The joy of having a spare nipple

Borders can bring people  together. Roads converge and migrating cyclists congregate around the few checkpoints between Peru and Ecuador or Ecuador and Columbia. Most riders were heading south, aiming to amble through Peru and Argentina to arrive in the Austral area of Southern Chile in the spring (September). We would swap road stories and useful information before riding off in opposite  directions.
I headed north across the flat coastal plains of Ecuador. Through banana plantations and cocoa tree orchards the riding was easy. Then this road ran out and I had to climb fifty miles up to Quito. This is the highest capital city in the world and sprawls over an Andean valley at 9500 feet. It was a tough slog and I arrived arrived after dark on the broken concrete streets, amongst the random traffic, traversing deprived suburbs where you wouldn't want to stop. (The next day I chatted to an english speaking local who had just had his bike robbed at gunpoint.). It took ages to find a place to stay. I had one rest day to buy a new tyre, but it was a cold, damp, drizzly city, not a place for recuperation. In the next six days after Quito there was only twelve miles of flat road. It rained, which was usefully cooling on the 10 or 15 mile long climbs, but cold on the descents. My brake pads were worn out so I had to sit bolt upright so the air resistance  could slow me down a little.
This took me into Columbia, which is full of cyclists of all types, They would often ride beside me and "chat". This was tricky as my Spanish is abysmal. If I told them I was going to ride their famous climb "La Linea" they would incline their forearm or hand at 45 degrees to indicate its steepness.It actually wasn't that bad, but on the last little climb of the day I heard a "Twang, clack, clack, clack", a spoke had broken.
I had brought spare spokes. However the old one had snapped in the nipple - where the spoke joins the outer rim. That was a problem. My flight to Cuba was in three days time, riding to the airport would take two days, getting a bike box for the flight and getting all my bags sorted out would half a day, I could do without a mechanical problem. Then I saw on each spare spoke was a spare nipple. I was saved, bike mended, back on the road the next day.
It was another long ascent up to Bogota - the second highest capital city. I was powered by caffeine, and so didn't skeep too well last night; or naybe I am excited to be flying to Cuba tomorrow.

Artwork in northern Ecuado, to see real cyclists its best to head into Columbia

Right to left: Pascal who has spent four years on the road riding 40,000 miles, Hector the Argentine, heading to Mexico, and myself.

Lots of fruit, fresh from the fields

I avoivded this rain shower

Cafe in the clouds

Climbing La Linea, Colombia

Perusing Peru

It took six, scenic days to traverse the Andes from east to west. Once all I did was a 25 mile climb and descent and stopped in the dusty, dodgy town of Abencay. Afternoons were sweatingly hot, and nights were shiveringly cold, so I stayed in little hotels that cost £6 for an en-suite room. In tiny hamlets a basic room costs half that. Meals cost one or two pounds, as does a beer.
I rode through the capital - Lima - apparently there is not much to see there. The traffic was diabolical, it was like riding through fairground dodgems for three hours. I was glad to escape to the empty desert highway again.
In the northern city of Trujillo  I stayed at a "casa de cyclist". It opened in the 'eighties, I was guest  number 2634. My stay was extended as I got food poisoning. So I listened to podcasts of Desert Island Discs and read a good book.
My final day in Peru took me beside a beautiful coast with empty resorts and busy fishing towns. When I reached the border they fined me $7 for overstaying my visa.
My first impression of Ecuador is that it is very green and very hot. When I have seen more I will give you a more detailed picture.
One of my pannier broke this morning,  now I will find someone to mend it. My back tyre is damaged, my right pedal clunks, I am not sure the bike will get to Cuba.

At the casa de cyclists with the owner - Lucho. He was a champion road racer.

The centre of Trujillo has streets of old colonial  Spanish buildings and striking wrought iron work.

The Andes are lush, green and full of life.

A mindwarping 50 mile twisty descent through barren desert gave me a dramatic  exit to the Andes.

A tiny stretch of coast in northern  Peru was picture perfect.

