Revista - Bicycle Traveler 04 - Australia

8/10/2019 Revista - Bicycle Traveler 04 - Australia

1/46NOVEMBER 2012 - WWW.BICYCLETRAVELER.NL 1

WWW.BICYCLETRAVELER.NL - NOVEMBER 2012

French Alps Ian HibbelCass Gilbert Alaska- - -

International Magazine on Bicycle TouringBicycleTraveler

MSR stove -


2/46



ARTICLES

EQUIPMENT

over Photo: ADAM COPPOLA www.giveabike.com

hoto Left: PAUL JEURISSEN

CONTENTS

COLUMN

PHOTOGRAPHY

INTERVIEW

BicycleTraveler

34

ANECOFRIENDLYBIKETRIP By Edward Genochio45

BICYCLINGTHEAMERICAS By Cass Gilbert28

SLOWBOATTOBORNEO By Amaya Williams

39

A NEWPAINTJOB By Yvonne & Valentijn van der Valk11

TESTANJUNGILAKAIRPILLOW By Henrik Risager20

TRIPGEAR By Grace Johnson18

22 PHOTOSTORY- FRENCHALPS By Kees Swart

14 IANHIBBELL By Ben Searle

46 PARTINGSHOT-AMERICA By Paul Jeurissen

06

40 IMAGEFROMTHEROAD- BOLIVIA By Neil Pike

TESTMSR POCKETROCKETSTOVE By Helen Lloyd21

CYCLINGTHEDEMPSTER By Mike Boles

TENBICYCLETOURINGCOMMANDENTS By Charlie Baxter

42 IMAGEFROMTHEROAD- TANZANIA By Dave Conroy

44 IMAGEFROMTHEROAD- INDIA By Paul Jeurissen


4/46NOVEMBER 2012 - WWW.BICYCLETRAVELER.NL4

Bicycle Traveler is copyright

Grace Johnson. All material hasbeen used with permission and is

copyright original sources.

The articles published reect the

opinions of their respective authors

and are not necessarily

those of the editor.

COPYRIGHT

CONTACT

[email protected]

DISCLAIMER

Its been more than a year since the rst issue of Bicycle Traveler went onlineand what a success it has been! My thanks go out to the readers for yourenthusiastic response, and the magazine contributors who have donated their

inspiring stories and photos.

From the editor

Photos:P

AULJEURISSEN

CONTRIBUTORS

Adam & Christy Coppola

Amaya Williams & Eric Schambion

Ben Searle

Cass Gilbert

Charlie Baxter

Dave Conroy

Edward Genochio

Helen Lloyd

Henrik Risager & Vicky Greaves

Kees Swart & Corrie Marijnen

Mike Boles

Neil & Harriet Pike

Nicholas & Andrew Henderson

Paul JeurissenSteve Wall

Yvonne en Valentijn van der Valk

EDITOR

Grace Johnson


5/46



T

he wilderness swallowed me for

two weeks. Finally, in Dawson

City, it spit out a sweaty, starving,

smiling fool. What a ride! The Demp-

ster Highway in Northern Canada was

a gravel and mud slug fest, but with so

many incredible moments along the way,

I look back and feel only wonder.

Leaving InuvikIt was a barren little town at the top of

nowhere, and once it was behind me,Inuvik never looked so good. Ahead the

road curled over the horizon like the end

of a question. I mumbled a prayer over

a thumping heart and started pedalling.

My rst day on the road.

All around me was a different world.

Flat bog and stunted spruce trees

stretched on endlessly. There was no

sound but my breathing and the constant

whine of mosquitoes. They delighted in

my water breaks, swarming my face and

sucking me dry. I told myself Id get used

to it.

It didnt matter. Id been waiting two

years to ride the Dempster, maybe a life-time for the feeling. Besides a few trucks

and a lonely caribou, the road was mine.

I was free.

Cycling

Dempsterthe By: MIKE BOLES

hoto: STEVE WALLwww.ickr.com/photos/stevewall


7/46



gale. I bucked and skidded across the

gravel trying to ght the gusts, but it was

useless. I gave up, exhausted.

That night I camped behind a Depart-

ment of Highways truck parked off the

road. It was the only thing in sight that could

block the wind. The nd was lucky. Thanks

to that idle machine I slept like a baby.

Loud awakeningThe thunder of the trucks engine didnt

just wake me in the morning. It made my

heart leap out of my mouth and me crash

out of my tent. In my underwear I fran-

tically waved to the driver, terried thetruck would run over my bike. He gave

me the thumbs up once, twice, but still

couldnt seem to switch off the motor.

The poor guy was laughing too hard.

MotivationAfter the next days ride I was gassed. I

cleared 76 km, all uphill, then collapsedinto my sleeping bag. The climbs were

cruel and it dawned on me for the rst

time that I might not be strong enough

to nish the highway. No thought could

have been uglier after so much anticipa-

tion. All the same, it snaked its way into

my mind and wouldnt leave.

Near the Arctic Circle an RV pulledalongside me. A price tag dangled from

the drivers hat as he leaned out the win-

dow. Where was I going? Dawson. Where

had I come from? Inuvik. The man snort-

ed. Thats 700 km. Youre an idiot! I

smiled politely and hoped he got a at tire.

