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Epilogue

2009-12-13T02:56:00.000-08:00

Let me tell you a story….

Let me tell you how I sat and cried half way up a mountain in Northern Spain because I never thought I would never get to the top of it.

Let me tell you how I ended up in an Irish bar in Tangier owned by a Moroccan.

Let me tell you how I cycled close to 2000 miles when I was 21.

You’re right; it’s not a very good story.

But it’s mine.

When I was 20 years old I decided I would cycle to South Africa. I don’t remember when I decided to do it or why. Every time I came up with a reason it was different. When I was 20 years old I laughed at everyone who told me they ‘found themselves’ travelling and I pitied them. Were they that insecure that they didn’t know who they were already? When I was 20 years old I planned a trip so thoroughly and with so little regard for other people that I alienated my family and friends and, what saddens me the most, the girl I loved.

When I was 20 years old I was naïve. I had never done anything on my own. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. I was told that if I went to university and played some rugby, enjoyed myself and got a degree I could have any job I wanted. And I believed it. When I was 20 years old I walked through a crowded room full of friends and realised I had nothing to say. I think, honestly, I just wanted to do something. Something different, something that made me stand out.

I have always been scared of three things: failure, myself and never having achieved anything; never having a story of my own. And I didn’t, I lived my life through books and film wishing everyone else’s happy ending was mine. I used to well up in films, not cry, but I could feel the emotion pressing on my skin from the inside out. But not at the sad bits of films. I would well up when I saw the retired quarterback come back for one last game and throw the winning touchdown pass. I would feel it when the boxer that didn’t stand a chance held his own against the Champ. Most of all, I would get that feeling when I saw someone receive a standing ovation. It’s because I wanted it. I wanted to achieve something and was always scared I never would; watching someone else do it was almost enough.

I was scared of myself because I didn’t know anything about myself. I would really want something one day, and have no interest in it the next. I didn’t know what I liked or why, or what I wanted in life. I didn‘t know what I wanted my standing ovation to be for.

And most of all I was scared of failure and because of that everything I have achieved so far in life came easy to me and I never pushed myself to see just what I could do.

When I was 20 years old I planned the trip of a lifetime and when I was 21 I didn’t make it. There is no doubt in my mind that I could have made it though. I can cycle 50, 60, 70 miles a day no problem. I can deal with the attention you get on a loaded bike, with the kids throwing stones, with finding hostels or campsites but for once in my life I’m not going to be selfish. I can’t go further south without insurance: not for me but for my family who would have to bail me out if something went wrong. I would love to go further south and I would love to think that I could be like Andy McNab on wheels, cycling through the desert evading capture until I got to the relative safety of West Africa… but why risk it?

When I was 20 years old I thought the whole world was against me because I was too caught up in myself and what I wanted from life and it wasn’t coming quick enough. When I was 20 and people worried about me I thought they were holding me back, when they gave me advice I brushed it away because I thought they doubted me. When someone gave me their business card and told me to send them a postcard from Senegal and laughed at me I got so angry I couldn’t sleep. When I was 20 I was very different.

I haven’t ‘found myself.’ I still don’t know what I want, or why. But I know what I have and what I had. I haven’t got my story yet, because I’m 21, but I have a couple of chapters. And I haven’t achieved everything I wanted to and I haven’t got my standing ovation. But I will. One day. For something. And I’m proud of myself.

I’ve never felt lower as I have on this trip. Never have I felt so emotionally drained, but equally, never have I felt such elation and such pride. I was half way up that mountain on my second day and I had run out of water, I had no food and I had no idea where I was. There were no road signs, no houses and I wanted to go home. But I got to the top and I’ve never been more proud. Never have I been as happy as when a little head teacher invited me into his home for food. Never have I smiled wider than when I saw the sign for the ferry to Africa and never, not once until now, have I achieved something that I doubted my ability to do. And I did doubt myself. For six months I planned my trip and I forgot that at the end I would actually have to cycle, the day before I left I was frightened, I’d only cycled 50 miles once before and then it was on an empty bike.

And yeh, I didn’t make it to Cape Town. But I don’t consider that a failure. I truly believe I could have got there and I didn’t mind taking risks to do so, but calculated ones; the juice has got to be worth the squeeze and in this case, the risk outweighs my desire to push on. I’ll take a few knocks on the chin for it, I’ll take the digs and the I-told-you-so’s because I gave it a go.
Not one person told me I could do this when I started. It riled me. Every day I would be told I couldn’t do it and everyday I wanted to prove people wrong. ‘Naive’ is how one cycling magazine described me: ‘affable, eloquent and good humoured. If a little naïve.’ And I was. Although perhaps they got the ‘affable and good humoured’ part wrong. I was before I started planning the trip and I am now but I would do a lot differently if I had the time again; I would have relaxed on holiday in Spain in the summer and not been constantly on edge, I would have been nicer to a lot of people and I would have let the people I love know I cared about what they thought.

The security situation was stable when I left and my insurance valid in all but one country, which I could have bypassed, now the British Foreign Office website tells a different story. As a politics graduate - and after reading countless books about Africa’s turbulent history - I should have realised the volatility of the area but I didn’t think about it. But if I hadn’t have tried I would still be the angry 20 year old with a point to prove, with a chip on his shoulder: who just wanted to prove people wrong. It turns out they were right all along and I didn’t want to see it. I’m glad I gave it a go and I’m glad I got as far as I got. And I’m glad I’m not him anymore. I’ve realised so much, a lot of it too late, and I have a lot of apologies to make. Unfortunately some people will hear, but they won’t listen. Too late, to some people, is the same as never at all and there are some things which I let go which I will never get back.

I think the one thing I have realised is that you never do things just for yourself. Everyone you love and care about owns a little share in you and you need to take that into account. You parents, your friends, your family all have a little bit of you that belongs to them and you have a little bit of them which belongs to you. I wish I realised that before. I’m not good at apologising, or I wasn’t, but to my family who were forced to put up with my single-minded arrogance in the planning stages: I am sorry. For the friends I didn’t meet up with because I was saving money or waiting for an email: I am sorry. To everyone who read this blog or donated equipment for me to use: I am sorry. And most of all, to the person who gave me a list of Spanish phrases on a scrap of card, which I read now just to look at your handwriting, I am eternally and unwaveringly sorry.

As soon as I set up a website for this trip I got emails from all around the world telling me I was ‘an inspiration.’ I hate that word. But if people want something to inspire them take this: try. Try anything and everything you want to try. And if you don’t succeed: learn from it.
I have achieved something I am proud of, but compared to other peoples achievements it is nothing, I realise that. But for once I don’t want what other people have, or what they are doing, I am happy in my own skin knowing I have done something. Other people are cycling through Africa as we speak. Maybe they are foolhardy, maybe they are braver than me, maybe they see the risk differently and at least one has said I am throwing in the towel too early. I disagree. I’m 21 now and I have plenty of time to try this trip again, and maybe I will. I do want to see West Africa. I have read all the books, I have the malaria tablets and the equipment and the hunger and desire are there but I can’t take the risk, not now. Not yet.

At my secondary school there was a sign on the door to my history class:

“It’s better to aim high and miss than to shoot low and reach your goal.”

I used to laugh at it and the black and white image of a basketball player and the pealing laminate and frayed edges. And I suppose I have missed. But this is the first time I’ve aimed high and pushed myself. And it won’t be the last.

There is a phrase about going to a country which says you have to ‘take only photographs and leave only footprints.’ I have left behind a lot of teenage angst which I should have let go of a long time ago and taken with me a sense of accomplishment the like of which I have never felt. I have taken a lot of memories, some good, some bad. I have left behind the chip on my shoulder. It’s not the story I wanted, but it’s mine, and I hope you enjoyed reading it.

2009-12-13T02:54:00.001-08:00

I touched down last night at Bristol at 7.30 pm.

It was colder than Morocco but everything was pretty much the same. I was sad to be back in England but unfortunately I couldn’t find a flight further south that I could afford and I didn’t want to risk it in Mauritania. A lot of people have said I’m doing the sensible thing and have been very supportive, a few people have gone the other way and said I’m being too cautious and that I should just go anyway.

The way I see it is like this: There is no doubt in my mind I could have cycled to South Africa. But as long as people are getting kidnapped on a regular basis by terrorists and the British government says that a country is unsafe, then I will not go there. The British government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, I only have a British passport. I also look like the most white man in the world and there would be no doubting that I was European.

If people want to say I am jacking it in early then that is fine. You go for it. But I value my safety and I think my integrity has remained in tact. I have been offered the chance to play rugby in Spain so that is what I will do for the moment. I will still ride my Qoroz Mountain Won and give it a good run around Spain. Maybe in the summer I will see about riding through some of Africa.

At the moment I am sitting in my sisters house near Bath. My three year old niece gave me a big hug and a ‘high five’ when she saw me this morning and I am about to have beans on toast. I wish I was about to get on my bike and do 50 miles, I really do, but this time it wasn’t to be.

2009-12-12T06:45:00.000-08:00

Saturday 12:51 pm

I am in Marrakesh airport and have already had an argument.

I woke up and had breakfast in my Ibis Hotel and walked outside to find a beggar, street vendors and taxi drivers in little Fiat Uno’s waiting to drum up custom. I went back inside and saw three piece suits and a swimming pool, people browsing the internet and an a fully stocked bar. I went back outside. It is a funny world we live in.

I first went to find stamps to send the postcards I had bought home but I couldn’t find a post office that was open. I then went on the hunt for cardboard and tape. I found a supermarket and mimed my way to a cardboard box.

“You want a box? For why?” said a bewildered shop assistant.

“For my bicycle.”

“You want to put your bike in a box?”

I think this was too much for him to grasp but I got there in the end and spent two hours trying to wrap my bike as securely as possible in cardboard and bright blue parcel tape. With the help of a porter I squeezed my bike in a taxi and went to the airport.

“You cycled England to Morocco?” he said before squeezing my leg. “it is beeeeg, no!?”

“Yes, they are big legs.”

“How much, how long?” He couldn’t grasp the fact that someone would cycle somewhere for the fun of it. Here in Morocco bikes are everywhere but they are carrying bread or fruit, or being used to get from A to B - it must seem odd that someone would cycle just for pleasure. “Six weeks? You are crazy Engleeesh!”

“Yeh, huh, crazy.” I grinned. It seems funny that people you meet seem impressed that you cycled to Morocco when I am so disappointed that I am not heading further south. It’s hard to explain this to a French and Arabic speaking taxi driver.

At the airport I went to the reception desk to buy a ticket, I tried online but I can’t print out the boarding pass, I didn’t pack a printer in my panniers.

“We are shut.” This was the sort of customer service I expected from Ireland’s leading low cost airline.

“Well, when is the flight?”

“shut” the lady replied before answering the phone. When I worked in a high street shop one of our training videos had this scenario as a ‘what-not-to-do’ part of the video.

“Well, how much would a flight be with a bike and an extra bag?”

“I am not telling you until later.”

“Do you have a complaint form? You’re being very rude to me.”

“I no rude, you come back later, I don’t normally talk when I am busy doing work.” She was at her computer typing in information to a spreadsheet. I gave up and sat down. I have an hour to kill before I can try and book a flight, if that fails I have to wait another 4 hours.

2.44pm

Turns out the woman at the desk was just rude. I came back 5 minutes later and booked a flight with another lady. I am now waiting in the boarding area having spent my last dirhams on a stale sandwich and wifi access.

2009-12-11T14:21:00.000-08:00

“We say in Germany that you have to have, how you say, balls” said Stefan darting in front of a moving car. I waited for the next gap in traffic and joined him on the other side of the street. I wanted to cross the road, sure, but I wanted less risk involved. Maybe that is the difference between me and other people, I will take a risk to get what I want but I want to minimise it.

I pulled out my guide book in the hotel and realised it was the end of the line. Rabat is the administrative capital of Morocco and the only place to get a Mauritanian visa. I checked Google for news on Mauritania and it still didn’t fill me with confidence. This was it.

“Maybe tomorrow we can cycle to Casablanca and then to Essaouira and then to Agadir and then I will go to Marrakesh.” Stefan has to be in Marrakesh for the 27th December for his birthday party with his family and friends but was keen to join forces along the coast.

“I think…I think I want to go home, Stefan.”

Stefan told me a great website to check flights. They were expensive. $1000 from Rabat, $500 from Agadir but $130 from Casablanca on Saturday.

“I think I’ll get that one, sorry Stefan.”

My biggest regret about this trip, apart from the way I behaved planning it, will be that I caught the train in Spain. If I had known that I would finish in Morocco I would have cycled every single mile. But there I was on a train again today to Marrakesh to catch an early flight home. I am not with my bicycle.

I went to the station last night, got a timetable and checked whether my bike would be allowed on the train. Not a problem. I turned up today and was told I had to leave.

“This is a station, not a state” shouted the man in uniform at the station, although I didn't know fully what he meant by that odd turn of phrase.

“I checked yesterday and was told it would be fine.”

“No. No fine. Get out! Rabat-Agdar!”

It turns out Rabat Agdar station is a kilometre away. I cycled there in the midday sun and wheeled my bike inside. I was promptly told to leave. It turns out despite what the internet, the guidebooks and the information desks at the station say you cannot take a bike on a Moroccan train.

As I was starting to raise my voice Fadji came to my rescue. She had studied in Paris and apparently been lost in London and been helped by a friendly local and so knew my predicament. I found this hard to believe: I have never seen a friendly Londoner. She talked to the guard and it turned out I could send my bike via the Moroccan equivalent of parcel force and it would meet me at the station the next day.

Fadji took me to a porter who took me to the parcel company where I waited for an hour whilst we sorted out how to ship my bike to Marrakesh by tomorrow night. The porter waited with me and carried all my bags and although I don’t like tipping I was forced to accept that he deserved a few dirham. My bike will arrive at Marrakesh station at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning where I have to figure out how to prepare it for an early flight home.

The train to Marrakesh was beautiful and I was upset I wasn’t cycling through the valleys between red mountains and small villages. I felt very low realising that this was it. I got to Marrakesh and I treated myself to a stay in a real hotel. I changed into the cheap jeans I bought in the Medina in Rabat and my new shirt and I went to the bar to order a drink. I have never felt so wealthy after seeing such poverty out of the train window and now sitting in a bar eating an overpriced Panini in what appear to be brand name clothes whilst outside on the street it is a whole other world.

This isn’t how I wanted it to end. I still dream of West Africa, or Senegalese villages and of Ghanaian street parties and I will come back to Africa, soon. I felt like a failiure on the train, like I had planned something and then not gone through with it but thinking about it, that’s not exactly how it is. I haven’t done what I said I would but I know I could. When I started I was worried about doing 50 miles on a bike and now I know I could do that every day indefinitely. I would like to try again one day. Soon. Maybe I will get a flight with my bike to Senegal in the summer, who knows. Either way I still want to see the places I have read about, the cultures, the music, the people… I want to see what I have been thinking about for months on end.

2009-12-10T07:15:00.000-08:00

I didn’t want to pay him but I did. The hotel receptionist had lost it.

“You pay for the room, now you pay for me, 50 Dirham” He said angrily.

I went to the internet café after uttering the French for “I don’t understand” and hid. When I came back he was there with his posse.

“You give him a small something. You English? Where you been?”

“I came from Spain.”

“Ah, my girlfriend is from Spain. She has a beeeg ass. A huge ass. Like a black girl ass. But she have a good heart. I like them to be fun.” His friend spoke English had a penchant for larger women “but you give him a small something, I send him to your room later.”

If this was England I would have lost it, but in Asillah I gave the guy 40 Dirham when he marched up to my room, just so I could sleep soundly.

I pulled out of Asillah and ended up down the coast in Larache for lunch time. I went and had a coffee in a place by the sea thinking that they would serve the food on their menu. They did not. The café was a legacy of colonial France with a French name and large, now largely derelict, building that in it’s heyday wouldn’t have looked out of place on the streets of Paris.
I was now desperate for food and wanted a crepe. The night before I had had cravings for cucumber sandwiches but now I wanted a crepe. I went to another café and asked for a plate of crepes. I got a café au lait. I was happy to drink it but I wanted a crepe.