Being a tourist in Peru

The high Andes is the most spectacular place I have seen. Abundant wildlife and colourful local culture is set in scenery of high plains, alpine lakes, smouldering volcanoes and colossal  snow capped mountains.
Through northern Chile  and southern Peru the Pan American highway drops down and climbs up mile deep canyons, and snakes around shattered  and quarried peaks of mountain ranges. It was the toughest prolonged stretch of riding that I have encountered. I needed some reward for all this effort, so I decided to visit the tourist hotspots of southern Peru.
I climbed to the old Spanish city of Arequipa from where I joined a minibus tour to the Colca Canyon. Thus is the best place in the world  to see Andean Condors. Ten to fifteen  of the huge birds soared through the canyon, gliding really close to us. On the return journey we stopped off to see the herds of alpaca, llama  and vicunas roaming wild on the high grassy plateau.
On the following day I rode a long, hot climb from 8000 ft to around 15,000 ft. When I reached a summit I stopped for lunch and soon started to feel the cold. I rode on, my head hurt from the altitude. The temperature fell away as the sun rapidly sunk towards the jagged horizon. I wanted to reach a hostel in the next town but the repeated  climbs slowed me up. I stopped and stuck my thumb out, The first vehicle to approach was a pick-up truck, it lived up to its name.
The 20 mile lift meant the next day I could easily reach a town near Lake Titicaca. Taking a back road out to the lake I saw the locals getting ready for the festival  of Corpus Christi. The women were resplendent in traditional white, red, orange and gold customes topped off with a white bonnet decorated with a pair of red pom poms. I said " 'ola" to one group, some smiled, some replied, one threw a stick at me. So no photos there then!
When I reached the old Inca capital  of Cusco I booked a two day, one night trip to the ruins at Mahcu Pichu. There is no road there, so you have to walk the last six miles beside the railway line. I was in a friendly  group, in fact everyone going there was in a happy mood. We had a guided tour of the site by a Quechuan. It is interesting to  hear the local version of events surrounding its rediscovery.
My detour into the Andes has given me a new challenge. When I entered  Peru the immigration  officer asked "Quantas dias?" I was so surprised that I understood her that I blurted out "30 days please" without stopping to think. Now I need to cover 1400 miles in 14 days. If  I over stay my visa then I will get fined and banned from Peru. I think I had better learn the spainish for "Please don't ban me, I want to cone back".

Condors flew so close overhead you could hear the air rushing through their eigth foot wingspan.

I rode past many flocks of alpaca, llama and vicuanas

Too high, too cold, too late. I hitched a lift with these kind Peruvians.

Lake Titicaca  was serene and beautiful

Mist rose up just in time to make the picture of Machu Pichu marginally more interesting

Wooly tights, four skirts , blanket bag containing shopping, produce or baby, and a bowler hat. In the Andes, traditional wear is everywhere.

Chile - Ouch

Ignoring the "No cycling "signs I rode onto the four lane expressway out of Santiago. I was worried the police would stop me, but they drove on by. Sometimes the four lanes shrunk to two so I waited for a gap in the traffic and was wearing my high vis rain jacket, I got through unscathed. So far.
After 30 miles I had escaped the city and stopped for a toilet break at a cafe. As I got back on my bike there was a bark, a snarl and a a stabbing pain in my right leg. I looked down and saw a dog with its fangs embedded in my calf. I twisted my leg and shouted. The dog let go and trotted away with its mate. At least they looked like healthy animals, but what should I do?
I resolved to ride to the next big town where I could consult Dr Google, check my vaccination record  (which was buried in my luggage) and if necessary see a real doctor. Shortly afterwards I bumped into another cyclist going my way. Actually he was riding home to San Francisco via Argentina. He  spoke fluent Spanish and got us a lift through a couple of long tunnels, the driver dropped me at a town with a hospital, and took him a lot further up the coast.
The next day I saw a pair of touring riders. Two days later they passed me in a truck, their bikes lashed to the back. I don't blame them.
The Pan American  Highway is brutal. It rolls over the foothills of the Andies for the entire length of South America. To my right I sometimes see snow covered peaks, or the profile of volcanoes, sometimes to my left I see the Pacific

Ocean. Sometimes there is an isolated cafe, rarer still a small town or city. All of the tine there is desert. Whether I enjoy the ride entirely depends on the wind direction. You crouch down into a headwind and see little and make slow progress. With a tailwind I sail along, admiring the view, doing perhaps 20mph with no effort.
The forecast is for a week of tailwinds. That should help me conquer the Atacana desert and reach Peru.