I should have thanked him. I needed

a kick in the ass. Maybe I just needed

to prove someone wrong. I biked hard

for the rest of the day and by nightfall

rolled into Eagle Plains the Dempsters

halfway point.

The town had a hotel, a restaurant

and 14 people. All were lovely. I or-

dered a gigantic bacon cheeseburger,

onion rings, fries and bumbleberry pie

with vanilla ice cream. On a rotary phone

I called my folks to say I wasnt dead,

then I dragged myself to my tent where I

blacked out until morning.

Bear countryI was about 20 km south of Eagle Plains

when the sky opened up and turned

the road to gravy. Pushing my gear up-

hill was nearly impossible, so I found a

place in the bush and set up camp. It

was the only spot I could nd that wasnt

surrounded by paw prints and scat. Bear

country.

The mosquitoes were relentless that

night, droning in my nose, my eyes, my

ears. With practice Id learned to snag

them out of the air with two ngers, but ifI was acting like a ninja, I certainly didnt

feel like one.

Instead I spent most of the night with my

sleeping bag pulled over me, imagining

all the ways a grizzly might eat my head.

Playing chicken

Morning brought no bears, only a growl-ing hunger of my own. I avoided the bugs

by walking in circles as I devoured my

breakfast. I hit the road feeling strong,

attacking the countless ups and downs

of the so-called plains.

The day was uneventful until I spot-

ted what looked like a caribou and two

calves. The animals trotted down the

road towards me. Fumbling for my cam-

era, I slowly pedalled forward to close

the gap. I stopped to snap a photo they



I spent most of the night imagining all

the ways a grizzly might eat my head.

didnt. Alarm bells. I looked up and real-

ized I was playing chicken with a moose.

Momma was suitably unimpressed af-

ter catching my scent. She snorted and

hammered the ground with her front hoof.

Thick bush anked the narrow road on all

sides. There was nowhere to go but back.

I slowly made my retreat, but my gear

clicked and the cow freaked. Her head

wagged to and fro, she charged a few

steps then veered into an impossibly

small opening in the trees. Obediently

the calves followed. My head reeled. I

hadnt breathed the whole time.

I hit Ogilvie Ridge by midday and en-

joyed the rare reprieve of a descent from

Seven Mile Hill. Coiling around its basewas a jaw-dropping array of sparkling

creeks. Fish jumped from the water as

I enjoyed my lunch, sunshine pouring

down my shoulders. It was heaven, and

Id brought myself.

The road to Engineer Creek was per-

fectly at, just like home. I caught myself

smirking. Around every bend I expectedthe terrain to change the punch line to an

awful tease. But this was my day. There

wasnt a hill for fty km and I smashed

the distance in well under two hours.

My condence soared. That night my

ngers ran across my map, over places

that once sounded like a dream. I knew

my bike could take my anywhere.

Generous travellersThe next day I awoke in a mud puddle.

Engineer Creek lay swollen from days of

rain and the roads were miserable slime.

I was stuck, but it gave me a chance

to rest my legs and fatten up a bit. The

steady stream of visitors made that easy.

One fellow, a white-whisker gentle-

man, invited me into his camper where

the wife patiently assembled salami and

cheese sandwiches. We noshed and my

hosts chatted about things I hope I never

see: shotguns, cougars and the bastards

who installed their RVs plumbing. They

were adorable.

Later a mother and son pulled up to

share a picnic lunch. I slipped away as

they started to unpack, but they insisted

I sit down to share the feast.I felt like a caveman unshaven, wild-

eyed and damned if I could ever remem-

ber food looking so wonderful. Smoked

salmon, avocados, grapes, chocolate,

white wine. They chuckled at my mile-

wide grin and we settled into a conversa-

tion about our lives, theirs in Vancouver

and mine on the Prairies.Soon the soft purple of the midnight

sun appeared, and with it a rumpled oil

rigger from Alberta. We shared a smoke

and I spent the rest of the night looking

out at the rain, in love with everything

and nothing in particular.

Biking on cloudsBy morning the rain had eased enough to

allow my nal push to Tombstone Park. It

took two summits and 123 km, but I made



Mike writes; Every single day on the road is

a gift, a precious ash of something sublime,

and if I had any goal at all, it was only to

experience that beauty rsthand.

http://mikeonbike.wordpress.com

BT

it by evening. The views from the peaks

stirred something inside me. I felt amazed,

lucky, humbled to be in the midst of such

creation. Perfect moments.

The descent from North Fork Pass

was blistering and I came within a whis-

per of 66 km/h as I blew past a camp-

ground. I didnt care it felt as though I

was biking on clouds and I wanted to en-

joy every single second. The climb back

to the park was merely a bliss tax.

Shelter from the rainI was a day away from Dawson City.

Civilization. Rain began falling as I set

out but I ignored it. If I couldnt outrun

the weather, Id at least tolerate it. Or so

I thought. I look back now and laugh at

my foolishness. I had no clue how sharp-

ly the mercury dips in the North. I didnt

even have a rain jacket.

