, whose house we were going to be staying at that night.

Matt Morris and I only knew him vaguely from the running website coolrunning.com.au but he turned out to be the most welcoming, generous and friendly person any of us had ever met. He and his wife Sharon gave us the run of the house and served us a fantastic dinner of pasta bake and salad with golden syrup dumplings for dessert. Over dinner, he and Sharon awed us with their tales of ultra-running (Justin ran 182km in 24hrs two weeks before we arrived and Sharon is likely to be selected for the national Ultra running squad) and cycling (Sharon had just completed a 1500k ride up to Qld in 7 days!).

It was exactly the kind of experience we needed to forget what hadn't been the best of days.

Day two: Seymour to Shepparton

Monday July 6, 2009, 92 km (57 miles) - Total so far: 227 km (141 miles)

Invigorated by my sleep in my 'tent', I rose early and went for a (heckle-free) run. The others were much slower to emerge from their sleeping bags, and it was past 10AM by the time we headed off. Still, we had a much easier day ahead of us, so it didn't particularly matter. The road was flat, the weather was nice and everything went well. There was a bit of an issue at about the 40k mark when Anand and Jono took off in a sprint just as I was starting to flag, meaning that the group, and the wind block it represented, disintegrated. When I caught up, I was hot, both from the exertion and from my righteous anger (:P) and cooled off by eating 8 oranges and an avocado (we'd passed a sign for the fruit fly exclusion zone saying 'Eat it or bin it' and I chose the former option:P).

Feeling rather full, I followed behind as we rode all together at a much more manageable pace. I say manageable, but we still averaged just under 25kph for the day, which in my touring experience is INCREDIBLE! The best I'd ever done in Spain was around 19.5kph and that was with a 50km stretch of downhill and a tailwind. I was very impressed and I think everyone else was too. That and relieved that it hadn't been anywhere near as hard as the first day.

The early finish meant we still had heaps of daylight left..so Matt Z and I headed off for the artificial light of the supermarket, while the others went to a dingey pub to watch the footy:P

Dinner that night was epic, with 2.5kg of stir fry vegetables consumed by Matt Z and I alone.

Day one: Melbourne to Seymour

Sunday July 5, 2009, 135 km (84 miles) - Total so far: 135 km (84 miles)

The big day had finally come. After weeks of planning and organising, we were finally ready to leave the familiar roads of Melbourne for the (not so) great unknown of country Victoria, NSW and that behemoth of Australian cities, which despite being bigger than our humble town, could not possibly come close to comparing (but we had to visit just to check): Sydney.

I'd set a ridiculously early rendevouz time at my house and was somewhat relieved that the two guys (James and Matt Z) who were meant to be meeting me at 6:20 AM were not there at the appointed hour, because I was running late as always:P I'd left the packing until the night before and hadn't gotten much sleep at all, so I did my best to throw things into my pannier bags and hoped that I hadn't forgotten anything. The other guys seemed better prepared, except for Matt Z who had only the night before discovered that his bike did not have the requisite braze-ons to accommodate the pannier rack he'd purchased. We ended up having to take most of his gear for him, which wasn't optimal, but what-can-ya-do?

The sun was just starting to rise when we set off and the traffic was minimal, so the ride into the city was quite nice. We did go quite slowly, however, and I think that was mainly because of me. I'd forgotten what it feels like to ride with fully loaded panniers!

Having met Jonathan just down the road and Anand on the bike path, the group was almost together, save for Matt Morris, who was dragged into the peloton after a mandatory group shot at Fed Square in the city:

Rating: (0)

Spirits were high as we headed for Plenty rd, eager to get out of the city. So eager was Jono that he managed to get his (two-wheeled) trailer to do a wheelie as he accelerated round a corner. No harm was done, but it looked pretty cool! Matt Morris was the first casualty of the day and headed the customary 'shout for flatting out' beer tally list after getting a flat (although further inspection revealed no actual puncture, just a twisted tube) on the glass riddled streets of Northcote and then having a frayed brake cable snap in the repair process. Luckily there was a bike shop nearby and while half the group attempted to fit a new cable, I sat on a bench and ate my snacks:P 'Too many mechanics spoil the oil cloth' after all;)

The little delay cost us about half an hour, but we set good time after that and were soon out of the trendy inner suburbs and into the McMansion/Bogan zone. I was chastised for riding off the back by a group of five rat-tailed sk8er-bois who high fived everyone else and then mooned me, the little scum bags!

A little way before Whittlesea, we saw a sign for cheap apples and made a spur of the moment decision to pick some up. As far as riding food goes, it's probably not ideal, but my rumbling tummy appreciated the freshly picked Pink Lady apples and pears. Overhead, the sky started to rumble, and it was on with the jackets as we were treated with a sprinkling of rain. It didn't last very long thankfully, but we were careful to avoid any discussion of the weather after that, as there was a shared feeling that a comment along the lines of 'Gee the weather is fantastic today' may have aroused the wrath of the gods.

The testing phase of the day began near Wandong when we were met by a series of climbs. On a road bike they're nothing to worry about, but with our bikes/trailers loaded down we found it hard going and I found myself eyeing off the day's elevation profile a bit too often hoping for the large spike to somehow disappear off the page. It wasn't to be, however, we did find consolation in a food stop at Wandong where we were first berated by the fish and ship owner for leaning our bikes against her glass shop window and then scoffed at by cigarette smoking tweens:P

Just as we left the town, the heavens really opened up and I got quite soaked before I had a chance to put my jacket on. No sooner had I done so when the rain stopped and more hills appeared, causing me to sweat profusely beneath my suddenly too thick clothing. One can hardly complain about sun though and together with a deserted road and lovely bush scenery, it made for very picturesque riding.

