Some Twat with a Laptop
To most of us, the act of travelling is a monotonous affair, a plodding arc of boredom further fatigued by shuffling herds of sportswear, obstinate officialdom and the stifling despair of breathing other people's farts.
The criminal mastermind behind these lurking Brownian terrors -- the inventer of the commercially prepackaged sandwich -- committed a global act of sedition to shame even the frothiest religious nutjob. Watercress aioli? Moroccan chicken? Rocket? Kale? Who the fuck buys this eruptive exotica outside a travel hub? If you want to experience the same Russian bowel roulette cattle overdosing on clover suffer from (primary ruminal tympany, also known by farmers as 'frothy bloat') by all means, tear open a triangle and have at your underwear. But take note; people like you are the reason they invented business class.
(I looked it up. It was Marks & Spencer, the mid-market British clothing store cum supermarket, apparently, who first began selling premade sandwiches in 1980. So they're to blame for this unwelcome fug of gastrointestinal misadventure. I suggest we lobby for the inclusion of an indigestion tablet or a clothes peg. Or at the very least, a match.)
See, this is one of the reasons I choose to travel by bicycle.
I'm no lover of lycra, you understand, the sheer, air-slick fabric that distinguishes the purist from the part-timer: I view the bike merely as convenient transport to wherever takes my fancy, rather than an opportunity to dress like a distress beacon. Lumping myself in with the luminous dildo helmet crew would be woefully longsighted, because they seem to actually know what they're doing.
Why by bike?
I choose to bike because it forces me to exercise: a consideration born of a wish to live longer in order to fit more beer in rather than stave off any chronic infirmity. The more I exercise the more I can eat and drink the delicious things the wearisome say are bad for me; a stubborn commitment to the fleeting spasms of pleasure that make life shiny. I firmly maintain looking slim and fit isn't enough reason to break a sweat, y'see, but if burning a ridiculous amount of calories gets me to someplace interesting or something tasty? Hell, let's roll.
I could backpack, I suppose, but a dicky hip from years of roofing ensures any loaded hike longer than a few miles reduces me to a lurch straight out of a Romero movie. Factor in a similarly abused lower back and dodgy Texas rugby knees, and cycling suddenly leaps to the fore in ways to carve up a country. I could drive, but driving separates us from the world. I prefer to be involved, and though cycling is fast enough to get to places, it's slow enough to soak them in.
I want to battle the hills and earn the valleys, curse the rain, welcome the sun and exalt the tailwinds. Life, after all, is about experiencing shit, and you don't experience shit motoring along in the air-conditioning. I want to nod at rural passersby as if we share some secret. I want to be free. Not American lip service free or the illusory British version: really, literally, honest-to-goodness, properly free.
Mechanical affairs
I am sure, as I travel, the inevitable breakdowns and deficiencies will compel me to learn the mechanical minutiae of the bicycle. And I'm fairly confident the more I discover, the more I'll bow to the sage wisdom of the lycra dildos, who tend to regard me with either bemusement or loathing. However, this tour is about visiting poignant places and meeting people, not discussing gear ratios, pannier setups, or the best brand of skin tight shorts to aesthetically present one's genitals. More specifically, it's about testing out equipment in preparation for the much longer tour to come. Now, maybe I'll fall in love with cycling as I go, but right now I'm simply being pragmatic.
I did browse the internet forums while deciding what equipment to buy, but as is usual for these things, the most expensive gear is heralded as the best, especially by people with lots of money. As this was a project I'm funding myself, and fully expecting to be away from home for over a year, I silently dismissed the experts and bought what I thought would work, like a truly cheap bastard. Thus I opted for a hardtail mountain bike and single wheel trailer, so single tracks wouldn't prove an obstacle and I could carry more weight. The trailer could be quickly unhitched at a campsite while I rode into town for supplies or if any juicy looking mountain biking opportunities happened along. I added hybrid puncture proof tyres to guard against pointy incursions, a leather Brook's saddle to nerf my nethers and bar ends to prevent arm and hand cramps.
Clothing is an awkward choice, because the range of temperatures I'll experience will be vast, from sweltering to freezing. I went with wicking fabrics because quick drying is important, with fleeces and a tent heater of my own devising to keep me warm. Yes, tent. Some cycle tourists swear by bivvying, opting for the lightweight options to increase their daily mileage. I'm not particularly worried about covering distance quickly. Plus, if I get caught in days of rain, with a tent I can just plonk myself down somewhere agreeable and work away on my laptop. With the carefully selected electronics I carry, I can last almost a week away from a power socket.
My brother David was kind enough to send me some of his old cycling clobber, citing the lucid notion that the best gear for cycling is, funnily enough, cycling gear. Thus I discovered my objections were actually indirectly aimed at the price tag, rather than looking like a ponce. Fascinating.