In less than an hour I was drenched

and shivering so violently I thought Idthrow up. For a few minutes I took refuge

under the trees, but when I looked down

there was a soggy dead mouse gaping

back at me. I rose from my haunches

and decided to go anywhere else.

Riding on, I eventually came upon an

old hunting shack. Nobody was around

and I was frozen. Im not proud of it,but I eased my way inside after a few

minutes of lock picking - the fruits of a

misguided youth.

The building had an old wood stove

that I used to warm my clothes, my pride.

The effects of the heat were immediate

and soon I was ready to go. Thats when

the cabin owner arrived with a someones-

been-eating-my-porridge look on his face.

I bounded outside to introduce myself.

Eyes low, I explained I was young, dumb

and very sorry. The man looked me over

and said he believed it.

I must have looked like a stray dog.

Gently William invited me back inside

and offered to let me stay the night if

the weather didnt improve. It didnt. I

slept under the faded watch of a Virgin

Mary painting and the warm icker of a

spruce re.

Reaching DawsonBy six in the morning I was gone, on the

road and under the rst blue skies in

days. The only thing left to do was nish.

I sailed through the Dempsters nal 50km and found the Dawson City junction

before lunch.

I dont know what I felt. Pride, relief

maybe. But there was a pall, a heaviness

I couldnt shake. Id left to nd my way

home. Instead I fell for the road. It was

the only place I could be myself, rootless

and restless. There was no going back.Dawson City kept me for a few days.

I hiked the woods and cooled myself in

the Yukon River. From the top of the Mid-

night Dome, the venerable hill standing

watch over the town, I spotted the Top of

the World Highway. It twisted ever high-

er, west to Alaska.

I had to bike it. The next morning Ileft, not really sure where I was going.

After two years and 40,000 km, I still

dont know.

But thats another story.


11/46



While pedaling the Karakoram

Yvonne and Valentijn decidedto have their bicycles painted just like

a colorful Pakistan truck. They write;

Everyday should be a party and the bikes

will remind us of that. So we found an

artist in Rawalpindi who did a wonderful

job of it. But judge yourself...

Yvonne and Valentijn van der Valk cycled

from the Netherlands to Thailand in aid of

Right to Play. You can read their trip reports

at: www.etsenmetballen.nl

BT



A

s a teenager I had Ian Hibell to

thank for inspiration and the real-

isation of what was possible with

a bike. I still have the memory of his ma-

chine, once displayed in Johns Bikes in

Bath an Argos tourer with an immense-

ly solid, built-in pannier rack, built-in mud

scrapers operated by gear levers, and

a large machete strapped on the back.

Rubber snakes and spiders adorned the

bike, which was still encrusted with Ama-

zonian mud...Now in his Devon home, it was hard

to imagine that the welcoming bantam-

like man serving me tea, softly spoken

and gentle, was my idol. The only clues

to the adventurer were the quietly fading

postcards.

Future dreamsIans taste for adventure began early.

When I was four, I would escape out of

the garden in my pedal car. The police

would often have to bring me back from

the other end of town. My parents tried

to improve the fencing but I still got out.

After National Service, Ian went on a CTCtour of Iceland. We spoke of our dreams

for the future and what we really wanted

to do in life. I knew then that I would prob-

ably be the only one to realise them.

It was almost a standing joke that I

would get back home from my annual

leave a week late. My employers made

me an offer a years leave. It wasntenough for my projected two - year

world tour. I didnt want a lifetimes work

in some job with a gold watch after 40

years. I upped and left.

Crossing the swampIan was gone ten years. Whilst in New

Zealand he came up with the idea of rid-

ing the Americas end-to-end from Tier-

ra del Fuego to Circle City in Alaska. As

yet no one had penetrated through the

INTERVIEW

Ian HibellBen Searle interviews his idol Ian Hibell to nd out why

he undertook such long and difcult bicycle journeys.

Ian ready to hit the road.

Photos: NICHOLAS AND ANDREW HENDERSON


15/46



I planned to do things. The consequence

was I had no option but to try alone. It

was a ridiculous idea, but apart from

abandoning there was no other way out.Ever determined, Ian wouldnt be put

off. I was tremendously excited...that I

might not pull it off. I had a heavy feeling

in my stomach. Relying on being given

water by passing vehicles, Ian gasped

through with hardly a drop to spare the

border point had been closed and the

trafc dried up.

Run of luckScraping through from one adventure

to another, Ian began to get supersti-

tious. I didnt feel my run of luck could

last what had I done for the world? So

I worked for the Spastics Society for a

year, and then planned a sponsored tour

that was to raise 10,000 pounds.

This, his last major tour crossing

much of Africa, was to demoralise Ian. I

lost my heart for it. I was constantly be-

set by illness and mishap. In Zambia a

nurse contacted my mother, to see what

should be done with my body as I wasexpected to die. However I made a re-

covery in two weeks.

Rather like his hero, Tommy Simpson,

Ian was not to be deterred. It was crucial

that I continued right away. I was warned

by the British Embassy that the roads in

Zaire would be impassable to trucks, but

I took this advice with a pinch of salt. Ican nearly always muddle through.