The waiter came back with a beer.

“No, a crepe!”

“A crepe?”

He came back with something else, I don’t know what on earth it was. “A crepe!”

He came back with a menu. By now 40 minutes had passed. I pointed at the shabby cardboard: “Ah, a crepe!”

Eventually I got my crepe and as I was leaving and trying to cross the road I saw another cycle tourist. He stopped and we got talking. We were both going in the same direction and so we decided to cycle together.

His name was Stefan and he became my German wind block, I glided effortlessly up hill in his slip stream and most importantly: he knew the way to go to get to Rabat... And he knew where a campsite was.

We got to the campsite and I pitched my tent for the first time and feasted on the Supernoodles and Cuppa Soup which I have been carrying along with me since I left England. I woke up very cold and very wet. The dew lay like rainfall on the ground and in the trees and everything I had left outside (which was in fact, everything I had) was sodden.

December 9th 2009

Stefan and I set off at 10 after I had heated my instant porridge which my mother had lovingly snuck into my bag before I left. I was actually very grateful for it, unlike when I found out I had half a kilo or oats in my front pannier slowing me down! We headed for Rabat and, apart from the fact that the roads became almost impassable at points where trucks and tractors had devastated the road surface leaving it cratered and pot-holed, everything was great. We stopped for lunch in Kenitra and I ate like I had never eaten before. First came the bread and dips (tomato, split pea and indecipherable), then came half a rotisserie chicken and then came the chips. It was all washed down by a litre of cold cola. I will be honest, the hills felt a lot steeper after that and my stomach felt like it was hitting my knee caps every time I stroked the pedals.

On leaving Kenitra we were followed along the main road by two boys on bicycles. It was an odd looking peloton: Stefan with his neatly packed bike, Rohloff hub and bright yellow Ortlieb panniers, me with me slightly less neatly packed luggage and Brooks bags and my Qoroz titanium steed and the two boys, one on a ram-horned touring bike of yesteryear and one on a mountain bike which made some unusual noises. With little disregard for our safety or theirs they followed us, weaved in an out of us and in and out of traffic.

I had a mixed day with children. The two boys riding alongside us were reckless but fun and friendly with big wide grins. Mohammad who I met rollerblading along the beach asked my name and shook my hand as we rolled along side by side. Some little shit tried to rip my rear light off and pull me off my bike as we went past. Another threw a stone at me and then threatened to shovel sand on me. Another threatened to roll a gas canister in front of me and numerous kids picked up stones and gestured that they were going to throw them. It was okay for Stefan, he whizzed past in front and whilst he shielded me from the wind, I bore the brunt of the juvenile abuse. In a weird way it broke my heart. I had read that I would get this further south, that the sight of a white man on a bicycle would inspire kids to run along side you and wave - and sometime throw stones - and shout in English and French. This is why I chose Africa, somewhere truly different, and it’s all coming to a premature end.

We got to Rabat for 6 and are staying in the old walled part of the city in Hotel Marrakech. 70 Dirham for the room, 7 to use the showers and there is no toilet paper in the loos. I never fully grasped the ‘left hand method’ when I went to India and I still don’t get it. Not that it is a problem. My stomach has gone the other way and I have become bloated with 4 days worth of food. I was seriously contemplating buying the sheep-skull carvery on offer from a street vendor as a cheap way of sorting the problem out.

Anyway, tomorrow I am going to look around Rabat. Stefan has a guide book with all the things to do and places to see and its fun looking around with someone else. I felt a bit bored and redundant walking around Spain and Tangier on my own. Seeing the sights is great but it’s better when you have someone to share it with! Today’s sightseeing highlight was buying ‘ICE’ soft drinks, which are made in Morocco. I got Cola and Citron flavour and Stefan got apple. The cola is 5,50 Dirham for a litre and is, dare I say it, nicer that real coke. The lemon is nice too. Although I am concerned that the sugar content might be off the scale. Either way, it is the first time I have seen a soft drink in Morocco which is not made by the Coca-Cola company.

Ahh

2009-12-07T11:51:00.001-08:00

The man in my hostel has gone nuts. He is suddenly asking for double the money. I have paid the hotel, but 'not for me' he says. I legged it to an internet cafe.

He looks game for a fight and I am not happy.

Over,
Sean

Saturday December 5th - Monday December 7th

2009-12-07T10:10:00.000-08:00

Tangier - where east meets west.

Or north meets south.

Either way there is a definite clash of cultures in Tangier. I think this was best highlighted by the mini-skirted Moroccan girl walking next to another Moroccan lady in a full Burka… with “Dior” written in big letters down the side of it.

I won’t lie - I haven’t so far, and if nothing else this blog is truthful - I was petrified in Tangier. I have never been offered more drugs, more women or heard such dark stories about a place.
***
“The thing is, they are all after some money. About six months ago some coppers chopped up this guy and left him in the woods, he owed a lot of money, like, and I think they wanted t’wild pigs t’eat him, like.”

This was Craig. My tactic of beer for food was working admirably. I had had two small bottles of beer and had had six tapas dishes: fish, burgers, chicken, salad, beetroot, you name it, I was given a tiny fork and a plethora of tiny food. I sidled up to the bar and heard two English speakers so I pulled out a line I have always wanted to use in a bar:

“I’ll have what they’re having.”

“Come and sit with us pal, pull up a chair” said Tony. “what’s your story?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try us, we’ve heard the lot, haven’t we Craig?”

“I was trying to cycle to South Africa.”

They hadn’t heard that before.

Craig and Tony were pushing 50 and had lived in Tangier for 15 years apiece. They had done the lot and had some stories to tell.

“We’ll show you around like, won’t we Craig?” and Tony and Craig did show me around. From the smart little 555 bar with wifi we went to Brownies and the beer was flowing.

“There is just one piece of advice you need to know, like, never get caught in a car after midnight with a slapper. If she’s not your wife, you can end up in prison!” Tony and/or Craig told me this advice and I had no intention of being anywhere with a ‘slapper’ after midnight.

Fast-forward to one in the morning and I’m sat in a car with Paddy Maroc and a ‘slapper’ - I’ve had four beers and the tapas is running through me. I think it might have been the burgers.
“Paddy, I need to go home. It’s my stomach!”

Paddy Maroc, which wasn’t his real name, was Irish if you hadn’t guessed and he knew the ‘craic.’

“Dontcha worry dare Sean, everyone’s stomach plays up when they first get to Morocco. You’ll come to a slapper bar wit me wontcha?’

“Is it near the hotel?’

“Aye, sure we’ll get you one near the hotel.”

“I don’t want prostitute, Paddy. I’m not into all that” I really wanted to go home and didn’t want it to be Madrid all over again.

“That’s jus’ how they wantcha to think dare, Sean. You’ve been brainwashed.”
***
Paddy had turned up to Brownies halfway through the night. He was wearing a smart suit jacket and jeans and he spoke Arabic, French, Gaelic and English.

“The thing is Arabic and Gaelic are pretty much the same dare Sean. What’s your surname again there? Maher? That’s a strong Irish name dare Sean. A strong Irish name. There was a General Maher, you know? So whatcha doing in Tangier?”

After four beers of unregulated strength I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. But I wasn’t paying for the free-flowing beer and I was at the ‘I love you’ stage of beer-drinking.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, I just want my girlfriend back. The thing is about women…I love you Paddy, Tony and Craig. This is why I went travelling, to meet people! I love you all.”

“Dontcha worry about women dare. Shall I show you an Irish pub?”

The Irish pub couldn’t have been less Irish. It had a Moroccan décor, no Guinness, no green, a Moroccan owner and Spanish omelette Tapas. I’d also give the loo in their a miss, I blame the Tapas.

That’s when I explained that I now felt ill and had griping stomach pain and that is when we went to a ‘slapper bar.’

The bar, inside a hotel, was crawling with beautiful women. All prostitutes. I was left at the bar with a coke and a prostitute and introduced.

“Hello, you speak French.” said the beautiful girl next to me.

“No, I’m English.”

“Ah English! You okay?”

“Yeh, great. I’ll see you then.” Again I had run away and was now sitting on my own. There was no sign of Paddy so I was going to run. He turned up again just as I was leaving.

“Wontcha stay for another coke dare, Sean?”

Anyway, after a coke we finally left and I was sitting in a little blue fiat uno taxi with Paddy in the front and me and a girl in the back and I was now ill and terrified of being arrested. But luckily it was okay. I got back to the hotel and Paddy walked me to my room.

“Now ifcha need anything just call me!”

It had been an eventful night and I had met a lot of nice people and had made it home alone, without being arrested. I arranged to meet Craig the next day at the 555 bar for a drink, this time nothing but coke!

I was sitting in 555 when he pitched up with Bob. Bob is a truck driver. The long and short of yesterday is that I went to use wifi visiting the same websites in order: Gmail, Facebook, Skype and the FCO website. But I found out that Bob is driving to Marrakesh with a shipment and if I get there by Saturday I get a lift back to Tangier in an 18 wheeler. Anyway, three Cokes and a Sprite and lots of free tapas later I went back to the hotel to wake up for 5.30, leave by 7 and smash out 130 km. I have real trouble getting to sleep, that has always been the way. Maybe I think about things too much but as soon as my head hit’s the pillow, no matter how tired I am, I stay awake for hours just thinking. I am however, very good at sleeping through alarms once I finally manage to get to sleep.

My first night in boarding school when I was 16 there was a fire alarm. I slept through it and I rudely, although half-asleep and not compos mentis yet, told my housemaster to ‘bugger off’ when he came to wake me up. A similar thing happened today when my alarm went off and I slept through it until 10.30. I was out of the hotel by 11 and eating pancakes in what looked like an upmarket bar. A quick nip to the loo, however, uncovered the fact that the food preparation area wasn’t likely to be spotless as the loo was caked in grime and stank to high-heaven. If I described the conditions in detail I would lose a lot of readers so I will leave it at that. At 11.20 I was cycling and after 10 miles of cycling around and around in circles I finally found the road south to Asilla.

Conditions were grim with a fierce headwind and I only covered 30 miles (plus 10 going around in circles in Tangier which don’t count). I found a campsite where I could have camped in car park next to the beach on concrete for 100 Dirham (10 pounds) and then I settled on a little hostel where for 100 Dirham I get a room and shower and a garage for my bike. I would have been happy with the campsite until I was told by a small grubby man in a high-viz jacket much like the one I was forced to buy in Spain:

“You pay me 100 Dirham, later men come and make trouble for you so I pay them 5 Dirham and fight them away so you stay safe. No? How much you pay?”

“For this, err maybe 20 Dirham?”

“No, no, 70 Dirham and I stay up all night to fight the men off”

“Why would you be fighting men off?” I was a bit worried about this scenario

“Not safe! But I sleep tomorrow so you sleep tonight.”

“No I’m good. I’ll have a look around, thanks.’

“But I protect you and fight men, huh! Pay them to go!”

And with that I pedalled off.

2009-12-04T09:37:00.000-08:00

In three weeks in Spain I fell in love with a country, I learnt bits and pieces of a language, I cycled 1000 miles, I spent a night with a French girl learning how to swear (“It means, how you say? ‘fucking pussy’) I lost and then recovered my things and I was sick almost continuously. But now, for the moment, my Spanish odyssey is over.

I woke up, wheeled my bike back to the same patisserie and had a coffee and a pastry with Sean. It must be something about the name, but he was a great egg who was in Tarifa to learn to kite board. After that, I decided to go to the gym I had seen the night before and find out how much I now weighed. After 1000 miles and nearly a month of tapas my clothes are hanging me and I was intrigued. I went to the gym and was told there were no scales ‘but you must weigh at least 104 - 108 kilos. But if you want to have a shower or something, for me, no problem.’

‘oh, thanks. Could I maybe use the weights room?’

‘Sure, no problem.’

The gym owners name was Hugo and he was from Chile. He was also massive - I think he must have used his own gym quite a lot.

So I had an impromptu, pain au chocolate fuelled gym session in which I learnt whilst I had lost weight, I had also lost the ability to lift anything. From the gym I headed to the port, got on the ferry, got my passport stamped and sat with my sunglasses on trying to fight back seasickness. I was met at the port entrance by Mohammed.

‘Hello! Welcome to Morocco. I am Mohammed, this is pictures of my children. She lives in Madrid, she lives in Bree-stol in England and she is ten.’

This was very good of the Moroccan tourist board, laying on a personal guide for me. It soon became apparent he was a beggar. The first of many who would approach me and start trying to hassle me for money.

‘I will walk you to your hotel, very cheap for you. I am blind now. Here is picture of me with eyesight.’

‘I’m good actually, Mo, I’ll just have a look around.’ I replied.

‘Okay, you give me money. Couple Euros?’

‘I don’t have any. Honestly.’

‘You no have money? You have beeeg expensive bike. You have plenty money.’ He looked desperate.

It was then I pulled out a pen and paper and explained about the Student Loan Company, the cost of university education and how, in reality, despite appearances, I actually had a negative amount of money and therefore could not spare any. After this short seminar he gave me a few Euros and I was on my way. Obviously that last part didn’t happen. I did what I did to the prostitutes in Madrid and I ran away. I picked the first hotel I came to and set up camp for the night. I then went to find wi-fi.

In five minutes I had been offered ‘some good shit. You like hash, my fren?’ four times and I had been told about cheap hotels, I had been asked for money and I had been shouted at a lot. I have never wanted to look less big, blonde and white.

On a plus side, it turns out I won’t need to buy any food in Morocco, only beer. I bought a Heineken in bar on the waterfront purely because it was the first thing I saw and I was given three tapas dishes: fish, a funny plant which I had to ask how to eat, and chick peas. Another beer, another two tapas dishes. Another beer, even more. For the equivalent of four British pounds I had had 6 courses. On my walk back to the hotel I found ‘Boca Chica,’ another bar but with wi-fi. Another beer, this one Morrocan, and I have been given free chicken and chips, salad and olives. Bargain.

I am a little worried about walking back to my hotel later. But on a plus side: I’ve only gone and bloody done it! I have cycled to another continent (mostly) and am 600-700 miles from Agadir which is where I will decide the future of the trip. Three Spanish aid workers have been kidnapped in Mauritania in the last couple of days in a town to the north which I was going to go to so I am not that keen to make Mauritania the last country I ever visit. But we’ll see.

Thursday December 3rd

2009-12-04T09:13:00.000-08:00

I think it has become a reflex. Like Pavlov’s dogs I have become conditioned to waking up in Spain and having a good old chunder. My second night in Jerez was over and this was it: the last push to Africa.

Google Maps had informed me that I could bypass all motorways and toll roads to get there and it would be 60 miles. Google Maps was wrong. After 30 miles of motorway cycling I came to the N road I was supposed to be on. I stopped at a golf club and had a much needed club sandwich and asked how far it was to Tarifa.

“Maybe 300 kilometres. Or 1 hour in a car. By bike? Maybe 2 days.”

I don’t know how fast this person drives that they think 300km is achievable in an hour, or how he could think it was 300km when the sign outside said that it was 100km to Algeciras which is further than Tarifa. But after 2 coffees, and an espresso I left to complete my final push.
On leaving Jerez I was accosted by an old man who was fascinated by my bicycle. ‘Donde?’ he said pointing at me. ‘England.’ It turns out he was deaf so I had to write it down.

‘Ah, Ingles!’ and with that he pulled out his collection of stamps and started pointing to lots of tiny pictures of the queen. It might be three weeks on the road, or maybe it’s desperation, but Lizzy didn’t look all that bad in the early days.

I pulled into Tarifa at 6.30 after 75 miles with an average moving speed of 15 miles an hour. The wind was in my favour and the cycle was so easy it was almost boring. The highlight of the day was definitely seeing a sign for the ferry to Tangier about 15 miles outside Tarifa. I found a boarding house and decided I would have a big night to celebrate. Maybe I would have 4 half pints of beer and really push the boat out. Instead I ended up in a little patisserie trying to find out why ‘vibrant’ and ‘buzzing’ Tarifa was dead. Turns out the summer months are heaving but it is completely deserted in winter. The smallest Spanish villages I have gone through have had packed bars, but Tarifa was full of deathly silence.