The route
I've been toying with the idea of a long tour for a couple of years, initially intending to circumnavigate the Mediterranean. The Arab Spring uprisings, however, put paid to that. Travelling through countries refusing to issue visas was an unattractive prospect, and pretty much all the north African countries were up in arms. It was probably still doable, but the faff wouldn't be worth it. I decided to return to a prior idea, and explore the route of the First Crusade from Clermont in France to Jerusalem, and thence on to wherever; the 'Stans. India. Himalayas. China. The mystery and romance of the Silk Road. (Of course, the First Crusade didn't march from Clermont, but that's where Pope Urban II gave his famous speech, so it made as good a starting point as any.)
I don't have a specific route in mind, preferring instead to plan every few days in advance, depending largely on the frequency of resupply and recharging facilities.
Setting off
I was delayed a few times by frustrating logistical and work problems. I ordered a handlebar bag for a second time after it took several weeks to determine the first one wasn't coming, then the second didn't show either. I subsequently found my credit card is limited, for some reason, to nine transactions a day, and both these purchases had been made in the twilight zone beyond.
So I set off on the test tour without one, at the same time hoping a finished ghostwriting project wouldn't require formatting, so I could leave my large laptop at home and just take my netbook to work on. Alas, I had to return ten days later for precisely this reason, and then wait to get paid, which took a month longer than it should've, but provided the opportunity to replace gear that had proved inadequate, and buy stuff I hadn't thought of.
I jumped on an amazing deal for a third handlebar bag only to find out too late it shipped from Hong Kong, surface mail. I could have bought another one from a store, I suppose, but I flatly refused to spend the kind of money that would feed me for a month to double up an item I already owned, albeit remotely while it slowly meandered across Eurasia. So that's where I sit now, in near suicidal limbo. Fucking handlebar bags, man.
(Yeah yeah yeah, I know, I'm bitching about preparing for a more or less permanent vacation. I'll shut up.)
So come along
If the whole notion of travel is to broaden the mind, experience other cultures and foster perspective, we need to see, smell and feel the undesirable expanses between destinations. More importantly, we need to interact with the people who live there. We don't develop much perspective admiring the hotel fountain from a barstool. Well, maybe we do, but that's one I refined years ago. It's time for something new.
I'll be documenting my travels right here. Share me with your friends, even those that say what I'm pursuing isn't really freedom, because I couldn't disagree more. I find there's a glorious freedom in pretty much every country until one gets to the edges, where the humourless stand with guns and clipboards, puffed with importance to mask the misery of their job selection. I don't hate these peripheral parasites; it's more like pity, but I do purposely wolf down a Marks & Spencer sandwich prior to arrival, just in case they decide to act the cunt.
The criminal mastermind behind these lurking Brownian terrors -- the inventer of the commercially prepackaged sandwich -- committed a global act of sedition to shame even the frothiest religious nutjob. Watercress aioli? Moroccan chicken? Rocket? Kale? Who the fuck buys this eruptive exotica outside a travel hub? If you want to experience the same Russian bowel roulette cattle overdosing on clover suffer from (primary ruminal tympany, also known by farmers as 'frothy bloat') by all means, tear open a triangle and have at your underwear. But take note; people like you are the reason they invented business class.
(I looked it up. It was Marks & Spencer, the mid-market British clothing store cum supermarket, apparently, who first began selling premade sandwiches in 1980. So they're to blame for this unwelcome fug of gastrointestinal misadventure. I suggest we lobby for the inclusion of an indigestion tablet or a clothes peg. Or at the very least, a match.)
See, this is one of the reasons I choose to travel by bicycle.
I'm no lover of lycra, you understand, the sheer, air-slick fabric that distinguishes the purist from the part-timer: I view the bike merely as convenient transport to wherever takes my fancy, rather than an opportunity to dress like a distress beacon. Lumping myself in with the luminous dildo helmet crew would be woefully longsighted, because they seem to actually know what they're doing.
Why by bike?
I choose to bike because it forces me to exercise: a consideration born of a wish to live longer in order to fit more beer in rather than stave off any chronic infirmity. The more I exercise the more I can eat and drink the delicious things the wearisome say are bad for me; a stubborn commitment to the fleeting spasms of pleasure that make life shiny. I firmly maintain looking slim and fit isn't enough reason to break a sweat, y'see, but if burning a ridiculous amount of calories gets me to someplace interesting or something tasty? Hell, let's roll.
I could backpack, I suppose, but a dicky hip from years of roofing ensures any loaded hike longer than a few miles reduces me to a lurch straight out of a Romero movie. Factor in a similarly abused lower back and dodgy Texas rugby knees, and cycling suddenly leaps to the fore in ways to carve up a country. I could drive, but driving separates us from the world. I prefer to be involved, and though cycling is fast enough to get to places, it's slow enough to soak them in.
I want to battle the hills and earn the valleys, curse the rain, welcome the sun and exalt the tailwinds. Life, after all, is about experiencing shit, and you don't experience shit motoring along in the air-conditioning. I want to nod at rural passersby as if we share some secret. I want to be free. Not American lip service free or the illusory British version: really, literally, honest-to-goodness, properly free.