Living his dreamsAs we drank more tea, it seemed some-

how that the ipside the quiet content-

ed home life had made it all possible

for Ian. Being deprived of home comforts

only seemed to sharpen his appreciation

for them. More recently he has begun to

pick up his cycle touring threads. Ponder-

ing the death of Beryl Burton, Ian, now

Ians Freddie Grubb touring bike.



65, feels his cycling days are running out

and still has a rugged determination to

see the remaining corners of the world.

Why he ever made such perilous tours

he cant quite explain. I wouldnt want to

jump out of an airplane or descend the

Tourmalet like a TdF rider, yet they would

never emulate me. It comes out that Ian

did really think he would die, but did it

anyway. I never stopped to analyse it.

I guess my tours have made me scared

and brought excitement in a way that I

could accept.

Referring to the Darien Gap, Ian add-

ed, I wouldnt suggest anyone to dowhat we did. We were lucky, stupid. I just

wanted a bit of schoolboy adventure...

We knew we had to try it even though

everyone else had failed, well, er, died.

Now as I ride past the bus stop the kids

jeer at me whats that old fool doing on

a racing bike, they think. Little do they

know! As our meeting drew to a close,Ian was mildly occupied by the thoughts

of the following week, when he would

be heading off to remote islands in the

South Atlantic, and Antarctica though

this is one place where even he doesnt

expect to ride his bike.

Ians book Into the Remote Places

co-written with Clinton Trowbridge is now

out of print but used copies can be bought

via internet. Ian states that Trowbridge

embellished many of his stories and is

a little embarrassed by the distortion oftruth in places.

Photographer / writer Ben Searles work

has appeared in numerous magazines and

bicycle books. He also has a library full of

inspirational cycle-touring images at:

http://bensearle.info.

In 2008 Ian Hibell was tragically killed by a

hit-and-run driver on the Athens - Salonika

highway while training for yet another trans-continental journey, at the age of 74.

This interview was rst published In Cycling

Plus magazine. www.cyclingplus.com.

On Nicholas and Andrew Hendersons

website you can view more photos from

Ians trips: www.bikebrothers.co.uk.

BT

As we part what emerges is an almost

satised man who has lived his dreams,

not dreamed his life.

www.bicycletraveler.nl

Subscribe now, its

FREE!Subscribers can

download earlier issues

ofBicycleTravelerat:



TRIPGEAR

With Ortliebs new Ultimate6 Pro bag

you can touch screen operate your

GPS or Smartphone device through the

transparent lid.

Weight: Unknown

Price: not yet determined

www.ortlieb.com

Handle Bar Bag

There is nothing better than a cup of

coffee that stays warm on a cold morn-

ing.The Innity mug has an EVA outer

insulating shell and holds 17 . oz.(500 ml.) of hot liquid.

Weight: 3.2 oz. (90 gr.)

Price: $6.95 U.S.

www.gsioutdoors.com

Insulated Mug

A look at equipment for bicycle travelers.By: GRACE JOHNSON

Lightweight 2-Person TentAccording to Nordisk, the

Telemark 2 is the lightest two-person tent

in the world . The inner tent measures

86.6 x53x39.4 in. (220 x 135 x 100 cm.)

of oor space. The shelter will be

available in 2013

Weight: 1 lb. 1.04oz. (880 gr.)

Price: not yet determined

www.nordisk.eu



The Therm-a-Rest Antares -7C (20F)

has connectors which join the bag to a

compatible mattress - allowing movement

while eliminating sliding and twisting.

Weight: 1 lb. 15 oz. (879 gr.)Price: $$349.95 U.S.

http://cascadedesigns.com

Synergy Link Sleeping Bag

The Monarch Chair from Alite is a

low rocking seat for camping comfort

and can fold together to t in a small

stuff sack.

Weight: 21oz. (595.3 gr)

Price: $70. U.S.

http://alitedesigns.com

Camp Chair

The ReVolt is a new headlamp that

utilizes either rechargeable power

(via USB) or traditional alkaline bat-

teries. The 110-lumen light recharges

via a USB cable that can be plugged

into anything from a computer to a

solar charger.

Price: $59.95 U.S.

www.blackdiamondequipment.com

Hybrid Power Headlamp

EQUIPMENT



GEARREVIEWS

Ajungilak air pillowBy: HENRIK RISAGER

We bought two Ajungilak air pillowsand tested them out for one nightand we have a winner.

Yes, you can use a t-shirt stuffed with

your spare kit, but it is not the comest

of things.

At 145 gr. it is probably too heavy forthe weight weenies but we are looking

for comfort and a few more grams would

not break the Surly bikes back.

The pillow is covered in eece which

you can take off and wash. Inside is a

balloon which you blow up with a little

straw. That can be a bit tricky a rst but

you soon get the hang of it. That combodoes talk a bit while you put your head

to rest, but as soon you stop moving it

stops talking.

The pillow is nice, big and supportive

which is great since you can control the

rmness of it.

The bag the air pillow comes in is a bit

small so you really have to roll it up tight

to be able to squeeze it in.