On a plus side, a gorgeous 27 year old French girl turned up and gave me a chestnut and ended up talking to me for an hour. It was nice to speak English! After that I went to the old town to search for English speakers and again, nothing. So I went to my room to use wi-fi and listen to radio 4 on iplayer. The internet was not working, they switch off wi-fi at 11 to keep noise down. Tarifa - my big hope for a night of English speaking, internet using, beer drenched chaos - was a massive let down.

Wednesday December 3rd 2009

2009-12-02T10:40:00.000-08:00

It probably makes for an interesting story as to why I was sat in a roadside hostal on Monday night nursing a glass of beer with my thousand-yard stare. It would probably be even more amusing to try and recount how I ended up drinking with the seediest roadside fruit merchant I have ever seen trying to explain in my limited Spanish vocabulary why I looked so upset. However, the whole story is not for public consumption. What has become very clear, however, is that after 50 miles, three weeks of throwing up almost continuously and another tortilla which disagreed with me, a very small glass of beer can be very potent.

I rolled out of Carmona and did 50 miles before the sun started getting low on the horizon and I decided to stay in the hostal by the side of the road. I left Carmona late after the coldest night of my life, as after breakfast I went upstairs to make up for lost sleep. Yesterday I did another 40 miles and ended up in Jerez de la Frontera. I am now 60 miles from the ferry crossing to Tarifa but am stuck. I have been categorically told that it is impossible to cycle from here to Tarifa without encountering motorways at some point. Whilst I believe the hotel staff, police and waiters I have spoken to might be wrong and that there is indeed a way - albeit one not shown on my map - I am was happy to take their advice and try and catch the bus to Tarifa.

I tried to get the bus yesterday. It wouldn’t get in until close to midnight and I thought I should instead spend the afternoon looking around Jerez and worry about the bus tomorrow. I came back early this morning and was again told that the bus I wanted wouldn’t get in until close to midnight. I have stayed another night and thanks to Google Maps have found a route to Tarifa not shown on my map.

I have already mentioned the security situation in North Africa at the moment. It’s left me pretty downbeat. On the one hand I don’t want to look like a failure and feel I should prolong the trip to another location or find an alternative route through Africa; I‘m aware that 1000 miles through Spain and another 1000 through Morocco after months of planning and preparation is fairly unremarkable. On the other hand, I would rather save my money and try again in the future. I think it will be Morocco and home and I will set myself another challenge somewhere less politically volatile in the new year. Where I will end up in Morocco I am not yet sure but no matter what people have said to the contrary, it is not worth taking a risk with my insurance.
I’ve been thinking about why I planned this trip in the first place. My gut reaction is to say it was so that I could keep myself occupied for a year whilst my (ex)girlfriend was in Spain and whilst I couldn’t find a job. But I’m not sure that is 100 percent accurate. Then I think: was it for the physical challenge? And to be honest, it wasn’t. I’ve mentioned before that I didn’t want to go to Thailand and find ‘The Beach’ and I didn’t want to ‘find myself.’ But really, I think I did.

I have no doubt in my ability to cycle 40-50 miles a day indefinitely. With the right bike (which I have thanks to Qoroz and MSG) and the right equipment I think I could keep travelling forever. I could have picked anywhere else in the world to try and travel to but I decided to pick Africa and decided to try and do it solo. I think I just wanted to go away, on my own, and see what it was like to spend some time with myself: I think that is The Beach. I am sitting in a little bar in the centre of Jerez in Spain drinking coffee and surrounded by people and I have never felt so alone. In three weeks in a foreign country I have learnt more about myself than I ever did in three years at university. I have learnt that I can, if I need to, deal with a crisis. I have learnt more Spanish by being immersed in the language than I ever learnt German or French in five years at school. I have learnt how much I care about my friends and family.

There is a scene in Saving Private Ryan where the soldiers are talking and one of them says how his mum used to work nights. He would stay up just to speak to her but then sometimes when she came in to say goodnight he would pretend to be asleep. In England I would have friends and family all around me and sometimes I would choose to keep myself to myself. It was enough to know they were there if I needed them. Now finding public wi-fi and receiving a friendly email or a call on Skype is a daily highlight, I don’t know why I didn’t make more of an effort when it was easier.

I’m not homesick or anything. It’s just funny how little things make you think: A Spanish family out for a walk, an elderly couple helping each other amble down the street or a group of Spanish friends sharing a joke - even seeing other peoples photos on Facebook. Sometimes it makes you feel like The Little Matchstick Girl, looking through a glass window at everyone else at things you don’t have. But I realise when I did have it all I didn’t appreciate it because I had never done anything truly on my own.

I always thought the point of The Beach was that if you looked hard enough you could find yourself a little piece of paradise, that you could go off the beaten track and find something that was just for you: something better. Now I think I understand it more. Paradise is what you make it and who you share it with. I think I have found my Beach: It is a titanium bicycle. Yes I enjoy it, it gives me a sense of freedom which I’ve never had before, it lets me do things I would never ordinarily do, it gives me an opening line to talk to people and I am having the time of my life but it can’t stop me missing those little things. The ‘something better’ I was looking for was always there, I was just staring straight through it.

Security

2009-11-29T11:09:00.000-08:00

It’s been a quiet day with nothing but torrential rain. As a result I have spent the day looking around Carmona and planning tomorrows cycle and the rest of the trip, the future of which is looking ropey. As a result I thought I would recount another story which I have previously neglected to mention.

I have had a lot of encounters with police and civil guard in Spain but I forgot to mention running away from the security guards at a theatre in Jaen. It was just after I had drunk a bottle of cocktail by mistake and I really fancied a coffee to perk me up. It is one of those urban myths that coffee can cure all alcohol related ills. I remember watching a television program when I was younger about a team of amateur footballers who won the lottery and turned professional. Their mercurial winger, who went on to play in the Champions League final for a fictional Leeds team, had an alcohol problem and turned up for a game drunk. The solution: a funnel, coffee and tobasco sauce. After having the mixture of java and hot sauce forced down his gullet he sobered up and put in a match winning performance.

I thought that a coffee might make me feel a bit better and so I found a bar with the lights on and pushed the door. It didn’t move so I put my shoulder into it and gave it a heave. It flew open with quite a lot of noise. It turned out it was the bar of the theatre in Jaen and the door was a fire exit which I had just forced open the wrong way. The bar staff were concerned I might have interrupted the performance, the security guards were concerned that I might have broken the door and one, very drunk man at the bar did nothing.

‘what you do?’ I was barked at.

‘Can I get un café con leche?’ I replied

‘no, get out, get out, this is a theatre.’

I wandered back out of the fire exit into the cold of night and went back to my room with the security guards still struggling to fix the door.

The future of my trip is not looking too pretty. Several travellers like Pete Costello (Google him) are still planning on cycling to Cape Town. I am not so sure. The Foreign Office website makes grim reading for someone looking to travel solo in Africa. If the FCO says a country is not safe to visit then my insurance company will not insure me. As a result, it looks like I may be headed to southern Morocco before turning around and finding somewhere else to cycle.

I alluded to the fact that I have started and not finished many things on my website. That is true. However the reason that my short-lived fascination with cross-stitch finished was not because the needle and thread were in danger of kidnapping me. That is the situation in North Africa with a high terror threat in several North African countries and the recent execution of a French tourist. I’ll get to Morocco and see what happens. If everything resolves itself and I am insured then I will press on, if not I will live to cycle another day when the route does clear up.

A lot of people use words far too often. ‘literally,’ ‘very unique‘ and ‘very perfect’ are phrases people use which really bug me. Mine is ‘livid.’ Right now I am literally livid. I am carrying 2kg of books about Africa, books about the politics of Africa, travel books, even one about the geology of Africa. I have always wanted to visit sub-Saharan Africa and it looks like on this occasion I will not make it. A lot of hardened travellers have said to not worry about insurance. But I can’t take that risk. I can be very selfish at times but it is beyond me to go anywhere without valid insurance knowing it is my family who would have to bail me out, at great expense, if something went wrong.

But I don’t have to think about this yet. It might all be okay. And I still have at least 1000 miles left before insurance becomes something to worry about.

Over,

Sean

Saturday 28th November 2009

2009-11-28T13:07:00.000-08:00

55 miles today in 4 hours. Not bad going. The road, which leads all the way to Sevilla was flat and my average speed was pushing 15 miles an hour for the first 3 hours of riding. There was a slight mishap when I followed the road to far and missed my turning, but it meant I got to ride through the sleepy farming village of Alcolea del Rio. Desperate for some food I followed a sign to the ‘Centro Urbano.’ I think trading standards should get involved to sort out this debacle: there is no urban centre in Alcolea del Rio!

Olives turned to oranges today as I cycled through the blistering sunshine surrounded my a Tropicana advert. Unfortunately all the orange trees were fenced off…except one. I loaded up on a couple of oranges and retreated a safe distance to eat them. Delicious and juicy, unlike the oranges in British supermarkets!

I arrived in Carmona at 6.30 and found myself a youth hostel for the night. The lady at reception is a Belgian who has lived in Spain for 20 years. She gave me even more delicious oranges so my vitamin C levels are now sky high.

The town is a tourist hot spot and is often used in Spanish films and television. It is full of Moorish and Roman architecture according to the tourist information office. In Sean-speak this translates as ‘lots of pretty yellowy stony buildings.’ I wandered the streets and found a tapas bar and indulged myself in lots of very small food and then on my way back I saw an England rugby shirt.

Bewildered by the sight of the English rose I blurted out ‘you are English!’

‘Yes, I am’ replied the stranger, who I’m guessing played somewhere in the front five.

Cue an awkward silence. ‘Think, Sean, think. Say something’ I thought to myself.

‘I’m cycling to Africa and just came here. It’s nice.’

‘Err, yes, it is mate. By then.’

It wasn’t a moment of conversational brilliance but I could rescue everything with a great closing line.

‘It’s nice that your son has blonde hair too.’

With that the man whisked away his toddler before I could embarrass myself further.

Thank you to Bam bamboo clothing for providing me with lightweight and comfortable clothing for off the bike

Friday November 27th 2009

2009-11-27T06:56:00.000-08:00

Ah, the difficult day after being ill: not quite ill, still too scared to sneeze or bend over.

20 miles today, all flat, wind in my favour, quite pathetic really. Strangely I am quite proud. I could easily have used the fact that I am still ill as an excuse to stay in bed with wi-fi, flat coke and a big bottle of water. Instead I crawled on my bicycle and negotiated my way out of Cordoba.

It is simply a stunning city. Orange trees line the streets, cycle paths are everywhere and the old part of town is full of magnificent old buildings and cathedrals. I even saw two horse drawn carriages. Today was blistering sunshine again after the drizzle and thunder of yesterday and despite feeling nauseas I flew along at an average speed of 14 miles an hour for my 2 hours on the bike.

I am in Almodovar del Rio sitting in ’the best place in town’ according to a man on the street. It is recommended by Michelin and in order to use the internet I have promised to come back later and buy a meal. I might just do that as for a Michelin rated establishment it as cheap as chips. Although I doubt there will be chips on the menu.

My failings in Spanish were made glaringly obvious by the man I asked for directions on the street who directed me here. ’Donde este un bar con wi-fi?’ I asked.

’Just try here, it’s the best place in town.’

‘You speak English? How could you tell I didn’t understand Spanish?’

‘It was very bad Spanish.’

Yesterday I said I was going to try for Antequera. No longer is that the case. I am going to go via Carmona and Arcos de la Frontera to get to Tarifa. This, according to the human sat-navs I have been using, is flatter, quicker and safer than going the way I was told in Manzanares. We will see.
That means I have 190 miles left of Spain. Unless something else goes wrong. Which is very possible.

Jaen to Cordoba: 75 miles

2009-11-26T04:33:00.000-08:00

My friend Holly (who taught me some key Spanish phrases and is gorgeous and lovely!) who lived in Spain last year told me the other day that the reason Coca-cola is so expensive in Spain is that imports under Franco were banned and coke is a fairly new product. She also said that as a result the Spanish developed lots of their own soft-drink brands.

After getting the train to Jaen and eventually finding the cities youth hostel I went shopping. The only place open was a little corner shop with a meagre selection of soft-drinks. I picked up a 2 litre bottle of water and went to get an equal amount of ‘The Real Thing’ when I stopped; if I was in Spain I might as well try out something a little more Spanish.

I picked up a damaged bottle of grape juice with lemon with ‘non-alcoholic, made from derivatives of the wine making process’ written on it and then put it back and picked up what I thought was the same drink in an undamaged carton. I was pretty thirsty so I knocked it back in seconds and then started feeling a bit woozy. A quick check of the bottle revealed that instead of the non-alcoholic beverage I picked up, I just downed a bottle of wine-based cocktail. My youth hostel was luxury. It was new and also had a spar and swimming pool tacked on to it. I also had a room to myself. I drifted off to sleep, helped by the alcopop and woke up at 5. I proceeded to be sick for three hours.

Never mind, it was only a small amount of alcohol (1 litre of 4%) but that must have been the cause. I held down some coco-pops and a coffee at breakfast and pedalled off towards Cordoba. The first 30 miles were great, all flat or down hill and I topped 35 miles an hour at one point according to my new computer. I stopped and had some Pate Iberico on toast at a little café along the roadside and still felt a bit iffy. ‘It’s fine’ I thought, ‘it’s just a wine-cocktail hangover.’
Another 30 miles and I stopped again, I was feeling pretty rough but the cycling was great. I had found myself another N road and I was flying. The only downside to the day had been my petrol can falling off and then being crushed under my back wheel. It’s a little buckled but probably fine and I managed to keep control of the bike so it wasn’t a big deal. I had a coffee, filled up my water bottles, convinced myself that the feverish cold feeling that was enveloping me was just because I had stopped and I again pedalled away. Unfortunately the N road stopped and it was either motorway (although this time their was a big No Bicycles sign) or another agricultural track. I went for the track and bumped along at a cruising speed of 4 miles an hour.

Then the track turned to concrete and headed down hill. I flew down hill where concrete turned to gravel and my back wheel lost traction throwing me to the ground. I handled it pretty well, it was more like a skid stop like the boys in Free Willy do before graffiti-ing Willie’s aquarium. But it left me with a grazed and swollen knee. My left plumb is also now more like a coconut after being caught between a rock and a hard place (my saddle.)

No matter, 15 miles to Cordoba, it’s only 4.30, an average speed of 13 miles an hour so far, the day is nearly over. I still felt pretty cold and shaky considering the blistering sunshine though. I followed the agricultural track to the end where I found out someone had extended their field on to the track and had ploughed it. It was impassable. I backtracked 10 miles and was lost. Their seemed to be no road except the motorway. I picked a road at random and cycled along it until I got to a prison. The lady at the gate was not best pleased to see me but when she found out I was in the wrong place (and didn’t realise I had ridden to the main reception of a prison) she sent me to Alcolea where I could get to Corodba via an N road. By this point it was pitch black. I time trialled to Cordoba, going as fast as I could due to the fear of riding on a busy dual carriageway in the dark and after being called ‘loco’ by a driver I found a hostel. It was now 8.30 and it had taken four hours to travel 15 miles as the crow flies.

My hostel is pretty grotty, but I didn’t care. By this point I had the shakes and my forehead was so hot you could fry an egg on it. I also felt sick again. Maybe it wasn’t the wine after all. I spent the night drinking water and being sick. Today I still have a slight temperature and can’t hold down food but I was well enough to get a bus to the centre of Cordoba to find wi-fi. I’m not sure which bus to get back but I have a map with my hostel marked on it! The cycle to Coroba from Jaen was stunning. Their were olive trees everywhere, as far as the eye could see. Any ideas how you harvest olives? I didn‘t know either until yesterday, but the way the farmers I saw did it was like this: first you spread a sheet on the ground under the tree, then you put a pneumatic drill against the trunk of the tree and this shakes all the olives off and on to the sheet. What was less nice was the things I saw on the roadside. With nothing much to do on a bike but look around I noticed countless bottles of urine, 3 dead dogs, 1 dead cat, a dead chicken and a robin. It was pretty grim. What I don’t understand is who drives along and decides to wee in a bottle and throw it out the car? Why not stop?