We were covering ground at a good rate, but the short day was threatening to end, and our google maps-derived directions had led us to a dead end, so we decided to bite the bullet and get off the scenic road and onto the roar of the Hume highway. It was loud, nasty and brutish (sorry Hobbs), but it led us in the right direction, and the din of trucks abusing their compression brakes really got us moving fast. Just as darkness was beginning to descend, we made the turn off to Seymour and thus completed the day's ride.

Searching for accommodation, we first tried A CErtain caravan park, whose name I will not mention ( ;-) ) and whose proprietors appeared much more interested in the puffs of smoke inside their office than in procuring our custom. The second place we tried was much better and the manageress went to great lengths to make sure we were comfortable. After locking our bikes to her daughter's car port, we began to set up camp and it was at this point I discovered that my rushed packing process had resulted in my leaving something rather important behind: the tent poles....:S Doh! Displaying great ingenuity (I thought), I managed to rig up a structure that somewhat resembled a tent, but whose water-resistant properties were likely non-existent.

Rating: (0)

Matt Z (who was to share the tent) was amazingly non-plussed, but when the opportunity presented itself to buy another tent (at Woolworths of all places), he declined the invitation to overnight in my humble abode. I was too stubborn to join him and despite the significant risk of waking up in a swimming pool, managed to have a decent night's sleep.

Further comedy that night was provided by the following events:
- James basically passing out from exhaustion as soon as he'd set up the tent
- Local lads heckling Matt Z and I when we went for a run in our cycling knicks:
"Youse trainin for footy or somethin?"
- yeah
"Then what's all that spandex for? I just run naked"
- James waking up and attempting to consume 3L worth of powdered milk in one sitting:P

Sydney or Bust!

I had my last exam for the semester today. Such a load off my plate (Quentin Cassidy would love that mixed metaphor)! The next three weeks will hopefully involve very little mental stimulation:P

I promised a write up of the Melbourne to Sydney trip, so here we go:

Sydney or bust:

The motto on our custom jerseys, though now inaccurate, is a good summary of what we're doing:
' 1271km (actually closer to 1100k)
15 days (actually 11)
5 guys (actually 6)
1 mission'

This Saturday,

Jonno

Matt Morris


Myself (Jeremy)


Anand


James

and Matt Z (no pics)

will begin our journey. Loaded down with panniers, trailers, backpacks and overconfidence, we'll escape Melbourne and take the backroads all the way up to Sydney. We'll be living it rough, riding all day and then camping (mostly at caravan parks, but there is one night in Urana where we'll have to stealth camp:P) by night. The route will be mostly flat, but as we get close to Canberra, we'll have to deal with some serious hills.


View Larger Map



Day by day breakdown:
Day 1: Melb to Seymour (flat): 105k = 5.8hrs
Stay at Goulburn river caravan park - 70 Trevan st Seymour

Day 2: Seymour to Shepparton (flat): 85k = 4.7hrs
Stay at Goulburn Valley Motor village - 8047 Goulburn Valley Highway, Shepparton VIC

Day 3: Seymour to Wangaratta (flat): 97k = 5.38hrs
Stay at Justin's house

Day 4: Wang to Urana (stealth camping: flat): 133k = 7.38hrs (leave early that day:P)
Stealth camping

Day 5: Urana to Coolamon (flat): 133k = 7.38hrs (same)
Stay at Coolamon Caravan Park - Bruce St, Coolamon New South Wales 2701

Day 6: Coolamon to Cootamundra (hilly): 97k = 7hrs (^)
Stay at Cootamundra Caravan Park - 55 Mackay St, Cootamundra

Day 7: Coot to Binalong (hilly): 69k = 5hrs
Either stealth camp or stay at a motel (Binalong hotel)

Day 8: Binalong to Canberra (hilly): 85k = 6hrs
Canberra carotel caravan park - Zelling Street Watson ACT

Day 9: Canberra to Goulburn (hilly): 94k = 6.64hrs

Governer's hill caravan park - Sydney Rd, Goulburn

Day 10: Goulburn to Mittagong (up and down): 117k = 7.5hrs
Stay at Mittagong Caravan park

Day 11: Mittagong to Sydney (downhill all the way!): 112k = 7hrs
Stay at Backpackers Central Youth Hostel or Sheralee Caravan Park Rockdale

---
It's going to be tough, no doubt about it. We have to get to Sydney by the 18th so Anand can catch his flight back, so that means we can only really take two rest days. One will be in Canberra and the other will kind of be for emergencies.

---
My leg's still bothering me, though this time it's my left one. I think it might just have something to do with the height of my seat on my bikes. Matt Z pointed out that it was very low on my road bike during a ride on Saturday and indeed after we raised it, my leg felt a lot better. Riding my crappy commuter to uni today though, I was getting pain behind my left knee and I bet it was because the saddle was fairly low.

I'm really feeling in limbo at the moment. It's a fairly minor injury, but I want to get it fixed up so that I can feel confident about being able to put in some hard weeks without having to take multiple days off afterwards. I've got an appointment with the physio tomorrow, so I'll see what he says. My current thinking is to take the rest of the week off and then shoot for 70kpw during the tour. 5k morning and night shouldn't stress the legs too much I hope. He'll presumably give me some exercises/stretches to do as well.

3-7/2: WWOOFing, coughing and riding through a blizzard

3/2:
Slept poorly, coughing wretchedly and clutching at my throat to try and alleviate the pain. Eating breakfast hurt. Tea is my new addiction.