Available in any color as long as it is

screaming yellow, not that this is a prob-

lem when you sleep.

AJUNGILAKAIRPILLOW

www.mammut.ch.

In January 2012 Henrik and Vicky gave up

their jobs and at and are now cycling north

from Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. You canfollow them at: www.woollypigs.com.

BT



EQUIPMENT

W

hen I rst received the MSR Pocket

Rocket stove, I couldnt quite be-

lieve just how small it is. The red plastic

storage box it comes in is tiny Think ve

triangles of a Toblerone bar and thats it.

It took 2 minutes 15 seconds to boil

half a liter of water indoors. So MSRs

claim that it takes 3 minutes 30 seconds

to boil a liter of water is not unreasonable.

The stabilizer arms are in the ame

and were soon glowing red, but thats

nothing to worry about. It did take a few

minutes for them to cool down once the

stove was turned off. But it would be cool

enough to pack back in the case by the

time youve drunk a coffee or eaten.

The stove itself is very easy to use.

Just take it out of the box, open up the

three stabilizer arms, make sure theame adjuster is closed, screw onto a

gas canister and youre ready to go. Then

just turn the ame adjuster and light it.

The stove is very lightweight. Togeth-

er with the protective red case, it weighs

only 110 gr. The small MSR canisters

weigh 225 gr. Since the local camping

store didnt stock MSR ones, I bought a

Primus brand instead, which worked ne.

The three stabilizer arms seem a little

imsy and I think they could easily be

damaged if mishandled. So it will denite-

ly be necessary to pack the stove in the

red case when not using it. Having said

that, I am sure they are strong enough

to take the weight of a pan plus water,

which is what theyre designed to do.

Overall, I think this is going to be a

great stove for my next trip. I dont cook

all the time so the fact it is lightweight and

compact is great. It is denitely the per-

fect size for making coffee in the morn-

ing, and Im sure itll do the job of cooking

up a bowl of pasta when needed.

Update: June 11, 2011

This stove has been used extensively

over the last eight months on my cycle

from Canada to Central America. I just

wanted to say that this stove has worked

awlessly. It is robust and reliable, ex-

actly what you want when camping in

remote areas. I always packed it awayin the toblerone container which ts in-

side my pan. The stabilizer arms which,I

initially thought were a bit imsy have

been ne. No sign of damage or wear.

Gas was easy to nd in Canada and the

USA, and in Mexico you could buy gas in

the larger cities at the sports store Marti.

MSR Pocket Rocket stoveBy: HELEN LLOYD

Helens Take On... Adventure, travel, biking,

packrafting and the outdoors through writing

and photography. http://helenstakeon.com

MSR POCKETROCKETSTOVEhttp://cascadedesigns.com

BT



French AlpsBy: KEES SWART

PHOTOSTORY

Kees Swart an

while summitin



is partner Corrie Marijnen enjoy the autumn colors

he cols between Geneva and the Mediterranean sea.



Above:The Col de la Croix de Fer is named after this iron cross.

Right:Corrie heading up the rst of seven mountain passes.



Above: Colmar is a beautiful medieval town with a charming gte dtape.

Left: Climbing towards the Col dAllos.

Dutch photojournalist Kees Swart is the author of the route guidebook,

Fietsen langs de frontlijn (Bicycling alongside the First World War

frontline) www.frontlijnroute.nl and his website www.keesswart.nl contains

tips on how to take better travel images.



On July 4th 2009, my plane nally

touched down from Bristol into Alaskas

midnight light. As I made my way to Prud-

hoe Bay, the most northerly point that

can be reached by bicycle in the Ameri-

cas, I was fully aware that the journey

ahead would be innitely longer..

Where was I heading? South, that

I knew. From the Arctic, there was no-

where else to go. Where I hoped to end

up was a more open question. Mexico?

Panama? Peru? In the back of my mind

lay the ultimate bicycle tourers destina-

tion: Ushuaia, the most southerly point in

the Americas.

Why no xed destination, no goal to

reach? Over the course of a long dis-

tance journey, its all too easy to concen-

trate on what you havent done, and not

on what you have. To focus on the desti-

nation and not on the adventure. So this

trip is about giving myself time to ride the

C

ass Gilbertreflects on bicycling the Americas,travel styles and the final destination...

Photos:CA

SSGILBERT



dirt roads and forgotten backroads of this

vast and varied continent. To stop and

explore. To connect with people I meet

along the way. To do so under my own

steam, promoting the idea that cycling is

a viable form of travel in an ever more

car-centric world.Its now a year in and I nd myself in

Guatemala, with over seventeen thou-

sand kilometres on the clock. To reach

this point, Ive followed an oil pipeline

from the Arctic. Ive traversed a thousand

kilometres of forest roads in Canada. Rid-

den the length of the Rockies in America.

Crossed the vast and savagely crumpled

ranges of Northern Mexico. Under my

bike helmet, a tirade of memories already

cram for space. Riding epic singletrack

Above: Pedalling through Colorado, U.S.A.