Anyway, tomorrow I will try to cycle to Antequera.

Over,

Sean

A massive thank you to SPE Resourcing for sponsoring the trip

Do you ever have one of those weeks?

2009-11-24T03:55:00.001-08:00

Do you ever have one of those weeks?

So I left my hostel and went to the train station. I found the next train to Cordoba and I forced my bike on the train. I was then made to remove my bike from the train and told there were no bikes allowed.

Some internet research has suggested that since the ETA bombings a few years ago security has been tight on the Spanish rail network and bikes are only allowed on certain trains. So I stayed one more not in Mazanares. This is not going at all to plan.

In Bar Menano, where I have been given a discount, the staff were lovely. Ignacio from the hotel phoned the bus companies and train companies to find me a route to Cordoba today. Guess what? There are no busses or trains to Cordoba today.

At 1732 I can get a train to Jaen which is further South but not really en route. Ignacio kindly printed me a bicycle friendly route to Tarifa from Jaen. This includes a couple of big mountains but I no longer care. It does not involve the Autovia and all I want is an N road: just me and the lorries like it was in the early days!

I never thought I would say this, but I want more than anything to cycle. I went to a bike shop yesterday and bought a new cycle computer so I can write down how many miles I do a day, I bought an alarm clock so I could wake up early and I had a revelation that the reason my eyes are becoming sunken and my complexion blotted is that buying deep fried dough for breakfast is not altogether healthy. Today I was going to be the new all-action-Sean. No coffee, only isotonic sports drinks, no coca-cola but instead fruit juice and water. No dough, just fruit and tortilla and brown bread. And 75 miles a day all the way to Senegal. The best laid plans of mice and men, hey? At the moment, instead of all-action-Sean I feel like Lenny from the Steinbeck novel: big and lumbering, full of heart and misguided energy, and a bit simple.

The north of Spain was great. I was flying. If I hadn’t stopped to see someone in Logrono, which was my highlight of the trip so far, I would have been in Madrid in 5 or 6 days. South of Madrid everything has gone awry. I think I should have gone via the west of the country and not the east as then I would have been able to stick to N roads and had a much shorter route. But some things, like having a bag taken by gypsies, you can’t account for and it is all an experience.

Jaen to Marbella is 130 miles or so and Marbella to Tarifa is 60. Let’s hope things start going to plan. You were right, Lance. It’s not about the bike. It’s about everything going according to plan. Cycling Weekly described me as ‘affable, eloquent and with a good sense of humour. If a little naïve.’ You were right CW. Oh how you were right.

A massive thank you to SPE Resourcing for sponsoring the trip

Lost and found

2009-11-23T04:51:00.000-08:00

I might have been too quick to blame the gypsy community between Madridejos and Manzanares. Someone from the farm did stop and pick up my bag, and how they didn’t see me is a mystery. However, after another 3 hours at the Civil Guard station this morning I now have all my things back, minus a 50$ note which the finder can have as a reward.

So all is good in the hood. Except I have lost out on 120 miles of cycling in the last couple of days. This means, due to budgetary constraints, another train journey to save time and money. Especially money.

I am going to go to the station and head south and see where I end up.

Adios,

Sean

A huge thank you to Qoroz for providing me with a titanium Mountain Won bicycle.

Accentuate the positive

2009-11-22T10:08:00.000-08:00

Hola,

There is a song that goes: "accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative..." So that is what I will do.

Positive: My bike is now very light.

Positive: I have a solar charger (thanks to Powertraveller) to charge my laptop.

Positive: I have something to write about after an otherwise boring day.

Positive: I am fine.

Positive: I still have my Euros and my visa card and my passport.

Negative: I have lost $500.

Negative: I have no laptop to charge.

Negative: I only have one pannier.

Positive: I had my first ever ride in the back of a police car.

I cycled out of Maridejos this morning, blasted out 20km in no time. The track I then started following became stoney and bumpy and my panniers kept falling off. I stopped for coffee and then cycled 300 metres past a rustic looking farm. I noticed my left pannier was missing. I saw the only car I had seen all day drive out of the farm. It stopped and drove off again. My pannier was gone. I cycled this 300m stretch over and over again. I walked it up and down. I went to the farm and learnt they were all Romany gypsies and they lived above their milking parlour and didn´t speak Spanish. They had not seen my bag or any cars leave the farm.

It can only have fallen off in this 300m between the cafe and the farm. It was gone for 2 minutes and now I have no clothes and no laptop. On a plus side I have a jar of coffee and 300 days worth of malaria tablets, a solar charger, one fleecey top and all my camping equipment.

I just spent 2 hours with the police and the Civil Guard trying to explain this using google translator and have to go back tomorrow to file a report. I can´t say for certain it was the gypsies that took my bag but it is the only logical explanation. I have also lost a letter which took an hour to write. Strangely I don´t really care. Obviously I am devastated but I am so upset that it makes me laugh. I am literally beyond anger.

Anyway, I need trousers. I also need another pannier. I am in a town which I can´t spell the name of and I am very poor all of a sudden. I am writing this in an internet cafe but really need food. Tomorrow I will try and cable tie my panniers on, the attachment system they come with doesn´t really cut the mustard so I will improvise. I also lost my radio and my first aid kit which is a bugger.

At least I have had the difficult decision about which kit to jettison made for me. And at least I have paid for a poor families Christmas celebrations. The joke is on them though: there is no wi-fi where they live and the netbook´s set to English...and I have the charger.

The Kindness of Strangers

2009-11-21T10:58:00.000-08:00

What an action packed couple of days and my lasting memory of them will be the kindness of strangers and the enthusiasm of people to help a big blonde stranger who struggles to read a map with any competence.

Friday November 20th

I left Madrid at 10 o’clock and was too scared to cycle through the busy streets. Which was a great decision as the drivers were nuts. I walked to the city limits where I sat and had some deep fried pastry things and a coffee which came to 1 Euro 80 (still no Euro sign on my keyboard!) and tasted exactly how you would imagine deep fried pastry to taste: odd. With that sitting heavy on my stomach, but worth the CPE, my top button kept popping open. As odd as it sounds, it was quite reassuring after two weeks on an empty stomach and losing weight at a horrible pace. I got to a park on the cities outskirts with a lovely cycle trail and pedalled off to Leganes to head towards Toledo. The Spanish I asked for directions kept saying: “Toledo, no entiendo.” Until I wrote it down and they would say “Ahhhh! Toledo.” I’m sure I was saying it right! Anyway, I ended up on the motorway in very busy traffic. It was signposted as an N road but whichever way I went I ended up on the Autovia.

I always thought in a near death situation I would see my life flash before my eyes or be enlivened by a sudden surge of adrenalin. Instead I said, in a rather reserved British way “oh bugger.” I was on the motorway and needed to cross the road to bypass a junction. I looked left, not right, forgetting that I was in Spain for a second and was missed by a car by millimetres. That is not an exaggeration. I’ll give the driver credit, his grasp of English swearing was impeccable as he shouted language that was colourful to say the least. For a man in a hurry, he had plenty of time to slow down and wave his fist at me!

Anyway, I was sure that this N road would never appear so I turned off the motorway back to Leganes. There was a big school with children pouring out so I went to see if I could find an English teacher to tell me how to get south without killing myself. I went to Altair school where I asked at reception. Juan-Carlos (an English speaking teacher), Elena (the English teacher), and Antonio (the headmaster) were called to help me. A gaggle of children filed out and laughed at me and again I heard the Spanish for ‘blonde hair’ muttered by the throng. The three teachers decided that their was no safe way, in rush hour, to go south so Antonio offered me dinner and a trip to his house in Pinto where he had some detailed maps and a cycle route which went to Toledo. We squeezed my Qoroz Moutain Won in his Kangoo (not the bikes natural habitat) and drove 10km to Pinto. Antonio’s wife made me lovely lentil soup and paella. I had two courses ‘because you are so big’ whilst everyone else had one. Home cooking was a real treat and I devoured my first proper meal in Spain with gusto! She also packed me a doggy bag full of fruit which was also a real delicacy!

Antonio then showed me to the track which was to take me to Toledo. It was an agricultural road and was potholed and stony. I thought as soon as I got on it that this was asking for a puncture. 15km later, I got a puncture and sat forlornly under a streetlight near a sewage treatment centre fixing my first puncture. It worked, which was a miracle, and I cycled off. This time I took a road, not the track, and ended up, I think, in Valdemoro where I stayed the night.

Saturday November 21st

I was determined to eat up some miles today and get the cycling back on track. And I did exactly that. But not without difficulty as you would come to expect from an inept traveller! I headed on to the autovia after I determined that whilst cycling on it was not encouraged, it was not strictly prohibited. I found out later that that comes with caveats attached - which I was not following.
Anyway, their was a headwind again and it was quite hilly but I had found my cycling legs and covered 100km today in not very many hours. I stopped for lunch at one in a place called 'Los Arcos' where I ordered a coffee and tortilla and sat down to look at my map. The owner came over and got into a very enthusiastic coversation about cycling and where I was going. When I came to pay I was told I didn’t have to, it was on “the boss. He says it is free for you.” I can thoroughly recommend stopping here as the tortilla was lovely, the best I have had in Spain and my coffee was hot - a first.

I headed off again and had covered another 30 miles when I stopped to take a picture of the sun going down over acres of farmland. When I looked up there was a police car and two angry looking faces. This was not good. Firstly, I was told off for stopping: ‘Vaary dan-ger-oos.” Then told off for having my ipod on (quietly, Mum. I could still hear the traffic): ‘Vaary dan-ger-oos. Prohibido.” And finally for not having a fluroescent jacket: “In a Spain, you mus’ have theees”

Then, the policeman made the pen on paper symbol for “I am about to give you a fine.” Oh no. I can’t afford a fine. I can barely afford food. I pulled out my best Spanish for “I am cycling to Africa for charity” and instead of a fine I got a 3km police escort to a Repsol garage were I was forced to buy a fluorescent jacket and was made to put it on there and then. After that the policeman was very friendly, he gave me his hotmail address and let me take a picture of him. I was made to take a side-road which runs parallel to the motorway and which I presume is the old road because it is tarmaced but is very rutted. Another 20km and I found a café, stopped and asked a bus driver for directions. He was taking a group of Spanish people sightseeing. Manolo, the driver, started showing me pictures of his bike which has a Dura-ace group set he proudly told me, and gave me directions all the way to Tarifa and even wrote down how many kilometres it was to appropriate rest stops and hostels. Legend. Thank you Manolo.

I nearly told him about my old hamster, Manolo, who lived in my house in my second year of university. I thought this might be a difficult conversation and the driver seemed nicer than the hamster who used to run away and eat my, and my housemates, food out of the cupboards before wandering back to his cage when he became dehydrated. I could of also told him about how I had to replace Manolo with Barney so I could pretend to my housemates that I hadn’t lost the hamster before Manolo returned and we suddenly had two hamsters. If you are my second year landlord, we are sorry if any cables were damaged when we moved out but we lost Barney a week before the end of term: he was a nibbler. Anyway, some of Manolo’s (the driver) tourists surprised me with a batch of sandwiches before wishing me well and I ended up in Madridejos tonight in the cheapest pension yet.

I left Madrid in a bit of a tizz, still feeling down and not homesick, but missing one person in particular. Sitting on a bike all day is great when you are in a good mood but, if you are down, being left alone with your thoughts can be draining. The last couple of days have been fantastic. Just seeing a smiling face or being offered a free coffee or a batch of sandwiches can become a really moving moment. I had a little cry on my bike after leaving the restaurant where I had a free tortilla, just because I felt a bit overwhelmed. How silly does that sound? But to the man at the restaurant, the teachers at the school, Antonio’s family, the tourists who gave me food and to the policeman who posed for a picture: thank you. I feel a lot better and you've made the last couple of days fantastic.

I have never pretended to be a hardened traveller, to be honest I am a bit soft. I planned this idea on the spur of the moment and following through with it was always going to be harder than making a website on a whim. The whole aim of it was to help me find a job and look a bit more employable by organising it myself but even after a few days I can see it is going to be more like a personal journey. I am not going to take safety risks, I’m not going to go anywhere unsafe. I won’t be trying to cross war zones or follow the route of Stanley through the DRC. I will not be interviewing local militia in Southern Nigeria or trying to interview members of Al Qaeda in Mali. But I have already found out I am not made of glass. I have found out that I can do something which, for an average/poor prop forward (or “fat prop” in rugby terminology) who has always taken everything for granted and been a bit soft, is out of my comfort zone. I miss one person terribly, more than they will ever understand, I miss home-cooking, I miss not having a sore arse everyday. What I am trying to say, in a rambling sort of way, is that little things like the kindness of a stranger, can remind you that you are not alone, even in a foreign country and separated by a language barrier, people are still people and the kindness of a stranger can really make your day and make even something which in moment of doubt you think is impossible seem doable.

Tomorrow I will try for another 100-130 km. 600km until I get to Africa!

Over, Sean

Madrid Part Two

2009-11-19T11:17:00.000-08:00

Madrid continued.

On Tuesday I went to visit my friend Phili in Sol in the centre of Madrid where there is already a 5 story high metal Christmas tree which dominates the plaza. She is working as an au pair for a Spanish family so I went with her to collect her charge, Vidal, from karate before going back to her house for dinner.

The highlight of the evening, apart from seeing Phili, was learning the word ‘pito!’ On my way home, I was accosted by the prostitutes. The next day I made the most of the free breakfast at the youth hostel before heading off to find a hostel in the city centre, I couldn’t spend two nights in the youth hostel unfortunately. I went to a few places and settled on a small hostel on the third floor of a building opposite the Hotel Senator at the top of the street where all the ladies of the night ply their trade.

I spent the night looking around Madrid with Phili and being taught a few more basic Spanish phrases before walking home, again being accosted by prostitutes, to ready myself to leave early in the morning. On our wander we got offered tickets which entitled us to a free drink in an upmarket bar.. Or a cheaper drink, or free entry…it was in Spanish, I was lost. The man who gave us the tickets snatched them away hurriedly when he saw my trousers though saying ‘No tracksuits, no tracksuits!’ Technically, they’re not tracksuit bottoms, they are cycling trousers and they look quite smart thank you very much!

This morning though I had a good old panic and ended up staying another night. I don’t know why I panicked but I was beset by a feeling of inadequacy and worry about the trip, about some countries en route which are currently no go areas according to the FCO and about my own ability on a bike. Nothing serious, I get like this sometimes. I did, however, manage to find a cable for my camera today and eat some food from Cortes de Ingles which, from what I can make out, is the biggest super store in the world.

Tomorrow I am off although I think I will walk my bike to the city limits as the drivers in Madrid are very determined to get to where they won’t to go and wont let a little thing like a zebra crossing or a bicycle stop them!

I have made the most of the wi-fi in the hotel to do a little research on where my trip will take me next. It is approximately 2500 miles from here to The Gambia. To get any further means going through Guinea or Mali which the FCO does not advise and which would invalidate my insurance. Hardened travellers have told me not to worry, insurance isn’t much use anyway and that both countries are lovely. On the other hand, I can’t afford to take the risk of getting injured in one of these countries and having to charter a flight home! This means taking a flight from Dakar to somewhere. And I hope no one would hold it against me.

If everything stays the way it is I will have to go to Sengeal, into the Gambia, back into Senegal and back up again to Dakar. If I get a flight to Angola then, despite the cost of the flight, I will still be on track to stay within my budget. If I fly somewhere closer then I will have no money but will be able to cycle more. It is a difficult predicament because the countries I really want to see are Ghana, Nigeria, Togo, Cameroon and the DRC. Obviously flying to Angola will bypass these. It will mean that I will have more time to look around, be able to take less direct routes and maybe be able to tour South Africa when I get there. But, everything might be resolved by the time I get that far anyway. I just don’t want to be labelled a failure!