Sigrid looked at me with a bit of concern when I said I'd go out and work with Luke. I knew my throat was going to hurt no matter where I was, and being outside in the clean air was probably better for my cough, so I sucked it up and rugged up against the cold. It actually wasn't bad at all. I don't understand how -2 degrees can feel so comfortable to me when I've been accustomed to at least 10 degrees.

The WWOOFing task for today was to dig up all the grass and dirt from a patch out behind the stable where Martin wanted to construct a path for the horses to walk up and down. I was comically inept when it came to using the spade. On more than one occasion, I jumped up onto the hilt, intending to drive it into the earth, only to slip or stumble and almost go flying! It was quite fun though and very satisfying seeing the hole gradually widen and the truck gradually fill up with wheelbarrow loads of dirt.

There was a very tough patch near the chicken coop, which received very little sunlight and was frozen as a result. We got the pickaxes out and swung with all our might, trying to ignore the icey shrapnel that flew back into our faces. Before long I was down to just my thermal top.

I was getting pretty tired towards the end and was glad when we ran out of room in the back of the truck at about 5:20. Time to call it a day, we both decided. We'd done most of the hard work, and I thought I'd be able to almost finish it off by myself the next day (Luke was leaving for Munich).

Dinner tonight was shephard's pie with lentils. It was very well received, though Sigrid just scooped off the mashed potatoes, leaving the lentils sitting in the dish much to the disdain of everyone else present ('Das ist unfair!').

4/2:
My throat was feeling a lot better but to compensate for that, my cough had become quite a bit worse. I ate breakfast slowly and went outside at 9am to fill up the water containers for the horses. Luke's train was leaving at 9:30 and he cut it right to the line, getting a lift to the station with Sigrid at 9:20. He's going on a big exploratory trip of Germany, visiting Munich, Berlin, various relatives and wherever strikes his fancy basically. It's definitely the best way to do it this time of year I think! He'll have seen more of the country than I have, which is a bit sad considering I've already spent about four months longer than him here:P

The digging progressed a lot more quickly today. The soil wasn't frozen at all and thanks to the work we'd done yesterday, all I had to do was cut out blocks of earth with the spade and chuck them into the wheelbarrow.

Some time after lunch, a neighbour came out into her garden to take advantage of the bright sun, and started chatting with me. Amusingly, I spent about 5 minutes explaining where it was I come from. She claimed that I was saying Australia incorrectly (I need to stress the 'Ow' a bit more apparently) but Martin thought she was just a little deaf. I have to agree with him, Slovenia sounds nothing like Australia!

After six hours of tough work, I'd almost gotten to the door of the stable, but not quite. I was happy to call it a day when the sun went down though. There's another WWOOFer coming tomorrow, maybe she'll finish it off.

5/2:
Woke up very early for me - 7am - and couldn't get back to sleep, so I went down and had an early breakfast. The cough was as bad as ever, but the sore throat had vanished completely. The plan for today was to ride to Klostereichenbach, where I've booked a holiday apartment for the next two weeks. Getting over the inertia to leave was quite difficult. I sprawled on the couch, surfing the net for a few hours, only getting my act together when Martin told me there was snow forecast for 1pm.

I thanked him for letting me stay the past two days and rode off, following a map he'd printed out for me. It was very nice riding on the well maintained German roads with pretty little villages at regular intervals and the Black Forest never far away. To get to Klostereichenbach, which was about 45km away, I first had to do a little bit of climbing before finishing off with what Martin promised me would be a very nice descent.

As I got up above 700m, Winter showed its face and I was treated to a gorgeous snow covered landscape. It was incredibly beautiful and I felt privileged to witness what is becoming a very rare sight in Germany these days. The wind swirled around a fair bit, making riding quite difficult especially as I was feeling quite wretched, coughing violently and feeling quite weak and hungry after a very inadequate breakfast. A road cyclist soared past me up a hill and called out 'Has the touring season started already then!?'

One o'clock came and went, but luckily I'd escaped the dark clouds despite my slow progress. Desperately hungry, I stopped at a service station and picked up some nice rolls (how I love German bread). Luckily I'd done the tough part of the ride by then and only had to go about five hundred metres before reaching the start of the promised downhill. Whoopee, down I went, wind whipping into my face and sending the huge wind turbines spinning quickly. The last five km were flat and still buzzed from the downhill, I pushed into the wind and flew along.

After consulting with the very cheery woman at the tourist office, I found the apartment, was given a quick tour and left to my own devices. It's nothing special: a little kitchen, a little bathroom, a little TV and a bed that folds out from the wall (the first one I've ever seen!). But it's all I need:)

I surfed the net for quite a while, ignoring the fact that I had nothing at all to eat until it was already dark and all the shops in the town were closed. There were always restaurants right..? After ascertaining that the restaurants were both expensive and lacking in suitable dishes for vegans, I bit the bullet and walked the three km to Baiersbronn. It was rather hairy walking next to the road with no shoulder whatsoever. On the way back, laden with groceries, I found a path next to the river. It was rather spooky and I was a tad worried it'd lead me deep into the forest, where I'd meet a Grimm ending.

6/2:
My cough was truly awful today. It wracked my whole body and I just didn't want to do anything. Normally I just train through colds (heavy exercise has been shown to not slow your recovery rate at all), but when it's below the neck I exercise a little more caution. The last thing I want is to end up with bronchitis. So basically I just spent the whole day on the internet, only making a single expedition out to Baiersbronn for more groceries.

7/2:
Woke up feeling quite a bit better. The cough was nowhere near as frequent or violent, which I was very glad of. I decided to get out and do a bit of exercise on the bike. The reason why I chose Klostereichenbach is because it's quite close to the cross country trails. Unfortunately the trails down at this elevation (650m) are not currently skiable (haven't been for a number of years I think), so to get some practice in, I'd have to head up a bit higher. So that's where I headed. Not really very well prepared for any bad weather, I rode off towards the town of Kniebis, which is twenty km away and 300m higher in elevation.

