The Highs And Lows of Cycle Touring

First published by Ministry of Sound Online (Travel Section)

Bournemouth to Bombay by bike. Lowri Clarke reports from the saddle.

Ok. So, the plan was an ambitious one. After a couple of trips with the aid of an aeroplane and a trusty Millets backpack, I had begun to crave something more. Myself and my accomplice formulated a cunning plan involving getting to India overland. The route, we decided, would work itself out on the way, and anyway, was just a minor detail, nothing to worry about. The Middle East crisis shouldn’t cause us too many problems. Weather too, was something we were certain would be fine – at most a minor inconvenience – a backdrop to my imaginings of the epic trip that seemed to be unfolding like a magic carpet into my future. I could think of nothing else.

After totalling the projected fuel expenditure over 6000km (a conservative estimate), adding it to the cost of a camper van, combined with our zero mechanical expertise and potential dependence on local, dollar-hungry engineers, we realised that driving could/would be disastrous. So, to the hilarity of most of our friends, the disbelief of our parents, armed with our gung-ho attitudes and curious lack of reluctance, we decided to cycle.

Neither of us had ever tried cycle touring before. We both cycle everywhere (a declaration which we would be bleating to many a sceptical voice during the Planning Months) but aside from some lengthy rides along perfect, pre-planned routes, carrying nothing, we were completely inexperienced. And strangely unfazed. We bought a brilliant, expensive tent, a wondrous Primis fuel-burning stove, eight waterproof panniers and two capable bikes. We cycled down the road to Poole, and hopped on a night ferry to Cherbourg.

Boarding the ferry, waving to the collected friends and family – who had justifiably maintained a healthy combination of disbelief and encouragement – we felt that a huge portion of the journey was over. The Planning Months had been crucial and stressful, involving lots of wall charts, hypothesising and last-minute purchasing of bungees and cable-ties (absolutely essential). We had been aching to get going, and rolling off the ferry into a perfect French dawn we were grinning from ear to ear. Right then. Better secure ourselves a map….

The Test:

Pedalling hard away from Cherbourg, more or less in the direction of India, and we are drunk on the freedom of speeding into the blue. Legs strong, heavy bikes hurtling down the undulating roads, French bread and cheese tasting divine. 40km later, as I begin to tire, and the hills become more prolific, I encounter a whole fortress of self-doubt I had never known existed.

My speed drops steadily with my spirits. Pedalling slowly in the opposite direction of My Life and everything I value, leaden legs pushing my speedo to a pathetic 8km/h on the hills, I begin to seriously doubt the efficacy of our scheme.

Everything on my bike and nothing in the road ahead except thousands and thousands of km’s, the beginning was a testing time. With our bodies unused to clocking up such distances, legs still hoping that this trip was a whim and tomorrow we’d revert to the former sofa and biscuit regime, physically it was, it is, very challenging. But mentally is where the real mountains are. Convincing yourself that you are doing the right thing by cycling 100km’s through slanting rain and icy winds is a curious challenge. When you arrive at the campsite (which is hopefully open), wrap your hands round a hot chocolate and curl up in your (hopefully dry) sleeping bag, body quivering from exertion, rushing on endorphins and satisfaction, you can safely say, that yes, now it’s worth all the pain.

Two weeks later, fitter, more weathered, bums worn in by hard Italian saddles and into the swing of things, it’s all looking alot peachier. Then, unacceptably, Greece’s official Rainy Season began…

Good Things:

* Independence. Carrying everything we need to survive independently of society (besides Tesco or equivalent food outlets) is amazing. We can camp anywhere, eat anywhere, go anywhere, stop anytime. The world truly is our oyster and our transportation is powered by force of will rather than a motor, food instead of petrol. We rely on no-one. The only thing which can stop us now is right inside our heads.

* The Chocolate and Coca Cola Reward Scheme. Cycling involves the expenditure of hundreds of calories and thus requires the regular ingestion of extremely high sugar and enjoyable goods.

* Camping. Always fun (although sometimes you just don’t notice it at the time), very often free and makes you feel great. Also allows you to witness the Earth and her changes of mood first hand, as well as a plethora of sunsets and slightly fewer sunrises.

* Cooking. Great at the best of times, but on a single stove using only two pans you are forced to be truly inventive. Carrying your three meals a day on your bike (in case of emergency – like all the local shops closing for lunch and never opening again (France I’m looking at you) –  is liberating and enables you to cook and eat anywhere the desire strikes. We cooked a Full English in a park in Athens last week. Glorious.

Bad Thıngs:

* Mosquitos.  All mosquitos can burn in the fires of hell. The flip-side of being outside 24/7 enjoying the wonders of the World is that you are completely exposed to the feeding times of local biting insects. Typically, they eat at around the same time we do. Most nights so far I have woken to either; scratch my prolific bites (sixteen on my bum alone), to hunt down the opportunists who are hiding in my tent waiting for me to fall asleep, or to discover four lazy mozzies, fat from gorging on my blood all night, so slowed and ecstatic with pleasure they no longer care whether they live or die, and so let me kill them.  Which İ do, mercilessly. (WARNING – I had a revelation after weeks of wondering why İ was suffering so many bites: Mosquitos can bite THROUGH your clothes!)

* Perving, Rain and General Discontent. We got absolutely drenched on the first day in Greece – riding from Igouminitsa.  After the hardest 70km so far, possibly of my life, (two punctures, heavy rain, freezing winds, saturation point surpassed long ago, hope abandoned) we hitched a lift with an Albanian called Alex.  While The Accomplice was checking out the campsite, he groped me under the guise of feeling how soaked İ was, and offered me 50 euros to show him my tits. İ declined.