Finally, pictures are up at http://picasaweb.google.com/srmaher88/SantanderToMadrid02?authkey=Gv1sRgCP6s_MzlufTJxAE#

Madrid Part One

2009-11-18T11:02:00.000-08:00

“You’ve still got it, Seano. Maybe the long unkempt hair and a few days on a bike have turned you into an attractive alpha-male. These ladies in Madrid are wearing frightfully short skirts and they are all looking at you. Ooo, hello!”

“hola” said the beautiful ebony lady in front of me in an unusual Spanish accent.

“ Lo siento, no hablo español.”

“That’s okay, I speak English. You go anywhere tonight? Maybe I come too, hey?”

It dawned on me. I had wondered into Madrid’s red light district. My ability to woo the ladies (or the “laydees” as we smooth talkers say it) is still pitifully inept. I always imagined in a situation such as this I would stay cool, brush off the advances of the women trying to sell themselves to me and keep walking. Instead I did something I did not see happening. I flapped and ran up the street. I then power walked all the way back to my youth hostel scared that I would be followed by a gaggle of angry pimps and whores - which is sort of what happened in Delhi when a gummy one-toothed pimp forced me and some friends to pedal off on a rickshaw after an ill conceived tuk-tuk trip to the cities backstreets.

I then felt very sorry for the ladies who had been trying to force their services on to me. They were, judging by their thick accents and dark skin, from West Africa and it is sad that they ended up selling their bodies in Spain for a few Euros. At least I had Pierre to watch over me when I was sleeping.

Pierre was a big African-American who sat in the corner of the youth hostel room playing Tupac (California Love if you want the track) and talking loudly on skype. He was staying there until he found an apartment of his own. He introduced himself to me by saying “My name’s Pierre. But I’m not French. Fuck!” as if he had guessed what the next words to roll off my tongue would be. His prolonged stay meant he obviously felt a bit possessive over the room and my whispered conversation on skype with a friend in Madrid reduced him to tutting and turning off Tupac as if I had spoilt his enjoyment of the song about the “sunshine state where the bar man said be, a place where you’ll never find the dance floor empty.’

I left Medinaceli at 12.45 bound for Madrid. By train. My back flared up again over night, leaving me crouched over my bed trying in vain to miraculously heal it with some gentle, agonising stretching. A man who worked at the train station fell in love with my bike and with broken English and my 8 days of learning Spanish we discussed my trip and he took my email address, website address and lots of photos which he sent me this morning (pictured). 90 miles in a train cost me 5 Euros and I arrived at Madrid a couple of hours later. My plans to rest my back were scuppered when my bike didn’t fit in the lift so I had to carry it up two flights of stairs. Outside the station I saw two loaded touring bikes so went over to say hello to two lads about my age.

They were from Switzerland and had already been to Portugal and were now touring Spain. They had a very different approach to me as their bottle cages were stuffed with wine bottles and they each had only two small panniers, a case of beer and a carton of cigarettes. I didn’t stay for long, I had already made a bad impression by half dropping the bike whilst wheeling it over to them and instead walked my bike to the nearest youth hostel. This was about 2 kilometres away.

I got there, paid for the room, met Pierre and left for an evening with a friend in Sol in the city centre…

(to be continued…)

P.S

2009-11-16T12:30:00.000-08:00

P.S contrary to how my blog sounds, I just checked it over, I am thoroughly enjoying myself. The bike is great, the open road is great and the learning odds and ends of Spanish is great. Trying to stick to a budget is fun and Spain is really nice!

Just thought I would add that in case I sounded too negative!

Over,

Sean

Injury Numero 1

2009-11-16T09:43:00.000-08:00

I have never wanted the internet more than this. I am in a small town called Medinaceli which appears to be a trucker stop. My computer tells me there are wireless internet connections around but I can’t find where they are and the people here don’t seem to think the town has internet at all. I will come to why I want the internet so badly in a second.

Today has been the worst day I have ever spent on a bike. I left Soria at 10, I was on bike and roaring down the N111 to Madrid. I say roaring, it is a slight exaggeration. It was more like a whimper from Simba when he was still rolling around in the mud with Timone and Pumba. On the flat I couldn’t move my bike forwards due to the wind, down hill I couldn’t not pedal due to the wind. I fell over when I stopped my bike because I was blown over by the wind. After 6 hours in the saddle I had covered just over 40 miles and I was spent.

Sean’s tip of the day: Never assume (it makes an ASS of U and ME) that there will be garages and cafes en route just because you are on a main road.

In six hours I ate a tortilla and 2 snickers bars. I used up my water in an hour and couldn’t find anywhere to replace it. I was dehydrated, had hit the wall and found a garage full of truck drivers with seven or eight big arctic lorries outside. Like all Spanish truck drivers I have encountered they were drinking heavily at lunch time. If I had listened closely I would have learnt the Spanish for ‘How about you Irish this coffee up a little bit?’ as the bartender splashed some spirits in a truckers café con leche, his one-for-the-road after the beer he had been supping on.

Anyway, who needs food when you have more alcohol than is safe to consume before driving an 18 wheeler? Apparently not Spanish lorry drivers as there was no food, nada. One fruit juice of undeterminable origin and a bottle of water later I was back on the road. By this point I had hit the wall, gone through it, and was now fondling the rubble like the boy who used to sit in the corner and play with sand on the astro turf when I younger and fancied myself as a Danish international footballer. There were not enough gears on the bike for me to keep pedalling, no bike in the world would have had enough gears for me to keep pedalling and I resorted to pushing my bike on the flat as the wind blew sand in my face.

The Spanish seem to be building a new N111 alongside the old one and there are miles and miles of red flattened sand at the side of the road, ready to be tarmaced, this was blowing everywhere, including, but not limited to, my eyes, mouth (in and around) and face. With 12 miles left to Medinaceli I realized that getting to within 30 miles of Madrid (still 93 miles away) was now a hopeless endeavour and that I would reach Medinaceli and find somewhere to stay. At this point the roadwork’s caused a mile long queue of traffic, mainly lorries (perhaps with drunk drivers from the café?) which I sailed past. Oh it feels good to be on a bike at times like this. I reached the front of the queue, stopped and then when it was safe to go stood up on the pedals and put the proverbial hammer down. At this point, due to the putting down of the aforesaid hammer, I twisted my back and collapsed in theatrical agony, although I had no audience, over my handle bars. I would have made a good extra in Saving Private Ryan. My back is still killing me, it is like a drawing pin is lodged in my lower spine and if I twist or bend it sends crippling waves of pain up my back.

That is why I want the internet. Medinaceli has a train station and a bus station and both go to Madrid. I was intending to avoid Madrid last night after being told it was a no go area for cyclists. This change of heart has now been reversed as I want more than anything to not have to go through, tomorrow, the pain I went through in those final miles of today. I don’t feel too bad about it. In the early days of the Tour de France people would routinely catch the train, be towed up hill by cars, or just plaster themselves with cognac, cocaine and heroin to get through the gruelling days on the bike. I don’t know the Spanish for ‘heroin’ and anyway, I think the train is the safest option for this continuation of the Tour de Sean! I just want an internet connection to find out train times.

15 minutes later:

After being told by the waitress that there is nada internet, the owner has just given me the password to the café’s wi-fi. He has also just put on the television and there are 8 boys, from what I can work out, pretending to be a giant football playing octopus over jingly jangly music.

A lot of people have asked if I am slower or faster than I thought I would be. The first 3 days I was like lightening, a blur of “pelo rubio” flying down the Spanish N roads, eating up the miles. The last 3 days I have been like a…I don’t know. But some hippo related analogy would suffice.

My budget for Spain is gone, I took out some more Euros today. Strangely, although I am eating up my budget, I am not really eating. I still have no appetite and had a dodgy sausage earlier which has put paid to my plans to gorge myself with cheap food from the Spar shop in the town. I have never been more pleased to see a Spar! All my money has gone on cheap hostels. Although there is great variation. For 15 Euros in Medina (which wasn’t funky but was cold) earlier in the week I got a double bed, a nice shower and some complimentary soap. Two nights ago for 15 Euros I got a double room, an en suite and two free combs with which to get the tangles out of my hair, although I only needed one, they were very durable. Tonight, again for 15 Euros, I have a double room and I went through the bed when I sat on it. I have the use of a shared bathroom which has mouldy shower curtains, cigarette ash in the (broken) shower -who smokes and bathes? -and a pebble dashed toilet. My room also comes with a decorative full ash tray which I think was runner-up in last years Turner Prize. The landlord did teach me the Spanish for ‘cat’ though…which is a bonus. Anyway, in a week I am fairly sure I have lost at least a stone. How I long or Morocco and its hot weather, cheap campsites, and cheap food. Having said that, I have a few stones to give away so it’s no biggie.

Anyway, tomorrow I will get the train or bus, I hope. I am off to drink coffee, coke and try and eat. Maybe my back will make a miraculous recovery overnight? Does anyone know the Spanish for “Deep Heat?”

Over,

Sean

A Strange Cycle Around the World

2009-11-15T10:03:00.001-08:00

The world record for circumnavigation of the globe by bicycle is a thoroughly British affair. Almost everyone has seen Scot Mark Beaumont in mobile phone adverts or in the BBC program “The Man Who Cycled The World” and many have heard of Englishman James Bowthorpe who broke that record earlier this year. Fewer have heard of Steve Strange, the Brit who started the phenomenon, who first broke the record almost three years prior to Beaumont’s epic ride.
I emailed Steve, a frequent traveler about his ride and how he came to be (add optional Chris Akabuse arm movements) a record breaker.

Did Mark Beaumont or James Bowthorpe get in touch before their record attempts?

No I never heard from either prior to their record attempts.

How did you prepare, were you much of a cyclist before the ride?

I’ve always cycled on and off. I did triathlons for many years and then was a third world tourer for 5 years or so. I always try to fit in a 2000 mile plus ride each spring or Autumn. I had therefore had ridden a lot of the route prior to my record attempt so knew what to expect.

Was there any point you thought you wouldn’t make it?

I knew I wouldn’t fail to complete the ride (I had no time to beat) but as for the record I only realised when the confirmation letter arrived the logistics and evidence collation was unclear as no one had ever done it before.

Where is your certificate, have you hung it in your hallway?

My certificate? I think its in a box in the back of a friends garage. I travel quite a lot so don’t have a permanent base in the UK. I have some photocopies that I’ve used for promotion.

Could you have gone any faster?

Yes I could have gone quicker. I didn’t train for the ride and I took the scenic route stopping at interesting places on route and visiting friends en route.

Did you miss anything whilst you were on the road?

I didn’t miss anything really. the adventure of the ride the logistic and physical challenge kept me occupied. I visited some friends on route, my girlfriend flew out whenever she was bored of the UK and everyone else stayed in touch by blackberry.

Did any acts of kindness stand out on your trip?

The acts of human kindness were almost endless: numerous police escorts, hotels refusing to let me pay, people insisting I stay with them… Those acts will be my biggest memories for a long time.
You must have some funny anecdotes after so long on the road?

Loads of anecdotes and moments stand out, but there are too many to mention them all. Arriving in an empty village in remote Indonesia to find a sign warning not to get out of your car as it was a tiger attack area sticks in the mind!

Any tips for anyone attempting something similar?

I think just enjoying the whole experience must be the most important thing.

To read more about Steve visit his website at www.stevesbikeride.org

15 November - A strange predicament

2009-11-15T10:02:00.000-08:00

One of two things has just happened, both are equally disturbing.

Either a) I have been accused of wanking in the main Plaza of Soria.

Or

b) I have been asked to wank off an old man.

Mum and Dad I apologise about my language.

I was sitting in the main Plaza, or “Platha” as the Spanish say, in Soria taking in the early evening sunshine and using the free wifi the town provides when a man comes up to me and closes the lid of my netbook and rants at me for 30 minutes in Spanish. It was one of those situations where I wanted to leave but it was getting funnier and funnier so I stayed. Eventually an old man sat down next to me and puts his arm around me. He is about 70, has a walking stick and puffy eyes which are half closed with age. He started gesturing using the universal symbol for “tossing off” and the other guy kept saying ‘mi casa, mi casa…whiskey, glug glug glug.”
I didn’t really understand what was going on but I knew I wasn’t going anywhere near his casa. Or anything else of his. Then he left. Just the old man with his arm around me left. He lifted his right arse cheeck, farted, and with that it was “adios.” I’m in a café just down the street. A big sign in the window says you can order in English, you can’t but I mimed my way to a one euro glass of red - cheaper than water or coca- cola.

Today was hard. I left my double room which I bartered down to an affordable price and set off up hill for 8km into a headwind. It was tough before the proper climb started. There were two roads. The N111a and the N111. The N111 went through a tunnel, downhill, which pictured tractors, bicycles and horse and carts with a big cross through them. The N111a went up the mountain. The downhill was no easier as it was 40km to Soria into a headwind which meant I had to peddle down hill as well!

I got to Soria and realized it was a Sunday so everywhere was shut. I was worried that this might make finding a hostel further on even harder so I decided to stay the night. I again managed to negotiate the price with the line “Voy en bicicleta a Africa para la caridad” and so I was wandering around the town when there were still four cycling hours left in the day. It’s 550 miles to Tarifa from here so I have at least 10 days left in Spain unless I miraculously pick up the pace and start banging out the miles.

Soria is lovely, all limestone buildings and open spaces. I’m glad I stopped here. I need to wake up earlier tomorrow, I didn’t set off until 10 again this morning. The problem is my rooms are pitch black due to the shutters and as cold as ice so I trick myself into thinking it is much earlier. I was going to camp last night but am glad I didn’t as this morning there was snow on the mountain ahead of me. If I get a move on I should be in striking distance of Madrid tomorrow night, if I go as slow as I did today I might end up being blown back to Logrono overnight!
I don’t know when I will get a chance to post this as I am scared to go back to the main “platha” incase I am mistaken for some sort of gigolo again. I think I also got called a Labrador by the two men in the street due to my “pelo rubio.”

Over,

Sean

Saturday November 14th 2009

2009-11-15T06:35:00.000-08:00

I’m currently in Puerto de Piqueras between Soria and Logrono. I set off today at one o’clock after having breakfast and lunch in Logrono. I spent a lovely 3 days there, although spent my entire Spanish budget on my “pension” (hostel) and rioja and tapas.

The hotel/restaurant/bar I am staying in is the only building I can see for miles around. I entered a mountain range on the N111 coming out of Logrono and spent the whole day climbing. Not even to the top of anything, just up and down in the valley with mountains on either side and stretching out in front of me. At 6 o’clock after X number of miles (again the batteries ran out on my GPS, I need a cycle computer pronto.), about 45 I would guess, I pulled off the road to set up camp next to the road behind some fairly sizeable bushes and trees. It was next to a river so I could have had a wash and boiled my super noodles, but it was exposed, windy, cold and next to the side of a road. There wasn’t enough cover to hide my tent so I was worried I would be accosted in the night. I repacked my bike, a waste of 15 minutes, and kept pedaling.

The reason I was planning to set up camp is that it was getting dark and Soria was still 24 miles away according to the road signs. I thought I would press on and try and find a better camping spot. It got worse and worse and the landscape turned barren. And then black. It got dark very quickly and I thought I would have to pedal furiously up the moderate gradient to get to Soria for 8 or 9ish. Then I saw lights and went down a small track to get to this restaurant. The bar maid spoke English so I explained I wanted a room and she said it would be 48 Euros for the night. I told her I would pay 15 Euros and strangely it worked. I then said I couldn’t afford food so I got a cut price Subway-style cheese and ham baguette for 4 Euros. This is all very well and good but after two cokes, food and a room I am slightly over budget for the day…again. As soon as it gets warmer in the south I will camp. I promise.