It started raining as soon as I got out the door, and I started to wonder whether this was really a good idea. Telling myself I could always take the train back if it got really bad, I pressed on, soon reaching Freudenstadt. By then, the rain had turned to snow, which spattered into my face and blocked my vision whenever I got up to any decent speed. I was still warm though, and quite enjoying the ride, my unloaded bike responding crisply to my pedal strokes.

Going off memory, I took a wrong turn and cruised downhill for three km before turning back on the advice of a woman walking her dog. Oh well, more hill training can't hurt! I was a bit scared of the road up to Kniebis. From what I could remember of the many bus trips I took up there last year, it was quite steep. So having found the correct road, I took a deep breath, imagining 8% grades all the way up, and set off..downhill..

My memory must be really rubbish, because it was not difficult at all. There was a bit of climbing, but it was very gradual, barely noticeable most of the time. I actually relished the climb because by that stage, my gloves were very wet and my hands were getting quite cold. I discovered that if I pushed hard up the hill, while simultaneously wiggling my fingers around, my hands actually remained quite warm:)

Before long I had reached Kniebis. The snow was coming down heavily, hanging in the air in great flurries. I was covered in the stuff, but didn't mind at all. The ski stadium was just a bit further up the hill and I spun up easily before dragging my bike across the snow to the Hütte. I wasn't planning on doing any skiing today but I was hoping to hire some skis for the next two weeks. It was within the opening hours they'd published on the website, but the lady at the counter told me there was no-one there who could help me and that I should come back the next day. Oh well, at least I'd got a workout in.

I really wasn't looking forward to the downhill. It was going to be cooold. I pulled on another jumper, my balaclava, my sunglasses (so the snow wouldn't fly into my eyes) and a woolen glove (not sure what happened to the second one). Just as I expected, it was cold. My hands and feet soon felt like blocks of ice and I had the unusual wish for a nice, long uphill. The only good thing about the downhill was that I could go fast (or fastish, I was being cautious on the wet road) and get it over with.

Basically the whole way back to Klostereichenbach was downhill. By the time I got back, I was a wreck. My hands were soo cold! I couldn't get my helmet off, and spent about five minutes trying to get the door to my apartment open, almost crying in frustration. I was wet and cold and just wanted to get inside and curl up in a blanket.

1/2-2/2: The master of the European train network

It felt strange packing away my life into the pannier bags again. Not really concerned about evenly distributing the weight so that my bike would be balanced properly, I just threw everything in and did up the straps. Wobbling slightly, I rode to the station and asked about the next regional train to Barcelona. It didn't leave until 12.18 pm, so I had two hours to kill. With the sun peaking out between the clouds, it seemed to me like the best way for those arbitrary units of time to meet their demise would be through a farewell bike ride along the banks of the Ebro.

Barely had I gone one km when I spotted a big Sunday market. Thinking that there might be some churros to be found, I launched myself into the mass of people thronging around. Sadly there were no such artery thickening treats available, but there were lots of cheap and nasty wares to browse through! I bought myself some new underwear, a very daggy pair of tracky dacks, some gloves, a pair of pliers and some nail clippers before the fatigue of pushing my bike through the crowds wore through my resolve to visit every stall there was. By then it was nearing 12, so I headed back to the station, got through the security screening (the nail clippers didn't pose a threat apparently) and hopped on the train.

The scenery passed quickly before my eyes, and I found myself unconsciously appraising the terrain for suitable stealth camping sites. There was no shortage of well hidden spots on the strip of land adjacent to the rails, but I suspect that the proximity to the train line might not be very conducive to a good night's sleep. Still, the desolate and undeveloped landscape appealed to me. Reminiscing, I decided that this part of central Spain had something special about it to attract cycle tourists. Following the coast had been nice climate wise, but it all felt a little commercial and overbuilt. Here, far off the beaten tourist track, I felt like the spirit of adventure still existed in some way. The harsh cliff faces and the many crumbling peasant huts hearkened back to an earlier age where things were simultaneously simpler and more difficult.

I had no idea how long the train would take, not having bothered to ask before I got on board. It's only 300km east to Barcelona as the crow flies, so I was expecting to be there in not much than three hours. I was therefore a little surprised when I looked up from my laptop and discovered that we were in Tarragona, which is a long way south of Barcelona. “What kind of a route is that?” I wondered and mentally added a few hours to the ETA. Once in Barcelona, I wanted to take a night train to Zurich that would bring me within spitting distance of Germany. If all went well, I'd be in Deutschland the next day. It left at 7.55pm, so I'd still have plenty of time to make the connection despite the very indirect route the regional train was taking.

We ended up arriving in Barcelona around 5:30 PM. I didn't know what station to get off at (there were three apparently), so I just chose the first one, and madly rushed around trying to get all my belongings off the train before it went on. Upstairs, there was more rushing as the men manning the information booth urged me to take the lift back down and get on yet another regional train that was about to leave. Trusting that they knew what they were talking about, I went back down, lay my bike on the floor of the train where it would cause maximum inconvenience to people entering and exiting and made myself comfortable.

Pretty soon it became obvious to me that we were leaving Barcelona. Doubt assailed me, and I looked around for a conductor to ask, but there was no-one. 'Just relax', I told myself and turned on my MP3 player to try and dispel the evil thoughts lurking in my head, telling me that I'd gotten on the wrong train and was heading back down the coast towards Gibraltar.