Dog bite. Fortunately the dog had a shiney coat, clear eyes and a wet nose. so little risk of rabies.

 Will - the rider from San Francisco - fixing a puncture. He also had been attacked by the dogs, but got away unscathed. 

Surfers  at Antofagasta,  I had a rest day here

 

The Pan American  Highway has a wide hard shoulder to ride on. Many  of the truck drivers say hello as they pass.

Ups and downs of North Island

Autumn reached North Island at the same time as I did. It rained for the full day in Wellington so I went to the museum which had a great mix of natural history, anthropology  and art.
I rode up the old highway . It used to be the main road but now moss grows down the centre and farmers  use it to shepherd  flocks of sheep to shearing, or mating or new pastures. This road brought me up to the historic towns of Hastings and Napier. Demolished by an earthquake in 1931 they were rebuilt in art deco style.
My plan had been to ride around the eastern most section of New Zealand, but the constant hills and a forecast  of constant rain caused me to head over the mountain pass from Gisborne to Otopiki where it was sunnier, but still hilly.
I could bleat on about the hills, but that would be boring. Instead I have written my complaint in the form of a poem - see below.
The best part of this ride was the Coromandel peninsula, a varied and volcanic landscape east of Auckland. Riding from there around the Firth of Thames was bliss. Nothing was happening, apart from nature. No industry, no farmers, no traffic, no hills, just blue sky, birdsong snd tranquillity.
Flying from New Zealand to Chile messes with your brain. I took off on saturday evening, spent a night on the plane then immediately  arrived in Santiago on saturday afternoon. Crossing the dateline is weird, and my diary only has one space for saturday 16th.
The rain is lashing down in Chile, causing much flooding. There is snow on the mountains. I only planned my ride as far as New Zealand, I thought it would be presumptuous to plan this far ahead. All I know is that I must ride northwards, into the sun, into the summer, into the Andes.

Poem:                     So Inclined 
From coastal town to coastal town,
how can you ride more up than down?
You climb and climb and climb some more,
surely this breaks some geographical law.

Some times  when you reach a crest
you stop and eat and drink and rest,
Back on the bike for a flatter section
then the road resumes its upward direction.

 A loggers truck is caught behind,
down to first and to a grind.
Then acrid smell of burning clutch,
for this monster the climb's too much.

Looking down, past forest green,
a rail track meanders serene,
from whence you've come to where you're aiming at,
the train finds a route that's flat.

This road builder checked his map a lot,
joining hilltop to top in a dot to dot.
A rider doesn't mind an honest hill,
but twenty or thirty is a bitter pill.

A secret thought between the two of us,
maybe I'll stop and catch a bus.
But I can't have that attitude,
in the Andes altitude.

1280 sheep, the farmer told me.

Nightine in Napier, art deco capital of the southern  hemisphere

Men fishing for flounder in the Firth of Thames

The beach was mainly made from shells

 