Left: Cass Gilbert on a sidetrip to Cuba.

in Alaska, spooking grizzly bears along

the way. Dragging my bike through kneedeep snow under the big skies of Mon-

tana. Chopping wood in exchange for

Thanksgiving pies in the improbably

named Pie Town, New Mexico. Teaming

up with fellow bike travellers and travers-

ing the dirt roads of the Sierra Madre,

Mexicos drug-riddled cordillera. Camp-

ing beside the thundering, pounding surfof the Pacic, the beach to myself. Cross-

ing the jungles of Belize to a soundtrack

of reggae and howler monkeys.

Porridge, pasta, wild salmon, tacos,

tortillas and even tequila have fuelled

my legs. New friends have been made,

and old ones missed. Ive been warmly

invited into countless homes, from folk

musicians in the Yukon to elk hunters

in Colorado to puppet makers in New

Mexico and Mormons in Utah. Ive slept



A picture perfect camping spot Sian Kaan National Park, Mexico

Photo: CASS GILBERT


31/46



Cass Gilbert is an avid traveler and

cyclist, and has been touring regularly for

the last decade. He is still cycling in the

Americas and you can follow his journey at:http://whileoutriding.com

This article was rst published In Boneshaker

Magazine www.boneshaker.com

under the stars in tundra, desert, forest

and mountains. Ive even spent a night

in a Mexican jail.

Yet keeping motivated isnt always

as easy as it may seem; its not always

blissfully empty roads and picture per-

fect camping spots. Long distance bike-

touring can be tough. The body soon

adapts to the physical demands: muscle

and sinew shape themselves to the daily

rhythm of cycling. Its the mental chal-

lenges that are harder. The loneliness

of leaving friends and family far behind.

The hours of saddle time to ponder and

deliberate. The constant sense of move-

ment this nomadic lifestyle brings. The

long stretches of unavoidable, monoto-

nous highway, harassed by the endless

torment of speeding trafc. And its the

little things that tire you out. The eternal

forage for food, for water, for a place to

stay. Scrimping and saving each dollar,

peso or quetzal. Then I ask myself a dif-ferent question. Which will run out rst,

my legs, my money, or my inclination?

321

Yet just when I reach a low, its also

the smallest acts that bounce me back

up again. The gift of a papaya from a

gold-toothed farmer. Excited waves from

a gang of roadside kids. The heartfelt cry

of animo! courage from a man in

the back of an old and sun-faded pickup.

A lone yukka tree lit up by a nger of light.

Its then that suddenly, overwhelmingly,

the realization of what Im doing, what

I hope to do, what Ive seen and what

I will see, are distilled into one moment

of clarity and understanding. Everything

makes sense again. And once more, my

pedals turn, and southwards I go. BT

Photos: CASS GILBERT

1. David, a Mennonite in Belize 2.Carlos jr. of Maya pedal 3. Tim in Sante Fe, U.S.A



Photo:AMA

YAWILLIAMS



For a cyclist, Indonesiaa coun-try comprised of some 18,000

islandsposes more than a few

logistical challenges. If you stick to the

main islandsJava, Sumatra, maybe

Bali and Lombokgetting around is

not too tough. Its when you venture

farther aeld, say to Sulawesi, Sum-

bawa or Borneo that things get tricky.

Wed set our sights on Borneo, the

third largest island in the world behind

Greenland and Guinea. Like so many

people, in my mind Id painted Borneo as

a magical place of pristine forests lled

with screeching monkeys and gentle

orangutans. A place where native wom-

en prance around in grass skirts weav-

ing bamboo baskets and men in loin-

cloths and feather head-dresses wander

around hunting wild boar with traditional

tombak spears. A place where one might

even bump into a headhunter or two. But

before these escapades and encounters

could begin, we had to actually get to

Borneo. An adventure all in itself, I was

soon to nd out.

This boat or that boat?My husband Eric, the logistical master-mind of our round the world tour, had

been running various schemes past me

for weeks.

We could ride from Singapore to

Melaka, hed begin, then hop on the

ferry to Dumai and ride to Jakarta. From

there wed pick up another boat to Bor-

neo.

Or, hed continue, We could keep

riding to Semarang and take a ferry to

Kumai in South Kalimantan and do the

tour in reverse.

Our third option. But by then my

eyes had already glazed over and all the

names and places were jumbled up in

my brain.

so what do you think? I offered

a weak smile, You choose, I trust your

judgment.

The best option, said Super Husband,

was the direct ferry from Bintan to Bor-

neo via Batam. That way wed avoid the

hassles of navigating our way through

Jakarta, a city of 9 million known to be

By: AMAYA WILLIAMS

Slow Boatto

BORNEO

Left: The ferry stops to pick up passengers on its way to Borneo.



one of the most congested capitals in

Southeast Asia. I was with him there.

Problem is, just one ferry per month

plies that particular route. Wed have al-

most a weeks wait on Batam, a small

Indonesian island not far from Singa-

pore. Batam caters to the resort crowd,

drawing businessmen from Singapore in

search of a little illicit fun and families in

search of an economical beach holiday.