Luckily I hadn't, because after a time, we reached Girona, which was one of the stopping points for the train to Zurich. I could've gotten off, but decided to stick it out until Cerberes like I'd been advised. A conductor finally showed up, and confirmed that I should stay on til Cerberes, but started me off on a whole new round of worrying when he told me that we were still two hours away. The train to Zurich would have left Barcelona by then! It was a race between the RENFE high velocity express train and the slow as hell Regional train. Hopefully the headstart I had would be enough!

Shortly before eight we pulled into Cerberes. I hadn't even realised it, but in the process I'd crossed into France. The pronunciation of the name should have given it away, but I didn't twig until I heard the distinctive (and very annoying) tone that marks the start of an announcement at French railway stations. Woohoo, making progress here! I bumped my way down the stairs (no concessions were made for the disabled or for heavily loaded touring cyclists) and inquired in very bad French (which involved the use of several Spanish words before it disintegrated completely into English) about the train to Zurich. There wasn't one, she said, but there was a night train to Strasbourg I could take. That would do just as well, and it was only going to cost me one euro fifty too (for a seat not a sleeper), roughly forty times cheaper than the 'hotel train' to Zurich.

I had twelve minutes til the train left, and of course, as it always is with me and French trains, it turned into a very close affair. After dragging my things up the stairs with the help of a nice French girl, I got the assistance of a young conductor who listened to my poorly worded request for a place for my velo before replying in perfect English. He walked me all the way up the other end of the train and helped me lug everything on board. About thirty seconds after I'd sat down in the closest seat (ignoring my reservation completely), we were off. Phew!

It was a fairly uncomfortable journey. I can see now why people are prepared to fork out extra for a sleeper. It's just impossible to sleep properly in the 'Super reclining' seats. I nodded off a few times, but always woke up as soon as we pulled into the next station and a rush of cold air blew into the cabin. It didn't help that I was starting to show symptoms of a fairly serious cold, coughing and rapidly eating (metaphorically) through my box of tissues.

As daybreak arrived, my eyes were treated to the lovely sight of a snow covered landscape. The rain that had been falling in Cerberes had become snowflakes in the colder conditions up North and I was glad. This was the Europe I had come to love. Not so good for bike touring, but for skiing and general aesthetic purposes, it is marvelous.

At nine am, slightly delayed by the adverse weather conditions, I arrived in Strasbourg. Somewhat naievely, I tried immediately to get on an express train to Stuttgart, but was told in no uncertain terms (in three languages) by the conductor that I was not getting my bike on the train without a reservation. Retreating to the ticket office, I first forked over 15 euros for a reservation before discovering that there was a regional train to Offenberg, Germany that would cost me nothing. “Can I have a refund please?”

Three train rides, two pretzels and one warning to get a ticket for my bike later, I was in Bad Teinach, where I planned to ride unannounced (I'd tried calling, but couldn't reach anyone) to the home of the Dietrich Family. I've formed a close connection with them after WWOOFing (volunteering one's labour in exchange for food and board – Willing Workers on Organic Farms) on their farm for two weeks the year before and having no accommodation organised, I thought I'd see if they'd mind me staying a night or two.

Taking most of my warm clothes off in anticipation of the steep climb ahead of me, I rode three km uphill to Zavelstein. It was a lovely ride through the Black Forest, and I barely felt the cold with the afternoon sun shining down on me. That said, I probably would not have ridden up there, had I known that Alt Bulach, the town where I wanted to go, was in the other direction. After receiving that news from two decorators ('Total falsch'), I streaked back down the hill at 50kph and turned left at the bottom, ready to start all over again on the even steeper ascent to Alt Bulach. Coughing and spluttering, I tried to spin in first gear, but my drive chain wasn't behaving, so I had to shift up a bit and climb out of the saddle. Thankfully it was only two km and soon I was in familiar territory, going past a spot in the forest where I'd gathered wood a year ago while WWOOFing.

Coming into the town, I saw three figures on horses and of course it was Sigrid Dietrich and two young girls who she was giving riding lessons. Beaming broadly, I called out to her, and without a trace of surprise in her voice, she replied with 'Why that looks like Jeremy. Martin and Luke are back at the house, why don't you head on over?' Ah so Luke was still here, fantastic:) I wasn't sure when he was leaving on his tour (by train) around Germany, so it was great to learn that I'd get a chance to catch up with him beforehand.

Arriving at the house, I spotted 'Opa' (Grandad) Dietrich out the front. He's always great fun, and after we had a chat, he asked me if I wanted to play a practical joke on Luke. Unable to resist, I watched on as he went inside, told Luke that there was a strange man waiting outside who he didn't recognise and asked him to go out and take a look. I'm not sure what was going through Luke's mind as he poked his head out the door, it was probably one of the strangest WWOOFing tasks he'd had yet:P

After he'd gotten over the shock and given me an über-hetero man hug, I boasted unashamedly about my skill in navigating the European train system. It had taken him three and a half days and something like seventy euros to get back to Alt Bulach, but I'd managed it in just over a day (27 hours to be precise), having spent the princely sum of one euro fifty!

That night (having been graciously invited to stay by the Dietriches), Luke and I swapped stories of what we'd experienced over the last three weeks while having another shot at cooking vegetable Paella. It turned out quite well in spite of the paucity of suitable ingredients, but I found it quite tricky to eat, all the coughing having worn my throat raw, making it torture to swallow.
It really sucks getting sick again literally one day after I'd recovered from the food poisoning incident, but I guess it isn't very surprising. My immune system would've already been pretty battered from the cycling, so the stress of the stomach bug probably obliterated it completely. It's not fun at all, this is definitely the worst cold I've ever had.