New Zealand South Island

Imagine the most scenic parts of rural Britain stiched together into one glorious  patchwork. Make the mountains three times as high and the lakes twice as blue. Raise the temperature by a few degrees, reduce the population by ninety eight percent and you have created the south island of New Zealand.
However my first impressions were unfavourable. Christchurch is still a mess of building sites five years after it's big earthquake. Riding up to the Southern  Alps I saw six cycle tourists (in my four weeks in Australia I only saw five) and my first view of Lake Tekapo was through throngs of Asian tourists. I quickly rode on to the next lake - beside which was free camping - only to find the site filled with fifty camper vans lined up along the shore. New Zealand felt like a theme park.
However the next day I had the best day's riding ever. Following the "Alps to Ocean" cycle trail I escaped the tourists and found the stunning Lake Ohau, with a flat, fast, flowing path tracking it's southern edge. Then a climb and descent gave big views over the mountain ranges. (See pic. 1).
South Island is very hilly. On one descent I hit 83 kph (52 mph).  The bike felt rock steady. The flat Otago Central Rail Trail is very popular. I was tempted to wild camp there but it is illegal throughout New Zealand now, the fine is $200 (£100)  so I prefer to stay at small official sites with just a few other campers. Even bettér is to stay with a local. A lovely couple from Dunedin offered to put me up, but it wasn't on my route. Instead I stayed  with a friend of a friend who is a legend in the area for his hospitality to travellers.
My plans to ride up the west coast were blown away by the forecast of storms. So I headed north by a more sheltered route, determined to do one big cycle trail before leaving South Island. My preferred path was closed as recent rain had caused landslides so I opted for the 120 mile Molesworth Muster Trail without doing any research on it.
Isolation  is a double edged emotion. High on the old cattle drovers track I enjoyed being in the midst of a vast mountain wildnerness. The sky was blue, the route was clear, what could possibly go wrong? I ate my lunch at the official campsite then set off for another camping ground I had been told about. Soon grey clouds covered the peaks and the forecast tail wind was actually a head wind, the weather forecast wasn't right. I didn't want to be trapped up here in a storm. I rode and rode but there was no campsite, no houses, no other vehicles.  I felt very isolated. As it grew dark I found a farmstead and knocked on the door, the lights were on but there was no reply. At the next farmstead I could see the occupants cooking supper. I asked if I could camp in their field, she replied, "No, you can stay in our cottage ". It was the loveliest old road builders house with bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. Due to ravanous hunger I ate virtually all my food for dinner and breakfast, There was bound to be somewhere to eat in the 40 miles to the nearest town. There wasn't, just hills and headwind. In three weeks in New Zealand I have lost four kilos. Soon I'll be light enough to ride in the Tour de France.
Now I am camping in the garden of a youth hostel by the Marlborough sounds. The building  is the old school house where Lord Ernest Rutherford (the atomic bloke) went to school.  New Zealand hs retained many of many old wooden buildings from its mining and farming and pioneering  past. On the roads you see plenty of interesting old cars. People seem content with how things are and in no mad rush to embrace modernity. There is a relaxed, friendly, generous attitude. I like it here, I could live here.

The Alps to Ocean cycle track.

I have been doing a lot of camping

High in the mountains, miles from anywhere  and anyone

I was getting desperate for somewhere to stay, when a kind lady (Pip) let me stay in this cottage

New Zealand  - good for reflecting

Domesticity of a long distance cyclist

I am sitting in a shady park in Sydney. My tent and both pairs of shoes are drying over a childrens' climbing frame. Jets fly low overhead and that makes me happy.  I am near the airport, I fly to New Zealand this evening. The kiwis have strict bio security rules, so I have disinfected and washed my gear.
My route down the east coast of Australia has been mesmerising. In my last blog I wrote about the rainforests and wildlife. Since then I have travelled through unspoilt country towns then bypassed Brisbane by riding into the hills and mountains of the Great Dividing Range. This was a vast landscape of forests and pasture, almost devoid of people but loud with birds and insects. The sky was blue, the sun was hot but the land was green after recent rains. It was blissful tranquility.
I had a choice of staying on the Great Dividing Range onto the Blue Mountains, or riding by the surf beaches and over the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I chose the seaside route as a heatwave was forecast (it is 35c in the west of Sydney today). The riding was great. The coast is a patchwork of lakes, inlets, estuaries, forests and expensive seaside towns. On a ferry across one beautiful inlet I chatted to a local couple, as we disembarked they said "You've arrived, this is Sydney". Ten miles later I was crossing the iconic Harbour Bridge. Another leg over. I will be sad to leave, there is so much to do and see that I haven't seen or done.
When you are cycle touring you rarely know where you will be staying the night. In the morning the thought doesn't bother me but as the afternoon wears on it dominates my thinking. Now there are apps for a smartphone that tells you about nearby hostels and campsites. Australian camp grounds are normally quite luxurious with well equiped kitchens and covered rest areas where you can watch tv or read. My favourite have been the pubs and cafes that let you camp free in their grounds. Then I can spend the money I save on a slap up dinner.
Surprises still happen. One day I was sweltering on the road, a couple flagged me down and offered to put me up for the night, he was a Doctor and his accomadation had stunning views over the pacific.
I do miss wild camping, being next to nature is really restful and there is always the chance of seeing unusual birds or animals. On the long, multi day bike trails in New Zealand I will pitch my tent in the wilderness. Adventure awaits.

Crossing Sydney Harbour Bridge on the cycle lane

The hills behind Brisbane

Pelican feeding time, town just north of Sydney