* Cars. Motorists and Cyclists – ah the war continues. They hate us for jumping red lights and for exercising the freedom they only wish they could emulate, (flitting between pavement and road, sailing past them in traffic queues and just generally having more fun.) They regularly and unremorsefully cause us traumatic Near Death Experiences by hurtling past, barely skimming our panniers, stopping suddenly in the middle of the road (an Italian favourite), dangerously overtaking or failing to pay attention at designated junctions and coasting obliviously into our path. There are a host of other crimes which İ am too gracious to list here. Guilty motorists – you know who you are.

Miscellaneous:

* Hills. It is a shock to note that the monstrous hills of the Journey so Far have, with rose-tinted hindsight, been remarkably fine and, İ would even concede, pretty exhilarating, so much so, they could be located in the Good Things category were İ not so disinclined to sound like a smug, fit bastard. The worst of it has to be sighting the beast for the first time towering over you in a dauntingly never-ending fashion. Once you crack on, it’s ok as long as you keep singing.

* Singing. This is an integral element of cycle touring which stabilises your sanity and keeps you amused during long hours in the saddle. İt is not necessary to possess any singing ability whatsoever – but you do need to know some good songs. We somehow got ‘Little Donkey’ stuck in our heads for most of Europe. Not good.

The author does not (necessarily) endorse any opinions or ideas expressed within this article. Many of them are foolhardy and best avoided. However – Cycle Touring is a wondrous, exciting and relatively cheap way to see the World. Writing as İ am, from Istanbul, İ hope that İ have convinced any recalcitrant reader that it is not necessary to be a Sporting Hero to cycle from A to B – even if A ıs England, B is India and it’s raining….    

{This article was published on the Ministry of Sound Travel pages in October 2010. Sadly, the Travel Section did not survive the site revamp.}

World Naked Bike Ride 2010

Riding across London Bridge with my tits out. Never thought that would happen.

Hyde Park Corner, a breezy Saturday afternoon. Five girls stand in lacy knickers, steely gazes avoiding the ring of paparazzi and amateur camera phone photographers who surround them. They are rubbing Vaseline over their bodies and coating each other in glitter. The circle of the voyeuristic shifts slightly as they pick up their flower-covered bikes and proceed to the start line. Glinting in the midday sun, wearing nothing but a thick coating of glitter, these girls are luminous. And one of them, I’m surprised to announce, is me.

The World Naked Bike Ride is a protest against car culture and oil dependency. For the last seven years, cities across the globe have participated in this protest. All week I’ve been vaguely aware that I’ll be doing this, and when the day comes, indeed when the moment to unclothe arrives, I literally have to grit my teeth and ignore the crowds of men who are suddenly swarming. Stripping down in front of the cameras is not in my nature. Believe me.

I’m not an exhibitionist, but believe very passionately in taking to the streets to represent your beliefs. Practise what you preach. Living by example is the first step to an improved world. And cycling is what I believe in. Cruising past the congested London traffic around Trafalgar Square and the message seems obvious: pro-cycling, anti-car. That pedal power is a superior method to inner-city driving is unquestionable. The advantages are so obvious I needn’t list them. An added message is that cyclists are vulnerable on the streets of London and often not given respect or road-space by drivers.

Today, there are apparently 1,100 people on the ride in varying states of undress. The brave – and much respect to them – are completely naked. Others have messages daubed onto their bodies (‘Pedal Power’, ‘One Less Car’, ‘Burn Carbohydrates Not Hydrocarbons’, ‘Born Naked’, etc). There are some stunningly decorated individuals; two golden men on a tandem wearing antlers, a couple of zebras, one of them deftly swishing around on rollerblades, an environmentalist man painted entirely green. The issues are as multifarious as the body shapes. Reclaiming the streets, making cyclists more visible and demonstrating the most obvious alternative to car culture are the main ones. The issues are somewhat lost in the spectacle – the event would definitely benefit from more banners and messages – but the point is made, and the press surrounding the event is monumental.

Early on, while we are glittering up, we meet a chap who has been sent out by his wife to buy an iron. He is on a bicycle, and after politely asking if he can take our photos, we encourage him to strip off. Which he does. Our paths cross sporadically throughout the ride and again at the finish line, where he proudly replaces his jeans nine miles after they were first removed. “I can’t believe that I did it but I’m pleased I did – it was a fun combination of exuberance and exhibitionism. I certainly wouldn’t have done it without encouragement. I spent the first twenty minutes of the ride thinking ‘When can I stop to put my pants back on?’ and the next twenty minutes thinking ‘Look at me naked everyone…”

Riding naked through London was one of the most liberating experiences to date. The wind in your hair, the streets lined with people snapping thousands of photos and an amazing camaraderie amongst the cyclists. The unnerving moments arrive when I need to take a toilet stop and have to go into a pub, alone, and yes, naked. There are a few gratuitous gazes along the way but in general people shout words of encouragement as we pass. And I feel privileged to be able to do something like this. Why not cycle through London naked? With only one life to experience all you can, why wouldn’t you? It is empowering and incredibly freeing. There is the overwhelming feeling that we can do anything as we sail past the Houses Of Parliament. I’d sooner be the one naked in the wind than standing on the sidelines any day.

Massive respect to all who got involved.