27-28th Jan: Soup days

27th:
Did so little that I cannot even dredge up the memories. Feeling very tired, what little food I feel like eating seems to pass straight through without being digested.

Went to the supermarket at one point and bought some packet soup. With double the recommended amount of water and some fried bread (so good - I was craving toast) it was a nice sick person's meal.

Finally managed to track down the Americans I'd met in Valencia and went to an 'Irish' (it was blatantly not Irish) bar where they were drinking one euro Budweisers. It was great to catch up, but I was feeling very tired and left at nine pm.

28th:
Woke up at 6am with leg cramps - danger sign showing insufficient levels of electrolytes in the blood. Spend a lot of time on the loo and wish it would be over already. I hate being sick! At least I'm avoiding the post tour bulge that apparently inflicts most tourists whose appetites are still set on 100km per day.

Went out for a run and it felt great. My legs had some pop in them for the first time in weeks. The sun was shining and it was such a great day for it that I went for a little bike ride next to the river. Strangely, the bike was riding perfectly with no shifting difficulties at all. Perhaps it just needed a break too.

Walked down to the Plaza de Aragon to meet the Americans at two. I had a longing for churros and stopped at a cafe for a coffee. That's what I asked for anyway, and after repeating my order in English, the waiter brought me a (non vegan) hot chocolate and churros. Horribly overpriced (4.50!) and the worst churros I've ever had (I should have walked out the instant I saw them sweating in a bain marie, obviously having been cooked hours before). The falafel kebab I ate afterwards with Uly(sses) and two of his friends was much better, I should have just waited. They all had places to go (tennis lessons, hookah left behind at school haha), so I just walked around for a while, stopping to pull out the laptop and read for a while on a park bench.

Had soup again for dinner and then against my better judgement, went out to the same bar again at eight pm. All the American kids were there celebrating the start of their eleven day holiday (it's ridiculous how much time off they get!) and I was plunged into a violently churning sea of drunk teenagers, struggling to stay afloat amidst the fifty empty bottles of beer that lay on the table before making it breathlessly to the pier, where I sat watching the spectacle disinterestedly (how boring drunken conversations are when you're not in the same state) peeling the labels off the bottles and then slinking off almost almost without saying goodbye.

I should've just stayed home and read.

24-26th jan

24th:
Slept poorly but at least managed to get through the night without having to make a mad rush for the toilet. The run was predictably awful and breakfast not much better. I felt completely drained and gave up any plans of going for a ride around the city and just worked on catching up on the blog.

Around three thirty, I was feeling a little better and went looking for an internet cafe so I could actually upload the blogs (stupid hostel internet connection was not working at all). Couldn't find an open Locutorio, but after scoffing down 2000 calories of pastries (I had a strange craving for something sweet and indulgent), I was, well not 'infused' with energy, but in better shape than before so I decided to walk to the train station.

Maybe I was slightly feverish, but I felt deliriously happy, grinning widely for no real reason as I walked through the city. Spotting a Jardin, I strolled in and my grin spread even wider. It was so lovely, so calm and peaceful. There were beautiful ponds and lush green vegetation that had obviously benefited from the recent rain. I almost laughed out loud when I saw people riding these fantastic four person tandem cycle-coaches (picture to come).

The Plaza de Espagna (almost certainly spelt incorrectly) was on the other side of the gardens, and I marvelled at the palatial splendour of it. An enormous structure, impeccably preserved, with terrific ceramic detailing, it was spoilt only by some stupid, decorum lacking (I sound like an old man) British teenagers attempting to film a skating video on the steps of the plaza.

There was no hurry at all, and I detoured through a few more public gardens before getting to the station. It was really nice doing a touristy walking tour. It's the kind of thing I was hoping to be able to do while on tour, but which didn't end up happening. There's just not enough time in the day, and to be honest, it's hardly worth it considering how difficult it is to get into cities.

At the train station, I didn't bother lining up at the ticket counter and just asked the guy at the info booth straight up if I could take my bike to Zaragoza. Nope. Apparently there's no regional link between Madrid and Zaragoza, so it just wasn't going to happen. Damn..
"What can I do then?"
"Try the bus station."
He thought it was too far to walk, but I didn't care and followed the directions of a few helpful Sevillians, still blissfully cheerful.

I bought a ticket to Madrid (26 euros with the bike) and ran back to the hostel, one hand dedicated to the job of holding my jeans up (I need a belt!).

Had a great chat with Jose in the room that night. It was the perfect scenario, where both of us were experts in the language the other one wanted to learn. I learnt a lot about Chile and picked up a ton of Spanish (including my current fave: asqueroso - rancid, disgusting).

25th:
My clothes had finally dried enough for me to pack up and I managed to get everything organised much better than it had been the whole trip. Tried to go for a run, but gave up after two minutes because I was just feeling too sick. Breakfast didn't help in that regard.

Rode the three km to the bus station, where two friendly policemen took great interest in my bike. Had a bit of an altercation with the bus driver while stowing my bike, but he gave up when I showed little sign of understanding what he was saying (I think he was saying my bike would get damaged and that I should have put it in a box - bah).

It was the perfect day to do a lot of bus travel. I was feeling really awful and it rained constantly. Going 110kph on the autovia felt very strange after having been on a bike for so long. One doesn't feel the distance when each km only takes 34 seconds (I timed it).

The sun was shining when we got to Madrid and I rode very slowly (legs very sore) to another bus station, stopping to buy corn chips and churros. The bus to Zaragoza left in 90 minutes (a relief actually because I hadn't been able to research the timetable on the internet or in person). I sat collapsed next to the bike and read one of Luke's books.