A luxury vacationTurns out, we got to enjoy a little vaca-

tion, too. Super Husband somehow got

in contact with a fellow called Chris who

just happens to be a fan of cycling. And

this (exceedingly kind) Chris character

put us up in a fancy hotel throughout our

6 day wait on Batam. Were talking swim-

ming pool and a view of the sea from our

nely appointed air-conditioned room. In

six years on the road, wed rarely been in

a place which supplied towels let aloneone that offered daily maid service, sat-

ellite TV and a bell hop to wrestle with

our bags.

The six days of pampered respite ew

by in a blur of leisurely meals and long

swims. I knew where I would sleep at

the end of the day, where my next meal

was coming from and where to turn foran endless supply of safe drinking water.

Yes, life was easy. Very easy. Comfort-

able and pleasant. Stress-free and safe.

And just a tad bit boring.

So back to the bikes with butteries

bouncing around in my stomach like it

was my rst-ever day of bicycle touring.

A quick ferry to the island of Bintan, a

90 kilometer cross-island ride to a port

on the other side of the island, a night

couchsurng and the next day were up

early to catch the ferry that will eventually

take us to Borneo.

Economy classThis was not our rst Third World ferry ex-

perience. Wed caught a boat down Lake

Tanganyika to a remote part of western

Tanzania, wed sailed across the Indian

Ocean to get to Zanzibar, wed hopped a

ferry for a thousand kilometers down the

mighty Amazon and of course there was

the infamous ferry across Lake Nasser

from Egypt to Sudan.

Wed arranged for economy class

tickets for the Borneo boat. That meant

no reserved seating. Wed have to carve

out a space for ourselves, the bikes and

all our belongings. I was anticipating

being a little cramped, but was certain

Economy Class was something I could

endure in the spirit of saving money.

Liz and Chris from Bikeabout had

gone economy class on an Indonesianferry, pointed out Eric, as had Spaniard

Salva Rodriguez.

UnperturbableThat Salva had gone economy class

didnt mean much. This guy is one of the

toughest cyclists that Ive read about. In

one of his newsletters, Salva wrote ofcycling through the Copper canyon in

Mexico. There are no real roads through

the Copper canyon, just some rocky

tracks snaking their way through very

rugged and remote terrain. But Salva

never complains (at least not publical-

ly), no matter what the conditions. This

guy could probably ride through Siberia

in January and talk about it as if it hed

just biked through France on a ne sum-

mer day. Nothing perturbs Salva. I ad-



mire Salva. I earnestly wish I possessed

many of his ne character traits. But af-

ter all this time on the bikes I know Im

no Salva Rodriguez. Im a middle-aged

woman who grew up despising camping

and anything that got dirt under her n-

gernails. Nowadays, I like a little adven-

ture. I embrace adventure. I might go so

far as stating that I need adventure. But

Ive got my limits, particularly when it in-

volves noise and sanitation.

The big boat rideUnsurprisingly, general bedlam reigned

at the port in Bintan. Porters drenched

in sweat heaved everything from fridgesand washing machines to bicycles and

pellets of laptop computers up a narrow

passageway. A crowd of confused looking

ticket holders surged towards the boat as

others attempted to disembark. Several

policemen tried to tame the chaos, but

their sharp whistles were of little avail.

Luckily, our couchsurng hosts, Rob-ert and Ria, were there to assist. While

they kept an eye on our bikes, Eric and I

grabbed some bags and elbowed our way

through the crowd. Economy Class, I

shouted out to one of the sailors in white.

This way, missus, and he pointed me

into a cavernous smoke-lled hall, thick

with the sweet scent of clove cigarettes

mixed with the far less agreeable stench

of a backed up toilet. Orang 147, I not-

edthe area slept 147 people. There

were ve more similar spaces, I was to

discover later, bringing the total capacity

of the boat up to almost 1,000. During

holiday periods, an ofcer explained, the

ship packed up to 6,000 travelers. I was

battling back claustrophobia at that very

moment, when the boat was carrying

just under its ofcial limit. Imagine 6,000people jammed into a space I consid-

ered too cramped for the 1,000 individu-

als it was designed for. It would be like

squeezing two more couples and all their

cycling gear into our three-man tent.

The economy class room wed booked

into was packed with mattress after mat-

tress, just inches apart, lined up oneafter the other on low platforms. Music

blasted from all directions, cigarette butts

carpeted the oor, and bright uorescent

lights assaulted my eyes. As I took in the

horror of our proposed accommodation

for the next 60 hours, hundreds of weary

faces stared back.

I cant do this, I said. I cant endurethree days in these revolting conditions,

I added, plopping down next to the pan-

niers. No amount of cajoling could make

me change my mind. Its true that I hadnt

been bothered by 30 hours of deck class

in Sudan. The cool December air was

invigorating, wed had plenty of space

to stretch out and the devout men who

came to pray on my yoga mat (mistaking

it for a modern prayer rug) gave me a

good laugh.

Economy class was a cavernous smoke-lled hall, thick

with the sweet scent of clove cigarettes mixed with the

far less agreeable stench of a backed up toilet.



But I put my foot down at 60 hours of

second hand smoke, shit smeared toi-

lets and crappy pop music. Another $50

for an upgrade to second class? Money

well spent.