Mechanical affairs
I am sure, as I travel, the inevitable breakdowns and deficiencies will compel me to learn the mechanical minutiae of the bicycle. And I'm fairly confident the more I discover, the more I'll bow to the sage wisdom of the lycra dildos, who tend to regard me with either bemusement or loathing. However, this tour is about visiting poignant places and meeting people, not discussing gear ratios, pannier setups, or the best brand of skin tight shorts to aesthetically present one's genitals. More specifically, it's about testing out equipment in preparation for the much longer tour to come. Now, maybe I'll fall in love with cycling as I go, but right now I'm simply being pragmatic.
I did browse the internet forums while deciding what equipment to buy, but as is usual for these things, the most expensive gear is heralded as the best, especially by people with lots of money. As this was a project I'm funding myself, and fully expecting to be away from home for over a year, I silently dismissed the experts and bought what I thought would work, like a truly cheap bastard. Thus I opted for a hardtail mountain bike and single wheel trailer, so single tracks wouldn't prove an obstacle and I could carry more weight. The trailer could be quickly unhitched at a campsite while I rode into town for supplies or if any juicy looking mountain biking opportunities happened along. I added hybrid puncture proof tyres to guard against pointy incursions, a leather Brook's saddle to nerf my nethers and bar ends to prevent arm and hand cramps.
Clothing is an awkward choice, because the range of temperatures I'll experience will be vast, from sweltering to freezing. I went with wicking fabrics because quick drying is important, with fleeces and a tent heater of my own devising to keep me warm. Yes, tent. Some cycle tourists swear by bivvying, opting for the lightweight options to increase their daily mileage. I'm not particularly worried about covering distance quickly. Plus, if I get caught in days of rain, with a tent I can just plonk myself down somewhere agreeable and work away on my laptop. With the carefully selected electronics I carry, I can last almost a week away from a power socket.
My brother David was kind enough to send me some of his old cycling clobber, citing the lucid notion that the best gear for cycling is, funnily enough, cycling gear. Thus I discovered my objections were actually indirectly aimed at the price tag, rather than looking like a ponce. Fascinating.
The route
I've been toying with the idea of a long tour for a couple of years, initially intending to circumnavigate the Mediterranean. The Arab Spring uprisings, however, put paid to that. Travelling through countries refusing to issue visas was an unattractive prospect, and pretty much all the north African countries were up in arms. It was probably still doable, but the faff wouldn't be worth it. I decided to return to a prior idea, and explore the route of the First Crusade from Clermont in France to Jerusalem, and thence on to wherever; the 'Stans. India. Himalayas. China. The mystery and romance of the Silk Road. (Of course, the First Crusade didn't march from Clermont, but that's where Pope Urban II gave his famous speech, so it made as good a starting point as any.)
I don't have a specific route in mind, preferring instead to plan every few days in advance, depending largely on the frequency of resupply and recharging facilities.
Setting off
I was delayed a few times by frustrating logistical and work problems. I ordered a handlebar bag for a second time after it took several weeks to determine the first one wasn't coming, then the second didn't show either. I subsequently found my credit card is limited, for some reason, to nine transactions a day, and both these purchases had been made in the twilight zone beyond.
So I set off on the test tour without one, at the same time hoping a finished ghostwriting project wouldn't require formatting, so I could leave my large laptop at home and just take my netbook to work on. Alas, I had to return ten days later for precisely this reason, and then wait to get paid, which took a month longer than it should've, but provided the opportunity to replace gear that had proved inadequate, and buy stuff I hadn't thought of.
I jumped on an amazing deal for a third handlebar bag only to find out too late it shipped from Hong Kong, surface mail. I could have bought another one from a store, I suppose, but I flatly refused to spend the kind of money that would feed me for a month to double up an item I already owned, albeit remotely while it slowly meandered across Eurasia. So that's where I sit now, in near suicidal limbo. Fucking handlebar bags, man.
(Yeah yeah yeah, I know, I'm bitching about preparing for a more or less permanent vacation. I'll shut up.)
So come along
If the whole notion of travel is to broaden the mind, experience other cultures and foster perspective, we need to see, smell and feel the undesirable expanses between destinations. More importantly, we need to interact with the people who live there. We don't develop much perspective admiring the hotel fountain from a barstool. Well, maybe we do, but that's one I refined years ago. It's time for something new.
I'll be documenting my travels right here. Share me with your friends, even those that say what I'm pursuing isn't really freedom, because I couldn't disagree more. I find there's a glorious freedom in pretty much every country until one gets to the edges, where the humourless stand with guns and clipboards, puffed with importance to mask the misery of their job selection. I don't hate these peripheral parasites; it's more like pity, but I do purposely wolf down a Marks & Spencer sandwich prior to arrival, just in case they decide to act the cunt.
The World's Largest Shower Cap
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