Nearly had a nasty accident going up an escalator with the bike, my weakened body unable to hold it in place, and we both fell down a few steps before I thought to hold the rear brake. Nothing serious though, and soon I was on the second bus for the day, the bus driver having helped me to cover the wheels with garbage bags (other drivers would not have let me on he said).

It was very crowded, and a fat, black man seemed put out at having to squeeze his bulk past me. I'd finished all my books and after re-reading the grammar section of my phrase book, put on the discman to block out the crappy Spanish pop someone was inconsiderately playing from their mobile phone and tried to go to sleep.

Didn't have much success in that regard, so I was very tired when we reached Estacion Delicias in Zaragoza at 11.15 PM after 8 hrs and 950km of bus travel. Getting out my laptop I tried to find directions to the youth hostel where I was planning to stay for the next five nights. Riding north west like Google maps suggested, I crossed over a bridge, which was not meant to happen. Oops. Backtrack. Try West then North. Autovia. Very tired. See sign telling me that I'm leaving Zaragoza. Give up and drag my bike over the safety barrier and just stealth camp next to the service road.

26/1:
Slept surprisingly well in spite of the proximity of the highway and after a desperate rush for a ditch to deal with the symptoms of the stomach bug (gorey details excluded), packed up and feeling awful, rode into the city. Managed to find the hostel after a while, booked in for four nights, shot off some emails, and then decided to go do some touristy stuff.

There was a Muslim/Moorish castle not far from where I was, so I walked over there, paid my 1 euro and strolled around the fortress. It's pretty cool, in great condition thanks to decades of restoration work. Walking in to the keep, I first had to submit to a security screening. The fairly incompetent guard had let me go through before he called me back urgently yelling 'Knife!!', apparently not having looked at the x-ray image properly before he let me through. I didn't have a knife, but I had to take all my stuff out from my backpack before he was satisfied. It seemed like a completely unnecessary and uneconomic precaution to me (were they that worried about tourists carving their names into the castle walls??) before I discovered that the castle was also the seat of the Zaragozan parliament. Now that's cool!

The museum was fairly interesting, but I was feeling like collapsing and didn't mind at all when three security guards began gently shepherding me and the other three visitors out to the exit.

Spent the rest of the day hunched over the laptop, doing some reading. Made some pasta with lentil sauce (how great it is to have a kitchen!), which was exactly what I was craving, but could only eat about half of the smallish amount I made and threw the rest out.

First day in Seville 23/1

It was great sleeping in a bed with a roof over my head after having camped for the last two and a bit weeks. I was famished after my run and scoffed down seven bread rolls at breakfast, getting my money's worth.

A shower was my next priority, but searching through my panniers, I discovered that everything was either dirty or damp and smelly. Picking out the least pongy options, I had my first shower in more than a week and then embarked on a slightly OCD cleaning frenzy. Everything went into the shower and got a good rinse before being handwashed. Not just the clothes either, I squirted down my panniers, which had built up a thick layer of grime over the last five weeks. It was really quite hard work, I can see now how the term 'washboard abs' originated.

When I was just about finished, a Japanese guy came in, and I chatted to him for a bit before he went sight seeing, thankful for the rest from the hard labour! I had draped stuff all over the shower to dry, which was a bit presumptuous of me (I've gotten used to living by myself I think), but he told me he didn't mind as long as I took it down by tomorrow morning so he could have a shower.

I finished off the rest of the washing and then feeling pretty drained, collapsed onto the bed and played on the computer for a bit. After forking out three euros for internet credits, I discovered that the connection was pretty rubbish, but I still managed to answer a few emails and relieve any fears anyone might have been having about my wellbeing.

The to do list was staring me in the face, so I got my act together and patched up all my tubes so that I could go for a bit of a ride around and hopefully find the train station and a bike shop. It was really nice riding around without panniers for a change and I was in a very good mood. Sevilla has an excellent network of bike paths and a bike hire system similar to what they have in Paris (you pay an annual subscription and can then hop on a bike at one of the many stations for a nominal hourly fee). There didn't seem to be any bike shops though. I ended up at a motorbike repair joint, where the guy professed to know nothing about bicycles, but still managed to do an excellent job of repairing my pannier rack (it's now in better shape than it's ever been in).

The station wasn't much further and after lining up in the wrong queue for ages, I managed to enquire about going to Madrid. It was going to be sixty seven euros or something like that, and I wasn't feeling in a fit state to make that kind of decision, so I decided to stay another night at the hostel and go back the next day. Lining up in the queue, I'd suddenly felt a wall of fatigue hit me, and on the way back I felt quite queasy. Unfortunately it looks like I've given myself a case of food poisoning again. I ate a jar of chickpeas for lunch, on which I spooned some pasta sauce that I'd opened two days earlier. It was pretty stupid considering that I've done a food safety course and know very well that tomato saucey kind of things are one of the 'danger foods'. Hopefully it won't be as bad as the episode I had in Valencia.

Coming back into the hostel after a shaky run, I asked the receptionist for the key and was a bit confused when he wordlessly picked it up and walked me up to the room. Opening the door, he gestured to the clothes I had hung up everywhere, the bags lying in the shower and the way I had completely monopolised the storage facilities, smiled a little grimly and told me that the Japanese guy had asked to move to another room because of my expansiveness. I apologised, but didn't feel guilty about it because after all I had asked my room-mate if he minded if it stayed like this until morning. If he'd had a problem, I would have moved it straight away.

Sneakily, I decided to leave everything the way it was until morning at least. A Chilean guy called Jose came in at 12:30, very tired, and agreed with my plan.