After that small investment in our

physical and mental well-being, I was a

whole lot happier. Yes, money can buy

a degree of happiness, thats one thing

bicycle travel has taught me. While a

second-class sojourn on the K.M. Bukit

Raya wasnt exactly a cruise on the Love

Boat, it far surpassed my minimum stan-

dards of comfort.

Special TreatmentAs foreigners, we were assigned a four-

berth cabin. All. To. Ourselves.

Normally men and women are lodged

separately, but the indulgent ofcer in

charge would make an exception in our

case. They could have stuck me in the

broom closet for all I cared. Just as longas it was quiet and smoke-free. But the

cabin, albeit a bit cramped, was tted

with comfortable bunks covered with

fresh white sheets and the adjoining

bathroom sported a western style toi-

let and one of the best hot showers Ive

ever experienced. At times, the lethargic

air-conditioning system even forced outa little cool air.

In second class, the days passed

rather pleasantly. For adventure, I could

stroll around the outer deck, snapping

photos of the picturesque palm-covered

islands we passed and stumbling over

sleeping passengers. Being the only for-

eigners aboard, we were a novelty and

the subject of intense curiosity. It was

easy to strike up a conversation with just

about anybody.

And when Id my ll of taking in the

beautiful views and answering the same

questions weve been subjected to since

we set off (What is your country? How

long you stay in Indonesia? Why you go

on bicycle? How many tires you use?

Why you dont have children?), I could

hide away in our second class haven.

On Land at last!After two and a half days at sea, we

pulled into port. Within moments of ar-

riving on Borneo, my romantic vision of

the island was all but crushed. Ponti-

anak, the capital of the Indonesian state

of West Kalimantan, is a thriving city of

satellite dishes and shopping centers,

internet cafes, big banks, hotels (the Ga-

ruda offers Executive Karaoke) and fast

food outlets.

In Pontianak, youre about as likely to

spot locals in grass skirts and loincloths

as you are to nd an Apache warrior infull headdress strutting through down-

town Phoenix. Locals zip around on

noisy motorbikes and spend their time

rapidly tapping out text messages and

checking out their friends status updates

on Facebook.

Nope, we havent crossed paths with

any headhunters yet, but well keep youposted. Who knows what adventure

awaits farther aeld. This is BORNEO,

after all! BT

In 2006 Amaya Williams and Eric Scham-

bion set off to cycle every country on the

planet. You can follow their progress at:

www.worldbiking.info. They also publish

www.gobicycletouring.info which contains

reviews of other bike travel websites.



First:

Second:

Third:Fourth:

Fifth:

Sixth:

Seventh:

Eighth:

Ninth:

Tenth:

BICYCLE

TOURING

TEN

COMMANDMENTSBy:CHARLIEBAXTER

Thou shalt never strap toes too tightly.

Thou shalt never cycle without a pump capable of 80psi+.

Thou shalt never pedal along on a 4 lane thick highway.You shall always respect the wind strength.

Thou shalt not overtake police with wine in the bottle holder.

Honour thy fellow cyclist and always greet them in one way or another.

Remember to wear Lycra at all times to relieve sizzling sunburn and gain

respect with a padded crotch.

Remember to always buy a bag of 10 pain au chocolate for the next morning.

Thou shalt never cycle onto sand.

Remember that however full your bags are, a bungee cord is your best friend.

Last summer Charlie Baxter cycled from London to Spain. You can read more about his

adventures at: http://charliebaxter-cb.tumblr.com.

Photo:PAULJEURIS

SEN


40/46



DAVE CONROY

http://www.tiredot.ca

Tanzania

ImageRoad:the

from



PAUL JEURISSEN

www.pauljeurissen.nl

India

ImageRoad:

thefrom



Acouple of years ago, I rode my bicycle - emission-free andcarbon neutral - 20,000 kilometres from England to China,and arrived feeling moderately pleased that I'd come quite along way without pumping so much as an ounce of the pollutingstuff into the atmosphere.

Then my partner ew out to meet me in Shanghai. A few weeks later, her parents de-

cided they would make the most of us being there, so they came to check out China as

well - via the plane. My mother and grandmother were not far behind. Then last month

my sister popped over for a jet-propelled look-see, her boyfriend in tow. My partner's

brother and his wife are expected in a week or two, and they won't be pedalling either.

As unintended consequences go, this one was pretty bad. One squeaky-clean

intercontinental bike ride has ended up being responsible for no less than nine round-

trip intercontinental air journeys.

In September, in an attempt to dry up the stream of airborne visitors (of all of whomI am very fond, I hasten to point out), I'll be getting back on my bike and riding home

again. But without the smug eco-friendly grin on my face. And probably wearing sack-

cloth too.BT

Edward Genochio rode from England to China and back again and is now writing a book

titled But Isnt There A Bus? read more about his trip at: http://www.2wheels.org.uk.

eco-friendlyAn

bike tripBy: Edward Genochio

Photo:PAU

LJEURISSEN

COLUMN


46/46

Photo: PAUL JEURISSEN

TravelerBicycle

Parting shot

Revista - Bicycle Traveler 04 - Australia

Documents