I think tomorrow will be hilly again - my map gives a poor representation of gradients though - and I will press towards Soria and then onwards to the end of the N111. I am still trying to decide whether to go to Madrid or not. I have no money, but it is sort of on the way and it is Madrid, a place I really want to see. Maybe I will give it a miss and come back another day. I want to get to Tarifa ASAP because I need to get somewhere cheaper soon. The positive thing about the Spanish N roads is that I get a Sean-sized lane to myself on the right of all the traffic, the downside is that there are very few places to stop and the places there are, Shell and Reysol garages, cost a lot of money.

My main impression of the Spanish so far is that they are a very confused race of people. Truck drivers will be drinking shots at lunch time, everyone will be asleep and off the streets from one till four in the afternoon and then will stay up from six in the evening until two in the morning drinking very small drinks and eating very small food before going to another bar to have a very small drink and a different small piece of food. Wine costs less than water. If Jesus was at a party today and the wine ran out he would just nip to Spain and pick up a case of Rioja for 5 Euros, it would be easier and cheaper than turning Evian into Lambrini. Every village has a basketball court, at least two bars with a Coca Cola sign outside called “Bar Mario” or “Bar Manolo” or “Bar Luigi” and a shop selling chain saws. In fact I worry about the need for so many chain saws in one country, unless Spain is part of Middle Earth, and like in the Lord of the Rings films, the trees can walk and therefore pose a serious threat. Every bar will have two men in smoking. Drivers will ignore ALL road markings. Zebra crossings are just for show. If you are first in line in a queue a Spanish person will push in front of you. Blonde people confuse Spanish people to the point that they stare.

I think I only have 10 or so days left in Spain if I peddle hard but I don’t have the internet tonight so I can’t check Google Maps. The backside is sore again tonight so it’s time to head off and liberally apply Lotil cream to the offending areas!

Hasta Manana,

Sean

Photos

2009-11-12T07:49:00.000-08:00

There will be no photos until Madrid. I took the wrong lead. There were two which looked almost identical. I have noone to blame but myself. I will buy a lead in Madrid and upload them then.

Over,
Sean

Inspiration? Moi?

2009-11-11T12:06:00.000-08:00

A couple of people have called me an “inspiration” since I started planning this trip. Thank you but I am not. I got desperate and decided to do something stupid to help myself! As much as this is for charity, I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think it would help me out in the long run by helping me get a career. Sorry to shatter any illusions but it is best to be honest.

I have people I look up to in sport like Martin Johnson or Jonah Lomu, or people in industry or entrepreneurs but they are not an inspiration. These people had a gift and used it to the best of their abilities. I hope I use my gifts to the best of my abilities, I think everyone tries to. Two people, though, do really inspire me. One is a friend of my sisters (and I suppose my friend as well, although she is much older so it is more appropriate to call her a friend of my sisters) and the other is a man named Robert Johns.

My sisters friend, lets call her Jo because I’m not sure if she would want her real name mentioned, had very serious cancer when I was about 15. She is lovely and you couldn’t help but to like her. Jo is funny, caring, always smiles and has an unfailing ability to be happy. She was on the precipice of death and I couldn’t bring myself to write to her, although I wanted to, because I just didn’t know what to say. It was one of those times when you didn’t know what was appropriate to say, how to say it, what the bundle of emotions you felt really meant in words. She is fine now but she always seemed to be strong, seemed to be in control of her emotions and still, unflinchingly upbeat. I’ve never told her - because how do you say it? - but she has always really inspired me, my hero.

Robert Johns, whose charity I am supporting, lost his son to leukemia. I worked for a marquee company in the summer at university and we put a marquee up for him to hold a fundraiser. It rained a lot. It literally, excuse my language, pissed it down. We had to wade through the mud in the field to move this marquee and his fundraiser was clearly going to be ruined and he stayed upbeat and cheerful. He set up the charity when, if I lost my son, I would have wallowed in self pity indefinitely. He has raised thousands for the two places that cared for his son and is, genuinely, the closest thing to a saint I have ever met! Bob, and I hope he wont mind me saying this, isn’t an academic, an accountant, an ‘events manager’ or anything like that but he has done wonders with a bag full of charisma and a lot of determination.

These people are inspirations. Thank you for anyone who has said I am, but I am just trying to do my bit for charity and make my CV stand out. That is not inspirational.

Ola, Donde Esta la Hostal?

2009-11-11T11:19:00.000-08:00

If the title of this post is undoubtedly spelt wrong, I apologise. But I have become used to repeating this phrase and then going on an often wild goose chase. I have a tent with me but it has been very wet in northern Spain and I have ended all three nights wet and cold and in need of a bed and shower. Tonight I was mistaken for a pilgrim on may way to Santiago and sent to a hosel for pilgrims. It was 5 euros a night. Result. Unfortunately I was thrown out in disgrace when I could not prove I was a pilgrim, although I didn't know I was supposed to be one. It's hard to convey this in a mix of English and the odd Spanish word.

I found a hostel tonight though and am in a cafe about 500 meters away where wine is 1 euro a glass and the internet is free. How I wish wine was this cheap in my formative years at Exeter. The difference between this and the cheap wine I am used to is that this tastes of wine and not lighter fluid and grape juice. "Cafe 13" is also playing last weeks test between Wales and New Zealand. With rugby and Rioja I am a very happy man! Having said that, after 70-80 miles today, including a hair-raising stretch on the motorway, it has gone straight to my head.

In my head I was going to leave at 6 this morning. Although last nights room had no windows, only a shutter and I judged by the coldness of the room and the complete darkness that it was 3 or 4 in the morning and not 10. After giving back my room key, which I failed to do the night before, I set off and felt fine. Then something bad happened, my internal monologue ran something like this:

"Well this is nice and flat. I think I'm going to go through the valley and avoid the mountains today - my map reading is really improving. Hang on, is that a mountain? Bollocks, it is a mountain. This is horrible. This really hurts, I still have 100km to go. Ow, my legs."

40km to go:

"This looks lovely, La Rioja is beautiful. Although there seem to be a lot of hills, I'll probably cycle around those...Oh no, they are massive hills that I have to cycle. Ow my legs. Ow, my arse. Ow, ow, ow."

About 8km from Logrono I realised that I had to go on the motorway. Bikes aren't allowed on the motorway, I must have taken a wrong turn. But there was no way I was turning around and cycling back to the N road. A lot of hoots and some hair-raising minutes later I was in Logrono. I cycled through the bit with lots of car dealerships and garages which every city seems to have and then I was in the most beautiful city I have ever seen. It is a real mix of old and new and all I had to do was find a hostel. I was sent by an elderly couple to the Hostel for pilgrims. They seemed quite upset I was trying to lie my way in to it, although I wasn't, it was a big misunderstanding, and sent me on my way. An elderly gentleman walked me to another Hostel where I had a bizarre conversation with the receptionist who didn't speak English. It ended up with me trying to barter by drawing diagrams of myself on my bike. I didn't get very far but, she pointed out, I had television which was well worth the money. I obviously can't watch Spanish television with much enjoyment though.

So far my exploration of Logrono has unearthed this internet cafe with it's beautiful cheap wine. As I write this however I am getting a headache and the world is starting to spin. I have had real trouble with my appetite recently, it's gone, and my lack of food is perpetuating the feeling of the wine. Yesterday and the day before I discovered the joys of a loaf of bread, tuna pate and an early night, in keeping with my budget. I may, however, have to buy myself a real meal soon, and accept that it will eat into my budget, before I feint. I'm going much quicker than I thought, about two days ahead of schedule so I probably deserve it.

Today I also decided against breakfast - an expensive luxury - and set off hoping to find a cheaper cafe. I didn't find one so I drank lots of coke instead and bought a packet of nuts from a garage. Coke has more CPE (Calories Per Euro) than real food!

La Rioja may well be the most picturesque place in the world. It has mountain, vineyards, fields of red, gold, green and brown. It is surrounded my mountains, it has rivers cutting through it. It is as if a child was told to draw a landscape and just went crazy and threw in everything.

The legs feel fine tonight, my backside red raw. There was also a nasty sitting-on-a-bollock incident just outside a place called Ona. Looking forward to a day of rest.

Muchos amo (again, probably written wrong),

Sean

P.S I will upload some pictures tomorrow.

For people at Exeter: If you are not from Exeter you will not understand this. Everyone at Exeter knows the "EG" rule. You probably also know that it becomes an uncontrollable habit after so long in Ex. I must forget it quick as it has lead to some nasty swerving as I go to "EG" my water bottles on the bike once they are finished.

10th November 2009

2009-11-10T11:33:00.000-08:00

Thought of the day: “In the song Sexy Bitch is Akon being ironic when he says ’I’m trying to find a way to describe this girl without being disrespectful. Damn you’s a sexy bitch…’” - I heard he is just the same as his father: The Akon never falls far from the tree.

You'll be pleased to know my last 24 hours has been much better than that joke.

I slept last night for about 15 hours, had a couple of bad dreams and woke up, was cold, went back to sleep and finally it was 9 o’clock and I had slept through my alarm. I was meant to leave at 8. I went to the bar to try and have breakfast. It was a lot of pointing and gesturing before I ate two horrible sandwiches, I think one had fried fish in it but I’m not sure. I set out towards Bilbao on the N639 and it was surprisingly easy. My legs felt good, everything was okay until just after Ramales. I ate a nice big baguette with a bacon omelette in it, a coffee and a coke and then set off on Hope.

First we encountered a steep long climb and we got through it. I was beginning to think that maybe if I got myself a Qoroz Race Won I could have a crack at the Tour de France next year. Then boom. After 5 km the biggest, longest, most painful climb in the world. Three quarters of the way up I had to stop and push for a few hundred yards. This happened about three more times. Somewhere between here and the top I felt like giving up and going home as I had no idea how far was left to climb due to the mist and fog. Then, as if by magic, the top appeared, I read a plaque about the mountain (I took a picture as I have forgotten the name already, I will post it soon), the sun appeared and it was all down hill for 15km or so.

I lost my sunglasses outside Café Rural 8km outside Medina de Pomar where I am writing this. I am in a 15 Euro a night ‘Hotel’ room as it is too wet to camp, my boxers are wet as my panniers are soaked through. Strangely though, I am enjoying myself. I will need to save money when the sun comes out though and camp as much as possible as Hotel and Hostel rooms are eating my budget up. My daily budget is about 12 pounds 50 (There are no Euro or Pound symbols on this keyboard by the way).

Apart from that I have nothing much to report. I love Hope, my Qoroz Mountain Won. She is beautiful, handles well, is fast and responsive and is coping well with being completely overloaded. I threw out a book, some sun cream, some socks and a base-layer last night. I will have another purge in a few days. I also need to eat the 500g of instant porridge oats and the 500g of noodles my mother insisted I take with me as I’m certain the mountain would have been easy without them… or if I was fitter and not heavier than the world heavyweight boxing champion David Haye! There was the incident with the water though. I was hungry and couldn’t afford a proper meal so I bought some tuna pate, some STILL water, a loaf of bread and some cheese. I went back to my hotel and opened the STILL water and dropped in a Shotz electrolyte tablet. I put the STILL water in my mouth. It was SPARKLING water and half a liter was driven instantly down my throat by the reaction with the tablet. It was several seconds before I could get to the sink in my room and by then I was coughing uncontrollably with water flying everywhere. I am glad no one saw it.

I’m in an internet café writing this, it feels very nice being able to slip into some clean clothes after cycling, my Bam clothing is very soft and warm and much, much nicer than damp clothing! Luckily my Rab waterproof top seems to be working and at least my top half is dry! Hopefully tomorrow the rain will hold off and I can make it to Logrono. That is about 75 miles but then I want to spend some time in the city and wash and dry some clothes and take in some culture. Hopefully I can get some more writing and some uploading of pictures done in Logrono too.

Ciao,

Sean

P.S Does anyone know if Spain is silent at 11 tomorrow? I will have to set an alarm.

9th November 2009

2009-11-10T11:26:00.000-08:00

I am currently near Solares in a little room above a bar. It is about 55 miles from Bilbao and I am eating “Leader Price” milk chocolate. Never again will I eat Leader Price chocolate.
Only my second day and I cheated. I got a lift to Plymouth as I had to check on to the ferry at 11 and it was pitch black and raining all morning. It wouldn’t have been a very safe cycle and it would have been frustrating arriving for the ferry soaking wet.

The ferry to Santander was odd. Some people were going on holiday, most were on board for cheap cigarettes and others were just boozing. In fact most were boozing. About 3 hours into the journey I was sat on the bottom step of deck 8 on the Bretagne, just outside the bar, staring at the horizon in an attempt not to be sick. An elderly man came and gave me some advice, most incomprehensible and told me how he was ‘sick over the side and pooing out my ass’ when he first joined the merchant Navy at 15 and a half. He had no teeth and a Hulk Hogan moustache and was letter escorted out of the bar by the captain for trying to dance with children.
I also met a lovely couple Mr and Mrs Edwards who gave me sea sickness tablets and slipped me a fiver for some breakfast. They were lovely and a highlight of the trip. Then I met Ricardo. A Portuguese 21 year old. He was also really lovely and bought me a couple of drinks.

I recovered after being given sea sickness tablets and sat in the bar nursing a coke and watching the ships entertainment. It was like watching extended highlights of Britain’s Got Talent. Then bed. The boat arrived into Santander at 1 o’clock in the afternoon. I got off the boat, followed the cars out onto the main road and then panicked. I had no idea where to go and my map didn’t give a detailed city view. I managed to piece together from locals that I needed to head to Bilbao as this was a flatter and quicker way of getting to Logrono than heading as the crow flies.

Surprisingly Hope (the new name for my bike) did very well and smashed out a good 30 miles or so…I still don’t have a bicycle computer so it is a rough estimate. I thought it would be much tougher with the bike fully loaded but it seemed okay even though there were lots of very big hills and some tough climbs. I think I will feel it in my legs tomorrow!

It’s 7 o’clock and I’m off to bed.

Medina De Pomar

2009-11-10T10:11:00.000-08:00

I have written a big old blog post to cover the last few days on the Asus netbook I am carrying. I can´t get on the net on that yet and haven´t transeferred it to a memory stick, but rest assured, I will.

I am in Medina De Pomar at the moment, hellish day. I´ll write all about it on the netbook and transfer everything onto my blog as soon as possible!

Over,
Sean

Day One: Cape Cornwall to Blisland

2009-11-07T13:25:00.000-08:00

61.6 miles in 4 hours 38 minutes.

Thought of the day: "Can the hedgehog give me a puncture?"

Highlight: Going through a village called 'Boxheater.' Could be a valuable addition to the song 'I Used to Work in Chicago (An Old Department Store).

Lowlight(s): 1) Nearly getting run over on a roundabout and making a cupped-hand-moving horizontal-from-side-to-side-in-the-air signal at a driver. 2) Some idiot driving through some standing water and spraying me. 3) Getting in the bath with cold, numb feet and suffering excruciating pain as they thawed out too quickly.

So I finally started. My Qoroz Mountain Won (I'm still pondering which nickname to plump for) was great. The riding position, which MSG bikes worked so tirelessly to perfect, was really comfortable. The bike was fast and responsive. It was great. But very, very cold and wet.

Most of the pictures taken this morning show me making odd gurning expressions as my cheeks went numb in the cold. This manages to make me look less attractive than normal. Wind catching my shirt in the wrong places also adds to physique in all the wrong places making me look even plumper than in real life. Luckily, a few half decent snaps were taken; I may have to get a haircut soon though.

I left Cape Cornwall at 11, an hour late, and rolled into my driveway in the afternoon very proud of my efforts. Tomorrow i have to be up bright and early as I have to catch the ferry at 12. It's only 30 miles to Plymouth though so it should be an easy day as long as the hail, which is battering our conservatory and making it sound like a very large glass snare-drum, holds off. I cannot have numb feet two days in a row: I refuse!

For anyone who has my mobile number, it is now paused for 6 months so it will not work. I will be trying to buy sim cards on route so don't worry, I'll call you!

I'm looking forward to setting foot on Spanish soil on Monday, just 30 miles of England left!

Please donate to the charities I am supporting.