22/1: A wet and miserable end to the tour

It was raining when I woke up, and I slept in, not caring that I was in the middle of an urban environment where someone might very well frequent on their morning constitutional. Another achingly slow run later, and I ate breakfast while checking the map. Adding up the little numbers next to the lines on the map, I calculated that Sevilla was only sixty km away. I could do that! I could do that and then this torturous exercise (for that is what it had become) would finally be over!

Already feeling the relief that would mark the end, I was in quite good spirits as I changed the tube over in the rain. “Only sixty km to go. I can do it!” I repeated to myself, hoping that this last day would break the trend and let me finish the tour on a high note.

It was raining pretty heavily when I set out, but it wasn't cold, and I stayed dry with my three raincoats zipped up to the hilt. After heading off in the completely wrong direction, I got directions and got onto the route to Sevilla. With the destination stuck so firmly in my mind, I was definitely in the mood for counting down the km, but sadly, like everything seemed to be doing, my speedo gave up the ghost, so I was flying blind.

An hour down the road, I saw my first sign for Sevilla. It was apparently eighty km away, not sixty. “Oh well, that's still doable”. It was actually quite pleasant riding along the nicely maintained road, cutting through the National Park. I could now see what the Italian guy had been talking about. The trees lining the road were really gorgeous and they helped block out the rain a little bit.

My legs were incredibly tight, unused to the kind of punishment they'd been dealt over the last two days, so I was constantly shifting position, trying to find a comfortable spot on the saddle. I didn't even bother pedaling on the downhills, instead just standing up on the pedals to relieve the pressure for a short while. Thankfully, the situation with the gears wasn't as bad as I thought it might be and I didn't have to push my bike up any uphills, able to access some of the lower gears now.

I made up my mind to stop for lunch after sixty km, a milestone I would easily reach by three o'clock. I was two km away when the tyre gods struck a final devastating blow. Within the space of five hundred metres both of my tyres suddenly deflated.

It was too cruel. I had no spare tubes left and it was pelting down with rain, which rapidly made me miserable as soon as I got off the bike. I decided to eat lunch before trying to conduct the patching operation that would have to be done. Hunching under the pitiful shelter that I could find, I ate my chickpeas and bread, trying to keep my spirits up. Just as I'd finished eating, I saw an odd sight. Two helmets (the rest of the scene was obscured by a sign) were going round the roundabout, very slowly. “Who would be out riding in weather like this?”, I wondered. I stood up, and discovered to my astonishment that not only were they cyclists, but they were touring cyclists! Jumping up, I sprinted over, eager just to chat to them.

They were two old codgers from England, riding in the opposite way to me towards Portugal. I didn't get much more out of them because a cafe owner was even more keen to find out where we were all going on our bikes. It's quite funny that the only time I met other cycle tourists mid-ride (I did see two people cycling with touring gear way back when I was with Luke but didn't get a chance to talk to them before they went past) was on the last day of my tour. They were keen to head off, and to be honest I didn't really want to talk to them much anyway (one of them was an arrogant bastard who behaved extremely disdainfully towards the cafe owner), but it did make me feel a bit better.
Ready now to attempt to fix my tyres up, I grabbed two promising looking tubes and a repair kit and went back to the cafe and tried to patch them. It was never going to work in the rain, and I used up six patches just to get one looking ok (and it turned out that the patch didn't hold anyway). Arrghh, this was a mess. Looking over towards my bike, I noticed that a Michelin car tyre shop was open. Perfect!

An hour later, I had two new, fully inflated tubes on my rims, for which I had paid ten euros (an incredible rip off, they're only worth three euros each maximum, but I was hardly going to argue at that point). I headed off, going as fast as I could to try and warm up and also in order to try and outrun the Tyre gremlins, which were surely baying at my heels.

There were twenty seven km until Sevilla according to the signs, and I made it in just over an hour, just wanting to get it over with. That makes it sound like it ended there though and I wouldn't want to give that impression. I was close to Sevilla, that was true, but I wasn't truly 'there'. The signs didn't give me any clues on how to get into the city centre, and the people I asked just confused me.

By the time night fell, I'd moved a little closer, but was still stuck in the outskirts of the city. My compass let me down, leading me towards a false North that constantly changed orientation. Sick of riding, I started just asking people if there was a youth hostel nearby. Surprisingly, people seemed to think there was, and an old man led me to a doorway, which turned out to be a homeless shelter. Yeah..not quite the kind of youth hostel I wanted, thank you very much.

Trying again to make it to Sevilla, I rode in another direction and was almost there when I struck an autovia. I wasn't keen on riding on it at night time, so I tried to find a back road and wound up in yet another town on the outskirts. Bah! I turned on all my lights, hopped on the autovia, and hurrah made it there!

Now to find a youth hostel...I hadn't had a chance to research whether there actually was one, but there'd have to be right? In the past, I've always just taken my laptop out and tried to find a wireless network to hijack, but I didn't really feel like doing that and just asked people instead.
Surprisingly, everyone I asked seemed to know where one was. The problem was, their definition of a youth hostel didn't match mine. Twice I was directed to dormitories for students, where I was rebuffed.

Tempted by these mirages, I bounced around the city like a pinball. At about eleven o'clock, I was starting to get really tired and it was then that the tyre gremlins struck, pipping me one last time on the front tyre. Little bastards! I pushed my bike back towards a soccer stadium, where a young couple had just told me there was one. That was the third time I'd been told to go there, but each time I'd looked, people nearby hadn't been any help and I'd veered off elsewhere. After being directed back to one of the university residences, I finally found my saviour in the form of a slightly inebriated English speaking Spaniard who walked me most of the way to the hostel.

It was an epic journey, but I'd finally made it. The tour was over!