Over,

Sean

P.S Thank you to Olympus for rushing me a new super tough camera this morning! Hopefully it will provide lots of great pictures of Spain and Africa.

And that's a Rap

2009-11-06T11:38:00.000-08:00

The above picture is my life for the next month or so. From Cape Cornwall to my house, my house to Plymouth, Pymouth to Santander, Santander to Logrono, Logrono to Madrid and Madrid to Tarifa. Easy then.

I am not the sportiest person I know. I am not the best cyclist. I am not particularly outdoorsy. I don't like camping that much...or at all. I'm not very mechanical. That is my attempt at what Eminem did in 8 mile. You know the scene where Bunny Rabbit has a rap battle with Papa Doc? In essence he gets all the insults against him in first. I'm pretty down with the rap game.

Anyway, the point of that little tirade against myself is to reiterate that a lot of people will expect me to fail or at least not do very well on this trip. Do you know what, I don't care. This trip has consumed my life over the last five months to the detriment of my personal relationships, my social life and my sanity and I have barely told any of my friends about it because I didn't want to be laughed at. Well now it is finally here, and I have to go through with it. Hopefully I will do myself proud.

I picked my bike up on Wednesday from MSG bikes in Lancing and it is lovely. A vision in titanium. Although I am still searching for a name for it. Thanks to MSG it fits me perfectly and was very comfortable on the ride home from the train station on Thursday morning. It is, as we speak, being packed and loaded and is getting heavier and heavier though. Luckily, it will be unloaded all the way to Plymouth so my legs will be a bit more battle hardened by the time I touch down on Spanish soil!

Anyway, please donate to the charities I am supporting, I would love to reach £500 before I reach the end of Spain and wish me luck, I need it!

Missed Me?

2009-10-31T13:34:00.000-07:00

I appreciate it has been while since I have last blogged. If I have any avid readers then I apologise to you; you have been let down.

That is not to say I do not have news. My new website is up and running at www.ridingouttherecession.co.uk thanks to Pickle Design. Under Armour have sent me a box of base layers, hats, gloves and leggings to help with training and my trip. Bam who make excellent bamboo clothing have helped me out with clothes which are naturally antiseptic, light, comfy and feel soft enough for the Persil baby.

I have also been using supplements from AffordableSupplements.co.uk to keep my protein content high and stop precious muscle wastage from training – I don’t have much muscle so want to keep as much as possible. Merlin SAS have given me a Merlin Steel carbon-steel blade on long term loan for the trip and Quoc Pham has helped me out with some stylish leather cycling shoes. I also have my tent sorted and trainers and 1^st Sticker Scout Group near St Austell kindly donated an MSR Dromedary water carrier and a flint to keep me hydrated and warm!

I was supposed to leave today. Instead I have been carving a pumpkin (Above - based on 'The Scream' by Munch: it's an arty pumpkin). The reason I haven’t left is that my driving test was cancelled by the DSA (no reason given) and it seems silly to waste all the money I have spent on driving lessons – by that I mean that my parents have spent. A driving license may also come in useful at some point on my trip. On another less happy note I was dumped last week. I now understand why Hugh Grant looks so forlorn in all his films when the leading lady walks out on him or he loses her due to some silly mistake. Unfortunately I have been told in no uncertain terms that this relationship will not have the happy ending of a Hugh Grant rom-com.

I dealt with it though by employing a world renowned training technique employed by top sportsman. This technique features in cyclist Graham Obree and, rugby player, Mike Catt’s autobiographies. It is technically called ‘going on a bender.’ The aim of these two was to do everything they wouldn’t be able to do once they had started training and the season was underway. I was just trying to forget the previous week!

But with the bender out of the way and a sore throat and permanent hang over ever since, my new date of departure is next Saturday at 10 am from Cape Cornwall. I will then get the ferry to Sandanter on Sunday. This means I will be in Sandanter the following day at midday-ish and approximately 700 miles from the ferry to Africa.

I’m looking to turn the last couple of weeks of negatives into positives, I’m not 100% sure how to but no doubt I will forget everything once I start travelling. Plus I’m sure girls love the sweaty cyclist look. Couple that with my overgrown hair (which I can now put in a horrible Argentinean-footballer-style pony tail and I’m quids in to find myself a new lady on my travels!

I will update my blog sooner rather than later with some packing pictures so stay tuned.

Over,

Sean

Edit: I changed 'Much' to 'Munch.' I Put 'Munch' originally but then spellchecked recklessly. I just wanted to prove that my art lessons at secondary school weren't completely wasted.

Ergonomic Fit

2009-10-01T07:34:00.000-07:00

On Monday I spoke to MSG bikes in Lancing. Could I come in for a fitting in mid-October? Certainly. Tomorrow? Even better.

As I hadn’t really thought it through it made life quite difficult. I got a train at five in the evening from Bodmin Parkway and arrived in Lancing at 11.45. Then I had to walk from the station to the sea front to find the “hotel” room I had booked that night. I was quite hurt when trying to find the hotel I asked a man directions and he said ‘no thank you’ and wandered off.
I did find it however and it was very nostalgic. It was like being at boarding school again. Except someone had put a full sized fridge a microwave in my room, removed some pillows and given me a bed which was shorter than my height.

It was, however, cheap. And the staff were very friendly so I can’t complain. It was either that or camp on the beach which looked lovely despite being next to a car park which I’m fairly sure was a dogging spot.

On the other side of Lancing about 15 minutes walk away was MSG bikes. It clearly has a good reputation as everyone in town knew how to get there as I plodded around trying to find it. There I had a full bike fitting and discussed the specs of my bike which is being made by Qoroz who specialize in titanium bikes. As a result my bike will be supremely comfortable. If you need any other references then ask James Bowthorpe or Cass Gilbert who have also had bike fittings at MSG. For more information about my trip to MSG see my blog post on road.cc.

In other news, Asus have kindly provided me with a netbook for my trip so you can look forward to (I hope) regular updates from me on my travels. With everything coming together nicely and all my kit nearly assembled I hope to name a date ASAP, probably the end of October or the first week of November.

Please donate to the charities I am supporting here and feel free to comment, ask questions or just get in touch for a chat!

Over,

Sean

You're Bard

2009-09-25T04:33:00.000-07:00

‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.’ Whilst this phrase is stirring I have some trouble with what Shakespeare is saying. Throughout my modest sporting career I have found that some are indeed born great. Every school has the lithe yet muscular jock that walks the hallways with a swagger knowing that he represents the county at 12 different sports. This character can drink, go off the rails, have a few naughty cigarettes and he will still win the end of year cross country race at a canter before sweeping the most beautiful girl in school of her feet at that evening’s end of term disco.

Others have greatness thrust upon them. That is very true. However it is usually the same fellow as in the first instance.

“You want me to play badminton for the school in a crucial fixture? But I’ve played before. Okay"

What follows is some masterful play, deft swatting of the shuttlecock and an unexpected victory. Who would have thought that this sporting super hero would have been good at yet another sport?

It is the achieving greatness bit I have problems with. Don’t get me wrong there have been times when I have worked very, very hard to achieve something in sport, usually rugby, and I have played for some great teams. I myself, however, have attained a level of advanced mediocrity. Sometimes I have done things on the pitch almost worth a mention but nothing I would consider to be great and certainly with no great frequency.

To summarise I am a big fan of the ‘born great’ and the ‘thrusting’ thesis as I have christened them. It is in this vain that I have gone about my training for my trip to Africa. Sure I have trained hard. I’ve done long cycles, I’ve done intervals, and I’ve gone running. I’ve watched my food intake, kept the protein levels up, drunk antioxidant rich Green Tea and everything else I could possibly do. However this is not the same as cycling 50-70 miles a day every day. I don’t have the time to do that just yet. As I clearly was not born an elite athlete I will rely on this workload being thrust upon me and hopefully I will be great.

I know this isn’t what Shakespeare meant, but, if I’m honest, I heard this quote not during a performance of Twelfth Night but from Robin Williams’ character in Night at the Museum.

Power to the Pedals: courtesy of Lemsip

2009-09-24T07:11:00.000-07:00

This won’t be as comprehensive as I would like as I am currently wallowing under a blanket, drinking lemsip and honey and watching trashy television. I have what is known in medical terms as ‘man flu.’

I had a really good week visiting my girlfriend in Eastbourne for her birthday. She had a lovely party and I got to put my DJ on and pull out the James Bond impressions willy nilly. Never is there a better excuse for a man to utter the words ‘Hello Mish Moneypenny’ in a Sean Connery accent than a black tie event.

Training unfortunately was limited to a ten mile run around Eastbourne, taking in such lovely sights as the Langley Shopping Village and Lidl. But that is of no consequence as I am very excited to announce that I am being provided with a bike by the British firm Qoroz who make titanium bikes. According to their literature they use Finite Element Analysis to optimise every component. I have no idea what that means in real terms but they make bloody good bikes.

I also received some kind words of encouragement from Mark Beaumont, former holder of the World Record for circumnavigation of the globe by bicycle. He also generously sponsored me and wished me ‘power to the pedals.’ Oh there’ll be power, Mark, just as soon as I’ve got over this nasty bout of man flu. Cough.

An Open Mind and an Empty Belly: The Hungry Cyclist

2009-09-10T04:25:00.000-07:00

Tom Kevill-Davies loves his bicycle and loves to eat. He seems, then, to have found the perfect career as The Hungry Cyclist. He is perhaps most well known for his trip from New York to Rio de Janeiro in search of the perfect meal but he leaves on his latest trip on the 1st October, a journey from the mouth to the source of the Mekong river in search of the best food South East Asia has to offer. As a lover of food and cycling and also as a man who claims, like myself, not to be an athlete, he is my kind of bike rider. He very kindly agreed to be interviewed for my blog and offers some insights into the world of cycle touring and food on the go.

What did you do prior to being The Hungry Cyclist?

I was a creative for a small advertising agency in London. A happy job but after five years a window of opportunity arrived and it was time for a change. The next thing I knew I was at JFK with a bicycle.

Cyclists always seem to be desperate to lose weight. Do cycling and food naturally go hand in hand?

As the first man to cycle across America and gain weight I appreciate a good meal at the end of a day and in my eyes food and cycling are a perfect couple. As cyclist our bodies are our engines, our food and drink our fuel. I am anything but a competitive cyclist, and I certainly don’t consider myself an athlete, but as a long-distance cycle tourist, fascinated by food, I completely understand that eating is an intrinsic part of any bike ride. The food and drink we consume provides fuel for our muscles, repairs tissue and muscle damage and replaces lost electrolytes and other nutrients. Get your food intake wrong and it doesn’t matter how fit you are, you are going nowhere and are well on your way to experiencing the dreaded bonk.

Where have you find the best meals on your travels?

A tough question. There is superb food to be found all over the world and I have eaten incredibly well in Taiwan, Germany, Israel, Spain and America. But so far the real highlight has to be Mexico. The variety, colour and freshness are second to none and tacos are the perfect cycling food. However with a trip to South East Asia next month the number one spot could be under threat.

What’s the most unusual thing you have eaten and has there been anything you wish you hadn’t?

Armadillo stew in Northern Brazil is right up there with the weird and wonderful food along with grubs, insects and ducks tongues. I was offered turtles eggs when cycling in El Salvador and had to say no.

Is there anything you wouldn’t try in search of the perfect meal?

If something is endangered I will think twice. Turtles have a hard enough time without me munching on their eggs.

What cooking tips do you have for travellers who want to eat well but without taking too much with them?

Eat as much street food as you can find. Often it will be cheaper than buying the ingredients yourself and it will certainly taste better. I have never been sick from eating on the street and these small temples to food are often cleaner and more conscientious than big restaurants. In terms of cooking, always carry a few basic supplies. A good knife, rice, a collection of herbs and spices in 35mm film cases, garlic and stock cubes are always in my panniers.

What kit is indispensable on your travels?

Indispensable... Hmmm most of the indispensables are pretty dull. Two pumps, spare tubes, brake pads, etc. But these days I always pack a lightweight hammock. It takes no space can be hung almost anywhere and is perfect when cycling in tropical countries for a midday rest when the sun is too hot. It also provides a perfect night’s sleep.

What tips would you have for a would-be adventure cyclist?

Take your time. The whole reason you go by bike is to go slow so don't bust your gut and blow you mind trying to make deadlines. It’s not a race and having a deadline will only mean you miss out on opportunities.

Do you have a hero or someone who has inspired you?

Reading as much travel lit as possible has certainly inspired me to keep doing what I am doing, and I have met plenty of everyday heroes along the way who have made me see things in perspective and keep going with a smile on my face. In preparation for my trip up the Mekong next month I have just read River of Time by Jon Swain. He was a journalist in South East Asia in the second half of the last century and his insight, bravery and sensitivity have certainty set a bench mark.

How would you make a rice cake more appetizing!?

Soak it in brandy before coating it caramel and the dipping it in molten chocolate.

More on Tom’s trip along the Mekong can be found at www.thehungrycyclist.com/mekong

Trip to Bude

2009-09-10T04:12:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I felt pretty tired and lethargic but I forced myself out on my bicycle to do a few miles. Not because I wanted to, more the guilt of not wanting to cycle was eating away at me. I started with a solid 3 mile climb to St Breward and did not feel good, everything was very hard, I couldn’t get any speed up, I was getting a niggling pain in the back of my right calf. I persisted and started to loosen up but after 40 miles I decided something must be up as I couldn’t freewheel down hills. I thought it was the wind at first but when the wind died down I realised that that was not the problem.

I stopped the bike, turned it upside down and span the front wheel. Working fine. No rubbing on the brakes, nothing. The rear wheel did not spin bat all. I either need to take apart and reassemble my rear hub or find a new one soon. In total I did 60 miles in 4 and a half hours which wasn’t bad but the fact that I had to peddle constantly meant it was like 4 and a half hours on an exercise bike.

Still it was a lovely day for it. I ended up in Bude and was told off for asking a lady in the local shop to fill up my water bottle.

‘We do sell water, you know.’

She is the second person in a week to either refuse to fill my water bottle up or to make a fuss about it. Have the shop owners in Cornwall never heard of carbon footprints?

Cycling to the Ashes

2009-09-08T02:39:00.000-07:00

I’m not the only one doing something bicycle related for charity in the coming months. Oli Broom, a 29 year old former chartered surveyor, plans to cycle to the next Ashes series in Brisbane, Australia. He will pass through 28 countries on route, raising money for two charities.

He very kindly agreed to be interviewed for my blog, so in his own words here is some more information about Cycling to the Ashes:

What charities are you doing it for?

I’m hoping to raise £100,000 for The Lord’s Taverners and the British Neurological Research Trust. The former is a charity founded in cricket that does all sorts of charity work, largely helping disabled kids play sport. The BNRT leads pioneering research into spinal injuries. An old friend of mine had a freak diving accident about 5 years ago and is now completely paralysed from the chest down. The hope is that BNRT research will cure all sorts of injuries, including spinal cord injuries like his, but also birth injuries, strokes, head injuries, multiple sclerosis and degenerative conditions such as Parkinson's and Alzheimer's diseases. It really is ground-breaking research that will one day improve the quality of millions of people’s lives.

Have you done much cycling before?

I’d be lying if I said I’d done loads, but I’ve always liked mountain biking, and I cycled to Paris recently. My sports have always been cricket, golf and racket sports so I’ve never found the time to do as much cycling as I would have liked. For the next year and a bit, cycling takes!

How far is it?

Too far. I’ll cycle about 25,000km in something like 420 days. Plenty of “rest” days will be spent playing cricket too. I’ve worked it out on the basis of 100km per day 5 days a week. That should see me rolling in to Brisbane on about 20 November 2010.

How have you been preparing and for how long?

I spend most of my time trying to secure sponsorship at the moment. A long old process with the economy as it is, and corporate belts securely tightened. Other than that I pore over maps, and make sure I’m not going to cycle past any wonders of the world without knowing. I went to Eurobike in Germany the other day, the biggest bike show in the world, and came back with the promise of 150 water bottles with the Cycling To The Ashes logo printed on – a bit of a coup, and easily my most random piece of sponsorship so far.

What did you do before you decided to cycle to Oz?

I worked as a Chartered Surveyor at Knight Frank in London from 2004 until 2 weeks ago. Before that I studied French and Spanish at Durham University. I liked the people at Knight Frank, made some great mates and it was a good job, but I was never inspired by it. I used to dream a lot about doing a trip like this and saw that I was going to miss the boat if I didn’t dive in. Since finishing work 2 weeks ago my energy levels have gone through the roof as I get my teeth stuck into this project. That tells me I made the right decision!

What luxury item are you going to take with you?

If a luxury item is defined as something I don’t really need, but something I’m glad I’m taking, then I suppose it’s got to be a hip flask. A great friend gave it to me for my birthday recently. It’s got a map of the world on it, absolutely no use because of the scale, but it’s a nice touch, and I’ll fill it up with brandy to send me off to sleep occasionally at the end of a long day in the saddle.

What will you miss the most?

Maybe easy conversation? There’s nothing better than going out for a pint or a meal with your best mates or family and just talking about nothing in particular. I don’t suppose I’ll have much of that since I’ll be meeting new people all the time. Maybe it’ll do me some good....
Friends and family – that’s the obvious answer, and it’s true!

Is there anything you are scared or apprehensive about?

I’m apprehensive about the whole thing, but excited and determined in the same breath. It’s going to be a great adventure and a huge opportunity. Being realistic, I suppose I’ll be scared on the journey at certain points, maybe when Ethiopian kids are chucking rocks at me as I cycle through their villages - but I’m not scared yet.

Finally, cricket: it’s not as good as rugby is it?!

Haven’t you got that the wrong way around? Come off it, really? Oh ok, rugby is a great game and I love watching it, but I was never any good at playing it (I’m a stick man....2 dimensional). Cricket is the greatest game, and I was always ok at it, so I guess it makes sense that I prefer it. There is so much to cricket. In a lifetime of watching it, you still won’t see all its permutations. Added to that, it’s up there with golf and snooker as one of the most skilful sports, and that has to count for something! If you had ever seen David Gower bat you wouldn’t be saying rugby was a better game than cricket....

Find out more about Oli's ride to The Ashes at www.cyclingtotheashes.co.uk

Testing, testing.

2009-09-08T02:29:00.000-07:00

I failed my driving test today with a shambolic result. I thought I would use the internet to vent my frustration.

There are many things I am not so great at when it comes to driving. For example I am sometimes overly cautious at junctions and will wait until a gap so large that a tortoise shepherd could herd a flock of snails across the road. However I am a good safe driver and have never had a problem with control of the car. Therefore I was upset to gain a total of six minors and a major for gear changing and steering. Apparently I looked at the gear stick and swerved erratically every time I changed gear. This categorically did not happen. But, c’est la vie.

As a result I need to pass next time to equal my girlfriend and my Dad. Luckily I have several attempts left before I have to worry about equalling my sister.
Over,
Sean

Who to Trust: Bradley Wiggins or Homer Simpson?

2009-09-03T05:19:00.000-07:00

Way back in 1998 when I was 10 my Dad bought his first Pentium computer. It was a Pentium II 450MHz machine and he only replaced it last year. As a ten year old I was always very impressed by the free software and demos that came with computer magazines and one month, one of these disks was full of screen savers. My favourite was a Homer Simpson screen saver. As soon as the computer was left lots of icons would appear on the desktop for donuts, ice cream, waffles and Homer’s favourite Duff bear. He would scoff these down with glee and move on to the next icon. Somewhere along the way he would find rice cakes. He would eat these, grimace and let out a loud ‘D’oh!’

The reason I mention this is that, willing to try anything to get fit, I have started following the advice of Garmin Slipstream. Bradley Wiggins team put their 2009 Tour de France riders on a diet of rice cakes believing the high wheat diet usually followed by Tour teams has an inflammatory effect. Unlike Homer I don’t mind the taste of rice cakes. I would suggest, however, that mine look a little bland. To top it off: I miss bread.

If anyone has any recipes to spice up my rice cakes then it would be greatly appreciated as man cannot live on rice alone.

I’ve included a picture of my lunch as if to prove just how monotone it was. If anyone is wondering it is:

Rice Cakes with cottage cheese.

Lettuce.

CLA and L-carnitine.

Green Tea

From Twitter to Padstow

2009-09-02T03:26:00.000-07:00

The verb ‘twitter’ has just been included the new Collins dictionary. This is testament to how influential and important Twitter has become. From up to date reporting’s on the Mumbai attacks in November 2008 to Demi Moore preventing a fellow Twitter user committing suicide it has really made its mark since it was launched in 2006.

However, more importantly, for me anyway, Twitter led to this conversation with my mother the other day:

‘Mum, I’m just off out.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, I met a man on the internet.’
‘...’

This is a conversation I never thought I’d have. But the man in question was in fact Daniel Cornwell, a lovely gentlemen who happens to be in Cornwall this weekend and stumbled across me and my ride on the micro blogging site.

Daniel is raising money for a Pancreatic Cancer UK to commemorate the 15 year anniversary of his Dad’s death from the disease, aged just 47. He is doing this by cycling from London to Paris from the 9th - 13th September. You can sponsor him here http://www.justgiving.com/danielcornwell/

We cycled from the Blisland Inn to Padstow and it was much wetter, more pot-holey and more muddy than it was the day before when I did it in blistering (well, warmish) sunshine.

I got sent some lovely Bloc shades today – thanks Bloc! Also received the replacement skewer for my Extrawheel which I attached properly this time and it works like a charm!

Over,

Sean

All aboard the Turbo Train. Next stop: The Den

2009-08-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

I did more training for my trip today, about an hour on my Raleigh Sun GT10. I felt a little bit like Chris Boardman in the documentary the Final Hour. In it he built an hypoxic training room to mimic the effects of altitude and then you seem him training...and training...and training. To summarise he trains a lot in the documentary. I have even more respect for him now he has joined Peter Andre in talking to me on Twitter! Thanks Chris. His advice for trip – get a good saddle, and I have: a Brooks B17 Titanium.

Training was followed by a miserable trip to Sibleyback Lake in Cornwall ostensibly to go kayaking but it was so misty that the lake was shut. We had to make do with a muddy, cold walk around the lake with me pushing my nephew in a buggy which barely fitted between the bracken, bramble and nettles lining the path.

In short it was disastrous. But sort of good fun. Something else which was disastrous was the manner in which I assembled my new Extrawheel the other day. It looks great, feels great and is great...unless a buffoon forgets to tighten the skewer which attaches it to the rear wheel. This resulted in a bent skewer, crunching gears and my rear brakes now failing to work at all. Biketrailershop.com which provided me with my trailer have kindly sent a replacement skewer so it’ll all be alright in the end.

Finally see below for pictures of my turbo training ‘Den’ notice the Shotz bar which has been powering my longer training rides.

Poem

2009-08-29T13:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve gone global, it’s official. The ride doesn’t even need to happen now. I’m leaving you all behind and entering the world of showbiz. I’ve written a poem to commemorate this event. Enjoy.

I’ve done it, the jackpot’s hit,
I knew we were a perfect fit,
I knew when I saw you on the TV,
That in future you’d be where I’d be.

I always liked to tell myself,
That you’d be there to share the wealth
Of experience we’d both gain together,
Me and you, always, forever.

I’ve seen you on the stage,
On the TV and in the pages
Of Heat and OK and in the papers
In the jungle and your other capers.

But now I’m glad to finally state,
We’ve made it, Pete, you think I’m great,
The proof is on my Twitter feed
Mrpeterandre you’re friends with me!

It’s official, me and Pete are buddies on Twitter. I’m in the showbiz world now. If anyone wants autographs I’ll be in my trailer.

How feeling naked led to the factory floor.

2009-08-29T11:44:00.000-07:00

Riding out the Recession planning is in full swing. I now have an Extrawheel trailer courtesy of the Bike Trailer Shop and am looking forward to receiving my panniers courtesy of Brooks.
I have also stepped up my training and, yes AND, taken steps to sure up my finances.
Finances first: As you will be aware by now I was a student until very recently. I then graduated and was left jobless. I have applied for a lot of temporary work but apparently I am under qualified for a lot of minimum wage admin jobs . To make matters worse the landlady at the local pub, the lovely Blisland Inn, usually points me in the direction of local builders needing labourers. There are none.

I am therefore hoping to finally start work in the next week or so in a factory on an assembly line. Many would see this as a step down from the lofty heights of Exeter’s Amory building where I have spent 3 years attending (some) Politics lectures. In reality I am bloody thankful to have finally been offered work. I felt naked without a job.

Now, training. Only an ex-student with lots of interest free debt looming over him and no job would train for a serious expedition like this. I have bought a Raleigh Sun GT 10 circa 1970 to put in my turbo trainer (pictures to follow).

This replaced the red 4 speed Raleigh (above) with a broken pedal crank – and two broken pedals which I attempted to put in it before. Note the homemade bike stand the front wheel is sitting in courtesy of my dad. Many athletes thrive on training in beautiful training camps in lovely mountain resorts or in hot climates amongst palms and the thick fragrant smell of the tropics. I am training next to a water pump and a pile of logs, some cobwebs and an assortment of miscellaneous household items. It’s good for the soul.

Roll on Africa, I want to ride out this recession!

Viva Espana, Viva Birmingham

2009-08-28T11:00:00.000-07:00

August 14th

Again, it has been a little while since I have written on here, mainly because I have been sunning myself in Spain. There are two things I very much like about Spain. The first is that the Spanish nap every afternoon and it feels rude not to join in. The second is that they put a backwards question mark or exclamation mark at the start of questions or exclamations so that people know what intonation to use. I think this is a great idea which should be implemented in England. It would stop that awkward moment when you read something aloud forgetting the rising intonation and then have to re read it.

The Spanish aren’t the only people to find a way around this awkward predicament. Brummies and the cast of Neighbours use rising intonation at the end of every sentence. That way it is impossible to get any one sentence wrong.

Although I didn’t manage to go cycling in Spain - bike hire prices are criminal in La Manga - I did go for a few runs in the 40 degree heat. It was ridiculously hot and the humidity made the air thick to breathe in. However, it was good training for The Dark Continent where I’m sure I will be as hot – or hotter - at some point.

On a different note, I opened my Solargorilla charger up to have a look. It is amazing. It looked very big on the box and I was worried it would be a bit or a burden to cycle with. It’s the complete opposite: compact, light and cunningly constructed. I’m looking forward to using it to charge my iPod and my laptop when I’m cycling.

I also got a parcel from Rab with a sleeping bag, shell jacket and other bits and pieces in. I am in love with my sleeping bag; it’s actually softer and more comfortable than my duvet. Thanks Rab.Does anyone else want to sponsor Riding out the Recession? If so all the details are on this website and it would be greatly appreciated.

Look out for some more articles in the coming weeks.

Over,
Sean

Dazzling jackets, the A30 and the Twitter revolution

2009-07-28T06:03:00.000-07:00

I did it. 55 miles.

Seeing as this is less than my daily target when I leave it’s not that impressive but I felt I had a lot more mileage in my legs when I finished.

The reason I was cycling that distance, largely on the A30, the hilliest and most dangerous road in Cornwall, was because my Dad is cycling from Lands End to John O’Groats. After a stopover at our house overnight, near Bodmin, we got up very early and cycled to Crediton in Devon. What makes this more impressive is that Dad is almost 63 – he says that makes him 62 but I think 63 sounds more impressive.

Although I have no doubt that he will make it in one piece, I will insist on burning his high viz jacket and helmet cover combo when he gets back. No one needs to be that bright and I think there is a danger of dazzling drivers with the sheer yellowness of his cycling outfit. If you would like to read more about my Dad (who wouldn’t?) then his website is robmaher.org.uk.
This week was also exciting as I finally signed up to Twitter. It was somewhat of an anti climax as I had been led to believe it was a life changing experience. It is not, it is just very short sentences about very little.

Something I didn’t know about my sex life

2009-07-23T12:32:00.000-07:00

If anyone requires an ultrasound scan on Tuesday 28th July and 3.30pm, there is an appointment going spare at my local hospital. I think someone may have been trying to tell me something as I received a letter asking me to ring to confirm my appointment. Thankfully “no special preparation was needed for the scan” and I did not “have to attend with a full urinary bladder.”

The picture on the left is the letter I recieved (click to make it readable). Unfortunately I couldn’t make the appointment and, anyway, I think at least a small amount of “special” preparation would be required for me to be able to give birth. The receptionist seemed less amused than I was at the mix up and although relieved my appointment was cancelled and my masculinity was no longer under review, I felt a bit sad that little Sean Jr was a bureaucratic error and that bloated feeling must just have been a spot of wind.

I appeared on BBC Spotlight on Tuesday talking about how it feels to graduate in the recession. The answer: very depressing.

Over,
Sean

Update

2009-07-20T08:25:00.001-07:00

I feel I have neglected this blog somewhat. When I am on the road it will be a jam packed with interesting stories, anecdotes and pictures. However, for the time being, here is an update.

I have lots of new sponsors and am very grateful to all of them (please check out the sponsors page at www.cornwall2capetown/sponsors), I have been doing lots of training rides around Cornwall and trying to get all of my equipment together. I am getting more and more confident as time goes on and the more I read about Africa, the more I want to get out and about and explore it. It’s just a pity that I won’t be leaving for so long!

Tomorrow I finally graduate officially and hopefully it will be on the local news – expect a link to be up on the website pretty sharpish if it is.

New Bike

2009-06-20T14:22:00.001-07:00

Whilst still currently unable to afford the glitzy unbreakable bike which I want to complete my journey I have finally realised that racing bikes are not for me and sold both of mine. I now have a new mountain bike with a blank frame, no known manufacturer and a stupidly large front tyre. In short, it is wildly dissimilar to the very narrow, very uncomfortable and very creaky red and silver racing bike I have been riding day to day. My new bike looks more like a bike I should be riding. They say that people look like their pets, well now I look like my bike, robust, inelegant and hardworking. It is my Great Dane. My racing bike was a French poodle; dainty, with a poufy tale, lots of bald bits, and a ribbon. This analogy is particularly apt as a French poodle would, like my racing bike, make funny noises if I sat on it.

The Craic

2009-06-07T07:00:00.001-07:00

My name is Sean, I’ll be 21 on August 23rd and by then I will have graduated from Exeter University with a degree in politics.

I first developed an interest in cycling when I stayed with my uncle Ove in Denmark the year after my A-levels. I came back from Denmark with a shiny blue racing bike which I have barely ridden but still love to look at. Since then bikes and I have not gone hand in hand. I have had a flat barred racing bike which I was advised by the shop I bought it in ‘not to ride too fast, we put the wheel on wrong and it will fall off at high speed.’ I had another racing bike which broke every fifty miles or so and a mountain bike which was great but it was stolen after less than three months.

I decided I wanted to cycle Africa several years ago but never really thought I would. In the past I have done lots of things, or wanted to, and have either never finished or never started altogether. The bench I was building next to the stream on my farm remains just a pile of half sawn logs, my short lived (and very manly) fascination with cross-stitch petered out as soon as I came to my senses and almost every New Year’s resolution has been successfully kept but only until five minutes past midnight. Therefore the idea of cycling Africa was said with much bravado but little conviction.

Now however, I feel I can. I have no job, no degree course to wait around for and, after a summer of working, hopefully a little bit of money. Also, my beautiful (although much less keen on cycling) girlfriend, Rebecca, is going to Spain for a year so I have to keep out trouble somehow.

I am no Lance Armstrong, no Jan Ulrich and certainly no Chris Hoy. I can’t stand the heat and my pasty Nordic skin burns easily in the sun but people tell me I’m very stubborn and also I have a sense of adventure which will keep me going. Africa is also a place which has always fascinated me and it will be a pleasure to cycle through it, especially places like Sierra Leone which are not everyday tourist destinations.

Thank you for looking at my website and please donate to the charities I am supporting.

Sean